austin and his friends by frederic h. balfour author of "the expiation of eugene," etc. london greening & co., ltd. [illustration: daphnis at the fountain] * * * * * advertisement the old-fashioned ghost-story was always terrifying and ghastly; something that made people afraid to go to bed, or to look over their shoulders, or to enter a room in the dark. it dealt with apparitions in a white sheet, and clanking chains, and dreadful faces that peered out from behind the window curtains in a haunted chamber. and the more blood-curdling it was, the more keenly people enjoyed it--until they were left alone, and then they were apt to wish that they had been reading robinson crusoe or alison's history of europe instead. now the present book embodies an attempt to write a _cheerful_ ghost-story; a story in which the ghostly element is of a friendly and pleasant character, and sheds a sense of happiness and sunshine over the entire life of the ghost-seer. whether the author has succeeded in doing so will be for his readers to decide. it is only necessary to add that he has not introduced a single supernormal incident that has not occurred and been authenticated in the recorded experiences of persons lately or still alive. * * * * * austin and his friends chapter the first it was rather a beautiful old house--the house where austin lived. that is, it was old-fashioned, low-browed, solid, and built of that peculiar sort of red brick which turns a rich rose-colour with age; and this warm rosy tint was set off to advantage by the thick mantle of dark green ivy in which it was partly encased, and by the row of tall white and purple irises which ran along the whole length of the sunniest side of the building. there was an ancient sun-dial just above the door, and all the windows were made of small, square panes--not a foot of plate-glass was there about the place; and if the rooms were nor particularly large or stately, they had that comfortable and settled look which tells of undisturbed occupancy by the same inmates for many years. but the principal charm of the place was the garden in which the house stood. in this case the frame was really more beautiful than the picture. on one side, the grounds were laid out in very formal style, with straight walks, clipped box hedges, an old stone fountain, and a perfect bowling-green of a lawn; while at right angles to this there was a plot of land in which all regularity was set at naught, and sweet-peas, tulips, hollyhocks, dahlias, gillyflowers, wall-flowers, sun-flowers, and a dozen others equally sweet and friendly shared the soil with gooseberry bushes and thriving apple-trees. taking it all in all, it was a lovable and most reposeful home, and austin, who had lived there ever since he could remember, was quite unable to imagine any lot in life that could be compared to his. now this was curious, for austin was a hopeless cripple. up to the age of sixteen, he had been the most active, restless, healthy boy in all the countryside. he used to spend his days in boating, bicycling, climbing hills, and wandering at large through the woods and leafy lanes which stretched far and wide in all directions of the compass. one of his chief diversions had been sheep-chasing; nothing delighted him more than to start a whole flock of the astonished creatures careering madly round some broad green meadow, their fat woolly backs wobbling and jolting along in a compact mass of mild perplexity at this sudden interruption of their never-ending meal, while austin scampered at their tails, as much excited with the sport as don quixote himself when he dispersed the legions of alifanfaron. let hare-coursers, otter-hunters, and pigeon-torturers blame him if they choose; the exercise probably did the sheep a vast amount of good, and austin fully believed that they enjoyed it quite as much as he did. then suddenly a great calamity befell him. a weakness made itself apparent in his right knee, accompanied by considerable pain. the family doctor looked anxious and puzzled; a great surgeon was called in, and the two shook their heads together in very portentous style. it was a case of caries, they said, and austin mustn't hunt sheep any more. soon he had to lie upon the sofa for several hours a day, and what made aunt charlotte more anxious than anything else was that he didn't seem to mind lying on the sofa, as he would have done if he had felt strong and well; on the contrary, he grew thin and listless, and instead of always jumping up and trying to evade the doctor's orders, appeared quite content to lie there, quiet and resigned, from one week's end to another. that, thought shrewd aunt charlotte, betokened mischief. another consultation followed, and then a very terrible sentence was pronounced. it was necessary, in order to save his life, that austin should lose his leg. what does a boy generally feel under such circumstances? what would you and i feel? austin's first impulse was to burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and he yielded to it unreservedly. but, the fit once past, he smiled brilliantly through his tears. true, he would never again be able to enjoy those glorious ramps up hill and down dale that up till then had sent the warm life coursing through his veins. never more would he go scorching along the level roads against the wind on his cherished bicycle. the open-air athletic days of stress and effort were gone, never to return. but there might be compensations; who could tell? happiness, all said and done, need not depend upon a shin-bone more or less. he might lose a leg, but legs were, after all, a mere concomitant to life--life did not consist in legs. there would still be something left to live for, and who could tell whether that something might not be infinitely grander and nobler and more satisfying than even the rapture of flying ten miles an hour on his wheel, or chevying a flock of agitated sheep from one pasture to another? where this sudden inspiration came from, he then had no idea; but come it did, in the very nick of time, and helped him to dry his tears. the day of destiny also came, and his courage was put to the test. he knew well enough, of course, that of the operation he would feel nothing. but the sight of the hard, white, narrow pallet on which he had to lie, the cold glint of the remorseless instruments, the neatly folded packages of lint and cotton-wool, and the faint, horrible smell of chloroform turned him rather sick for a minute. then he glanced downwards, with a sense of almost affectionate yearning, at the limb he was about to lose. "good-bye, dear old leg!" he murmured, with a little laugh which smothered a rising sob. "we've had some lovely ramps together, but the best of friends must part." afterwards, during the long days of dreary convalescence, he began to feel an interest in what remained of it; and then he found himself taking a sort of æsthetic pleasure in the smooth, beautifully-rounded stump, which really was in its way quite an artistic piece of work. at last, when the flesh was properly healed, and the white skin growing healthily again around his abbreviated member, he grew eager to make acquaintance with his new leg; for of course it was never intended that he should perform the rest of his earthly pilgrimage with only a leg and a half--let the added half be of what material it might. and his excitement may be better imagined than described when, one afternoon, the surgeon came in with a most wonderful object in his arms--a lovely prop of bright, black, burnished wood, set off with steel couplings and the most fascinating straps you ever saw. and the best of all was the socket, in which his soft white stump fitted as comfortably as though they had been made for one another--as, in fact, one of them had been. it was a little difficult to walk just at first, for austin was accustomed to begin by throwing out his foot, whereas now he had to begin by moving his thigh; this naturally made him stagger, and for some time he could only get along with the aid of a crutch. but to be able to walk again at all was a great achievement, and then, if you only looked at it in the proper light, it really was great fun. there was, however, one person who, probably from a defective sense of humour, was unable to see any fun in it at all. aunt charlotte would have given her very ears for austin, but her affection was of a somewhat irritable sort, and generally took the form of scolding. she was not a stupid woman by any means, but there was one thing in the world she never could understand, and that was austin himself. he wasn't like other boys one bit, she always said. he had such a queer, topsy-turvy way of looking at things; would express the most outrageous opinions with an innocent unconsciousness that made her long to box his ears, and support the most arrant absurdities by arguments that conveyed not the smallest meaning to her intellect. look at him now, for instance; a cripple for life, and pretending to see nothing in it but a joke, and expressing as much admiration for his horrible wooden leg as though it had been a king's sceptre! in aunt charlotte's view, austin ought to have pitied himself immensely, and expressed a hope that god would help him to bear his burden with orthodox resignation to the divine will; instead of which, he seemed totally unconscious of having any burden at all--a state of mind that was nothing less than impious. austin was now seventeen, and it was high time that he took more serious views of life. ever since he was a baby he had been her special charge; for his mother had died in giving him birth, and his father had followed her about a twelvemonth later. she had always done her duty to the boy, and loved him as though he had been her own; but she reminded onlookers rather of a conscientious elderly cat with limited views of natural history condemned by circumstances to take care of a very irresponsible young eaglet. the eaglet, on his side, was entirely devoted to his protectress, but it was impossible for him not to feel a certain lenient and amused contempt for her very limited horizon. "auntie," he said to her one day, "you're just like a frog at the bottom of a well. you think the speck of blue you see above you is the entire sky, and the water you paddle up and down in is the ocean. why can't you take a rather more cosmic view of things?" this extraordinary remark occurred in the course of a wrangle between the two, because austin insisted on his pet cat--a plump, white, matronly creature he had christened 'gioconda,' because (so _he_ said) she always smiled so sweetly--sitting up at the dinner-table and being fed with tit-bits off his own fork; and aunt charlotte objected to this proceeding on the ground that the proper place for cats was in the kitchen. austin, on his side, averred that cats were in many ways much superior to human beings; that they had been worshipped as gods by the philosophical egyptians because they were so scornful and mysterious; and that gioconda herself was not only the divinest cat alive, but entitled to respect, if only as an embodiment and representative of cat-hood in the abstract, which was a most important element in the economy of the universe. it was when aunt charlotte stigmatised these philosophical reflections as a pack of impertinent twaddle that austin had had the audacity to say that she was like a frog. and now her eaglet had been maimed for life, and whatever he might feel about it himself her own responsibilities were certainly much increased. at this very moment, for instance, after having practised stumping about the room for half-an-hour he insisted on going downstairs. of course the idea was ridiculous. even the doctor shook his head, while old martha, who had tubbed austin when he was two years old, joined in the general protest. but austin, disdaining to argue the point with any one of them, had already hobbled out of the room, and before they were well aware of it had begun to essay the descent perilous. ominous bumps were heard, and then a dull thud as of a body falling. but a bend in the wall had caught the body, and the explorer was none the worse. then aunt charlotte, rushing back into the bedroom, flung open the window wide. "lubin!" she shouted lustily. a young gardener boy, tall, round-faced and curly-haired, glanced up astonished from his work among the sweet-peas. "come up here directly and carry master austin downstairs. he's got a wooden leg and hasn't learnt how to use it." the consequence of which was that two minutes later austin, panting and enraged at the failure of his first attempt at independence, found himself firmly encircled by a pair of strong young arms, lifted gently from the ground, and carried swiftly and safely downstairs and out at the garden door. "now you just keep quiet, master austin," murmured lubin, chuckling as austin began to kick. "no use your starting to run before you know how to walk. wooden legs must be humoured a bit, sir; 'twon't do to expect too much of 'em just at first, you see. this one o' yours is mighty handsome to look at, i don't deny, but it's not accustomed to staircases and maybe it'll take some time before it is. hold tight, sir; only a few yards more now. there! here we are on the lawn at last. now you can try your paces at your leisure." "you're awfully nice to me, lubin," gasped austin, red with mortification, as he slipped from the lad's arms on to the grass, "but i felt just now as if i could have killed you, all the same." "lor', sir, i don't mind," said lubin. "i doubt that was no more'n natural. can you stand steady? here--lay hold o' my arm. slow and sure's the word. look out for that flower-bed. now, then, round you go--that's it. ah!"--as austin fell sprawling on the grass. "now how are you going to get up again, i should like to know? seems to me the first thing you've got to learn is not to lose your balance, 'cause once you're down 'tain't the easiest thing in creation to scramble up again. you'll have to stick to the crutch at first, i reckon. up we come! now let's see how you can fare along a bit all by yourself." austin was thankful for the support of his crutch, with the aid of which he managed to stagger about for a few minutes at quite a respectable speed. it reminded him almost of the far-off days when he was learning to ride his bicycle. at last he thought he would like to rest a bit, and was much surprised when, on flinging himself down upon a garden seat, his leg flew up in the air. "lively sort o' limb, this new leg o' yours, sir," commented lubin, as he bent it into a more decorous position. "you'll have to take care it don't carry you off with it one o' these fine days. seems to me it wants taming, and learning how to behave itself in company. i heard tell of a cork leg once upon a time as was that nimble it started off running on its own account, and no earthly power could stop it. wouldn't have mattered so much if it'd had nobody but itself to consider, but unluckily the gentleman it belonged to happened to be screwed on to the top end of it, and of course he had to follow. they do say as how he's following it still--poor beggar! must be worn to a shadow by this time, i should think. but p'raps it ain't true after all. there are folks as'll say anything." "i expect it's true enough," replied austin cheerfully. "if you want a thing to be true, all you've got to do is to believe it--believe it as hard as you can. that makes it true, you see. at least, that's what the new psychology teaches. thought creates things, you understand--though how it works i confess i can't explain. but never mind. oh, dear, how drunk i am!" "drunk, sir? no, no, only a bit giddy," said lubin, as he stood watching austin with his hands upon his hips. "you're not over strong yet, and that new leg of yours has been giving you too much exercise to begin with. you just keep quiet a few minutes, and you'll soon be as right as ninepence." then austin slid carefully off the seat, and stretched himself full length upon the grass. "i _am_ drunk," he murmured, closing his eyes, "drunk with the scent of the flowers. don't you smell them, lubin? the air's heavy with it, and it has got into my brain. and how sweet the grass smells too. i love it--it's like breathing the breath of nature. what do legs matter? it's much nicer to roll over the grass wherever you want to go than to have the bother of walking. don't worry about me any more, nice lubin. go on tying up your sweet-peas. i'll come and help you when i'm tired of rolling about. just now i don't want anything; i'm drunk--i'm happy--i'm satisfied--i'm happier than i ever was before. be kind to the flowers, lubin; don't tie them too tight. they're my friends and my lovers. aren't you a little fond of them too?" then, left to his own reflections, he lay perfectly peaceful and content staring up into the sky. for months he had been fated to lead an entirely new life, and now it had actually begun. his entrance upon it was not bitter. he had flowers growing by his path, and books that he loved, and one or two friends who loved him. it was all right! and that was how he spent his first day of acknowledged cripplehood. chapter the second in a very short time austin had overcome the initial difficulties of locomotion, and now began to take regular exercise out of doors. it would be too much to say that his gait was particularly elegant; but there really was something triumphal about the way in which he learnt to brandish his leg with every step he took, and the majestic swing with which he brought it round to its place in advance of the other. in fact, he soon found himself stumping along the highroads with wonderful speed and safety; though to clamber over stiles, and work a bicycle one-footed, of course took much more practice. hitherto i have said nothing about the neighbourhood of austin's home. now when i say neighbourhood, i don't mean the topographical surroundings--i use the word in its correcter sense of neighbours; and these it is necessary to refer to in passing. of course there were several people living round about. there was the mactavish family, for instance, consisting of mr and mrs mactavish, five daughters and two sons. mrs mactavish had a brother who had been knighted, and on the strength of such near relationship to sir titus and lady clandougal, considered herself one of the county. but her claim was not endorsed, even by the humbler gentry with whom she was forced to associate, while as for the county proper it is not too much to say that that august community had never even heard of her. the miss mactavishes, ranging in age from fifteen to five-and-twenty, were rather gawky young persons, with red hair and a perpetual giggle; in fact they could not speak without giggling, even if it was to tell you that somebody was dead. every now and then mrs mactavish would proclaim, with portentous complacency, that florrie, or lizzie, or aggie, was "out"--to the awe-struck admiration of her friends; which meant that the young person referred to had begun to do up her hair in a sort of bun at the back of her head, and had had her frock let down a couple of tucks. austin couldn't bear them, though he was always scrupulously polite. and the boys were, if anything, less interesting than the girls. the elder of the two--a freckled young giant named jock--was always asking him strange conundrums, such as whether he was going to put the pot on for the metropolitan--which conveyed no more idea to austin's mind than if he had said it in chinese; while sandy, the younger, used to terrify him out of his wits by shouting out that yorkshire had got the hump, or that jobson was 'not out' for a century, or that wickets were cheap at the oval. in fact, the entire family bored him to extinction, though aunt charlotte, who had been an old school-friend of the mamma, sang their praises perseveringly, and said that the girls were dears. then there was the inevitable vicar, with a wife who piqued herself on her smart bonnets; a curate, who preached socialism, wore knickerbockers, and belonged to the fabian society; a few unattached elderly ladies who had long outlived the reproach of their virginity; and just two or three other families with nothing particular to distinguish them one way or another. it may readily be inferred, therefore, that austin had not many associates. there was really no one in the place who interested him in the very least, and the consequence was that he was generally regarded as unsociable. and so he was--very unsociable. the companionship of his books, his bicycle, his flowers and his thoughts was far more precious to him than that of the silly people who bothered him to join in their vapid diversions and unseasonable talk, and he rightly acted upon his preference. his own resources were of such a nature that he never felt alone; and having but few comrades in the flesh, he wisely courted the society of those whom, though long since dead, he held in far higher esteem than all the elderly ladies and curates and mactavishes who ever lived. his appetite in literature was keen, but fastidious. he devoured all the books he could procure about the renaissance of art in italy. the works of mr walter pater were as a treasure-house of suggestion to him, and did much to form and guide his gradually developing mentality. he read plato, being even more fascinated by the exquisite technique of the dialectic than by the ethical value of the teaching. and there was one small, slim book that he always carried about with him, and kept for special reading in the fields and woods. this was virgil's eclogues, the sylvan atmosphere of which penetrated the very depths of his being, and created in him a moral or spiritual atmosphere which was its counterpart. he seemed to live amid gracious pastoral scenes, where beautiful youths and maidens passed a perpetual springtime in a land of dewy lawns, and shady groves, and pools, and rippling streams. daphnis and mopsus, corydon, alexis, and amyntas, were all to him real personages, who peopled his solitude, inspired his poetic fancy, and fostered in his imagination the elements of an ideal life where the beauty and purity and freshness of untainted nature reigned supreme. the accident of his lameness, by incapacitating him for violent exercise out of doors, ministered to the development of this spiritual tendency, and threw him back upon the allurements of a refined idealism. daphnis became to him the embodiment, the concrete image, of eternal youthhood, of adolescence in the abstract, the attribute of an idealised humanity. to lead the pure daphnis life of simplicity, stainlessness, communion with beautiful souls, was to lead the highest life. to find one's bliss in sunshine, flowers, and the winds of heaven--in both the physical and moral spheres--was to find the highest bliss. why should not he, austin trevor, cripple as he was, so live the daphnis life as to be himself a daphnis? no wonder a boy like this was voted unsociable. no wonder sandy and jock despised him as a muff, and the young ladies deplored his unaccountably elusive ways. the truth was that austin simply had no use for any of them; his life was complete without them, it contained no niche into which they could ever fit. lubin was a far more congenial comrade. lubin never bothered him about football, or cricket, or horse-racing, never worried him with invitations to horrible picnics, never outraged his sensibilities in any way. on the contrary, lubin rather contributed to his happiness by the care he took of the flowers, and the intelligence he showed in carrying out all austin's elaborately conveyed instructions. why, lubin himself was a sort of daphnis--in a humble way. but sandy! no, austin was not equal to putting up with sandy. there was, however, one gentleman in the neighbourhood whom master austin was gracious enough to approve. this was a certain mr roger st aubyn, a man of taste and culture, who possessed a very rare collection of fine pictures and old engravings which nobody had ever seen. st aubyn was, in fact, something of a recluse, a student who seldom went beyond his park gates, and found his greatest pleasure in reading greek and cultivating orchids. it was by the purest accident that the two came across each other. austin was lying one afternoon on a bank of wild hyacinths just outside combe spinney, lazily admiring the effect of his bright black leg against the bright blue sky, and thinking of nothing in particular. mr st aubyn, who happened to be strolling in that direction, was attracted by the unwonted spectacle, and ventured on some good-humoured quizzical remark. this led to a conversation, in the course of which the scholar thought he discovered certain original traits in the modest observations of the youth. one topic drifted into another, and soon the two were engaged in an animated discussion about pursuits in life. it was in the course of this that austin let drop the one word--art. "what is art?" queried st aubyn. austin hesitated for some moments. then he said, very slowly: "that is a question to which a dozen answers might be given. a whole book would be required to deal with it." st aubyn was delighted, both at the reply and at the hesitation that had preceded it. "and are you an artist?" he enquired. "i believe i am," replied austin, very seriously. "of course one doesn't like to be too confident, and i can't draw a single line, but still----" "good again," approved the other. "here as in everything else all depends upon the definition. what is an artist?" "an artist," exclaimed austin, kindling, "is one who can see the beauty everywhere." "_the_ beauty?" repeated st aubyn. "the beauty that exists everywhere, even in ugly things. the beauty that ordinary people don't see," returned austin. "anybody can see beauty in what are _called_ beautiful things--light, and colour, and grace. but it takes an artist to see beauty in a muddy road, and dripping branches, and drenching rain. how people cursed and grumbled on that rainy day we had last week; it made me sick to hear them. now i saw the beauty _under_ the ugliness of it all--the wonderful soft greys and browns, the tiny glints of silver between the leaves, the flashes of pearl and orpiment behind the shifting clouds. do you know, i even see beauty in this wooden leg of mine, great beauty, though everybody else thinks it perfectly hideous! so that is why i hope i am not wrong in imagining that perhaps i may, really, be in some sense an artist." for a moment st aubyn did not speak. "the boy's a great artist," he muttered to himself. his interest was now excited in good earnest; here was no common mind. of art austin knew practically nothing, but the artistic instinct was evidently tingling in every vein of him. st aubyn himself lived for art and literature, and was amazed to have come across so curiously exceptional a personality. he drew the boy out a little more, and then, in a moment of impulse, did a most unaccustomed thing: he invited austin to lunch with him on the following thursday, promising, in addition, that they should spend the afternoon together looking over his conservatories and picture-gallery. so great an honour, so undreamt-of a privilege, sent austin's blood to the roots of his hair. he flourished his leg more proudly than ever as he stumped victoriously home and announced the great news to aunt charlotte. that estimable lady was fingering some notepaper on her writing-table as her excited nephew came bursting in upon her with his face radiant. "auntie," he cried, "what do you think? you'll never guess. i'm going to lunch with mr st aubyn on thursday!" aunt charlotte turned round, looking slightly dazed. "going to lunch with whom?" she asked. "with mr st aubyn. you know--he lives at moorcombe court. i met him in the woods and had a long talk with him, and now he's going to show me all his pictures--_and_ his engravings--_and_ his wonderful orchids and things. i'm to spend all the afternoon with him. isn't it splendid! i could never have hoped for such an opportunity. and he's so awfully nice--so cultured and clever, you know--" "really!" said aunt charlotte, drawing herself up. "well, you're vastly honoured, austin, i must say. mr st aubyn is chary of his civilities. it is very kind of him to ask you, i'm sure, but i think it's rather a liberty all the same." "a liberty!" repeated austin, aghast. "he has never called on me," returned aunt charlotte, statelily. "if he had wished to cultivate our acquaintance, that would have been at least the usual thing to do. however, of course i've no objection. on thursday, you say. well, now just give me your attention to something rather more important. i intend to invite some people here to tea next week, and you may as well write the invitations for me now." austin's face lengthened. "oh, why?" he sighed. "it isn't as though there was anybody worth asking--and really, the horrid creatures that infest this neighbourhood--. whom do you want to ask?" "i'm astonished at you, speaking of our friends like that," replied his aunt, severely. "they're not horrid creatures; they're all very nice and kind. of course we must have the mactavishes----" "i knew it," groaned austin, sinking into a chair. "those dear mactavishes! there are nineteen of them, aren't there? or is it only nine?" "don't be ridiculous, austin," said aunt charlotte. "then there are the miss minchins--that'll be eleven; the vicar and his wife, of _course_; and old mr and mrs cobbledick. now just come and sit here----" "the cobbledicks--those old murderers!" cried austin. "do you want us to be all assassinated together?" "murderers!" exclaimed aunt charlotte, horrified. "i think you've gone out of your mind. a dear kindly old couple like the cobbledicks! not very handsome, perhaps, but--murderers! what in the world will you say next?" "the most sinister-looking old pair of cut-throats in the parish," returned austin. "i should be sorry to meet them on a lonely road on a dark night, i know that. but really, auntie, i do wish you'd think better of all this. we're quite happy alone; what do we want of all these horrible people coming to bore us for heaven knows how many hours? of course _i_ shall be told off to amuse the mactavishes; just think of it! seven red-haired, screaming, giggling monsters----" "hold your tongue, do, you abominable boy!" cried aunt charlotte. "i'm inviting our friends for _my_ pleasure, not for yours, and i forbid you to speak of them in that wicked, slanderous, disrespectful way. come now, sit down here and write me the invitations at once." "for the last time, auntie, i entreat you----" began austin. "not a word more!" replied his aunt. "begin without more ado." "well, if you insist," consented austin, as he dragged himself into the seat. "have you fixed upon a day?" "no--any day will do. just choose one yourself," said aunt charlotte, as she dived after an errant ball of worsted. "what day will suit you best?" "shall we say the th?" suggested austin. "by all means," replied his aunt briskly. "if you're sure that that won't interfere with anything else. i've such a wretched memory for dates. to-day is the th. yes, i should say the th will do very well indeed." "it will suit me admirably," said austin, sitting down and beginning to write with great alacrity, while his aunt busied herself with her knitting. as soon as the envelopes were addressed, he slipped them into his coat pocket, and, rising, said he might as well go out and post them there and then. "do," said aunt charlotte, well pleased at austin's sudden capitulation. "that is, unless you're too tired with your walk. martha can always give them to the milkman if you are." "not a bit of it," said austin hastily, as he swung himself out of the room. "i shall be back in time for dinner." "he certainly is the very oddest boy," soliloquised aunt charlotte, as she settled herself comfortably on the sofa and went on clicking her knitting-needles. "why he dislikes the mactavishes so i can't imagine; nice, cheerful young persons as anyone would wish to see. it really is very queer. and then the way he suddenly gave in at last! it only shows that i must be firm with him. as soon as he saw i was in earnest he yielded at once. he's got a sweet nature, but he requires a firm hand. he's different, too, since he lost his leg--more full of fancies, it seems to me, and a great deal too much wrapped up in those books of his. i suppose that when one's body is defective, one's mind feels the effects of it. i shall have to keep him up to the mark, and see that he has plenty of cheerful society. nothing like nice companions for maintaining the brain in order." thus did aunt charlotte decide to her own satisfaction what she thought would be best for austin. chapter the third he stood leaning against the old stone fountain on the straight lawn under the noonday sun. the bees hummed slumberously around him, sailing from flower to flower, and the hot air, laden with the scents of the soil, seemed to penetrate his body at every pore, infusing a sense of vitality into him which pulsed through all his veins. austin always said that high noon was the supreme moment of the day. to some folks the most beautiful time was dawn, to others sunset, but at noon nature was like a flower at its full, a flower in the very zenith of its strength and glory. he had always loved the noon. "the world seems literally palpitating with life," he thought, as he rested his arm on the rim of the time-worn fountain. "i'm sure it's conscious, in some way or other. how it must enjoy itself! look at the trees; so strong, and calm, and splendid. they know well enough how strong they are, and when there's a storm that tries to blow them down, how they do revel in battling with it! and then the hot air, embracing the earth so voluptuously--playing with the slender plants, and caressing the upstanding flowers. they stand up because they want to be caressed, the amorous creatures. how wonderful it is--the different characters that flowers have. some are shrill and fierce and passionate, while others are meek and sly, and pretend to shrink when they are even noticed. some are wicked--shamelessly, insolently, magnificently wicked--like those scarlet anthuriums, with their curling yellow tongues. that flower is the very incarnation of sin; no, not incarnation--what's the word? i can't think, but it doesn't matter. incarnation will do, for the thing is exactly like recalcitrant human flesh. lubin!" "yes, sir?" responded lubin, who was digging near. "what are the wickedest flowers you know?" asked austin. "well, sir, i should say them as had most thorns," said lubin feelingly. "i wonder," mused austin. then he relapsed into his meditations. "how thick with life the air is. i'm sure it's populated, if we only had eyes to see. i feel it throbbing all round me--full of beings as much alive as i am, only invisible. people used to see them once upon a time--why can't we now? naiads, and dryads, and fauns, and the great god pan everywhere; oh, to think we may be actually surrounded by these wonders of beauty, and yet unable to talk to any of them! nothing but wicked old women, and horrible young men in plaid knickerbockers and bowler hats, who worry one about odds and handicaps. it's all very sad and ugly." "aren't you rather hot, standing there in the sun, sir, all this time?" said lubin, looking up. "very hot," replied austin. "i wonder what time it is?" lubin glanced up at the sundial. "just five minutes past the hour, or thereabouts, i make it." "oh, lubin, let's go and bathe!" cried austin suddenly. "you must be far hotter than i am. there's plenty of time--we don't lunch till half-past one. how long would it take us to get to the bathing-pool just at the bend of the river?" "well--not above ten minutes, i should say," was lubin's answer. "i'd like a dip myself more'n a little, but i'm not quite sure if i ought to--you see the mistress wants all this finished up by the afternoon, and then----" "but you must!" insisted austin. "you forget that i've only got one leg, so i can't swim as i used, and you've got to come and take care i don't get drowned. 'o weep for adonais--he is dead!' how angry aunt charlotte would be. and then she'd cry, poor dear, and go into hideous mourning for her poor austin. come along, lubin--but wait, i must just go and get a couple of towels. oh, i'm simply mad for the water. i'll be back in less than a flash." lubin drove his spade into the earth, turned down his sleeves, and rested--a fair-skinned, bronzed, wholesome object, good to look at--while austin stumped away. in less than five minutes the two youths started off together, tramping through the long, lush meadow-grass which lay between the end of the garden and the river. the sun burned fiercely overhead, and the air quivered in the heat. "isn't it wonderful!" cried austin, when they reached the edge of the water, and were standing under the shade of some trees that overhung the towing-path. "come, lubin, strip--i'm half undressed already. look at the white and purple lights in the water--aren't they marvellous? now we're going right down into them. oh the freedom of air, and colour, and body--how i do _hate_ clothes! i say, how funny my stump looks, doesn't it? just like a great white rolling-pin. you must go in first, lubin, and then you'll be prepared to catch me when i begin drowning." lubin, standing nude and shapely, like a fair greek statue, for a moment on the bank, took a silent header and disappeared. then austin prepared to follow. he tumbled rather than plunged into the water, and, unable to attain an erect position owing to his imperfect organism, would have fared badly if lubin had not caught him in his arms and turned him deftly over on his back. "you just content yourself with floating face upwards, sir," he said. "there's no sort of use in trying to strike out, you'd only sink to the bottom like a boat with a hole in it. there--let me hold you like this; one hand'll do it. look out for the river-weeds. now try and work your foot. seems to be making you go round and round, somehow. but that don't matter. a bathe's a bathe, all said and done. how jolly cool it is!" "isn't it exquisite?" murmured austin, with closed eyes. "i do think that drowning must be a lovely death. we're like the minnows, lubin, 'staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, to taste the luxury of sunny beams tempered with coolness.' that's what _our_ wavy bodies are doing now. don't you like it? 'now more than ever it seems rich to die----'" but the next moment, owing probably to lubin having lost his equilibrium, the young rhapsodist found himself, spluttering and half-choked, nearer to the bed of the river than the surface, while his leg was held in chancery by a network of clinging water-weeds. lubin had some slight difficulty in extricating him, and for the moment, at least, his poetic fantasies came to an abrupt and unromantic finish. "here, get on my back, and i'll swim you out as far as them water-lilies," said lubin, giving him a dexterous hoist. "i'm awfully keen on the yellow sort, and they look wonderful fine ones. that's better. now, sir, you can just imagine yourself any drownded heathen as comes into your head, only hold tight and don't stir. if you do you'll get drownded in good earnest, and i shall have to settle accounts with your aunt afterwards. are you ready? right, then. and now away we go." he struck out strongly and slowly, with austin crouching on his shoulders. they arrived in safety at the point aimed at, and managed to tear away a grand cluster of the great, beautiful yellow flowers; but the process was a very ticklish one, and the struggle resulted, not unnaturally, in austin becoming dislodged from his not very secure position, and floundering head foremost into the depths. lubin caught him as he rose again, and, taking him firmly by one hand, helped him to swim alongside of him back to the shore. it was a difficult feat, and by the time they had accomplished the distance they were both pretty well exhausted. "you _have_ been good to me, lubin," gasped austin, as he flung himself sprawling on the grass. "i've had a lovely time--haven't you too? was i very heavy? perhaps it is rather a bore to have only one leg when one wants to swim. but now you can always say you've saved me from drowning, can't you. i should have gone under a dozen times if you hadn't held me up and lugged me about. oh, dear, now we must put on our clothes again--what a barbarism clothes are! i do hate them so, don't you? but i suppose there's no help for it. "rise, lubin, rise, and twitch thy mantle blue; to-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. "oh, do help me to screw on my leg. that's it. i say, it's a quarter-past one! we must hurry up, or aunt charlotte will be cursing. what _does_ it matter if one eats at half-past one or at a quarter to two? i really am very fond of aunt charlotte, you know, though i find it awfully difficult to educate her. i sometimes despair of ever being able to bring her up properly at all, she is so hopelessly early victorian, poor thing. but, then, so many people are, aren't they? now animals are never early victorian; that's why i respect them so. if you weren't a human being, lubin--and a very nice one, as you are--what sort of an animal would you like to be?" "well, i don't rightly know as i ever considered the point," said lubin, passing his fingers through his drenched curls. "perhaps i'd as lief be a squirrel as anything. i'm awfully fond o' nuts, and when i was a kid i used to spend half my time a-climbing trees. a squirrel must have rather a jolly life of it, when one comes to think." "what a splendid idea!" cried austin, as they prepared to start. "you _are_ clever, lubin. it would be lovely to live in a tree, curtained all round with thousands of quivering green leaves. i wish i knew what animals think about all day. it must be very dull for them never to have any thoughts, poor dears, and yet they seem happy enough somehow. perhaps they have something else instead to make up for it--something that we've no idea of. i _say_--it's half-past one!" so austin was late for lunch after all, and got a scolding from aunt charlotte, who told him that it was exceedingly ill-bred to inconvenience other people by habitual unpunctuality. austin was very penitent, and promised he'd never be unpunctual again if he lived to be a hundred. then aunt charlotte was mollified, and regaled him with an improving account of a most excellent book she had just been reading, upon the importance of instilling sound principles of political economy into the mind of the agricultural labourer. it was so essential, she explained, that people in that position should understand something about the laws which govern prices, the relations of capital and labour, the _metayer_ system, and the ratio which should exist between an increase of population and the exhaustion of the soil by too frequent crops of wheat; and she wound up by propounding a series of hypothetical problems based on the doctrines she had set forth, for austin to solve offhand. austin listened very dutifully for some time, but the subject bored him atrociously, and his attention began to wander. at last he made some rather vague and irrelevant replies, and then announced boldly that he thought all politicians were very silly old gentlemen, particularly economists; for his own part, he hated economy, especially when he wanted to buy something beautiful to look at; he further considered that political economists would be much better employed if they sat contemplating tulips instead of writing horrid books, and that lubin was a great deal wiser than the whole pack of them put together. then aunt charlotte got extremely angry, and a great wrangle ensued, in the course of which she said he was a foolish, ignorant boy, who talked nonsense for the sake of talking it. austin replied by asking if she knew what a quincunx was, or what virgil was really driving at when he composed the first eclogue, and whether she had ever heard of lycidas; and when she said that she had something better to do than stuff her head with quidnunxes and all such pagan rubbish, he remarked very politely that ignorance was evidently not all of the same sort. which sent aunt charlotte bustling away in a huff to look after her household duties. "it's all very sad and very ugly, isn't it, gioconda?" sighed austin, as he lifted the large, white, fluffy animal upon his lap. "you're a great philosopher, my dear; i wish i were as wise as you. you're so scornful, so dignified, so divinely egoistic. but you don't mind being worshipped, do you, gioconda? because you know it's your right, of course. there--she's actually condescending to purr! now we'll come and disport ourselves under the trees, and you shall watch the birds from a safe distance. i know your wicked ways, and i must teach you how to treat your inferiors with proper benignity and toleration." but gioconda had plans of her own for the afternoon, and declined the proposed discipline; so austin strolled off by himself, and lay down under the trees with a large book on italian gardens to console him. his improvised exertions in the water had produced a certain fatigue, and he felt lazy and inert. gradually he dropped off into a doze, which lasted more than an hour. and he had a curious dream. he thought he was in some strange land--a land like a garden seen through yellow glass--where everything was transparent, and people glided about as though they were skating, without any conscious effort. then aunt charlotte appeared upon the scene, and he saw by her eyes that she was very angry because lycidas had been drowned while bathing; but austin assured her that it was lubin who was drowned, and that it really was of no consequence, because lubin was only a squirrel after all. at this point things got extremely mixed, and the sound of voices broke in upon his slumbers. he opened his eyes, and saw aunt charlotte herself in the act of walking away with a toss of her head that betokened a ruffled temper. austin's interest was immediately aroused. "lubin!" he called softly, motioning the lad to come nearer. "what was she rowing you about? was she blowing you up about this morning?" "well," confessed lubin with a broad smile, "she didn't seem over-pleased. said you might have lost your life, going out o' your depth with only one leg to stand on, and that if you'd been drownded i should have had to answer for it before a judge and jury." "what a wicked, abandoned old woman!" cried austin. "only one leg to stand on, indeed!--she hasn't a single leg to stand on when she says such things. she ought to have gone down on her knees and thanked you for taking such care of me. but i shall never make anything of her, i'm afraid. the more i try to educate her the worse she gets." "i shouldn't wonder," replied lubin sagely. "the old hen feels herself badly off when the egg teaches her to cackle. that's human nature, that is. and then she was riled because she was afraid i shouldn't have time to get the garden-things in order by to-morrow, when it seems there's some sort o' company expected. i told her 'twould be all right." "oh, those brutes! of course, they're coming to-morrow. i'd nearly forgotten all about it. it's just like aunt charlotte to be so fond of all those hideous people. you hate the mactavishes, don't you, lubin? _do_ hate the mactavishes! fancy--nine of them, no less, counting the old ones, and all of them coming together. what a family! i despise people who breed like rabbits, as though they thought they were so superlative that the rest of the world could never have enough of them." "ay, fools grow without watering," assented lubin. "can't say i ever took to 'em myself--though it's not my place to say so. the young gents make a bit too free with one, and when they opens their mouths no one else may so much as sneeze. think they know everything, they do. there's a saying as i've heard, that asses sing badly 'cause they pitch their voices too high. maybe it's the same wi' them." "well, i hope aunt charlotte will enjoy their conversation," said austin comfortably. "i say, lubin, do you know anything about a mr st aubyn, who lives not far from here?" "what, him at the court?" replied lubin. "i don't know him myself, but they say as _he's_ a gentleman, and no mistake. keeps himself to himself, he does, and has always got a civil word for everybody. fine old place, too, that of his." "have you ever been inside?" asked austin. "lor' no, sir," answered lubin. "don't know as i'm over anxious to, either. the garden's a sight, it's true--but it seems there's something queer about the house. can't make out what it can be, unless the drains are a bit out of order. but it ain't that neither. sort o' frightening--so folks say. but lor', some folks'll say anything. i never knew anybody as ever _saw_ anything there. it's only some old woman's yarn, i reckon." "oh, is it haunted? are there any ghosts?" cried austin, in great excitement. "i'd give anything in this world to see a ghost!" "i don't know as i'd care to sleep in a haunted house myself," said lubin, beginning to sweep the lawn. "some folks don't mind that sort o' thing, i s'pose; must have got accustomed to it somehow. then there's those as is born ghost-seers, and others as couldn't see one, not if it was to walk arm-in-arm with 'em to church. let's hope mr st aubyn's one o' that sort, seeing as he's got to live there. it's poor work being a baker if your head's made of butter, i've heard say." "then it _is_ haunted!" exclaimed austin. "what a bit of luck. you see, lubin, i know mr st aubyn just a little, and soon i'm going to lunch with him. how i shall be on the look-out! i wonder how it feels to see a ghost. you've never seen one, have you?" "oh no, sir," replied lubin, shaking his head. "i doubt i'm not put together that way. a blind man may shoot a crow by mistake, but he ain't no judge o' colours. though ghosts are mostly white, they say. well, it may be different with you, and when you go to lunch at the court, i'm sure i hope you'll see all the ghosts on the premises if you've a fancy for that kind of wild fowl. let ghosts leave me alone and i'll leave them alone--that's all i've got to say. i never had no hankering after gentry as go flopping around without their bodies. 'tain't commonly decent, to my thinking. don't hold with such goings on myself." "oh, but you must make allowances for their circumstances," answered austin. "if they've got no bodies of course they can't put them on, you know. besides, there are ghosts and ghosts. some are mischievous, and some are very, very unhappy, and others come to do us good and help us to find wills, and treasures, and all sorts of pleasant things. i'd love to talk with one, and have it out with him. what wonderful things one might learn!" "ay, there's more in the world than what's taught in the catechism," said lubin. "let's hope you'll have picked up a few crumbs when you've been to lunch at the court. every little helps, as the sow said when she swallowed the gnat. i confess i'm not curious myself." "well, i'm awfully curious," replied austin, as he began to get up. "but now i must stir about a bit. you know my wooden leg gets horribly lazy sometimes, and i've got to exercise it every now and then for its own good. i know aunt charlotte wants me to go into the town with her to buy provender for this bun-trouble of hers to-morrow. it's very curious what different ideas of pleasure different people have." "he's a rare sort o' boy, the young master," soliloquised lubin as austin went pegging along towards the house. "game for no end of mischief when the fit takes him, for all he's only got one leg. one'd think he was half daft to hear him talk sometimes, too. seems like as if it galled him a bit to rub along with the old auntie, and i shouldn't wonder if the old auntie herself felt about as snug as a bell-wether tied to a frisky colt. however, i s'pose the a'mighty knows what he's about, and it's always the old cow's notion as she never was a calf herself." with which philosophical reflection lubin slipped on his green corduroy jacket, shouldered his broom, and trudged cheerfully home to tea. chapter the fourth the next day the great heat had moderated, and the sky was covered with a thin pearly veil of gossamer greyness which afforded a delightful relief after the glare of the past week. a smart shower had fallen during the night, and the parched earth, refreshed after its bath, appeared more fragrant and more beautiful than ever. aunt charlotte busied herself all the morning with various household diversions, while austin, swaying lazily to and fro in a hammock under an old apple tree, read 'sir gawaine and the green knight.' at last he looked at his watch, and found that it was about time to go and dress. "well, you _have_ made yourself smart," commented aunt charlotte complacently, as austin, sprucely attired in a pale flannel suit, with a lilac tie and a dark-red rose in his button-hole, came into the morning-room to say good-bye. "but why need you have dressed so early? our friends aren't coming till three o'clock at the very earliest, and it's not much more than twelve--at least, so says my watch. you needn't have changed till after lunch, at any rate." "my dear auntie, have you forgotten?" asked austin, in innocent surprise. "to-day's thursday, and i'm engaged to lunch and spend the afternoon with mr st aubyn. you know i told you all about it the very day he asked me." "mr st aubyn?--i don't understand," said aunt charlotte, with a bewildered air. "i have a recollection of your telling me a few days ago that you were lunching out some day or other, but----" "on thursday, you know, i said." "did you? well, but--but our friends are coming _here_ to-day! you must have been dreaming, austin," cried aunt charlotte, sitting bolt upright. "how can you have made such a blunder? of course you can't possibly go!" "do you really propose, auntie, that i should break my engagement with mr st aubyn for the sake of entertaining people like the mactavishes and the cobbledicks?" replied austin, quite unmoved. "but why did you fix on the same day?" exclaimed aunt charlotte desperately. "i cannot understand it. i left the date to you, you know i did--i told you i didn't care what day it was, and said you might choose whichever suited yourself best. what on earth induced you to pitch on the very day when you were invited out?" "for the very reason you yourself assign--that you let me choose any day that suited me best. for the very reason that i _was_ invited out. you see, my dear auntie----" "oh, you false, cunning boy!" cried aunt charlotte, who now saw how she had been trapped. "so you let me agree to the th, and took care not to tell me that the th was thursday because you knew quite well i should never have consented if you had. what abominable deception! but you shall suffer for it, austin. of course you'll remain at home now, if only as a punishment for your deceit. i shouldn't dream of letting you go, after such disgraceful conduct. to think you could have tricked me so!" "my dear auntie, of course i shall go," said austin, drawing on his gloves. "why you should wish me to stay, i cannot imagine. what on earth makes you so insistent that i should meet these friends of yours?" "it's for your own good, you ungrateful little creature," replied aunt charlotte, quivering. "you know what i've always said. you require more companionship of your own age, you want to mix with other young people instead of wasting and dreaming your time away as you do, and it was for your sake, for your sake only, that i asked our friends----" "oh, no, auntie, it wasn't. you told me so yourself," austin reminded her. "you told me distinctly that it was for your own pleasure and not for mine that you were going to invite them. so that argument won't do. and you were perfectly right. if you find intellectual joy in the society of mrs cobbledick and shock-headed peter----" "shock-headed peter? who in the name of fortune is that?" interrupted aunt charlotte, amazed. "one of the mactavish enchantresses--florrie, i think, or perhaps aggie. how am i to know? everybody calls her shock-headed peter. but as i was saying, if you find happiness in the society of such people, invite them by all means. i only ask you not to cram them down my throat. i wouldn't mind the others so much, but the mactavishes i _bar_. i will not have them forced upon me. i detest them, and i've no doubt they despise me. we simply bore each other out of our lives. there! let that suffice. i'm very fond of _you_, auntie, and i don't want anyone else. do you perfectly understand?" "i shall evidently never understand _you_, austin," replied aunt charlotte. "you have treated me shockingly, shockingly. and now you leave me in the most heartless way with all these people on my hands----" "then why did you insist on inviting them?" put in austin. "i entreated you not to. i'd have gone down on my knees to you, only unfortunately i've only one. and when i entreated you for the last time, you said you wouldn't listen to another word. i saw that further appeal was useless, so i was compelled by you yourself to play for my own safety. so now good-bye, dear auntie. it's time i was off. cheer up--you'll all enjoy yourselves much more without an awkward unsympathetic creature like me among you, see if you don't. and you can make any excuse for me you like," he added with a smile as he left the room. aunt charlotte remained transfixed. "i suppose he must go his own gait," she muttered, as she picked up her knitting again. "there's no use in trying to force him this way or that; if he doesn't want to do a thing he won't do it. of course what he says is true enough--i did let him choose the date, and i did ask these people because i thought it would be good for him, and i did insist on doing so when he begged me not to. well, i'm hoist with my own petard this time, though i wouldn't confess as much to him if my life depended on it. but the trickery of the little wretch! it's that i can't get over." meanwhile austin meditated on the little episode on his side, as he made his way along the road. "i daresay dear old auntie was a bit put out," he thought, "but she brought it all upon herself. she doesn't see that everybody must live his own life, that it's a duty one owes to oneself to realise one's own individuality. now it's _bad_ for me to associate with people i detest--bad for my soul's development; just as bad as it is for anyone's body to eat food that doesn't agree with him. those mactavishes poison my soul just as arsenic poisons the body, and i won't have my soul poisoned if i can help it. it's very sad to see how blind she is to the art and philosophy of life. but she'll have to learn it, and the sooner she begins the better." here he left the high road, and turned into a long, narrow lane enclosed between high banks, which led into a pleasant meadow by the river side. this shortened the way considerably, and when he reached the stile at the further end of the meadow he found himself only some ten minutes' walk from the park gates. then a subdued excitement fell upon him. he was going to see the beautiful picture-gallery and the great collection of engravings, and the gardens with conservatories full of lovely orchids. he was going to hold delightful converse with the cultured and agreeable man to whom all these things belonged. and--well, he might possibly even see a ghost! but now, in the genial daylight, with the prospect of luncheon immediately before him, the idea of ghosts seemed rather to retire into the background. ghosts did not appear so attractive as they had done yesterday afternoon, when he had talked about them with lubin. however--here he was. mr st aubyn, tall and middle-aged, with a refined face set in a short, pointed beard, received him with exquisite cordiality. how seldom does a man realise the positive idolatry he can inspire by treating a well-bred youth on equal terms, instead of assuming airs of patronage and condescension! the boy accepts such an attitude as natural, perhaps, but he resents it nevertheless, and never gives the man his confidence. the perfect manners of st aubyn won austin's heart at once, and he responded with a modest ardour that touched and gratified his host. the court, too, exceeded his expectations. it was a grand old mansion dating from the reign of elizabeth, with mullioned casements, and carved doorways, and cool, dim rooms oak-panelled, and broad fireplaces; and around it lay a shining garden enclosed by old monastic walls of red brick, with shaped beds of carnations glowing redly in the sunlight, and, beyond the straight lines of lawn, a wilderness of nut-trees, with a pool of yellow water-lilies, where wild hyacinths and pale jonquils rioted when it was spring. on one side of the garden, at right angles to the house, the wall shelved into a great grass terrace, and here stood a sort of wing, flanked by two glorious old towers, crumbling and ivy-draped, forming entrances to a vast room, tapestried, which had been a banqueting hall in the picturesque tudor days. meanwhile, austin was ushered by his host into the library--a moderate-sized apartment, lined with countless books and adorned with etchings of great choiceness; whence, after a few minutes' chat on indifferent subjects, they adjourned to the dining-room, where a luncheon, equally choice and good, awaited them. at first they played a little at cross-purposes. st aubyn, with the tact of an accomplished man entertaining a clever youth, tried to draw austin out; while austin, modest in the presence of one whom he recognised as infinitely his superior in everything he most valued, was far more anxious to hear st aubyn talk than to talk himself. the result was that austin won, and st aubyn soon launched forth delightfully upon art, and books, and travel. he had been a great traveller in his day, and the boy listened with enraptured ears to his description of the magnificent gardens in the vicinity of rome--the lante, the torlonia, the aldobrandini, the falconieri, and the muti--architectural wonders that austin had often read of, but of course had never seen; and then he talked of viterbo and its fountains, vicenza the city of palladian palaces, every house a gem, and sicily, with its hidden wonders, hidden from the track of tourists because far in the depths of the interior. he had travelled in burma too, and inflamed the boy's imagination by telling him of the gorgeous temples of rangoon and mandalay; he had been--like everybody else--to japan; and he had lived for six weeks up country in china, in a secluded buddhist monastery perched on the edge of a precipice, like an eagle's nest, where his only associates were bonzes in yellow robes, and the stillness was only broken by the deep-toned temple bell, booming for vespers. then, somehow, his thoughts turned back to europe, and he began a disquisition upon the great old masters--tintoretto, rembrandt, velasquez, tiziano, and peter paul--with whose immortal works he seemed as familiar as he subsequently showed himself with the pictures in his own house. he described the memlings at bruges, the botticellis at florence and the velasquezes in spain--averring in humorous exaggeration that beside a velasquez most other paintings were little better than chromolithographs. austin put in a word now and then, asked a question or two as occasion served, and so suggested fresh and still more fascinating reminiscences; but he had no desire whatever to interrupt the illuminating stream of words by airing any opinions of his own. it was not until the meal was drawing to a close that the conversation took a more personal turn, and austin was induced to say something about himself, his tastes, and his surroundings. then st aubyn began deftly and diplomatically to elicit something in the way of self-disclosure; and before long he was able to see exactly how things stood--the boy of ideals, of visionary and artistic tastes, of crude fresh theories and a queer philosophy of life, full of a passion for nature and a contempt for facts, on one hand; and the excellent, commonplace, uncomprehending aunt, with her philistine friends and blundering notions as to what was good for him, upon the other. it was an amusing situation, and psychologically very interesting. st aubyn listened attentively with a sympathetic smile as austin stated his case. "i see, i see," he said nodding. "you feel it imperative to lead your own life and try to live up to your own ideals. that is good--quite good. and you are not in sympathy with your aunt's friends. nothing more natural. of course it is important to be sure that your ideals are the highest possible. do you think they are?" "they seem so. they are the highest possible for _me_," replied austin earnestly. "that implies a limitation," observed st aubyn, emitting a stream of blue smoke from his lips. "well, we all have our limitations. you appear to have a very strong sense that every man should realise his own individuality to the full; that that is his first duty to himself. tell me then--does it never occur to you that we may also have duties to others?" "why, yes--certainly," said austin. "i only mean that we have _no right_ to sacrifice our own individualities to other people's ideas. for instance, my aunt, who has always been the best of friends to me, is for ever worrying me to associate with people who rasp every nerve in my body, because she thinks that it would do me good. then i rebel. i simply will not do it." "what friends have you?" asked st aubyn quietly. "i don't think i have any," said austin, with great simplicity. "except lubin. my best companionship i find in books." "the best in the world--so long as the books are good," replied st aubyn. "but who is lubin?" "he's a gardener," said austin. "about two years older than i am. but he's a gentleman, you understand. and if you could only see the sort of people my poor aunt tries to force upon me!" "i think you may add me to lubin--as your friend," observed st aubyn; at which austin flushed with pleasure. "but now, one other word. you say you want to realise your highest self. well, the way to do it is not to live for yourself alone; it is to live for others. to save oneself one must first lose oneself--forget oneself, when occasion arises--for the sake of other people. it is only by self-sacrifice for the sake of others that the supreme heights are to be attained." for the first time austin's face fell. he tossed his long hair off his forehead, and toyed silently with his cigarette. "is that a hard saying?" resumed st aubyn, smiling. "it has high authority, however. think it over at your leisure. have you finished? come, then, and let me show you the pictures. we have the whole afternoon before us." they explored the fine old house well-nigh from roof to basement, while st aubyn recounted all the associations connected with the different rooms. then they went into the picture-gallery. austin, breathless with interest, hung upon st aubyn's lips as he pointed out the peculiarities of each great master represented, and explained how, for instance, by a fold of the drapery or the crook of a finger, the characteristic mannerisms of the painter could be detected, and the school to which a given work belonged could approximately be determined; drew attention to the unifying and grouping of the different features of a composition; spoke learnedly of textures, qualities, and tactile values; and laid stress on the importance of colour, light, atmosphere, and the sense of motion, as contrasted with the undue preponderance too often attached by critics to mere outline. all this was new to austin, who had really never seen any good pictures before, and his enthusiasm grew with what it fed on. st aubyn was an admirable cicerone; he loved his pictures, and he knew them--knew everything that could be known about them--and, inspired by the intelligent appreciation of his guest, spared no pains to do them justice. a good half-hour was then spent over the engravings, which were kept in a quaint old room by themselves; and afterwards they adjourned to the garden. st aubyn's conservatories were famous, and his orchids of great variety and beauty. austin seemed transported into a world where everything was so arranged as to gratify his craving for harmony and fitness, and he moved almost silently beside his host in a dream of satisfaction and delight. "by the way, there's still one room you haven't seen," remarked st aubyn, as they were strolling at their leisure through the grounds. "we call it the banqueting hall--in that wing between the two old towers. queen elizabeth was entertained there once, and it contains some rather beautiful tapestries. i should like to have them moved into the main building, only there's really no place where they'd fit, and perhaps it's better they should remain where they were originally intended for. are you fond of tapestry?" "i've never seen any," said austin, "but of course i've read about it--gobelin, bayeux, and so on. i should love to see what it looks like in reality." "come, then," said st aubyn, crossing the lawn. "i have the key in my pocket." he flung open the door. austin found himself in the vast apartment, groined and vaulted, measuring about a hundred and twenty feet by fifty, and lighted by exquisite pointed windows enriched with coats-of-arms and other heraldic devices in jewel-like stained glass. the walls were completely hidden by tapestries of rare beauty, woven into the semblance of gardens, palaces, arcades and bowers of clipped hedges and pleached trees with slender fountains set meetly in green shade; while some again were crowded with swaying gothic figures of saints and kings and warriors and angels, all far too beautiful, thought austin, to have ever lived. yet surely there must be some prototypes of all these wonderful conceptions somewhere. there must be a world--if we could only find it--where loveliness that we only know as pictured exists in actual reality. what a dream-like hall it was, on that still summer afternoon. yet there was something uncanny about it too. st aubyn had stepped out of sight, and austin left by himself began to experience a very extraordinary sensation. he felt that he was not alone. the immense chamber seemed _full of presences_. he could see nothing, but he felt them all about him. the place was thickly populated, but the population was invisible. everything looked as empty as it had looked when the door was first thrown open, and yet it was really full of ghostly palpitating life, crowded with the spirits of bygone men and women who had held stately revels there three hundred years before. he was not frightened, but a sense of awe crept over him, rooting him to the spot and imparting a rapt expression to his face. did he hear anything? wasn't there a faint rustling sound somewhere in the air behind him? no. it must have been his fancy. everything was as silent as the grave. he turned and saw st aubyn close beside him. "the place is haunted!" he exclaimed in a husky voice. "what makes you think so?" asked st aubyn, without any intonation of surprise. "i feel it," he replied. "come out," said the other abruptly. "it's curious you should say that. other people seem to have felt the same. i'm not so sensitive myself. you're looking pale. let's go into the library and have a cup of tea." the hot stimulant revived him, and he was soon talking at his ease again. but the curious impression remained. it seemed to him as if he had had an experience whose effects would not be easily shaken off. he had seen no ghosts, but he had felt them, and that was quite enough. the sensation he had undergone was unmistakable; the hall was full of ghosts, and he had been conscious of their presence. this, then, was apparently what lubin had alluded to. oh, it was all real enough--there was no room left for any doubt whatever. it was a quarter to five when he took leave of his entertainer, responding warmly to an injunction to look in again whenever he felt disposed. he walked very thoughtfully homewards, revolving many questions in his busy brain. how much he had seen and learnt since he left home that morning! worlds of beauty, of art, of intellect had dawned upon his consciousness; a world of mystery too. even now, tramping along the road, he felt a different being. even now he imagined the presence of unseen entities--walking by his side, it might be, but anyhow close to him. was it so? could it be that he really was surrounded by intelligences that eluded his physical senses and yet in some mysterious fashion made their existence _known_? at last he arrived at the stile leading into the meadow, and prepared to clamber over. then he hesitated. why? he could not tell. a queer, invincible repugnance to cross that stile suddenly came over him. the meadow looked fresh and green, and the road--hot, dusty, and white--was certainly not alluring; besides, he longed to saunter along the grass by the river and think over his experiences. but something prevented him. with a sense of irritation he took a few steps along the road; then the thought of the cool field reasserted itself, and with a determined effort he retraced his steps and threw one leg over the top bar of the stile. it was no use. gently, but unmistakably, something pushed him back. he _could_ not cross. he wanted to, and he was in full possession of both his physical and mental faculties, but he simply could not do it. in great perplexity, not unmixed with some natural sense of umbrage, austin set off again along the ugly road. the sun had come out once more, and it was very hot. what could be the matter with him? why had he been so silly as to take the highway, with its horrid dust and glare, when the field and the lane would have been so much more pleasant? he felt puzzled and annoyed. how mr st aubyn would have laughed at him could he but have known. this long tramp along the disagreeable road was the only jarring incident that had befallen him that day. well, it would soon be over. and what a day it had been, after all. how marvellous the pictures were, and the gardens; what an acquisition to his life was the friendship--not only the acquaintanceship--of st aubyn; and then the tapestries, the great mysterious hall, and the strange revelations that had come upon him in the hall itself! at last his thoughts reverted, half in self-reproach, to aunt charlotte. how had she fared, meanwhile? had she enjoyed her cobbledicks and her mactavishes as much as he had enjoyed his experiences at the court? for all his theories about living his own life and developing his own individuality, austin was not a selfish boy. egoistic he might be, but selfish he was not. his impulses were always generous and kindly, and he was full of thought for others. he was for ever contriving delicate little gifts for those in want, planning pleasant little surprises for people whom he loved. and now he hoped most ardently that dear aunt charlotte had not been very dull, and for the moment felt quite kindly towards the cobbledicks and the mactavishes as he reflected that, no doubt, they had helped to make his auntie happy on that afternoon. at last he came to the entrance of the lane through which he had passed in the morning. at that moment a crowd of men and boys, most of them armed with heavy sticks and all looking terribly excited, rushed past him, and precipitated themselves into the narrow opening. he asked one of them what was the matter, but the man took no notice and ran panting after the others. so austin pursued his way, and in a few minutes arrived at the garden gate, where to his great surprise he found aunt charlotte waiting for him--the picture of anxiety and terror. "well, auntie!--why, what's the matter?" he exclaimed, as aunt charlotte with a cry of relief threw herself into his arms. "oh, my dear boy!" she uttered in trembling agitation. "how thankful i am to see you! which way did you come back?" "which way? along the road," said austin, much astonished. "why?" "thank god!" ejaculated aunt charlotte. "then you're really safe. i've been out of my mind with fear. a most dreadful thing has happened. let us sit down a minute till i get my breath, and i'll tell you all about it." austin led her to a garden seat which stood near, and sat down beside her. "well, what is it all about?" he asked. "my dear, it was like this," began aunt charlotte, as she gradually recovered her composure. "our friends were just going away--oh, i forgot to tell you that of course they came; we had a most delightful time, and dear lottie--no, lizzie--i always do forget which is which--i can't remember, but it doesn't matter--was the life and soul of the party; however, as i was saying, they were just going away, and i was there at the gate seeing them off, when the butcher's boy came running up and warned them on no account to venture into the road, as hunt's dog--that's the butcher, you know--i mean hunt is--had gone raving mad, and was loose upon the streets. of course we were all most horribly alarmed, and wanted to know whether anybody had been bitten; but the boy was off like a shot, and two minutes afterwards the wretched dog itself came tearing past, as mad as a dog could be, its jaws a mass of foam, and snapping right and left. as soon as ever it was safe our friends took the opportunity of escaping--of course in the opposite direction; and then a crowd of villagers came along in pursuit, but not knowing which turning to take till some man or other told them that the dog had gone up the lane. then imagine my terror! for i felt perfectly convinced that you'd be coming home that way, as the road was hot and dusty, and i know how fond you are of lanes and fields. oh, my dear, i can't get over it even now. how was it you chose the road?" for a moment austin did not speak. then he said very slowly: "i don't know how to tell you. of course i _could_ tell you easily enough, but i don't think you'd understand. auntie, i intended to come home by the lane. twice or three times i tried to cross the stile into the meadows, and each time i was prevented. something stopped me. something pushed me back. naturally i wanted to come by the meadow--the road was horrid--and i wanted to stroll along on the grass and enjoy myself by the river. but there it was--i couldn't do it. so i gave up trying, and came by the road after all." "what _do_ you mean, austin?" asked aunt charlotte. "i never heard such a thing in my life. what was it that pushed you back?" "i don't know," replied the boy deliberately. "i only know that something did. and as the lane is very narrow, and enclosed by excessively steep banks, the chances are that i should have met the dog in it, and that the dog would have bitten me and given me hydrophobia. and now you know as much as i do myself." "i can't tell what to think, i'm sure," said aunt charlotte. "anyhow, it's most providential that you escaped, but as for your being prevented, as you say--as for anything pushing you back--why, my dear, of course that was only your fancy. what else could it have been? i'm far too practical to believe in presentiments, and warnings, and nonsense of that sort. i'd as soon believe in table-rapping. no, my dear; i thank god you've come back safe and sound, but don't go hinting at anything supernatural, because i simply don't believe in it." "then why do you thank god?" asked austin, "isn't he supernatural? why, he's the only really supernatural being possible, it seems to me." that was a poser. aunt charlotte, having recovered her equanimity, began to feel argumentative. it was incumbent on her to prove that she was not inconsistent in attributing austin's preservation to the intervention of god, while disclaiming any belief in what she called the supernatural. and for the moment she did not know how to do it. "by the supernatural, austin," she said at last, in a very oracular tone, "i mean superstition. and i call that story of yours a piece of superstition and nothing else." "auntie, you do talk the most delightful nonsense of any elderly lady of my acquaintance," cried austin, as he laughingly patted her on the back. "it's no use arguing with you, because you never can see that two and two make four. it's very sad, isn't it? however, the thing to be thankful for is that i've got back safe and sound, and that we've both had a delightful afternoon. and now tell me all your adventures. i'm dying to hear about the vicar, and the cobbledicks, and the ingenious jock and sandy. did all your friends turn up?" "indeed they did, and a most charming time we had," replied aunt charlotte briskly. "of course they were astonished to find that you weren't here to welcome them, and i was obliged to say how unfortunate it was, but a most stupid mistake had arisen, and that you were dreadfully sorry, and all the rest of it. ah, you don't know what you missed, austin. the boys were full of fun as usual, and dear lizzie--or was it florrie? well, it doesn't matter--said she was sure you'd gone to the court in preference because you were expecting to meet a lot of girls there who were much prettier than she was. of course she was joking, but----" "the vulgar, disgusting brute!" cried austin, in sudden anger. "and these are the creatures you torment me to associate with. well----" "austin, you've no right to call a young lady a brute; it's abominably rude of you," said aunt charlotte severely. "there was nothing vulgar in what she said; it was just a playful sally, such as any sprightly girl might indulge in. i assured her you were going to meet nobody but mr st aubyn himself, and then she said it was a shame that you should have been inveigled away to be bored by----" "i don't want to hear what the woman said," interrupted austin, with a gesture of contempt. "such people have no right to exist. they're not worthy for a man like st aubyn to tread upon. it's a pity you know nothing of him yourself, auntie. you wouldn't appreciate your lotties and your florries quite so much as you do now, if you did." "then you enjoyed yourself?" returned aunt charlotte, waiving the point. "oh, i've no doubt he's an agreeable person in his way. and the gardens are quite pretty, i'm told. hasn't he got a few rather nice pictures in his rooms? i'm very fond of pictures myself. well, now, tell me all about it. how did you amuse yourself all the afternoon, and what did you talk to him about?" but before austin could frame a fitting answer the butcher's boy looked over the gate to tell them that the rabid dog had been found in the lane and killed. chapter the fifth it will readily be understood that austin was in no hurry to confide anything about his experiences in the banqueting hall to his aunt charlotte. the way in which she had received his straightforward, simple account of the curious impressions which had determined his choice of a route in coming home was enough, and more than enough, to seal his tongue. he was sensitive in the extreme, and any lack of sympathy or comprehension made him retire immediately into his shell. his aunt's demeanour imparted an air of reserve even to the description he gave her of the attractions of moorcombe court. perhaps the good lady was a trifle sore at never having been invited there herself. one never knows. at any rate, her attitude was chilling. so as regarded the incident in the banqueting hall he preserved entire silence. her scepticism was too complacent to be attacked. he was aroused next morning by the sweetest of country sounds--the sound of a scythe upon the lawn. then there came the distant call of the street flower-seller, "all a-growing, all a-blowing," which he remembered as long as he could remember anything. the world was waking up, but it was yet early--not more than half-past six at the very latest. so he lay quietly and contentedly in his white bed, lazily wondering how it would feel in the banqueting hall at that early hour, and what it would be like there in the dead of night, and how soon it would be proper for him to go and leave a card on mr st aubyn, and what lubin would think of it all, and how it was he had never before noticed that great crack in the ceiling just above his head. at last he slipped carefully out of bed without waiting for martha to bring him his hot water, and hopped as best he could to the open window and looked out. there was lubin, mowing vigorously away, and the air was full of sweet garden scents and the early twittering of birds. he could not go back to bed after that, but proceeded forthwith to dress. after a hurried toilet, he bumped his way downstairs; intercepted the dairyman, from whom he extorted a great draught of milk, and then went into the garden. how sweet it was, that breath of morning air! lubin had just finished mowing the lawn, and the perfume of the cool grass, damp with the night's dew, seemed to pervade the world. no one else was stirring; there was nothing to jar his nerves; everything was harmonious, fresh, beautiful, and young. and the harmony of it all consisted in this, that austin was fresh, and beautiful, and young himself. "well, and how did ye fare at the court?" asked lubin, as austin joined him. "was it as fine a place as you reckoned it would be?" "oh, lubin, it was lovely!" cried austin, enthusiastically. "i do wish you could see it. and the garden! of course this one's lovely too, and i love it, but the garden at the court is simply divine. it's on a great scale, you know, and there are huge orchid-houses, and flaming carnations, and stained tulips, and gilded lilies, and a wonderful grass terrace, and--" "ay, ay, i've heard tell of all that," interrupted lubin. "but how about the ghosts? did you see any o' them, as you was so anxious about?" "no--i didn't see any; but they're there all the same," returned austin. "i felt them, you know. but only in one place; that great room, they say, was a banqueting hall once upon a time. you know, lubin, i'm going back there before long. mr st aubyn asked me to come again, and i intend to go into that room again to see if i feel anything more. it was the very queerest thing! i never felt so strange in my life. the place seemed actually full of them. i could feel them all round me, though i couldn't see a thing. and the strangest part of it is that i've never felt quite the same since." "how d'ye mean?" asked lubin, looking up. "i don't know--but i fancy i may still be surrounded by them in some sort of way," replied austin. "it's possibly nothing but imagination after all. however, we shall see. now this morning i want to go a long ramp into the country--as far as the beacon, if i can. it's going to be a splendid day, i'm sure." "i'm not," said lubin. "the old goose was dancing for rain on the green last night, and that's a sure sign of a change." "dancing for rain! what old goose?" asked austin, astonished. "the geese always dance when they want rain," replied lubin, "and what the goose asks for god sends. did you never hear that before? it's a sure fact, that is. it'll rain within four-and-twenty hours, you mark my words." "i hope it won't," said austin. "and so your mother keeps geese?" "ay, that she does, and breeds 'em, and fattens 'em up against michaelmas. and we've a fine noise o' ducks on the pond, too. they pays their way too, i reckon." "a noise o' ducks? what, do they quack so loud?" "lor' bless you, master austin, where was you brought up? everybody hereabouts know what a noise o' ducks is. same as a flock o' geese, only one quacks and the other cackles. well, now i'm off home, for its peckish work mowing on an empty belly, and the mother'll be looking out for me. geese for me, ghosts for you, and in the end we'll see which pans out the best." so lubin trudged away to his breakfast and left austin to his reflections. the predicted rain held off in spite of the terpsichorean importunity of lubin's geese, and austin passed a lovely morning on the moors; but next day it came down with a vengeance, and for six hours there was a regular deluge. however, austin didn't mind. when it was fine he spent his days in the fields and woods; if it rained, he sat at a window where he could watch the grey mists, and the driving clouds, and the straight arrows of water falling wonderfully through the air. his books, too, were a resource that never failed, and if he was unable personally to participate in beautiful scenes, he could always read about them, which was the next best thing after all. the weather continued unsettled for some days, and then it cleared up gloriously, so that austin was able to lead what he called his daphnis life once more. the rains had had rather a depressing effect upon his general health, and once or twice he had fancied that something was troubling him in his stump; but with the return of the sun all such symptoms disappeared as though by magic, and he felt younger and lighter than ever as he stepped forth again into the glittering air. more than a week had elapsed since his day at the court, and he began to think that now he really might venture to go and call. so off he set one sunny afternoon, and with rather a beating heart presented himself at the park gates. here, however, a disappointment awaited him. the lodge-keeper shook his head, and announced that mr st aubyn was away and wouldn't be back till night. austin could do nothing but leave a card, and hope that he might be lucky enough to meet him by accident before long. so he turned back and made for the meadow by the river side, feeling sure that he would be safe from rabid dogs that time at any rate. and certainly no mysterious influences intervened to prevent him sitting on the stile for a rest, and indulging in pleasant thoughts. then he pulled out his pocket-volume of the beloved eclogues, and read the musical contest between menalcas and damætas with great enjoyment. why, he wondered, were there no delightful shepherd-boys now-a-days, who spent their time in lying under trees and singing one against the other? lubin was much nicer than most country lads, but even lubin was not equal to improvising songs about phyllis, and delia, and the muses. then he looked up, and saw a stranger approaching him across the field. he was a big, stoutish man, with a fat face, a frock-coat tightly buttoned up, a large umbrella, and a rather shabby hat of the shape called chimney-pot. a somewhat incongruous object, amid that rural scene, and not a very prepossessing one; but apparently a gentleman, though scarcely of the stamp of st aubyn. at last he came quite near, and austin moved as though to let him pass. "don't trouble yourself, young gentleman," said the newcomer, in a good-humoured, offhand way. "can you tell me whether i'm anywhere near a place called moorcombe court?" "yes--it's not far off," replied austin, immediately interested. "i've just come from there myself." "really, now!" was the gentleman's rejoinder. "and how's me friend st aubyn?" so he was mr st aubyn's friend--or claimed to be. "i really suspected," said austin to himself, "that he must be a bailiff." from which it may be inferred that the youth's acquaintance with bailiffs was somewhat limited. then he said, aloud: "i believe he's quite well, thank you, but i'm afraid you'll not be able to see him. he's gone out somewhere for the day." "dear me, now, that's a pity!" exclaimed the stranger, taking off his hat and wiping his hot, bald head. "dear old roger--it's years since we met, and i was quite looking forward to enjoying a chat with him about old times. well, well, another day will do, no doubt. you don't live at the court, do you?" "i? oh, no," said austin. "i only visit there. it is such a charming place!" "shouldn't wonder," remarked the other, nodding. "our friend's a rich man, and can afford to gratify his tastes--which are rather expensive ones, or used to be when i knew him years ago. i must squeeze an hour to go and see him some time or other while i'm here, if i can only manage it." "then you are not here for long?" asked austin, wondering who the man could be. "depends upon business, young gentleman," replied the stranger. "depends upon how we draw. we shall have a week for certain, but after that----" "how you draw?" repeated austin, politely mystified. "yes, draw--what houses we draw, to be sure," explained the stranger. "what, haven't you seen the bills? i'm on tour with 'sardanapalus'!" a ray of light flashed upon austin's memory. "oh! i think i understand," he ventured hesitatingly. "are you--can you perhaps be--er--mr buckskin?" "for buckskin read buskin, and you may boast of having hazarded a particularly shrewd guess," replied the gentleman. "bucephalus buskin, at your service; and, of course, the public's." "ah, now i know," exclaimed austin. "the greatest actor in europe, on or off the stage." "oh come, now, come; spare my blushes, young gentleman, draw it a _little_ milder!" cried the delighted manager, almost bursting with mock modesty. "greatest actor in europe--oh, very funny, very good indeed! off the stage, too! oh dear, dear, dear, what wags there are in the world! and pray, young gentleman, from whom did you pick up that?" "i think it must have been the milkman," replied austin simply. "the milkman, eh? a most discriminating milkman, 'pon my word. well, it's always encouraging to find appreciation of high art, even among milkmen," observed mr buskin. "only shows how much we owe the growing education of the masses to the drama. talk of the press, the pulpit, the schoolroom----" "i believe he was quoting an advertisement," interpolated austin. "an ad., eh?" said the mummer, somewhat disconcerted. "oh, well, i shouldn't be surprised. of course _i_ have nothing to do with such things. that's the business of the advance-agent. and did he really put in that? i positively must speak to him about it. a good fellow, you know, but rather inclined to let his zeal outrun his discretion. it's not good business to raise too great expectations, is it, now?" austin, in his innocence, scarcely took in the meaning of all this. but it was clear enough that mr buskin was a great personage in his way, and extremely modest into the bargain. his interest was now very much excited, and he awaited eagerly what the communicative gentleman would say next. "i should think it would take," continued mr buskin, warming to his subject. "it's a most magnificent spectacle when it's properly done--as we do it. there's a scene in the third act--the banquet in the royal palace--that's something you won't forget as long as you live. a gorgeous hall, brilliantly illuminated--the whole court in glittering costumes--the tables covered with gold and silver plate. peals of thunder, and a frightful tempest raging outside. in the midst of the revels a conspiracy breaks out--enter pania, bloody--sardanapalus assumes a suit of armour, and admires himself in a looking-glass--and then the rival armies burst in, and a terrific battle ensues----" "what, in the dining-room?" asked the astonished austin. "well, well, the poet allows himself a bit of licence there, i admit; but that only gives us an opportunity of showing what fine stage-management can do," said mr buskin complacently. "it's a magnificent situation. you'll say you never saw anything like it since you were born, you just mark my words." "it certainly must be very wonderful," remarked austin. "but i'm afraid i'm rather ignorant of such matters. what _is_ 'sardanapalus,' may i ask?" "what, never heard of byron's 'sardanapalus'?" exclaimed the actor, throwing up his hands. "why, it's one of the finest things ever put upon the boards. full of telling effects, and not too many bothering lengths, you know. the poet laureate, dear good man, worried my life out a year ago to let him write a play upon the subject especially for me. the part of sardanapalus was to be devised so as to bring out all my particular--er--capabilities, and any little hints that might occur to me were to be acted upon and embodied in the text. but i wouldn't hear of it. 'me dear alfred,' i said, 'it isn't that i underrate your very well-known talents, but byron's good enough for _me_. hang it all, you know, an artist owes something to the classics of his country.' so now, if that uneasy spirit ever looks this way from the land of the eternal shades, he'll see something at least to comfort him. he'll see that one actor, at least, not unknown to europe, has vindicated his reputation as a playwright in the face of the british public." austin felt immensely flattered at such confidences being vouchsafed to him by the eminent exponent of lord byron, and said he was certain that the theatre would be crammed. mr buskin shrugged his shoulders, and replied he was sure he hoped so. "and now," he added, "i think i'll be walking back. and look you here, young gentleman. we've had a pleasant meeting, and i'd like to see you again. just take this card"--scribbling a few words on it in pencil--"and the night you favour us with your presence in the house, come round and see me in me dressing-room between the acts. you've only to show that, and they'll let you in at once. i'd like your impressions of the thing while it's going on." austin accepted the card with becoming courtesy, and offered his own in exchange. mr buskin shook hands in a very cordial manner, and the next moment was making his way rapidly in the direction of the town. "what a very singular gentleman," thought austin, when he was once more alone. "i wonder whether all actors are like that. scarcely, i suppose. well, now i'm to have a glimpse of another new world. mr st aubyn has shown me one or two; what will mr buskin's be like? it's all extremely interesting, anyhow." then he stumped along to the river side, giving a majestic twirl to his wooden leg with every step he took through the long grass. how he would have loved a bathe! the pool where he had so enjoyed himself with lubin was not far off--the pool of daphnis, as he had christened it; but he hesitated to venture in alone. so he lay down on the bank and watched the yellow water-lilies from afar, dreaming of many things. how clever lubin was, and what a lot he knew! why geese should dance for rain he couldn't even imagine; but the rain had actually come, and it was all a most suggestive mystery. how many other curious connections there must be among natural occurrences that nobody ever dreamt of! it was in the country one learnt about such things; in the fields and woods, and by the side of rivers. nature was the great school, after all. history and geography were all very well in their way, but what food for the soul was there in knowing whether norway was an island or a peninsula, or on what date some silly king had had his crown put on? what did it matter, after all? those were the facts he despised; facts that had no significance for him whatever, that left him exactly as they found him first. the sky and the birds and the flowers taught him lessons that were worth more than all the histories and geographies that were ever written. the schoolroom was a desert, arid and unsatisfying; whereas the garden, the enclosed space which held stained cups of beauty and purple gold-eyed bells, that was a jewelled sanctuary. lubin was nearer the heart of things than freeman and macaulay, though they would have disdained him as a clod. virgil and theocritus were greater philosophers than either comte or hegel. daphnis and corydon represented the finest flower, the purest type of human evolution, and herbert spencer was nothing better than a particularly silly old man. having disposed of the education question thus conclusively, it occurred to austin that it must be about time for tea; so he struggled to his legs and turned his footsteps homeward. just as he arrived at the house he met lubin outside the gate with a wheelbarrow. "off already?" he asked. "ay," said lubin. "i say, master austin, there's something i want to tell you. i see a magpie not an hour ago!" "a magpie? i don't think i ever saw one in my life. what was it like?" enquired austin. "don't matter what it was like," replied lubin, sententiously. "but it was just outside your bedroom window. you'd better be on the look-out." "what for?" asked austin. "did it say it was coming back?" "'tain't nothing to laugh at," said lubin, nodding his head. "a magpie bodes ill-luck. that's well known, that is. so you just keep your eye open, that's all i've got to say. it's a warning, you see. did ye never hear that before?" austin's first impulse was to laugh; then he remembered the dancing goose, and the rain which followed in due course. "all right, lubin," he said cheerfully. "i'm not afraid of magpies; i don't think they're very dangerous. but i _have_ heard that they've a fancy for silver spoons, so i'll tell aunt charlotte to lock the plate up safely before she goes to bed." as he had expected, aunt charlotte was much pleased at hearing of his encounter with mr buskin, who, she thought, must be a most delightful person. it would be so good, too, for austin to see something of the gay world instead of always mooning about alone; and then he would be sure to meet other young people at the performance, friends from the neighbouring town, with whom he could talk and be sociable. austin, on his side, was quite willing to go and be amused, though he felt, perhaps, more interested in what promised to be an entirely new experience than excited at the prospect of a treat. he wanted to see and to study, and then he would be able to judge. "by the way, austin," said his aunt, as they were separating for the night a few hours later, "i want you to go into the town to-morrow and tell snewin to send a man up at once to look at the roof. i'm afraid it's been in rather a bad state for some time past, and those heavy rains we had last week seem to have damaged it still more. be sure you don't forget. it won't do to have a leaky roof over our heads; it might come tumbling down, and cost a mint of money to put right again." austin gave the required promise, and thought no more about it. he also forgot entirely to tell his aunt she had better lock up the spoons with particular care that night because lubin had seen a magpie in suspicious proximity to his window. he went straight up to his room, feeling rather sleepy, and bent on getting between the sheets as soon as possible. but just as he was putting on his nightgown, a light pattering sound attracted his attention, and he immediately became all ears. "rain?" he exclaimed. "why, there wasn't a sign of it an hour ago!" he drew up the blind and looked out. the sky was perfectly clear, and a brilliant moon was shining. "that's queer!" he murmured. "i could have sworn i heard it raining. what in the world could it have been?" he turned away and put out the candle. as he approached the bed a curious disinclination to get into it came over him. then he heard the same pattering noise again. he stopped short, and listened more attentively. it seemed to come from the walls. a shower of raps, rather like tiny explosions, now sounded all around him. he leant his head against the wall, and the sound became distincter. this time there was no mistake about it. he had never heard anything like it in his life. he was quite cool, not in the least frightened, and very much on the alert. the raps continued at intervals for about five minutes. then, seeing that it was impossible to solve the mystery, he suddenly jumped into bed. at that moment the raps ceased. for nearly an hour he lay awake, wondering. certainly he had not been the victim of hallucination. he was in perfect health, and in full possession of all his faculties. indeed his faculties were particularly alive; he had been thinking of something else altogether when the raps first forced themselves upon his consciousness, and afterwards he had listened to them for several minutes with close and critical attention. no explanation of the strange phenomenon suggested itself in spite of endless theories and speculations. could it be mice? but mice only gnawed and scuttled about; they did not rap. it was more like crackling than anything else; the noise produced by thousands of faint discharges. no, it was inexplicable, and he wondered more and more. gradually he fell asleep. how long he slept he didn't know, but he awoke with a sensation of cold. instinctively he put out his hand to pull the coverings closer over him, and found that they seemed to have slipped down somehow, leaving his chest exposed. then, warm again, he dozed off once more and dreamt that he was at the pool of daphnis with lubin. how cool and blue the water looked, and how lovely the plunge would be! but when he was stripped the weather suddenly changed; a chill wind sprang up which made his teeth chatter; and then lubin--who somehow wasn't lubin but had unaccountably turned into mr buskin--insisted on throwing him into the water, which now looked cold and black. he struggled furiously, and awoke shivering. there was not a rag upon him. again he stretched out his hand to feel for the clothes, but they had disappeared. instinctively he threw himself out of bed and flung open the shutters. the moon had set, and the first faint gleams of approaching dawn filtered into the room, showing, to his amazement, the bedclothes drawn completely away from the mattress and hanging over the rail at the foot, so as to be quite out of the reach of his hand as he had lain there. what on earth was the matter with the bed? was it bewitched? who had uncovered him in that unceremonious way, leaving him perished with cold? no wonder he had dreamt of that chilly wind, numbing his body as he stood naked by the pool. had he by any chance kicked the coverlet off in his sleep, as he engaged in that dream-struggle with the absurdly impossible buskin-lubin who had attempted to pitch him into the dark water? clearly not; for that would not account for the sheet and blanket being dragged so carefully out of the range of his hands, and hung over the foot-rail so that they touched the floor. such were the thoughts that flashed through his mind as he stood motionless by the window, with wide open eyes, in the chill morning light. suddenly a rending, bursting noise was heard in the ceiling. the crack widened into a chasm, and then, with a heavy thud, down fell a confused mass of old bricks, crumbling mortar, and rotten, worm-eaten wood full on the mattress he had just relinquished, scattering pulverised rubble in all directions, and covering the bed with a layer of horrible dust and _débris_. chapter the sixth had her very life depended on it, old martha would have been totally unable to give any coherent account of what she felt, said, or did, when she came into master austin's room that morning at half-past seven with his hot water. she thought she must have screamed, but such was her bewilderment and terror she really could not remember whether she did or no. but she never had any doubt as to what she saw. instead of a fair white bed with austin lying in it, she was confronted by the sight of a gaping hole in the roof, something that looked like a rubbish heap in a brickfield immediately underneath, and the long slender form of austin himself wrapped in a comfortable wadded dressing-gown fast asleep upon the sofa. "bless us and save us!" she ejaculated under her breath. "and to think that the boy's lived through it!" austin, roused by her entrance, yawned, stretched himself, and lazily opened his eyes. "is that you already, martha?" he said. "oh, how sleepy i am. is it really half-past seven?" "but what does it all mean--how it is you're not killed?" cried martha, putting down the jug, and finding her voice at last. "the good lord preserve us--here's the house tumbling down about our ears and never a one of us the wiser. and the man was to 'ave come this very day to see to that blessed roof. come, wake up, do, master austin, and tell me how it happened." "is aunt charlotte up yet?" asked austin turning over on his side. "ay, that she be, and making it lively for the maids downstairs. whatever will she say when she hears about this to-do?" exclaimed martha, with her hands upon her hips as she gazed at the desolation round her. "well, please go down and ask her to come up here at once," said austin. "i see i shall have to say something, and it really will be too much bother to go over it to everybody in turn. i've had rather a disturbed night, and feel most awfully tired. so just run down and bring her up as soon as ever you can, and then we'll get it over." "a pretty business--and me with forty-eleven things to do already to-day," muttered the old servant as she hurried out. "true it is that except the lord builds the house they labour in vain as builds it. he didn't have no hand in building this one, that's as plain as i am--as never was a beauty at my best. well, the child's safe, that's one mercy. though what he was doing out of his bed when the roof came down's a mystery to _me_. talking to the moon, i shouldn't wonder. the good lord's got 'is own ways o' doing things, and it ain't for the likes of us to pick holes when they turn out better than the worst." meanwhile austin lay quietly and drowsily on his couch piecing things together. seen from the distance of a few hours, now that he had leisure to reflect, how wonderfully they fitted in! first of all, there had been that sudden outburst of raps just as he was stepping into bed. that, evidently, was intended as a warning. it was as much as to say, "don't! don't!" but of course he couldn't be expected to know this, and so he could only wonder where the raps came from, and get into bed as usual. then, the instant he did so the raps ceased. that was because it wasn't any use to go on. the rappers, he supposed, had benevolently tried to frighten him away, and induce him to go and sleep on the sofa at the other end of the room where he was now; but the attempt had failed. so there was nothing for them to do, as he was actually in bed, but to get him out again; and this they had succeeded in doing by dragging all his clothes off. now he saw it all. nothing, it seemed to him, could possibly be clearer. but who were the unseen friends who had thus interposed to save his life? ah, that was a secret still. then footsteps were heard outside, and in bustled aunt charlotte, with martha chattering in her wake. austin raised himself upon his cushions, and then sank back again. "lord save us!" cried aunt charlotte, coming to a dead stop, as she surveyed the ruins. "it's rather a mess, isn't it?" remarked austin, folding a red table-cover round his single leg by way of counterpane. "a mess!" repeated aunt charlotte. "i should think it _was_ a mess. how in the world, austin, did you manage to escape?" "well--i happened to get out of bed a minute or two before the ceiling broke," said austin, "and it's just as well i did. otherwise my artless countenance would have got rather disfigured, and i might even have been hurt. you see all that raw material isn't composed of gossamer----" "what time did it occur?" asked aunt charlotte, shortly. "the dawn was just breaking. i suppose it must have been about four o'clock, but i didn't look at my watch," replied austin. "i was too cold and sleepy." "cold and sleepy!" exclaimed aunt charlotte. "and the house collapsing over your head. you seem to have had time to pull the bedclothes away, though. that's very curious. what did you do that for?" "i didn't," replied austin. "then who did?" asked aunt charlotte, getting more and more excited. "i do wish you'd be a little more communicative, austin; i have to drag every word out of you as though you were trying to hide something. who hung the bedclothes over the footrail if you didn't?" "i can't tell you. i don't know. all i know is that i found them where they are now when i woke up, and i woke up because i was so cold. then i got out of bed, and a minute afterwards down came all the bricks." "do you mean to tell me----" began aunt charlotte, in her most scathing tones. "certainly i do. exactly what i _have_ told you. why?" "do you expect me to believe," resumed his aunt, "that somebody came into the room when you were asleep, and deliberately pulled off all your bedclothes for the fun of doing it? am i to understand----" "my dear auntie, i am not an idiot, nor am i in the habit of perjuring myself," interrupted austin. "i saw nobody come into the room, and i saw nobody pull off the clothes. if you really want to know what i 'expect you to believe,' i've already told you. i might tell you a little more, but then i shouldn't expect you to believe it, so what would be the good? it seems to me the best thing to do now is to send for snewin to take away all this mess, move the furniture, and mend the hole in the ceiling. if once it begins to rain----" "oh! you might tell me a little more, might you?" said aunt charlotte, bristling. "so you haven't told me everything after all. now, then, never mind whether i believe it or not, that's my affair. what is there more to tell?" "nothing," replied austin. "because it isn't only your affair whether you believe me or not; it's my affair as well. why, you don't even believe what i've told you already! so i won't tax your credulity any further." aunt charlotte now began to get rather angry, "look here, austin," she said, "i intend to get to the bottom of this business, so it's not the slightest use trying to beat about the bush. i insist on your telling me how it was you happened to get out of bed just before the accident occurred, and how the bedclothes came to be pulled away and hung where they are now. there's a mystery about the whole thing, and i hate mysteries, so you'd better make a clean breast of it at once." "had i?" said austin, pretending to reflect. "i wonder whether it would be wise. you see, dear auntie, you're such a sensitive creature; your nerves are so highly strung, you're so easily frightened out of your dear old wits--" "be done with all this nonsense!" snapped aunt charlotte brusquely. "come, i can't stand here all day. just tell me exactly what took place--why you woke up, and what you saw, and everything about it you remember." "dear auntie, i don't want you to stand there all day; in fact i'd much rather you didn't stand there a minute longer, because i want to get up," austin assured her earnestly. "i awoke because i had a horrid dream, caused by the cold which in its turn was produced by my being left with nothing on. and i didn't see anything, for the simple reason that the room was as dark as pitch. is there anything else you want to know?" "yes, there is. everything that you haven't told me," said the uncompromising aunt. "very well, then," said austin, leaning upon his elbow and looking her full in the face. "but on one condition only--that you believe every word i say." "of course, austin, i should never dream of doubting your good faith," replied aunt charlotte. "but don't romance. now then." "it's very simple, after all," began austin. "just as i was getting into bed a strange noise, like a shower of little raps, broke out all around me. it went on for nearly five minutes, and i was listening all the time and trying to find out what it was and where it came from. at the moment i had no clue, but now i fancy i can guess. those raps were warnings. they--the rappers--were trying to prevent me getting into bed. they didn't succeed, of course, and so, just as the ceiling was on the point of giving way, they compelled me to get out of bed by pulling all the clothes off. if they hadn't, i should have been half killed. now, what do you make of that?" "i knew it must be some nonsense of the sort!" exclaimed aunt charlotte, in her most vigorous tones. "raps, indeed! i never heard such twaddle. of course i don't doubt your word, but it's clear enough that you dreamt the whole thing. you always were a dreamer, austin, and you're getting worse than ever. i don't believe you know half the time whether you're asleep or awake." "did i dream _that_?" asked austin, pointing to the bedclothes as they hung. "you dragged them there in your sleep, of course," retorted aunt charlotte triumphantly. "i see the whole thing now. you had a dream, you kicked the clothes off in your sleep, and then you got out of bed, still in your sleep----" "i didn't do anything of the sort," interrupted austin. "i was wide awake the whole time. you see, auntie, i was here and you weren't, so i ought to know something about it." "it's no use arguing with you," replied aunt charlotte, loftily. "it's a clear case of sleep-walking--as clear as any case i ever heard of. and then all that nonsense about raps! of course, if you heard anything at all--which i only half believe--it was something beginning to give way in the roof. there! it only requires a little common-sense, you see, to explain the whole affair. and now, my dear----" "hush!" whispered austin suddenly. "what's the matter?" exclaimed aunt charlotte, not liking to be interrupted. "listen!" said austin, under his breath. a torrent of raps burst out in the wall immediately behind him, plainly audible in the silence. then they stopped, as suddenly as they had begun. "did you hear them?" said austin. "those were the raps i told you of. hark! there they are again. i wish they would sound a little louder." a distinct increase in the sound was noticeable. "oh, isn't it perfectly wonderful? now, what have you to say?" aunt charlotte stood agape. it was no use pretending she didn't hear them. they were as unmistakable as knocks at a front door. "what jugglery is this?" she demanded, in an angry tone. "really, dear auntie, i am not a conjurer," replied austin, as he sank back upon his cushions. "that was what i heard last night. but of course _you_ don't believe in such absurdities. it's only your fancy after all, you know." "'tain't _my_ fancy, anyhow," put in old martha, speaking for the first time. "i heard 'em plain enough. 'tis the 'good people,' for sure." "hold your tongue, do!" cried aunt charlotte in sore perplexity. "good people, indeed!--the devil himself, more likely. i tell you what it is, austin----" "why, i thought you weren't superstitious!" observed austin, in a tone of most exasperating surprise. three gentle knocks, running off into a ripple of pattering explosions, were then heard in a farther corner of the room. "there, don't you hear them laughing at you? thank you, dear people, whoever you are, that was very kind. and it was awfully sweet of you to save me from those bricks last night. it _was_ good of them, wasn't it, auntie dear?" "if all this devilry goes on i shall take serious measures to stop it," gasped aunt charlotte, who was almost frightened to death. "i cannot and will not live in a haunted house. it's you who are haunted, austin, and i shall go and see the vicar about it this very day. it's an awful state of things, positively awful. to think that you are actually holding communication with familiar spirits! the vicar shall come here at once, and i'll get him to hold a service of exorcism. i believe there is such a service, and----" "oh, do, do, _do_!" screamed austin, clapping his hands with delight. "what fun it would be! fancy dear mr sheepshanks, in all his tippets and toggery, ambling and capering round poor me, and trying to drive the devil out of me with a broomful of holy water! that's a lovely idea of yours, auntie. lubin shall come and be an acolyte, and we'll get mr buskin to be stage-manager, and you shall be the pew-opener. and then i'll empty the holy-water pot over dear mr sheepshanks' head when he's looking the other way. you _are_ a genius, auntie, though you're too modest to be conscious of it. but you're very ungrateful all the same, for if it hadn't been for----" "there, stop your ribaldry, austin, and get up," said aunt charlotte, impatiently. "the sooner we're all out of this dreadful room the better. and let me tell you that you'd be better employed in thanking god for your deliverance than in turning sacred subjects into ridicule." "thanking god? why, not a moment ago you said it was the devil!" exclaimed austin. "how you do chop and change about, auntie. you can't possibly expect me to be orthodox when you go on contradicting yourself at such a rate. however, if you really must go, i think i _will_ get up. it must be long past eight, and i want my breakfast awfully." the day so excitingly ushered in turned out a busy one. as soon as he had finished his meal, austin pounded off to invoke the immediate presence of mr snewin the builder, and before long there was a mighty bustle in the house. the furniture had all to be removed from the scene of the disaster, the bed cleared of the _débris_, preparations made for the erection of light scaffolding for repairing the roof, and austin himself installed, with all his books and treasures, in another bedroom overlooking a different part of the garden. it was all a most enjoyable adventure, and even aunt charlotte forgot her terrors in the more practical necessities of the occasion. just before lunch austin snatched a few minutes to run out and gossip with lubin on the lawn. lubin listened with keen interest to the boy's picturesque account of his experiences, and then remarked, sagely nodding his head: "i told you to be on the look-out, you know, master austin. magpies don't perch on folks' window-sills for nothing. you'll believe me a little quicker next time, maybe." for once in his life austin could think of nothing to say in reply. to ask lubin to explain the connection between magpies and misadventures would have been useless; it evidently sufficed for him that such was the order of nature, and only a magpie would have been able to clear up the mystery. besides, there are many such mysteries in the world. why do cats occasionally wash their heads behind the ear? clearly, to tell us that we may expect bad weather; for the bad weather invariably follows. these are all providential arrangements intended for our personal convenience, and are not to be accounted for on any cut-and-dried scientific theory. lubin's erudition was certainly very great, but there was something exasperating about it too. so austin went in to lunch thoughtful and dispirited, wondering why there were so many absurdities in life that he could neither elucidate nor controvert. he decided not to say anything to aunt charlotte about lubin's magpie sciolisms, lest he should provoke a further outburst of the discussion they had held in the morning; he had had the best of that, anyhow, and did not care to compromise his victory by dragging in extraneous considerations in which he did not feel sure of his ground. aunt charlotte, on her side, was inclined to be talkative, taking refuge in the excitement of having work-men in the house from the uneasy feelings which still oppressed her in consequence of those frightening raps. but now that the haunted room was to be invaded by friendly, commonplace artisans from the village, and turned inside out, and almost pulled to pieces, there was a chance that the ghosts would be got rid of without invoking the aid of mr sheepshanks; a reflection that inspired her with hope, and comforted her greatly. "you know you're a great anxiety to me, austin," she said, as, refreshed by food and wine, she took up her knitting after lunch. "i wish you were more like other boys, indeed i do. i never could understand you, and i suppose i never shall." "but what does that matter, auntie?" asked austin. "i don't understand _you_ sometimes, but that doesn't make me anxious in the very least. why you should worry yourself about me i can't conceive. what do i do to make you anxious? i don't get tipsy, i don't gamble away vast fortunes at a sitting, and although i'm getting on for eighteen i haven't had a single action for breach of promise brought against me by anybody. now _i_ think that's rather a creditable record. it isn't everybody who can say as much." "i want you to be more _serious_, austin," replied his aunt, "and not to talk such nonsense as you're talking now. i want you to be sensible, practical, and alive to the sober facts of life. you're too dreamy a great deal. soon you won't know the difference between dreams and realities----" "i don't even now. no more do you. no more does anybody," interrupted austin, lighting a cigarette. "there you are again!" exclaimed aunt charlotte, clicking her needles energetically. "did one ever hear such rubbish? it all comes from those outlandish books you're always poring over. if you'd only take _my_ advice, you'd read something solid, and sensible, and improving, like 'self help,' by dr smiles. that would be of some use to you, but these others----" "i read a whole chapter of it once," said austin. "i can scarcely believe it myself, but i did. it's the most immoral, sordid, selfish book that was ever printed. it deifies success--success in money-making--success of the coarsest and most materialistic kind. it is absolutely unspiritual and degrading. it nearly made me sick." "be silent!" cried aunt charlotte, horrified. "how dare you talk like that? i will not sit still and hear you say such things. few books have had a greater influence upon the age. degrading? why, it's been the making of thousands!" "thousands of soulless money-grubbers," retorted austin. "that's what it has made. men without an idea or an aspiration above their horrible spinning-jennies and account-books. i hate your successful stockbrokers and shipowners and manufacturers. they are an odious race. wasn't it a stockjobber who thought botticelli was a cheese? everyone knows the story, and i believe the hero of it was either a stockjobber or a man who made screws in birmingham." aunt charlotte let her knitting fall on her lap in despair. "austin," she said, in her most solemn tones, "i never regretted your poor mother's death as i regret it at this moment." "why, auntie?" he asked, surprised. "perhaps she would have understood you better; perhaps she might even have been able to manage you," replied the poor lady. "i confess that you're beyond me altogether. do you know what it was she said to me upon her death-bed? 'charlotte,' she said, 'my only sorrow in dying is that i shall never be able to bring up my boy. who will ever take such care of him as i should?' you were then two days old, and the very next day she died. i've never forgotten it. she passed away with that sorrow, that terrible anxiety, tearing at her heart. i took her place, as you know, but of course i was only a makeshift. i often wonder whether she is still as anxious about you as she was then." "my dearest auntie, you've been an angel in a lace cap to me all my life, and i'm sure my mother isn't worrying herself about me one bit. why should she?" argued austin. "i'm leading a lovely life, i'm as happy as the days are long, and if my tastes don't run in the direction of selling screws or posting ledgers, nothing that anybody can say will change them. and i tell you candidly that if they were so changed they would certainly be changed for the worse. i hate ugly things as intensely as i love beautiful ones, and i'm very thankful that i'm not ugly myself. now don't look at me like that; it's so conventional! of course i know i'm not ugly, but rather the reverse (that's a modest way of putting it), and i pray to beloved pan that he will give me beauty in the inward soul so that the inward and the outward man may be at one. that's out of the 'phædrus,' you know--a very much superior composition to 'self help.' so cheer up, auntie, and don't look on me as a doomed soul because we're not both turned out of the same melting-pot. now i'm just going upstairs to see to the arrangement of my new room, and then i shall go and help lubin in the garden." so saying, he strolled out. but poor aunt charlotte only shook her head. she could not forget how austin's mother had grieved at not living to bring up her boy, and wished more earnestly than ever that the responsibility had fallen into other hands than hers. there was something so dreadfully uncanny about austin. his ignorance about the common facts of life was as extraordinary as his perfect familiarity with matters known only to great scholars. his views and tastes were strange to her, so strange as to be beyond her comprehension altogether. she found herself unable to argue with him because their minds were set on different planes, and her representations did not seem to touch him in the very least. and yet, after all, he was a very good boy, full of pure thoughts and kindly impulses and spiritual intuitions and intellectual proclivities which certainly no moralist would condemn. if only he were more practical, even more commonplace, and wouldn't talk such nonsense! then there would not be such a gulf between them as there was at present; then she might have some influence over him for good, at any rate. her thoughts recurred, uneasily, to the strange experiences of that morning. the mystery of the raps distracted her, puzzled her, frightened her; whereas austin was not frightened at all--on the contrary, he accepted the whole thing with the serenest cheerfulness and _sang-froid_, finding it apparently quite natural that these unseen agencies, coming from nobody knew where, should take him under their protection and make friends with him. what could it all portend? of course it was very foolish of the good lady to fret like this because austin was so different from what she thought he should be. she did not see that his nature was infinitely finer and subtler than her own, and that it was no use in the world attempting to stifle his intellectual growth and drag him down to her own level. a burly, muscular boy, who played football and read 'tom brown,' would have been far more to her taste, for such a one she would at least have understood. but austin, with his queer notions and audacious paradoxes, was utterly beyond her. unluckily, too, she had no sense of humour, and instead of laughing at his occasionally preposterous sallies, she allowed them to irritate and worry her. a person with no sense of humour is handicapped from start to finish, and is as much to be pitied as one born blind or deaf. but austin had his limitations too, and among them was a most deplorable want of tact. otherwise he would never have said, as he was going to bed that night: "by the way, auntie, what day have you arranged for the vicar to come and cast all those devils out of me?" he might as well have let sleeping dogs lie. aunt charlotte turned round upon him in almost a rage, and solemnly forbade him, in any circumstances and under whatsoever provocation, ever to mention the subject in her presence again. chapter the seventh but by one of those curious coincidences that occur every now and then, who should happen to drop in the very next afternoon but the vicar himself, just as austin and his aunt were having tea upon the lawn. now aunt charlotte and the vicar were great friends. they had many interests in common--the same theological opinions, for example; and then aunt charlotte was indefatigable in all sorts of parish work, such as district-visiting, and the organisation of school teas, village clubs, and those rather formidable entertainments known as "treats"; so that the two had always something to talk about, and were very fond of meeting. besides all this, there was another bond of union between them which scarcely anybody would have guessed. mr sheepshanks, though as unworldly a man as any in the county, considered himself unusually shrewd in business matters; and aunt charlotte, like many middle-aged ladies in her position, found it a great comfort to have a gentleman at her beck and call with whom she could talk confidentially about her investments, and who could be relied upon to give her much disinterested advice that he often acted on himself. on this particular afternoon the vicar hinted that he had something of special importance to communicate, and aunt charlotte was unusually gracious. he was a short gentleman, with a sloping forehead, a prominent nose, a clean-shaven, high-church face, narrow, dogmatic views, and small, twinkling eyes; not the sort of person whom one would naturally associate with financial acumen, but endowed with an air of self-confidence, and a pretension to private information, which would have done credit to any stockbroker on 'change. "i've been thinking over that little matter of yours that you mentioned to me the other day," he began, when he had finished his third cup, and austin had strolled away. "you say your mortgage at southport has just been paid off, and you want a new investment for your money. well, i think i know the very thing to suit you." "do you really? how kind of you!" exclaimed aunt charlotte. "what is it--shares or bonds?" "shares," replied mr sheepshanks; "shares. of course i know that very prudent people will tell you that bonds are safer. and no doubt, as a rule they are. if a concern fails, the bond-holder is a creditor, while the shareholder is a debtor--besides having lost his capital. but in this case there is no fear of failure." "dear me," said aunt charlotte, beginning to feel impressed. "is it an industrial undertaking?" "i suppose it might be so described," answered her adviser, cautiously. "but it is mainly scientific. it is the outcome of a great chemical analysis." "oh, pray tell me all about it; i am so interested!" urged aunt charlotte, eagerly. "you know what confidence i have in your judgment. has it anything to do with raw material? it isn't a plantation anywhere, is it?" "it's gold!" said mr sheepshanks. "gold?" repeated aunt charlotte, rather taken aback. "a gold mine, i suppose you mean?" "the hugest gold-mine in the world," replied the vicar, enjoying her evident perplexity. "an inexhaustible gold mine. a gold mine without limits." "but where--whereabouts is it?" cried aunt charlotte. "all around you," said the vicar, waving his hands vaguely in the air. "not in any country at all, but everywhere else. in the ocean." "gold in the ocean!" ejaculated the puzzled lady, dropping her knitting on her lap, and gazing helplessly at her financial mentor. "gold in the ocean--precisely," affirmed that gentleman in an impressive voice. "it has been discovered that sea-water holds a large quantity of gold in solution, and that by some most interesting process of precipitation any amount of it can be procured ready for coining. i got a prospectus of the scheme this morning from shark, picaroon & co., fleece court, london, and i've brought it for you to read. a most enterprising firm they seem to be. you'll see that it's full of very elaborate scientific details--the results of the analyses that have been made, the cost of production, estimates for machinery, and i don't know what all. i can't say i follow it very clearly myself, for the clerical mind, as everybody knows, is not very well adapted to grasping scientific terminology, but i can understand the general tenor of it well enough. it seems to me that the enterprise is promising in a very high degree." "how very remarkable!" observed aunt charlotte, as she gazed at the tabulated figures and enumeration of chemical properties in bewildered awe. "and you think it a safe investment?" "_i_ do," replied mr sheepshanks, "but don't act on my opinion--judge for yourself. what's the amount you have to invest--two thousand pounds, isn't it? well, i believe that you'd stand to get an income to that very amount by investing just that sum in the undertaking. look what they say overleaf about the cost of working and the estimated returns. it all sounds fabulous, i admit, but there are the figures, my dear lady, in black and white, and figures cannot lie." "i'll write to my bankers about it this very night," said aunt charlotte, folding up the prospectus and putting it carefully into her pocket. "it's evidently not a chance to be missed, and i'm most grateful to you, dear mr sheepshanks, for putting it in my way." "always delighted to be of service to you--as far as my poor judgment can avail," the vicar assured her with becoming modesty. "ah, it's wonderful when one thinks of the teeming riches that lie around us, only waiting to be utilised. there _was_ another scheme i thought of for you--a scheme for raising the sunken galleons in the spanish main, and recovering the immense treasures that are now lying, safe and sound, at the bottom of the sea. curious that both enterprises should be connected with salt water, eh? and the prospectus was headed with a most appropriate text--'the sea shall give up her dead.' that rather appealed to me, do you know. it cast an air of solemnity over the undertaking, and seemed to sanctify it somehow. however, i think the other will be the best. well, austin, and what are you reading now?" "aunt charlotte's face," laughed austin, sauntering up. "she looks as though you had been giving her absolution, mr sheepshanks--so beaming and refreshed. why, what's it all about?" "i expect you want more absolution than your aunt," said the vicar, humorously. "a sad useless fellow you are, i'm afraid. you and i must have a little serious talk together some day, austin. i really want you to do something--for your own sake, you know. now, how would you like to take a class in the sunday-school, for instance? i shall have a vacancy in a week or two." "austin teach in the sunday-school! he'd be more in his place if he went there as a scholar than as a teacher," said aunt charlotte, derisively. "i don't know why you should say that," remarked austin, with perfect gravity. "i think it would be delightful. i should make a beautiful sunday-school teacher, i'm convinced." "there, now!" exclaimed the vicar, approvingly. austin was standing under an apple-tree, and over him stretched a horizontal branch laden with ripening fruit. he raised his hands on either side of his head and clasped it, and then began swinging his wooden leg round and round in a way that bade fair to get on aunt charlotte's nerves. he was so proud of that leg of his, while his aunt abhorred the very sight of it. "no doubt they're all very charming boys, and i should love to tell them things," he went on. "i think i'd begin with 'the gods of greece'--louis dyer, you know--and then i'd read them a few carefully-selected passages from the 'phædrus.' then, by way of something lighter, and more appropriate to their circumstances, i'd give them a course of virgil--the 'georgics', because, i suppose, most of them are connected with farming, and the 'eclogues,' to initiate them into the poetical side of country life. when once i'd brought out all their latent sense of the beautiful--for i'm afraid it _is_ latent----" "but it's a _sunday_-school!" interrupted the vicar, horrified. "virgil and the phædrus indeed! my dear boy, have you taken leave of your senses? what in the world can you be thinking of?" "then what would you suggest?" enquired austin, mildly. "you'd have to teach them the bible and the catechism, of course," said mr sheepshanks, with an air of slight bewilderment. "h'm--that seems to me rather a limited curriculum," replied austin, dubiously. "i only remember one passage in the catechism, beginning, 'my good child, know this.' i forget what it was he had to know, but it was something very dull. the bible, of course, has more possibilities. there is some ravishing poetry in the bible. well, i can begin with the bible, if you really prefer it, of course. the song of solomon, for instance. oh, yes, that would be lovely! i'll divide it up into characters, and make each boy learn his part--the shepherd, the shulamite, king solomon, and all the rest of them. the spring song might even be set to music. and then all those lovely metaphors, about the two roes that were twins, and something else that was like a heap of wheat set about with lilies. though, to be sure, i never could see any very striking resemblance between the objects typified and----" "hold your tongue, do, austin!" cried aunt charlotte, scandalised. "and for mercy's sake, keep that leg of yours quiet, if you can. you are fidgeting me out of my wits." mr sheepshanks, his mouth pursed up in a deprecating and uneasy smile, sat gazing vaguely in front of him. "i think it might be wise to defer the song of solomon," he suggested. "a few simple stories from the book of genesis, perhaps, would be better suited to the minds of your young pupils. and then the sublime opening chapters----" "oh, dear mr sheepshanks! those stories in genesis are some of them too _risqués_ altogether," protested austin. "one must draw the line somewhere, you see. we should be sure to come upon something improper, and just think how i should blush. really, you can't expect me to read such things to boys actually younger than myself, and probably be asked to explain them into the bargain. there's the creation part, it's true, but surely when one considers how occult all that is one wants to be familiar with the kabbala and all sorts of mystical works to discover the hidden meaning. now i should propose 'the art of creation'--do you know it? it shows that the only possible creator is thought, and explains how everything exists in idea before it takes tangible shape. this applies to the universe at large, as well as to everything we make ourselves. i'd tell the boys that whenever they _think_, they are really _creating_, so that----" "i should vastly like to know where you pick up all these extraordinary notions!" interrupted the vicar, who could not for the life of him make out whether austin was in jest or earnest. "they're most dangerous notions, let me tell you, and entirely opposed to sound orthodox church teaching. it's clear to me that your reading wants to be supervised, austin, by some judicious friend. there's an excellent little work i got a few days ago that i think you would like to see. it's called 'the mission-field in africa.' there you'll find a most remarkable account of all those heathen superstitions----" "where is africa?" asked austin, munching a leaf. "there!" exclaimed aunt charlotte. "that's austin all over. he'll talk by the hour together about a lot of outlandish nonsense that no sensible person ever heard of, and all the time he doesn't even know where africa is upon the map. what is to be done with such a boy?" "well, i think we'll postpone the question of his teaching in the sunday-school, at all events," remarked the vicar, who began to feel rather sorry that he had ever suggested it. "it's more than probable that his ideas would be over the children's heads, and come into collision with what they heard in church. well, now i must be going. you'll think over that little matter we were speaking of?" he said, as he took a neighbourly leave of his parishioner and ally. "indeed i will, and i'll write to my bankers to-night," replied that lady cordially. then the vicar ambled across the lawn, and austin accompanied him, as in duty bound, to the garden gate. meanwhile, aunt charlotte leant comfortably back in her wicker chair, absorbed in pleasant meditation. the repairs to the roof would, no doubt, run into a little money, but the vicar's tip about this wonderful company for extracting gold from sea-water made up for any anxiety she might otherwise have experienced upon that score. what a kind, good man he was--and _so_ clever in business matters, which, of course, were out of her range altogether. she took the prospectus out of her pocket, and ran her eyes over it again. capital, £ , , in shares of £ each. solicitors, messrs somebody something & co., fetter lane, e.c. bankers, the shoreditch & houndsditch amalgamated banking corporation, st mary axe. acquisition of machinery, so much. cost of working, so much. estimated returns--something perfectly enormous. it all looked wonderful, quite wonderful. she again determined to write to her bankers that very evening before dinner. "you're going to the theatre to-night, aren't you, austin?" she said, as he returned from seeing mr sheepshanks courteously off the premises. "i want you to post a letter for me on your way. post it at the central office, so as to be sure it catches the night mail. it's a business letter of importance." "all right, auntie," he replied, arranging his trouser so that it should fall gracefully over his wooden leg. "and i do wish, austin, that you'd behave rather more like other people when mr sheepshanks comes to see us. there really is no necessity for talking to him in the way you do. of course it was a great compliment, his asking you to take a class in the sunday-school, though i could have told him that he couldn't possibly have made an absurder choice, and you might very well have contented yourself with regretting your utter unfitness for such a post without exposing your ignorance in the way you did. the idea of telling a clergyman, too, that the book of genesis was too improper for boys to read, when he had just been recommending it! i thought you'd have had more respect for his position, whatever silly notions you may have yourself." "i do respect the vicar; he's quite a nice little thing," replied austin, in a conciliatory tone. "and of course he thinks just what a vicar ought to think, and i suppose what all vicars do think. but as i'm not a vicar myself i don't see that i am bound to think as they do." "you a vicar, indeed!" sniffed aunt charlotte. "a remarkable sort of vicar you'd make, and pretty sermons you'd preach if you had the chance. what time does this performance of yours begin to-night?" "at eight, i believe." "well, then, i'll just go in and tell cook to let us have dinner a quarter of an hour earlier than usual," said aunt charlotte, as she folded up her work. "the omnibus from the 'peacock' will get you into town in plenty of time, and the walk back afterwards will do you good." * * * * * the town in question was about a couple of miles from the village where austin lived--a clean, cheerful, prosperous little borough, with plenty of good shops, a commodious theatre, several churches and chapels, and a fine market. dinner was soon disposed of, and as the omnibus which plied between the two places clattered and rattled along at a good speed--having to meet the seven-fifty down-train at the railway station--he was able to post his aunt's precious letter and slip into his stall in the dress-circle before the curtain rose. the orchestra was rioting through a composition called 'the clang o' the wooden shoon,' as an appropriate introduction to a tragedy the scene of which was laid in nineveh; the house seemed fairly full, and the air was heavy with that peculiar smell, a sort of doubtfully aromatic stuffiness, which is so grateful to the nostrils of playgoers. austin gazed around him with keen interest. he had not been inside a theatre for years, and the vivid description that mr buskin had given him of the show he was about to witness filled him with pleasurable anticipation. to all intents and purposes, the experience that awaited him was something entirely new; how, he wondered, would it fit into his scheme of life? what room would there be, in his idealistic philosophy, for the stage? then the music came to an end in a series of defiant bangs, the curtain rolled itself out of sight, and a brilliant spectacle appeared. the only occupant of the scene at first was a gentleman in a thick black beard and fantastic garb who seemed to have acquired the habit of talking very loudly to himself. in this way the audience discovered that the gentleman, who was no less a personage than the queen's brother, was seriously dissatisfied with his royal brother-in-law, whose habits were of a nature which did not make for the harmony of his domestic circle. then soft music was heard, and in lounged sardanapalus himself--a glittering figure in flowing robes of silver and pale blue, garlanded with flowers, and surrounded by a crowd of slaves and women all very elegantly dressed; and it really was quite wonderful to notice how his majesty lolled and languished about the stage, how beautifully affected all his gestures were, and with what a high-bred supercilious drawl he rolled out his behests that a supper should be served at midnight in the pavilion that commanded a view of the euphrates. and this magnificent, absurd creature--this mouthing, grimacing, attitudinising popinjay, thought austin, was no other than mr bucephalus buskin, with whom he had chatted on easy terms in a common field only a few days previously! the memory of the umbrella, the tight frock-coat, the bald head, the fat, reddish face, and the rather rusty "chimney-pot" here recurred to him, and he nearly giggled out loud in thinking how irresistibly funny mr buskin would look if he were now going through all these fanciful gesticulations in his walking dress. the fact was that the man himself was perfectly unrecognisable, and austin was mightily impressed by what was really a signal triumph in the art of making up. the play went on, and sardanapalus showed no signs of moral improvement. in fact, it soon became evident that his code of ethics was deplorable, and austin could only console himself with the thought that the real mr buskin was, no doubt, a most virtuous and respectable person who never gave mrs buskin--if there was one--any grounds for jealousy. then the first act came to an end, the lights went up, and a subdued buzz of conversation broke out all over the theatre. the second act was even more exciting, as sardanapalus, having previously confessed himself unable to go on multiplying empires, was forced to interfere in a scuffle between his brother-in-law and arbaces--who was by way of being a traitor; but the most sensational scene of all was the banquet in act the third, of which so glowing an account had been given to austin by the great tragedian himself. that, indeed, was something to remember. "guests, to my pledge! down on your knees, and drink a measure to the safety of the king--the monarch, say i? the god sardanapalus! mightier than his father baal, the god sardanapalus!" [_thunder. confusion._] ah, that was thrilling, if you like, in spite of the halting rhythm. and yet, even at that supreme moment, the vision of the umbrella and the rather shabby hat would crop up again, and austin didn't quite know whether to let himself be thrilled or to lean back and roar. the conspiracy burst out a few minutes afterwards, and then there ensued a most terrifying and portentous battle, rioters and loyalists furiously attempting to kill each other by the singular expedient of clattering their swords together so as to make as much noise as possible, and then passing them under their antagonists' armpits, till the stage was heaped with corpses; and all this bloody work entirely irrespective of the valuable glass and china on the supper-table, and the costly hearthrugs strewn about the floor. even sardanapalus, having first looked in the glass to make sure that his helmet was straight, performed prodigies of valour, and the curtain descended to his insatiable shouting for fresh weapons and a torrent of tumultuous applause from the gallery. "now for it!" said austin to himself, when another act had been got through, in the course of which sardanapalus had suffered from a distressing nightmare. he took mr buskin's card out of his pocket, and, hurrying out as fast as he could manage, stumped his way round to the stage door. cerberus would fain have stopped him, but austin flourished his card in passing, and enquired of the first civil-looking man he met where the manager was to be found. he was piloted through devious ways and under strange scaffoldings, to the foot of a steep and very dirty flight of steps--luckily there were only seven--at the top of which was dimly visible a door; and at this, having screwed his courage to the sticking-place, he knocked. "come in!" cried a voice inside. he found himself on the threshold of a room such as he had never seen before. there was no carpet, and the little furniture it contained was heaped with masses of heterogeneous clothes. two looking-glasses were fixed against the walls, and in front of one of them was a sort of shelf, or dresser, covered with small pots of some ungodly looking materials of a pasty appearance--rouge, grease-paint, cocoa-butter, and heaven knows what beside--with black stuff, white stuff, yellow stuff, paint-brushes, gum-pots, powder-puffs, and discoloured rags spread about in not very picturesque confusion. in a corner of this engaging boudoir, sitting in an armchair with a glass of liquor beside him and smoking a strong cigar, was the most extraordinary and repulsive object he had ever clapped his eyes on. the face, daubed and glistening with an unsightly coating of red, white, and yellow-ochre paint, and adorned with protuberant bristles by way of eyebrows, appeared twice its natural dimensions. the throat was bare to the collar-bones. a huge wig covered the head, falling over the shoulders; while the whole was encircled by a great wreath of pink calico roses, the back of which, just under the nape of the neck, was fastened by a glittering pinchbeck tassel. the arms were nude, their natural growth of dark hair being plastered over with white chalk, which had a singularly ghastly effect; a short-skirted, low-necked gold frock, cut like a little girl's, partly covered the body, and over this were draped coarse folds of scarlet, purple, and white, with tinsel stars along the seams, and so disposed as to display to fullest advantage the brawny calves of the tragedian. "great scott, if it isn't young dot-and-carry-one!" exclaimed mr sardanapalus buskin, as the slim figure of austin, in his simple evening-dress, appeared at the entrance. "come in, young gentleman, come in. so you've come to beard the lion in his den, have you? well, it's kind of you not to have forgotten. you're welcome, very welcome. that was a very pleasant little meeting we had the other day, over there in the fields. and what do you think of the performance? been in front?" "oh, yes--thank you so very much," said austin, hesitatingly. "it is awfully kind of you to let me come and see you like this. i've never seen anything of the sort in all my life." "ah, i daresay it's a sort of revelation to you," said sardanapalus, with good-humoured condescension. "have a drop of whiskey-and-water? well, well, i won't press you. and so you've enjoyed the play?" "the whole thing has interested me enormously," replied austin. "it has given me any amount to think of." "ah, that's good; that's very good, indeed," said the actor, nodding sagely. "do you remember what i was saying to you the other day about the educative power of the stage? that's what it is, you see; the greatest educative power in the land. how did that last scene go? made the people in the stalls sit up a bit, i reckon. ah, it's a great life, this. talk of art! i tell you, young gentleman, acting's the only art worthy of the name. the actor's all the artists in creation rolled into one. every art that exists conspires to produce him and to perfect him. painting, for instance; did you ever see anything to compare with that banqueting scene in the palace? why, it's a triumph of pictorial art, and, by jove, of architecture too. and the actor doesn't only paint scenes--or get them painted for him, it comes to the same thing--he paints himself. look at me, for instance. why, i could paint you, young gentleman, so that your own mother wouldn't know you. with a few strokes of the brush i could transform you into a beautiful young girl, or a wrinkled old jew, or an artful dodger, or anything else you had a fancy for. music, again--think of the effect of that slow music in the first act. there was pathos for you, if you like. oratory--talk of demosthenes or cicero, mr gladstone or john bright! why, they're nowhere, my dear young friend, literally nowhere. didn't my description of the dream just _fetch_ you? be honest now; by george, sir, it thrilled the house. look here, young man"--and sardanapalus began to speak very slowly, with tremendous emphasis and solemnity--"and remember what i'm going to say until your dying day. if i were to drink too much of this, i should be intoxicated; but what is the intoxication produced by whiskey compared with the intoxication of applause? just think of it, as soberly and calmly as you can--hundreds of people, all in their right minds, stamping and shouting and yelling for you to come and show yourself before the curtain; the entire house at your feet. why, it's worship, sir, sheer worship; and worship is a very sacred thing. show me the man who's superior to _that_, and i'll show you a man who's either above or below the level of human nature. whatever he may be, i don't envy him. to-morrow morning i shall be an ordinary citizen in a frock-coat and a tall hat. to-night i'm a king, a god. what other artist can say as much?" so saying, sardanapalus puffed up his cigar and swallowed another half-glass of liquor. the pungent smoke made austin cough and blink. "it must indeed be an exciting life," he ventured; "quite delirious, to judge from what you say." "it requires a cool head," replied sardanapalus, with a stoical shrug. "ah! there's the bell," he added, as a loud ting was heard outside. "the curtain's going up. now hurry away to the front, and see the last act. the scene where i'm burnt on the top of all my treasures isn't to be missed. it's the grandest and most moving scene in any play upon the stage. and watch the expression of my face," said mr buskin, as he applied the powder-puff to his cheeks and nose. "gestures are all very well--any fool can be taught to act with his arms and legs. but expression! that's where the heaven-born genius comes in. however, i must be off. good-night, young gentleman, good-night." he shook austin warmly by the hand, and precipitated himself down the wooden steps. austin followed, regained the stage-door, and was soon back in the dress-circle. but he felt that really he had seen almost enough. the last act seemed to drag, and it was only for the sake of witnessing the holocaust at the end that he sat it out. even the varying "expressions" assumed by sardanapalus failed to arouse his enthusiasm. he reproached himself for this, for poor buskin rolled his eyes and twisted his mouth and pulled such lugubrious faces that austin felt how pathetic it all was, and how hard the man was trying to work upon the feelings of the audience. but the flare-up at the end was really very creditable. blue fire, red fire, and clouds of smoke filled the entire stage, and when myrrha clambered up the burning pile to share the fate of her paramour the enthusiasm of the spectators knew no bounds. calls for sardanapalus and all his company resounded from every part of the house, and it was a tremendous moment when the curtain was drawn aside, and the great actor, apparently not a penny the worse for having just been burnt alive, advanced majestically to the footlights. then all the other performers were generously permitted to approach and share in the ovation, bowing again and again in acknowledgment of the approbation of their patrons, and looking, thought austin rather cruelly, exactly like a row of lacqueys in masquerade. this marked the close of the proceedings, and austin, with a sigh of relief, soon found himself once more in the cool streets, walking briskly in the direction of the country. well, he had had his experience, and now his curiosity was satisfied. what was the net result? he began sifting his sensations, and trying to discover what effect the things he had seen and heard had really had upon him. it was all very brilliant, very interesting; in a certain way, very exciting. he began to understand what it was that made so many people fond of theatre-going. but he felt at the same time that he himself was not one of them. for some reason or other he had escaped the spell. he was more inclined to criticise than to enjoy. there was something wanting in it all. what could that something be? the sound of footsteps behind him, echoing in the quiet street, just then reached his ears. the steps came nearer, and the next moment a well-known voice exclaimed: "well, austin! i hoped i should catch you up!" "oh, mr st aubyn, is that you? how glad i am to see you!" cried the boy, grasping the other's hand. "this is a delightful surprise. have you been to the theatre, too?" "i have," replied st aubyn. "you didn't notice me, i daresay, but i was watching you most of the time. it amused me to speculate what impression the thing was making on you. were you very much carried away?" "i certainly was not," said austin, "though i was immensely interested. it gave me a lot to think about, as i told mr buskin himself when i went to see him for a few minutes behind the scenes. you know i happened to meet him a few days ago, and he asked me to--it really was most kind of him. by the way, he was just on his way to call upon you at the court." "well--and now tell me what you thought of it all. what impressed you most about the whole affair?" "i think," said austin, speaking very slowly, as though weighing every word, "that the general impression made upon me was that of utter unreality. i cannot conceive of anything more essentially artificial. the music was pretty, the scenery was very fine, and the costumes were dazzling enough--from a distance; but when you've said that you've said everything. the situations were impossible and absurd. the speeches were bombast. the sentiment was silly and untrue. and sardanapalus himself was none so distraught by his unpleasant dream and all his other troubles but that he was looking forward to his glass of whiskey-and-water between the acts. no, he didn't impose on me one bit. i didn't believe in sardanapalus for a moment, even before i had the privilege of seeing and hearing him as mr buskin in his dressing-room. the entire business was a sham." "but surely it doesn't pretend to be anything else?" suggested st aubyn, surprised. "be it so. i don't like shams, i suppose," returned the boy. "still, you shouldn't generalise too widely," urged the other. "there are plays where one's sensibilities are really touched, where the situations are not forced, where the performers move and speak like living, ordinary human beings, and, in the case of great actors, work upon the feelings of the audience to such an extent----" "and there the artificiality is all the greater!" chipped in austin, tersely. "the more perfect the illusion, the hollower the artificiality. of course, no one could take sardanapalus seriously, any more than if he were a marionette pulled by strings instead of the sort of live marionette he really is. but where the acting and the situations are so perfect, as you say, as to cause real emotion, the unreality of the whole business is more flagrantly conspicuous than ever. the emotions pourtrayed are not real, and nobody pretends they are. the art, therefore, of making them appear real, and even communicating them to the audience, must of necessity involve greater artificiality than where the acting is bad and the situations ridiculous. there's a person i know, near where i live--you never heard of him, of course, but he's called jock mactavish--and he told me he once went to see a really very great actress do some part or other in which she had to die a most pathetic death. it was said to be simply heart-rending, and everybody used to cry. well, the night jock mactavish was there something went wrong--a sofa was out of its place, or a bolster had been forgotten, or a rope wouldn't work, i don't know what it was--and the language that woman indulged in while she was in the act of dying would have disgraced a bargee. jock was in a stage-box and heard every filthy word of it. of course _he_ told me the story as a joke, and i was rather disgusted, but i'm glad he did so now. that was an extreme case, i know--such things don't occur one time in ten thousand, no doubt--but it's an illustration of what i mean when i say that the finer the illusion produced the hollower the sham that produces it." "you're a mighty subtle-minded young person for your age," exclaimed st aubyn, with a good-humoured laugh. "i confess that your theory is new to me; it had never occurred to me before. for one who has only been inside a theatre two or three times in his life you seem to have elaborated your conclusions pretty quickly. i may infer, then, that you're not exactly hankering to go on the stage yourself?" "_i_?" said austin, drawing himself up. "i, disguise myself in paint and feathers to be a public gazing-stock? of course you mean it as a joke." "and yet there _are_ gentlemen upon the stage," observed st aubyn, in order to draw him on. "so much the better for the stage, perhaps; so much the worse for the gentlemen," replied austin haughtily. a pause. they were now well out in the open country, with the moonlit road stretching far in front of them. then st aubyn said, in a different tone altogether: "you surprise me beyond measure by what you say. i should have thought that a boy of your poetical and artistic temperament would have had his imagination somewhat fired, even by the efforts of the poor showman whom we've seen to-night. now i will make you a confession. at the bottom of my heart i agree with every word you've said. i may be one-sided, prejudiced, what you will, but i cannot help looking upon a public performer as i look upon no other human being. and i pity the performer, too; he takes himself so seriously, he fails so completely to realise what he really is. and the danger of going on the stage is that, once an actor, always an actor. let a man once get bitten by the craze, and there's no hope for him. only the very finest natures can escape. the fascination is too strong. he's ruined for any other career, however honourable and brilliant." "is that so, really?" asked austin. "i cannot see where all this wonderful fascination comes in. i should think it must be a dreadful trade myself." "so it is. because they don't know it. because of the very fascination which exists, although you can't understand it. let me tell you a story. i knew a man once upon a time--he was a great friend of mine--in the navy. although he was quite young, not more than twenty-six, he was already a distinguished officer; he had seen active service, been mentioned in despatches, and all the rest of it. he was also, curiously enough, a most accomplished botanist, and had written papers on the flora of cambodia and yucatan that had been accepted with marked appreciation by the linnæan society. well--that man, who had a brilliant career before him, and would probably have been an admiral and a k.c.b. if he had stuck to it, got attacked by the theatrical microbe. he chucked everything, and devoted his whole life to acting. he is acting still. he cares for nothing else. it is the one and only thing in the universe he lives for. the service of his country, the pure fame of scientific research and authorship, are as nothing to him, the merest dust in the balance, as compared with the cheap notoriety of the footlights." "he must be mad. and is he a success?" asked austin. "judge for yourself--you've just been seeing him," replied st aubyn. "though, of course, his name is no more buskin than yours or mine." "good heavens!" cried the boy. "and mr buskin was--all that?" "he was all that," responded the other. "it was rather painful for me to see him this evening in his present state, as you may imagine. as to his being successful in a monetary sense, i really cannot tell you. but, to do him justice, i don't think he cares for money in the very least. so long as he makes two ends meet he's quite satisfied. all he cares about is painting his face, and dressing himself up, and ranting, and getting rounds of applause. and, so far, he certainly has his reward. his highest ambition, it is true, he has not yet attained. if he could only get his portrait published in a halfpenny paper wearing some new-shaped stock or collar that the hosiers were anxious to bring into fashion, he would feel that there was little left to live for. but that is a distinction reserved for actors who stand at the tip-top of their profession, and i'm afraid that poor buskin has but little chance of ever realising his aspiration." "are you serious?" said austin, open-eyed. "absolutely," replied st aubyn. "i know it for a fact." "well," exclaimed austin, fetching a deep breath, "of course if a man has to do this sort of thing for a living--if it's his only way of making money--i don't think i despise him so much. but if he does it because he loves it, loves it better than any other earthly thing, then i despise him with all my heart and soul. i cannot conceive a more utterly unworthy existence." "and to such an existence our friend buskin has sacrificed his whole career," replied st aubyn, gravely. "what a tragedy," observed the boy. "yes; a tragedy," agreed the other. "a truer tragedy than the imitation one that he's been acting in, if he could only see it. well, here is my turning. good-night! i'm very glad we met. come and see me soon. i'm not going away again." then austin, left alone, stumped thoughtfully along the country road. the sweet smell of the flowery hedges pervaded the night air, and from the fields on either side was heard ever and anon the bleating of some wakeful sheep. how peaceful, how reposeful, everything was! how strong and solemn the great trees looked, standing here and there in the wide meadows under the moonlight and the stars! and what a contrast--oh, _what_ a contrast--was the beauty of these calm pastoral scenes to the tawdry gorgeousness of those other "scenes" he had been witnessing, with their false effects, and coloured fires, and painted, spouting occupants! there was no need for him to argue the question any more, even with himself. it was as clear as the moon in the steel-blue sky above him that the associations of the theatre were totally, hopelessly, and radically incompatible with the ideals of the daphnis life. chapter the eighth it is scarcely necessary to say that austin knew nothing whatever about his aunt's preoccupation, and that even if she had taken him into her confidence, he would have paid little or no attention to the matter. i am afraid that his ideas about finance were crude in the extreme, being limited to a sort of vague impression that capital was what you put into a bank, and interest was what you took out; while the difference between the par value of a security and the price you could get for it on the market, would have been to him a hopelessly unfathomable mystery. aunt charlotte, therefore, was very wise in abstaining from any reference, in conversation, to the great enterprise for extracting gold from sea-water, in which she hoped to purchase shares; for one could never have told what foolish remark he might have made, though it was quite certain that he would have said something foolish, and probably very exasperating. so she kept her secret locked up in her own breast, and silently counted the hours till she could get a reply from her bankers. of course austin had to give his aunt an account, at breakfast-time next morning, of the pageant of the previous night; and as he confined himself to saying that the scenery and dresses were very fine, and that mr buskin was quite unrecognisable, and that all the performers knew their parts, and that he had walked part of the way home with roger st aubyn afterwards, the impression left on the good lady's mind was that he had enjoyed himself very much. this inevitable duty accomplished, austin straightway banished the whole subject from his memory and gave himself up more unreservedly than ever to his garden and his thoughts. how fresh and sweet and welcoming the garden looked on that calm, lovely summer day! how brightly the morning dewdrops twinkled on the leaves, like a sprinkling of liquid diamonds! every flower seemed to greet him with silent laughter: "aha, you've been playing truant, have you? straying into alien precincts, roving in search of something newer and gaudier than anything you have here? sunlight palls on you; gas is so much more festive! the scents of the fields are vulgar; finer the hot smells of the playhouse, more meet for a cultured nostril!" of course austin made all this nonsense up himself, but he felt so happy that it amused him to attribute the words to the dear flower-friends who were all around him, and to whom he could never be really faithless. faugh! that playhouse! he would never enter one again. be an actor! lubin was a cleaner gentleman than any painted buskin on the stage. here, in the clear, pure splendour of the sunlit air, the place where he had been last night loomed up in his consciousness as something meretricious and unwholesome. yet he was glad he had been, for it made everything so much purer and sweeter by contrast. never had the garden looked more meetly set, never had the sun shone more genially, and the air impelled the blood and sent it coursing more joyously through his veins, than on that morning of the rejuvenescence of all his high ideals. then he drew a small blue volume out of his pocket, and lay down on the grass with his back against the trunk of an apple-tree. austin's theory--or one of his theories, for he had hundreds--was that one's literature should always be in harmony with one's surroundings; and so, intending to pass his morning in the garden, he had chosen 'the garden of cyrus' as an appropriate study. he opened it reverently, for it was compact of jewelled thoughts that had been set to words by one of the princes of prose. he, the young garden-lover, sat at the feet of the great garden-mystic, and began to pore wonderingly over the inscrutable secrets of the quincunx. his fine ear was charmed by the rhythm of the sumptuous and stately sentences, and his pulses throbbed in response to every measured phrase in which the lore of garden symmetry and the principles of garden science were set forth. he read of the hanging gardens of babylon, first made by queen semiramis, third or fourth from nimrod, and magnificently renewed by nabuchodonosor, according to josephus: "_from whence, overlooking babylon, and all the region about it, he found no circumscription to the eye of his ambition; till, over-delighted with the bravery of this paradise, in his melancholy metamorphosis he found the folly of that delight, and a proper punishment in the contrary habitation--in wild plantations and wanderings of the fields_." austin shook his head over this; he did not think it possible to love a garden too much, and demurred to the idea that such a love deserved any punishment at all. but that was theology, and he had no taste for theological dissertations. so he dipped into the pages where the quincunx is "naturally" considered, and here he admired the encyclopædic learning of the author, which appeared to have been as wide as that attributed to solomon; then glanced at the "mystic" part, which he reserved for later study. but one paragraph riveted his attention, as he turned over the leaves. here was a mine of gold, a treasure-house of suggestiveness and wisdom. _"light, that makes things seen, makes some things invisible; were it not for darkness and the shadow of the earth, the noblest part of the creation had remained unseen, and the stars in heaven as invisible as on the fourth day, when they were created above the horizon with the sun, or there was not an eye to behold them. the greatest mystery of religion is expressed by adumbration, and in the noblest part of jewish types, we find the cherubim shadowing the mercy-seat. life itself is but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows of the living. all things fall under this name. the sun itself is but the dark simulacrum, and light but the shadow of god."_ austin delighted in symbolism, and these apparent paradoxes fascinated him. but was it all true? he loved to think that life was the shadow, and death--what we call death--the substance; he had always felt that the reality of everything was to be sought for on the other side. but he could not see why departed souls should be regarded as the shadows of living men. rather it was we who lived in a vain show, and would continue to do so until the spirit, the true substance of us, should be set free. well, whatever the truth of it might be, it was all a charming puzzle, and we should learn all about it some day, and meantime he had been furnished with an entirely new idea--the revealing power of darkness. he loved the light because it was beautiful, and now he loved the darkness because it was mysterious, and held such wondrous secrets in its folds. he had never been afraid of the dark even when a child. it had always been associated in his mind with sleep and dreams, and he was very fond of both. of course it would have been no use attempting to instruct lubin in the cryptic properties of the quincunx, or any other theories of garden arrangement propounded by sir thomas browne. and aunt charlotte would have proved a still more hopeless subject. she had no head for mysticism, poor dear, and austin often told her she was one of the greatest sceptics he had ever known. "you believe in nothing but your dinner, your bank-book, and your bible, auntie; i declare it's perfectly shocking," he said to her one day. "and a very good creed too," she replied; "it wouldn't be a bad thing for you either, if you had a little more sound religion and practical common-sense." just now it was the bank-book phase that was uppermost, and when a letter was brought in to her at breakfast-time next morning bearing the london postmark, she clutched it eagerly and opened it with evident anticipation. but as she read the contents her brow clouded and her face fell. clearly she was disappointed and surprised, but made no remark to austin. a couple of days passed without anything of importance happening, except that she wrote again to her bankers and looked out anxiously for their reply. but none came, and she grew irritable and disturbed. it really was most extraordinary; she had always thought that bankers were so shrewd, and prompt, and business-like, and yet here they were, treating her as though she were of no account whatever, and actually leaving her second letter without an answer. the affair was pressing, too. there was certain to be a perfect rush for shares in so exceptional an undertaking, and when once they were all allotted, of course up they'd go to an enormous premium, and all her chances of investing would be lost. it was too exasperating for words. what were the men thinking of? why were they so neglectful of her interests? she had always been an excellent customer, and had never overdrawn her account--never. and now they were leaving her in the lurch. however, she determined she would not submit. she fumed in silence for yet another day, and then, at dinner in the evening, came out with a most unexpected declaration. "austin," she said suddenly, after a long pause, "i'm going to town to-morrow by the . train." austin was peeling an apple, intent on seeing how long a strip he could pare off without breaking it. "won't it be very hot?" he asked absently. "hot? well, perhaps it will," said aunt charlotte, rather nettled at his indifference. "but i can't help that. the fact is that my bankers are giving me a great deal of annoyance just now, and i'm going up to london to have it out with them." "really?" replied austin, politely interested. "i hope they haven't been embezzling your money?" "do, for goodness sake, pull yourself together and try not to talk nonsense for once in your life," retorted aunt charlotte, tartly. "embezzling my money, indeed!--i should just like to catch them at it. of course it's nothing of the kind. but i've lately given them certain instructions which they virtually refuse to carry out, and in a case of that sort it's always better to discuss the affair in person." "i see," said austin, beginning to munch his apple. "i wonder why they won't do what you want them to. isn't it very rude of them?" "rude? well--i can't say they've been exactly rude," acknowledged aunt charlotte. "but they're making all sorts of difficulties, and hint that they know better than i do----" "which is absurd, of course," put in austin, with his very simplest air. aunt charlotte glanced sharply at him, but there was not the faintest trace of irony in his expression. "i fancy they don't quite understand the question," she said, "so i intend to run up and explain it to them. one can do these things so much better in conversation than by writing. i shall get lunch in town, and then there'll be time for me to do a little shopping, perhaps, before catching the . back. that will get me here in ample time for dinner at half-past seven." "and what train do you go by in the morning?" enquired austin. "the . ," replied his aunt. "i shall take the omnibus from the peacock that starts at a quarter to ten." it cannot be said that aunt charlotte's projected trip to town interested austin much. business of any sort was a profound mystery to him, and with regard to speculations, investments, and such-like matters his mind was a perfect blank. he had a vague notion that perhaps aunt charlotte wanted some money, and that the bankers had refused to give her any; though whether she had a right to demand it, or they a right to withhold it, he had no more idea than the man in the moon. so he dismissed the whole affair from his mind as something with which he had nothing whatever to do, and spent the evening in the company of sir thomas browne. at ten o'clock he went forth into the garden, and became absorbed in an attempt to identify the different colours of the flowers in the moonlight. it proved a fascinating occupation, for the pale, cold brightness imparted hues to the flowers that were strange and weird, so that it was a matter of real difficulty to say what the colours actually were. then he wondered how it was he had never before discovered what an inspiring thing it was to wander all alone at night about a garden illuminated by a brilliant moon. the shadows were so black and secret, the radiance so spiritual, the shapes so startlingly fantastic, it was like being in another world. and then the silence. that was the most compelling charm of all. it helped him to feel. and he felt that he was not alone, though he heard nothing and saw nobody. the garden was full of flower-fairies, invisible elves and sprites whose mission it was to guard the flowers, and who loved the moonlight more than they loved the day; dainty, diaphanous creatures who were wafted across the smooth lawns on summer breezes, and washed the thirsty petals and drooping leaves in the dew which the clear blue air of night diffuses so abundantly. he had a sense--almost a knowledge--that the garden he was in was a dream-garden, a sort of panoramic phantasm, and that the real garden lay _behind_ it somehow, hidden from material eyesight, eluding material touch, but there all the same, unearthly and elysian, more beautiful a great deal than the one in which he was standing, and teeming with gracious presences. it seemed a revelation to him, this sudden perception of a real world underlying the apparent one; and for nearly half-an-hour he sauntered to and fro in a reverie, leaning sometimes against the old stone fountain, and sometimes watching the pale clouds as they began flitting together as though to keep a rendezvous in space, until they concealed the face of the moon entirely from view and left the garden dark. * * * * * whether austin had strange dreams that night or no, certain it is that when he came down to breakfast in the morning his face was set and there was a look of unusual preoccupation in his eyes. aunt charlotte, being considerably preoccupied with her own affairs, noticed nothing, and busied herself with the teapot as was her wont. austin chipped his egg in silence, while his auntie, helping herself generously to fried bacon, made some remark about the desirability of laying a good foundation in view of her journey up to town. thereupon austin said: "is it absolutely necessary for you to go to town this morning, auntie?" "of course it is," replied aunt charlotte, munching heartily. "i told you so last night." "why can't you go to-morrow instead?" asked austin, tentatively. "would it be too late?" "i've arranged to go _to-day_," said aunt charlotte, with decision. "the sooner this business is settled the better. what should i gain by waiting?" "i don't see any particular hurry," said austin. "it's only giving yourself trouble for nothing. if i were you i'd write what you want to say, and then go up to see these people if their answer was still unsatisfactory." "but you see you don't know anything about the matter," retorted aunt charlotte, beginning to wonder at the boy's persistency. "what in the world makes you want me not to go?" "oh--i only thought it might prove unnecessary," replied he, rather lamely. "it's going to be very hot, and after all----" "it'll be quite as hot to-morrow," said aunt charlotte, as she stirred her tea. "well, why not go by a later train, then?" suggested austin. "look here; go by the . this afternoon, and take me with you. we'll go to a nice quiet hotel, and have a beautiful dinner, and see some of the sights, and then you'd have all to-morrow morning to do your business with these horrid old gentlemen at the bank. now don't you think that's rather a good idea?" "i--dare--_say_!" cried aunt charlotte, in her highest key. "so that's what you're aiming at, is it? oh, you're a cunning boy, my dear, if ever there was one. but your little project would cost at least four times as much as i propose to spend to-day, and for that reason alone it's not to be thought of for a moment. what in creation ever put such an idea into your head?" "i don't want to come with you in the very least, really--especially as you don't want to have me," replied austin. "but i do wish you'd give up your idea of going to london by the . this morning. if you'll only do that i don't care for anything else. take the same train to-morrow, if you like, but not to-day. that's all i have to ask you." "but why--why--why?" demanded aunt charlotte, in not unnatural amazement. "i can't tell you why," said austin. "it wouldn't be any use." "you are the very absurdest child i ever came across!" exclaimed aunt charlotte. "i've often had to put up with your fancies, but never with any so outrageously unreasonable as this. now not another word. i'm going to travel by the . this morning, and if you like to come and see me off, you're at perfect liberty to do so." austin made no reply, and breakfast proceeded in silence. then he glanced at the clock, and saw that it was ten minutes to nine. as soon as the meal was finished, he rose from his chair and moved slowly towards the door. "you still intend to go by the----" "hold your tongue!" snapped his aunt. whereupon austin left the room without another word. then he stumped his way upstairs and was not seen again. aunt charlotte, meanwhile, began preparations for her journey. it was now close on nine o'clock, and she had to order the dinner, see that she had sufficient money for her expenses, choose a bonnet for travelling in, and look after half-a-dozen other important trifles before setting out to catch the railway omnibus at the peacock. at last austin, waiting behind a door, heard her enter her room to dress. very gently he stole out with something in his pocket, and two minutes afterwards was standing on the lawn with his straw hat tilted over his eyes, chattering with lubin about tubers, corms, and bulbs, potting and bedding-out, and other pleasant mysteries of garden-craft. it was not very long, however, before a singular bustle was heard on the first floor. maids ran scuttling up and down stairs, voices resounded through the open windows, and then came the sound of thumps, as of somebody vigorously battering at a door. austin turned round, and began walking towards the house. he was met by old martha, who seemed to be in a tremendous fluster about something. "master austin! master austin! oh, here you are. what in the world is to be done? your aunt's locked up in her bedroom, and nobody can find the key!" "is that all?" answered austin calmly. "then she'll have to stay there till it turns up, evidently." "but the mistress says she's sure you know all about it," panted martha, in great distress, "and she's in a most terrible taking. now, master austin, i do beseech you--'tain't no laughing matter, for the omnibus starts in a few minutes, and your aunt----" a terrific banging was now heard from the locked-up room, accompanied by shouts and cries from the imprisoned lady. austin advanced to the foot of the staircase, looking rather white, and listened. "austin! austin! where are you? what have you done with the key?" shrieked aunt charlotte, in a tempest of despair and rage. "let me out, i say, let me out at once! it's you who have done this, i know it is. open the door, or i shall lose the train!" a fresh bombardment from the lady's fists here followed. "where _is_ austin, martha? can't you find him anywhere?" "he's here, ma'am," cried back martha, in quavering tones, "but he don't seem as if----" "call lubin with a ladder!" interrupted the desperate lady. "i must catch the omnibus, if i break all my bones in getting out of the window. where's lubin? isn't there a ladder tall enough? austin! austin! where _is_ austin, and why doesn't he open the door?" "he was here not a moment ago," replied martha, tremulously, "but where he's got to now, or where he's put the key, the lord only knows. perhaps he's gone to see about a ladder. lubin! have you seen master austin anywhere?" but austin, unobserved in the confusion, having stealthily glanced at his watch, had slipped out at the garden gate, and now stood looking down the road. the omnibus had just started, and for about thirty seconds he remained watching it as it lumbered and clattered along in a cloud of dust until it was lost to view. then he went back to the house, and handed the key to martha. "there's the key," he said. "tell aunt charlotte i'm going for a walk, and i'll let her know all about it when i come back to lunch." he was out of the house in a twinkling, stumping along as hard as he could go until he reached the moors. he had played a daring game, but felt quite satisfied with the result so far, as he knew that there were no cabs to be had in the village, and that, even if his aunt were mad enough to brave a two-mile tramp along the broiling road, she could not possibly reach the station in time to catch the train. now that the deed was done, a sensation of fatigue stole over him, and with a sigh of relief he flung himself down on the soft tussocks of purple heather, and covered his eyes with his straw hat. for half-an-hour he lay there motionless and deep in thought. no suspicion that he had acted wrongly disturbed him for a moment. of course it was a pity that poor aunt charlotte should have been disappointed, and certainly that locking of her up in her bedroom had been a very painful duty; but if it was necessary--as it was--what else could he have done? no doubt she would forgive him when she understood his reasons; and, after all, it was really her own fault for having been so obstinate. it was now half-past ten, and austin had no intention of getting home before it was time for lunch. he had thus the whole morning before him, and he spent it rambling about the moors, struggling up hills, revelling in the heat tempered by cool grass, and wondering how daphnis would have behaved if he had had an unreasonable old aunt to take care of; for aunt charlotte was really a great responsibility, and dreadfully difficult to manage. then, coming on a deep, clear rivulet which ran between two meadows, he yielded to a sudden impulse, and, stripping himself to the skin, plunged into it, wooden leg and all. there he floated luxuriously for a while, the sun blazing fiercely overhead, and the cool waters playing over his white body. when he emerged, covered with sparkling drops, he remembered that he had no towel; so there was nothing to be done but to stagger about and disport himself like a naked faun among the buttercups and bulrushes, until the sun had dried him. as soon as he was dressed, he looked at his watch, and found that it was nearly twelve. then he consulted a little time-table, and made a rapid calculation. it would take him just half-an-hour to reach the station from where he was, and therefore it was high time to start. off he set, and arrived there, as it seemed, at a moment of great excitement. the station-master was on the platform, in the act of posting up a telegram, around which a number of people--travellers, porters, and errand-boys--were crowding eagerly. austin joined the group, and read the message carefully and deliberately twice through. he asked no questions, but listened to the remarks he heard around him. then he passed rapidly through the booking-office, and struck out on his way home. meantime aunt charlotte had passed the hours fuming. to her, austin's extraordinary behaviour was absolutely unaccountable, except on the hypothesis that he was not responsible for his actions. her rage was beyond control. that the boy should have had the unheard-of audacity to lock her up in her own bedroom in order to gratify some mad whim, and so have upset her plans for the entire day, was an outrage impossible to forgive. if he was not out of his mind he ought to be, for there was no other excuse for him that she could think of. what _was_ to be done with such a boy? he was too old to be whipped, too young to be sent to college, too delicate to be placed under restraint. but she would let him feel the full force of her indignation when he returned. he should apologise, he should eat his fill of humble pie, he should beg for mercy on his knees. she had put up with a good deal, but this last escapade was not to be overlooked. even martha, when she came in to lay the cloth for lunch, could think of nothing to say in extenuation of his offence. it was certainly two hours before her excitement allowed her to sit down and begin to knit. even then--and naturally enough--while she was musing the fire burned. it never occurred to her to reflect that there must have been some _reason_ for austin's extraordinary prank, and that the first thing to be done was to discover what that was. she was too angry to take this obvious fact into consideration, and so, when austin at last appeared, his eyes full of suppressed excitement and his forehead bathed in sweat, her pent-up wrath found vent and she flamed out at him in a rage. for some minutes austin stood quite silent while she stormed. if it made her feel better to storm, well, let her do it. half-a-dozen times she demanded what he meant by his behaviour, and how he dared, and whether he had suddenly gone crazy, and then went on storming without waiting for his reply. once, when he opened his mouth to speak, she sharply told him to shut it again. it was clear, even to martha, that if austin's conduct had been inexplicable, his aunt's was utterly absurd. "you've asked me several times what made me lock you up this morning," he said at last, when she paused for breath, "and each time you've refused to let me answer you. that's not very reasonable, you know. now i've got something to tell you, but if you want to do any more raving please do it at once and get it over, and then i'll have my turn." "will you go to your room this instant and stay there?" cried aunt charlotte, pointing to the door. "certainly not," replied austin. "and now i'll ask you to listen to me for a minute, for you must be tired with all that shouting." aunt charlotte took up her work with trembling hands, ostentatiously pretending that austin was no longer in the room. "you wanted to go to town by the . train, and i took forcible measures to prevent you. it may therefore interest you to know what became of that train, and what you have escaped. there's been a frightful collision. the down express ran into it at the curve just beyond the signal station at colebridge junction, owing to some mistake of the signalman, i believe. anyhow, in the train you wanted to go by there were five people killed outright, and fourteen others crunched up and mangled in a most inartistic style. and if i hadn't locked you up as i did you'd probably be in the county hospital at this moment in an exceedingly unpleasant predicament." dead silence. then, "the lord preserve us!" ejaculated martha, who stood by, in awe-struck tones. aunt charlotte slowly raised her eyes from her knitting, and fixed them on austin's face. "a collision!" she exclaimed. "why, what do you know about it?" "i called at the station and read the telegram myself. there was a crowd of people on the platform all discussing it," returned austin, briefly. "your life has been saved by a miracle, ma'am, and it's master austin as you've got to thank for it," cried martha, her eyes full of tears, "though how it came about, the good lord only knows," she added, turning as though for enlightenment to the boy himself. then aunt charlotte sank back in her chair, looking very white. "i don't understand it, austin," she said tremulously. "it's terrible to think of such a catastrophe, and all those poor creatures being killed--and it's most providential, of course, that--that--i was kept from going. but all that doesn't explain what share _you_ had in it. you don't expect me to believe that you knew what was going to happen and kept me at home on purpose? the very idea is ridiculous. it was a coincidence, of course, though a most remarkable one, i must admit. a collision! thank god for all his mercies!" "if it was only a coincidence i don't exactly see what there is to thank god for," remarked austin, very drily. "'twarn't no coincidence," averred old martha, solemnly. "on that i'll stake my soul." "what was it, then?" retorted aunt charlotte. "anyhow, austin, there seems no doubt that, under god, it was what you did that saved my life to-day. but what made you do it? how could you possibly tell that you were preventing me from getting killed?" "i should have told you all that long ago if you weren't so hopelessly illogical, auntie," he replied. "but you never can see the connection between cause and effect. that was the reason i couldn't explain why i didn't want you to go, even before i locked you up. it wouldn't have been any use. you'd have simply laughed in my face, and have gone to london all the same." "i don't know what you mean. don't beat about the bush, austin, and worry my head with all this vague talk about cause and effect and such like. what has my being illogical got to do with it?" "well--if you want me to explain, of course i'll do so; but i don't suppose it'll make any difference," said austin. "some time ago, i told you that just as i was going to get over a stile, i felt something push me back, and so i came home another way. you'll recollect that if i _had_ got over that stile i should have come across a rabid dog where there was no possibility of escape, and no doubt have got frightfully bitten. but when i told you how i was prevented, you scoffed at the whole story, and said that i was superstitious.--stop a minute! i haven't finished yet.--then, only the other day, my life was saved from all those bricks tumbling on me when i was asleep by just the same sort of interposition. again you jeered at me, and when i told you i had heard raps in the wall you ridiculed the idea, and--do you remember?--the words were scarcely out of your mouth when you heard the raps yourself, and then you got nearly beside yourself with fright and anger, and said it was the devil. and now for the third time the same sort of thing has happened. what is the good of telling you about it? you'd only scoff and jeer as you did before, although on this occasion it is your own life that has been saved, not mine." certainly master austin was having his revenge on aunt charlotte for the torrent of abuse she had poured upon him a few minutes previously. for a short time she sat quite still, the picture of perplexity and irritation. the facts as austin stated them were incontrovertible, and yet--probably because she lacked the instinct of causality--she could not accept his explanation of them. there are some people in the world who are constituted like this. they create a mental atmosphere around them which is as impenetrable to conviction in certain matters as a brick wall is to a parched pea. they will fall back on any loophole of a theory, however imbecile and far-fetched, rather than accept some simple and self-evident solution that they start out by regarding as impossible. and aunt charlotte was a very apposite specimen of the class. "i'll not scoff, at anyrate, austin," she said at last. "i cannot forget--and i never will forget--that it's to you i owe it that i am sitting here this moment. tell me what moved you to act as you did this morning. i may not share your belief, but i will not ridicule it. of that you may rest assured." "it is all simple enough," he said. "i had a horrid dream just before i woke--nothing circumstantial, but a general sense of the most awful confusion, and disaster, and terror. i fancy it was that that woke me. and as i was opening my eyes, a voice said to me quite distinctly, as distinctly as i am speaking now, '_keep auntie at home this morning._' the words dinned themselves into my ears all the time i was dressing, and then i acted upon them as you know. but what would have been the good of telling you? none whatever. so i tried persuasion, and when that failed i simply locked you in." now there are two sorts of superstition, each of which is the very antithesis of the other. the victim of one believes all kinds of absurdities blindfold, oblivious of evidence or causality. the upsetting of a salt-cellar or the fall of a mirror is to him a harbinger of disaster, entirely irrespective of any possible connection between the cause and the effect. a bit of stalk floating on his tea presages an unlooked-for visitor, and the guttering of a candle is a sign of impending death. all this he believes firmly, and acts upon, although he would candidly acknowledge his inability to explain the principle supposed to underlie the sequence between the omen and its fulfilment. it is the irrationality of the belief that constitutes its superstitious character, the contented acquiescence in some inconceivable and impossible law, whether physical or metaphysical, in virtue of which the predicted event is expected to follow the wholly unrelated augury. the other sort of superstition is that of which, as we have seen, aunt charlotte was an exemplification. here, again, there is a splendid disregard of evidence, testimony, and causal laws. but it takes the form of scepticism, and a scepticism so blindly partial as to sink into the most abject credulity. the wildest sophistries are dragged in to account for an unfamiliar happening, and scientific students are accused, now of idiocy, now of fraud, rather than the fact should be confessed that our knowledge of the universe is limited. if aunt charlotte, for instance, had seen a table rise into the air of itself in broad daylight she would have said, "i certainly saw it happen, and as an honest woman i can't deny it; but i don't believe it for all that." the succession of abnormal occurrences, however, of which austin had been the subject, had begun to undermine her dogmatism; and this last event, the interposition of something, she knew not what, to save her from a horrible accident, appealed to her very strongly. there was a pathos, too, about the part played in it by austin which touched her to the quick, and she reproached herself keenly for the injustice with which she had treated him in her unreasoning anger. she felt a great lump come in her throat as he ceased speaking, and for a moment or two found it impossible to answer. "a voice!" she uttered at last. "what sort of a voice, austin?" "it sounded like a woman's," he replied. chapter the ninth from this time forward austin seemed to live a double life. perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he inhabited two worlds. around him the flowers bloomed in the garden, lubin worked and whistled, aunt charlotte bustled about her duties, and everything went on as usual. but beyond and behind all this there was something else. the dreams and reveries that had hitherto invaded him became felt realities; he no longer had any doubt that he was encircled by beings whom he could not see, but who were none the less actual for that. and the curious feature of the case was that it all seemed perfectly natural to him, and so far from feeling frightened, or suffering from any sense of being haunted, he experienced a sort of pleasure in it, a grateful consciousness of friendly though unseen companionship that heightened his joy in life. who these invisible guardians could be, of course he had no idea; it was enough for him just then to know that they were there, and that, by their timely intervention on no fewer than three ocasions, they had given ample proof that they both loved and trusted him. aunt charlotte, on her side, could not but acknowledge that there must be "something in it," as she said; it could not all be nothing but austin's fancy. she remembered that people who wrote hymns and poems talked sometimes of guardian angels, and it was possible that a belief in guardian angels might be orthodox. it was even conceivable that it was a benevolent functionary of this class who had let st peter out of prison; and if the institution had existed then, why, there was nothing unreasonable in the conclusion that it might possibly exist now. she revolved these questionings in her mind during her journey up to town the day after austin's escapade, when, as she told herself, she would be perfectly safe from accident; for it was not in the nature of things that two collisions should happen so close together. and she had reason to be glad she went, seeing that her bankers received her with perfect cordiality, and convinced her that she would certainly lose all her money if she insisted on investing it in any such wild-cat scheme as the one she had set her heart upon. they suggested, instead, certain foreign bonds on which she would receive a perfectly safe four-and-a-half per cent.; and so pleased was she at having been preserved from risking her two thousand pounds that she not only indulged in a modest half-bottle of beaune with her lunch, but bought a pretty pencil-case for austin. she determined at the same time to let the vicar know what her bankers had said about the investment he had urged upon her, and promised herself that she would take the opportunity--of course without mentioning names--of consulting him about the orthodoxy of guardian angels. he might be expected to prove a safer guide in such a matter as that than in questions of high finance. a few days afterwards, austin went to call upon his friend st aubyn. he longed to see the beautiful gardens at the court again, now that he had obtained a glimpse into the mystic side of garden-craft through the writings of sir thomas browne; he felt intensely curious to pay another visit to the haunted banqueting hall, which had a special fascination for him since his own abnormal experiences; and he felt that a confidential talk with mr st aubyn himself would do him no end of good. _there_ was a man, at anyrate, to whom he could open his heart; a man of high culture, wide sympathies, and great knowledge of life. he was shown into the big, dim drawing-room, where a faint perfume of lavender seemed to hang about, imparting to him a sense of quiet and repose that was very soothing; through the half-closed shutters the colours of the garden again gleamed brilliantly in the sunshine, and there was heard a faint liquid sound, as of the plashing of an adjacent fountain. st aubyn entered in a few minutes, and greeted him very cordially. "well, and what have you been about?" he said, after a few preliminaries had been exchanged. "reading and dreaming, i suppose, as usual?" "i'm afraid i've done both, and very little else to speak of," replied austin, laughing. "i'm always reading, off and on, without much system, you know. but if i'm rather desultory i always enjoy reading, because books give me so many new ideas, and it's delightful to have always something fresh to think about." "yes, yes," rejoined st aubyn. "i don't know what you read, of course, but it's clear you don't read many novels." "novels!" exclaimed austin scornfully. "how _can_ people read novels, when there are so many other books in the world?" "well, what have you been reading, then?" enquired st aubyn, lighting a cigarette. "i've been dipping into one of the most puzzling, fascinating, bothering books i ever came across," replied austin, following his example. "i mean 'the garden of cyrus,' by sir thomas browne. i can't follow him a bit, and yet, somehow, he drags me along with him. all that about the quincunx is most baffling. he seems to begin with the arrangement of a garden, and then to lead one on through a maze of arithmetical progressions till one finds oneself landed in a mystical philosophy of life and creation, and i don't know what all. if i could only understand him better i should probably enjoy him more." st aubyn smiled. "well, of course, it all sounds very fanciful," he said. "one must read him as one reads all those curious old mediæval authors, who are full of pseudo-science and theories based on fables. his great charm to me is his style, which is singularly rich and chaste. but i've no doubt whatever, myself, that a great deal of this ancient lore, which we have been accustomed to regard as so much sciolism, not to say pure nonsense, had a germ of truth in it, and that truth i believe we are gradually beginning to re-discover. you see, one mustn't always take the formulas employed by these old writers in their literal sense. many were purely symbolic, and concealed occult meanings. now the philosopher's stone, to take a familiar example, was not a stone at all. the word was no more than a symbol, and covered a search for one of the great secrets--the origin of life, or the nature of matter, or the attainment of immortality. they seem to us to have taken a very roundabout route in their investigations, but their object was often very much the same as that of every chemist and biologist of the present day. take alchemy, again, which is supposed by people generally to have been nothing but an attempt to turn the baser metals into gold. according to the rosicrucians, who may be supposed to have known something about it, alchemy was the science of guiding the invisible processes of life for the purpose of attaining certain results in both the physical and spiritual spheres. chemistry deals with inanimate substances, alchemy with the principle of life itself. the highest aim of the alchemist was the evolution of a divine and immortal being out of a mortal and semi-animal man; the development, in short, of all those hidden properties which lie latent in man's nature." "that is a very valuable thing to know," observed austin, greatly interested. "every day i live, the more i realise the truth that everything we see is on the surface, and that there's a whole world of machinery--i can't think of a better term--working at the back of it. it's like a clock. the face and the hands are all we see, but it's the works inside that we can't see that make it go." "excellently put," returned st aubyn. "there are influences and forces all round us of which we only notice the effects, and how far these forces are intelligent is a very curious question. i see nothing unscientific myself in the hypothesis that they may be." "i wonder!" exclaimed austin. "do you know--i have had some very funny experiences myself lately, that can't be explained on any other ground that i can think of. the first occurred the very day that i was here first. would you mind if i told you about them? would it bother you very much?" "on the contrary! i shall listen with the greatest interest, i assure you," replied st aubyn, with a smile. so austin began at the beginning, and gave his friend a clear, full, circumstantial account of the three occurrences which had made so deep an impression on his mind. the story of the bricks riveted the attention of his hearer, who questioned him closely about a number of significant details; then he went on to the incident of aunt charlotte's proposed journey, the mysterious warning he had received, and the desperate measures to which he had been driven to keep her from going out. st aubyn shouted with laughter as austin gravely described how he had locked her up in her bedroom, and how lustily she had banged and screamed to be released before it was too late to catch the train. the sequel seemed to astonish him, and he fell into a musing silence. "you tell your story remarkably well," he said at last, "and i don't mind confessing that the abnormal character of the whole thing strikes me as beyond question. any attempt to explain such sequences by the worn-out old theory of imagination or coincidence would be manifestly futile. such coincidences, like miracles, do not happen. many things have happened that people call miracles, by which they mean a sort of divine conjuring-trick that is performed or brought about by violating or annihilating natural laws. that, of course, is absurd. nothing happens but in virtue of natural laws, laws just as natural and inherent in the universal scheme of things as gravitation or the precession of the equinoxes, _only_ outside our extremely limited knowledge of the universe. that, under certain conditions, such interpositions affecting physical organisms may be produced by invisible agencies is, in my view, eminently conceivable. it is purely a question of evidence." "i am so glad you think so," replied austin. "it makes things so much easier. and then it's so pleasant to think that one is really surrounded by unseen friends who are looking after one. i was never a bit afraid of ghosts, and _my_ ghosts are apparently a charming set of people. i wonder who they are?" "ah, that is more than i can tell you," answered the other, laughing. "i'm not so favoured as you appear to be. but come, let's have a stroll round the garden. you don't mind the sun, i know." "and the banqueting hall! i insist on the banqueting hall," added austin, who now began to feel quite at home with his genial host. "i long to be in there again. i'm sure it's full of wonders, if one only had eyes to see." "by all means," smiled st aubyn, as they went out. "you shall take your fill of them, never fear. don't forget your hat--the sun's pretty powerful to-day. doesn't the lawn look well?" "lovely," assented austin, admiringly. "like a great green velvet carpet. how do you manage to keep it in such good condition?" "by plenty of rolling and watering. that's the only secret. let's walk this way, down to the pool where the lilies are. there'll be plenty of shade under the trees. do you see that old statue, just over there by the wall? that's a great favourite of mine. it always looks to me like a petrified youth, a being that will never grow old in soul although its form has existed for centuries, and the stone it's made of for thousands of thousands of years. that's an illustration of the saying that whom the gods love die young. not that they die in youth, but that they never really grow old, let them live for eighty years or more, as we count time. they remain always young in soul, however long their bodies last. perhaps that's what isaiah had in his mind when he talked about a child dying at a hundred. _you'll_ never grow old, you know." "shan't i? how nice," exclaimed austin, brightly. "i certainly can't fancy myself old a bit. how funny it would be if one always preserved one's youthful shape and features, while one's skin got all cracked and rough and wrinkled like that old youth over there! the effect would be rather ghastly. but i don't want to grow old in any sense. i should like to remain a boy all my life. i suppose that in the other world people may live a thousand years and always remain eighteen. i'm nearly eighteen myself." st aubyn could not help casting a glance of keen interest at the boy as he said this. a presentiment shot through him that that might actually be the destiny of the pure-souled, enthusiastic young creature who had just uttered the suggestive words. austin's long, pale face, slender form, and bright, far-away expression carried with them the idea that perhaps he might not stay very long where he was. a sudden pang made itself felt as the possibility occurred to him, and he rapidly changed the subject. "i don't think i'd let my thoughts run too much on mystical questions if i were you, austin," he said. "i mean in connection with these curious experiences you've been having. you have enough joy in life, joy from the world around you, to dispense with speculations about the unseen. all that sort of thing is premature, and if it takes too great a hold upon you its tendency will be to make you morbid." "it hasn't done so yet," replied austin. "as far as i can judge of the other world, it seems quite as joyous and lively as this one, and in reality i expect it's a good deal more so. i don't hanker after experiences, as you call them, but hitherto whenever they've come they've always been helpful and agreeable--never terrifying or ghastly in the very least. and i don't lay myself out for them, you know. i just feel that there _is_ something near me that i can't see, and that it's pleasant and friendly. the thought is a happy one, and makes me enjoy the world i live in all the more." "well, then, let us enjoy it together, and talk about orchids and tulips, and things we can see and handle," said st aubyn, cheerfully. "how's aunt charlotte, for instance? has she quite forgiven you for having saved her life?" "oh, quite, i think," replied austin, his eyes twinkling. "i believe she's almost grateful, for when she came back from town she presented me with a gold pencil-case. she doesn't often do that sort of thing, poor dear, and i'm sure she meant it as a sign of reconciliation. it's pretty, isn't it?" he added, taking it out of his pocket. "charming," assented st aubyn. "that bit of lapis lazuli at the top, with a curious design upon it, is by way of being an amulet, i suppose?" "h'm! i don't believe in amulets, you know," said austin, nodding sagely. "i consider that all nonsense." "yet there's no doubt that some amulets have influence," remarked st aubyn. "if a piece of amber, for example, has been highly magnetised by a 'sensitive,' as very psychic persons are called, it is quite possible that, worn next the skin, a certain amount of magnetic fluid may be transmitted to the wearer, producing a distinct effect upon his vitality. there's nothing occult about that. the most thoroughgoing materialist might acknowledge it. but when it comes to spells, and all that gibberish, there, of course, i part company. the magical power of certain precious stones may be a fact of nature, but i see no proof of its truth, and therefore i don't believe in it." "and now may we go and look at the flowers?" suggested austin. "come along," returned st aubyn. "what a boy you are for flowers! do you know much of botany?" "no--yes, a little--but not nearly as much as i ought," said austin, as they strolled through the blaze of colour. "i love flowers for their beauty and suggestiveness, irrespective of the classifications to which they may happen to belong. a garden is to me the most beautiful thing in the world. there's something sacred about it. everything that's beautiful is good, and if it isn't beautiful it can't be good, and when one realises beauty one is happy. that's why i feel so much happier in gardens than in church." "why, aren't you fond of church?" asked st aubyn, amused. "a garden makes me happier," said austin. "religion seems to encourage pain, and ugliness, and mourning. i don't know why it should, but nearly all the very religious people i know are solemn and melancholy, as though they hadn't wits enough to be anything else. they only understand what is uncomfortable, just as beasts of burden only understand threats and beatings. i suppose it's a question of culture. now i learn more of what _i_ call religion from fields, and trees, and flowers than from anything else. i don't believe that if the world had consisted of nothing but cities any real religion would ever have been evolved at all." "crude, my dear austin, very crude!" remarked st aubyn, patting his shoulder as they walked. "there's more in religion than that, a great deal. beware of generalising too widely, and don't forget the personal equation. now, come and have a look at the orchids. i've got one or two rather fine ones that you haven't seen." he led the way towards the orchid-houses. here they spent a delightful quarter of an hour, and it was only the thought of his visit to the banqueting hall that reconciled austin to tearing himself away. st aubyn seemed much diverted at his insistence, and asked him whether he expected to find the figures on the tapestry endowed with life and disporting themselves about the room for his entertainment. "i wish they would!" laughed austin. "what fun it would be. i'm sure they'd enjoy it too. how old is the tapestry, by the way?" "it's fifteenth century work, i believe," replied st aubyn. "here we are. it really is very good of its kind, and the colours are wonderfully preserved." "it's lovely!" sighed austin, as he walked slowly up the hall, feasting his eyes once more on the beautiful fabrics. "what a thing to live with! just think of having all these charming people as one's daily companions. i shouldn't want them to come to life, i like them just as they are. if they moved or spoke the charm would be broken. why don't you spend hours every day in this wonderful place?" "my dear boy, i haven't such an imagination as you have," answered st aubyn, laughing. "but as a mere artist, of course i appreciate them as much as anyone, just as i appreciate statuary or pictures. and i prize them for their historical value too." austin made no reply. he began to look abstracted, as though listening to something else. the sun had begun to sink on the other side of the house, leaving the hall itself in comparative shadow. "don't you feel anything?" he said at last, in an undertone. "nothing whatever," replied st aubyn. "do you?" "yes. hush! no--it was nothing. but i feel it--all round me. the most curious sensation. the room's full. some of them are behind me. don't you feel a wind?" "indeed i don't," said st aubyn. "there's not a breath stirring anywhere." they were standing side by side. austin gently put out his right hand and grasped st aubyn's left. "_now_ don't you feel anything?" he asked. "yes--a sort of thrill. a tingling in my arm," replied st aubyn. "that's rather strange. but it comes from you, not from----" he paused. "it comes _through_ me," said austin. they stood for a few seconds in unbroken silence. then st aubyn suddenly withdrew his hand. "this is unhealthy!" he said, with a touch of abruptness. "you must be highly magnetic. your organism is 'sensitive,' and that's why you experience things that i don't." "oh, why did you break the spell?" cried austin, regretfully. "what harm could it have done you? you said yourself just now that nothing happens that isn't natural. and this is natural enough, if one could only understand the way it works." "many things are natural that are not desirable," returned st aubyn, walking up and down. "it's quite natural for people to go to sea, but it makes some of them sea-sick, nevertheless, and they had better stay on shore. it's all a matter of temperament, i suppose, and what is pleasant for you is something that my own instincts warn me very carefully to avoid." austin drew his handkerchief across his eyes, as though beginning to come back to the realities of life. "i daresay," he said, vaguely. "but it's very restful here. the air seems to make me sleepy. i almost think--" at this point a servant appeared at the other end of the hall, and st aubyn went to see what he wanted. the next moment he returned, with quickened steps. "come away with you--you and your spooks!" he cried, cheerfully, taking austin by the arm. "here's an old aunt of mine suddenly dropped from the skies, and clamouring for a cup of tea. we must go in and entertain her. she's all by herself in the library." "i shall be very glad," said austin. "you go on first, and i'll be with you in two minutes." so st aubyn strode off to welcome his elderly relative, and when austin came into the room he found his friend stooping over a very small, very dowdy old lady dressed in rusty black silk, with a large bonnet rather on one side, who was standing on tiptoe, the better to peck at st aubyn's cheek by way of a salute. she had small, twinkling eyes, a wrinkled face, and the very honestest wig that austin had ever seen; and yet there was an air and a style about the old body which somehow belied her quaint appearance, and suggested the idea that she was something more than the insignificant little creature that she looked at first sight. and so in fact she was, being no less a personage than the dowager-countess of merthyr tydvil, and a very great lady indeed. "but, my dear aunt, why did you never let me know that i might expect you?" st aubyn was saying as austin entered. "i might have been miles away, and you'd have had all your journey for nothing." "my dear, i'm staying with the people at cleeve castle, and i thought i'd just give 'em the slip for an hour or two and take you by surprise," answered the old lady as she sat down. "no, you needn't ring--i ordered tea as soon as i came in. they just bore me out of my life, you see, and they've got a pack o' riffraff staying with 'em that i don't know how to sit in the same room with. but who's your young friend over there? why don't you introduce him?" "i beg your pardon!" said st aubyn. "mr austin trevor, a near neighbour of mine. austin, my aunt, lady merthyr tydvil." "why, of course i know now," said the old lady, nodding briskly. "so you're austin, are you? roger was telling me about you not three weeks ago. well, austin, i like the looks of you, and that's more than i can say of most people, i can tell you. how long have you been living hereabouts?" "ever since i can remember," austin said. "roger, do touch the bell, there's a good creature," said lady merthyr tydvil. "that man of yours must be growing the tea-plants, i should think. ah, here he is. i'm gasping for something to drink. did the water boil, richards? you're sure? how many spoonfuls of tea did you put in? h'm! well, never mind now. i shall be better directly. what are those? oh--nebuchadnezzar sandwiches. very good. that's all we want, i think." she dismissed the man with a gesture as though the house belonged to her, while st aubyn looked on, amused. "i thought i should never get here," she continued. "the driver was a perfect imbecile, my dear--didn't know the country a bit. and it's not more than seven miles, you know, if it's as much. i was sure the wretch was going wrong, and if i hadn't insisted on pulling him up and asking a respectable-looking body where the house was i believe we should have been wandering about the next shire at this moment. i've no patience with such fools." "and how long are you staying at cleeve?" asked st aubyn, supplying her with sandwiches. "i've been there nearly a week already, and the trouble lasts three days more," replied his aunt, as she munched away. "the duke's a fool, and she's worse. haven't the ghost of an idea, either of 'em, how to mix people, you know. and what with their horrible charades, and their nonsensical round games, and their everlasting bridge, i'm pretty well at the end of my tether. never was among such a beef-witted set of addlepates since i was born. the only man among 'em who isn't a hopeless booby's a socialist, and he's been twice in gaol for inciting honest folks not to pay their taxes. oh, they're a precious lot, i promise you. i don't know what we're coming to, i'm sure." "but it's so easy not to do things," observed st aubyn, lazily. "why on earth do you go there? i wouldn't, i know that." "why does anybody do anything?" retorted the old lady. "we can't all stay at home and write books that nobody reads, as you do." austin looked up enquiringly. he had no idea that st aubyn was an author, and said so. "what, you didn't know that roger wrote books?" said the old lady, turning to him. "oh yes, he does, my dear, and very fine books too--only they're miles above the comprehension of stupid old women like me. probably you've not a notion what a learned person he really is. i don't even know the names of the things he writes of." "and you never told me!" said austin to his friend. "but you'll have to lend me some of your books now, you know. i'm dying to know what they're all about." "they're chiefly about antiquities," responded st aubyn; "early peruvian, mexican, egyptian, and so on. you're perfectly welcome to read them all if you care to. they're not at all deep, whatever my aunt may say." during this brief interchange of remarks, lady merthyr tydvil had been gazing rather fixedly at austin, with her head on one side like an enquiring old bird, and a puzzled expression on her face. "the most curious likeness!" she exclaimed. "now, how is it that your face seems so familiar to me, i wonder? i've certainly never seen you anywhere before, and yet--and yet--who _is_ it you remind me of, for goodness' sake?" "i wish i could tell you," replied austin, laughing. "likenesses are often quite accidental, and it may be----" "stuff and nonsense, my dear," interrupted the old lady, brusquely. "there's nothing accidental about this. you're the living image of somebody, but who it is i can't for the life of me imagine. what do you say your name is?" "my surname, you mean?--trevor," replied austin, beginning to be rather interested. "trevor!" cried lady merthyr tydvil, her voice rising almost to a squeak. "no relation to geoffrey trevor who was in the th lancers?" "he was my father," said austin, much surprised. "why, my dear, my dear, he was a _great_ friend of mine!" exclaimed the old lady, raising both her hands. "i knew him twenty years ago and more, and was fonder of him than i ever let out to anybody. of course it doesn't matter a bit now, but i always told him that if i'd been a single woman, and a quarter of a century younger, i'd have married him out of hand. that was a standing joke between us, for i was old enough to be his mother, and he was already engaged--ah, and a sweet pretty creature she was, too, and i don't wonder he fell in love with her. so you are geoffrey's son! i can scarcely believe it, even now. but it's your mother you take after, not geoffrey. she was a miss--miss----" "her maiden name was waterfield," interpolated austin. "so it was, so it was!" assented the old lady, eagerly. "what a memory you've got, to be sure. one of sir philip waterfield's daughters, down in leicestershire. and her other name was dorothea. why, i remember it all now as though it had happened yesterday. your father made me his confidante all through; such a state as he was in you never saw, wondering whether she'd have him, never able to screw up his courage to ask her, now all down in the dumps and the next day halfway up to the moon. well, of course they were married at last, and then i somehow lost sight of them. they went abroad, i think, and when they came back they settled in some place on the other side of nowhere and i never saw them again. and you are their son austin!" interested as he was in these reminiscences, austin could not help being struck with the wonderful grace of this curious old lady's gestures. in spite of her skimpy dress and antiquated bonnet, she was, he thought, the most exquisitely-bred old woman he had ever seen. every movement was a charm, and he watched her, as she spoke, with growing fascination and delight. "it is quite marvellous to think you knew my parents," he said in reply, "while i have no recollection of either of them. my mother died when i was born, and my father a year or two later. what was my mother like? did you know her well?" "she was a delicate-looking creature, with a pale face and dark-grey eyes," answered the old lady, "and you put me in mind of her very strongly. i didn't know her very well, but i remember your father bringing her to call on me when they were first engaged, and a wonderfully handsome couple they were. no doubt they were very happy, but their lives were cut short, as so often happens, leaving a lot of stupid people alive that the world could well dispense with. but i see you've lost one of your legs! how did that come about, i should like to know?" "oh--something went wrong with the bone, and it had to be cut off," said austin, rather vaguely. "dear, dear, what a pity," was the old lady's comment. "and are you very sorry for yourself?" "not in the least," said austin, smiling brightly. "i've got quite fond of my new one." "you're quite a philosopher, i see," said the old lady, nodding; "as great a philosopher as the fox who couldn't reach the grapes, and he was one of the wisest who ever lived. and now i think i'll have another cup of tea, roger, if there's any left. give me two lumps of sugar, and just enough cream to swear by." the conversation now became more general, and austin, thinking that the countess would like to be alone with her nephew for a few minutes before returning to the castle, watched for an opportunity of taking leave. he soon rose, and said he must be going home. the old lady shook hands with him in the most cordial manner, telling him that in no case must he ever forget his mother--oblivious, apparently, of the fact that by no earthly possibility could he remember her; and st aubyn accompanied him to the door. "you've quite won her heart," he said, laughingly, as he bade the boy farewell. "if she was ever in love with your father, she seems to have transferred her affections to you. good-bye--and don't let it be too long before you come again." austin brandished his leg with more than usual haughtiness as he thudded his way home along the road. he always gave it a sort of additional swing when he was excited or pleased, and on this particular occasion his gait was almost defiant. it must be confessed that, never having known either of his parents, he had not hitherto thought much about them. there was one small and much-faded photograph of his father, which aunt charlotte kept locked up in a drawer, but of his mother there was no likeness at all, and he had no idea whatever of her appearance. but now he began to feel more interest in them, and a sense of longing, not unmixed with curiosity, took possession of him. what sort of a woman, he wondered, could that unknown mother have been? well, physically he was himself like her--so lady merthyr tydvil had said; and so much like her that it was through that very resemblance that all these interesting discoveries had been made. then his thoughts reverted to what aunt charlotte had told him about his mother's dying words, and how bitterly she had grieved at not living to bring him up herself. and yet she was still alive--somewhere--though in a world removed. of course he couldn't remember her, having never seen her, _but she had not forgotten him_--of that he felt convinced. that was a curious reflection. his mother was alive, and mindful of him. he could not prove it, naturally, but he knew it all the same. he realised it as though by instinct. and who could tell how near she might be to him? distance, after all, is not necessarily a matter of miles. one may be only a few inches from another person, and yet if those inches are occupied by an impenetrable wall of solid steel, the two will be as much separated as though an ocean rolled between them. on the other hand, austin had read of cases in which two friends were actually on the opposite sides of an ocean, and yet, through some mysterious channel, were sometimes conscious, in a sub-conscious way, of each other's thoughts and circumstances. perhaps his mother could even see him, although he could not see her. it was all a very fascinating puzzle, but there was some truth underlying it somewhere, if he could only find it out. chapter the tenth austin returned in plenty of time to spend a few minutes loitering in the garden after he had dressed for dinner. it was a favourite habit of his, and he said it gave him an appetite; but the truth was that he always loved to be in the open air to the very last moment of the day, watching the colours of the sky as they changed and melted into twilight. on this particular evening the heavens were streaked with primrose, and pale iris, and delicate limpid green; and so absorbed was he in gazing at this splendour of dissolving beauty that he forgot all about his appetite, and had to be called twice over before he could drag himself away. "well, and did you have an interesting visit?" asked aunt charlotte, when dinner was halfway through. "you found mr st aubyn at home?" austin had been unusually silent up till then, being somewhat preoccupied with the experiences of the afternoon. he wanted to ask his aunt all manner of questions, but scarcely liked to do so as long as the servant was waiting. but now he could hold out no longer. "yes--even more interesting than i hoped," he answered. "i had plenty of delightful chat with st aubyn, and then a visitor came in. it's that that i want to talk about." "a visitor, eh?" said aunt charlotte, her attention quickening. "what sort of a visitor? a lady?" "yes, an old lady," replied austin, "who----" "did she come in an open fly?" pursued aunt charlotte, helping herself to sauce. "why, how did you know? i believe she did," said austin. "she had driven over from cleeve." "well, then, i must have seen her," said aunt charlotte. "a queer-looking old person in a great bonnet. i happened to be walking through the village, and she stopped the fly to ask me the way to the court, and i remember wondering who she could possibly be. i suppose it was she whom you met there." "what, was it _you_ she asked?" exclaimed austin, opening his eyes. "she told us the driver didn't know the way, and that she'd enquired--oh dear, oh dear, how funny!" "what's funny?" demanded aunt charlotte, abruptly. "oh, never mind, i can't tell you, and it doesn't matter in the least," said austin, beginning to giggle. "only i shouldn't have known it was you from her description." "why, what did she say?" aunt charlotte was getting suspicious. "my dear auntie, she didn't know who you were, of course," replied austin, "and she bore high testimony to the respectability of your appearance, that's all. only it's so funny to think it was you. it never occurred to me for a moment." "what did she _say_, austin?" repeated aunt charlotte, sternly. "i insist upon knowing her exact words. of course it doesn't really matter what a poor old thing like that may have said, but i always like to be precise, and it's just as well to know how one strikes a stranger. it wasn't anything rude, i hope, for i'm sure i answered her quite kindly." the servant was out of the room. "no, auntie, i don't think it was rude, but it was so comic----" "do stop giggling, and tell me what it was," interrupted aunt charlotte, impatiently. "well, she only said you were a respectable-looking body," replied austin, as gravely as he could. "and so you are, you know, auntie, though, perhaps, if i had to describe you i should put it in rather different words. i'm sure she meant it as a compliment." "upon my word, i feel extremely flattered!" exclaimed aunt charlotte, reddening. "a respectable-looking body, indeed! well, it's something to know i look respectable. and who was this very patronising old person, pray? some old nurse or other, i should say, to judge by her appearance." "she was the countess of merthyr tydvil, st aubyn's aunt," said austin, enjoying the joke. "the countess of merthyr tydvil!" echoed aunt charlotte, amazed. "and she's staying with the duke at cleeve castle," added austin. "but that's not the point. just fancy, auntie, she actually knew my father! she knew him before he was married, and they were tremendous friends. it all came out because she said i was so like somebody, and she couldn't think who it could be, and then she asked what my surname was, and so on, till we found out all about it. wasn't it curious? did you ever hear of her before?" "indeed i never knew of her existence till this moment," answered aunt charlotte, beginning to get interested. "your father had any number of friends, and of course we didn't know them all. well, it is curious, i must say. but she didn't say you were like your father, did she?" "no--my mother," replied austin. "she didn't know her much, but she remembers her very well. she said she was a very lovely person, too." "your father was good-looking in a way," said aunt charlotte, falling into a reminiscent mood, "but not in the least like you. he used to go a great deal into society, and no doubt it was there he met this lady merthyr tydvil, and any number of others. did she tell you anything about him--anything, i mean, that you didn't know before?" "no, i don't think she did, except that she was very fond of him and would like to have married him herself. but as she was married already, and he was engaged to somebody else, of course it was too late." "what! she told you that?" cried aunt charlotte, scandalized. "what a shameless old hussy she must be!" "not a bit of it," retorted austin. "she's a sweet old woman, and i love her very much. besides, she only meant it in fun." "fun, indeed!" sniffed aunt charlotte, primly. "she may call me a respectable-looking body as much as she likes now. it's more than i can say for her." "auntie, you _are_ an old goose!" exclaimed austin, with a burst of laughter. "you never could see a joke. she called you a respectable-looking body, and you called her a queer old woman like a nurse. now you say she's a shameless old hussy, and so, on the whole, i think you've won the match." aunt charlotte relapsed into silence, and did not speak again until the dessert had been brought in. austin helped himself to a plateful of black cherries, while his aunt toyed with a peach. at last she said, in rather a hesitating tone: "well, you've told me your adventures, so there's an end of that. but i've had a little adventure of my own this afternoon; though whether it would interest you to hear it----" "oh, do tell me!" said austin, eagerly. "an adventure--you?" "i'm not sure whether adventure is quite the correct expression," replied aunt charlotte, "and i don't quite know how to begin. you see, my dear austin, that you are very young." "it isn't anything improper, is it?" asked austin, innocently. "if you say such things as that i won't utter another word," rejoined his aunt. "i simply state the fact--that you are very young." "and i hope i shall always remain so," austin said. "that being the case," resumed his aunt, impressively, "a great many things happened long before you were born." "i've never doubted that for a moment, even in my most sceptical moods," austin assured her seriously. "well, i once knew a gentleman," continued aunt charlotte, "of whom i used to see a great deal. indeed i had reasons for believing that--the gentleman--rather appreciated my--conversation. perhaps i was a little more sprightly in those days than i am now. anyhow, he paid me considerable attention----" "oh!" cried austin, opening his eyes as wide as they would go. "oh, auntie!" "of course things never went any further," said aunt charlotte, "though i don't know what might have happened had it not been that i gave him no encouragement whatever." "but why didn't you? what was he like? tell me all about him!" interrupted austin, excitedly. "was he a soldier, like father? i'm sure he was--a beautiful soldier in the blues, whatever the blues may be, with a grand uniform and clanking spurs. that's the sort of man that would have captivated you, auntie. was he wounded? had he a wooden leg? oh, go on, go on! i'm dying to hear all about it." "that he had a uniform is possible, though i never saw him wear one, and it may have been blue for anything i know; but that wouldn't imply that he was in the blues," replied his aunt, sedately. "no; the strange thing was that he suddenly went abroad, and for five-and-twenty years i never heard of him. and now he has written me a letter." "a letter!" cried austin. "this _is_ an adventure, and no mistake. but go on, go on." "i never was more astounded in my life," resumed his aunt. "a letter came from him this afternoon. he recalls himself to my remembrance, and says--this is the most singular part--that he was actually staying quite close to here only a short time ago, but had no idea that i was living here. had he known it he would most certainly have called, but as he has only just discovered it, quite accidentally, he says he shall make a point of coming down again, when he hopes he may be permitted to renew our old acquaintance." "now look here, auntie," said austin, sitting bolt upright. "let him call, by all means, and see how well you look after being deserted for five-and-twenty years; but i don't want a step-uncle, and you are not to give me one. fancy me with an uncle charlotte! that wouldn't do, you know. you won't give me a step-uncle, will you? please!" "don't be absurd, my dear; and do, for goodness' sake, keep that dreadful leg of yours quiet if you can. it always gives me the jumps when you go on jerking it about like that. of course i should never dream of marrying now; but i confess i do feel a little curious to see what my old friend looks like after all these years----" "your old admirer, you mean," interpolated austin. "to think of your having had a romance! you can't throw stones at lady merthyr tydvil now, you know. i believe you're a regular flirt, auntie, i do indeed. this poor young man now; you say he disappeared, but _i_ believe you simply drove him away in despair by your cruelty. were you a 'cruel maid' like the young women one reads about in poetry-books? oh, auntie, auntie, i shall never have faith in you again." "you're a very disrespectful boy, that's what _you_ are," retorted aunt charlotte, turning as pink as her ribbons. "the gentleman we're speaking of must be quite elderly, several years older than i am, and, for all i know, he may have a wife and half-a-dozen grown-up children by this time. you let your tongue wag a very great deal too fast, i can tell you, austin." "but what's his name?" asked austin, not in the least abashed. "we can't go on for ever referring to him as 'the gentleman,' as though there were no other gentlemen in the world, can we now?" "his name is ogilvie--mr granville ogilvie," replied his aunt. "he belongs to a very fine old family in the north. there have been ogilvies distinguished in many ways--in literature, in the services, and in politics. but there was always a mystery about granville, somehow. however, i expect he'll be calling here in a few days, and then, no doubt, your curiosity will be gratified." "oh, i know what he'll be like," said austin. "a lean, brown traveller, with his face tanned by tropic suns and arctic snows to the colour of an old saddle-bag. his hair, of course, prematurely grey. on his right cheek there'll be a lovely bright-blue scar, where a charming tiger scratched him just before he killed it with unerring aim. i know the sort of person exactly. and now he comes to say that he lays his battered, weather-worn old carcase at the feet of the cruel maid who spurned it when it was young and strong and beautiful. and the cruel maid, now in the full bloom of placid maternity--i mean maturity----" "hold your tongue or i'll pull your ears!" exclaimed aunt charlotte, scarlet with confusion. "you'll make me sorry i ever said anything to you on the subject. mr ogilvie, as far as i can judge from his letter, is a most polished gentleman. there's a quaint, old-world courtesy about him which one scarcely ever meets with at the present day. just remember, if you please, that we're simply two old friends, who are going to meet again after having lost sight of each other for five-and-twenty years; and what there is to laugh about in that i entirely fail to see." "dear auntie, i won't laugh any more, i promise you," said austin. "i'm sure he'll turn out a most courtly old personage, and perhaps he'll have an enormous fortune that he made by shaking pagoda-trees in india. how do pagodas grow on trees, i wonder? i always thought a pagoda was a sort of odalisque--isn't that right? oh, i mean obelisk--with beautiful flounces all the way up to the top. it seems a funny way of making money, doesn't it. where is india, by the bye? anywhere near peru?" "your ignorance is positively disgraceful, austin," said aunt charlotte, with great severity. "i only hope you won't talk like that in the presence of mr ogilvie. i expect you're right in surmising that he's been a great traveller, for he says himself that he has led a very wandering, restless life, and he would be shocked to think i had a nephew who didn't know how to find india upon the map. there, you've had quite as many cherries as are good for you, i'm sure. let us go and see if it's dry enough to have our coffee on the lawn, while martha clears away." now although austin was intensely tickled at the idea of aunt charlotte having had a love-affair, and a love-affair that appeared to threaten renewal, the fact was that he really felt just a little anxious. not that he believed for a moment that she would be such a goose as to marry, at her age; that, he assured himself, was impossible. but it is often the very things we tell ourselves are impossible that we fear the most, and austin, in spite of his curiosity to see his aunt's old flame, looked forward to his arrival with just a little apprehension. for some reason or other, he considered himself partly responsible for aunt charlotte. the poor lady had so many limitations, she was so hopelessly impervious to a joke, her views were so stereotyped and conventional--in a word, she was so terribly early victorian, that there was no knowing how she might be taken in and done for if he did not look after her a bit. but how to do it was the difficulty. certainly he could not prevent the elderly swain from calling, and, of course, it would be only proper that he himself should be absent when the two first came together. a _tête-à-tête_ between them was inevitable, and was not likely to be decisive. but, this once over, he would appear upon the scene, take stock of the aspirant, and shape his policy accordingly. what sort of a man, he wondered, could mr ogilvie be? he had actually passed through the town not so very long ago; but then so had hundreds of strangers, and austin had never noticed anyone in particular--certainly no one who was in the least likely to be the gentleman in question. there was nothing to be done, meanwhile, then, but to wait and watch. perhaps the gentleman would not want to marry aunt charlotte after all. perhaps, as she herself had suggested, he had a wife and family already. neither of them knew anything at all about him. he might be a battered old traveller, or an anglo-indian nabob, or a needy haunter of continental pensions, or a convict just emerged from a term of penal servitude. he might be as rich as midas, or as poor as a church-mouse. but on one thing austin was determined--aunt charlotte must be saved from herself, if necessary. they wanted no interloper in their peaceful home. and he, austin, would go forth into the world, wooden leg and all, rather than submit to be saddled with a step-uncle. as for aunt charlotte, she, too, deemed it beyond the dreams of possibility that she would ever marry. in fact, it was only austin's nonsense that had put so ridiculous a notion into her head. it was true that, in the years gone by, the attentions of young granville ogilvie had occasioned her heart a flutter. perhaps some faint, far-off reverberation of that flutter was making itself felt in her heart now. it is so, no doubt, with many maiden ladies when they look back upon the past. but if she had ever felt a little sore at her sudden abandonment by the mercurial young man who had once touched her fancy, the tiny scratch had healed and been forgotten long ago. at the same time, although the idea of marriage after five-and-twenty years was too absurd to be dwelt on for a moment, the worthy lady could not help feeling how delightful it would be to be _asked_. of course, that would involve the extremely painful process of refusing; and aunt charlotte, in spite of her rough tongue, was a merciful woman, and never willingly inflicted suffering upon anybody. even blackbeetles, as she often told herself, were god's creatures, and mr ogilvie, although he had deserted her, no doubt had finer sensibilities than a blackbeetle. so she did not wish to hurt him if she could avoid it; still, a proposal of marriage at the age of forty-seven would be rather a feather in her cap, and she was too true a woman to be indifferent to that coveted decoration. but then, once more, it was quite possible that he would not propose at all. the next morning austin put on his straw hat, and went and sat down by the old stone fountain in the full blaze of the sun, as was his custom. lubin was somewhere in the shrubbery, and, unaware that anyone was within hearing, was warbling lustily to himself. austin immediately pricked up his ears, for he had had no idea that lubin was a vocalist. away he carolled blithely enough, in a rough but not unmusical voice, and austin was just able to catch some of the words of the quaint old west-country ballad that he was singing. "welcome to town, tom dove, tom dove, the merriest man alive, thy company still we love, we love, god grant thee still to thrive. and never will we, depart from thee, for better or worse, my joy! for thou shalt still, have our good will, god's blessing on my sweet boy." "bravo, lubin!" cried austin, clapping his hands. "you do sing beautifully. and what a delightful old song! where did you pick it up?" "eh, master austin," said lubin, emerging from among the rhododendrons, "if i'd known you was a-listening i'd 'a faked up something from a french opera for you. why, that's an old song as i've known ever since i was that high--'tom of exeter' they calls it. it's a rare favourite wi' the maids down in the parts i come from." "shows their good taste," said austin. "it's awfully pretty. who was tom dove, and why did he come to town?" "nay, i can't tell," replied lubin. "tis some made-up tale, i doubt. they do say as how he was a tailor. but there is folks as'll say anything, you know." "a tailor!" exclaimed austin, scornfully, "that i'm sure he wasn't. but oh, lubin, there _is_ somebody coming to town in a day or two--somebody i want to find out about. do you often go into the town?" "eh, well, just o' times; when there's anything to take me there," answered lubin, vaguely. "on market-days, every now and again." "oh yes, i know, when you go and sell ducks," put in austin. "now what i want to know is this. have you, within the last three or four weeks, seen a stranger anywhere about?" "a stranger?" repeated lubin. "ay, that i certainly have. any amount o' strangers." "oh well, yes, of course, how stupid of me!" exclaimed austin, impatiently. "there must have been scores and scores. but i mean a particular stranger--a certain person in particular, if you understand me. anybody whose appearance struck you in any way." "well, but what sort of a stranger?" asked lubin. "can't you tell me anything about him? what'd he look like, now?" "that's just what i want to find out," replied austin. "if i could describe him i shouldn't want you to. all i know is that he's a sort of elderly gentleman, rather more than fifty. he may be fifty-five, or getting on for sixty. now, isn't that near enough? oh--and i'm almost sure that he's a traveller." "h'm," pondered lubin, leaning on his broom reflectively. "well, yes, i did see a sort of elderly gentleman some three or four weeks ago, standing at the bar o' the 'coach-and-horses.' what his age might be i couldn't exactly say, 'cause he was having a drink with his back turned to the door. but he was a traveller, that i know." "a traveller? i wonder whether that was the one!" exclaimed austin. "had he a dark-brown face? or a wooden leg? or a scar down one of his cheeks?" "not as i see," answered lubin, beginning to sweep the lawn. "but a traveller he was, because the barmaid told me so. travelled all over the country in bonnets." "travelled in bonnets?" cried austin. "what _do_ you mean, lubin? how can a man go travelling about the country in a bonnet? had he a bonnet on when you saw him drinking in the bar?" "lor', master austin, wherever was you brought up?" exclaimed lubin, in grave amazement at the youth's ignorance. "when a gentleman 'travels' in anything, it means he goes about getting orders for it. now this here gentleman was agent, i take it, for some big millinery shop in london, and come down here wi' boxes an' boxes o' bonnets, an' tokes, and all sorts o' female headgear as women goes about in----" "in short, he was a commercial traveller," said austin, very mildly. "you see, my dear lubin, we have been talking of different things. i wasn't thinking of a gentleman who hawks haberdashery. when i said traveller, i meant a man who goes tramping across africa, and shoots elephants, and gets snowed up at the north pole, and has all sorts of uncomfortable and quite incredible adventures. they always have faces as brown as an old trunk, and generally limp when they walk. that's the sort of person i'm looking out for. you haven't seen anyone like that, have you?" "nay--nary a one," said lubin, shaking his head. "would he have been putting up at one o' the inns, now, or staying long wi' some o' the gentry?" "i haven't the slightest idea," acknowledged austin. "might as well go about looking for a ram wi' five feet," remarked lubin. "some things you can't find 'cause they don't exist, and other things you can't find 'cause there's too many of 'em. and as you don't know nothing about this gentleman, and wouldn't know him if you met him in the street permiscuous, i take it you'll have to wait to see what he looks like till he turns up again of his own accord. 'tain't in reason as you can go up to every old gentleman with a brown face as you never see before an' ask him if he's ever been snowed up at the north pole and why he hasn't got a wooden leg. he'd think, as likely as not, as you was trying to get a rise out of him. don't you know what the name may be, neither?" "oh yes, i do, of course," responded austin. "he's a mr ogilvie." "never heard of 'im," said lubin. "might find out at one o' the inns if any party o' that name's been staying there, but i doubt they wouldn't remember. folks don't generally stay more'n one night, you see, just to have a look at the old market-place and the church, and then off they go next morning and don't leave no addresses. th' only sort as stays a day or two are the artists, and they'll stay painting here for more'n a week at a time. it may 'a been one o' them." "i wonder!" exclaimed austin, struck by the idea. "perhaps he's an artist, after all; artists do travel, i know. i never thought of that. however, it doesn't matter. it's only some old friend of aunt charlotte's, and he's coming to call on her soon, so it isn't worth bothering about meanwhile." he therefore dismissed the matter from his mind, and set about the far more profitable employment of fortifying himself by a morning's devotion to garden-craft, both manual and mental, against the martyrdom (as he called it) that he was to undergo that afternoon. for aunt charlotte had insisted on his accompanying her to tea at the vicarage, and this was a function he detested with all his heart. he never knew whom he might meet there, and always went in fear of cobbledicks, mactavishes, and others of the same sort. the vicar himself he did not mind so much--the vicar was not a bad little thing in his way; but mrs sheepshanks, with her patronising disapproval and affected airs of smartness, he couldn't endure, while the socialistic curate was his aversion. the reason he hated the curate was partly because he always wore black knickerbockers, and partly because he was such chums with the mactavish boys. how any self-respecting individual could put up with such savages as jock and sandy was a problem that austin was wholly unable to solve, until it was suggested to him by somebody that the real attraction was neither jock nor sandy, but one of their screaming sisters--a florrie, or a lottie, or an aggie--it really did not matter which, since they were all alike. when this once dawned upon him, austin despised the knickerbockered curate more than ever. on the present occasion, however, the mactavishes were happily not there; the only other guest (for of course the curate didn't count) being a friend of the curate's, who had come to spend a few days with him in the country. the friend was a harsh-featured, swarthy young man, belonging to what may be called the muscular variety of high ritualism; much given to a sort of aggressive slang--he had been known to refer to the bishop of his diocese as "the sporting old jester that bosses our show"--and representing militant sacerdotalism in its most blusterous and rampant form. he was also in the habit of informing people that he was "nuts" on the athanasian creed, and expressing the somewhat arbitrary opinion that if the rev. john wesley had had his deserts he would have been exhibited in a pillory and used as a target for stale eggs. there are a few such interesting youths in holy orders, and the curate's friend was one of them. the party were assembled in the garden, where mrs sheepshanks's best tea-service was laid out. to say that the conversation was brilliant would be an exaggeration; but it was pleasant and decorous, as conversations at a vicarage ought to be. the two ladies compared notes about the weather and the parish; the curate asked austin what he had been doing with himself lately; the friend kept silence, even from good words, while the vicar, one of the mildest of his cloth, sat blinking in furtive contemplation of the friend. certainly it was not a very exhilarating entertainment, and austin felt that if it went on much longer he should scream. what possible pleasure, he marvelled, could aunt charlotte find in such a vapid form of dissipation? even the garden irritated him, for it was laid out in the silly early victorian style, with wriggling paths, and ribbon borders, and shrubs planted meaninglessly here and there about the lawn, and a dreadful piece of sham rockwork in one corner. of course the vicar's wife thought it quite perfect, and always snubbed austin in a very lofty way if he ever ventured to express his own views as to how a garden should be fitly ordered. then his eye happened to fall upon the curate's friend; and he caught the curate's friend in the act of staring at him with a most offensive expression of undisguised contempt. now, austin was courteous to everyone; but to anybody he disliked his politeness was simply deadly. of course he took no notice of the young parson's tacit insolence; he only longed, as fervently as he knew how to long, for an opportunity of being polite to him. and the occasion was soon forthcoming. the conversation growing more general by degrees, a reference was made by the vicar, in passing, to a certain clergyman of profound scholarship and enlightened views, whose recently published book upon the prophet daniel had been painfully exercising the minds of the editor and readers of the _church times_; and it was then that the curate's friend, without moving a muscle of his face, suddenly leaned forward and said, in a rasping voice: "the man's an impostor and a heretic. he ought to be burned. i would gladly walk in the procession, singing the 'te deum,' and set fire to the faggots myself."[a] and there was no doubt he meant it. a dead silence fell upon the party. the curate looked horribly annoyed. the ladies exclaimed "oh!" with a little shudder of dismay. the vicar started, fidgeted, and blinked more nervously than ever. then austin, with the most charming manner in the world, broke the spell. "really!" he exclaimed, turning towards the speaker, a bright smile of interest upon his face. "that's a most delightfully original suggestion. may i ask what religion you belong to?" "what religion!" scowled the curate's friend, astounded at the enquiry. "yes--it must be one i never heard of," replied austin, sweetly. "i am so awfully ignorant, you know; i know nothing of geography, and scarcely anything about the religions of savage countries. are you a thug?" "oh, austin!" breathed aunt charlotte, faintly. "i always do make such mistakes," continued austin, with his most engaging air; "i'm so sorry, please forgive me if i'm stupid. i forgot, of course thugs don't burn people alive, they only strangle them. perhaps i'm thinking of the bosjesmans, or the andaman islanders, or the aborigines of new guinea. i do get so mixed up! but i've often thought how lovely it would be to meet a cannibal. you aren't a cannibal, are you?" he added wistfully. "i'm a priest of the church of england," replied the curate's friend, with crushing scorn, though his face was livid. "when you're a little older you'll probably understand all that that implies." "fancy!" exclaimed austin, with an air of innocent amazement. "i've heard of the church of england, but i quite thought you must belong to one of those curious persuasions in africa, isn't it--or is it borneo?--where the services consist in skinning people alive and then roasting them for dinner. it occurred to me that you might have gone there as a missionary, and that the savages had converted you instead of you converting the savages. i'm sure i beg your pardon. and have you ever set fire to a bishop?" "austin! austin!" came still more faintly from aunt charlotte. the vicar, scandalised at first, was now in convulsions of silent laughter. mrs sheepshanks's parasol was lowered in a most suspicious manner, so as completely to hide her face; while the unfortunate curate, with his head almost between his knees, was working havoc in the vicarage lawn with the point of a heavy walking-stick. the only person who seemed perfectly at his ease was austin, and he was enjoying himself hugely. then the vicar, feeling it incumbent upon him, as host, to say something to relieve the strain, attempted to pull himself together. "my dear boy," he said, in rather a quavering voice, "you may be perfectly sure that our valued guest has no sympathy with any of the barbarous religions you allude to, but is a most loyal member of the church of england; and that when he said he would like to 'burn' a brother clergyman--one of the greatest talmudists and hebrew scholars now alive--it was only his humorous way of intimating that he was inclined to differ from him on one or two obscure points of historical or verbal criticism which----" "it was not," said the curate's friend. mrs sheepshanks immediately turned to aunt charlotte, and remarked that feather boas were likely to be more than ever in fashion when the weather changed; and aunt charlotte said she had heard from a most authoritative source that pleated corselets were to be the rage that autumn. both ladies then agreed that the days were certainly beginning to draw in, and asked the curate if he didn't think so too. the curate fumbled in his pocket, and offered austin a cigarette, and austin, noticing the unconcealed annoyance of the unfortunate young man, who was really not a bad fellow in the main, felt kindly towards him, and accepted the cigarette with effusion. the vicar relapsed into silence, making no attempt to complete his unfinished sentence; then he stole a glance at the saturnine face of the stranger, and from that moment became an almost liberal-minded theologian; he had had an object-lesson that was to last him all his life, and he never forgot it. "well, austin," said aunt charlotte, when they were walking home, a few minutes later, "of course you _ought_ to have a severe scolding for your behaviour this afternoon; but the fact is, my dear, that on this occasion i do not feel inclined to give you one. that man was perfectly horrible, and deserved everything he got. i only hope it may have done him good. i couldn't have believed such people existed at the present day. the most charitable view to take of him is that he can scarcely be in his right mind." "what, because he wanted to burn somebody alive?" said austin. "oh, that was natural enough. i thought it rather an amusing idea, to tell the truth. the reason i went for him was that i caught him making faces at me when he thought i wasn't looking. i saw at once that he was a beast, so the instant he gave me an opportunity of settling accounts with him i took it. oh, what a blessing it is to be at home again! dear auntie, let's make a virtuous resolution. we'll neither of us go to the vicarage again as long as we both shall live." he strolled into the garden--the good garden, with straight walks, and clipped hedges, and fair formal shape--and threw himself down upon a long chair. he had already begun to forget the incidents of the afternoon. here was rest, and peace, and beauty. how tired he was! why did he feel so tired? he could not tell. a deep sense of satisfaction and repose stole over him. lubin was there, tidying up, but he did not feel any inclination to talk to lubin or anybody else. he liked watching lubin, however, for lubin was part of the garden, and all his associations with him were pleasant. the scent of the flowers and the grass possessed him. the sun was far from setting, and a young crescent moon was hovering high in the heavens, looking like a silver sickle against the blue. from the distant church came the sound of bells ringing for even-song, faint as horns of elf-land, through the still air. he felt that he would like to lie there always--just resting, and drinking in the beauty of the world. suddenly he half-rose. "lubin!" he called out quickly, in an undertone. "sir," responded lubin, turning round. "who was that lady looking over the garden-gate just now?" "lady?" repeated lubin. "i never saw no lady. whereabouts was she?" "on the path of course, outside. a second ago. she stood looking at me over the gate, and then went on. run to the gate and see how far she's got--quick!" lubin did as he was bidden without delay, looking up and down the road. then he returned, and soberly picked up his broom. "there ain't no lady there," he said. "no one in sight either way. must 'a been your fancy, master austin, i expect." "fancy, indeed!" retorted austin, excitedly. "you'll tell me next it's my fancy that i'm looking at you now. a lady in a large hat and a sort of light-coloured dress. she _must_ be there. there's nowhere else for her to be, unless the earth has swallowed her up. i'll go and look myself." he struggled up and staggered as fast as he could go to the gate. then he pushed it open and went out as far as the middle of the road from which he could see at least a hundred yards each way. but not a living creature was in sight. "it's enough to make one's hair stand on end!" he exclaimed, as he came slowly back. "where can she have got to? she was here--here, by the gate--not twenty seconds ago, only a few yards from where i was sitting. don't talk to me about fancy; that's sheer nonsense. i saw her as distinctly as i see you now, and i should know her again directly if i saw her a year hence. of all inexplicable things!" there was no more lying down. he was too much puzzled and excited to keep still. up and down he paced, cudgelling his brains in search of an explanation, wondering what it could all mean, and longing for another glimpse of the mysterious visitor. for one brief moment he had had a full, clear view of her face, and in that moment he had been struck by her unmistakable resemblance to himself. footnotes: [a] a fact. said in the writer's presence by a young clergyman of the same breed as the one here described. chapter the eleventh the repairs to the ceiling in austin's room were now finished, and it was with great satisfaction that he resumed possession of his old quarters. the mysterious events that had befallen him when he slept there last, some weeks before, recurred very vividly to his mind as he found himself once more amid the familiar surroundings, and although he heard no more raps or anything else of an abnormal nature, he felt that, whatever dangers might threaten him in the future, he would always be protected by those he thought of as his unseen friends. aunt charlotte, meanwhile, had taken an opportunity of consulting the vicar as to the orthodoxy of a belief in guardian angels, and the vicar had reassured her at once by referring her to the collect for st michael and all angels, in which we are invited to pray that they may succour and defend us upon earth; so that there really was nothing superstitious in the conclusion that, as austin had undoubtedly been succoured and defended in a very remarkable manner on more than one occasion, some benevolent entity from a better world might have had a hand in it. the worthy lady, of course, could not resist the temptation of informing mr sheepshanks of what her bankers had said about the investment he had so earnestly urged upon her, and the vicar seemed greatly surprised. he had not put any money into it himself, it was true, but was being sorely tempted by another prospectus he had just received of an enterprise for recovering the baggage which king john lost some centuries ago in the wash. the only consideration that made him hesitate was the uncertainty whether, in view of the perishable nature of the things themselves, they would be worth very much to anybody if ever they were fished up. "austin," said aunt charlotte, two days afterwards at breakfast, "i have had another letter from mr ogilvie. of course i wrote to him when i heard first, saying how pleased i should be to see him whenever he was in the neighbourhood again; and now i have his reply. he proposes to call here to-morrow afternoon, and have a cup of tea with us." "so the fateful day has come at last," remarked austin. "very well, auntie, i'll make myself scarce while you're talking over old times together, but i insist on coming in before he goes, remember. i'm awfully curious to see what he's like. do you think he wears a wig?" "i really haven't thought about it," replied his aunt. "it's nothing to me whether he does or not--or to you either, for the matter of that. of course you must present yourself to him some time or other; it would be most discourteous not to. and do, if you can, try and behave rather more like other people. don't parade your terrible ignorance of geography, for instance, as you do sometimes. he would think that i had neglected your education disgracefully, and seeing what a traveller he's been himself--" "all right, auntie, i won't give you away," austin assured her. "you'd better tell him what a horrid dunce i am before i come in, and then he won't be so surprised if i do put my foot in it. after all, we're not sure that he's been a traveller. he may be a painter. lubin says that lots of painters come down here sometimes. my own idea is that he'll turn out to be nothing but a bank manager, or perhaps a stockbroker. i expect he's rolling in money." austin had said nothing to his aunt about the lady who had looked over the gate for one brief moment and then so unaccountably disappeared. what would have been the use? he felt baffled and perplexed, but it was not likely that aunt charlotte would be able to throw any light upon the mystery. she would probably say that he had been dreaming, or that he only imagined it, or that it was an old gipsy woman, or one of the mactavish girls playing a trick, or something equally fatuous and absurd. but the more he thought of it the more he was convinced of the reality of the whole thing, and of the existence of some great marvel. that he had seen the lady was beyond question. that she had vanished the next moment was also beyond question. that she had hidden behind a tree or gone crouching in a ditch was inconceivable, to say the least of it; so fair and gracious a person would scarcely descend to such undignified manoeuvres, worthy only of a hoydenish peasant girl. and yet, what could possibly have become of her? the enigma was quite unsolvable. the next morning brought with it a surprise. aunt charlotte had some very important documents that she wanted to deposit with her bankers--so important, indeed, that she did not like to entrust them to the post; so austin, half in jest, proposed that he should go to town himself by an early train, and leave them at the bank in person. to his no small astonishment, aunt charlotte took him at his word, though not without some misgivings; instructed him to send her a telegram as soon as ever the papers were in safe custody, and assured him that she would not have a moment's peace until she got it. austin, much excited at the prospect of a change, packed the documents away in the pistol-pocket of his trousers, and started off immediately after breakfast in high spirits. the journey was a great delight to him, as he had not travelled by railway for nearly a couple of years, and he derived immense amusement from watching his fellow-passengers and listening to their conversation. there was a party of very serious-minded american tourists, with an accent reverberant enough to have cracked the windows of the carriage had they not, luckily, been open; and from the talk of these good people he learnt that they came from a place called new jerusalem, that they intended to do london in two days, and that they answered to the names of mr thwing, mr moment, and mr and mrs skull. the gentlemen were arrayed in shiny broad-cloth, with narrow black ties, tied in a careless bow; the lady wore long curls all down her back and a brown alpaca gown; and they all seemed under the impression that the most important sights which awaited them were the metropolitan tabernacle and some tunnel under the thames. the only other passenger was a rather smart-looking gentleman with a flower in his buttonhole, who made himself very pleasant; engaged austin in conversation, gave him hints as to how best to enjoy himself in london, asked him a number of questions about where he lived and how he spent his time, and finished up by inviting him to lunch. but austin, never having seen the man before, declined; and no amount of persuasion availed to make him alter his decision. on arrival in london, he got into an omnibus--not daring to call a cab, lest he should pay the cabman a great deal too much or a great deal too little--and in a short time was set down near waterloo place, where the bank was situated. his first care was to relieve himself of the precious documents, and this he did at once; but he thought the clerk looked at him in a disagreeably sharp and suspicious manner, and wondered whether it was possible he might be accused of forgery and given in charge to a policeman. the papers consisted of some dividend-warrants payable to bearer, and an endorsed cheque, and the clerk examined them with a most formidable and inquisitorial frown. then he asked austin what his name was, and where he lived; and austin blushed and stammered to such an extent and made such confused replies that the clerk looked more suspiciously at him than ever, and austin had it on the tip of his tongue to assure him that he really had not stolen the documents, or forged aunt charlotte's name, or infringed the laws in any way whatever that he could think of. but just then the clerk, who had been holding a muttered consultation with another gentleman of equally threatening aspect, turned to him again with a less aggressive expression, as much as to say that he'd let him off this time if he promised never to do it any more, and intimated, with a sort of grudging nod, that he was free to go if he liked. which austin, much relieved, forthwith proceeded to do. then he stumped off as hard as he could go to the post-office near by, to despatch the telegram which should set aunt charlotte's mind at ease; and by dint of carefully observing what all the other people did managed to get hold of a telegraph-form and write his message. "documents all safe in the bank.--your affectionate austin." that would do beautifully, he thought. then he offered it to a proud-looking young lady who lived behind a barricade of brass palings, and the young lady, having read it through (rather to his indignation) and rapidly counted the words, gave him a couple of stamps. but he explained, with great politeness, that he did not wish it to go by post, as it was most important that it should reach its destination before lunch-time; whereupon the young lady burst into a hearty laugh, and asked him how soon he was going back to school. austin coloured furiously, rectified his mistake, and bolted. in piccadilly circus his attention was immediately attracted by a number of stout, florid, elderly ladies who were selling some most lovely bouquets for the buttonhole. this was a temptation impossible to resist, and he lost no time in choosing one. it cost fourpence, and austin was so charmed at the skilful way in which the florid lady he had patronised pinned it into the lapel of his jacket that he raised his hat to her on parting with as much ceremony as though she had been a duchess at the very least. then, observing that his shoe was dusty, he submitted it to a merry-looking shoeblack, who not only cleaned it and creamed it to perfection but polished up his wooden leg as well; austin, in his usual absent-minded way, humming to himself the while. during the operation there suddenly rushed up a drove of very ungainly-looking objects, who, in point of fact, were persons lately arrived from lancashire to play a football match at the alexandra palace--though austin, of course, could not be expected to know that; and two of these, staring at him as though he were a wild animal that they had never seen before, enquired with much solicitude how his mother was, and whether he was having a happy day. austin took no more notice of them than if they had been flies, but as soon as the shoeblack had finished, and been generously rewarded, he presented them each with a penny. "wot's this for?" growled the foremost. "we ain't beggars, we ain't. wot d'ye mean by it?" "aren't you? i thought you were," said austin. "however, you can keep the pennies. they will buy you bread, you know." the fellows edged off, muttering resentfully, and austin prepared to cross the road to piccadilly. the next moment he received a violent blow on the shoulder from an advancing horse, and was knocked clean off his legs. he was in the act of half-consciously taking off his hat and begging the horse's pardon when a stout policeman, coming to the rescue, lifted him bodily up in one arm, and, carrying him over the crossing, deposited him safely on the pavement. he recovered his breath in a minute or two, and then began to walk down piccadilly towards the park. the streets were gay and crowded, partly with black and grey people who seemed to be going about some business or other, but starred beautifully here and there with bright-eyed, clear-skinned, slender youths in straw hats, something like austin himself, enjoying their release from school. phalanxes of smartly-dressed ladies impeded the traffic outside the windows of all the millinery shops, omnibuses rattled up and down in a never-ending procession, and strident urchins with little pink newspapers under their arms yelled for all they were worth. austin, absorbed in the cheerful spectacle, sauntered hither and thither, now attracted by the fresh verdure of the green park, now gazing with vivid interest at the ever-varying types of humanity that surged around him; blissfully unconscious that every one was staring at him, as though wondering who the pale-faced boy with eager eyes and a shiny black wooden leg could be, and why he went zigzagging to and fro and peering so excitedly about as though he had never seen any shops or people in his life before. at last he arrived at the corner, and, turning into the park, spent a quarter of an hour watching the riders in rotten row; then he crossed to the marble arch, passing a vast array of gorgeous flowers in full bloom, listened wonderingly to an untidy orator demolishing christianity for the benefit of a little knot of errand-boys and nursemaids, took another omnibus along oxford street to the circus, and, after an enchanting walk down regent street, entered a bright little italian restaurant in the quadrant, where he had a delightful lunch. this disposed of, he found that he could afford a full hour to have a look at the national gallery without danger of losing his train, and off he plodded towards trafalgar square to make the most of his opportunity. meanwhile aunt charlotte received her telegram, and, greatly relieved by its contents, spent an agreeable day. it was not to be wondered at if she felt a little fluttering excitement at the prospect of seeing her old suitor, and was more than usually fastidious in the arrangement of her modest toilet. lubin had been requisitioned to provide a special supply of the freshest and finest flowers for the drawing-room, and she had herself gone to the pastrycook's to order the cheese-cakes and cream-tarts on which the expected visitor was to be regaled. of course she kept on telling herself all the time what a foolish old woman she was, and how silly mr ogilvie would think her if he only knew of all her little fussy preparations; men who had knocked about the world hated to be fidgeted over and made much of, and no doubt it was quite natural they should. and then she went bustling off to impress on martha the expediency of giving the silver tea-service an extra polish, and to be sure and see that the toast was crisp and fresh. when at last she sat down with a book in front of her in order to pass the time she found her attention wandering, and her thoughts recurring to the last occasion on which she had seen granville ogilvie. he had been rather a fine-looking young man in those days--tall, straight, and well set up; and well she remembered the whimsical way he had of speaking, the humorous glance of his eye, and those baffling intonations of voice that made it so difficult for her to be sure whether he were in jest or earnest. that he had confessedly been attracted by her was a matter of common knowledge. why had she given him no encouragement? perhaps it was because she had never understood him; because she had never been able to feel any real rapport between them, because their minds moved on different planes, and never seemed to meet. she had no sense of humour, and no insight; he was elusive, difficult to get into touch with; all she knew of him was his exterior, and that, for her, was no guide to the man beneath. then he had dropped out of her life, and for five and twenty years she had never heard of him. whatever chance she may have had was gone, and gone for ever. did she regret it, now that she was able to look back upon the past so calmly? she thought not. and yet, as she meditated on those far-off days when she was young and pretty, the intervening years seemed to be annihilated, and she felt herself once more a girl of twenty-two, with a young man hovering around her, always on the verge of a proposal that she herself staved off. she was not agitated, but she was very curious to see what he would look like, and just a little anxious lest there should be any awkwardness about their meeting. but eventually it came about in the most natural manner in the world, and if anybody had peeped into the shady drawing-room just at the time when austin's train was steaming into the station, there would certainly have been nothing in the scene to suggest any tragedy or romance whatever. aunt charlotte, in a pretty white lace _fichu_ set off with rose-coloured bows, was dispensing tea with hospitable smiles, while martha handed cakes and poured a fresh supply of hot water into the teapot. opposite, sat the long expected visitor; no lean, brown adventurer, no indian nabob, and certainly no artist, but a tallish, large-featured, and somewhat portly gentleman, with a ruddy complexion, good teeth, and a general air of prosperity. his fashionable pale-grey frock-coat, evidently the work of a good tailor, fitted him like a glove; he wore, also, a white waistcoat, a gold eye-glass, and patent leather shoes. his appearance, in short, was that of a thoroughly well-groomed, though slightly over-dressed, london man; and he impressed both martha and aunt charlotte with being a very fine gentleman indeed, for his manners were simply perfect, if perhaps a little studied. he dropped his gloves into his hat with a graceful gesture as he accepted a cup of tea, and then, turning to his hostess, said---- "it is indeed delightful to meet you after all these years; it seems to bring back old times so vividly. and the years have dealt very gently with you, my dear friend. i should have known you anywhere." it was not quite certain to aunt charlotte whether she could truthfully have returned the compliment. there are some elderly people in whom it is the easiest thing in the world to recognise the features of their youth. allow for a little accentuation of facial lines, a little roughening of the skin, a little modification in the arrangement of the hair, and the face is virtually the same. aunt charlotte herself was one of these, but granville ogilvie was not. she might even have passed him in the street. that he was the man she had known was beyond question, but there was a puffiness under the eyes and a fulness about the cheeks that altered the general effect of his appearance, and in spite of his modish dress and elaborate manners he seemed to have grown just a little coarse. still, remembering what a bird of passage he had been, and the many experiences he must have had by land and sea, all that was not to be wondered at. it was really remarkable, everything considered, that he had managed to preserve himself so well. "oh, i'm an old woman now," replied aunt charlotte with an almost youthful blush. "but i've had a peaceful life if rather a monotonous one, and i've nothing to complain of. it is very good of you to have remembered me, and i'm more glad than i can say to see you again. it's a quarter of a century since we met!" "it seems like yesterday," mr ogilvie assured her. "and yet how many things have happened in the meantime! this charming house of yours is a perfect haven of rest. why do people knock about the world as they do, when they might stay quietly at home?" "nay, it is rather i who should ask you that," laughed aunt charlotte. "it is you who have been knocking about, you know, not i. men are so fond of adventures, while we women have to content ourselves with a very humdrum sort of life. you've been a great traveller, have you not?" this was a mild attempt at pumping on the part of aunt charlotte, for mr ogilvie certainly did not give one the idea of an explorer. but she was consumed with curiosity to knew where he had spent the years since she had seen him last, and now brought all her artless ingenuity into play in order to find out. "yes, i was always a roving, restless sort of fellow," said mr ogilvie. "never could stay long in the same place, you know. i often wonder how long it will be before i settle down for good." "well, i almost envy you," confessed aunt charlotte, nibbling a cheese-cake. "i love travels and adventures; in books, of course, i mean. i've been reading captain burnaby's 'ride to khiva' lately, and that wonderful 'life of sir richard burton.' what marvellous nerve such men must have! to think of the disguises, for instance, they were forced to adopt, when detection would have cost them their lives! you should write your travels too, you know; i'm sure they'd be most exciting. were you ever compelled to disguise yourself when you were travelling?" "i should rather think so," replied mr ogilvie, nodding his head impressively. "and that, my dear lady, under circumstances in which disguise was absolutely imperative. the most serious results would have followed if i hadn't done so; not death, perhaps, but utter and irretrievable ruin. however, here i am, you see, safe and sound, and none the worse for it after all. what delicious cream-tarts these are, to be sure! they remind one of the arabian nights. in persia, by the way, they put pepper in them." "oh dear! i don't think i should like that at all," exclaimed aunt charlotte, naïvely. "and have you really been in persia? you must have enjoyed that very much. i suppose you saw some magnificent scenery in your wanderings?" "oh, magnificent, magnificent," assented the great traveller. "mountains, forests, castles, glaciers, and everything you can think of. but i've never got quite as far as persia, you understand, and just at present i feel more interested in england. i sometimes think that i shall never leave english shores again." "and you are not married?" ventured the lady, with a tremor of hesitation in her voice. she had rushed on her destruction unawares. "no--no," replied the man who had once wanted to marry her. "and at this moment i'm very glad i'm not." "oh, are you? why?" exclaimed the foolish woman. "don't you believe in marriage?" "in the abstract--oh, yes," said mr ogilvie, with meaning. "but my chance of married happiness escaped me years ago." aunt charlotte blushed hotly. she felt angry with herself for having given him an opening for such a remark, and annoyed with him for taking advantage of it. "let me give you some more tea," she said. "thank you so much, but i never exceed two cups," replied mr ogilvie, who did not particularly care for tea. "and yet there comes a time, you know, when the sight of so peaceful and attractive a home as this makes one wish that one had one like it of one's own. of course a man has his tastes, his hobbies, his ambitions--every man, i mean, of character. and i am a man of character. but indulgence in a hobby is not incompatible with the love of a fireside, and the blessings of _dulce domum_, to say nothing of the _placens uxor_, who is the only true goddess of the hearth. yes, dear friend, i confess that i should like--that i positively long--to marry. that is why, paradoxical as it may appear, i congratulate myself on not being married already. but, of course, in all such cases, the man himself is not the only factor to be reckoned with. the lady must be found, and the lady's consent obtained. and there we have the rub." "dear me! how very unfortunate!" was all aunt charlotte could think of to remark. "and can't you find the lady?" "i thought i had found her once," said mr ogilvie. then he deliberately rose from his chair, brushed a few crumbs from his coat, and took a few steps up and down the room. "listen to me, dear friend," he began, in low, earnest tones. "there was a time--far be it from me to take undue advantage of these reminiscences--when you and i were thrown considerably together. at that time, that far-off, happy, and yet most tantalising time, i was bold enough to cherish certain aspirations." here he took up his position behind a chair, resting his hands lightly on the back of it. "that those aspirations were not wholly unsuspected by you i had reason to believe. i may, of course, have been mistaken; love, or vanity if you prefer it, may blind the wisest of us. in any case, if i was vain, my pride came to the rescue, and sooner than incur the humiliation of a refusal--possibly a scornful refusal--i kept my secret locked in the inmost sanctuary of my heart, and went away." mr ogilvie illustrated his disappearance into vacancy by a slight but most expressive gesture of his arms. "i simply went away. and now i have come back. i have unburdened myself before you. in the years that are past, i was silent. now i have spoken. and i am here to know what answer you have in your heart to give me." it had actually come. she remembered how she had told herself that, though she could never dream of marrying, it really would be very pleasant to be asked. but now that the proposal had been made she felt most horribly embarrassed. what in the world was she to say to the man? she knew him not one bit better than she had done when she saw him last. he puzzled her more than ever. he did not look like a despairing lover, but a singularly plump and prosperous gentleman; and certainly the silver-grey frock-coat, and gold eye-glass, and varnished shoes struck her as singularly out of harmony with the extraordinary speech he had just delivered. yet it was evidently impromptu, and possibly would never have been delivered at all had not she herself so blunderingly led up to it. and it was not a bad speech in its way. there was something really effective about it--or perhaps it was in the manner of its delivery. so she sat in silence, most dreadfully ill at ease, and not finding a single word wherewith to answer him. "charlotte," said mr ogilvie in a low voice, bending over her, "charlotte." "mr ogilvie!" gasped the unhappy lady, almost frightened out of her wits. "you _once_ called me granville," he murmured, trying to take her hand. "but i can't do it again!" cried aunt charlotte, shaking her head vigorously. "it wouldn't be proper. we are just two old people, you see, and--and----" "h'm!" mr ogilvie straightened himself again. "it is true i am no longer in my first youth, and time has certainly left its mark upon my lineaments; but you, dear friend, are one of those whose charms intensify with years." here he took out a white pocket-handkerchief, and passed it lightly across his eyes. "but i have startled you, and i am sorry. i have sprung upon you, suddenly and thoughtlessly, what i ought to have only hinted at. i have erred from lack of delicacy. forgive me my impulsiveness, my ardour. i was ever a blunt man, little versed in the arts of diplomacy and _finesse_. for years i have looked forward to this moment; in my dreams, in my waking hours, in----" "pardon me one moment," said aunt charlotte, starting to her feet. "i know i'm sadly rude to interrupt you, but i hear my nephew in the hall, and i must just say a word to him before he comes in. i'll be back immediately. you will forgive me--won't you?" she floundered to the door, leaving mr ogilvie no little disconcerted at his appeal being thus cut short. austin had just come in, and was in the act of hanging up his hat when his aunt appeared. "well, auntie!" he said. "and has the gentleman arrived?" "hush!" breathed aunt charlotte, as she pointed a warning finger to the door. "he's in the drawing-room. austin, you've come back in the very nick of time. don't ask me any questions. my dear, you were right after all." "ah!" was all austin said. "well?" "come in with me at once, we can't keep him waiting," said aunt charlotte hastily. "i'll explain everything to you afterwards. never mind your hair--you look quite nice enough. and mind--your very prettiest manners, for my sake." what in the world she meant by this austin couldn't imagine, but instantly took up the cue. the two entered the room together. mr ogilvie was standing a little distance off in an attitude of expectancy, his eyes turned towards the door. aunt charlotte took a step forward, and prepared to introduce her nephew. austin suddenly paused; gazed at the visitor for one instant with an expression that no one had ever seen upon his face before; and then, falling flop upon the nearest easy-chair, went straightway into a paroxysm of hysterical and frantic laughter. "austin! austin! have you gone out of your mind?" cried his aunt, almost beside herself with stupefaction. "is this your good behaviour? what in the world's the matter with the boy now?" "it's _mr buskin!_" shrieked austin, hammering his leg upon the floor in a perfect ecstasy of delight. "the step-uncle! oh, do slap me, auntie, or i shall go on laughing till i die!" "_who's_ mr buskin?" gasped his aunt, bewildered. "this is mr granville ogilvie. what buskin are you raving about, for heaven's sake?" "it's mr buskin the actor," panted austin breathlessly, as he began to recover himself. "he was at the theatre here, some time ago. how do you do, mr buskin? oh, please forgive me for being so rude. i hope you're pretty well?" mr ogilvie had not budged an inch. but when austin came in he had started violently. "great scott! young dot-and-carry-one!" he muttered, but so low that no one heard him. he now advanced a pace or two, and cleared his throat. "i have certainly had the honour of meeting this young gentleman before," he said, in his most stately manner. "he was even kind enough to present me with his card, but i fear i did not pay as much attention to the name as it deserved. it is true, my dear lady, that i am known to europe under the designation he ascribes to me; but to you i am what i have always been and always shall be--granville ogilvie, and your most humble slave." "is it possible?" ejaculated aunt charlotte faintly. "you will, no doubt, attribute to its true source the concealment i have exercised towards you respecting my life for the last five-and-twenty years," resumed mr ogilvie, with a candid air. "i was ever the most modest of men, and the modesty which, from a gross and worldly point of view, has always been the most formidable obstacle in my path, prohibited my avowing to you the secret of my profession. still, i practised no deceit; indeed, i confessed in the most artless fashion that, in my wanderings--in other words, on tour--i was compelled to assume disguises, and that some of my scenery was magnificent. but why should i defend myself? _qui s'excuse s'accuse_; and now that this very engaging young gentleman has saved me the trouble of revealing the position in life that i am proud to occupy, there is nothing more to be said. we were interrupted, you remember, at a crisis of our conversation. i crave your permission to add, at a crisis of our lives. far be it from me to----" "i am afraid i am scarcely equal to renewing the conversation at the point where we broke off," said aunt charlotte, who now felt her wits getting more under control. "indeed, mr ogilvie, i have nothing to reproach you with. i had no right to enquire what your profession was, and still less have i a right to criticise it. but of course you will understand that the subject we were speaking of must never be mentioned again." the lover sighed. it was not a bad situation, and his long experience enabled him to make it quite effective. silently he took his gloves out of his hat, paused, and then dropped them in again, with the very faintest and most dramatic gesture of despair. the action was trifling in the extreme, but it was performed by a play-actor who knew his business, and aunt charlotte felt as though cold water were running down her back. then he turned, quite beautifully, to austin. "and you, young gentleman. and what have _you_ to say?" he asked in a carefully choking voice. "that i like you even better in your present part than as sardanapalus," replied austin, cordially. "the tribute is two-edged," observed the actor with a shrug. and certainly he had acted well, and dressed the character to perfection. but the takings of the performance, alas, had not paid expenses. he really had a sentiment for the lady he had been wooing, and the prospect of a solid additional income--for it was clear she was in very easy circumstances--had smiled upon him not unpleasantly. and why should she not have married him? he was her equal in birth, they had been possible lovers in their youth, he had made a name for himself meanwhile, and, after all, there was no stain upon his honour. but she had now definitely refused. the little comedy had been played out. there was nothing for him to do but to make a graceful exit, and this he did in a way that brought tears to the lady's eyes. "oh, need you go?" she urged with fatuous politeness. austin was more friendly still; he reminded mr ogilvie that having returned so late he had had no opportunity of enjoying a renewal of their acquaintance, and begged him to remain a little longer for a chat and a cigarette. but mr ogilvie was too much of an artist to permit an anti-climax. the catastrophe had come off, and the curtain must be run down quick. so he wrenched himself away with what dignity he might, and, relapsing into his natural or buskin phase as soon as he got outside, comforted himself with a glass of stiff whiskey and water at the refreshment bar of the railway station before getting into the train for london. chapter the twelfth as the weeks rolled on the days began perceptibly to draw in, and the leaves turned gradually from green to golden brown. it was the fall of the year, when the wind acquires an edge, and blue sky disappears behind purple clouds, and the world is reminded that ere very long all nature will be wrapped in a shroud of grey and silver. rain fell with greater frequency, the uplands were often veiled in a damp mist, the hours of basking in noontide suns by the old stone fountain were gone, and austin was fain to relinquish, one by one, those summer fantasies that for so many happy months had made the gladness of his life. there is always something sad about the autumn. it is associated, undeniably, with golden harvests and purple vintages, the crimson and yellow magnificence of foliage, and a few gorgeous blooms; but these, after all, are no more than indications that the glory of the year has reached its zenith, that its labours have attained fruition, and that the death of winter must be passed through before the resurrection-time of spring. "ihr matten lebt wohl, ihr sonnigen waiden, der senne muss scheiden, die sommer ist bin." and yet the summer did not carry everything away with it. as the year ripened and decayed, other fantasies arose to take the place of those he was losing--or rather, he grew more and more under the obsession of ideas not wholly of this world, ideas and phases of consciousness that, as we have seen, had for some time past been gradually gaining an entrance into his soul. as the beauties of the material world faded, the wonders of a higher world superseded them. he still lived much in the open air, drinking in all the influences of the scenery in earth and sky, and marvelling at the loveliness of the year's decadence; but, as though in subtle sympathy with nature's phases, it seemed to him as though his own body had less vitality, and that, while his mind was as keen and vigorous as ever, he felt less and less inclined to explore his beloved, fields and woods. aunt charlotte looked first critically and then anxiously at his face, which appeared to her paler and thinner than before. his stump began to trouble him again, and once or twice he confessed, in a reluctant sort of way, that his back did not feel quite comfortable. of course he thought it was very silly of his back, and was annoyed that it did not behave more sensibly. but he didn't let it trouble him over-much, for he was always very philosophical about pain. once, when he had a toothache, somebody expressed surprise that he bore it with such stoicism, and asked him jokingly for the secret. "oh," he replied, "i just fix my attention on my great toe, or any other part of my body, and think how nice it is that i haven't got a toothache there." aunt charlotte had meanwhile grown to have much more respect for austin than she had ever felt previously. he was now nearly eighteen, and his character and mental force had developed very rapidly of late. in spite of his inconceivable ignorance in some respects--geography, for instance--he had shown a shrewdness for which she had been totally unprepared, and a quiet persistence in matters where he felt that he was right and she was wrong that had begun to impress her very seriously. many instances had arisen in which there had been a struggle for the mastery between them, and in every case not only had austin had his own way but she had been compelled to acknowledge to herself that the wisdom had been on his side and not on hers. it was not so much that his reasoning powers were exceptionally acute as that he seemed to have a mysterious instinct, a sort of sub-conscious intuition, that never led him astray. and then there were those baffling, inexplicable premonitions that on three occasions had intervened to prevent some great disaster. the thought of these made her very pensive, and now that the vicar had set her mind at rest upon the abstract theory of invisible protectors she felt that she could harbour speculations about them without danger to her soul's welfare. that the power at work could scarcely emanate from the devil was now clear even to her, timid and narrow-minded as she was. still, with that illogical shrinking from any tangible proof that her creed was true that is so characteristic of the orthodox, the whole thing gave her rather an uncomfortable sensation, and she would vastly have preferred to believe in spiritual or angelic ministrations as a pious opinion or casual article of faith than to have it brought home to her in the guise of knocks and raps. there are millions like her in the world to-day. her religion, like everything else about her, was conventional, though not a whit the less sincere for that. and so it came about that she felt very much more dependent upon austin than austin did on her, although neither of them was conscious of the fact. the chief result was that, now they had fallen into their proper positions, they got on together much better than they had done before. austin had really accomplished something towards "educating" his aunt, as he used humorously to say, and as he represented the newer and fresher thought it was well that it should be so. i do not know that he troubled himself very much about the future. in spite of his delicate health he was full of the joy of life, and he accepted it as a matter of course that wherever his future might be spent it would be a happy and a joyous one. what was the use of worrying about a matter over which he had absolutely no control? the universe was very beautiful, and he was a part of it. and as the universe would certainly endure, so would he endure. why, then, should he concern himself about what might be in store for him? "you must take care of yourself, austin," said aunt charlotte to him one day. "i'm afraid you've been overtaxing your strength, you know. you never would remain quiet even on the hottest days, and we've had rather a trying summer, you must remember." "it's been a lovely summer," replied austin, who was lying down. "and how are you feeling, my dear?" asked aunt charlotte, anxiously. "splendid!" he assured her. "i never felt better in my life." "but those little pains you spoke of; that weakness in your back----" "oh, _that_!" said austin, slightingly. "i wasn't thinking of my body. what does one's body matter? i meant _myself_. i'm all right. i daresay my bones may be doing something silly, but really i'm not responsible for their vagaries, am i now?" aunt charlotte sighed, and dropped the subject for the time being. but she was not quite easy in her mind. one day a great joy came to austin. he was hobbling about the garden with his aunt, when all of a sudden he saw roger st aubyn approaching them across the lawn. it was with immense pride that he presented his friend to aunt charlotte, who, as may be remembered, had been just a little huffy that st aubyn had never called on her before; but now that he had actually come the small grievance was forgotten in a moment, and she welcomed him with charming cordiality. "it is all the pleasanter to meet you," she said, "as i have now an opportunity of thanking you for all your kindness to austin. he is never tired of telling me how much he has enjoyed himself with you." "the pleasure has been divided; he certainly has given me quite as much as ever i have been fortunate enough to give him," replied st aubyn, smiling, "what a very dear old garden you have here; i don't wonder that he's so fond of it. it seems a place one might spend one's life in without ever growing old." "that's what i mean to do," said austin, laughing. "but yours is magnificent, i'm told," observed aunt charlotte. "a little place like this is nothing in comparison, of course. still, you are right; we are both extremely fond of it, and have spent many happy hours in it during the years that we've lived here." "and is that lubin?" asked st aubyn, noticing the young gardener a little distance off. "yes, that's lubin," replied austin, delighted that st aubyn should have remembered him. then lubin looked up with a respectful smile, and bashfully touched his cap. "lubin's awfully clever," he continued, as they sauntered out of hearing, "and _so_ nice every way. he's what i call a real gentleman, and knows all sorts of curious things. it's perfectly wonderful how much more country people know than townsfolk. of course i mean about _real_ things--nature, and all that--not silly stuff you find in history-books, which is of no consequence to anybody in the world." "now, austin," began aunt charlotte, warningly. "oh, you needn't be afraid," laughed st aubyn; "austin's heresies are no novelty to me. and a heresy, you must recollect, has always some forgotten truth at the bottom of it." "i'm sure i hope so," replied aunt charlotte. "but the wind's getting a trifle chilly, and i think it's about time for tea. austin isn't very strong just now, and mustn't run any risks." so they went indoors and had their tea in the drawing-room, when st aubyn let fall the information that he was starting in a few days for a short tour in italy. it would not be long, however, before he was back, and then of course he should look forward to seeing a great deal of austin at the court. then aunt charlotte had to promise that she would honour the court with a visit too; whereupon austin launched out into a most glowing and picturesque description of the orchid-houses, and the pool of water-lilies, and the tapestry in the banqueting hall, being extremely curious to know whether his prosaic relative would experience any of those queer sensations that had so greatly impressed himself. this suggested a reference to lady merthyr tydvil, who had taken so great an interest in austin when last he had been at the court; and here aunt charlotte chimed in, being naturally anxious to hear all about the wonderful old lady who had known austin's father so well in years gone by, and remembered his mother too. of course st aubyn said, as in duty bound, that he hoped the countess would have the pleasure of meeting austin's aunt some day under his own roof, and aunt charlotte acknowledged the courtesy in fitting terms. so the visit was quite a success, and austin felt much more at his ease now that he could talk to his aunt about st aubyn as one whom they both knew. she, on her side, was delighted with her new acquaintance, particularly as he seemed quite familiar with austin's ethical and intellectual eccentricities, and did not seem horrified at them in the very least. the only thing that disturbed her just a little was the state of the boy's health. his spirits were as good as ever, and he seemed quite indifferent to the fact that he was not robust and hale; but there could be no doubt that he was paler and more fragile than he ought to have been, and the uneasiness he was fain to acknowledge in his hip and back worried her not a little--more, in fact, a great deal than it worried austin himself. the truth was that his attention was taken up with something wholly different. the allusions to his unknown mother that had been made by lady merthyr tydvil, and the cropping-up of the same subject during st aubyn's visit, had somehow connected themselves in his mind with the mysterious appearance of the strange lady at the garden gate on the evening of the tea-party at the vicarage. lady merthyr tydvil had recognised a strong resemblance between his mother as she had known her and himself, and he had noticed the very same thing in the strange lady. there were the same dark eyes, the same long, pale face, even (as far as he could judge) the same shade in colour of the hair. he would have thought little or nothing of this had it not been for the inexplicable and almost miraculous vanishing of the figure when there was absolutely nowhere for it to vanish to. austin knew nothing of such happenings; with all his reading he had never chanced to open a single book that dealt with phenomena of this class, much less any written by scientific and sober investigators, so that the entire subject was an undiscovered country to him. had he done so, his perplexity would not have been nearly so great, and very probably he might have recognised the fact of his own remarkable psychic powers. still, in spite of this disadvantage, the conviction was slowly but surely forcing itself upon his mind that the lady he had seen was no one but his own mother. from this to a belief that it was she who had intervened to save both himself and his aunt charlotte from serious disasters was but a single step; and like mary of old, in the presence of an even greater mystery, he revolved all these things silently in his heart. it was during the period when he was occupied with this train of thought that another strange thing occurred. one evening he strolled into the garden just as the sun was setting. it was one of those lurid sunsets peculiar to autumn, which look like a distant conflagration obscured by a veil of smoke. the western sky was aglow with a dull, murky crimson flecked by clouds of the deepest indigo, from behind which there seemed to shoot up luminous pulsations like the reflection of unseen flames. the effect of this red, throbbing light upon the garden in which he stood was almost unearthly, something resembling that of an eclipse viewed through warm-coloured glass; beautiful in itself, yet abnormal, fantastic, suggestive of weird imaginings. austin, absorbed in contemplation, moved slowly through the shrubbery until he reached the lawn; then came to a dead stop. an astounding vision appeared before him. standing by the old stone fountain, scarcely ten yards away, he saw the figure of a youth. the slender form was partly draped in a loose tunic of some dim, pale, reddish hue, descending halfway to his knees; on his feet were sandals of the old classic type; his golden hair was bound by a narrow fillet, and in his right hand he held a round, shallow cup, apparently of gold, towards which he was bending his head as though to drink from it. austin stood transfixed. so exquisite a being he had never dreamt of or conceived. the contour of the limbs, the fall of the tunic, the pose of the head and throat, the ruddy lips, ever so slightly parted to meet the edge of the vessel he was in the act of raising to them, were something more than human. the whole thing stood out with stereoscopic clearness, and seemed as though self-luminous, although it shed no light on its surroundings. at that moment the youth turned his head, and met austin's eyes with an expression that was not a smile, but something far more subtle, something that bore the same relation to a smile that a smile does to a laugh--thrilling, penetrating, indescribable. austin flung out his hands in rapture. "daphnis!" he ejaculated, with a flash of intuition. he threw himself forward impulsively, in a mad attempt to approach the wonderful phantasm. as he did so, the colours lost their sheen, and the figure faded into transparency. by the time he was near enough to touch it, it was no longer there, and the next instant he found himself clinging to the cold stone margin of the old fountain, all alone upon the lawn in the fast gathering twilight, shivering, panting, marvelling, but exultant in the consciousness of having been vouchsafed just one glimpse of the being who, so long unseen, had constituted for many years his cherished ideal of physical and spiritual beauty. he leant upon the fountain, in the spot that the vision had occupied. "and i believe he's always been here--all these many years," mused the boy, coming gradually to himself again. "he has stood beside me, often and often, inspiring me with beautiful ideas, though i never guessed it, never suspected it for a single moment. and now he has shown himself to me at last. the fountain is haunted, haunted by the beautiful earth-spirit that has been my guide, that i've dreamt of all my life without ever having seen him. it's a sacred fountain now--like the fountains of old hellas, sacred with the hauntings of the gods. and he actually drank of the water--or was going to, if i hadn't frightened him away. perhaps he's still here, although i can't see him any more. i wonder whether he knows my mother. it may be that they're great friends, and keep watch over me together. how wonderful it all is!" then he walked slowly and rather painfully back to the house. he was in great spirits that night at dinner, though he ate no more than would have satisfied a bird, greatly to his aunt's disturbance. with much tact he abstained from saying anything to her about the extraordinary experience he had just gone through, feeling very justly that, though she seemed more or less reconciled to the ministry of angels, daphnis was frankly a pagan spirit, and would, as such, be open to grave suspicion from the standpoint of his aunt's orthodoxy. but it didn't matter much, after all. he was happy in the consciousness that every day he was getting into nearer touch with a beautiful world that he could not see as yet, but in the existence of which he now believed as firmly as in that of his own garden. the spirit-land was fast becoming a reality to him, and although he had never beheld the glories of its scenery he had actually had a visit from two of its inhabitants. that, he thought, constituted the difference between aunt charlotte and himself. she believed in some place she called heaven, and had a vague notion that it was like a sort of religious transformation-scene, millions of miles away, up somewhere in the sky. he, on the contrary, knew that the spirit-world was all around him, because he had had ocular as well as intuitive demonstration of its proximity. it must not be supposed, however, that he sank into a state of mystic contemplation that unfitted him for every-day life. on the contrary, he took more interest in his physical surroundings than ever. it was now october, and he threw himself with almost feverish energy into the garden-work belonging to that month. there were potted carnations to be removed into warmth and shelter, hyacinths and tulips for the spring bloom to be planted in different beds, roses and honeysuckles to be carefully and scientifically pruned, and dead leaves to be plucked off everywhere. his fragile health prevented him from helping in the more onerous tasks, but he followed lubin about indefatigably, watching everything he did with eager vigilance, whether he was planting ranunculuses and anemones, or clipping hedges, or trimming evergreens; while he himself was fain to be content with pruning and budding, and directing how the plants should be most fitly set. he said he wanted the show of flowers next year to be a triumph of gardencraft. the garden was a sort of holy of holies to him, and he tended it, and planned for it, and worked in it more enthusiastically than he had ever done before. this interest in common things was gratifying to aunt charlotte, who distrusted and discouraged his dwelling on what she called the uncanny side of life; but she was anxious, at the same time, that he should not overtax his strength, and gave secret orders to lubin to see that the young master did not allow his ardour to outrun the dictates of discretion. one afternoon, austin, who was feeling unusually tired, was lying in an easy-chair in the drawing-room with a book. he had been all the morning standing about in the garden, and after lunch aunt charlotte had put her foot down, and peremptorily forbidden him to go out any more that day. austin had tried to get up a small rebellion, protesting that there were a lot of jonquils to be planted, and that lubin would be sure to stick them too close together if he were not there to look after him; but his aunt was firm, and austin was compelled on this occasion to submit. so there he lay, very calm and comfortable, while aunt charlotte knitted industriously, close by. "you see, my dear, you're not strong--not nearly so strong as you ought to be," she said, as she glanced at his drawn face. "i intend to take extra care of you this winter, and if you're not good about it i shall have to call in the doctor. i feel i have a great responsibility, you know, austin. oh, if only your poor mother were here, and could look after you herself!" "how do you know she doesn't?" asked austin. "my dear!" exclaimed aunt charlotte, rather shocked. "well, you can't be sure," retorted austin, "and i believe myself she does. i'm sure of one thing, anyhow--and that is that if she came into the room at this moment i should recognise her at once." "you? why, you never saw her in your life!" said aunt charlotte. "you shouldn't indulge such fancies, austin. you could only think it might possibly be your mother, from the descriptions you've heard of her. of course you could never be certain." "how is it she never had her likeness taken?" enquired austin, laying his book aside. "she did have her likeness taken once; but she didn't care for it, and i don't think she kept any copies," replied aunt charlotte. "it was just a common cabinet photograph, you know, done by some man or other in a country town. there may be one or two in existence, but i've never come across any. i've often wished i could." "there are a lot of old trunks up in the attic, full of all sorts of rubbish," suggested austin. "it might be amusing to go up and grub about among them some day. one might find wonderful heirlooms, and jewels, and forgotten wills. i should like to hunt there awfully. i'm sure they haven't been touched for a century." "in that case it isn't likely we should find your mother's photograph among them," retorted aunt charlotte briskly. austin laughed. "but may i?" he persisted. "my dear, of course you may if you like," replied aunt charlotte. "i don't suppose there are any treasures or secrets to be unearthed; probably you'll find nothing but a lot of old bills, and school-books, and such-like useless lumber. there _may_ be some forgotten photographs--i couldn't swear there aren't; but if you do find anything of interest i shall be much surprised." austin was on his legs in a moment. "just the thing for an afternoon like this!" he cried impulsively. "i'll go up now, and have a look round. don't worry, auntie; i won't fatigue myself, i promise you. i only want to see if there's anything that looks as though it might be worth examining." he hopped out of the room in some excitement, full of this new project. aunt charlotte, less enthusiastic, continued knitting placidly, her only anxiety being lest austin should strain his back in leaning over the boxes. in about twenty minutes or so he returned, followed by martha, the two carrying between them a battered green chest full of odds and ends, which she had carefully dusted before bringing into the drawing-room. "there!" he said, triumphantly; "here's treasure-trove, if you like. put it on the chair, martha, close by me, and then i can empty it at my leisure. now for a plunge into the past. isn't it going to be fun, auntie?" "i hope, my dear, that the entertainment will come up to your expectations," observed aunt charlotte, equably. "sure to," said austin, beginning to rummage about. "what are these? old exercise-books, as i live! oh, do look here; isn't this wonderful? here's a translation: 'horace, liber i, satire .' how brown the ink is. _aricia a little town on the way to appia received me coming from the magnificent city of rome with poor accommodation. heliodorus by far the most learned orator of the greeks accompanied me. we came to the market-place of appius filled with sailors and insolent brokers._--were they stockbrokers, i wonder? oh, auntie, these are exercises done by my grandfather when he was a little boy. poor little grandfather; what pains he seems to have taken over it, and how beautifully it's written. i hope he got a lot of marks; do you think he did? _the sailor, soaked in poor wine, and the passenger, earnestly celebrate their absent mistresses._ poor things! they don't seem to have had a very enjoyable excursion. however, i can't read it all through. oh--here are a lot of letters. not very interesting. all about contracts and sales, and silly things like that. here's a funny book, though. do look, auntie. it must have been printed centuries ago by the look of it. i wonder what it's all about. _a sequel to the antidote to the miseries of human life, containing a further account of mrs placid and her daughter rachel. by the author of the antidote._ what _does_ it all mean? 'squire bustle'--'miss finakin'--'uncle jeremiah'--used people to read books like this when grandfather was a little boy? it looks quite charming, but i think we'll put it by for the present. what's this? oh, a daguerreotype, i suppose--an extraordinary-looking, smirking old person in a great bonnet with large roses all round her face, and tied with huge ribbons under her chin. dear auntie, why don't you wear bonnets like that? you _would_ look so sweet! pamphlets--tracts--oh dear, these are all dreadfully dry. what a mixture it all is, to be sure. the things seem to have been shot in anyhow. hullo--an album. _now_ we shall see. this is evidently of much later date than the other treasures, though it is at the bottom of them all." he dragged out an old, soiled, photographic album bound in purple morocco, and all falling to pieces. it proved to contain family portraits, none of them particularly attractive in themselves, but interesting enough to austin. he turned over the pages one by one, slowly. aunt charlotte glanced curiously at them over her spectacles from where she sat. "i don't think i remember ever seeing that album," she said. "i wonder whom it can have belonged to. ah! i expect it must have been your father's. yes--there's a photograph of your uncle ernest, when he was just of age. you never saw him, he went to australia before you were born. those ladies i don't know. what a string of them there are, to be sure. i suppose they were----" "there she is!" cried austin, suddenly bringing his hand down upon the page. "that's my mother. i told you i should know her, didn't i?" aunt charlotte jumped. "the very photograph!" she exclaimed. "i had no idea there was a copy in existence. but how in the wide world did you recognise it?" austin continued examining it for some seconds without replying. "i don't think it quite does her justice," he said at last, thoughtfully. "the position isn't well arranged. it makes the chin too small." "quite true!" assented aunt charlotte. "it's the way she's holding her head." then, with another start: "but how can you know that?" "because i saw her only the other day," said austin. for a moment aunt charlotte thought he was wool-gathering. he spoke in such a perfectly calm, natural tone, that he might have been referring to someone who lived in the next street. but a glance at his face convinced her that he meant exactly what he said. "austin!" she exclaimed. "what can you be thinking about?" "it's perfectly true," he assured her. "i saw her a few weeks ago in the garden. she stood and looked at me over the gate, and then suddenly disappeared." "and you really believe it?" cried aunt charlotte in amaze. "i don't believe it, i know it," he answered, laying down the photograph. "i saw her as distinctly as i see you now. it was that day we had been having tea at the vicarage, when we met the man who wanted to set fire to some bishop or other. ask lubin; he'll remember it fast enough." this time aunt charlotte fairly collapsed. it was no longer any use flouting austin's statements; they were too calm, too collected, to be disposed of by mere derision. there could be no doubt that he firmly believed he had seen something or somebody, and whatever might be the explanation of that belief it had enabled him not only to recognise his mother's photograph but to criticise, and criticise correctly, a certain defect in the portrait. she could not deny that what he said was true. "can such things really be?" she uttered under her breath. "dear auntie, they _are_," said austin. "i've been conscious of it for months, and lately i've had the proof. indeed, i've had more than one. there are people all round us, only it isn't given to everybody to see them. and it isn't really very astonishing that it should be so, when one comes to think of it." from that day forward aunt charlotte watched austin with a sense of something akin to awe. certainly he was different from other folk. with all his love of life, his keen interest in his surroundings, and his wealth of boyish spirits, he seemed a being apart--a being who lived not only in this world but on the boundary between this world and another. as an orthodox christian woman of course she believed in that other--"another and a better world," as she was accustomed to call it. but that that world was actually around her, hemming her in, within reach of her fingertips so to speak, that was quite a new idea. it gave her the creeps, and she strove to put it out of her head as much as possible. but ere many weeks elapsed, it was forced upon her in a very painful way, and she could no longer ignore the feeling which stole over her from time to time that not only was the boundary between the two worlds a very narrow one, but that her poor austin would not be long before he crossed it altogether. for there was no doubt that he was beginning to fade. he got paler and thinner by degrees, and one day she found him in a dead faint upon the floor. the slight uneasiness in his hip had increased to actual pain, and the pain had spread to his back. in an agony of apprehension she summoned the doctor, and the doctor with hollow professional cheerfulness said that that sort of thing wouldn't do at all, and that master austin must make up his mind to lie up a bit. and so he was put to bed, and people smiled ghastly smiles which were far more heartrending than sobs, and talked about taking him away to some beautiful warm southern climate where he would soon grow strong and well again. austin only said that he was very comfortable where he was, and that he wouldn't think of being taken away, because he knew how dreadfully poor aunt charlotte suffered at sea, and travelling was a sad nuisance after all. and indeed it would have been impossible to move him, for his sufferings were occasionally very great. sometimes he would writhe in strange agonies all night long, till they used to wonder how he would live through it; but when morning came he scarcely ever remembered anything at all, and in answer to enquiries always said that he had had a very good night indeed, thank you. once or twice he seemed to have a dim recollection of something--some "bustle and fluff," as he expressed it--during his troubled sleep; and then he would ask anxiously whether he really had been giving them any bother, and assure them that he was so very sorry, and hoped they would forgive him for having been so stupid. at which aunt charlotte had to smile and joke as heroically as she knew how. there were some days, however, when he was quite free from pain, and then he was as bright and cheerful as ever. he lay in his white bed surrounded by the books he loved, which he read intermittently; and every now and then, when aunt charlotte thought he was strong enough, a visitor would be admitted. roger st aubyn, now back from italy, often dropped in to sit with him, and these were golden hours to austin, who listened delightedly to his friend's absorbing descriptions of the beautiful places he had been to and the wonderful old legends that were attached to them. then nothing would content him but that lubin must come up occasionally and tell him how the garden was looking, and what he thought of the prospects for next summer, and answer all sorts of searching questions as to the operations in which he had been engaged since austin had been a prisoner. austin enjoyed these colloquies with lubin; the very sight of him, he said, was like having a glimpse of the garden. but somehow lubin's eyes always looked rather red and misty when he came out of the room, and it was noticed that he went about his work in a very half-hearted and listless manner. one day, however, a visitor called whose presence was not so sympathetic. this was mr sheepshanks, the vicar. of course he was quite right to call--indeed it would have been an unpardonable omission had he not done so; at the same time his little furtive movements and professional air of solemnity got on austin's nerves, and produced a sense of irritation that was certainly not conducive to his well-being. at last the point was reached to which the vicar had been gradually leading up, and he suggested that, now that it had pleased providence to stretch austin on a couch of pain, it was advisable that he should think about making his peace with god. "make my peace with god?" repeated austin, opening his eyes. "what about? we haven't quarrelled!" "my dear young friend, that is scarcely the way for a creature to speak of its relations with its creator," said the vicar, gravely shocked. "isn't it?" said austin. "i'm very sorry; i thought you were hinting that i had some grudge against the creator, and that i ought to make it up. because i haven't, not in the very least. i've had a lovely life, and i'm more obliged to him for it than i can say." "ahem," coughed the vicar dubiously. "one scarcely speaks of being _obliged_ to the almighty, my dear austin. we owe him our everlasting gratitude for his mercies to us, and when we think how utterly unworthy the best of us are of the very least attention on his part----" "i don't see that at all," interrupted austin. "on the contrary, seeing that god brought us all into existence without consulting any one of us i think we have a right to expect a great deal of attention on his part. surely he has more responsibility towards somebody he has made than that somebody has towards him. that's only common sense, it seems to me." the vicar thought he had never had such an unmanageable penitent to deal with since he took orders. "but how about sin?" he suggested, shifting his ground. "have you no sense of sin?" "i'm almost afraid not," acknowledged austin, with well-bred concern. "ought i to have?" "we all ought to have," replied the vicar sternly. "we have all sinned, and come short of the glory of god." "i don't see how we could have done otherwise," remarked austin, who was getting rather bored. "little people like us can't be expected to come up to a standard which i suppose implies divine perfection. i dare say i've done lots of sins, but for the life of me i've no idea what they were. i don't think i ever thought about it." "it's time you thought about it now, then," said the vicar, getting up. "i won't worry you any more to-day, because i see you're tired. but i shall pray for you, and when next i come i hope you'll understand my meaning more clearly than you do at present." "that is very kind of you," said austin, putting out his almost transparent hand. "i'm awfully sorry to give you so much trouble. you'll see aunt charlotte before you go away? i know she'll expect you to go in for a cup of tea." so the vicar escaped, almost as glad to do so as austin was to be left in peace. and the worst of it was that, though he cudgelled his brains for many hours that night, he could not think of any sins in particular that austin had been in the habit of committing. he was kind, he was pure, and he was unselfish. his exaggerated abuse of people he didn't like was more than half humorous, and was rather a fault than a sin. yet he must be a sinner somehow, because everybody was. perhaps his sin consisted in his not being pious in the evangelical sense of the word. yet he loved goodness, and the vicar had once heard a great roman catholic divine say that loving goodness was the same thing as loving god. but austin had never said that he loved god; he had only said that he was much obliged to him. the poor vicar worried himself about all this until he fell asleep, taking refuge in the reflection that if he couldn't understand the state of austin's soul there was always the probability that god did. aunt charlotte, on her side, was too much absorbed in her anxiety and sorrow to trouble herself with such misgivings. the light of her life was burning very low, and bade fair to be extinguished altogether. what were theological conundrums to her now? it would be positively wicked to fear that anything dreadful could happen to austin because he had forgotten his catechism and was not impressed by the vicar's prosy discourses in church. face to face with the possibility of losing him, all her conventionality collapsed. the boy had been everything in the world to her, and now he was going elsewhere. the house was a very mournful place just then, and the servants moved noiselessly about as though in the presence of some strange mystery. the only person in it who seemed really happy was austin himself. a great london surgeon came to see him once, and then there was talk of hiring a trained nurse. but austin combatted this project with all the vigour at his command, protesting that trained nurses always scented themselves with chloroform and put him in mind of a hospital; he really could not have one in the room. some assistance, however, was necessary, for the disease was making such rapid progress that he could no longer turn himself in bed; and austin, recognising the fact, insisted that lubin and no other should tend him. so lubin, tearfully overjoyed at the distinction, exchanged the garden for the sick-chamber, into which, as austin said, he seemed to bring the very scent of grass and flowers; and there he passed his time, day after day, raising the helpless boy in his strong arms, shifting his position, anticipating his slightest wish, and even sleeping in a low truckle-bed in a corner of the room at night. sometimes austin would lie, silent and motionless, for hours, with a perfectly calm and happy look upon his face. this was when the pain relaxed its grip upon him. at other times he would talk almost incessantly, apparently holding a conversation with people whom lubin could not see. one would have thought that someone very dear to him had come to pay him a visit, and that he and this mysterious someone were deeply attached to each other, so bright and playful were the smiles that rippled upon his lips. he spoke in a low, rapid undertone, so that lubin could only catch a word or two here and there; then there would be a pause, as though to allow for some unheard reply, to which austin appeared to be listening intently; and then off he would go again as fast as ever. his eyes had a wistful, far-off look in them, and every now and then he seemed puzzled at lubin's presence, not being quite able to reconcile the actual surroundings of the sick-room with those other scenes that were now dawning upon his sight, scenes in which lubin had no place. there was a little confusion in his mind in consequence; but as the days went on things gradually became much clearer. now austin, in spite of his utter indifference to, or indeed aversion from, theological religion, had always loved his sundays. to him they were as days of heaven upon earth, and in them he appeared to take an instinctive delight, as though the very atmosphere of the day filled him with spiritual aspirations, and thoughts which belonged not to this world. above all, he loved sunday evenings, which appeared to him a season hallowed in some special way, when all high and pure influences were felt in their greatest intensity. and now another sunday came round, and, as had been the case all through his illness, he felt and knew by instinct what day it was. he lay quite still, as the distant chime of the church bells was wafted through the air, faint but just audible in the silent room. aunt charlotte smiled tenderly at him through her tears; she was going to church, poor soul, to pray for his recovery, though knowing quite well that what she called his recovery was beyond hope. austin shot a brilliant smile at her in return, and aunt charlotte rushed out of the room choking. the day drew to its close, the darkness gathered, and austin, who had been suffering considerably during the afternoon, was now easier. at about seven o'clock his aunt stole softly in, unable to keep away, and looked at him. his eyes were closed, and he appeared to be asleep. "how has he been this afternoon?" she asked of lubin in an undertone. "seemed to be sufferin' a bit about two hour ago, but nothing more 'n usual," said lubin. "then he got easier and sank asleep, quite quiet-like. he's breathin' regular enough." "he doesn't look worse--there's even a little colour in his cheeks," observed aunt charlotte, as she watched the sleeping boy. "he's in quite a nice, natural slumber. if nursing could only bring him round!" "i'd nurse him all my life for that matter," replied lubin huskily, standing on the other side of the bed. "i know you would, lubin," cried aunt charlotte. "you've been goodness itself to my poor darling. what wouldn't i do--what wouldn't we all do--to save his precious life!" "is he waking up?" whispered lubin, bending over. "nay--just turning his head a bit to one side. he's comfortable enough for the time being. if it wasn't for them crooel pains as seizes him----" "ah, but they're only the symptoms of the disease!" sighed aunt charlotte, mournfully. "and the doctor says that if they were to leave him suddenly, it--wouldn't--be a good--sign." here she began to sob under her breath. "it might mean that his poor body was no longer capable of feeling. well, god knows what's best for all of us. aren't you getting nearly worn out yourself, lubin?" "i? laws no, ma'am," answered lubin almost scornfully. "i get a sort o' dog's snooze every now and again, and when martha was here this morning i slept for four hour on end. no fear o' me caving in. ah, would ye now?" observing some feeble attempt on austin's part to shift his position. "there!" as he deftly slipped his hands under him, and turned him a little to one side. "that eases him a bit. it's stiff work, lying half the day with one's back in the same place." then martha appeared at the door, and insisted on aunt charlotte going downstairs and trying to take some nourishment. in the sick-room all was silent. austin continued sleeping peacefully, an expression of absolute contentment and happiness upon his face, while lubin sat by the bedside watching. but austin did not go on sleeping all the night. there came a time when his deep unconsciousness was invaded by a very strange and wonderful sensation. he no longer felt himself lying motionless in bed, as he had been doing for so long. he seemed rather to be floating, as one might float along the current of a strong, swift stream. he felt no bed under him, though what it was that held him up he couldn't guess, and it never occurred to him to wonder. all he knew was that his pains had vanished, that his body was scarcely palpable, and that the smooth, gliding motion--if motion it could be called--was the most exquisite sensation he had ever felt. what _could_ be happening? austin, his mind now wide awake, and thoroughly on the alert, lay for some time in rapt enjoyment of this new experience. then he opened his eyes, and found that he was in bed after all; the nightlight was burning on a table by the window, the bookcase stood where it did, and he could even discern lubin, who seemed to have dropped asleep, in an armchair three or four yards away. that made the mystery all the greater, and austin waited in expectant silence to see what would happen next. suddenly, as in a flash, the whole of his past life unrolled itself before his consciousness. he saw himself a toddling baby, a growing child, a schoolboy, a happy young rascal chasing sheep; then came a period of pain, a gradual convalescence, a joyful life in the country air, a life of reading, a life of pleasant dreams, a life into which entered his friendship with st aubyn, his days with lubin in the garden, his encounters with mr buskin, and those strange experiences that had reached him from another world. that other world was coming very near to him now, and he was coming very near to it! and all these recollections formed one marvellous panorama, one great simultaneous whole, with no appearance of succession, but just as though it had happened all at once. austin seemed to be past reasoning; he had advanced to a stage where thinking and speculating were things gone by for ever, and his perceptions were wholly passive. there was his life, spread out in consciousness before him; and meanwhile he was undergoing a change. he looked up, and saw a dim, violet cloud hanging horizontally over him. it was in shape like a human form; his own form. at that moment a great tremor, a sort of convulsive thrill, passed through him as he lay, jarring every nerve, and awaking him, at that supreme crisis, to the existence of his body. a sense of confusion followed; and then he seemed to pass out of his own head, and found himself poised in the air immediately over the place where he had just been lying. he saw the violet cloud no more, though whether he had coalesced with it, or the cloud itself had become disintegrated, he could not tell; then, by a sort of instinct, he assumed an erect position, and saw that he was balanced, somehow, a little distance from the bed, looking down upon it. and on the bed, connected with him by a faintly luminous cord, lay the white, still, beautiful form of a dead boy. "and that was my body!" he cried, in awestruck wonder, though his words caused no vibration in the air. he looked at himself, and saw that he was glorious, encircled by a radiant fire-mist. and he was throbbing and pulsating with life, able to move hither and thither without effort, free from lameness, free from weight, strong, vigorous, full of energy, poised like a bird in the pure air of heaven, ready to take his flight in any conceivable direction at the faintest motion of his own will. then the resplendence that enveloped him extended, until the whole room was full of it; and in the midst of it there stood a very sweet and gracious figure, robed in white drapery, and with eyes of intensest love, more beautiful to look at than anything that austin had ever dreamed of. "mother!" he whispered, as he glided swiftly towards her. the walls and ceiling of the room dissolved, and a wonderful landscape, the pageantry and splendour of the spirit land, revealed itself. it was bathed in a light that never was on land or sea, and there were sunny slopes, and jewelled meadows, and silvery streams, and flowers that only grow in paradise. austin was dazzled with its glory; here at last was the realisation of all he had dimly fancied, all he had ever longed for. and yet as he floated outwards and upwards into the heavenly realms, the crown and climax of his happiness lay in the thought that he could always, by the mere impulse of desire, revisit the sweet old garden he had loved, and watch lubin at his work among the flowers, and stand, though all unseen, beside the old stone fountain where he had passed such happy times in the earth-life he was leaving. edinburgh m'laren and co., limited printers nightfall by anthony pryde chapter i "tea is ready, bernard," said laura clowes, coming in from the garden. it was five o'clock on a june afternoon, but the hall was so dark that she had to grope her way. wanhope was a large, old-fashioned manor-house, a plain brick front unbroken except in the middle, where its corniced roof was carried down by steps to an immense gateway of weathered stone, carved with the escutcheon of the family and their motto: fortis et fidelis. wistarias rambled over both sides, wreathing the stone window-frames in their grape-like clusters of lilac bloom, and flagstones running from end to end, shallow, and so worn that a delicate growth of stonecrop fringed them, shelved down to a lawn. indoors in the great hall it was dark because floor and staircase and wall and ceiling were all lined with spanish chestnut-wood, while the windows were full of flemish glass in purple and sepia and blue. there was nothing to reflect a glint of light except a collection of weapons of all ages which occupied the wall behind a bare stone hearth; suits of inlaid armour, coats of chainmail as flexible as silk, assegais and blowpipes, bornean parangs and gurkha kukris, abyssinian shotels with their double blades, mexican knives in chert and chalcedony, damascened swords and automatic pistols, a chinese bronze drum, a persian mace of the date of rustum, and an austrian cavalry helmet marked with a bullet-hole and a stain. gradually, as her eyes grew used to the gloom laura found her way to her husband's couch. she would have liked to kiss him, but dared not: the narrow mocking smile, habitual on his lips, showed no disposition to respond to advances. dressed in an ordinary suit of irish tweed, bernard clowes lay at full length in an easy attitude, his hands in his pockets and his legs decently extended as barry, his male nurse, had left them twenty minutes ago: a big, powerful man, well over six feet in height, permanently bronze and darkly handsome, his immense shoulders still held back so flat that his coat fitted without a wrinkle--but a cripple since the war. laura clowes too was tall and slightly sunburnt, but thin for her height, and rather plain except for her sweet eyes, her silky brown hair, and--rarer gift!--the vague elegance which was a prerogative of selincourt women. she rarely wore expensive clothes, her maid catherine made most of her indoor dresses, and yet she could still hold her own, as in old days, among women who shopped in the rue de la paix. this afternoon, in her silk muslin of the same shade as the trail of wistaria tucked in where the frills crossed over her breast, she might have gone astray out of the seventeenth century. "tea is in the parlour," said mrs. clowes. "shall i wheel you round through the garden? it's a lovely day and the roses are in their perfection, i counted eighty blooms on the old frau karl. i should like you to see her." "i shouldn't. but you can drag me into the parlour if you like," said bernard clowes--a grudging concession: more often than not he ate his food in the hall. his wife pushed his couch, which ran on cycle wheels and so lightly that a child could propel it, into her sitting-room and as near as she dared to the french windows that opened without step or ledge on the terrace flagstones and the verdure of the lawn. out of doors, for some obscure reason, he refused to go, though the garden was sweet with the scent of clover and the gold sunlight was screened by the milky branches of a great acacia. still he was in the fresh air, and laura hastily busied herself with her flowered dresden teacups, pretending unconsciousness because if she had shown the slightest satisfaction he would probably have demanded to be taken back. her mild duplicity was of course mere make believe: the two understood each other only too well: but it was wiser to keep a veil drawn in case bernard clowes should suddenly return to his senses. for this reason laura always spoke as if his choice of a coffined life were only a day or two old. had he said--as he might say at any moment--"laura, i should like to go for a drive," laura would have been able without inconsistency to reply, "yes, dear: what time shall i order the car?" as though they had been driving together every evening of their married life. "what have you been doing today?" clowes asked, sipping his tea and looking out of the window. he had shut himself up in his bedroom with a headache and his wife had not seen him since the night before. "this morning i motored into amesbury to change the library books and to enquire after canon bodington. i saw mrs. bodington and phoebe and george--," "who's george?" "their son in the navy, don't you remember? the sapphire is in dry dock--" "how old is he?" "nineteen," said mrs. clowes. "oh. go on." "i don't remember doing anything else except get some stamps at the post office. stay, now i come to think of it, i met mr. maturin, but i didn't speak to him. he only took off his hat to me, bernard. he is seventy-four." "dull sort of morning you seem to have had," said bernard clowes. "what did you do after lunch?" "with a great want of intelligence, i strolled down to wharton to see yvonne, but she was out. they had all gone over to the big garden party at temple brading. i forgot about it--" "why weren't you asked?" "i was asked but i didn't care to go. now that i am no longer in my first youth these expensive crushes cease to amuse me." bernard gave an incredulous sniff but said nothing. "on my way home i looked in at the vicarage to settle the day for the school treat. isabel has made jack bendish promise to help with the cricket, and she seems to be under the impression that yvonne will join in the games. i can hardly believe that anything will induce yvonne to play nuts and may, but if it is to be done that energetic child will do it. no, i didn't see val or mr. stafford. val was over at red springs and mr. stafford was preparing his sermon." "have you written any letters?" "i wrote to father and sent him fifty pounds. it was out of my own allowance. he seems even harder up than usual. i'm afraid the latest system is not profitable." "i should not think it would be, for mr. selincourt," replied bernard clowes politely. "monte carlo never does pay unless one's pretty sharp, and your father hasn't the brains of a flea. was that the only letter you wrote?" "yes--will you have some more bread and butter?" "and what letters did you get?" clowes pursued his leisured catechism while he helped himself daintily to a fragile sandwich. this was all part of the daily routine, and laura, if she felt any resentment, had long since grown out of showing it. "one from lucian. he's in paris--" "with--?" "no one, so far as i know," laura replied, not affecting to misunderstand his jibe. lucian selincourt was her only brother and very dear to her, but there was no denying that his career had its seamy side. he was not, like her father, a family skeleton--he had never been warned off the turf: but he was rarely solitary and never out of debt. "poor lucian, he's hard up too. i wish i could send him fifty pounds, but if i did he'd send it back." "what other letters did you have?" mrs. clowes had had a sheaf of unimportant notes, which she was made to describe in detail, her husband listening in his hard patience. when they were exhausted laura went on in a hesitating voice, "and there was one more that i want to consult you about. i know you'll say we can't have him, but i hardly liked to refuse on my own imitative, as he's your cousin, not mine. it was from lawrence hyde, offering to come here for a day or two." "lawrence hyde? why, i haven't seen or heard of him for years," clowes raised his head with a gleam of interest. "i remember him well enough though. good-looking chap, six foot two or three and as strong as a horse. well-built chap, too. women ran after him. i haven't seen him since we were in the trenches together." "yes, bernard. don't you recollect his going to see you in hospital?" "so he did, by jove! i'd forgotten that. he'd ten days' leave and he chucked one of them away to look me up. not such a bad sort, old lawrence." "i liked him very much," said laura quietly. "wants to come to us, does he? why? where does he write from?" "paris. it seems he ran across lucian at auteuil--" "let me see the letter." laura give it over. "calls you laura, does he?" clowes read it aloud with a running commentary of his own. "h'm: pleasant relationship, cousins-in-law. . . 'met lucian . . . chat about old times'--is he a bird of lucian's feather, i wonder? he wasn't keen on women in the old days, but people change a lot in ten years . . . 'like to come and see us while he's in england . . . run over for the day'--bosh, he knows we should have to put him up for a couple of nights! . . . 'sorry to hear such a bad account of bernard'--very kind of him, does he want a cheque? hallo! 'lucian says he is leading you a deuce of a life.' upon my word!" he lowered the letter and burst out laughing--the first hearty laugh she had heard from him for many a long day. laura, who had given him the letter in fear and trembling and only because she could not help herself, was exceedingly relieved and joined in merrily. but while she was laughing she had to wink a sudden moisture from her eyelashes: this glimpse of the natural self of the man she had married went to her heart. "is it true?" he said, still with that friendly twinkle in his eyes. "do i lead you the deuce of a life, poor old laura?" "i don't mind," said laura, smiling back at him. she could have been more eloquent, but she dared not. bernard's moods required delicate handling. "he's a cool hand anyhow to write like that to a woman about her husband. but lawrence always was a cool hand. i remember the turn-up we had in the farringay woods when i was twelve and he was fourteen. he nearly murdered me. but i paid him out," said bernard in a glow of pleasurable reminiscence. "he was too heavy for me. old andrew hyde came and dragged him off. but i marked him: he was banished from his mother's drawingroom for a week--not that he minded that much . . . aunt helen was a pretty woman. gertrude and i never could think why she married uncle andrew, but i believe they got on all right, though she was a big handsome woman--a clowes all over--while old andrew looked like any little scrub out of houndsditch. never can tell why people marry each other, can you?" bernard was becoming philosophical. i suppose if you go to the bottom it's nature that takes them by the scruff of the neck and gives them a gentle shove and says 'more babies, please.' she doesn't always bring it off though, witness you and me, my love.-- but i say, laura, i like the way you handed over that letter! thought it would do me good, didn't you? look here, i can't have my character taken away behind my back! you tell him to come and judge for himself." "you'll get very tired of him, berns," said laura doubtfully. "you always say you get sick of people in twenty-four hours: and i can't take him entirely off your hands--you'll have to do your share of entertaining him. he's your cousin, not mine, and it'll be you he comes to see." "i shan't see any more of him than i want to, my dear, on that you may depend," said bernard with easy emphasis. "if he invites himself he'll have to put with what he can get. but i can stand a good deal of him. regimental shop is always amusing, and lawrence will know heaps of fellows i used to know, and tell me what's become of them all. besides, i'm sick to death of the local gang and lawrence will be a change. he's got more brains than jack bendish, and from the style of his letter he can't be so much like a curate as val is." val stafford was agent for the wanhope property. "oh, by george!" "what's the matter?" bernard threw back his head and grinned broadly with half shut eyes. "ha, ha! by gad, that's funny--that's very funny. why, val knows him!" "knows lawrence? i never heard val mention his name." "no, my love, but one can't get val to open his lips on that subject. lawrence and i were in the same battalion. he was there when val got his ribbon." "really? that will be nice for val, meeting him again." "oh rather!" said bernard clowes. "on my word it's a shame and i've half a mind . . .. no, let him come: let him come and be damned to the pair of them! straighten me out, will you?" he was liable like most paralytics to mechanical jerks and convulsions which drove him mad with impatience. laura drew down the helplessly twitching knee, and ran one firm hand over him from thigh to ankle. her touch had a mesmeric effect on his nerves when he could endure it, but nine times out of ten he struck it away. he did so now. "go to the devil! how often have i told you not to paw me about? i wish you'd do as you're told. what do you call him lawrence for?" "i always did. but i'll call him captain hyde if you like--" "'mr.,' you mean: he's probably dropped the 'captain.' he was only a 'temporary.'" "for all that, he has stuck to his prefix," said laura smiling. "lucian chaffed him about it. but lawrence was always rather a baby in some ways: clocked socks to match his ties, and astonishing adventures in jewellery, and so on. oh yes, i knew him very well indeed when i was a girl. mr. and mrs. hyde were among the last of the old set who kept up with us after father was turned out of his clubs. i've stayed at farringay." "you never told me that!" "i never thought of telling you. lawrence hasn't been near us since we came to wanhope and i don't recollect your ever mentioning his name. you see i tell you now." "how old were you when you stayed at farringay?" "twenty-two. lawrence and i are the same age." "and you knew him well, did you?" "we were great friends," said mrs. clowes, tossing a lump of sugar out of the window to a lame jackdaw. she had many such pensioners, alike in a community of misfortune. "and, yes, berns, you're right, we flirted a little--only a little: wasn't it natural? it was only for fun, because we were both young and it was such heavenly weather--it was the easter before war broke out. no, he didn't ask me to marry him! nothing was farther from his mind." "did he kiss you?" laura slowly and smilingly shook her head. "am i, yvonne?" "but you liked the fellow?" "oh yes, he was charming. a little too much one of a class, perhaps: there's a strong family likeness, isn't there, between cambridge undergraduates? but he was more cultivated than a good many of his class. we used to go up the river together and read --what did one read in the spring of ? masefield, i suppose, or was it maeterlinck? rupert brooks came with the war. imagine reading 'pelleas et melisande' in a canadian canoe! it makes one want to be twenty-two again, so young and so delightfully serious." it was hard to run on while the glow faded out of bernard's face and a cold gloom again came over it, but sad experience had taught laura that at all costs, under whatever temptation, it was wiser to be frank. it would have been easier for the moment to paint the boy and girl friendship in neutral tints, but if its details came out later, trivial and innocent as they were, the economy of today would cost her dear tomorrow, her own impression was that clowes had never been jealous of her in his life. but the pretence of jealousy was one of his few diversions. "i dare say you do wish you were twenty-two again," he said, delicately setting down his tea cup on the tray--all his movements, so far as he could control them, were delicate and fastidious. "i dare say you would like a chance to play your cards differently. can't be done, my, girl, but what a good fellow i am to ask lawrence to wanhope, ain't i? no one can say i'm not an obliging husband. lawrence isn't a jumping doll. he's six and thirty and as strong as a horse. you'll have no end of a good time knitting up your severed friendship .. 'pon my word, i've a good mind to put him off. . i shouldn't care to fall foul of the king's proctor." "will you have another cup of tea before i ring" "no, thanks . . . do i lead you the deuce of a life, lally?" "you do now and then," said his wife, smiling with pale lips. "it isn't that i'm sensitive for myself, because i know you don't mean a word of it, but i rather hate it for your own sake. it isn't worthy of you, old boy. it's so--so ungentlemanly." "so it is. but i do it because i'm bored. i am bored, you know. desperately!" he stretched out his hand to her with such haggard, hunted eyes that laura, reckless, threw herself down by him and kissed the heavy eyelids. clowes put his arm round her neck, fondling her hair, and for a little while peace, the peace of perfect mutual tenderness, fell on this hard-driven pair. but soon, a great sigh bursting from his breast, clowes pushed her away, his features settling back into their old harsh lines of savage pain and scorn. "get away! get up! do you want parker to see you through the window? if there's a thing on earth i hate it's a dishevelled crying woman. write to lawrence. say i shall be delighted to see him and that i hope he'll give us at least a week. stop. warn him that i shan't be able to see much of him because of my invalid habits, and that i shall depute you to entertain him. that ought to fetch him if he remembers you when you were twenty-two." laura was neither dishevelled nor in tears: perhaps such scenes were no novelty to her. she leant against the frame of the open window, looking out over the sunlit garden full of flowers, over the wide expanse of turf that sloped down to a wide, shallow river all sparkling in western light, and over airy fields on the other side of it to the roofs of the distant village strung out under a break of woody hill. "are you sure you want him? he used to have a hot temper when he was a young man, and you know, berns, it would be tiresome if there were any open scandal." "scandal be hanged," said bernard clowes. "you do as you're told." his wife gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders as if to disclaim further responsibility. she was breathing rather hurriedly as if she had been running, and her neck was so white that the shadow of her sunlit wistaria threw a faint lilac stain on the warm, fine grain of her skin. and the haggard look returned to bernard's eyes as he watched her, and with it a wistfulness, a weariness of desire, "hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea." laura never saw that hunger in his eyes. if he spared her nothing else he spared her that. "you do as i tell you, old girl," his harsh voice had softened again. "there won't be any row. honestly i'd like to have old lawrence here for a bit, i'm not rotting now. he had almost four years of it--almost as long as i had. i'll guarantee it put a mark on him. it scarred us all. it'll amuse me to dine him and val together, and make them talk shop, our own old shop, and see what the war's done for each of us: three retired veterans, that's what we shall be, putting our legs under the same mahogany: three old comrades in arms." he gave his strange, jarring laugh. "wonder which of us is scarred deepest?" chapter ii wanhope and castle wharton--or, to give them their due order, wharton and wanhope, for major clowes' place would have gone inside the castle three times over--were the only country houses in the reverend james stafford's parish. the village of chilmark--a stone bridge, crossroads, a church with norman tower and frondlike renaissance tracery, and an irregular line of school, shops, and cottages strung out between the stream and chalky beech-crested hillside occupied one of those long, winding, sheltered crannies that mark the beds of watercourses along the folds of salisbury plain. uplands rose steeply all along it except on the south, where it widened away into the flats of dorsetshire. wharton overlooked this expanse of hunting country: a formidable norman keep, round which, by gradual accretion, a dwelling-place had grown up, a history of english architecture and english gardening written in stone and brick and grass and flowers. one sunny square there was, enclosed between arched hedges set upon pillars of carpenters' work, which still kept the design of old verulam: and yvonne of the castle loved its little turrets and cages of singing birds, and its alleys paved with burnet, wild thyme, and watermints, which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed. wanhope also, though modest by comparison, had a good deal of land attached to it, but the clowes property lay north up the plain, where they sowed the headlands with red wheat still as in the days of justice shallow. the shining mere, a tributary of the avon, came dancing down out of these hills: strange pastoral cliffs of chalk covered with fine sward, and worked by the hands of prehistoric man into bastions and ramparts that imitated in verdure the bold sweep of masonry. mr. stafford was a man of sixty, white-haired and of sensitive, intelligent features. he was a high churchman, but wore a felt wideawake in winter because when he bought it wideawakes were the fashion for high churchmen. in the summer he usually roved about his parish without any hat at all, his white curls flying in the wind. he was of gentle birth, which tended to ease his intercourse with the castle. he had a hundred a year of his own, and the living of chilmark was worth pounds net. so it may have been partly from necessity that he went about in clothes at which any respectable tramp would have turned his nose up: but idiosyncrasy alone can have inspired him to get the village tailor to line his short blue pilot jacket with pink flannelette. "it's very warm and comfortable, my dear," he said apologetically to his wife, who sat and gazed at him aghast, "so much more cosy than italian cloth." on that occasion mrs. stafford was too late to interfere, but as a rule she exercised a restraining influence, and while she lived the vicar was not allowed to go about with holes in his trousers. after her death mr. stafford mourned her sincerely and cherished her memory, but all the same he was glad to be able to wear his old boots. however, he had a cold bath every morning and kept his hands irreproachable, not from vanity but from an inbred instinct of personal care. yvonne of the castle, who spoke her mind as yvonne's of the castle commonly do, said that the fewer clothes mr. stafford wore the better she liked him, because he was always clean and they were not. mr. stafford had three children; val, late of the dorchester regiment, rowsley an artillery lieutenant two years younger, and isabel the curate, a tall slip of a girl of nineteen. they were all beloved, but val was the prop of the family and the pride of his father's heart. invalided out of the army after six weeks' fighting, with an honourable distinction and an irremediably shattered arm, he had been given the agency of the wanhope property, and lived at home, where the greater part of his three hundred a year went to pay the family bills. most of these were for what mr. stafford gave away, for the vicar had no idea of the value of money, and was equally generous with val's income and his own. altogether mr. stafford was a contented and happy man, and his only worry was the thought, which crossed his mind now and then, that chilmark for a young man of val's age was dull, and that the wanhope agency led nowhere. if val had been an ambitious man! but val was not ambitious, and mr stafford thanked heaven that this pattern son of his had never been infected by the vulgar modern craze for money making. his salary would not have kept him in luxury in a cottage of his own, but it was enough to make the vicarage a comfortable home for him; and, so long as he remained unmarried, what could he want more, after all, than the society of his own family and his kind country neighbours? rowsley, cheerfully making both ends meet in the artillery on an allowance from his godmother, was off his father's hands. isabel? mr. stafford did not trouble much about isabel, who was only a little girl. she was a happy, healthy young thing, and mr. stafford was giving her a thoroughly good education. she would be able to earn her own living when he died, if she were not married, as every woman ought to be. (there was no one for isabel to marry, but mr. stafford's principles rose superior to facts.) meantime it was not as if she were running wild: that sweet woman laura clowes and the charming minx at the castle between them could safely be left to form her manners and see after her clothes. one summer afternoon isabel was coming back from an afternoon's tennis at wharton. mrs. clowes brought her in the wanhope car as far as the wanhope footpath, and would have sent her home, but isabel declined, ostensibly because she wanted to stretch her legs, actually because she couldn't afford to tip the wanhope chauffeur. so she tumbled out of the car and walked away at a great rate, waving laura farewell with her tennis racquet. isabel was a tall girl of nineteen, but she still plaited her hair in a pigtail which swung, thick and dark and glossy, well below her waist. she wore a holland blouse and skirt, a sailor hat trimmed with a band of rowsley's ribbon, brown cotton stockings, and brown sandshoes bought for / - / of chapman, the leading draper in chilmark high street. isabel made her own clothes and made them badly. her skirt was short in front and narrow below the waist, and her sailor blouse was comfortably but inelegantly loose round the armholes. laura clowes, who had a french instinct of dress, and would have clad isabel as guinevere clad enid, if isabel had not been prouder than enid, looked after her with a smile and a sigh: it was a grief to her to see her young friend so shabby, but, bless the child! how little she cared--and how little it signified after all! isabel's poverty sat as light on her spirits as the sailor hat, never straight, sat on her upflung head. isabel knew every one in chilmark parish. pausing before a knot of boys playing marbles: "herbert," she said sternly, "why weren't you at school on sunday?" old hewett, propped like a wheezy mummy against the oak tree that shaded the prince of wales's feathers, brought up his stiff arm slowly in a salute to the vicar's daughter. "'evening," said isabel cheerfully, "what a night for rheumatics isn't it?" hewitt chuckled mightily at this subtle joke. "'evening, isabel," called out dr. verney, putting up one finger to his cap: he considered one finger enough for a young lady whom he had brought into the world. isabel knew every one in chilmark and every one knew her. such a range of intensive acquaintance is not so narrow as people who have never lived in a country village are apt to suppose. past the schoolhouse, past the wide stone bridge where isabel loved to hang over the parapet watching for trout--but not tonight, for it was late, and isabel after a "company tea" wanted her supper: by a footpath through the churchyard, closely mown and planted with rosebushes: and so into the church, where, after dropping a hurried professional curtsey to the altar, she set about her evening duties. isabel called herself the curate, but she did a good deal which is not expected of a curate, such as shutting windows and changing lesson-markers, propping up the trebles when they went astray in the pointing of the psalms, altering the numbers on the hymn-board, writing out choir papers, putting flowers in the vases and candles in the benediction lights, playing the organ as required and occasionally blowing it. . . . before leaving the church she fell on her knees, in deference to mr. stafford and the text by the door, and said a prayer. what did she pray? "o lord bless this church and all who worship in it and make father preach a good sermon next sunday. i wish i'd been playing with val instead of jack, we should have won that last set if jack hadn't muffed his services. . . . well, this curate was only nineteen." and then, coming out into the fading light, she locked the north door behind her and went off whistling like a blackbird, if a blackbird could whistle the alto of calkin's magnificat in b flat. . . . five minutes climbing of the steep brown floor of the beechwood, and she was out on uplands in the dying fires of day. it had been twilight in the valley, but here the wide plain was sunlit and the air was fresh and dry: in the valley even the river-aspens were almost quiet, but here there was still a sough of wind coming and going, through the dry grass thick set with lemon thyme and lady's slipper, or along the low garden wall where red valerian sprouted out of yellow stonecrop. a wishing gate led into the garden, and isabel made for an open window, but halfway over the sill she paused, gazing with all her soul in her eyes across the vicarage gooseberry bushes. that grey suit was val's of course, but who was inside the belted coat and riding breeches? "rows-lee!" sang out isabel, tumbling back into the garden with a generous display of leg. the raiders rose up each holding a handful of large red strawberries melting ripe, and isabel, pitching in her racquet on a sofa, ran across the grass and enfolded her brother in her arms. rowsley, dark and slight and shrewd, returned her hug with one arm, while carefully guarding his strawberries with the other--"you pig, you perfect pig!" wailed isabel. "i was saving them for tea tomorrow, laura's coming and i can't afford a cake. oh joy, you can buy me one! how long can you stay?" "over the week end: but i didn't come to buy you cakes, baby. i haven't any money either. i came because i wanted you to buy me cakes." "o well never mind, i'll make one," isabel joyously slipped her hand through rowsley's arm. "then i can get the flour from the baker and it won't cost anything at all--it'll go down in the bill. well give me one anyhow, now they're picked it would be a pity to waste them." she helped herself liberally out of val's hand. "now stop both of you, you can't have any more." she linked her other arm in val's and dragged her brothers out of the dangerous proximity of the strawberry beds. val sat down on a deck chair, one leg thrown over the other, rowsley dropped at full length on the turf, and isabel doubled herself up between them, her arms clasped round her knees. "how's the old man?" she asked in friendly reference to rowsley's commanding officer. "oh rose, i knew there was something i wanted to ask you. will spillsby be able to play on the fourth?" spillsby, a brother subaltern and a famous bat, had twisted his ankle at the nets, and rowsley in his last letter had been uncertain whether he would be well enough to play the sappers at the annual fixture. happily rowsley was able to reassure his young sister: the ankle was much better and spillsby was already allowed to walk on it. isabel then turned her large velvet eyes--gazelle eyes with a world of pathos in their velvet gloom on her elder brother. "coruscate, val," she commanded. "you haven't said anything at all yet. we should all try to be bright in the home circle. we cannot all be witty, but-ow! rowsley, if you pull my hair i shall hit you in the--in the place where the gauls fined their soldiers if they stuck out on parade. oh, val, that really isn't vulgar, i found it in matthew arnold! their stomachs, you know. they wouldn't have fined you anyhow. you look fagged, darling-- are you?" "not so much fagged as hungry," said val in his soft voice. "it's getting on for nine o'clock and i was done out of my tea. i went in to wanhope, but laura was out, and clowes was drinking whisky and soda. i cannot stand whisky at four in the afternoon, and irish whisky at that. there'll be some supper going before long, won't there?" "not until half past nine because jimmy has his bible class tonight." jimmy was mr. stafford: and perhaps a purist might have objected that mrs. clowes and yvonne bendish had not done all they might have done to form isabel's manners. "i'm so sorry, darling," she continued, preparing to leap to her feet. "shall i get you a biscuit? there are oatmeals in the sideboard, the kind you like, i won't be a minute--" "thanks very much, i'd rather wait. did you see mrs. clowes today? clowes said she was at the castle." "so she was, sitting with mrs. morley in an angelic striped cotton. mrs. morley was in mauve ninon and a gainsborough hat. yvonne says mr. morley is a jew and made his money in i. d. b.'s, which i suppose are some sort of stocks?" neither of her brothers offered to enlighten her, rowsley because he was feeling indolent, val because he never said an unkind word to any one. isabel, who was enamoured of her own voice flowed on with little delay: "if he really is a jew, i can't think how she could marry him; i wouldn't. mrs. morley can't be very happy or laura wouldn't go and talk to her. laura is so sweet, she always sits with people that other people run away from. oh val, did major clowes tell you their news?" isabel might refer to her father as jimmy and to rowsley's commander as the old man, but she rarely failed to give bernard clowes his correct prefix. "no--is there any?" "only that they have some one coming to stay with them. won't he have a deadly time?" isabel glanced from val to rowsley in the certainty of a common response. "imagine staying at wanhope! however, he invited himself, so it's at his own risk. perhaps he's embarrassed like you, rose, and wants laura to feed him. it's rather fun for laura, though--that is, it will be, if major clowes isn't too hopeless." strange freemasonry of the generations! mr. stafford's children loved him dearly and he was wont to say that there were no secrets at the vicarage, yet they lived in a conspiracy of silence, and even val, who was mentally nearer to his father's age, would have been loth to let mr. stafford know as much as isabel knew about wanhope. it was assumed that val's job was the very job val wanted. mr. stafford had indeed a suspicion that it was not all plain sailing: bernard clowes retained just so much of the decently bred man as to be courteous to his wife before a mere acquaintance, but the vicar came and went at odd hours, and he observed now and then vague intimations--undertones from bernard himself, an uncontrollable shrinking on laura's part, an occasional hesitation or reluctance in val--which hinted at flying storms. but val, the father supposed, could make allowance for a cripple: bernard was so much to be pitied that no man would resent an occasional burst of temper! and there his children left him. the younger generation can trust one another not to interfere, but when the seniors strike in, with their cut and dry precedents and rule of thumb moralities, who knows what mischief may follow? elder people are so indiscreet! "it's a cousin of major clowes," isabel continued, "but they haven't met for years and years--not since the war. laura knows him too, she met him before she was married and liked him very much indeed. she's looking forward to it--that is, she would be if she had spirit enough to look forward to anything." "clowes never said a word to me about it," remarked val. "didn't he?" isabel unfolded herself and stood up. "that means he is going to be tiresome. i must run now, it's five past nine. which will you both have, cold beef or eggs?" "oh, anything that's going," said val. "eggs," said rowsley, "not less than four. without prejudice to the cold beef if it's underdone. hallo!" "what?" "what's the matter with your skirt?" "nothing," said isabel shortly. she screwed her head over her shoulder in a vain endeavour to see her own back. "it's perfectly all right." "it would be, on a scarecrow." isabel stuck her chin up. "have you been over to the castle in that kit, baby? well, if yvonne won't give you some of her old clothes, you might ask the kitchenmaid." "the kitchenmaid has more money than i have," said isabel cheerfully. "is it so very bad? it's clean anyway, i washed and ironed it myself." "it looks very nice and so do you," said val. isabel eyed him with a softened glance: one could rely on val to salve one's wounded vanity, but, alas! val did not know home-made from tailor-made. reluctantly she owned to herself that she had more faith in rowsley's judgment. "it seems rather short though," val added. "i suppose you will have to go into long frocks pretty soon, won't you, and put your hair up?" "oh bother my hair and my dresses!" said isabel with a great sigh. "i will pin my hair up when i get some new clothes, but how can i when i haven't any money and jim hasn't any money and neither of you have any money? don't you see, idiot," this was exclusively to rowsley, "when i pin my hair up i shall turn into a grown up lady? and then i shall have to wear proper clothes. at present i'm only a little girl and it doesn't signify what i wear. if any one will give me five pounds i'll pin my hair up like a shot. oh dear, i wonder what yvonne would say if jack expected her to outfit herself for five pounds? i do wish some one would leave me , pounds a year. get up now, you lazy beggar, come and help me lay the supper. it's fanny's evening out." she pulled rowsley to his feet and they went off together leaving val alone on the lawn: good comrades those two, and apparently more of an age, in spite of the long gap between them, than rowsley and val, who was the eldest by only eighteen months. and val sat on alone, while stains of coral and amber faded out of the lavender sky, and a rack of sea clouds, which half an hour ago had shone like fiery ripples, dwindled away into smoke--mist --a mere shadow on the breast of the night. stars began to sparkle, moths and humming cockchafers sailed by him, a chase of bats overhead endlessly fell down airy precipices and rose in long loops of darkling flight: honeysuckle and night-scented stock tinged with their sweet garden perfume the cool airs from the moor. val lit a cigarette, a rare indulgence. if cigarettes grew on gooseberry bushes val would have been an inveterate smoker, but good egyptians were a luxury which he could not often afford the wanhope agency was ample for his needs, though underpaid as agencies go: but there was rowsley, always hard up, uncomplaining, but sensitive, as a young fellow in his position is sure to be, and secretly fretting because he could not do as other men did: and there was isabel, for whom val felt the anxiety mr. stafford ought to have felt, and was trying to make the provision mr. stafford ought to have made: and then there was the vicar himself, who laid out a great deal of money in those investments for which we are promised cent per cent interest, but upon a system of deferred payment. tonight however val lit a cigarette, and then a second, to the surprise of isabel, who saw the red spark on the lawn. she thought her brother must be tired, and perhaps it really was the long day without food that made him so restless in mind and so uneasy. bernard clowes had been more than usually cranky that afternoon. even the patient val had had thoughts of throwing up his job when the cripple made him go through his week's accounts, scrutinizing every entry and cross-examining him on every transaction in such a tone as the head of a firm might employ to a junior clerk suspected of dishonesty. it was bernard's way: it meant nothing: but it was irksome to val, especially when he could not soothe himself by dropping into laura's quiet parlour for a cup of tea. yet his irritation would not have lingered through a cigarette if isabel's news had not revived it. this cousin of bernard's! val had not much faith in any cousin of bernard clowes: nor in the kindness of life. val was a slight, fair, pleasant-looking man of eight or nine and twenty, quiet of movement, friendly-mannered and as inconspicuous as his own rather worn grey tweeds: one of a class, till he raised his eyes: and then? there was something strange in val's eyes when they were fully raised, an indrawn arresting brilliance difficult to analyse: imaginative and sympathetic, as if he were at home in dark places: the quality of acceptance of pain. adepts in old days knew by his eyes a man who had been on the rack. stafford had been racked: and by the pain that is half shame, the keenest, the most lacerating and destructive of wounds. he had suffered till he could suffer no more, and tonight in the starlit garden he, suffered still, without hope, or rebellion, or defence. indoors rowsley and isabel, with the rapidity of long use, laid the cloth, and isabel fetched cold beef from the larder and butter and eggs from the dairy, while rowsley went down the cellar with a jug and a candle and drew from the cask a generous allowance of beer. "come along in, old val," said isabel, reappearing at the open window, "you and rose are both famishing and i'm not," this was a pious fiction, "so you can begin and i'll wait for jimmy. i dare say he's gone wandering off somewhere and won't be in till ten." val came across the dark, cool lawn and climbed over the window sill. a shabby room, large and low: a faded paper, grey toning to blue: a carpet of faded roses on a grey ground: the shaded dresden lamp and roselit supper table shining like an island in a pool of shadow, and those two beloved heads, both so dark and smooth and young, tam cara capita! neither of them suspected that val was unhappy. his feeling for them was more fatherly than fraternal, and rowsley, strange to say, fell in with val's attitude, coming to his brother for money as naturally as most young men go to their parents. val sat at the head of the table because mr. stafford could not carve. "there!" said isabel, giving him his plate. "mustard? i've just made it so you needn't look to see if it's fresh. watercress: i picked it myself. lettuce. cream and vinegar and sugar. beer. now do you feel happy? lord love you, dear, i like to see you eat." she sat on the arm of mr. stafford's mahogany chair. "what time do you want breakfast? seven o'clock? major clowes wouldn't come down at seven if he were your agent. can you get back to tea tomorrow? laura may bring the cousin up to tea with her and she wants him to meet you." "very good of her. why?" "oh, because he was in the army too and all through the war. he went out with the first hundred thousand. he's much older than you are--the same age as laura. oh, wait a minute!" exclaimed isabel in the tone in which a frenchwoman says tenez. i forgot. she thinks you must have met him, val." "possibly," said val. "was he in the dorchesters?" asked rowsley--much more interested than his brother, no doubt because he was not so hungry as val, who was giving all his attention to his supper. "no, in the winchesters," said isabel. "do i mean the winchesters, val? what was major clowes' old regiment?" "clowes was in the wintons." isabel nodded. "then so was the cousin. and laura says he was out there when the wintons were in the next bit of trench north of the dorchesters. he was there when--when you were wounded." such was val stafford's modesty that in the family circle it was not in etiquette to refer in other terms to that famous occasion. "i don't remember any fellow named clowes and i never knew bernard clowes had a cousin out there," said val, mixing himself a salad. "oh, his name isn't clowes. it's ryde or pride or something like that. i'm sorry to be so vague, but jack bendish and yvonne and mrs. morley were all talking at once. lawrence pied--fried--" "lawrence hyde?" "yes, that's it! then you really do remember him?" "er--yes. is that lamp smoking, rowsley? you might turn it down a trifle, i can't reach." "let me, let me?-- what was he like?" "who--hyde? oh," said val vaguely, "he was like the rest of us --very tired." "tired?" echoed isabel with a blank face, "but, val darling, he couldn't have been only tired! what should you think he was like when he wasn't tired?" "that is a question i have occasionally asked myself," val answered with his faint indecipherable smile. "my dear child, i only saw him once or twice. he was a senior captain and commanded his company. i was a very junior lieutenant." "still he was there at the time," reflected isabel. "o rose! if he's anything like nice, which is almost past praying for in major clowes' cousin, let's beguile him into the gooseberry bushes and make him tell us all about it! val is very dear to his family, but no one, however tenderly attached to him, could call him a brilliant raconteur. now mr. hyde won't have any modest scruples. val, if there is a slug in that lettuce i wish you would say so. it would hurt my feelings less than for you to sit looking at it in a stony silence. was he good-looking?" "possibly he might be," said val, "when he scraped the dirt off." after a moment he added, "he was very decent to me." "was he? then he was nice?" "gnat," said rowsley from the middle of his third egg. isabel rounded him indignantly. "i'm not gnatting! i'm not asking val anything about himself, am i? val can't possibly mind telling me about another man in another regiment. you eat your eggs, there's a good boy, before they get cold.-- laura says the dorchesters dined the winchesters once when they were in billets. was that when you and mr. hyde were there?" "captain hyde," val corrected his young sister. "yes, we both graced the festive board. it was too festive for me. we had buszard's soup and curried chicken and real cream, and more champagne than was good for us. but it was not on that occasion that hyde was so decent to me. the day i--the day dale went down--" rowsley nodded to him as he raised his glass of beer to his lips--"thank you, rose.-- as i was saying, that evening i ran across hyde between the lines. the dorsets and wintons had gone over the top together, and he had been left behind with a bullet in his chest. i was done to the world, but he had some brandy left and shared it with me. if it had not been for hyde i should never have brought dale in." "well, i've never heard that before," said rowsley to his fourth egg. isabel was silent, and her eyes in the shadow of a momentary gravity were the eyes of a woman and not of a child. she raised them to look out at the evening sky, indigo blue against the lamplit interior, or faintly primrose in the west, and wondered for the thousandth time why it was still such an effort to val to refer to his brief military experience. soft country noises came in, peaceful and soothing: the short shrill shriek of a bat, the rustle of a branch of rose-leaves moving like a hand over the window panes, a faint breathing of wind from the moor. surely the scar of war ought to be healed by now! isabel kept these thoughts to herself: young as she was, her solitary life--for a woman alone among men is always to some extent solitary--had trained her to a clear perception of what had better not be said. "when is hyde coming?" asked val, going on with his salad. "tomorrow, didn't you hear me say laura is going to bring him here to tea? he's staying at his own place, farringay--i think from the way laura spoke it is what one calls a place--and they expect him by the morning train. laura's to meet him in the car." "did you ask her to bring him in to tea," said rowsley, frowning over the marmalade jar, "when val is safe to be out and you didn't know i should be here?" "yes: oughtn't i to have?" "no." "is there anything else you would like to speak to me about?" said isabel after a pregnant silence. "dear rowsley, you seem determined to look after my manners and morals! i asked him to please laura. she's nervous of major clowes. jack and yvonne are coming too." "oh i don't see that it signifies," said val. mrs. clowes wouldn't have accepted if it weren't all right. i don't see that you or i need worry if she doesn't. isabel is old enough to pour out tea for herself. in any case, as it happens, you'll be here if i'm not, and i dare say jimmy will look in for ten minutes." "you are sweet, val," said isabel gratefully. "oh i don't say rowsley's not right! prigs generally are: and besides now i come to think of it, laura did look faintly amused when i asked her. but these stupid things never occur to me till afterwards! after all, what am i to do? i can't manufacture a chaperon, and it would be very bad for the parish if the vicar never entertained. and it's not as if captain hyde were a young man; he's thirty-six if he's a day." chapter iii when the sea retreats after a storm one finds on the beach all sorts of strange flotsam. bernard clowes was a bit of human wreckage left on the sands of society by the storm of the war. when it broke out he was a second lieutenant in the winchester regiment, a keen polo player and first class batsman who rarely opened a book. he was sent out with the first division and carried himself with his usual phlegmatic good humour through almost four years of fighting from mons to cambrai. in the march break-through he had his wrist broken by a rifle-bullet and was invalided home, where he took advantage of his leave to get married, partly because most of the men he knew were already married, and partly to please his sister. there were no other brothers, and mrs. morrison, a practical lady, but always a little regretful of her own marriage with morrison's boot and shoe company, recommended him with the family bluntness to arrange for an olive branch before the huns got him. laura, a penniless woman two years his senior and handicapped by her disreputable belongings, was not the wife gertrude morrison would have chosen for him: still it might have been worse, for laura was well-born and personally irreproachable, while clowes, hot-blooded and casual, was as likely as not to have married a chorus-girl. if any disappointment lingered, gertrude soothed it by trying over in her own mind the irritation that she would be able to produce in morrison circles: "where he met her? oh, when she was staying with her married sister at castle wharton . . . .yvonne, the elder selincourt girl, married into the bendish family." bernard did not care a straw either for the paternal handicap or for the glories of the wharton connection. he took his love-affair as simply as his cricket and with the same bold confidence. laura was what he wanted; she would fit into her surroundings at wanhope as delicately as an old picture fits into an old frame, and one could leave her about--so he put it to himself--without fear of her getting damaged. when tom morrison, shrewd business man, dropped a hint about the rashness of marrying the daughter of a scamp like ferdinand selincourt, bernard merely stared at him and let the indiscretion go in silence. he can scarcely be said to have loved his bride, for up to the time of the wedding his nature was not much more developed than that of a prize bull, but he considered her a very pretty woman, and his faith in her was a religion. so they were married, and went to eastbourne for their honeymoon: an average match, not marked by passion on either side, but destined apparently to an average amount of comfort and good will. they had ten gay days before laura was left on a victoria platform, gallantly smiling with pale lips and waving her handkerchief after the train that carried bernard back to the front. five months later on the eve of the armistice he was flung out of the service, a broken man, paralysed below the waist, cursing every one who came near him and chiefly the surgeons for not letting him die. no one ever desired life more passionately than bernard desired death. for some time he clung to the hope that his mind would wear his body out. but his body was too young, too strong, too tenacious of earth to be betrayed by the renegade mind. there came a day when clowes felt his youth welling up in him like sap in a fallen tree: new energy throbbed in his veins, his heart beat strong and even, it was hard to believe that he could not get off his bed if he liked and go down to the playing fields or throw his leg over a horse. this mood fastened on him without warning in a surbiton hospital after a calm night without a sleeping draught, when through his open window he could see green branches waving in sunlight, and hear the cries of men playing cricket and the smack of the driven ball: and it was torture. tears forced their way suddenly into bernard's eyes. his nurse, who had watched not a few reluctant recoveries, went out of the room. then his great chest heaved, and he sobbed aloud, lying on his back with face unhidden, his wide black eyes blinking at the sweet pale june sky. no chance of death for him: he was good for ten, twenty, fifty years more: he could not bear it, but it had to be borne. he tried to pull himself up: if he could only have reached the window! but the arms that felt so strong were as weak as an infant's, while the dead weight of his helpless legs dragged on him like lead. the only result of his struggle was a dreadful access of pain. reaction followed, for he had learnt in his a b c days not to whimper when he was hurt, and by the time the nurse returned clowes had scourged himself back to his usual savage tranquillity. "can i have that window shut, please?" he asked, cynically frank. "i used to play cricket myself." laura clowes in this period went through an experience almost equally formative. two years older than bernard, she was also more mature for her years and had developed more evenly, and from the outset her engagement and marriage had meant more to her then to bernard, because her girlhood had been unhappy and they provided a way of escape. her sister yvonne had met jack bendish at a race-meeting and he had fallen madly in love with her and married her in a month in the teeth of opposition. that was luck--heaven-sent luck, for yvonne on the night before her marriage had broken down utterly and confessed that if jack had not saved her she would have gone off with the first man who asked her on any terms, because she was twenty-nine and sick to death of wandering with her father on the outskirts of society. subsequently yvonne had after a hard fight won a footing at wharton for herself and her sister, and there laura had met clowes, not such a social prize as jack, but rich and able to give his wife an assured position. she was shrewd and realized that in himself he had little to offer beyond a handsome and highly trained physique and a mind that worked lucidly within the limits of a narrow imagination but she was beyond all words grateful to him, and he fascinated her more than she realized. the ten days at eastbourne opened her eyes. bernard enjoyed every minute of them and was exceedingly pleased with himself and proud of his wife, but for laura they were a time of heavy strain. innocent and shy, she had feared her husband, only to discover that she loved him better than he was capable of loving her. laura was not blind. she understood bernard and all his limitations, the dangerous grip that his passions had of him, his boyish impatience, his wild-bull courage, and his inability to distinguish between a wife and a mistress: she was happiest when he slept, always holding her in his arms, exacting even in sleep, but so naively youthful in the bloom of his four and twenty summers, and, for the moment, all her own. she loved him "because i am i--because you are you," and her tenderness was edged with the profound pity that women felt in those days for the men who came to them under the shadow of death. it was her hope that the strong half-developed nature would grow to meet her need. it grew swiftly enough: in the forcing-house of pain he soon learned to think and to feel: but the change did not lead him to his wife's heart. laura had married a man of a class and apparently normal to a fault: she found herself united now to incarnate storm and tempest. the first time she saw him at surbiton, he drove her out in five minutes with curses and insult. why? laura, wandering about half-stunned in the visitors' room, had no idea why. she stumbled against the furniture: she looked at the photographs of windermere and king's college chapel and the nursing staff on the walls: she took up punch and began to read it. laura was no dreamer, she had never doubted that her husband would rather have the use of his legs again than all the feminine devotion in the world, but she had hoped to soothe him, perhaps for a little while to make him forget: it had not crossed her mind that her anguish of love and service would be rejected. enlightenment was like folding a sword to her breast. by and by his nurse came down to her, a young hard-looking woman with tired eyes. she had little comfort to give, but what she gave laura never forgot, because it was the truth without any conventional or sentimental gloss. "you're having a bad time with him, aren't you?" she said, coldly sympathetic. "it won't last. nothing lasts. you mustn't think he's left off caring for you. i expect he was very fond of you, wasn't he? that's the trouble. some men take invalid life nicely and let their wives fuss over them to their hearts' content, but major clowes is one of those tremendously strong masculine men that always want to be top dog. besides, you're young and pretty, if you don't mind my saying so, and you remind him of what he's done out of . . . twenty-four, isn't he? don't give way, mrs. clowes, you've a long road before you; these paralysis cases are a frightful worry, almost as bad for the friends as they are for the patient; but if you play up it'll get better instead of worse. he'll get used to it and so will you. one gets used to anything." even so: time goes on and storms subside. bernard clowes came out of the hospital and he and his wife settled down on friendly terms after all. "it's not what you bargained for when you married me," said the cripple with his hard smile. "however, it's no good crying over spilt milk, and you must console yourself with the fact that there's still plenty of money going. but i wish we'd had a little more time together first." he pierced her with his black eyes, restless and fiery. "i dare say you would have liked a boy. so should i. nevermind, my girl, you shan't miss much else." wanhope, the family property, was buried deep in wiltshire, three or four miles from a station. laura liked the country: wanhope let it be, then: and wanhope it was, with the additional advantage that yvonne was at castle wharton within a stroll. laura liked a wide house and airy rooms, a wide garden, plenty of land, privacy from her neighbours: all this wanhope gave her, no slight relief to a girl who had been brought up between brighton and monte carlo. the place was too big to be run without an agent? no drawback, the agent: on the contrary, clowes looked out for a fellow who would be useful to laura, a gentleman, an unmarried man, who would be available to ride with her or make a fourth at bridge--and there by good luck was val stafford ready to hand. born and reared in the country, though young and untrained, val brought to his job a wide casual knowledge of local conditions and a natural head for business, and was only too glad to squire laura in the hunting field. for laura must hunt: as laura selincourt she had hunted whenever she was offered a mount, and she was to go on doing as she had always done. laura would rather not have hunted, for the freshness of her youth was gone and the strain of her life left her permanently tired, and she pleaded first expense, then propriety. "don't be a damned fool," replied bernard clowes. so laura went riding with val stafford. "come in," said major clowes in a rasping snarl, and laura came into her husband's room and stumbled over a chair. the windows were shuttered and the room was still dark at eleven o'clock of a fine june morning. laura, irrepressibly annoyed, groped her way through a disorder of furniture, which seemed, as furniture always does in the dark, to be out of place and malevolently full of corners, and without asking leave flung down a shutter and flung up a window. in a field across the river they were cutting hay, and the dry summer smell of it breathed in, and with it the long rolling whirr of a haymaking machine and its periodical clash, most familiar of summer noises. and the june daylight lit up the gaunt body of bernard clowes stretched out on a water mattress, his silk jacket unbuttoned over his strong, haggard throat. "really, berns," said laura, flinging down a second shutter, "i don't wonder you sleep badly. the room is positively stuffy! i should have a racking headache if i slept in it." "well, you don't, you see," bernard replied politely. "stop pulling those blinds about. come over here." laura came to him. "kiss me," said clowes, and she laid her cool lips on his cheek. clowes received her kiss passively: even laura, though she understood him pretty well, never was sure whether he made her kiss him because he liked it or because he thought she did not like it. "where are you off to now?" asked clowes, pushing her away: "you look very smart. i like that cotton dress. it is cotton, isn't it?" he rubbed the fabric gingerly between his finger and thumb. "did catherine make it? that girl is a jewel. i like that gipsy hat too, it's a pretty shape and it shades your eyes. i call that sensible, which can't often be said for a woman's clothes. you have good eyes, laura, well worth shading, though your figure is your trump card. i like these fitting bodices that give a woman a chance to show what shape she is. all you selincourt women score in evening gowns. yvonne has a topping figure, though she's an ugly little devil. she has an american complexion and her eyes aren't as good as yours. where did you say you were going?" "to the station to meet lawrence. i promised to fetch him in the car." "lawrence? so he's due today, is he? i'd forgotten all about him. and you're meeting him? oh yes, that explains the dress and hat, i thought you wouldn't have put them on for my benefit." "dear, it's only one of the cotton frocks i wear every day, and i couldn't go driving without a hat, could i?" "can't conceive why you want to go at all." laura was silent. "if lawrence must be met, why can't miller go alone?" miller was the chauffeur. "undignified, i call it, the way you women run after a man nowadays. you think men like it but they don't." laura wondered if she dared tell him not to be silly. he might take it with a grin, in which case he would probably relent and let her go: or--? the field of alternative conjecture was wide. in the end laura, whose knee was still aching from her adventure with the chair, decided to chance it. but--perhaps because they were suffused with irritation--the words had no sooner left her lips than she regretted them. "i won't have it." bernard's heavy jaw was clenched like a bloodhound's. "it's not decent running after hyde while i'm tied here by the leg. i won't have you set all the village talking. there's the times on my table. stop. where are you going?" "to ring the bell. it's time miller started. you don't want your cousin to find no one there to meet him--not even a cart for his luggage." "he can walk. do him good: and miller can fetch the luggage afterwards. you do as i tell you. take the times. sit down in that chair with your face to the light and read me the leading articles and the rest of the news on page . don't gabble: read distinctly if you can--you're supposed to be an educated woman, aren't you?" poor laura had been looking forward to her drive. she had taken some innocent pleasure in choosing the prettiest of her morning dresses, a gingham that fell into soft folds the colour of a periwinkle, and in rearranging the liberty scarf on her drooping gipsy straw, and in putting on her long fringed gauntlets and little country shoes. her husband's compliments made her wince, jack bendish had eyes only for his wife, val stafford's admiration was sweet but indiscriminate: but she remembered lawrence as a connoisseur. and worse than the sting of her own small disappointment were the breaking of her promise to lawrence, the failure in hospitality, in common courtesy. and for the thousandth time laura wondered whether it would not have been better for bernard, in the long run, to defy his senseless tyranny. he was at her mercy: it would have been easy to defy him. easy, but how cruel! a trained nurse would have made short work of bernard's whims, he would have been washed and brushed and fed and exercised and disregarded--till he died under it? perhaps. it was safer at all events to let him go his own way. he could never hope to command his regiment now: let him get what satisfaction he could out of commanding his wife! she would have preferred a form of sacrifice which looked less like fear, but there was little sentiment in bernard, and love must not pick and choose. for it was love still, the old inexplicable fascination: in the middle of one of his tirades, when he was at his most wayward, she would lose herself in the contemplation of some small physical trait, the scar of a burn on his wrist or the tiny trefoil-shaped birthmark on his temple, as if that summed up for her the essence of his personality, and were more truly bernard clowes then his intemperate insignificance of speech. . . . even when others suffered for it she yielded to bernard, because she loved him and because he suffered so infinitely worse than they. for denial maddened him. he raised himself on his arm, crimson with anger, his chest heaving under the thin silken jacket which defined his gaunt ribs--"sit down, will you, damn you?" because laura believed that she and she only stood between her husband and despair, she yielded and began to read out the times leader in a voice that was perfectly gentle and placid. bernard sank back and watched her like a cat after a mouse. he was under no delusion: he knew she was not cowed or nervous, but that the spring of her devotion was pity--pity ever fed anew by his dreadful helplessness: and it was this knowledge that drove him into brutality. the instincts of possession and domination were strong in him, and but for the accident that wrenched his mind awry he would probably have made himself a king to laura, for, once her master, he would have grown more gentle and more tender as the years went by, while laura was one of those women who find happiness in love and duty: not a weak woman, not a coward, but a humble-minded woman with no great opinion of her own judgment, who would have liked to look up to father, brother, sister, husband, as better and wiser than herself. but in his present avatar he could not master her: and clowes, feeling as she felt, seeing himself as she saw him, came sometimes as near madness as any man out of an asylum. he was not far off it now, though he lay quiet enough, with not one grain of expression in his cold black eyes. the : pulled up at countisford station, and lawrence hyde got out of a first class smoking carriage and stood at ease, waiting for his servant to come and look after him. "there'll be a car waiting from wanhope, gaston--" "zere no car 'ere, m'sieu--ze man say." "what, no one to meet me?" evidently no one: there were not half a dozen people on the flower-bordered platform, and those few were country folk with bundles and bags. lawrence strolled out into the yard, hoping that his servant's incorrigibly lame english might have led to a misunderstanding. but there was no vehicle of any kind, and the station master could not recommend a cab. countisford was a small village, smaller even than chilmark, and owed the distinction of the railway solely to its being in the flat country under the plain. "but you don't mean to say," said lawrence incredulous, "that i shall have to walk?" but it seemed there was no help for it, unless he preferred to sit in the station while a small boy on a bicycle was despatched to chilmark for the fly from the prince of wales's feathers; and in the end lawrence went afoot, though his expression when faced with four miles of dusty road would have moved pity in any heart but that of his little valet. hyde was one of those men who change their habits when they change their clothes. he did not care what happened to him when he was out of england, following the alaskan trail in eighty degrees of frost, or thrashing round the horn in a tramp steamer, but when he shaved off his beard, and put on silk underclothing and the tweeds of sackville street, he grew as lazy as any flaneur of the pavement. gaston however was not sympathetic. he was always glad when anything unpleasant happened to his master. leaving gaston to sit on the luggage, lawrence swung off with his long even stride, flicking with his stick at the bachelor's buttons in the hedge. he could not miss his way, said the station master: straight down the main road for a couple of miles, then the first turning on the left and the first on the left again. some half a mile out of countisford however lawrence came on a signpost and with the traveller's instinct stopped to read it: wincanton m. castle wharton / m. chilmark m. so ran the clear lettering on the southern arm. eastwards a much more weatherbeaten arm, pointing crookedly up a stony cart track, said in dim brown characters: "chilmark m." plainly a short cut over the moor! better stones underfoot than padded dust: and lawrence struck uphill swiftly, glad to escape from the traffic of the london road. but he knew too much about short cuts to be surprised when, after climbing five hundred feet in twice as many yards--for the gradients off the plain are steep--he found himself adrift on the open moor, his track going five ways at once in the light dry grass. he halted, leaning on his stick. he was on the edge of the plain: below him stretched away a great half-ring of cultivated country, its saliencies the square tower of a church jutting over a group of elms, or the glint of light on a stream, or pale haystacks dotted round the disorderly yard of a grange--the tillage and the quiet dwellings of close on a thousand years. on all this lawrence hyde looked with the reflective smile of an alien. it touched him, but to revolt. more than a child of the soil he felt the charm of its tranquillity, but he felt it also as an oppression, a limitation: an ordered littleness from which world-interests were excluded. he was a lover of art and a cosmopolitan, and though the lowland landscape was itself a piece of art, and perfect in its way, hyde's mind found no home in it. yet, he reflected with his tolerant smile, he had fought for it, and was ready any day to fight for it again--for stability and tradition, the game laws, the established church, and the rotation of crops. he was the son of an english mother and had received the training of an englishman. a rather cynical smile, now and then, at the random and diffident ways of england was the only freedom he allowed to the foreign strain within him. and when he looked the other way even this faint feeling of irritation passed off, blown away by the wind that always blows across a moor, thin and sweet now, and sunlit as the light curled clouds that it carried overhead through the profound june blue. acres upon acres of pale sward, sown all over with the blue of scabious and the lemon-yellow of hawkweed, stretched away in rolling undulations like the plain of the sea; dense woods hung massed on the far horizon, beech-woods, sapphire blue beyond the pale silver and amber, of the middle distance, and under them a puff of white smoke from a passing train, or was it the white scar of a quarry? he could not be sure across so many miles of sunlit air, but it must have been smoke, for it dissolved slowly away till there was no gleam left under the brown hillside. here too was stability, permanence: the wind ruffling the grass as it had done when the normans crossed their not far distant channel, or rattling over hilltops through leather-coated oak groves which had kept their symmetry since their progenitors were planted by the druids. here was nothing to cramp the mind: here was the england that has absorbed celt, saxon, fleming, norman, generation after generation, each with its passing form of political faith: the england of traditional eld, the beloved country. in the meanwhile lawrence had to find chilmark. he had neither map nor compass and was unfamiliar with the lie of the land, but, mindful of the station master's directions to go south and turn twice to the left, he shaped a course south-east and looked for a shepherd to ask his way of. at present there were no shepherds to be seen and no houses; here and there a trail of smoke marked some hidden hamlet, sunk deep in cup or cranny, but which was chilmark he could not tell. down went the track, plunging towards a stream that brawled in a wild bottom: up over a rough hillside ruby-red with willowherb: then down again to a pool shaded by two willows and a silver birch, and lying so cool and solitary in its own cloven nook, bounded in every direction by half a furlong of chalky hillside, that lawrence was seized with a desire to strip and bathe, and sun himself dry on the brilliant mossy lawn at its brink. but out of regard for the wanhope lunch hour he walked on, following a trickle of water between reeds and knotgrafis, till in the next winding of the glen he came on a house: only a labourer's cot, two rooms below and one above, but inhabited, for smoke was coming out of the chimney. lawrence turned up a worn thread of path and knocked with his stick at the open door. it was answered by a tall young girl with a dirty face, wearing a serge skirt pinned up under a dirty apron. the house was dirty too: the smell of an unwashed, unswept interior came out of it, together with the wailing of a fretful baby. "i've missed my way on the moor," said lawrence, inobtrusively holding his handkerchief to his nose. "can you direct me to chilmark?" "do you mean chilmark or castle wharton? oh dorrie, don't cry!" she lifted the babe on her arm and stood gazing at lawrence in a leisured and friendly manner, as if she wondered who he were. "it isn't far, but it's a long rambling village and there are any number of paths down. and if you want the bendishes--" evidently she thought he must want the bendishes, and perhaps lawrence's judgment was a little bribed by her artless compliment, for at this point he began to think her pretty in an undeveloped way: certainly she had lovely eyes, dark blue under black lashes, which reminded him of other eyes that he had seen long ago--but when? he could not remember those wistful eyes in any other woman's face. "i'm making for wanhope--major clowe's house." "oh, but then you must be captain hyde," exclaimed miss stafford: "aren't you? that mrs. clowes was expecting." "my name is hyde. no one met me at the station" in spite of himself lawrence could not keep his grievance out of his voice "so, as there are no cabs at countisford, i had to walk." "oh! dear, how sad: and on such a hot day too! you'll be so tired." was this satire? pert little thing! lawrence was faintly amused--not irritated, because she was certainly very pretty: what a swan's throat she had under her holland blouse, and what a smooth slope of neck! but for all that she ought to have sirred him. "so you know mrs. clowes, do you?" he said with as much politeness as a little girl deserves who has lovely eyes and a dirty face. it had crossed his mind that she might be one of the servants at wanhope: he knew next to nothing of the english labouring classes, but was not without experience of lady's maids. "yes, i know her," said isabel. she hung on the brink of introducing herself--was not captain hyde coming to tea with her that afternoon?--but was deterred by a very unusual feeling of constraint. she was not accustomed to be watched as hyde was watching her, and she felt shy and restless, though she knew not why. it never entered her head that he had taken her for dorrie drury's sister. she was dressed like a servant, but what of that? in chilmark she would have remained "miss isabel" if she had gone about in rags, and it would have wounded her bitterly to learn that she owed the deference of the parish rather to her rank as the vicar's daughter, who visited at wanhope and wharton, than to any dignity of her own. in all her young life no one had ever taken a liberty with isabel. and, for that matter, why should any one take a liberty with dorrie drury's sister? isabel's father would not have done so, nor her brothers, nor indeed jack bendish, and she was too ignorant of other men to know what it was that made her so hot under hyde's eyes. "but you'll be late for lunch. wait half a minute and i'll run up with you to the top of the glen." lawrence watched her wrap her charge carefully in a shawl, and fetch milk from the dresser, and coax till dorrie turned her small head, heavy with the cares of neglected babyhood, sideways on the old plaid maud and began to suck. apparently he had interrupted the scrubbing of the kitchen floor, for the tiles were wet three quarters of the way over, and on a dry oasis stood a pail, a scrubbing brush, and a morsel of soap. among less honourable odours he was glad to distinguish a good strong whiff of carbolic. isabel meanwhile had recovered from her little fit of shyness. she pulled off her apron and pulled down her skirt (it had been kilted to the knee), rinsed her hands under a tap, wiped her face with a wet handkerchief, and came out into the june sunshine bareheaded, her long pigtail swinging between drilled and slender shoulders. "yours are london boots," she remarked as she buttoned her cuff. "do you mind going over the marsh?" "not at all." "not if you get your feet wet?" lawrence laughed outright. "but it's a real marsh!" said isabel offended: "and you're not used to mud, are you? you don't look as if you were." she pointed down the glen, and lawrence saw that some high spring, dammed at its exit and turned back on itself, had filled the wide bottom with a sponge of moss thickset with flowering rush and silken fluff of cotton grass. "there's no danger in summertime, the shepherds often cross it and so do i. still if you're afraid--" "i assure you i'm not afraid," said lawrence, looking at her so oddly that isabel was not sure whether he was angry or amused. nor was lawrence. she had struck out of his male vanity a resentment so crude that he was ashamed of it, ashamed or even shocked? he was not readily shocked. a pure cynic, he let into his mind, on an easy footing, primitive desires that the average man admits only behind a screen. yet when these libertine fancies played over isabel's innocent head they were distasteful to him: as he remembered once, in a barbizon studio, to have knocked a man down for a gallic jest on the queen of heaven although luke's evangel meant no more to him than the legend of eros and psyche. but one can't knock oneself down--more's the pity! "oh, all right," said isabel impatiently. he was watching her again! "but do look where you're going, this isn't piccadilly. you had better hold my hand." lawrence was six and thirty. at eighteen he would have snatched her up and carried her over: at thirty-six he said: "thanks very much," touched the tips of her fingers, let them fall. . . . unfortunately however he weighed more than isabel or the shepherds, and, half way across, the green floor quietly gave way under him: first one foot immersed itself with a gentle splash and then the other--"oh dear" said isabel, seized with a great disposition to laugh. lawrence was not amused. his boots were full of mud and water and he had an aching sense of injured dignity. the bog was not even dangerous: and ankle-deep, calf-deep, knee-deep he waded through it and got out on the opposite bank, bringing up a cloud of little marsh-bubbles on his heels. isabel would have given all the money she had in the world--about five shillings to go away and laugh, but she had been well brought up and she remained grave, though she grew very red. "i am so sorry!" she faltered, looking up at lawrence with her beautiful sympathetic eyes (one must never say i told you so). "i never thought you really would go in. you must be very heavy! oh! dear, i'm afraid you've spoilt your trousers, and it was all my fault. oh! dear, i hope you won't catch cold. do you catch cold easily?" "oh no, thanks. do you mind showing me the way to wanhope?" isabel without another word took the steep hillside at a run. in her decalogue of manners to refuse an apology was an unpardonable sin. how differently val would have behaved! val never lost his temper over trifles, and if anything happened to make him look ridiculous he was the first to laugh at himself. at this time in her life isabel compared val with all the other men she met and much to his advantage. she forgot that lawrence was not her brother and that no man cares to be made ridiculous before a woman, or rather she never thought of herself as a woman at all. she pointed east by south across the plain. "do you see that hawk hovering? carry your eye down to the patch of smoke right under him, in the trees: those are the wanhope chimneys. if you go straight over there till you strike the road, it will bring you into chilmark high street. go on past chapman the draper's shop, turn sharp down a footpath opposite the prince of wales's feathers, cross the stream by a footbridge, and you'll be in the grounds of wanhope." "thank you," said lawrence, "your directions are most precise." he had one hand in his pocket feeling among his loose silver: tips are more easily given than thanks, especially when one is not feeling grateful, and he was accustomed to pay his way through the world with the facile profusion of a rich man. still he hesitated: if he had not the refined intuition that would have made such a blunder impossible to val stafford, he had at all events enough intelligence to hesitate. there is a coinage that is safer than silver, and lawrence thought it might well pass current (now that she had washed her face) with this fair schoolgirl of sixteen, ruffled by sun and wind and unaware of her beauty. he would not confess to himself that the prospect of isabel's confusion pleased him. he bent his head, smiling into isabel's eyes. "you're a very kind little girl. may i--?" "no," said isabel. the blood sprang to her cheek, but she did not budge, not by a hair's breadth. "i beg your pardon," said lawrence, standing erect. he had measured in that moment the extent of his error, and he cursed, not for the first time, his want of perception, which his ever-candid father had once called a streak of vulgarity. defrauded of the pleasure he had promised himself from the contact of isabel's smooth cheek, he grew suddenly very tired of her. young girls with their trick of attaching importance to trifles are a nuisance! he forced a smile. "i beg your pardon, i had no idea-- i see you're ever so much older than i thought you were. some day i shall find my way up here again and you must let me make my peace with a box of chocolates." he raised his hat--he had not done so when she opened the door--and swung off across the moor, leaving the vicar's daughter to go back and scrub mrs. drury's floor as it had never been scrubbed before in its life. the honours of the day lay with isabel, but she was not proud of them, and her face flamed for the rest of the morning. "you're worse than major clowes!" she said violently to the kitchen tap. chapter iv "how do?" bernard clowes was saying an hour later. "so good of you to look us up." lawrence, coming down from his own room after brushing his muddy clothes, met his cousin with a good humoured smile which covered dismay. heavens, what a wreck of manhood! and how chill it struck indoors, and how dark, after the june sunshine on the moor! delicately he took the hand that clowes held out to him-- but seized in a grip that made him wince. clowes gave his curt "ha ha!" "i can still use my arms, lawrence. don't be so timid, i shan't break to pieces if i'm touched. it's only these legs of mine that won't work. awkward, isn't it? but never mind that now, it's an old story. you had a mishap on the moor, the servants tell me? ah! while i think of it, let me apologize for leaving you to walk from the station. laura, my wife, you know, forgot to send the car. by the by, you know her, don't you? she says she met you once or twice before she married me." like most men who surrender to their temperaments, lawrence was as a rule well served by his intuitions. now and again they failed him as with isabel, but when his mind was alert it was a sensitive medium. he dropped with crossed knees into his chair and glanced reflectively at bernard clowes, heu quantum mutatus. . . . when the body was wrecked, was there not nine times out of ten some corresponding mental warp? bernard's fluent geniality struck him as too good to be true--it was not in bernard's line: and why translate a close friendship into "meeting once or twice"? was bernard misled or mistaken, or was he laying a trap?--not misled: the laura selincourt of hyde's recollection was not one to stoop to petty shifts. "'once or twice?'" lawrence echoed: "oh, much oftener than that! mrs. clowes and i are old friends, at least i hoped we were. she can't be so ungracious as to have forgotten me?" "she seems to have, doesn't she?" bernard with his inscrutable smile let the question drop. "just touch that bell, will you, there's a good fellow? so sorry to make you dance attendance-- hallo, here she is!" laura had been waiting in the parlour, under orders not to enter till the bell rang. she had heard all, and wondered whether it was innocence or subtlety that had walked in and out of bernard's trap. she remembered hyde was much like other fourth-year university men except that he was not egotistical and not shy: he had altered away from his class, but in what direction it was difficult to tell: there was no deciphering the pleasant blankness of his features or the conventional smile in his black eyes. "i haven't seen you for fourteen years," she said, giving him her hand. "oh lawrence, how old you make me feel!" "shall i swear you haven't changed? it would be a poor compliment." "and one i couldn't return. i shouldn't have known you, unless it were by your likeness to bernard." "am i like bernard?" said lawrence, startled. "that's a good joke, isn't it?" said clowes. "but my wife is right. if i were not paralysed, we should be a good bit alike." under the casual manner, it was in that moment that hyde saw his cousin for what he was: a rebel in agony. there was a tragedy at wanhope then, lucian selincourt had not exaggerated. though lawrence was not naturally sympathetic, he felt an unpleasant twinge of pity, much the same as when his dog was run over in the street: a pain in the region of the heart, as well defined as rheumatism. in sally's case, after convincing himself that she would never get on her legs again, he had eased it by carrying her to the nearest chemist's: the loving little thing had licked his hand with her last breath, but when the brightness faded out of her brown eyes, in his quality of epicurean, lawrence had not let himself grieve over her. unluckily one could not pay a chemist to put bernard clowes out of his pain! "this is going to be deuced uncomfortable," was the reflection that crossed his mind in its naked selfishness. "i wish i had never come near the place. i'll get away as soon as i can." then he saw that bernard was struggling to turn over on his side, flapping about with his slow uncouth gestures like a bird with a broken wing. "let me--!" laura's "no, lawrence!" came too late. hyde had taken the cripple in his arms, lifting him like a child: "you're light for your height," he said softly. he was as strong as barry and as gentle as val stafford. laura had turned perfectly white. she fully expected clowes to strike his cousin. she could hardly believe her eyes when with a great gasp of relief he flung his arm round hyde's neck and lay back on hyde's shoulder. "thanks, that's damned comfortable--first easy moment i've had since last night," he murmured: then, to laura, "we must persuade this fellow to stop on a bit. you're not in a hurry to get off, are you, lawrence?" "not i. i'll stay as long as you and laura care to keep me." "i and laura, hey?" bernard's flush faded: he slipped from hyde's arm. "h'm, yes, you're old friends, aren't you? met at farringay? i'd forgotten that." he shut his eyes. "and laura's dying to renew the intimacy. it's dull for her down here. take him into the garden, lally. you'll excuse me now, lawrence, i can't talk long without getting fagged. wretched state of things, isn't it? i'm a vile bad host but i can't help it. at the present moment for example i'm undergoing grinding torments and it doesn't amuse me to make conversation, so you two can cut along and disport yourselves in any way you like. give lawrence a drink, will you, my love? . . . . oh no, thanks, you've done a lot but you can't do any more, no one can, i just have to grin and bear it. laura, would you mind ringing for barry? i'm not sure i shall show up again before dinner-time. it's no end good of you, old chap, to come to such a beastly house. . ." he pursued them with banal gratitude till they were out of earshot, when lawrence drew a deep breath as if to throw off some physical oppression. under the weathered archway, down the flagged steps and over the lawn. . . . how still it was, and how sweet! the milk-blooms in the spire of the acacia were beginning to turn faintly brown, but its perfume still hung in the valley air, mixed with the honey-heavy breath of a great white double lime tree on the edge of the stream. there were no dense woods at wanhope, the trees were set apart with an airy and graceful effect, so that one could trace the course of their branches; and between them were visible hayfields from which the hay had recently been carried, and the headlands of the plain--fair sunny distances, the lowlands bloomed over with summer mist, the uplands delicately clear like those blue landscapes that in early italian pictures lie behind the wheel of saint catherine or the turrets of saint barbara. "a sweet pretty place you have here. i was in china nine weeks ago. everlasting mud huts and millet fields. i must say there's nothing to beat an english june." "or a french june?" suggested laura, her accent faintly sly. "lucian said he met you at auteuil." "dear old lucian! he seemed very fit, but rather worried about you, laura--may i call you laura? we're cousins by marriage, which constitutes a sort of tie. besides, you let me at farringay." "farringay. . . . what a long while ago it seems! i can't keep up any pretence of juvenility with you, can i? we were the same age then so we're both thirty-six now. isn't it strange to think that half one's life is over? mine doesn't seem ever to have begun. but you wouldn't feel that: a man's life is so much fuller than a woman's. you've been half over the world while berns and i have been patiently cultivating our cabbage patch. i envy you: it would be jolly to have one's mind stored full of queer foreign adventures and foreign landscapes to think about in odd moments, even if it were only millet fields." "i've no ties, you see, nothing to keep me in england. come to think of it, bernard is my nearest male relative, since my father died five years ago." "i heard of that and wanted to write to you, but i wasn't sure of your address" "i was in peru. they cabled to me to come home when he was taken ill, but i was up country and missed it. the first news i had was a second cable announcing his death. it was unlucky." "for both of you," said laura gently, "if it meant that he was alone when he died." sincere herself, mrs. clowes exacted from her friends either sincerity or silence, and her sweet half-melancholy smile pierced through hyde's conventional regrets. he was silent, a little confused. they were near the river now, and in the pale shadow of the lime tree laura sat down on a bench, while hyde threw himself on a patch of sunlit turf at her feet. most men of his age would have looked clumsy in such an unbuttoned attitude, but hyde was an athlete still, and laura, who was fond of sketching, admired his vigorous grace. she felt intimate with him already: she was not shy nor was lawrence, but this was an intimacy of sympathy that went deeper than the mere trained ease of social intercourse: she could be herself with him: she could say whatever she liked. and, looking back on the old days which she had half forgotten, laura remembered that she had always felt the same freedom from constraint in hyde's company: she had found it pleasant fourteen years ago, when she was young and had no reserves except a natural delicacy of mind, and it was pleasant still, but strange, after the isolating adventure of her marriage. perhaps she would not now have felt it so strongly, if he had not been her husband's cousin as well as her friend. she sat with folded hands watching lawrence with a vague, observant smile. drilled to a stately ease and worn down to a lean hardihood by his life of war and wandering, he was, like his cousin, a big, handsome man, but distinguished by the singular combination of black eyes and fair hair. was there a corresponding anomaly in his temperament? he looked as though he had lived through many experiences and had come out of them fortified with philosophy--that easy negative philosophy of a man of the world, for which death is only the last incident in life and not the most important. of bernard's hot passions there was not a sign. amiable? laura fancied that so far as she was concerned she could count on a personal amiability: he liked her, she was sure of that, his eyes softened when he spoke to her. but the ruck of people? she doubted whether lawrence would have lost his appetite for lunch if they had all been drowned. the pleasant, selfish man of the world is a common type, but she could not confine lawrence to his type. he basked in the sun: with every nerve of his thinly-clad body he relinquished himself to the contact of the warm grass: deliberately and consciously he was savouring the honied air, the babble of running water, the caress of the tiny green blades fresh against his cheek and hand, the swell of earth that supported his broad, powerful limbs. this sensuous acceptance of the physical joy of life pleased laura, born a selincourt, bred in france, and temperamentally out of touch with middle-class england. whether one could rely on him for any serviceable friendship laura was uncertain. as a youth he had inclined to idealize women, but she was suspicious of his later record. good or bad it had left no mark on him. probably he had not much principle where women were concerned. few of the men laura had known in early life had had any principles of any sort except a common spirit of kindliness and fair play. her brother was always drifting in and out of amatory entanglements--the hunter or the hunted--and he was not much the worse for it so far as laura could see. perhaps hyde was of the game stamp, in which case there might well be no lines round his mouth, since lines are drawn by conflict: or perhaps a wandering life had kept him out of harm's way. it made no great odds to laura--she had not the shrinking abhorrence which most women feel for that special form of evil: it was on the same footing in her mind as other errors to which male human nature is more prone than female, a little worse than drunkenness but not so bad as cruelty. from her own life of serene married maidenhood such sins of the flesh seemed as remote as murder. the strong southern light broke in splinters on the dancing water, and was mirrored in reflected ripplings, silver-pale, tremulous, over the shadowy understems of grass and loosestrife on the opposite bank. "and i never gave you anything to drink after all!" said laura after a long, companionable silence. "why didn't you remind me?" "because i didn't want it. don't you worry: i'll look after myself. i always do. i'm a charming guest, no trouble to any one." "at least have a cigarette while you're waiting for lunch! i'm sorry to have none to offer you." "don't you smoke now? you did at farringay." "no, i've given it up. i never much cared for it, and bernard does so hate to see a woman smoking. he is very old-fashioned in some ways." "and do you always do as bernard likes?" lawrence asked with an impertinence so airy that it left laura no time to be offended. "--it was a great shock to me to find him so helpless. is he always like that?" "he can never get about, if that's what you mean." it was not all hyde meant, but laura had not the heart to repress him; she felt that thrill of guilty joy which we all feel when some one says for us what we are too magnanimous to say for ourselves. "he lies indoors all day smoking and reading quantities of novels." "fearfully sad. very galling to the temper. but there are a lot of modern mechanical appliances, aren't there, that ought to make him fairly independent?" "he won't touch any of them." "sick men have their whims. but can't you drag him out into the sun? he ought not to lie in that mausoleum of a hall." "he has never been in the garden in all our years at wanhope." lawrence took off his straw hat to fan himself with. it was not only the heat of the day that oppressed him. "poor, wretched bernard! but i dare say i should be equally mulish if i were in his shoes. by the by, was he really in pain just now?" "really in pain?" laura echoed. "why--why should you say that?" she no longer doubted lawrence hyde's subtlety. "'he's constantly in pain and he scarcely ever complains." "oh? i didn't know one suffered, with paralysis." "he has racking neuritis in his shoulders and back." "that's bad. i'm afraid he can't be much up to entertaining visitors. does he hate having me here?" "no! oh no! i know he sometimes seems a little odd," said poor laura, wishing her guest were less clear-sighted: and yet before he came she had been hoping that lawrence would divine the less obvious aspects of the situation, and perhaps, since a man can do more with a man like bernard than any woman can, succeed in easing it. "but can you wonder? struck down like this at five and twenty! and he never was keen on indoor interests--sport and his profession were all he cared about. please, lawrence, make allowances for him--he had been looking forward so much to your coming here! a man's society always does him good, and you know how few men there are in this country: we have only the vicar, and the doctor, and jack bendish and people who stay at the castle. and if you only realized how different he was with you from what he is with most people, you would be flattered! he won't let any one touch him as a rule, except barry, whom he treats like a machine. but he was quite grateful to you--he seemed to lean on you." "did he?" she had made lawrence feel uncomfortable again in the region of the heart, but he was deliberately stifling pity, as five years ago, in a peruvian fonda, he had subdued his filial tenderness and grief. he was not callous: if he had had the earlier cable he would have sailed for home without delay. but since andrew hyde was dead and would never know whether his son wept for him or not, lawrence set himself to repress not only tears but the fount of human feeling that fed them. he had dabbled enough in psychology to know that natural emotions, if not indulged, may only be driven down under the surface, there to work havoc among the roots of nerve life. lawrence however had no nerves and no fear of nemesis, and no inclination to sacrifice himself for bernard, and he determined, if wanhope continued to inspire these oppressive sensations to send himself a telegram calling him away. he changed the subject. "it's a long while since i've heard stockdoves cooing. and, yes, that's a nightingale. oh, you jolly little beggar!" his face fell into boyish creases when he smiled. "do you remember the nightingales at farringay? laura-- may i say it?--while rusticating in arden you haven't forgotten certain talents you used to possess. the dress is delightful, but where the masterhand appears is in the way it's worn. that carries me back to auteull." "nonsense!" said laura, changing her attitude, but not visibly displeased. "oh i shan't say don't move" lawrence murmured. "the slippers also. . . . are there many trout in this river, i wonder? hallo! there's a big fellow rubbing along by that black stone! must weigh a cool pound and a half. i suppose the angling rights go with the property?" "you can fish all day long if you like: the water is ours, both sides of it, as far south as the mill above wharton and a good half-mile upstream. the banks are kept clear on principle, though none of us ever touch a line. the castle people come over now and then: jack bendish is keen, and he says our sport is better than theirs because they fish theirs down too much. val put some stock in this spring." "val?" "you seem to fit in so naturally," laura smiled, "that i forget you've only just come. val is bernard's agent, and i ought not to have omitted him from our list of country neighbours, but he's like one of the family. bernard wants you, to meet him because he was near you in the war. but i don't know that you'll have much in common: val was very junior to you, and he's not keen on talking about it in any case. so many men have that shrinking. have you, i wonder?" "i'm afraid i don't take impressions easily. didn't your friend enjoy it?" "he had no chance. he had only six or seven weeks at the front; he was barely nineteen, poor boy, when he was invalided out. that was why bernard offered him the agency--he was delighted to lend a helping hand to one of his old brother officers." "wounded?" "yes, he had his right arm smashed by a revolver bullet. then rheumatic fever set in, and the trouble went to the heart, and he was very ill for a long time. i don't suppose he ever has been so strong as he was before. what made it so sad was the splendid way he had just distinguished himself," laura continued. she gave a little sketch of the rescue of dale, far more vivid than val had ever given to his family. "perhaps you can imagine what a fuss chilmark made over its solitary hero! we're still proud of him. val is always in request at local shows: he appears on the platform looking very shy and bored. poor boy! i believe he sometimes wishes he had never won that embarrassing decoration." "what's his name?" "val stafford. why--do you remember him?" "er--yes, i do," said lawrence. he took out his cigar case and turned from laura to light a cigar. "i knew a lot of the dorchesters. . . amiable-looking, fair boy, wasn't he?" "middle height, and rather sunburnt. but that description fits such dozens! however, i'm taking you up to tea there this afternoon, if the prospect doesn't bore you, so you'll be able to judge for yourself. he has a young sister who threatens to be very pretty. are you still interested in pretty girls, m. le capitaine?" "immensely." hyde lay back on one arm, smoking rather fast. "i see no immediate prospect of my being bored, thanks. rather fun running into stafford again after all these years! i shall love a chat over old times." he raised his black eyes, and laura started. was it her fancy, or a trick of the sunlight, that conjured up in them that sparkle of smiling cruelty, gone before she could fix it? "you say he doesn't care to talk about his military exploits? he always was a modest youth, i should love to see him on a recruiting platform. wait till i get him to myself, he won't be shy with me. did you tell him i was coming?" "i told his sister isabel, who probably told him. i haven't seen him since, he hasn't happened to come in; i suppose the hay harvest has kept him extra busy--dear me! why, there he is!" in the field across the stream a young man on horseback had come into view. catching sight of laura he slipped across a low boundary wall, his brown mare, a thoroughbred, changing her feet in a ladylike way on the worn stones, and trotted down to the riverbank, raising his cap. "coming in to lunch, val?" laura called across the water. "thank you very much, i'm afraid i shan't have time." "but you haven't been in since sunday!" laura's accent was reproachful. "why are you forsaking us? we need you more than the farm does!" val's pleasant laugh was the avoidance of an answer. "so sorry! but i can't come in now, laura: i have to go over to countisford to talk to bishop about the new tractor, and i want to get back by teatime. isabel tells me you're bringing captain hyde up to see us." he raised his cap again, smiling directly at lawrence, who returned the salute with such gay good humour that laura was able to dismiss that first fleeting impression from her mind. so this was val stafford, was it? and a very personable fellow too! hyde had not foreseen that ten years would work as great a change in val as in himself, or greater. "i was going to call on you in due form, sir, but my young sister hasn't left me the chance. you haven't forgotten me, have you?" "no, i remember you most distinctly. delighted to meet you again." "thank you. the pleasure is mutual. now i must push on or i shall be late." "he can use his arm, then," said lawrence, as val rode away, jumping his mare over a fence into the road. "shaves himself and all that, i suppose? he rides well." "a great deal too well! and rides to hounds too, but he ought not to do it, and i'm always scolding him. he can't straighten his right arm, and has very little power in it. he was badly thrown last winter, but directly he got up he was out again on kitty." "living up to his reputation." lawrence flicked the ash from his cigar. "i should have known him anywhere by his eyes." "he has kept very young, hasn't he? an uneventful life without much anxiety does keep people young," philosophized laura. "i feel like a mother to him. but you'll see more of him this afternoon." "so i shall," said lawrence, "if he isn't detained at countisford." chapter v the reason why lawrence found isabel scrubbing mrs. drury's floor was that dorrie's pretty, sluttish little mother had been whisked off to the cottage hospital with appendicitis an hour earlier. she was in great distress about dorrie when isabel, coming in with the parish magazine, offered to stay while drury went to fetch an aunt from winterbourne stoke. when drury drove up in a borrowed farm cart, isabel without expecting or receiving many thanks dragged her bicycle to the top of the glen and pelted off across the moor. her sunbeam was worn and old, so old that it had a fixed wheel, but what was that to isabel? she put her feet up and rattled down the hill, first on the turf and then on the road, in a happy reliance on her one serviceable brake. her father was locked in his study writing a sermon: isabel however tumbled in by the window. she sidled up to mr. stafford, sat on his knee, and wound one arm round his neck. "jim darling," she murmured in his ear, "have you any money?" "isabel," said mr. stafford, "how often have i told you that i will not be interrupted in the middle of my morning's work? you come in like a whirlwind, with holes in your stockings--" isabel giggled suddenly. "never mind, darling, i'll help you with your sermon. whereabouts are you? oh!--'i need not tell you, my friends, the story we all know so well'--jim, that's what my tutor calls 'redundancy and repetition.' you know quite well you're going to tell us every word of it. darling take its little pen and cross it out--so--with its own nasty little cross-nibbed j--" "what do you mean by saying you want money," mr. stafford hurriedly changed the subject, "and how much do you want? the butcher's bill came to half a sovereign this week, and i must keep five shillings to take to old hewitt--" "i want pounds and pounds." "my dear!" said mr. stafford aghast. he took off his spectacles to polish them, and then as he put them on again, "if it's for that appleton boy i really can't allow it. there's nothing whatever wrong with him but laziness" "it isn't for appleton. it's for me myself." isabel sat up straight, a little flushed. "i'm growing up. isn't it a nuisance? i want a new dress! i did think i could carry on till the winter, but i can't. could you let me have enough to buy one ready-made? chapman's have one in their window that would fit me pretty well. it's rather dear, but somehow when i make my own they never come right. and rowsley says i look like a scarecrow, and even val's been telling me to put my hair up!" "put your hair up, my child? why, how old are you? i don't like little girls to be in a hurry to turn into big ones" "i'm not a little girl," said isabel shortly. "i'm nineteen." "nineteen? no, surely not!" "twenty next december." "dear me!" said mr. stafford, quite overcome. "how time flies!" he set her down from his knee and went to his cash box. "if val tells you to put your hair up, no doubt you had better do it." he paused. "i don't know whether val said you ought to have a new frock, though? i can't bear spending money on fripperies when even in our own parish so many people--" some glimmering perception reached him of the repressed anguish in isabel's eyes. "but of course you must have what you need. how much is it?" " . . ." "oh, my dear! that seems a great deal." "it isn't really much for a best dress," said poor isabel. "but you mustn't be extravagant, darling," said mr. stafford tenderly. "i see other girls running about in little cotton dresses or bits of muslin or what not that look very nice--much nicer on a young girl than 'silksand fine array.' last time yvonne came to tea she wore a little frock as simple as a child's" "she did," said isabel. "she picked it up in a french sale. it was very cheap--only francs." "eleven pounds!" mr. stafford held up his hands. "my dear, are you sure?" "quite," said isabel. mr. stafford sighed. "i must speak to yvonne. 'how hardly shall they...'" he took a note out of his cash box. "can't you make that do--?" he was beginning when a qualm of compunction came upon him. after all it was a long time since he had given isabel any money for herself, and there must be many little odds and ends about a young girl's clothing that an elderly man wouldn't understand. he took out a second note and pressed them both hurriedly into isabel's palm. "there! now run off and don't ask me for another penny for the next twelvemonth!" he exclaimed, beaming over his generosity though more than half ashamed of it. "you extravagant puss, you! dear, dear, who'd have a daughter?" isabel gave him a rather hasty though warm embrace (she was terribly afraid that his conscience would prick him and that he would take the second note away again), and flew out of the window faster than she had come in. the clock was striking a quarter past one, and she had to scamper down to chapman's to buy the dress, and a length of lilac ribbon for a sash, and a packet of bronze hairpins, and be back in time to lay the cloth for two o'clock lunch. if it is only for idle hands that satan finds mischief, he could not have had much satisfaction out of isabel stafford. soon after four mrs. clowes stepped from her car, shook out her soft flounces, and led the way across the lawn, lawrence hyde in attendance. the vicarage was an old-fashioned house too large for the living, its long front, dotted with rosebushes, rising up honey-coloured against the clear green of a beech grove. there are grand houses that one sees at once will never be comfortable, and there are unpretentious houses that promise to be cool in summer and warm in winter and restful all the year round: of such was chilmark vicarage, sunning itself in the afternoon clearness, while faded green sunblinds filled the interior with verdant shadow, and the smell of sweetbrier and japanese honeysuckle breathed round the rough-cast walls. isabel had laid tea on the lawn, and mrs. clowes smiled to herself when she saw seven worn deck chairs drawn up round the table; she was always secretly amused at isabel in her character of hostess, at the naive natural confidence with which the young lady scattered invitations and dispensed hospitality. but when isabel came forward laura's covert smile passed into irrepressible surprise. she raised her eyebrows at isabel, who replied by an almost imperceptible but triumphant nod. in her white and mauve embroidered muslin, her dark hair accurately parted at the side of her head and drawn back into what she called a soup plate of plaits, isabel no longer threatened to be pretty. impelled by that singularly pure benevolence which a woman who has ceased to hope for happiness feels for the eager innocence of youth, laura drew her close and kissed her. "my sweet, i'm so glad," she whispered. a bright blush was isabel's only answer. then mrs. clowes stepped back and indicated her cavalier, very big and handsome in white clothes and a panama hat: "may i introduce-- captain hyde, miss stafford," with a delicate formality which thrilled isabel to her finger-tips. let him see if he would call her a little girl now! lawrence recognized isabel at a glance, but he was not abashed. he scarcely gave her a second thought till he had satisfied himself that val stafford was not present. lawrence smiled, not at all surprised: he had had a presentiment that val, the modest easy-going val of his recollections, would be detained at countisford: too modest by half, if he was shy of meeting an old friend! rowsley stafford was doing the honours and came forward to be introduced to lawrence, a ceremony remarkable only because they both took an instantaneous dislike to each other. lawrence disliked rowsley because he was young and well-meaning and the child of a parsonage, and rowsley disliked lawrence because a manner which owed some of its serenity to his physical advantages, and his tailor, and his income, irritated the susceptibilities of the poor man's son. poor men's sons were often annoyed by lawrence hyde's manner. not so jack bendish, sprawling in a deck chair which had no sound pair of notches: not so his wife, laura's sister, yvonne of the castle, curled up on a moth-eaten tigerskin rug, and clad in raiment of brown and silver which even mr. stafford would not have credited to chapman's general drapery and grocery stores. isabel was innocently surprised when the bendishes found they had met captain hyde in town. laura's smile was very faintly tinged with bitterness: she knew of that small world where every one meets every one, though she had been barred out of it most of her life, first by her disreputable father and then by the tragedy of her marriage: rowsley pulled his tooth-brush moustache and said nothing. he was young, but not so young as isabel, and there were moments when he felt his own footing at the castle to be vaguely anomalous. however, the talk ran easily. lawrence, as was inevitable, sat down by yvonne bendish: she did not raise an eyelash to summon him, but it seemed to be a natural law that the rich unmarried man should sit beside her and talk cosmopolitan scandal, and show a discreet appreciation of her clothing and her eyes. meanwhile the other four conversed with much greater simplicity upon such homely subjects as the coming school treat and the way isabel had done her hair, rowsley's regimental doings, and a recent turn-up between jack bendish as deputy m. f. h. and mr. morley the jew. bernard clowes had described mrs. jack bendish as a plain little devil, but as a rule the devilry was more conspicuous than the plainness. she was a tall and extremely slight woman, her features insignificant and her complexion sallow, but her figure indecorously beautiful under its close french draperies. and yet if she had let lawrence alone he would have gone over to the other camp. how they laughed, three out of the four of them, and what marvellous good tea they put away! the little stafford girl had a particularly infectious laugh, a real child's giggle which doubled her up in her chair. lawrence had no desire to join in the school treat and barnyard conversation, but he would have liked to sit and listen. "if no one will have any more tea," said isabel, jumping up and shaking the crumbs out of her lap, "will you all come and eat strawberries?" "isn't val coming in?" asked laura. "not till after five. he said we weren't to wait for him: he was delayed in getting off. he sent his love to you, laura, and he was very sorry." "his love!" said yvonne bendish. "my dear isabel, i'm sure he didn't," said laura laughing. "kind regards then," said isabel: "not that it signifies, because we all do love you, darling. val's always telling me that if i want to be a lady when i grow up i must model my manners on yours. not yours, yvonne." "after that the least i can do is to wait and give him his tea when he does appear," said laura. "it's very hot among the strawberry beds, and i'm a little tired: and i haven't seen val for days." "no more have i," said yvonne in her odd drawl, "and i'm tired too." mrs. jack bendish was made of whipcord: she had been brought up to ride irish horses over irish fences and to dance all night, after tramping the moors all day with a gun. "i'll stay with you and rest. jack, you run on. bring me some big ones in a cabbage leaf. and, captain hyde, you'll find them excellent with bread and butter." by which lawrence perceived that his interest in the other camp had not gone unobserved, and that was the worst of yvonne: but--and that was the best of yvonne: there was no tinge of spite in her jeering eyes. so the sisters remained on the lawn, and jack bendish, a perfectly simple young man, walked off with rowsley to pick a cabbage leaf. isabel was demureness itself as she followed with captain hyde. the embroidered muslin gave her courage, more courage perhaps than if she could have heard his frank opinion of it. "the trailing skirt of the young girl," said miss stafford to herself, "made a gentle frou-frou as she swept over the velvet lawn." a quoi revent les junes filles? very innocent was the vanity of isabel's dreams. she was not strictly pretty, but she was young and fresh, and the spotless muslin fell in graceful folds round her tall, lissome figure. to the jaded man of the world at her side . . . . alas for isabel! the jaded man of the world was a trifle bored: he was easily bored. he liked listening to miss stafford's artless merriment but he had no desire to share in it; what had he to say to a promoted schoolgirl in her sunday best? he began politely making conversation. "what a pretty place this is!" it seemed wiser not to refer even by way of apology to the indiscretion of the morning. "you have a beautiful view over the plain. rather dreary in winter though, isn't it?" "i like it best then," said isabel briefly. "don't you want any strawberries?" she indicated the netted furrows among which little could be seen of rowsley and jack bendish except their stern ends. "no, thanks, i had too much tea." isabel checked herself on the brink of reminding him that he had eaten only two cucumber sandwiches and a macaroon. in lawrence hyde's society her conversation had not its usual happy flow, she felt tonguetied and missish. "how close you are to the downs here!" they were following a flagged path between espalier pear trees, and beds of broccoli and carrots and onions, and borders full of old standard roses and lavender and sweet herbs and tall lilies; at the end appeared a wishing gate in a low stone wall, and beyond it, pathless and sunshiny, the southern stretches of the plain. "are you a great gardener, miss isabel?" "some," said isabel. "i look after my pet vegetables. the flowers have to look after themselves. my father has eruptions of industry." she overflowed into a little laugh. "we don't encourage him in it. he had a bad attack of weeding last spring, and pulled up all my little salads by mistake." now that small tale, she reflected, would have tickled jack bendish, but captain hyde, though he smiled at it dutifully, did not seem to be amused. "oh bother you!" isabel apostrophised him mentally. "you're not the grandson of a duke anyhow. i expect you would be nicer if you were." she folded her arms on the gate and gazed across the plain. the village below was not far off, but they could see nothing of it, buried as it was in the river-valley and behind a green arras of beech leaves: in every other direction, far as the eye could see, leagues of feathery pale grass besprinkled with blue and yellow flowers went away in ribbed undulations, occasionally rolling up into a crest on which a company of fir trees hung like men on march. the sun was pale and smudged, the sky veiled: on its silken pallor floated, here and there, a blot of dark low cloud, and the clear distances presaged rain. "may i--?" lawrence took out his cigarettes. isabel gave a grudging assent. she could not understand how any one could be willing to taint the sweet summering air that had blown over so many leagues of grass and flowers. "dare i offer you one?" lawrence asked, tendering his case. it was of gold, and bore his monogram in diamonds. isabel eyed it scornfully. jack bendish's was only silver and much scratched and dinted into the bargain. now jack bendish was the grandson of a duke. "'no thank you," said miss stafford. "i detest smoking." to this lawrence made no reply at all, no doubt, thought isabel, because he did not consider it worth one. she was proportionally surprised and a trifle flattered when he replaced the cigarette to which he had just helped himself. "'the young girl had not realized her own power. she was only just coming into her woman's kingdom. her heart beat faster and a vermilion blush dyed her pale cheek."' isabel's favourite authors were stevenson and mr. kipling, but her mental rubric insisted on clothing itself in the softer style of molly bawn. "i don't detest other people's smoking," she explained in a rather penitent tone. "let's get out on the downs," said lawrence. he swung the gate to and fro for her, then took off his hat and strolled slowly by her side through the rustling grass. "really," he said, more to himself than to her, "there are places in england that are very well worth while." "worth while what?" "er--worth coming to see. i suppose there isn't much shooting to be had except rabbits." he swung an imaginary gun to his shoulder and sighted it at a quarry which seemed to isabel to be equally imaginary. "see him? under that heap of stones left of the beech ring." isabel's vision was both keen and practised, but she saw nothing till the rabbit showed his white scut in a flickering leap to earth. "you have jolly good eyes," she conceded, still rather grudgingly. "so have bunnies, unluckily. major clowes tells me there's pretty good shooting over wanhope. i suppose your brother looks after it, for of course clowes can do nothing. it was a great stroke of luck for my cousin, getting hold of a fellow like val." "i don't know about that. it was a great stroke of luck for val." "i want so much to meet him. i'm disappointed at missing him this afternoon. i remember him perfectly in the army, though he was only a boy then and i wasn't much more myself. he must be close on thirty now. but when i met him this morning it struck me he hadn't altered much." isabel, looking up eager-eyed, felt faintly and mysteriously chilled. was there a point of cruelty in hyde's smile? as there was now and then in his cousin's: she had seen bernard clowes watching his wife with the same secret glow. "val is old for his age," she said. "he always seems much older than my other brother, although there are only two or three years between them." "probably his spell in the army aged him. it must have been a formative experience." this time isabel had no doubt about it, there was certainly a touch of cruel irony in hyde's soft voice. her breath came fast. "why do you say that": she cried--"say it like that?" the smile faded: lawrence turned, startled out of his self-possession. "like what?" "as if you we're sneering at val!" "i?-- my dear miss isabel, aren't you a little fanciful?" isabel supposed so too, on second thoughts: how could any man sneer at a record like val's: unless indeed it were with that peculiarly graceless sneer which springs from jealousy? and, little as she liked captain hyde, she could not think him weak enough for that. she blushed again, this time without any rubric, and hung her head. "i'm sorry! but you did say it as if you didn't mean it. perhaps you think we make too much fuss over val? but in these sleepy country villages exciting things don't happen every day. i dare say you've had scores of adventures since that time you met val. but chilmark hasn't had any. that makes us remember." "my dear child," said lawrence with an earnest gentleness foreign to his ordinary manner, "you misunderstood me altogether. i liked your brother very much. remember, i was there when he won his decoration--" he broke off. an intensely visual memory had flashed over him. now he knew of whom isabel had reminded him that morning: she had her brother's eyes. "at the very time? were you really? do, do, do tell me about it! major clowes never will--he pretends he can't remember." "has val never told you?" "hardly any more than was in the official account--that he was left between the lines after one of our raids, and went back in spite of his wound to bring in mr. dale. he had to wait till after dark?" lawrence nodded.. "and 'under particularly trying conditions.' why was that?" "because dale was so close to the german lines. he was entangled in their wire." isabel shuddered. "it seems so long ago. one can't understand why such cruelties were ever allowed. of course they will never be again." this naive voice of the younger generation made lawrence smile. "and val had to cut their wire?" "to peel it off dale, or peel dale off it--what was left of him. he didn't live more than twenty minutes after he was brought in." "did you know dale?" "not well: he was in my cousin's company, not in mine." "and was val under fire at the time?" "under heavy fire. the boches were sending up starshells that made the place as light as day." "i can't understand how val could do it with his broken arm." "his arm wasn't broken when he cut their wires." "oh! when was it then?" hyde flicked with his stick at the airy heads of grass that rose up thin-sown out of a burnished carpet of lady's slipper. his manner was even but his face was dark. "he had it splintered by a revolver--shot on his way home, near our lines." "oh! but the army doctors said the shot must have been fired at close quarters?" "there, you see i'm not much of an authority, am i? no doubt, if they said so, they were right. the fact is i was knocked out myself that afternoon with a rifle bullet in the ribs. it was a hot corner for the wintons and dorsets." "were you? i'm sorry." isabel ran her eyes with a touch of whimsical solicitude over hyde's tall easy figure and the exquisite keeping of his white clothes. difficult to connect him with the bloody disarray of war! "were you too left lying between the lines?" "with a good many others, english and german. "there was a fellow near me that hadn't a scratch. he was frightened--mad with fear: he lay up in the long grass and wept most of the day. i never hated any one so much in my life. i could have shot him with pleasure." "german, of course?" hyde smiled. "german, of course." "if he had been english he would have deserved to be shot," said isabel briefly: then, reverting to a subject in which she was far more deeply interested, "rowsley--my second brother--said i wasn't to cross-examine you: but it was a great temptation, because one never can get anything out of val. and after all we've the right to be proud of him! even then, when every one was so brave, you would say, wouldn't you, that val earned his distinction? it really was what the gazette called it, 'conspicuous gallantry'?" "it was a daring piece of work," said lawrence, reddening to his hair. he fought down a sensation so unfamiliar that he could scarcely put a name to it, and forced himself on: "we were all proud of him and we none of us forget it. don't tell him i said so, though. it isn't etiquette. you won't think i'm trying to minimize what val did, will you, if i say that we who were through the fighting saw so many horrible and ghastly things . . ." again his voice failed. he was aware of isabel's bewilderment, but he was seeing more ghosts than he had seen in all the intervening years of peace, and they came between him and the sunlit landscape and isabel's young eyes. war! always war! human bodies torn to rags in a moment, and the flowers of the field wet with a darker moisture than rain: the very smell of the trenches was in his nostrils, their odour of blood and decay. what in heaven's name had brought it all back, and, stranger still, what had moved him to speak of it and to betray feelings whose very existence was unknown to him and which he had never betrayed before? the silence was brief though to lawrence it seemed endless. he drove the ghosts back to quarters and finished quietly: "well, we won't talk about that, it's not a pleasant subject. only give val my love and tell him if he doesn't look me up soon i shall come and call on him. we're much too old friends to stand on ceremony." "all right, i will," said isabel. there was a shrub of juniper close by, and she felt under its sharp branches. "do you like honeysuckle?" she held up a fresh sprig fragrant with its pale horns, which she had tracked to covert by its scent. lawrence was not given to wearing buttonholes, but he understood the friendly and apologetic intention and inclined his broad shoulder for miss stafford to pass the stem through the lapel of his coat. isabel had not intended to pin it in for him, but she was generally willing to do what was expected of her. she took a pin from her own dress (there were plenty in it), and fastened the flower deftly on the breast of captain hyde's white jacket. and so standing before him, her head bent over her task, she unwittingly left lawrence free to observe the texture of her skin, bloomed over with down like a peach, and the curves of her young shoulders, a little inclined to stoop, as young backs often are in the strain of growth, but so firm, so fresh, so white under the thin stuff of her bodice: below her silken plaits, on the nape of her neck, a curl or two of hair grew in close rings, so fine that it was almost indistinguishable from its own shadow. swiftly, without warning, lawrence was aware of a pleasurable commotion in his veins, a thrill that shook through him like a burst of gay music. this experience was not novel, he had felt it three or four times before in his life, and on the spot, while it was sending gentle electric currents to his finger-tips, he was able to analyse its origin--item, to warm weather and laziness after the strain of his chinese journey, so much: item, to isabel's promise of beauty, so much: item, to the disparity between her age and his own, to her ignorance and immaturity, the bloom on the untouched fruit, so much more. but there was this difference between the present and previous occasions when he had fallen or thought of falling in love, that he desired no victory: no, it was he and not isabel who was to capitulate, leaning his forehead upon her young hand. . . . and he had never seen her till that morning, and the child was nineteen, the daughter of a country vicarage, brought up to wear calico and to say her prayers! more, she was val stafford's sister, and she loved her brother. lawrence gave himself a gentle shake. at six and thirty it is time to put away childish things. "thank you very much. is that mrs. clowes calling us?" it was laura clowes and yvonne bendish, and lawrence, as he strolled back with isabel to the garden gate, had an uneasy suspicion that the episode of the honeysuckle had been overseen. laura was graver than usual, while yvonne had a sardonic spark in her eye. "i'm afraid it's no use waiting any longer, isabel," said laura. "what do you think, lawrence? it's after six o'clock." "hasn't val come?" said isabel. "no, he must have been kept at countisford. it's a long ride for him on such a hot day. perhaps mrs. bishop made him stay to tea." "as if he would stay with any old mrs. bishop when he knew you were coming here!" said isabel scornfully. "poor old val, i shan't tell him how you misjudged him, he'd be so hurt. but i'll send him down, shall i, to see you and captain hyde after supper?--tired? oh no, he's never too tired to go to wanhope." she kissed laura, gave lawrence her sweetest friendly smile, and returned to the lawn, where yvonne had apparently taken root upon her tigerskin. isabel heard rowsley say, "make her shut up, jack," but before she could ask why yvonne was to be shut up the daughter of lilith had opened fire on the daughter of eve. "and what did you think of lawrence hyde?" mrs. bendish asked, stretching herself out like a snake and examining isabel out of her pale eyes, much the colour of an unripe gooseberry. "was he very attractive? oh isabel! oh isabel! i should not have thought this of one so young." isabel considered the point. "i can't understand him," she said honestly. "i liked parts of him. he isn't so--so homogeneous as most people are. "did he ask you for the honeysuckle?" "no, i gave it to him for a peace offering. i hurt his feelings, and afterwards i was sorry and wanted to make it up with him. but would you have thought he had any feelings? any, that is, that anything i said would hurt?" "certainly not," from rowsley. "any woman can hurt any man," said yvonne. "but, of course, you aren't a woman, isabel. what was the trouble?" "oh, something about the war." "no, my child, it wasn't about the war. it was something that stung up his vanity or his self-love. lawrence isn't a sentimentalist like jack or val." here jack bendish got as far as an artless "oh, i say!" but his wife paid no attention. "lawrence never took the war seriously." "but he did," insisted isabel. "he coloured all over his face--" she paused, realizing that mrs. bendish, under her mask of scepticism, was agog with curiosity. isabel was not fond of being drawn out. lawrence had given her his confidence, and she valued it, for with all her ignorance of society she had seen too much of plain human nature to suppose that he was often taken off his guard as he had been by her: and was she going to expose him to yvonne's lacerating raillery? a thousand times no! "i misunderstood something he said about val," she continued with scarcely a break, and falling back on one of those explanations that deceive the sceptical by their economy of truth. "it was stupid of me, and awkward for him, so i had to apologize." "i see. come, jack." yvonne rose to her feet, more like a snake than ever in her flexibility and swiftness, and held isabel to her for a moment, her arm round her young friend's waist. "but if you pin any more buttonholes into captain hyde's coat," the last low murmur was only for isabel's ear, "he will infallibly kiss you: so now you are forewarned and can choose whether or no you will continue to pay him these little attentions." isabel was not disturbed. she had early formed the habit of not attending to mrs. bendish, and she unwound herself without even changing colour. "you always remind me of nettie hills at the clowes's lodge," she retorted. "mrs. hills says she's that flighty in the way she carries on, no one would believe what a good sensible girl she is under all her nonsense, and walks out with her own young man as regular as clockwork." chapter vi and that evening val stafford came to pay his respects to his old comrade in arms. lawrence had travelled so much that it never took him long to settle down. even at wanhope he managed within a few hours to make himself at home. a trap sent over to countisford brought back his manservant and an effeminate quantity of luggage, and by teatime his room was strewn from end to end with a litter of expensive trifles more proper to a pretty woman than to a man. mrs. clowes, slipping in to cast a housewifely glance to his comfort, held up her hands in mock dismay. "you must give yourself plenty of time to dust all this tomorrow morning, caroline," she said to the house-maid. she laughed at the gold brushes and gold manicure set, the polished array of boots, the fine silk and linen laid out on his bed, the perfume of sandalwood and russian leather and eau de cologne. "and i hope you will be able to make captain hyde's valet comfortable. did he say whether he liked his room?" "i reelly don't know, ma'am," replied the truthful caroline. "you see he's a foreigner, and most of what he says, well, it reelly sounds like swearing. "madame." it was gaston himself, appearing from nowhere at laura's elbow, and saluting her with an empressement that was due, if laura had only known it, to the harmony of her flounces. laura eyed the little gaston kindly. "you are of the south, are you not?" she said in her soft french, the french of a frenchwoman but for a slight stiffness of disuse: "and are you comfortable here, gaston? you must tell me if there is anything you want." gaston was grateful less for her solicitude than for the sound of his own language. when she had left the room he caught up a photograph, thrust it back into his master's dressingcase, and spat through the open window--"c'est fini avec toi, vieille biche," said he: "allons donc! j'aime mieux celle-ci par exemple." but, though laura laughed, it was with indulgence. while isabel and lawrence were conversing among the juniper bushes, the bendishes had given mrs. clowes a sketch of hyde which had confirmed her own impressions. although he liked good food and wine and cigars, he liked sport and travel too, and music and painting and books. his eighty-guinea breechloaders were dearer to him than the lady of the ivory frame. who was the lady of the ivory frame? gaston would have been happy to define with the leer of the boulevards the relations between his master and philippa cleve. gaston had no doubt of them, nor had frederick cleve; philippa had high hopes; lawrence alone hung fire. if he continued to meet her and she to offer him lavish opportunities the situation might develop, for lawrence was not sufficiently in earnest in any direction to play what has been called the ill-favoured part of a joseph, but in his heart of hearts, this joseph wished potiphar would keep his wife in order. and, strange to say, yvonne was not far wide of the mark. she believed that joseph was a sinner but not a willing one: and jack bendish, a little astray among these feminine subtleties, assented after his fashion--"hyde's rather an ass in some ways," he said simply, "but he's an all-round sportsman." thus primed, laura was able to draw out her guest, and dinner passed off gaily, for bernard clowes was no dog in the manger, and listened with sparkling eyes to adventures that ranged from atlantic sailing in a thirty-ton yacht to a nigerian rhinoceros shoot. nor was lawrence the focus of the lime-light-he was unaffectedly modest; but when, in expatiating on a favourite rifle, he confessed to having held fire till a charging rhinoceros bull was within eight and twenty yards of him, bernard could supply the footnotes for himself. "i knew she wouldn't let me down," said lawrence apologetically. "ah! she was a bonnie thing, that old gun of mine. ever shoot with a cordite rifle?" bernard shook his head. "i'd like you to see my guns," lawrence continued, too shrewd to be tactful. "i'll have them sent down, shall i? or gaston shall run up and fetch 'em. he loves a day in town." under this bracing treatment bernard became more natural than laura had seen him for a long time, and he stayed in the drawingroom after dinner, chatting with lawrence and listening to his wife at the piano, till laura thought the golden age had come again. how long would it last? philosophers like laura never ask that question. at all events it lasted till half past nine, when the sick man was honestly tired and the lines of no fictitious pain were drawn deep about his mouth and eyes. mrs. clowes went away with her husband, who liked to have her at hand while barry was getting him to bed, and lawrence had strolled out on the lawn, when a shutter was thrown down in bernard's room and laura reappeared at the open window. "lawrence, are you there?" she asked, shading her eyes between her hands. "here," said lawrence removing his cigar. "will you be so very kind as to unlock the gate over the footbridge? if val does look us up tonight he's sure to scramble over it, which is awkward for him with his stiff arm." she dropped a key down to lawrence. a voice--bernard's called from within, "good night, old fellow, thanks for a pleasant evening. i'm being washed now." the night was overcast, warm, quiet, and very dark under the trees: there was husbandry in heaven, their candles were all out. and by the bridge under the pleated and tasselled branches of an alder coppice the river ran quiet as the night, only uttering an occasional murmur or a deep sucking gurgle when a rotten stick, framed in foam, span down the silken whirl of an eddy: but down-stream, where waifs of mist curled like smoke off a grey mirror, there was a continual talking of open water, small cold river voices that chattered over a pebbly channel, or heaped themselves up and died down again in the harsh distant murmur of the weir. the quantity of water that passed through the lock gates should have been constant from minute to minute, but the roar of it was not constant, nor the pitch of its note, which fell when lawrence stood erect, but rose to a shrill overtone when he bent his head: sometimes one would have thought the river was going down in spate, and then the volume of sound dwindled to a mere thread, a lisp in the air. lawrence was observing these phenomena with a mind vacant of thought when he heard footsteps brushing through the grass by the field path from the village. val had come, then, after all! val had naturally no idea that any one was near him. he had reached the gate and was preparing to vault it when out of the dense alder-shadow a hand seized his arm. "so sorry if i startled you." but val was not visibly startled. "mrs. clowes sent me, down to let you in." "did she? very good of her, and of you," returned val's voice, pleasant and friendly. "she always expects me to walk into the river. but, after all, i shouldn't be drowned if i did. is clowes gone to bed?" "he's on his way there. did you want to see him?" "i'll look in for five minutes after barry has tucked him up. have you been introduced to barry yet? he's quite a character." "so i should imagine. he came in to cart bernard off, and did something clumsy, or bernard said he did, and bernard cuffed his head for him. barry didn't seem to mind much. why does he stay? is it devotion?" "he stays because your cousin pays him twice what he would get anywhere else. no, i shouldn't call barry devoted. but he does his work well, and it isn't anybody's job." "i believe you," lawrence muttered. "warm tonight, isn't it? no, thanks, i won't have anything to drink-- i've only just finished supper. by the by, let me apologize for my absence this afternoon. i was most awfully sorry to miss you, but i never got away from countisford till after half past five, and my mare cast a shoe on the way back. then i tried to get her shod in liddiard st. agnes, which is one of those idyllic villages that people write books about, and there i found an odd-fellows' fete in full swing. the village blacksmith was altogether too harmonious for business, so not being able to cuff his head, like your cousin, i was obliged to walk home. "really'? have a cigar if you won't have anything else." val accepted one, and in default of a match lawrence made him light it from his own. he was entirely at his ease, though the situation struck him as bizarre, but he did not believe that val was at ease, no, not for all his natural manner and fertility in commonplace. lawrence was faintly sorry for the poor devil, but only faintly: after all, an awkward interview once in ten years was a low price to pay for that night which lawrence never had forgotten and never would forget. he had an excellent memory, photographic and phonographic, a gift that wise men covet for themselves but deprecate in their friends. lawrence was no pharisee, but he was not a samaritan either. he had deliberately set himself to pull up any stray weeds of moral scruple that lingered in a mind stripped bare of christian ethic, a task harder than some realize, since thousands of men who have no faith in christ practise virtues that were not known for virtues by the western world before christ came to it. but every man is his own special pleader, and lawrence, whose theory was that one man is as good as another, retained a good hearty prejudice against certain forms of moral failure, and excused it on the ground that it was rather a taste than a principle. he looked directly into stafford's eyes as the red glow of the cigar flamed and faded between the two heads so close together, and in his own eyes there was the same point of smiling ironic cruelty that isabel had read in them--the same as stafford himself had read in them not so many years ago. but apparently stafford read nothing in them now. "sit down, won't you? you've had a fagging day." lawrence indicated the chairs left on the lawn. "hear me beginning to play the host! as a matter of fact, you must know your way about the place far better than i do. although we're cousins, bernard and i have seen next to nothing of each other since we were boys at school. you, val, must know him better than any one except his wife. i want you to tell me about him. i'm in dangerous country and i need a map." "i should be inclined to vary the metaphor a little and call him an uncharted sea," val smiled as he threw one leg over the other and settled himself among his cushions. he was dead tired, having been up since six in the morning and on his feet or in the saddle all day. "but i'm at your service, subject always to the proviso that i'm bernard's agent, which makes my position rather delicate. what is it you want to know?" since it was whether clowes behaved decently to his wife, lawrence shifted in his chair and flicked the ash from his cigar. "imprimis, whether bernard has a trout rod i can borrow. i didn't know there was any fishing to be had or i'd have brought my own." "you can have mine: i scarcely ever touch a line now. certainly not in hay-harvest! i'll send it down for you the first thing--" was it possible that he was as insouciant as he professed to be? "oh, thanks very much," hyde cut in swiftly, but i couldn't borrow yours. i'll find out if clowes can't lend me one." "as you please." stafford left it at that and passed on. "but i don't fancy bernard has ever thrown a line in his life, he is too energetic to make a fisherman. by the way, i suppose you won't be staying any length of time at wanhope?" lawrence smiled, the wish was father to the thought: that was more like the val of old times! "that depends--mainly on my cousin, to be frank: i suspect he'll soon get sick of having a third person in the house." "oh, probably. but you needn't take any notice of that." lawrence looked up in surprise. "but, perhaps, that is none of my business. or will you let me give you one warning, since you've asked for a map? don't be too prompt to take bernard at his word. he may be very rude to you and yet not want you to go. he sacks barry every few weeks. in fact now i come to think of it i'm under notice myself, for last time i saw him he told me to look out for another job. he said what he wanted was a practical man who knew a little about farming." "and you stay on? quite right, if it suits your book." unconsciously putting the worst construction on everything val said or did, lawrence's conclusion was that probably val, an amateur farmer, was paid, like barry, twice what he was worth in the market. "but it wouldn't suit mine. however, i don't imagine bernard will try it on with me. i'm not barry. if he hits me i shall hit him back." "oh, will you?" returned val, invisibly amused. "i'm not sure that wouldn't be a good plan. it has at least the merit of originality. all the same i'm afraid mrs. clowes wouldn't like it, she is a standing obstacle in the way of drastic measures." "but why do you want me to stay?" lawrence asked more and more surprised. "well, here is what brought me up tonight, when i knew bernard would be on his way to bed. will you--" he leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees--"stick it out, whatever happens, for a week or two, and keep your eyes open? life at wanhope isn't all plain sailing." "plain sailing for bernard?" "or for his wife." "you speak as the friend of the house who sees both sides?" "they're forced on me." "i'll stay as long as i'm comfortable," said lawrence, cynically frank. "more i can't promise." val leant back with an imperceptible shrug. he was disappointed but not surprised: there was in hyde a vein of hard selfishness-- not a weakness, for the egoism which openly says "i will consult my own convenience first" is too scornful of public opinion to be called weak, but an acquired defensive quality on which argument would have been thrown away. val's arm dropped inert, he was tired, not in body alone, but by the strain of contact with another mind, hostile, and pitiless, and dominant. and lawrence also was content to sit silent, lulled by the rising and falling murmur of the stream, and by that agreeably cruel memory. . . . he had no inclination to recall it to val, but it lent an emotional piquancy to their intercourse. he had the whip hand of val through the past, and perhaps the present also. lawrence had been struck by val's allusion to mrs. clowes. he was the friend of the house, was he? now the position of a friend of the house who shields a wife from her husband is notoriously a delicate one. val roused himself. "well, we'll drop this. i must now say two words on a different subject: i'd rather let it alone, and so i dare say would you, but we shall meet a good deal off and on while you're here, and it had better be got over. i'm sorry if i embarrass you--" "set your mind at rest," said lawrence, silkenly brutal. "you don't embarrass me at all." he threw away his cigar and got up laughing, and as val also rose lawrence gently slapped him on the back. "i know what you're driving at--that you've not forgotten that small indiscretion of yours, or ceased to regret it. don't you worry, val! you always were one of the worrying sort, weren't you? but you need never refer to it again, and i won't if you don't." surely a generous, a handsome offer! but stafford only touched with the tips of his fingers the ringed and manicured hand of the elder man. "thank you! but i wasn't going to say anything of the sort. the fact is that for a long while i've been making up my mind to see you some time when you were in england: there was no hurry, because so long as my father's alive i can do nothing, but when i heard you were coming to wanhope the opportunity was too good to be missed. railway fares," val added with a preoccupied smile, "are a consideration to me. so don't walk away yet, hyde, please. i have such a vivid recollection of the last time we met. between the lines at dawn. do you remember?" "everything, val." "you were badly hurt, but before you fainted you dragged a promise out of me." "dragged it out of you?" lawrence repeated: "that's one way of putting it!" "but i made some feeble resistance at the time," said val mildly. "my head wasn't clear then or for a long while after, but i had a--a presentiment that it was a mistake. you meant it kindly." had he? lawrence laughed. he had never been able, to analyse the complex of instincts and passions that had determined his dealings with stafford on that dim day between the lines. "you were in a damned funk weren't you, val?" stafford gave a slight start, the reaction of the prisoner under a blow. but apart from the coarse cynicism of it, which irritated him, it was no more than he had foreseen, and from then on till the end he did not flinch. "yes, anything you like: you can't overstate it. but my point is that i gave you my parole. will you release me from it?" "good god!" said lawrence. he had never been more surprised in his life. "come in: let us talk this over in the light." chapter vii through the open windows of the drawingroom, where candlesticks of twisted silver glimmered among laura's old, silvery brocades, and dim mirrors, and branches of pink and white rosebuds blooming deliciously in rose-coloured dubarry jars, the two men came in together, lawrence keenly on the watch. but observation was wasted on stafford who had nothing to conceal, who was merely what he appeared to be, a faded and tired-looking man of middle height, with blue eyes and brown hair turning grey, and wellworn evening clothes a trifle rubbed at the cuffs. it was difficult to connect this gentle and unassuming person with the fiery memory of the war, and lawrence without apology took hold of stafford's arm like a surgeon and tried to flex the rigid elbow-muscles, and to distinguish with his fingers used to handling wounds the hard seams and hollows below its shrunken joint. the action, which was overbearing was by no means redeemed by the intention, which was brutal. "surely after all these years you don't propose to confess, val?" "i should like to make some sort of amends." "too late: these things can never be undone." "no, of course not. undone? no, nothing once done can be undone. "but one needn't follow a wrong path to the bitter end. you made me give you that promise for the sake of discipline and morale. but of the men who were in the trenches with us that night how many are left? your battalion were pretty badly cut up at cambrai, weren't they? and the survivors are all back in civil life like ourselves. if it were to come out now there aren't twenty men who would remember anything about it: except of course here in chilmark, where they know my people so well." "but you surely don't contemplate writing to the war office? i've no idea what course they would take, but they'd be safe to make themselves unpleasant. i might even come in for a reprimand myself! that's a fate i could support with equanimity, but what about you? if i were you i shouldn't care to be hauled up for an interview!" "really, if you'll forgive my saying so, i don't want to enter into contingencies at all. give me my promise back, hyde, there's a good fellow, it's worth nothing now to anyone but the owner." "what about your own people?" said lawrence, his hands in his pockets, and falling unawares into the tone of the orderly room. "you'll do nothing while your father's alive: i'm glad you've sense enough for that: but what about your brother and sister? you're suffering under some unpractical attack of remorse, val, and like most penitent souls you think of nothing but yourself." "on the contrary, i shrink very much from bringing distress on other people. i'm well aware," said val slowly, "that a man who does what i've done forfeits his right to take an easy way out." "an easy way?" "believe me, i haven't found the way you imposed on me an easy one." "poor wretch!" said lawrence under his breath. stafford heard, perhaps he was meant to hear: and he glanced out over the dark turf on which the windows traced a golden oblong, over the trees, dark and mysterious except where the same light caught and bronzed the tips of their branches. in its glow every leaf stood out separate and defined, clearer than by day through the contrast of the immense surrounding darkness: and so it had been in that bit of french forest years ago, when the wild bright searchlights lit up its plague-spotted glades. civilians talk glibly of courage and cowardice who have never smelt the odour of corruption. . . . "what's your motive? some misbegotten sense of duty?" "partly," said val, turning from the window. how like his eyes were to his young sister's! the impression was unwelcome, and lawrence flung it off. "i ought never to have given way to you. i ought to have faced wynn-west and let him deal with me as he thought fit. after all, i was of no standing in the regiment. a boy of nineteen--what on earth would it have signified? i was so very young." nineteen! yes, one called a lad young at nineteen even in those pitiless days. under normal conditions he would have had two or three years' more training before he was required to shoulder the responsibilities and develop the braced muscles of manhood. "anyhow it's all over now--" "no, you forget." a wave of colour swept over val's face but his voice was steady. "through me the regiment holds a distinction it hasn't earned, and the distinction is in hands that don't deserve to hold it. that isn't consonant with the traditions of the service." "oh, when it comes to the honour of the army--!" lawrence jeered at him. "there speaks the soldier born and bred. but i was only a 'temporary.' give me a personal reason." "well, i can do that too! i hate sailing under false colours. the good folk of chilmark; my own people; bernard, laura . . . ." lawrence's eyes began to sparkle: when a man's voice deepens over a woman's name--! "oh, i dare say nothing will ever come of it," val resumed after a moment: "my father may live another thirty years, and by that time i should be too old to stand in a white sheet. or perhaps i shall only tell one or two people--" "mrs. clowes?" "i beg your pardon?" "you would like to tell my cousin and his wife?" "i should like to feel myself a free agent, which i'm not now, because i'm under parole to you." "and so you will remain," said lawrence coldly. "you mean that?" "thoroughly. i've no wish to distress you, val, but i'm no more convinced now than i was ten years ago that you can be trusted to judge for yourself. you were an impulsive boy then with remarkably little self-control: you're--forgive my saying so--an impulsive man now, capable of doing things that in five minutes you would be uncommonly sorry for. how long would bernard keep your secret? if i'm not much mistaken you would lose your billet and the whole county would hear why. the whole thing's utter rubbish. you make too much of your ribbon: you--i--it would never have been given if dale's father hadn't been a brass hat." stafford was ashy pale. "i know you think you're just." "no, i don't. i'm not just, my good chap: i'm weakly, idiotically generous. in your heart of hearts you're grateful to me. now let's drop all this. nothing you can say will have the slightest effect, so you may as well not say it." he stood by val's chair, laughing down at him and gently gripping him by the shoulder. "be a man, val! you're not nineteen now. you've got a comfortable job and the esteem of all who know you--take it and be thankful: it's more than you deserve. if you must indulge in a hair shirt, wear it under your clothes. it isn't necessary to embarrass other people by undressing in public." thought is free: one may be at a man's mercy and in his debt and keep one's own opinion of him, impersonal and cold. with a faint smile on his lips val got up and strolled over to the piano. "hullo, what's all this music lying about?" he said in his ordinary manner. "has laura been playing? good, i'm so glad: bernard can hardly ever stand it. see the first fruits of your bracing influence! oh, the polonaises . . ." and then he in his turn began to play, but not the melancholy fiery lyrics that had soothed laura's unsatisfied heart. val, a thorough musician, went for sympathy to the classics. impulsive? there was not much impulse left in this quiet, reticent man, who with his old trouble fresh on him could sit down and play a chorale of bach or a prelude of mozart, subordinating his own imperious anguish to the grave universal daylight of the elder masters. long since val had resolved that no shadow from him should fall across any other life. he had foresworn "that impure passion of remorse," and so keen an observer as rowsley had grown up in his intimacy without suspecting anything wrong. unfortunately for val, however, he still suffered, though he was now denied all expression, all relief: the wounded mind bled inwardly. it was no wonder val's hair was turning grey. lawrence, no mean judge of music, understood much--not all--of the significance of val's playing. he was an imaginative man-- far more so than val, who would have lived an ordinary life and travelled on ordinary lines of thought but for the war, which wrenched so many men out of their natural development. but it was again unfortunate for val that the sporting instinct ran strong in captain hyde. he was irritated by val's grave superior dignity, and deep and unacknowledged there was working in him the instinct of the bully, the love of cruelty, overlaid by layer on layer of civilization, of chivalry, of decency, yet native to the human heart and quick to reassert itself at any age: in the boy who thrashes a smaller boy, in the young man who takes advantage of a woman, in the fighter who hounds down surrendered men. he settled himself in a chair close to the piano. "val, i'm very glad to have met you. having taken so much upon me," he was smiling into val's eyes, "i've often wondered what had become of you. this," he lightly touched val's arm, "was a cruel handicap. i had to disable you, but it need not have been permanent." "do you mind moving? you're in my light." he shifted his chair by an inch or so. "after all, what's a single failure of nerve? physical causes--wet, cold, indigestion, tight puttees--account for nine out of ten of these queer breakdowns. at all events you've paid, val, paid twice over: when i read your name in the honours list i laughed, but i was sorry for you. the sword-and-epaulets business would have been mild compared to that." "cat and mouse, is it?" said val, resting his hands on the keys. "what?" "i'm not going to stand this sort of thing, hyde, not for a minute." "i don't know what you mean," said lawrence, reddening slowly to his forehead. but it was a lie: he was not one of those who can overstep limits with impunity. the streak of vulgarity again! and worse than vulgarity: andrew hyde's sardonic old voice was ringing in his ears, "lawrence, you'll never be a gentleman." "all right, we'll leave it at that. only don't do it again." lawrence was dumb. "here's mrs. clowes." val rose as laura came in, released at length from attendance on her husband. "i heard you playing," she said, giving him her hand with her sweet, friendly smile. "so you've introduced yourself to captain hyde? i hope you were nice to him, for my gratitude to him is boundless. i haven't seen bernard looking so fit or so bright for months and months! now sit down, both of you, and we'll have cigarettes and coffee. ring, val, will you--? it's barely half past ten. "i can only stay for one cigarette, laura: i must get home to bed." "but, my dear boy, how tired you look!" exclaimed laura. "you do too much--i'm sure you do too much. he wears himself out, lawrence--oh! my scarf!" she was wearing a silver scarf over her black dress, and as she moved it fluttered up and caught on the chain round her throat. "unfasten me, please, val," she said, bending her fair neck, and val was obliged laboriously to disentangle the silken cobweb from the spurs of her clear-set diamonds, a process which fascinated lawrence, whose mind was more french than english in its permanent interest in women. certainly val's office of friend of the family was not less delicate because laura, secure in her few years seniority, treated him like a younger brother! watching, not val, but val's reflection in a mirror, lawrence overlooked no shade of constraint, no effort that val made to avoid touching with his finger-tips the satin allure of laura's exquisite skin. "poor miserable val!" suspicion was crystallizing into certainty. "or is it poor bernard? no, i swear she doesn't know. does he know himself?" a servant had brought in coffee, and lawrence in his quality of cousin poured out two cups and carried them over to laura and to val. "well, i'm damned!" murmured lawrence as val refastened the clasp of the chain. "picturesque, all this.-- here, val, here's your coffee." "but do you know each other so well as that?" exclaimed laura, arching her wren's-feather eyebrows. "i was an infant subaltern when hyde knew me," said val laughing, "and he was a howling swell of a captain. do you remember that night you all dined with us, sir, when we were in billets? we stood you champagne--" "purchased locally. i remember the champagne." "dine with us tomorrow night," said laura. "do! and bring isabel." lawrence gave an imperceptible start: for the last hour he had forgotten isabel's existence except when her eyes had looked at him out of her brother's face. "the child will enjoy it, i never knew any one so easily pleased; and you and lawrence and bernard can rag one another to your heart's content. yes, you will, i know you will, army men always do when they get together; and you're all boys, even bernard, even you with your grey hair, my dear val; as for lawrence, he's only giving himself airs." "yes, do bring your sister," said lawrence. "she is the most charming young girl i've met for years, if a man of my mature age may say so. she is so natural, a rare thing nowadays: the modern jeune fille is a sophisticated product." "bravo, lawrence!" cried mrs. clowes, clapping her hands. "now, val, didn't i tell you isabel was going to be very, very pretty? that's settled, then, you'll both come: and, to please me," she looked not much older than isabel as she took hold of the lapel of val's coat, "will you wear your ribbon? i know you hate wearing it in civilian kit! but i do so love to see you in it: and it's not as if there would be any one here but ourselves." lawrence swung round on his heel and walked away. one may enjoy the pleasures of the chase and yet draw the line at watching an application of the rack, and it sickened him to remember that his own hand had given a turn to the screw. it had needed that brief colloquy to let him see what stafford's life was like at wanhope, and in what slow nerve-by-nerve laceration amends were being made. he admired the gallantry of stafford's reply. "my dear laura, i would tie myself up in ribbon from head to foot if it would give you pleasure. i'll wear it if you like, though my superior officer will certainly rag me if i do." "no, i shan't," said lawrence shortly. chapter viii "and now tell me," murmured mrs. clowes in the mischievously caressing tone that she kept for isabel, "did mamma's little girl enjoy her party?" "rather!" said isabel--with a great sigh, the satisfied sigh of a dog curling up after a meal. "they were lovely strawberries. and what do you call that french thing? oh, that's what a vol-au-vent is, is it? i wish i knew how to make it, but probably it's one of those recipes that begin 'take twelve eggs and a quart of cream.' i wish nice things to eat weren't so dear, jimmy would love it. captain hyde took two helps--did you see?--big ones! if he always eats as much as he did tonight he'll be fat before he's fifty, which will be a pity. he ate three times what val did." "is that what you were thinking of all the time? i noticed you didn't say very much." "well, i was between captain hyde and major clowes, and they neither of them think i'm grown up," explained isabel. "they talked to each other over the top of me. oh no, not rudely, major clowes was as nice as he could be" (isabel salved her conscience by reflecting that this was verbally true since major clowes could never he nice), "and captain hyde asked me if i was fond of dolls--" "my dear isabel!" "or words to that effect. oh! it's perfectly fair, i'm not grown up, or only by fits and starts. some of me is a weary forty-five but the rest is still in pigtails. it's curious, isn't it? considering that i'm nearly twenty. let's go through the wood, my stockings are coming down." out of sight of the house in a clearing of the loosely planted alder-coppice by the bridge, she pulled them up, slowly and candidly: white cotton stockings supported by garters of black elastic. "after all," she continued, "i'm housekeeper, and in common politeness we shall have to dine you back, so i really did want to see what sort of things captain hyde likes. but it's no use, he won't like anything we give him. not though we strain our resources to the uttermost. laura! would mrs. fryar give me the receipt for that vol-au-vent? i don't suppose we could run to it, but i should love to try." "mrs. fryar would be flattered," said laura, finding a chair in the forked stem of a wild apple-tree, while isabel sat plump down on the net of moss-fronds and fine ivy and grey wood-violets at her feet. "but, my darling, you're not to worry your small head over vol-au-vents! lawrence will like one of your own roast chickens just as well, or any simple thing--" "oh no, lawrence won't!" isabel gave a little laugh. "excuse my contradicting you, but lawrence isn't a bit fond of simple things. that's why he doesn't like me, because i'm simple, simple as a daisy. i don't mind--much," she added truthfully. "i can survive his most extended want of interest. after all what can you expect if you go out to dinner in the same nun's veiling frock you wore when you were confirmed, with the tucks let down and the collar taken out? o! laura, i wish someone would give me twenty pounds on condition that i spent it all on dress! i'd buy--i'd buy--oh,--silk stockings, and long gloves, and french cambric underclothes, and chiffon nightgowns like those yvonne wears (but they aren't decent: still that doesn't matter so long as you're not married, and they are so pretty)! and a homespun tailor-made suit with a seam down the back and open tails: and--and--one of those real panamas that you can pull through a wedding ring: and--oh! dear, i am greedy! it must be because i never have any clothes at all that i'm always wanting some. i ache all over when i look at catalogues. isn't it silly?" if so it was a form of silliness with which mrs. clowes was in full sympathy. in her world, to be young and pretty gave a woman a claim on fate to provide her with pretty dresses and the admiration of men. as for yvonne, till she married jack bendish she had never been out of debt in her life. "no, it's the most natural thing on earth," said laura. "how i wish--!" "no, no," said isabel hastily. "it's very, very sweet of you, but even jimmy wouldn't like it: and as for val i don't know what he'd say! poor old val, he wants some new evening clothes himself, and it's worse for him than for me because men do so hate to look shabby and out at elbows. he's worn that suit for ten years. my one consolation is that captain hyde couldn't wear a suit he wore ten years ago. it would burst." "isabel! really! you ridiculous child, why have you such a spite against poor lawrence? any one would think he was a perfect daniel lambert! do you know he's a pukka sportsman and has shot all over the world? lions and tigers, and rhinoceros, and grizzly bears, and all sorts of ferocious animals! he's promised me a black panther skin for my parlour and he's persuaded bernard to call in dr. verney for his neuritis, so i won't hear another word against him!" "has he? h'm. . . . no, i haven't any prejudice against him: in fact i like him," said isabel, smiling to herself. "but he reminds me of tom wallis at the prince of wales's feathers. do you remember tom? 'poor tom,' mrs. wallis always says, 'he went from bad to worse. first it was a drop too much of an evening: and then he began getting drunk mornings: and then he 'listed for a soldier!' not that captain hyde would get drunk, but he has the same excitable temperament. . . . laura!" "what is it?" said mrs. clowes, framing the young face between her hands as isabel rose up kneeling before her. in the quivering apple-tree shadow isabel's eyes were very dark, and penetrating and reflective too, as if she had just undergone one of those transitions from childhood to womanhood which are the mark and the charm of her variable age. laura was puzzled by her judgment of lawrence hyde, so keen, yet so wide of the truth as laura saw it: "excitable" was the last thing that laura would have called him, and she couldn't see any likeness to tom wallis. but one can't argue over a man's character with a child. "why so serious?" "this evening, at dinner, weren't there some queer undercurrents?" "undercurrents!" laura drew her hands away. she looked startled and nervous. "what sort of undercurrents?" "when they were chaffing val about his ribbon. oh, i don't know," said isabel vaguely. laura drew a breath of relief. "i was sorry you made him wear it. but he'd cut his hand off to please you, darling. you don't really realize the way you can make val do anything you like." "nonsense," said laura, but with an indulgent smile, which was her way of saying that it was true but did not signify. she was no coquette, but she preferred to create an agreeable impression. always in france, where women are the focus of social interest, there had been men who did as laura selincourt pleased, and the incense which val alone continued to burn was not ungrateful to her altar. "as if val would mind about a little thing like that." isabel shook her head. "perhaps you weren't attending. major clowes was very down on him for wearing it--chaffing him, of course, but chaffing half in earnest: a snowball with a stone in it. naturally val wasn't going to say you made him--" "no, but lawrence did: or i should have cut in myself." "yes, after a minute, he interfered, and then major clowes shut up, but it was all rather--rather queer, and i'm sure val hated it. you won't make him do it again, will you? val's so odd. laura--don't tell any one--i sometimes think val's very unhappy." "val, unhappy? you fanciful child, this is worse than tom wallis! what should make val unhappy? he might be dull," said laura ruefully. "life at wanhope isn't exciting! but he's keen on his work and very fond of the country. val is one of the most contented people i know." a shadow fell over isabel's face, the veil that one draws down when one has offered a confidence to hands that are not ready to receive it. "then it must be all my imagination." she abandoned the subject as rapidly as she had introduced it. "o! dear, i am sleepy." she stretched herself and yawned, opening her mouth wide and shutting it with a little snap like a kitten. "i was up at six to give val his breakfast, and i've been running about all day, what with the school treat next week, and jimmy's new night-shirts that i had to get the stuff for and cut them out, and choir practice, and fanny taking it into her head to make rhubarb jam. how can london people stay up till twelve or one o'clock every night? but of course they don't get up at six." "have a snooze in my hammock," suggested laura. "i see barry coming, which means that bernard is going off and i shall have to run away and leave you, and probably the men won't come out for some time. take forty winks, you poor child, it will freshen you up." "i never, never go to sleep in the daytime," said isabel firmly. "it's a demoralizing habit. but i shouldn't mind tumbling into your hammock, thank you very much." and, while mrs. clowes went away with barry, she slipped across to laura's large comfortable cot, swung waist-high between two alders that knelt on the river brink. isabel sprawled luxuriously at full length, one arm under her head and the other dropped over the netting: her young frame was tired, little flying aches of fatigue were darting pins and needles through her knees and shoulders and the base of her spine. the evening was very warm and the stars winked at her, they were green diamonds that sparkled through chinks in the alder leafage overhead: round dark leaves like coins, and scattered in clusters, like branches of black bloom. near at hand the river ran in silken blackness, but below the coppice, where it widened into shallows, it went whispering and rippling over a pebbly bottom on its way to the humming thunder of the mill. and in a fir-tree not far off a nightingale was singing, now a string of pearls dropping bead by bead from his throat, now rich turns and grace-notes, and now again a reiterated metallic chink which melted into liquid fluting: vogek im tannenwald pfeifet so hell: pfeifet de wald aus und ein, wo wird mein schatze sein? vogele im tannenwald pfeifet so hell. isabel was still so young that she felt the beauty more deeply when she could link it with some poetic association, and as she listened to the nightingale she murmured to herself "'in some melodious plot of beechen green with shadows numberless'--but it isn't a beech, it's a fir-tree," and then wandering off into another literary channel, "'how thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! eternal passion--eternal pain' . . . but i don't believe he feels any pain at all. it is we who feel pain. he's not been long married, and it's lovely weather, and there's plenty for them to eat, and they're in love . . . what a heavenly night it is! i wish some one were in love with me. i wonder if any one ever will be. "how thrilling it would be to refuse him! of course i couldn't possibly accept him--not the first: it would be too slow, because then one couldn't have any more. one would be like laura. poor laura! now if she were in that tree"--isabel's ideas were becoming slightly confused--"it would be natural for her to be melancholy--only if she were a bird she wouldn't care, she would fly off with some one else and leave major clowes, and all the other birds would come and peck him to death. they manage these things better in bird land." isabel's eyes shut but she hurriedly opened them again. "i'm not going to go to sleep. it's perfectly absurd. it can't be much after nine o'clock. i dare say captain hyde will come out before so very long . . . i should like to talk to him again by myself. he isn't so interesting when other people are there. i wonder why i told laura he was getting fat? he isn't: he couldn't be, to travel all over the world and shoot black panthers. and if he did take two helps of vol-au-vent, you must remember, isabel, he's a big man--well over six feet--and requires good support. he certainly is not greedy or he would have tried to pick out the oysters: all men love oysters. "he was nice about val's ribbon, too . . . wish i understood about that ribbon. val was grateful: he said 'thanks, hyde' while major clowes was speaking to barry. laura isn't stupid, but she never understands val. 'contented?' my dearest darling val! if he were being roasted over a slow fire he would be 'contented' if laura was looking on. that's the worst of being perfectly unselfish: people never realize that you're unselfish at all. wives don't seem to hear what their husbands say. often and often major clowes is absolutely insulting to val, before laura and before me. but laura always looks on val as a boy. perhaps if captain hyde hears it going on he'll interfere and shut major clowes up as he did tonight. he can manage major clowes . . . which is clever of him! 'a strong, silent man'--as a matter of fact he talks a good deal. . . . but i loved him for sitting on major clowes. i'd rather he were nice to val than to me. "but he might be nice to me too. . . . "he was, yesterday afternoon. how he coloured up! he was absolutely natural for the minute. that can't often happen. people who don't like giving themselves away are thrilling when they do." another yawn came upon her. "o! dear, i really mustn't go to sleep. what a lulling noise you make, you old river! i don't think i can get up at six tomorrow. this hammock is as comfortable as a bed. 'the young girl reclined in a graceful attitude, her head pillowed on her slender hand, her long dark lashes entangled and resting on her ivory cheek.' well, they couldn't rest anywhere else: unless they were long enough to rest on her nose. 'her--her breathing was soft and regular . . .'" it became so. isabel slept. val would rather have owed no gratitude to a man he disliked so much as hyde. when bernard was wheeled away, an interchange of perfunctory civilities was followed by a constrained silence, which val broke by rising. "hyde, if you'll excuse me, i'll say five words to bernard before barry begins getting him to bed. there's a right of way dispute going on that he liked me to keep him posted up in." "do," said lawrence vaguely. he brushed past val and escaped into the garden. lawrence was enjoying his stay at wanhope, but tonight he felt defrauded, though he knew not why. he had had an agreeable day. in the morning jack bendish had appeared on horseback and lawrence had ridden over with him to lunch at wharton, a sufficiently amusing experience, what with the crabbed high-spirited whims of jack's grandfather and the old-fashioned courtesy of lord grantchester, and yvonne's romantic toilette: later laura had joined them and they had played bowls on the famous green: in the cool of the evening he had strolled home with laura through the fields. dinner too had been amusing in its way, the wines were excellent, the parlour maid waited at table like a deft ghost, and he recognized in mrs. fryar an artist who was thrown away alike on bernard's devotion to roast beef and val's inability to remember what he ate. yet lawrence was left vaguely discontented. bernard's manner to val had set his teeth on edge. bernard could have meant no harm: no one had ever known the truth except lawrence and val, and possibly dale with such torn shreds of consciousness as h. e. and barbed wire had left him: but in all innocence bernard had set the rack to work as deftly as lawrence could have done it himself. lawrence pitied--no, that was a slip of the mind: he was not so weak as to pity stafford, but their intercourse was difficult, genant. and isabel stafford too: clowes had left her out of the conversation as though she were a child, and though lawrence tried to bring her in she remained, so to say, in the nursery most of the time, speaking when she was spoken to but without any of her characteristic freshness and boldness. she was the schoolgirl that clowes expected her to be. her very dress irritated lawrence, as if he had seen a fine painting in a tawdry frame, or a pearl of price foiled by a spurious setting. he had not felt any glow at all, and was left to suppose his fancy had played him a trick. disappointing! and now there was no chance of revising his impression, for apparently she had gone away with laura--who should have known better than to leave captain hyde to his own devices. but probably miss stafford had refused to face the men alone: it was what a little shy country girl would do. isabel's arm hanging over the edge of the hammock, and pearly white in the dark, was his first warning of her presence. he crossed the wood with his hunter's step and found her lapped in dreams, the starlight that filtered between the alder branches chequering her with a faint diaper of light and shade. only the very young can afford to be, seen asleep, when the face sinks back into its original repose, and lines and wrinkles reappear in the loss of all that smiling charm of expression which may efface them by day. laura, asleep, looked old and haggard. but isabel presented a blank page, a face virginally pure, and candid, and lineless: from the attitude of her young body one would have thought she was constructed without bones, and from her serenity it might have been a child who slept there in the june night, so placidly entrusting herself to its mild embrace. vividly aware that he had no right to watch her, lawrence stood watching her, though afraid at every breath that she would wake up: it was hard to believe that even in her sleep she could remain insensible of his eyes. here was the authentic isabel, the girl who had enchanted him on the moor: the incarnation of that classic beauty by which alone his spirit was capable of being touched to fine issues. the alder branches quivered, their clusters of black shadow fell like an embroidered veil over the imperfections of her dress, but what light there was shone clear on her head and throat, and the pearly moulding of her shoulder, based where her sleeve was dragged down a little by the tension of her weight upon it. all the mystery of womanhood and all its promise of life in bud and life not yet sown lay on this young girl asleep in the starshine. lights flashed up in the house, figures were moving between the curtains: laura had left bernard, soon she would come out into the garden and call to isabel, and isabel would wake and his chance be lost. his chance? isabel had rashly incurred a forfeit and would have to pay. the frolic was old, there was plenty of precedent for it, and not for one moment did lawrence dream of letting her off. a moth, a dead leaf might have settled on her sleeping lips and she would have been none the wiser, and just such a moth's touch he promised himself, the contact of a moment, but enough to intoxicate him with its sweetness, and the first--yes, he believed it would be the first: not from any special faith in isabel's obduracy, but because no one in chilmark was enough of a connoisseur to appreciate her. yes, the first, the bloom on the fruit, the unfolding of the bud, he promised himself that: and warily he stooped over isabel, who slept as tranquil as though she were in her own room under the vicarage eaves. lawrence held his breath. if she were to wake? then?--oh, then the middleaged friend of the family claiming his gloves and his jest! but lawrence was not feeling middle-aged. "o! dear," said isabel, "i've been asleep!" she sat up rubbing her eyes. "laura, are you there?" but no one was there. yet, though she was alone, in the solitude of the alder shade isabel blushed scarlet. "what a ridiculous dream! worse than ridiculous, what would val say if he knew? really, isabel, you ought to be whipped!" she slipped to her feet and peered suspiciously this way and that into the shadowy corners of the wood. not a step: not the rustle of a leaf: no one. yet isabel's cheeks continued to burn, till with a little frightened laugh she buried them in her hands. "o! it was-- it was a dream--?" chapter ix lawrence's reflections when he went to bed that night were more insurgent and disorderly than usual. in his negative philosophy, when he shut the door of his room, it was his custom to shut the door on memory too--to empty his mind of all its contents except the physical disposition to sleep. he cultivated an indian's self-involved and deliberate vacancy. on this his second night at wanhope however--wanhope which was to bring him a good many white nights before he was done with it--he lay long awake, watching the stars that winked and glittered in the field of his open window, the same stars that were perhaps shining on isabel's pillow. . . . isabel: it was on her that his thoughts ran with a tiring persistency against which his common sense rebelled. a kiss! what was it after all? a christmas forfeit, a prank of which even val stafford could have said no worse than that it was beneath the dignity of his six and thirty years: only too flattering for such a little country girl, sunburnt, simple, and occasionally tongue-tied. the lady of the ivory frame (whom lawrence had fished out of her seclusion and set up on his dressing table, to the disgust of caroline: who was a baptist, and didn't care to dust a person who wore so few clothes), the lady of the ivory frame was far handsomer than isabel, or at least handsome in a far more finished style. lawrence had the curiosity to get out of bed and carry mrs. cleve to the window. yes, she certainly was an expensive luxury, this smiling lady, her eyes large and liquid, her waved hair rippling under its diamond aigrette, her rather wide, eighteenth century shoulders dimpling down under a collar of diamonds to the half bare swell of her breast: and for an amateur of her type she was charming, with her tired, sophisticated glance and her fresh mouth, like a rouged child: but it was borne in on lawrence that she was not for him. he had kissed her two or three times, as occasion served and she seemed to desire it, but he had never lain awake afterwards, nor had his heart beaten any faster, no, not even in the summerhouse at bingley when she was fairly in his arms. he pitched the photograph into a drawer. frederick cleve was safe, for him. strolling out on the balcony, lawrence folded his arms on the balustrade. the night was hot: perhaps that was why he could not sleep. by his watch it was ten minutes past two. the moon was near her setting. she lay on her back with tumbled clouds all round her: mother & pearl clouds, quilted, and tinged with a sheen of opal. he wondered whether bernard was asleep: poor bernard, lying alone through the dreary hours. perhaps it was because lawrence was not at all like a curate that bernard had already made his cousin free of certain dark corners which val had never been allowed to explore. "my wife? she's not my wife," clowes had said, staring up at lawrence with his wide black eyes. "she's my nurse." and he went on defining the situation with the large coarse frankness which he permitted himself since his accident, and which did not repel lawrence, as it would have repelled val or jack bendish, because lawrence habitually used the same frankness in his own mind. there was some family likeness between the cousins, and it came out in their common contempt for modern delicacy, which bernard called squeamishness and lawrence damned in more literary language as the victorian manner. the moon dipped lower over the trees while lawrence took one of his sharp turns of self-analysis. most men live in a haze, but lawrence was naturally a clear thinker, and he had neither a warm heart nor a sentimental temperament to blind him. cleve was safe: but with his rabelaisian candour and cultivated want of scruple lawrence reflected that cleve had been anything but safe at bingley. whence the change? from isabel stafford! lawrence shrugged his shoulders: he was accustomed to examine himself in a dry light of curiosity, and no vice or weakness shocked him, but here was pure folly. what was he doing at wanhope? "i'm contracting attachments," he reflected, unbuttoning his silk jacket to feel the night air cool on his chest, a characteristic action: wind, sunshine, a wandering scent, the freshness of dew, all the small sensuous pleasures that most men neglect, lawrence would go out of his way to procure. "i'm breaking my rule." long ago he had resolved never to let himself get fond of any one again, because in this world of chance and change, at the mercy of a blindly striking power, the game is not worth the candle: one suffers too much. as for miss stafford, one need not be a professed stole to draw the line at a little country girl, pious to insipidity and simple to the brink of silliness. here lawrence, not being one of those who deny facts when they are unwelcome, caught himself up: she was not insipid and her power over him was undeniable. twice within forty-eight hours she had defeated his will, and what was stranger was that each time he had surrendered eagerly, feeling for the moment as though it didn't matter what he said or did before isabel.--it was at this point of his analysis that lawrence began to take fright. "you rascal," he said to himself, "so that's why you're off mrs. cleve, is it? what is it you want--to marry the child? you would be sick to death of her in six weeks--and haven't you had enough of giving hostages to fortune?" hostages to fortune: that pregnant phrase frightens men who fear nothing else in heaven or earth. but not one of hyde's friends knew that he had ever given fortune a hostage. he was not reserved as a rule: indeed he was always willing to argue creed and code with a frankness rare in the self-conscious english race: he was never shy and there was little in him that was distinctively english. but he was too subtle and inconsistent for the average homogeneous englishman, and not even the comrades of trench and tent knew much about his private life. lawrence was one of those products of a high civilization which have in them pretty strong affinities with barbarism,--but always with a difference. the noble savage tortures his enemy out of hate or revenge: lawrence, more sophisticated in brutality, was capable of doing it by way of a psychological experiment. the savage takes a short cut from desire to possession: lawrence though his blood ran hot curbed it from caution, because in modern life women are a burden and a drag. this was the trained and tempered lawrence hyde, a personage of great good humour and numitigable egoism. this was the companion of easy morals with whom lawrence was on familiar terms. but on that first white night at wanhope lawrence grew dimly aware of the upheaval of deeper forces, as if his youth were stirring in its grave. when laura clowes smiled at him with her gallant bearing: when bernard gripped his hand in wishing him good night: when val in the middle of the psychological experiment pierced him with his grave tired eyes, all sorts of feelings long dormant and believed to be dead came to life in lawrence: pity, and affection, and remorse and shame. "hang the fellow!" lawrence reflected. "he's too like his sister. and isabel? she is a child." whose voice was it that answered, "this is the woman i have been waiting for all my life?" and then, turning at bay, he came to a sufficiently cynical conclusion. "no nonsense!" he said to himself. "your trouble is that she's twenty and you're six and thirty, which is a dangerous age. but you don't want to marry her, and there's no middle course. fruit defendu, mon ami: hands off! if you can't be sensible you'll have to shift out of wanhope and compromise on mrs. cleve." the rain held off, and after breakfast--a cheery meal at which bernard for the first time for many months appeared dressed and in a good temper--lawrence fulfilled the main duty of a guest by going for a walk. he came by footbridge and field path into the high street, where he was immediately buttonholed by the vicar. lawrence had a fixed idea that all priests were hypocrites: they must be, since as educated men they could not well believe the fables they were paid to teach! but it was hard to associate hypocrisy with mr. stafford, whose fond ambition it was to nail lawrence hyde to lecture on his chinese travels before the bible class. "oh, nothing religious," he explained, holding his victim firmly by the coat as lawrence edged away. "only half an hour's story-telling to put a few new ideas into their heads--as if you were talking to a young brother of your own. i'm always trying to get them to emigrate, but they need a great deal of shoving." lawrence said they could not emigrate to china, and, further, that he didn't regard them as brothers. "how narrow you are, some of you university men!" sighed mr. stafford. "what a concept of society! but," brightening, "you're not so bad as you're painted. come, come! a fifth-of-august recruit can't very well deny that we're all brothers in arms?" before lawrence escaped he was not sure that he hadn't pledged himself to an address on "fringes of the empire," with special reference to the c.u.m.c.a. it was too sunny to fish, but the trout lured him, and from the cross-roads by the stone bridge he struck into a footpath that led upstream into the hills, behind whose green spurs chilmark before long was out of sight. here it was lonely country. sometimes on a headland the sun flashed white over a knot of labourers, scything the hay where no machine could go: sometimes a shepherd's cote gleamed far off above the pale wattlings of a fold: but as he wound on--and on into the plain there was no sign of man in all the hot landscape, and no motion but the bicker of the stream over its stony bed, and the hum of insect life busy on its millions of dark and tiny vibrant wings. not a breath of wind stirred among these grassy valleys, and lawrence, feeling warm, had sat down by a pool under a sapling birchtree, when he heard a step on the path. it was isabel stafford. he had hardly seen her again overnight, for val had carried his young sister away before ten o'clock. he waited for her in the rare shadow of the birchtree, a tall powerful figure in a white drill suit of the tropics, his fair skin and black eyes shaded by a wide panama hat. isabel as she drew near was vexed to find herself blushing. she was a little shy of captain hyde, a little averse to meet his sparkling eyes. "isn't it hot?" she said, frankly wiping her face with a large handkerchief. "this is a favourite pool of mine, i often sit here when i come this way. i never saw such beautiful dragonflies, did you? they must be nearly as big as hummingbirds." over the brown mirror of the pool a troop of great dragonflies were ceaselessly darting to and fro, their metallic wings making a faint whirr as they looped in blinding mazes through the air that glowed blue with their splendour. "very beautiful," said lawrence. "are you out for a walk? i'm on my way to wancote." here panic fell on isabel, the panic that lies in wait for young girls: if he were to think she thought he ought to offer to escort her! "i'm late, i must go on now. good-bye!" lawrence stood looking down at her, impassive, almost sombre, but for the hot glow in his eyes. his caution had gone overboard. "mayn't i come too?" "oh. . . ." "do let me." "if you--if you like." the valley narrowed as it receded, the upland air began to sparkle with a myriad prismatic needles that glittered from the wings of flies and beetles, and from dewdrops on patches of turf still as grey as hoarfrost in the shadow on the edge of a wood, and from wayside hollies whose leaf-points were all starred in silver. the blue bow overhead was stainless, not a cloud in it nor a mist: azure, azure, and unfathomable, like the heart of man, or the justice of god.--isabel was not shy now but alert and radiant, as if she had caught a sparkle from the air: and expansive, as women are when they are sure of pleasing. "'for the jaded man of the world at her side, the young girl's rustic freshness was her chief charm. she was so different from the beautiful but heartless mondaines he had known in town. no diamonds glittered round her slender throat, and her hands, though small and well-shaped, were tanned by the summer sun. but for the jaded-man-of-the-world, weary of sparkling epigram or caustic repartee, her simple chatter held a fascination of its own.' i don't believe," reflected isabel, coming down mentally to plain prose, "he'd mind if i talked to him about the dinner or last week's washing bill." she did not in fact enter on any such intimate topic, but conversed sedately about parish politics and the beauties of the plain. "this is a very lonely part," she said, "there are scarcely any houses. i'm taking the magazine to one of major clowes' shepherds. it's rather interesting going there. he's mad." "mad!" "as a march hare. he's perfectly harmless of course, and an excellent shepherd. in lambing time he looks after the ewes like a mother, val says his flock hardly ever lose a lamb. but he's a thrilling person to district-visit. last time i went he had the prince of wales staying with him." "why on earth don't they put him in an asylum?" "do you know much about country villages?" isabel enquired. "i thought not. they never put any one in an asylum till after he's got into trouble, and not always then if he doesn't want to go: just as they never build a bridge over a level crossing till one or two people have been killed. we had a woman in chilmark that was much madder than poor dear ben is. she took a knife out of her drawer once when i was there and told me she was going to cut her throat with it. she made me feel the edge to see how sharp it was. at last she cut the children's throats instead of her own, and then they put her away, but none of them died and she's out again now. she's supposed to be cured. you see a county asylum doesn't keep people longer than it must because the money comes out of the rates." "do you mean to say," lawrence fastened on the point that struck him most forcibly, "that your father lets you go to such places by yourself?" "oh yes: why not? he would think it showed want of faith to prevent me. he's very sensible about things like that," said isabel without affectation. "there are always typhoid and diphtheria about in the autumn, but jimmy never fusses. it wouldn't be much use if he did, with him and val always in and out of infected houses." "pure fatalism--" said lawrence, hitting with his stick at the flowers by their path. "your brother ought to put his foot down--" isabel seized his arm. "take care!-- there was a bee in it. you really are most careless captain hyde! i shan't take you for any more walks if you do that. i dare say it was one of my own bees, and he had the very narrowest escape! and val wouldn't dream of interfering. ben and i are the best of friends. besides, it's mrs. janaway i really go to see, poor dear, she don't ever hear a bit o' news from week's end to week's end. wouldn't you be glad to see me," her eyes were destitute of challenge but not of humour, "if you lived three miles deep in the plain, alone with your husband and the prince of wales?" "i should be delighted to see you at any time." isabel, not knowing what to do with this speech, let it alone. "and the dog: i mustn't forget the dog. they have a thoroughbred great dane. mr. bendish gave ben the puppy because it was the worst of the litter and they thought it would die: but it didn't die--no animal does that ben gets hold of--and he's too fond of it now to part with it, though a dog fancier from amesbury has offered him practically his own price for it." "i should like to see the dane." "well, you will, if you come with me. there's the cottage." they had turned a bend and the head of the dale lay before them, a mere dimpling depression between breasts of chalky grass. set close by the way on a cross-track, which forded the brook by stepping stones and went on over the downs to amesbury, stood a small, square, tumbledown cottage, its door opening on primeval turf, though behind it a plot of garden enclosed in a quickset hedge provided mrs. janaway with cabbages and gooseberries and sour apples and room to hang out the clothes. "ben won't be in, but billy will be looking after clara. billy is no good with the sheep, but he's death on tramps. in fact if i weren't here it wouldn't be too safe for you to go to the door. a dane can pull any man down: i've heard even jack bendish say he wouldn't care to tackle him--" even jack bendish! lawrence smiled. he felt the prick of isabel's blade, it amused him, automatically he reacted to it, she made him want to fight the dane first and jack bendish afterwards--but he retained just too much of the ascendancy of his six and thirty years to gratify her by self-betrayal. "you're a very brave young lady," he said cheerfully, "but if i were val--" he stopped short. from the cottage window, now not twenty yards off, there had come a burst of the most appalling screams he had ever heard in his life, the mechanical screaming of mortal agony. isabel went as white as chalk and even hyde felt the blood turn cold at his heart. next moment the door was torn open and out of it came a big red-bearded man, dressed in a brown tweed jacket and velveteen trousers tied at the knees, and prancing high in a solemn jig. in one hand he held up an iron stake and in the other a rag of red and black carpet . . . the body of a woman in a black dress, her arms and legs hanging down, her face a scarlet mask that had ceased to scream. "keep back, isabel," said lawrence: then, running across the turf, "drop that, janaway! drop her!" in the hard authoritative voice of the barrack square. with the fitful docility of the mad, janaway obeyed, and directly he did so lawrence checked and stood on the defensive, taking a moment to collect his wits--he had need of them: he had to make his head guard his hands. he was a tall powerful man, but so was the shepherd: to offset hyde's science, janaway was mad and would be stopped by no punishment short of a knock-out blow: and lawrence carried only an ordinary walking-stick, while janaway had hold of an upright from a bit of iron railing, five feet long and barbed like a spear. "if he whacks me over the head with that or jabs it into my stomach, i'm done," lawrence thought, and pat to the moment janaway, his mouth open and his teeth bare, rushed on him and struck at his eyes. lawrence parried and sprang aside: but his arm was jarred to the elbow. "that was a close call. ha! my chance now . . ." like a flash, as janaway turned, lawrence ran in to meet him body to body, seized him by the lapels of his coat, pinned down his arms, set one foot against his thigh, and with no great exertion of strength, by the samurai's trick of falling with one's enemy, heaved him up and shot him clean over his own shoulder: then, as they dropped together, struck with his wrist a paralysing blow at the base of the spine. janaway's yell of fury was choked into a rattling groan. lawrence was up in a twinkling, but the shepherd lay where he had fallen, and lawrence let him lie: he knew that, so handled, the victim could be counted out of action, perhaps for good and all. he stood erect, breathing deep. ben could wait, but what of mrs. ben? he was shocked to find isabel already at her side on the reddened turf. mechanically lawrence picked up his stick before he went to join her. clara was huddled up over a pool of blood, her head between her knees: not a pleasant sight for a young girl. but isabel, though white and trembling, was collected. "i can't feel her heart, i--i'm afraid--" she broke off. her glance had travelled beyond lawrence and her features were stiffening into a mask of fear. "oh, the dog, the dog!" she pointed past him. "billy, billy, down, sir!" from some eyrie on the hillside the dane had watched without emotion the legitimate spectacle of his master beating his mistress: in the war of the sexes, a dog is ever on the man's side. but when the tables were turned billy went to the rescue. he was coming round the corner of the cottage when isabel caught sight of him, travelling in great bounds at the pace of a wolf, but silent. lawrence had but just time to swing isabel behind him before the dane leapt for his throat. lawrence struck him over the head, but the blow glanced: so sudden, so thundering came the impact that lawrence all but went down under it: and once down. . . . the great jaws snapped one inch from his cheek, and before the dane could recover lawrence had seized him by the throat and fought him off. then lawrence set his back against the cottage wall and felt safer. a second blow got home, and spoilt billy's beauty for ever: it laid open his left eye and the left side of his jaw. undaunted, the dane gave himself an angry shake, which spattered lawrence with blood, and gathered his haunches for a second spring. but by now lawrence had clubbed his stick and was beating him about the head with its heavy knobbed handle. swift as the dog was, the man was swifter: they fought eye to eye, the man forestalling every motion of the dog's whipcord frame: lawrence's blood was up, he would have liked to fight it out bare-handed. they would not have been ill-matched, for when the dane reared lawrence overtopped him only by an inch or so, and the weight of the steelclad paws on his breast tore open his clothes and pinned him to the wall. but lawrence thrashed him off his feet whenever he tried to rise, till at length the lean muzzle sank with a low baffled moan. even then there was such fell strength in him that lawrence dared not spare him, and blow rained on blow.--"don't kill him," said isabel. "put this over his head." lawrence took the length of serge she gave him and with characteristic indifference to danger stooped over the dog, whose spirit he admired, and tried to swathe his head in its heavy folds. but, torn, blinded, baffled, the dane was undefeated. he wrenched his jaws out of their mufflings and rolled his head from side to side, snapping right and left. "oh billy," cried isabel, "you know me, lie down, dear old man!" a pure-bred dog when sight and hearing are gone will recognize a familiar scent. in an agony of pity isabel flung her arm over the heaving shoulders-- "don't!" lawrence dragged her off, but too late: the dane's teeth had snapped on her wrist. the next moment he was lying on his side with his brains beaten out. lawrence was willing to spare his own enemy but not isabel's. "oh," said isabel, shivering and moaning, "oh, my poor old billy!" "damn your poor old billy," said lawrence: "let me look at your arm." he carried her indoors, leaving janaway and his wife and the dane lying scattered on the sunlit turf. he did not care one straw whether they lived or died. in the little front parlour, neat and fresh with its window full of white muslin and red geraniums, he laid isabel on a sofa and rolled up her sleeve: the flesh was not much torn but the dane's fangs had sunk in deep and clean. "how far are we from a doctor?" "four miles. why? billy wasn't mad. i shall be all right directly. may i have some water to drink?" "curse these country hamlets," said lawrence. he could not carry her four miles, nor was she fit to walk so far: but to fetch help would mean an hour or so's delay. he went into the kitchen to filla tumbler from the pump, and found an iron wash-bowl in clara janaway's neat sink, and a kettle boiling on the hob beside a saucepan of potatoes that she had been cooking for dinner. isabel sat up and took the glass from his hand. "i'm so sorry," she murmured, raising her beautiful dark eyes in a diffident apology. "it was all my own fault." lawrence slipped a cushion under her head and drew her gently down. "oh, thank you! but please don't trouble about me. i do feel rather queer." lawrence thought it probable. he had been bitten by a dog himself and knew how horribly such a wound smarts. "it was all so--so very dreadful. but i shall be all right directly.. do go back to the others: i'm afraid poor clara--oh! oh, captain hyde! what are you doing?" "set your teeth and shut your eyes," said lawrence "it won't take long. your beloved billy wasn't a nice animal to be bitten by. no, he wasn't mad, but his teeth weren't very clean, and we don't want blood poisoning to set up. steady now." he pressed his lips to her arm. isabel's hand lay lax in his grasp while he methodically sucked the wound and rinsed his mouth from her tumbler. he hurt her, but she had been bred to accept pain philosophically. "is it done?" she asked meekly when he released her. "not any more?" "no, that's enough. now for a drop of warm water." he bathed the wound thoroughly and in default of a better dressing bound it up with his own handkerchief. "i wish i had some brandy to give you, but there isn't a drop in the place. your estimable friend appears to have been a teetotaller. i don't doubt he was a pattern of all the virtues.-- but for that matter i couldn't give the child publichouse stuff.-- now, my little friend, if you'll lie quiet for five minutes, i'll see what's going on outside." "please may i have my skirt?" "your what?" "my serge skirt." it had not struck lawrence till then that she was dressed in a white muslin blouse and a pink and blue striped petticoat. "do you mean to say that was your skirt you gave me to tie up the dog's head in?" "i hadn't anything else," said isabel still more apologetically, and blushing--she was feeling very guilty, very much ashamed of the trouble she had given: "and you don't know how fond ben was of billy!" "oh, damn billy!" said lawrence for the second time. he went out into the summer sunshine. the dog, the fallen man, the fallen woman, not one of them had stirred a hair. all was peaceful and clear in every note of black and white and scarlet on the turf plat where they lay as if on a stage, in their green setting of dimpled hillside and beech grove and marsh. there was a sickly smell in the hot bright air which carried lawrence back to the trenches. he went to examine the human wreckage. no need to examine billy --his record for good or ill was manifestly closed: and lawrence had a sickening suspicion that mrs. janaway too had finished with a world which perhaps had not offered her much inducement to remain in it. he lifted her up and laid her down again in a decent posture, straightening her limbs and sweeping back her clotted grey hair: no, no need to feel for the pulse in that faded breast from which her husband had partly torn away the neatly darned stuff bodice, so modest with its white tucker and silver mizpah brooch. lawrence composed its disorder with a reverent hand, spreading his own coat over her face. he went on to ben, and was frankly disappointed to find that ben was not dead--far from it: he gave a deep groan when lawrence rolled him over: but it was a case of broken arm and collarbone, if not of spinal injury as well. lawrence found a length of line in the yard--clara's clothes-line, in fact--and knotted it into a triple cord, for, though no sane man could have got far in such a state, it was on the cards that janaway in his madness might scramble up and wander away on the downs. so lawrence lashed him hand and foot, and ben blinked and grinned at the sun and slavered over his beard. it was while thus employed that lawrence began to wonder what would have happened if isabel had come to wancote alone. she might have run away. but would she, while ben was engaged in carpet-beating? not she! lawrence was not a fanciful man: but the red and grey remains of clara janaway would have set the visualizing faculty to work in the mind of a ploughboy. after tying the last of a dozen knots, reef knots and none too loose, he went to the back of the cottage where isabel could not see him and was swiftly and violently sick. after that he felt better. there was a pump in the yard, and he rinsed his head and hands under it, and washed off as best he could the stains of the fight, and re-knotted his scarf and shook himself down into his disordered clothes before going back to isabel. and then it was that isabel received of him a fresh impression as though she had never known him before, one of those vivid second impressions that efface earlier memories. val had always held paternal rank, captain hyde had been introduced as val's late superior officer, and so isabel had accepted him as val's contemporary, of the generation before her own. but framed in the sunlit doorway, a very tall handsome man in undress, his coat thrown off, his trousers belted on his lean flanks, his wet shirt modelling itself over his powerful throat and shoulders and sticking to his ribs, hyde might have been only six or seven and twenty: and certainly his manner was not middle-aged! val's language was refined enough for a curate, and even rowsley in his young sister's presence never went beyond a sarcenet oath; but hyde's frank fury was piquant to isabel's not very decorous taste. when he came in, her pain and faintness began to diminish as if a stream of warm fresh life were flowing into her veins. "are you better, miss isabel?" "ever so much better, thank you. is--is clara--?" cool, grave, and tranquil, lawrence took her hand. "clara is dead." he felt her trembling, and found a form of consolation which would have been slow to occur to his unprompted fancy. "better so, isn't it? she wouldn't have been very happy after her husband's trying to kill her." "no, she wouldn't want them to put him in an asylum," isabel agreed, but in a subdued voice. "did you forget my skirt?" "no, but it was rather in a mess with the unfortunate billy, and i'm afraid you'll have to do without it. i'm going to take you home now. you can walk, can't you, with my help? i'd like to carry you a few steps, till we're out of sight of the cottage. put your arm round my neck." isabel hesitated. she had been frightened out of her life and still felt cruelly shaken, but her quick sense of the ridiculous protested against this deference paid to her when she wasn't really hurt and it was all her own fault. what would val have said? but apparently captain hyde was less exacting than val. "ah! let me: it is an ugly little scene outside and i don't want you to be haunted by it." she resigned herself. she had not yet begun to feel shy of lawrence, she was a child still, a child with the instincts of a woman, but those instincts all asleep. they quickened in her when she felt the glow of his life so near her own, but there was a touch of miranda in isabel, and no cautionary withdrawal followed. and lawrence? the trustfulness of a noble nature begets what it assumes. one need not ask what would have become of miranda if she had given her troth to an unworthy ferdinand, because the mirandas of this world are rarely deceived. hyde was but a battered ferdinand. he was a man of strong and rather coarse fibre who had indifferently indulged tastes that he saw no reason to restrain. but he was changing: when he carried isabel across the sunlit grass plot, her beautiful grave childish head lying warm on his shoulder, he had travelled far from the hyde of the summer house at bingley. "my word!" said yvonne bendish, startled out of her drawl. "is it you, isabel?" she reined in and sat gazing with all her eyes at the couple coming down the field path to chilmark bridge. "have you had an accident? what's happened?" "excuse my hat," said lawrence with rather more than his habitual calm. "how lucky to have met you. there has been a shocking business up at wancote. perhaps you would take miss stafford home? she should be got to bed, i think." mrs. jack bendish was not soon ruffled, nor for long. "lift her in," she said. "sorry i can't make room for you too, captain hyde, you are as white as a ghost. very upsetting, isn't it? but don't worry, girls of her age turn faint rather easily. her arm hurt? . . ." she pointed down the road with her whip. "dr. verney lives at the laburnus, on the right, beyond the publichouse. if you would be so kind as to send him up to the vicarage?" she whipped up her black ponies and was gone. lawrence was grateful to her for asking no questions, but he would rather have taken isabel direct to val. romance in bud requires a delicate hand. now mrs. jack bendish had all the bourgeois virtues except modesty and discretion. chapter x the wancote affair made a nine days' wonder in the plain. indeed it even got into the london papers, under such titles as "a domestic tragedy" or "duel with a dog": and, while the morning post added a thumbnail sketch of captain hyde's distinguished career, the spectator took ben as the text of a "middle" on "the abuse of asylum administration in rural districts." lawrence himself, when he had despatched hubert verney to the vicarage, would have liked to cut his responsibility. but it could not be done: first there was the village policeman to run to earth and information to be laid before him, and then, since brown's first flustered impulse was to arrest all concerned from lawrence to clara janaway, lawrence had to walk down with him to wharton to interview jack bendish, as both the nearest magistrate and the nearest sensible man. but after pouring his tale into jack's sympathetic ear he felt entitled to wash his hands of the affair. instead of going back to wanhope with the relief party he got bendish to drop him at the field path to wanhope: and he slipped up to his room by a garden door, bathed, changed, and came down to lunch without trace of discomposure. gaston, curtly ordered to take his master's clothes away and burn them, was eaten by curiosity, but in vain. even before his cousin, lawrence did not own to his adventure till the servants had left the room. if it could have been kept dark he would not have owned to it at all. he did so only because it must soon be common property and he did not care to be taxed with affectation. when, bit by bits his story came out across the liqueur glasses and the early strawberries, major clowes laid his head back and roared with laughter. lawrence was annoyed: he had not found it amusing and he felt that his cousin had a macabre and uncomfortable sense of humour. but bernard, wiping the tears from his eyes, developed unabashed his idea of a good joke. "hark to him! now isn't that lawrence all over? what! can't you run down for twenty-four hours to a hamlet the size of chilmark but you must bring your faics divers in your pocket?" "it isn't my fault if you have dangerous lunatics at large," said lawrence, helping himself daintily to cream. "if this is a specimen of the way things go on in country districts, thank you, give me a london slum. the brute was as mad as a hatter. he ought to have been locked up years ago. i can't conceive what stafford was about to keep him on the estate." "all very fine," bernard chuckled, "but i'd lay any odds ben didn't go for mrs. ben till he saw you coming." "adventures are to the adventurous," laura mildly translated the bitter jest. her mission in life was to smooth down bernard's rough edges. "but that is too ugly, berns. you oughtn't to say such a thing even in fun. it was no fun for lawrence." "i don't object to an occasional scrap," said lawrence. "but this one was overdone." he shivered suddenly from head to foot. "hallo, old man, i didn't know you had a nerve in your body!" said bernard staring at him. lawrence went on with his strawberries in an ungenial silence. he was irritated by his momentary self betrayal. if he had cared to explain it he would have had to confess that though personally indifferent to adventures he disliked to have women mixed up in them. he was glad when laura with her intuitive tact changed the conversation, not too abruptly. "all modern men have nerves. i should think lawrence had as few as any, but it must have been a frightful scene. i must run up after lunch and see isabel. poor child! but she's wonderfully brave. all the staffords were brought up to be stoical: if they knocked themselves about as children they were never allowed to cry. mr. stafford is a fanatic on the point of personal courage. val told me once that the only sins for which his father ever cuffed him were telling fibs and running away." "did he get cuffed often?" lawrence enquired. "shouldn't wonder," said bernard. "val's one of your nervy men." "not after he was ten years old," said laura smiling. "but as a little boy he was always in trouble. not the wisest treatment, was it? for a delicate, sensitive child." "miss isabel is not nervous," said lawrence. "she is as cool a young lady as i have ever seen. i believe she still owes me a grudge for hitting billy so hard." he dipped his fingers delicately into his finger bowl. "no, no more, thanks. did i tell you that the brute of a dane bit her?" "bit isabel!" "made his teeth pretty nearly meet in her forearm. she was trying to soothe the dear dog. mr. stafford's theories may be ethically beautiful, but i object to their being carried to extremes. frankly, i should describe your young friend as idiotically rash," said lawrence with a wintry smile. "i couldn't prevent her doing it because i hadn't the remotest notion she was going to do it. the dane was practically mad with rage. i could have cuffed her myself with pleasure. it was a wild thing to do and not at all agreeable for me." "but, my dear lawrence, that is one way of looking at it!" laura protested, amused by his cool egoism, though she took it with the necessary grain of salt. "bitten by that horrible dog? my poor isabel! she loves dogs--i don't suppose she stopped to consider her own feelings or yours." "she ought to have had more sense." "hear, hear!" said bernard. "half the trouble in the world comes from women shoving in where they're not wanted. it's a pleasure to talk to you, lawrence, after lying here to be slobbered over by a pack of old women. i always exclude you, my dear," he nodded to laura, "but the parson twaddles on till he makes me sick, and val's not much better. what's a woman want with courage? teach her to buy decent clothes and put 'em on properly, and she's learning something useful. i'll guarantee isabel only got in the way. but you, lawrence," he measured his cousin with an admiring eye, much as a roman connoisseur might have run over the points of a favourite gladiator, "i should have liked to see you tackle the dane. you're a big chap--deeper in the chest than i ever was, and longer in the reach. what's your chest measurement?-- yes, you look it. and nothing in your hand but a stick? by jove, it must have been worth watching! hey, laura?" "bernard, you are embarrassing! you will make even lawrence shy. but, yes," laura laid her hand on hyde's arm: "i should have liked to watch you fight the dane." how long was it since any one had spoken to lawrence in that warm tone of affection? not since his father died. from time to time mrs. cleve or other ladies had flattered his senses or his vanity, but none of them had ever looked at him with laura's kind admiring eyes. perhaps after all there was something to be said for family life! tragic wreck as clowes was, he would have been far more to be pitied but for his wife: their marriage, crippled and sterilized, was yet--as lawrence saw it--a beautiful relation. suppose he stood in that relation to isabel? sitting at table in the cool panelled diningroom, his careless pose stiffening under laura's touch, lawrence for the first time began to wonder whether he would not gain more in happiness than he would lose in freedom if he were to make the child his wife. "to make the child his wife." he was not really more of an egoist than the average man, but he did assume that if he wanted her he could win her. his mistress was very young: it was her rose of youth and her unquelled spirit that charmed him even more than her beauty: and she had not sixpence to her name, while he was a rich man. he did not, as bernard would have done, go on to plume himself on his magnanimity, or infer that isabel's gratitude would give him a claim on her fealty over and beyond the pauline duty of wives. in the immediate personal relation lawrence was visited by a saving humility. but on the main issue he took, or thought he took, a practical view. a man in love cannot soberly analyse his own psychological state, and lawrence did not know that he had fallen in love with isabel at first sight or that the germ of matrimonial intentions had lain all along in his mind. here and now he believed that he first thought of marrying her. then he would have to stay on at wanhope. and court isabel under the eyes of all chilmark? under bernard's eyes at all events; they were already watching him. lawrence was irritated: whatever happened, he was not going to be watched by his cousin and chaffed and argued over and betted on. in most points indifferently frank, lawrence was silent as the grave where sex came into play. "thank you." he touched with his lips the hand that laura had innocently laid on his wrist. "it can't really be fourteen years, laura, since you were staying at farringay." "flatterer!" said laura, smiling but startled, and rising from her chair. "this to an old married woman!" "ah! when i remember that i knew you before this fellow did--!" "here, i say," came bernard's voice across the table, riotously amused, "none o' that! none o' that!" "penalty for having a charming wife," laughed lawrence, in his preoccupation blind and deaf to danger signals. he rose to open the door for laura. "by the by, if you go to the vicarage this afternoon, i'll stroll up with you, if i may. i suppose i owe the young lady that much civility!" "i can't: i'm busy," said laura hastily. "that is, i don't know what time i shall get away. go by yourself, don't wait for me." "rubbish," said bernard. "much pleasanter for both of you to have the walk together. lawrence doesn't want to go alone, do you?" ("rather not," said lawrence heartily.) "and i don't want you here, my love, if that's the trouble, i can't have you tied to the leg of my sofa." later, when lawrence had gone out on the lawn to smoke, bernard recalled laura. she came to him. he took hold of her wrist and lay smiling up at her. "nice relationship, isn't it, cousins-in-law? so free and easy. you--. i watched you pawing him about. so affectionate. he felt it too. did you see the start he gave? he twigged fast enough. think you can play that game under my nose, do you? so you can. i don't care what you do. take yourself off now and take him with you." "don't pinch my wrist below the cuff, bernard," said his wife. "i can't wear gloves at tea." "you can stop out all night for all i care," said clowes. "i'm sick of the sight of you." then laura knew that the golden age was over. isabel had refused to go to bed. she had no nerves: she saw life in its proper colours without refraction. the dreadful scene at wancote had made its full impression on her, but she was not beset like hyde by visions of what might have been. still she was tired and subdued, and when verney had dressed her arm she announced her intention of spending the afternoon in the garden out of the way of kind enquiries: and she settled herself on an indian chair behind a thicket of lilac and syringa, while val and rowsley and yvonne brought books and cushions and chocolate and eau de cologne to comfort beauty in distress. but she had reckoned without the wicket gate in the garden wall, which lawrence let himself in by. he caught sight of her as he crossed the lawn and came up to her bare-headed. "how are you?" he asked without preface. "better now?" his informality went against the grain of isabel's taste: he had no right to presume on a forced situation: with what fastidious modesty val would have drawn back! she was tired, and she did not want to be reminded of what had happened in the morning. she shut up her book, but kept a finger in the place. "thank you. i'm sorry the others are all out." "mrs. clowes sent me on ahead." for the second time she had made lawrence redden like a girl, and his easy manner deserted him. isabel unconsciously let the book slip from her hand. the lives of the forsythe family were less absorbing than her own life when this fiery dramatic glow was shed over it. a singular smile flitted over her lips: "well, you may as well sit down now you are here," she observed. lawrence sat down in a deck chair and isabel's smile broadened: she was laughing at him and teasing him with her eyes, though what she said remained conventional to the point of primness. "is laura coming to see me? how sweet of her! but what a pity she couldn't come with you! why couldn't she?" "i believe she stayed to look after my cousin." "how is major clowes? did he have a good night and was he in a-- was he cheerful today?" "so-so: he's not a great talker, is he?" isabel's speaking face expressed dissent. "perhaps not when he's in a good temper. oh, i'm so sorry, i'm always forgetting he's your cousin." "i'm prone to forget it myself. i've seen so little of him." "('though the blase-man-of-the-world had seen thousands of superbly beautiful women in elegant creations by paquin or worth, his gaze was riveted as by a mesmeric attraction on the innocent young girl in her simple little white muslin frock, with her lissome ankles and slim, sunburnt hands.') laura said you had been a great traveller. shall you settle down in england?" "not unless i marry." isabel declined this topic, on which mrs. jack bendish would have expatiated. "laura says you have a lovely old house in somersetshire. it must be jolly to have an ancestral house." "mine is not ancestral," said lawrence amused. "my father bought it forty years ago at the time of the agricultural depression. it belonged to some county people--sir frank fleet--who couldn't afford to keep it up. it is a lovely place, farringay, but it's full of fleet ghosts and the neighbourhood doesn't let me forget that i'm an alien." "but how absurd! how narrow-minded!" exclaimed isabel. "houses must change hands now and then, and i dare say your father was a better landlord than the fleets were. besides, see how much worse it might have been! there's wilmerdings, here in chilmark, that the morleys have taken: his name isn't morley at all, yvonne says it's moss in the city: but they foreclosed on the orr-matthews' mortgage and turned them out, and that darling old place is delivered over to a horrid little jew!" "poor morley!" said lawrence laughing. "i am a jew myself." isabel was stricken dumb. "i thought i had better tell you than let you hear it from some one else. no, don't apologize! these things will happen, and i'm not deeply hurt, for i refuse to call sibb with a moss-morley. i should never foreclose on any one's mortgage. my mother was an englishwoman and my father was a levantine--half jew, half greek. have you never heard of andrew hyde the big curio dealer in new bond street? he was commonly known as old hyde-and-seek. the hyde galleries are famous. as i remember him he was a common-looking little old man with a passion for art." "well, i'm sorry i said such a stupid thing," said isabel, still very red, "not because of hurting your feelings, for it isn't likely that anything i said would do that--but because it was stupid in itself, and narrow-minded, and snobbish. it'll be a lesson to me. all the same, it's interesting." she had forgotten by now that she was an innocent-young-girl and lawrence a blase-man-of-the-world, and had slipped into a vein of intimacy which was fast charming lawrence out of all his caution. "i suppose you take after your father, and that's why you're so unlike major clowes. he is a clowes, but you're a hyde." "what does that mean?" isabel waited a moment to think it out. "you're more of a cosmopolitan; i expect you have a passion for art too, like your father. major clowes hasn't. he doesn't care two pins for the beauty of his old swords and daggers, he cares only for getting all the different sorts. you, perhaps, might care almost too much." lawrence dropped his eyes. "and you vary more, you're not always the same, you have more facets: one can see you've done all sorts of things and mixed with all sorts of people. i suppose that's why you're so easily bored--i don't mean to be rude!" "at the present moment i am deeply interested. go on: it charms me to be dissected to my face, and by such an able hand." "no: it's absurd and i never meant to begin it. of course i don't know a bit what you're like." "god forbid!" lawrence murmured:--"guess away and i'll tell you if you're right." "you won't play fair. you won't own up and you'll get cross if i do." "not i, i have the most amiable temper in the world." "now i wonder if that's true?" said isabel, scrutinizing him closely. "perhaps you wouldn't often take the trouble to get in a wax. oh well," surrendering at indiscretion, "then i guess that you care for very few people and for those few very much." "missed both barrels. i like any number of people and i shouldn't care if i never saw one of them again." isabel laughed. "i said you wouldn't play fair." "don't you believe me?" "no, of course not. you wouldn't say it if it were true." lawrence drew a deep breath and looked away. their nook of turf was out of sight of the house, sheltered from it behind a great thicket of lilac and syringa, which walled off the lawn from the kitchen garden full of sweet-smelling currant bushes and apple-trees laden with green fruit. the sleepy air was alive with gilded wasps, and between the stiffly-drooping apple-branches, with their coarse foliage, and the pencilled frieze of stonecrop and valerian waving along the low stone boundarywall, there was a dim honey-coloured expanse that stretched away like an inland sea, where, the afternoon sunshine lay in a yellow haze over brown and yellow and blue tracts of the plain. nothing was to be heard but the drone of wings near at hand and the whirr of a haycutter far down in the valley. no one was near and summer lay heavy on the land. "i did care once. . i had a bad smash in my life when i was little more than a boy." he dragged a heavy gold band from his finger. "that was my wedding ring." "oh ... i'm sorry!" faltered isabel. she was stunned by the extraordinary confidence. "i married out of my class. it was when i was at cambridge. she was a beautiful girl but she was not a lady. her father was a tobacconist in the cury, and lizzie liked to serve in the shop. as she didn't want to lose her character nor i my degree, we compromised on secret nuptials. i took a house for her in newham where i could go and visit her. i ought not to tell you the rest of the story." "oh yes, you can," said isabel simply. "i hear all sorts of stories in the village." so childish in some ways, so mature in others, she saw that lawrence was longing to unbosom himself, and her instinct was to listen quietly, for, after all, this, though the strangest, was not the first such confidence that had been poured into her ear. she and her brother val were alike in occasionally hearing secrets that had never been told to any one else. why? probably because they never gave advice, never moralized, never thought of themselves at all but only of the friend in distress. isabel took hyde's hand and held it closely, palm to palm. "tell me all about it." "there was another fellow at trinity who had been in the sixth at eton with me, a year older than i was, a very brilliant man and as hard as nails: rendell, his name was: an athlete, a tophole centre-forward, with a fascinating irish manner and blazing blue eyes. to him i told my tale, because we were damon and pythias, and i couldn't have kept a secret from him to save my life. i was an ingenuous youngster in those days: never was such a pal as my pal! he saw me through my marriage and afterwards i took him with me once or twice to myrtle villa: it may illuminate the situation if i say that it made me all the prouder of lizzie when i saw rendell admired her: never was such an idyll as my manage a trois! unluckily, one evening when i turned up unexpectedly i found them together." "oh! . . . what did you do?" "nothing. there was nothing to be done. i wasn't going to ruin myself by divorcing her. luckily the war broke out and rendell and i both enlisted the next day. he was killed fighting by my side at neuve chapelle, and i had the job of breaking the news to lizzie. she was royally angry, poor lizzle: told me i had no right to be alive when a better man than myself was dead. i agreed: rendell was--the better man, though he didn't behave well to me. he died better than he lived. out there it didn't seem to matter much. he died in my arms." "did you forgive your wife?" "i never lived with her again, if that's what you mean. if i had been willing, which i wasn't, she never would have consented. she had the rather irrational prejudices of her type and class, and persisted in regarding me, or professing to regard me, as answerable for rendell's death. it wasn't true," said lawrence, turning his eyes on isabel without any attempt to veil their agony. "if i'd meant to shoot him i should have shot him to his face. but i'd have saved him if i could. how on earth could any one do anything in such a hell as neuve chapelle? that week every officer in my company was either killed or wounded. but lizzie had no imagination. she couldn't get beyond the fact that i was alive and he was dead." "what became of her?" "i'm sorry to say she went to the bad. she had money from both of us, but she spent it in public houses--didn't seem to care what happened to her after losing arthur: a wretched life: it ended last january with her death from pneumonia after measles. that was what brought me back to england; i couldn't stand coming home before." "was it a relief when she died?" "no, i was sorry," said hyde. his wide black eyes, devil-driven beyond reticence, were riveted on isabel's: apparently she no longer existed for him except as the chorus before whom he could strip himself of the last rag of his reserve. "it brought it all back. i was besotted when i married her, and i remembered all that when i saw her dead. i forgot the other men. it was just as it was when arthur died. i couldn't do anything for him, and he was in agony: he was shot through the stomach: it didn't seem to matter then that he had robbed me of lizzie. i couldn't even get him a drop of water to drink. he died hard, did rendell. it wasn't true, what lizzie said. i'd have given my life for him. but i couldn't even make it easy for him to go." "poor rendell," said isabel softly, "and poor you! oh, i'm so sorry--i'm so sorry!" she was not afraid of hyde now nor shy of him, she felt only an immense pity for him--this man who for no conceivable reason and without the slightest warning had flung the weight of his terrible past on her young shoulders. she longed to comfort him. but he was inaccessibly far away, isolated, his voice rapid and hard and clear, his manner normal: every nerve stripped bare but still rigid. inexperienced as she was, isabel had a shrewd idea of his immediate need. she took up the ring that lawrence had wrenched off and slipped it on his finger again. "don't do that," said lawrence starting: "why do you do that?" "but i shall love to see you wear it," said isabel. "it's the sign that you've forgiven them both." "have i?" "of course you have. you loved them too much not to forgive." "it is true. but i hate myself for it," said lawrence. "i hate your etiolated christian ethics. i don't believe in the forgiveness of sins. the complaisant husband, o god! if i'd had the spirit of a man, i should have shot arthur the night--that night--. . . . "but you loved him," said isabel, "and your wife too. you felt revenge and hate and passion, but love was stronger: and love is nobler than hate. they betrayed you, but you never betrayed them. it wasn't unmanly of you, it was defeat and dishonour for them, not for you, when rendell, after that great wrong he had done you, when you tried to make it easy for him to go." "may i--?" said lawrence. he leaned his face down on her open palms, and she felt the tears that she could not see. he could not control them, and indeed after the first racking agony, when he felt as though his will were being torn out of him by the roots, he made no effort to control them, releasing isabel and dropping at full length upon the turf. nothing else, no torment of his own thoughts, not rendell's last pangs nor his wife's beauty young again in death had ever made hyde weep: if rendell had died hard, lawrence had lived equally hard, locking up his frightful trouble in his own breast, escaping from it when he could, cursing it and fighting against it when it threatened to overpower him. but now he surrendered to it and acknowledged to himself that it had broken his life. and he felt no shame, not one iota, nothing but a profound soulagement: the proud reticent man, too vain to shed tears in his own room alone, wept voluntarily before isabel, uncovering for her pity the wounds not only of grief but of rage and humiliation. such an outbreak would have been impossible in a man of pure english blood, and in a pure oriental it would have manifested itself differently, but isabel had truly said of hyde that his temperament was not homogeneous: the mixed strain in him betrayed him into strange incongruities of strength and weakness. isabel shut her eyes to incongruity. she gave him without stint the pitying gentleness he thirsted for. she refused now to contrast him with her brother. certainly val's judgment would have been cutting and curt. but just? hardly. by instinct isabel felt that her brother's clear, sane, english mind had not all the factors necessary for judging this collapse. her imagination was at work in the shadow: "'the night--that night. . . ." how do men live through such hours? she saw lizzie as a chocolate-box beauty, but redeemed from hebetude by her robust youth: able to attract hyde by his love of luxury and to hold him by main force: uneducated, coarse, and cruel, but not weak. what a disastrous marriage! doomed from the outset, even if no rendell had come on the scene. isabel dismissed rendell rather scornfully: in that night at myrtle villa she felt pretty sure that the duel had been fought out between husband and wife: the very staging of it, picturesque for lizzie hyde and tragic for her husband, must for the entrapped lover have taken a frame of ignominious farce. a gleam shot through isabel's eyes-as she imagined rendell trying to face hyde, and hyde sparing him and sending him away untouched. no, no! as between the two men, the honours lay with hyde. but as between him and lizzie? there the reckoning was not so easy. his wife had set scars on him that would never wear out. dimly isabel guessed that since coming out of her destructive hands hyde himself could be both coarse and cruel: the seed of brutality must have been in him all along, but myrtle villa had fertilized it. if he married again, what would be required of lizzie's successor? a strange deep smile gave to isabel's young lips the wisdom of the women of all the ages. love that gives without stint asking for no recompense: love that understands yet will not criticize nor listen to criticism: love that dares to deny its lover for his own sake. after collapse came quiescence, and, after a long quiescence, revival. hyde raised himself on his arm and felt for his handkerchief--indifferent to isabel's observation, or soothed by it: his features were ravaged. isabel drenched her own handkerchief in mrs. bendish's eau-de cologne and gave it him, dripping wet. "take this, it will do you good." "thank you" said lawrence, exhausted and subdued. becoming gradually rather more composed, he raised his eyes again. "what must you think of me? it is beyond apology. will you ever forgive me?" "there's nothing to forgive: i'm not hurt." "you're rather young to hear such a history as mine." she blushed. "val says it doesn't matter what one knows so long as one doesn't think about it in the wrong way." with her sweet friendly smile, she touched with her fingertip the lapel of his coat: an airy gesture, but there was a fire as well as sweetness in isabel, and for his life lawrence could not repress a start. "you mustn't mind me, captain hyde. you needn't mind, because you couldn't help it. one can keep a secret for twenty years but not for ever, and for confessor i suppose any woman will do better than a man, won't she? it's not as though i should ever tell any one else: i never will, i promise you that. you'll go away and never see me again, and it'll be as though no one knew or as though i were dead." touching innocence! did she indeed imagine that after such a scene . . .? "but i do not care two straws," said lawrence, "so spare your consolations! on the contrary, it has been a great relief to me. it's as if you had unlocked a door. the prisoner you have set free thanks you. i was only afraid it might have been too much for you, but you're made of strong stuff. yet i don't suppose you ever saw a man weep before: well, you've seen it now: mon dieu, mon dieu, but i am tired! but you've let yourself in for a considerable responsibility." "for what?" "for me. do you think it can ever again be the same between us?" on one knee by isabel's chair, hyde laughed down at her with his brilliant eyes, irreticent and unsparing of timidity in others. "do you think i could have leaned my head on any hands but yours?" he came too near, he touched her. isabel had gone through a great deal that day, but, with the cruel and sordid history of hyde's married life fresh in her mind, none of the material horrors at wancote had produced in her such a shuddering recoil as now. his wife had not been dead six months! "captain hyde, how dare you?" "i beg your pardon." lawrence drew himself up, a good-humoured smile on his lips: but they were pale. "i--i didn't mean to hurt you," faltered isabel, as the tension of his silence reached her. what right had she, a young girl, to impose her own code of delicacy on a man of hyde's age and standing?--lawrence looked at her searchingly and his eyes changed, the sad irony died out of them, and rapidly, imperceptibly, he returned to his normal manner. "nor i to frighten you. why, what a child it is, after all! yes, your hands are strong, but they aren't practised yet. never mind, you shall forget or remember anything you like, except this one thing which it pleases me and may please you to remember that i'm very glad you know the worst and weakest of me--" "isabel, are you there?" thus daily life revenges itself on those who forget its existence. "that is val's voice," said lawrence. he stood up, no longer pale. "heavens, i can't face him!" "oh dear!" said isabel in dismay. she was no more anxious for them to meet than lawrence was, but val's footstep on the turf was dangerously near. but he was making for the middle of the lilac-hedge, for the red rose archway and the asphalt walk between reddening apple trees: and isabel was sitting near the end, close to the garden wall. she flew out of her chair, held up a branch while lawrence squeezed between the wall and the lilacs, and flew back and curled up again. the lilac leaves had not finished twinkling and rustling when val appeared. "how are you, invalid? i came home early on purpose to look after you." he was in well-worn grey riding clothes, booted and spurred, his whip in one hand and his gloves in the other: a slight, cool, well-knit figure of low tones and half-lights. "have you had a quiet afternoon?" "so-so," said isabel, crimson. "you look flushed, my darling," said val tenderly. he sat down at the foot of isabel's indian chair and laid a finger on her wrist. "you don't feel feverish, do you?" the light click of the wicket gate, which meant that lawrence was safely off the premises, enabled isabel to say no with a sigh of relief. "it must be the hot weather. hallo! what have we here?" he held up the gold cigarette case which had dropped from hyde's coat when he was lying on the grass. "some of mrs. bendish's property by the look of it," remarked val. "diamonds, begad! i should have thought yvonne had better taste. but it must be hers, though the cipher doesn't seem to have a b in it. i'll guarantee it isn't rosy's." he slipped it into his pocket. "i'll give it to jack, i shall see him tonight at the vestry-meeting." "it belongs to captain hyde." "how do you know?" "he's been here this afternoon." "how long did he stay?" "what time is it?-- an hour and twenty minutes." "what brought him?" said val, bewildered. isabel was mute. . . "i don't know what you're talking about, isabel. has he been with you all that time? very stupid of him when i particularly wanted you to have a quiet afternoon. when did he go?" "he has only just gone." "just gone? i never saw him." "he went by the wicket gate." "but i came in by the wicket gate myself!" said val. his kind serene eyes rested on his sister without a shadow of any thought behind surprise. "i left the mare with rowsley in the village." isabel sat up suddenly and wound her arms round val's neck. "i sent him away when i heard you coming. he dodged you behind the lilacs. i didn't want to tell you he'd been here. i never should have told you if you hadn't found that case." "you got rid of him-- this minute? because i came--? isabel!" stafford held her off. "it is not possible--! listen to me: i will have an answer. i know hyde. has he said anything to offend you?" "no! no! oh val, don't be so angry!" "lucky for him," said val, drawing a long breath and sitting down again, his whip across his knee. "my dear little sister, you mustn't make mysteries out of nothing at all! i'm sorry i startled you, but you startled me: i didn't know what to make of it. hyde has not a very good name. . . . in fact i'd rather you didn't see too much of him unless rose or i were there: it was cheek of him to come up this afternoon when i was out, considering that he scarcely knows you: but i suppose he thinks the wancote show gives him right of entry. that is the sort of thing a chap like hyde does think. now begin again and tell me what it's all about." "oh, nothing, val, nothing!" said isabel, laughing, though the tears were not far from her eyes. "i didn't know you could get in such a wax if you tried! it's as you say, a little mystery of nothing at all. i'd tell you like a shot if i could, but i can't because it would be breaking a promise." "hyde had no earthly right to make you promise." "it was of my own accord." "it is all wrong," said val. "promises and silly secrets between a child like you and a fellow like hyde!" he was more grave and vexed than isabel had ever seen him. "there must be no more of it." "there won't if i can help it!" said isabel. "i like captain hyde--yes, i do: i know you don't, and i can quite see that he's what rose would call a bit of an outsider, but i'm sorry for him and there's a great deal i like in him. but i don't want to see him again for years and years." she gave a little shiver of distaste: if anything had been wanting to heighten the reaction of her youth against hyde's stained middle age, the evasions in which he had involved her would have done it. "now don't scold me any more! i'm innocent, and i feel rather sad. the world looks unhomely this afternoon. all except you! you stay there where i can watch you: you're so comfortably english, so nice and cool and quiet! there's no one like you, no one: the more i see of other people the more i like you! i'm so glad you don't wear linen clothes and a panama hat and rings. i'd give you away if you did with half a pound of tea. no, it's no use asking me any more questions because i shan't answer them: a promise is all the more binding if one would rather not keep it. no, and it's no use fishing either, i can keep a secret as well as you can--" she broke off before the white alteration in val's face. "has--. "no," said isabel slowly: "no, he never mentioned your name." chapter xi "val" "m'm." "i say" "what, then?" "what's all this about the etchingham agency?" val stafford, smoking a well-earned pipe some hours later in the evening sunlight on the vicarage lawn, looked up at his brother over the chronicle with a faint frown. "who?" "ah! who?" said rowsley, squatting cross-legged on the turf. "jack began on it this afternoon, and i had to switch him off, for i didn't care to own that it was news to me." "there's nothing in it at present." "the duke has offered me the management of his etchingham property," said val unwillingly. "oh no, not to give up bernard: etchingham, you see, marches with wanhope and the two could be run together. he was awfully nice about it: would take what time i could give him: quite saw that wanhope would have to come first." "how much?" "four hundred and an allowance for a house. five, to be precise, which is what he is giving mills: but of course i couldn't take full time pay for a part-time job." rowsley whistled. "yes, it would be very nice," said val, always temperate. "it would practically be pounds, for i couldn't go on taking my full pounds from bernard. i should get him to put on a young fellow to work under me." "it would make a lot of difference to you, even so." "to us," val corrected him. "another pound a week would oil the wheels of isabel's housekeeping. and--" he hesitated, but having gone so far one might as well go on--"it would enable me to do two things i've long set my heart on, only it was no use saying so: give you another hundred and fifty a year and insure my life in isabel's favour. it would lift a weight off my mind if i could do that. suppose i were to die suddenly--one never knows what would become of her? she'll be able to earn her own living after taking her degree in october, but women's posts are badly paid and it's uncommonly hard to save. oh yes, old boy, i know you'd look after her! but i don't want her to be a drag on you: it's bad enough now--you never grumble, but i know what it's like never to have a penny to spare. times have changed since i was in the army, but nothing alters the fact that it's uncommonly unpleasant to be worse off than other fellows. i hate it for you--all the more because you don't grumble. it is a constant worry to me not to be able to put you in a better position." rowsley had been too long inured to this paternal tenderness to be sensible of its touching absurdity on the lips of a man not much older than himself. but he was not a selfish youth, and he remonstrated with val, though more like a son than a brother. "yes, i dare say, but where do you come in? a stiff premium for isabel and pounds for jim and pounds for me doesn't leave much change out of pounds!" "oh, i've all i want. living at home, i don't get the chance of spending a lot of pocket money." "why don't you close at once?" "because i can't get an answer out of bernard. i've spoken to him but he won't decide one way or the other. and he's my master, and i can't take on another job if he objects. that's why i kept it dark at home: what's the good of raising hopes that may be disappointed?" "pity you can't chuck bernard and take on etchingham and the five hundred." "i should never do that," said val in the rare tone of decision which in him was final. "after all these years i could never leave bernard in the lurch. i owe him too much." "as if the boot weren't on the other leg!" rowsley muttered. he was not mercenary--none of mr. stafford's children were: he saw eye to eye with val in val's calm preference of six to eight hundred a year: but when val carried his financial principles into the realm of sentiment rowsley now and then lost his temper. his brother smiled at him, amused by his irritation, unmoved by it: other men's opinions rarely had any weight with val stafford. "pax till it happens, at all events! honestly i don't think bernard means to object: he's been all smiles the last day or two--hyde's coming has shaken him up and done him good--" "oh! hyde!" val let fail his paper and looked curiously at rowsley, whose tone was a challenge. "what is it now?" "do you like this chap hyde?" "that depends on what you mean by liking him. he's not a bad specimen of his class." "what is his class? do you know anything of his people?" "of his family i know little except that he has jew blood in him and is very well off," val could have told his brother where the money came from, but forbore out of consideration for lawrence, who might not care to have his connection with the hyde galleries known in chilmark. "he came here because lucian selincourt asked him to see if he could do anything for bernard." "i can't see hyde putting himself out of his way to oblige mr. selincourt." "if you ask me, rose, i should say he had only just got back to england and was at a loose end. but there was a dash of good nature in it: he's genuinely fond of mrs. clowes." "so i gathered," said rowsley. his tone was pregnant. val sat silent for a moment. "what rubbish! he hasn't seen her for eight or ten years." "since her marriage." val shrugged his shoulders. "sorry, val, but i cannot see hyde staying on at wanhope out of cousinly affection for bernard clowes. it must be a beastly uncomfortable house to stay in. nicely run and all that, and they do you very well, but bernard is distinctly an acquired taste. oh, my dear chap!" as val's silence stiffened, "no one suggests that laura's ever looked at the fellow! but facts are facts, and hyde is-- hyde. i'm not a bit surprised to hear he has jew blood in him," rowsley continued, warming to the discussion: he was a much keener judge of character that the tolerant and easy-going val. "that accounts for the arty strain in him. yvonne says he's a thorough musician, and jack told me lord grantchester took to him because he knew such a lot about pictures. well, so he ought! he's a londoner. what does he know of the country? only what you pick up at a big country-house party or a big shoot! he's not the sort of chap to stay on at wanhope for the pleasure of cheering up across-grained br--a fellow like bernard. yes, he's talking of staying on indefinitely: is going to send to town for one of his confounded cars. . . . and what other woman is there in chilmark that he'd walk across the road to look at?" "i'm not sure you're fair to him." rowsley turned up to his brother an amused, rather sweet smile. "val, you'd pray for the devil?" "oh, hyde isn't a devil! i came pretty close to him ten years ago. he has a streak of generosity in him: no one knows that better than i do, for i'm in his debt. what? oh! no, not in money matters: is that likely? but he's capable of . . . magnanimity, one might call it," stafford fastidiously felt after precision: "no, he wouldn't pursue laura; he wouldn't make her life harder than it is already." "he might propose to make it easier." rowsley threw a daisy at a cockchafer and missed it. "you and i are sons of a parsonage. we shouldn't run off with a married lady because it would be against our principles." his thin brown features were twisted into a faint grimace. rowsley, like val, possessed a satirical sense of humour, and gave it freer play than val did. "it's so difficult to shake off early prejudices. when fowler and i were at the club the other day, we met a horrid little sweep who waxed confidential. i said i couldn't make love to a married woman if i tried, and fowler said he could but held rather not, and we walked off, but as i remarked to fowler afterwards the funny thing was that it was true. i don't see anything romantic in the situation. it strikes me as immoral and disgusting. but hyde wouldn't take a narrow view like mine. he has to live up to his tailor." "oh, really, rose!" val gave his unwilling laugh. "you're like isabel, who can't forgive him for sporting a diamond monogram." "no, but i'm interested. i know jack's limitations, and jimmy's, and yours, but hyde's i don't know, and he intrigues me," said rowsley, lighting a cigarette with his agile brown fingers. "now i'll tell you the way he really strikes me. he's not a bad sort: i shouldn't wonder if there were more decency in him than he'd care to get credit for. but i should think," he looked up at val with his clear speculative hazel eyes, "that he's never in his life taken a thrashing. he's always had pots of money and superb health. i know nothing, of his private concerns, but at all events he isn't married, and from what jack says he's sought safety in numbers. no wife, no kids, no near relations--that means none of the big wrenches. no: i don't believe hyde's ever taken a licking in his life." "you sound as if you would like to administer one." "only by way of a literary experiment," said rowsley with his mischievous grin. he was of the new army, val of the old: it was a constant source of mild surprise to val that his brother read books about philosophy, and psychology, and sociology, of which pre-war sandhurst had never heard: read poetry too, not tennyson or shakespeare, but slim modern volumes with brown covers and wide margins: and wrote verses now and then, and sent them to orange-coloured magazines or annual anthologies, at which val gazed from a respectful distance. "i don't owe him any grudge. i'm not bernard's dry-nurse!" val turned a leaf of his paper, but he was not reading it. "i rather wish you hadn't said all this, rowsley. it does no good: not even if it were true." "val, if it weren't such a warm evening i'd get up and punch your head. you're a little too bright and good, aren't you? yvonne bendish says it, and she's laura's sister." "yvonne would say anything. i wish you had given her a hint to hold her tongue. she may do most pestilent mischief if she sets this gossip going." "it'll set itself going," said rowsley. "and, though i know the bendishes pretty well, i really shouldn't care to tell mrs. jack not to gossip about her own sister. you might see your way to it, reverend sir, but i don't." "if it came to bernard's ears i wouldn't answer for the consequences." "won't bernard see it for himself?" "if i thought that," said val, "if i thought that. . . . "you couldn't interfere, old man," said rowsley with a shrewd glance at his brother. "your hands are tied." "h'm: yes, that's true." it was much truer than rowsley knew. "i don't care," said val, involuntarily crushing the paper in his hand: "i would not let that stand in my way: i'd speak to hyde." "are you prepared to take high ground? i can't imagine any one less likely to be amenable to moral suasion, unless of course you're much more intimate with him than you ever let on to me. perhaps you are," rowsley added. "he certainly is interested in you." "hyde is?" "watches you like a cat after a mouse. what's at the root of it, val? is it the original obligation you spoke of? i'm not sure that i should care to be under an obligation to hyde myself. hullo, are you off?" val had risen, folding the newspaper, laying it carefully down on his chair: in all his ways he was as neat as an old maid. "i have to be at the managers' meeting by half past eight, and it's twenty past now." watching his brother across the lawn, rowsley cudgelled his brains to account for val's precipitate departure. the pretext was valid, for val was always punctual, and yet it looked like a retreat--not to say a rout. but what had he said to put val to flight? present at the managers' meeting were val, still in breeches: jack bendish in a dinner jacket and black tie: garrett the blacksmith, cursorily washed: thurlow, a leading nonconformist tradesman: and mrs. verney the doctor's wife. agenda: to instruct the correspondent to requisition a new scrubbing brush for the infants' school. this done and formally entered in the minutes by mrs. verney, the meeting resolved itself into a committee of ways and means for getting rid of the boys' headmaster without falling foul of the national union of teachers; but these proceedings, though of extreme interest to all concerned, were recorded in no minutes. the meeting broke up in amity and bendish came out into the purple twilight, taking val's arm. it was gently withdrawn. "neuritis again?" said jack. "why don't you try massage?" he always asked the same question, and, being born to fifteen thousand a year, never read between the lines of val's vague reply. val had a touch of neuritis in his injured arm two nights out of seven, but he could not find the shillings for his train fare to salisbury, far less the fees of a professional masseuse. bendish, who could have settled that difficulty out of a week's cigar bills, would have been shocked and distressed if val had owned to it, but it was beyond the scope of his imagination, though he was a thoughtful young man and quietly did his best to protect val from the tax of chauffeurs and gamekeepers. he understood that poor men cannot always find sovereigns. but he really did not know that sometimes they cannot even find shillings. tonight he said, "i can't think why you don't get a woman over to massage you," and then, reverting to the peccant master, "brown's a nuisance. he has a rotten influence on the elder boys. he's thick with all that beastly labour crowd, and i believe thurlow's right about his goings on with warner's wife, though i wasn't going to say so to thurlow. i do wish he'd do something, then we could fire him. but we don't want a row with the n.u.t." "you can't fire a man for his political opinions." "why not, if they're wrong?" said bendish placidly. his was the creed that labour men are so slow to understand because it is so slow to explain itself: not a blind prejudice, but the reasonable faith of one who feels himself to belong to an hereditary officer caste for whom privilege and responsibility go hand in hand. and an excellent working rule it is so long as practice is not divorced from theory: so long as the average member of the governing class acts up to the tradition of government, be he sachem or daimio or resident english squire. it amused val: but he admired it. "brown is a thorn in jimmy's side," he remarked, dropping the impersonal issue. "i never in my life heard a man make such a disagreeable noise on the organ. i tackled him about it last sunday. he said it ciphered, but organs don't cipher in dry weather, so i went to look at it and found three or four keys glued together with candle grease." "filthy swine! are you coming round to wanhope? i have to call in on my way home, my wife's dining there." val made no reply. "are you coming up or not? you look fagged, val," said bendish affectionately. "anything wrong?" "no: i was only wondering whether i'd get you to take a message for me, but i'd better go myself." bendish nodded. "just as you like. have you settled yet about the etchingham agency?" "no, i'm waiting for bernard." "hope you'll see your way to accepting. my only fear is that it would throw too much work on you; you're such a conscientious beggar! but of course you wouldn't do for us all the odd jobs you do for poor bernard. seems to me," jack ruminated, "the best plan would be for you to have a car. one gets about quicker like that and it wouldn't be such a fag. there's that little green napier roadster, she'd come in handy if we stabled her at nicholson's." he added simply, to obviate any possible misunderstanding, "garage bills our show, of course." "thanks most awfully," said val, accepting without false pride. "i should love it, i do get tired after being in the saddle all day. it would more than make up for the extra work." they were crossing the wanhope lawn as he spoke, on their way to the open french windows of the parlour, gold-lit with many candles against an amethyst evening sky. laura, in a plain black dress, was at the piano, the cool drenched foliage of claude debussy's rainwet gardens rustling under her magic fingers. bernard was talking to mrs. jack bendish, for the sufficient reason that she disliked him and disliked talking to any one while laura played. her defiant sparkle, her gipsy features, her slim white shoulders emerging from the brocade and sapphires of a sleeveless bodice cut open almost to her waist, produced the effect of a carolus duran lady come to life and threw laura back into a dimmed and tired middle age. jack's eyes glowed as they dwelt on her. his marriage had been a trial to his family, but no one could deny that yvonne had made a success of it, for jack worshipped her.--lawrence, leaning forward in his chair, his forehead on his hand to shield his eyes from the light, looked exceedingly tired, and probably was so. "queer chap hyde," said bendish to val as they waited on the grass for the music to finish. "can't think what he's stopping on for." "oh, jack, for heaven's sake don't you begin on that subject!" "hey? oh! no, by jove. seems a shame, doesn't it?" returned bendish, taking the point with that rapid effortless readiness of his class which made him more soothing to val than many a cleverer man. "it all says itself, so what's the good of saying it? all the same i shan't be sorry when hyde packs his movin' tent a day's march nearer jerusalem." and with a casual wink at val he stepped over the threshold. his judgment, so vague and shrewd and sure of itself, represented probably the kindest view that would be taken in chilmark. their entrance broke up the gathering. jack carried off his wife, and barry appeared to wheel bernard away to bed. with a word to laura, val followed the cripple to his room. the duke was pressing for an answer, and long experience had taught val that for bernard one time was as good as another: it was not possible to count on his moods. and there was not much to be said; all pros and cons had been thrashed out before; the five minutes while barry was out of the room fetching bernard's indispensable hot-water bottles would give val ample time to secure bernard's consent.--laura had scarcely finished putting away her music when val came back, humming under his breath the jangled tune that echoes night in the streets of granada. laura glanced at lawrence, who had gone into the garden to smoke and was passing and repassing the open window: no, he could not hear. "well, val?" "let me do that for you, shall i?" said val, lightly smiling, at her. "your ottoman has a heavy lid." "have you spoken to bernard?" "i have." "and it's all right?" "yes" said val, deftly flinging diamond-wise a glittering chinese cloth: "is that straight?--that is, for me. i shan't take the agency." "val!" "bernard agrees with me that the double work would be too heavy. of course i should like the money and i'm awfully sorry to disoblige lord grantchester and jack, but one has one's limitations, and i don't want to knock up." "it is too bad--too bad of bernard,". said laura, lowering her voice as lawrence lingered near the window. "he doesn't half deserve your goodness to him." "bosh!" said val laughing. "where do these candlesticks go? in my heart of hearts i'm grateful to him. i'm a cowardly beggar, laura, and i was dreading the big financial responsibility. oh no, bernard didn't put any pressure on me: simply offered me the choice between etchingham and wanhope." "they would pay you twice what you get from bernard. oh, val, i wish you would take it and throw us over!" "that's very unkind of you." "is this definite?" "quite: bernard had thought it well over and made up his mind. i shouldn't speak to him about it if i were you." "i shan't. i couldn't bear to." "bosh again--excuse me. i must go home. good-night, dear." he held out his hand, wishing, in the repressed way that had become a second nature to him, that laura would not wring it so warmly and so long. in the first bitterness of disappointment--so much the keener for his unlucky confidence to rowsley--val could not stand sympathy. not even from laura? least of all from laura. he nodded to her with a bright careless smile and went out into the night. but he had still one more mission to perform before he could go home to break the bad news to rowsley: a trying mission under which val fretted in repressed distaste. he came up to lawrence holding out the gold cigarette case. "you dropped this at our place when you were talking to my sister this afternoon." "did i?" lawrence slipped it into his pocket. his manner was perfectly calm. "thanks so much.--i hadn't missed it." he had no fear of having been betrayed, in essentials, by isabel. "i don't want to offend you," val continued with his direct simplicity of manner, "but perhaps you hardly realize how young my sister is." "some one said she was nineteen, but why?" "i don't know what you said to her, probably nothing of the slightest consequence, but she's only a child, and you managed to upset her. to be frank, i didn't want her to see any one this afternoon. oh, she's all right, but her arm has run her up a bit of a temperature, and verney wants her to keep quiet for a few days. it'll give her an excuse to keep clear of the inquest too. this sounds ungrateful as well as ungracious, when we owe you so much, but there's no ingratitude in it, only common sense." "oh, damn your common sense!" exclaimed lawrence. it was as laconic a warning-off as civility allowed: and it irritated lawrence beyond bearing to be rebuked by young stafford, whose social life stood in his danger, whom he could at pleasure strip to universal crucifying shame. but there was neither defiance nor fear in val: tranquil and unpretentious, in his force of character he reminded lawrence of laura clowes. she too had been attacked once or twice that evening by her husband, and lawrence had admired the way in which she either foiled or evaded the rapier point, or took it to her bosom without flinching. this same silken courage, it seemed, val also possessed. both would stand up to a blow with the same grave dignity and--perhaps--secret scorn. minutes passed. val waited because he chose not to be the first to break silence, lawrence because he was absorbing fresh impressions with that intensity which wipes out time and place. he was in the mood to receive them: tired, softened, and quickened, from the tears of the afternoon. after all val was isabel's brother and possessed isabel's eyes! this drew lawrence to him by a double cord: practically, because it is inconvenient to be on bad terms with one's brother-in-law, and mystically, because in his profound romantic passion he loved whatever was associated with her, down to the very sprig of honeysuckle that she had pinned into his coat. but for this cord his relations with stafford would have begun and ended in a casual regret for the casual indulgence of a cruel impulse. but isabel's brother had ex officio a right of entry into hyde's private life, and, the doors once opened, he was dazed by the light that val let in. it was after ten o'clock and dews were falling, falling from a clear night. "one faint eternal eventide of gems," beading the dark turf underfoot and the pale faces of roses that had bloomed all day in sunshine: now prodigal of scent only they hung their heads like ghosts of flowers among dark glossy leaves. stars hung sparkling on the dark field of heaven, stars threw down their spears on the dark river fleeting to the star-roofed distant channel. stream and grass and leaf-buds were ephemeral and eternal, ever passing and ever renewed, old as the stars, or the waste ether in which they range: the green, sappy stem, the dew-bead that hung on it, the shape of a ripple were the same now as when nineveh was a queen of civilization and men's flesh was reddening alive in osier cages over altar fires on wiltshire downs. and all the sweetness, all the romance of an english midsummer night seized the heart of lawrence, a nomad, a returned exile, and a man in love--as if he had never known england before. or her inhabitants either! lawrence, without country, creed, profession, or territorial obligation, was one of those sons of rich men who form, in any social order, its loosest and most self-centred class. in his set, frank egoism was the only motive for which one need not apologize. but in chilmark it was not so. far other forces were in play in the lives of the stafford family, and laura clowes, and lord grantchester and his wife and jack bendish. what were these forces? lawrence thought in flashes, by imagery, scene after scene flitting before him out of the last forty-eight hours. homespun virtues: unselfishness, indifference to money values, the constant sense of filial, fraternal, social responsibility . . . the glow in jack's eyes when they rested on his wife: verney's war on cesspools: leverton morley as scoutmaster: the chinese lecture: rosebushes in the churchyard, by the great stone cross with its list of names beginning "george potts, wiltshire rifles, aged ," and ending "robert denis bendish, grenadier guards, aged : into thy hands, o lord": old, old feudal england, closeknit, no pastoral of easy virtues, yet holding together in a fellowship which underlies class disunion: whose sons, from days long before the conquest, have always desired to go to sea when the cuckoo sang, and to come home again when they were tired of the hail and salt showers, because they could not bear to be landless and lordless men. . . . [footnote] "swylce geac mona geomran reorde, singe sumeres weard, sorge beade bittre in breosthord; pset se beorn ne wat, secg esteadig, hwset pa sume dreoga, pe pa wrseclastas widost lecga! . . . . pince him on mode pset he his monndryhten clyppe and cysse andon cneo lecge honda and heafod; ponne onwsecne, gesihp him beforan fealwe wegas, bapian brimfuglas." "even so the cuckoo warns him with its sad voice, summer's warden sings foreboding sorrow, bitter grief of heart. little knows the prosperous fellow what others are doing who follow far and wide the tracks of exile . . . then dreams the seafarer that he clasps his lord and kisses him, and on his knee lays hand and head; but he awakes and sees before him the fallow waterways and the sea-fowls bathing." [end of footnote] lawrence flung off the impression with a jerk of his shoulders, as if it were a physical weight. it was too heavy to be endured. not even to marry isabel was he going to impose on his own unbroken egoism the restricting code of a country village. "you are a dreamer, val! why don't you throw over bernard and take the etchingham agency? yes, i heard every word you said to laura: you made a gallant effort, but the facts speak for themselves, and your terminological inexactitudes wouldn't deceive a babe at the breast. bernard pays you pounds a year and orders you about like a groom, grautchester would give you six and behave like a gentleman. but no, you must needs stick to bernard, though you never get any thanks for it! you're an unpractical dreamer." "i don't know what on earth you're talking about." "and you're all in it together, damn you!" lawrence broke out with an angry laugh. "it's all equally picturesque--feudal's the word! i never knew anything like it in my life and i wouldn't have believed it could continue to exist. what do you do with gipsies? evict 'em, i suppose." he flung a second question at val which made the son of a vicarage knit his brows. "as a matter of fact there's a house in brook lane about which bendish and i are a good deal exercised in our minds at the present moment . . . and the percentage of children born too soon after marriage is disastrous. you're all out, hyde. nothing could be more commonplace than chilmark, believe me: life is like this all over rural england, and it's only from a distance that one takes it for arcadia." "folly," said lawrence. "good god, why should you exercise your simple minds over the house in brook lane? ah! because the men who go to it are your own men, and the parsonage and the castle are answerable for their souls." val, irritated, suggested that if hyde's forebears had lived in chilmark since the time when every freeman had to swear fealty, laying his hands between the knees of his lord, hyde might have shared this feeling. "but they didn't," said lawrence, drily. "my grandfather was a pawnbroker in the new cut." "then perhaps you're hardly in a position to judge." "judge? i don't judge, my good fellow--i'm lost in admiration! in an age of materialism it's refreshing to come across these simple, homespun virtues. i didn't know there was a man left in england that would exist, for choice, on three hundred a year. are you always content with your rustic ideals, val? haven't you any ambition?" "i?" said val. "'carry me out of the fight,'" quoted lawrence under his breath. "i swear i forgot." silence fell again, the silence on lawrence's part of continual conflict and adjustment, and on val's mainly of irritation. lawrence talked too much and too loosely, and was over-given to damning what he disliked--a trick that went with his rings and his diamond monogram. val was not interested in a townsman's amateur satire; in so far as lawrence was not satirical, he had probably drunk one glass more of bernard's' champagne than was good for him! in the upshot, val was less disinclined to credit rowsley than half an hour ago. lawrence roused himself. "about your sister: i was sorry afterwards to have stayed so long. she seemed none the worse for it at the time, but no doubt she ought to keep quiet for a bit. will you make my excuses to her?" "i will with pleasure." "and will you allow me to tackle bernard about the agency?" "to--?" "if you won't resent my interfering? i can generally knock some sense into bernard's head. it's an iniquitous thing that he should take advantage of your generosity, val." stafford was completely taken by surprise. "i'd rather--it's most awfully kind of you," he stammered, "but i couldn't trespass on your kindness--" "kindness, nonsense! bernard's my cousin: if your services are worth more in the open market than he pays you, it's up to me to see he doesn't fleece you. otherwise you might ultimately chuck up your job, and where should we be then? in the soup: for he'd never get another man of your class--a gentleman--to put up with the rough side of his tongue. no: he must be brought to book: if you'll allow me?" val's disposition was to refuse; it was odious to him to accept a favour from hyde. but pride is one of the luxuries that poor men cannot afford. "i should be most grateful. thank you very much." "and now go to bed: you're tired and so am i. i've had the devil of a hard day." he stretched himself, raising his wrists to the level of his shoulders, luxuriously tense under the closefitting coat. "i shall hope to see your sister again after the inquest." "yes," said val, hesitating: "are you staying on, then?" "as you advised." "you'll be very bored." "no, i've fallen in love." val gave a perceptible start. "with the country," lawrence explained with a merry laugh. "rustic ideals. don't misjudge me, i beg: i have no designs on mrs. bendish." "hyde . . . "well, my dear val?" "give me back my parole." "not i." "you're unjust and ungenerous," said val with repressed passion. "but i warn you that i shall interfere none the less to protect others if necessary. good-night." lawrence watched him across the lawn with a bewildered expression. but he forgot him in a minute--or remembered him only in the association with isabel which brought val into the radius of his good will. chapter xii "hadow's bringing out a new play," remarked lawrence, looking up from the morning post. "a moore comedy, they're clever stuff, moore's comedies: always well written, and well put on when hadow has a hand in it. you never were a playgoer, bernard." "not i," said bernard clowes. he and his guest were smoking together in the hall after breakfast, lawrence imparting items of news from the morning post, while bernard, propped up in a sitting attitude on the latest model of invalid couch, turned over and sorted on a swing table a quantity of curios mainly in copper, steel, and iron. both swing-table and couch had been bought in london by lawrence, and to his vigorous protests it was also due that the great leaved doors were thrown wide to the amber sunshine: while the curios came out of one of his eastern packing-cases, which he had had unpacked by gaston for bernard to take what he liked. lawrence's instincts were acquisitive, not to say predatory. wherever he went he amassed native treasures which seemed to stick to his fingers, and which in nine cases out of ten, thanks to his racial tact, would have fetched at christie's more than he gave for them. coming fresh from foreign soil, they were a godsend to bernard, who was weary of collecting from collectors' catalogues. "can i have this flint knife? egyptian, isn't it? oh, thanks awfully, i'm taking all the best." this was true. but lawrence, like most of his nation, gave freely when he gave at all. "no, i never was one for plays except gilbert and sullivan and the 'merry widow' and things like that with catchy tunes in 'em. choruses." he gave a reminiscent laugh. "legs?" suggested lawrence. "exactly," said bernard, winking at him. "oh damn!" a mechanical jerk of his own legs had tilted the table and sent the knife rolling on the floor. lawrence picked it up for him, drew his feet down, and tucked a rug over his hips. "mind that box of burmese darts, old man, they're poisoned.-- i used to be an inveterate first-nighter. still am, in fact, when i'm in or near town. i can sit out anything from 'here we are again' to 'samson agonistes.' to be frank, i rather liked 'samson': it does one's ears good to listen to that austere, delicate english." "how long would these take to polish one off?" "ten or twelve hours, chiefly in the form of a hoop. no, berns, i can't recommend them." he drew from its jewelled sheath and put into bernard's hands a persian dagger nine inches long, the naked blade damascened in wavy ripplings and slightly curved from point to hilt. "that would do your trick better. under the fifth rib. i bought it of a greek muleteer, god knows how he got hold of it, but he was a bit of a poet: he assured me it would go in 'as soft as a kiss.' for its softness i cannot speak, but it is as sharp as a knife need be." "sharper," said bernard, his thumb in his mouth. "you silly ass, i warned you!-- i should rather like to see this moore play. i suppose laura never goes, as you don't?" "i don't stop her going, as you jolly well know. she's welcome to go six nights a week if she likes." "she couldn't very well go alone," lawrence ignored the scowl of his host. "tell you what: suppose i took her tonight? i could run her up and down in my car, or we could get back by the midnight train. would the feelings of chilmark be outraged?" "what business is it of chilmark's? if i'm complaisant, that's enough," said bernard, his features relaxing into a broad grin. "i may be planked down in a country village for the rest of my very unnatural life, but i'll be shot if i'll regulate mine or my wife'& behaviour by the twaddle they talk! i'll have that dagger." slipping it slowly into its sheath he watched it travel home, the supple female curve gliding and yielding as a woman yields to a man's caress. "voluptuous, i call it. under the left breast, eh?" he drew it again and held it poised and pointing at his cousin. "come, even i could cut your heart out with a gem of a blade like that." lawrence held himself lightly erect, his big frame stiffening from head to foot and the pupils of his eyes dilating till the irids were blackened. "call laura." bernard sheathed the dagger again and laid it down. "she's out there snipping away at the roses. why can't she leave 'em to parker? she's always messing about out there dirtying her hands, and then she comes in and paws me. call her in." lawrence escaped into the sunshine. he had not liked that moment when bernard had held up the dagger, nor was it the first time that bernard had made him shiver, but these vague apprehensions soon faded in the open air. it was a sallow sunshine, a light wind was blowing, and the lawn was spun over with brilliancies of gossamer and flecked with yellow leaflets of acacia and lime. little light clouds floated overhead, sun-smitten to a fiery whiteness, or curling in gold and silver surf over the grey of distant hayfields. in the borders the velvet bodies of bees hung between the velvet petals, ruby-red, of dahlias. there had been no frost, and yet a foreboding of frost was in the air, a sparkle, a sting--enough to have braced lawrence when he went down to bathe before breakfast, standing stripped amid long river-herbage drenched in dew, a west wind striking cold on his wet limbs: sensations exquisite so long as the blood of health and manhood glowed under the chilled skin! it was early autumn. time slips away fast in a country village, and lawrence remained a welcome guest at wanhope, where chilmark said--though with a covert smile--that captain hyde had done his cousin a great deal of good. bernard was better behaved with lawrence than with any one else, less surly, less unsociable, less violently coarse: since june there had been fewer quarrels with val and barry and the servants, and less open incivility to laura. he had even let laura give a few mild entertainments, arrears of hospitality which she was glad to clear off: and he had appeared at them in person, polite and well dressed, and on the friendliest terms with his cousin and his wife. lawrence knew his own mind now. it was because he knew it that he held his hand: meeting isabel two or three times a week, entering into the life of the little place because it was her life, fighting val's battle with bernard--and winning it-- because val was her brother. when he remembered his collapse he was not abashed: shame was an emotion which he rarely felt: but he had gone too far and too fast, and was content to mark time in a more rational and conventional courtship. but a courtship under the rose, for before others he hid his love like a crime, treating isabel as good humoured elderly men treat pretty children. where the astringent memory of lizzie came into play, lawrence was dumb. the one aspect of that fiasco which he had not fully confessed to isabel--though only because it was not then prominent in his mind--was its scorching, its lacerating effect on his pride. but for it he would probably have flung discretion to the winds, confided in laura, in bernard, in val, pursued isabel with a hot and headstrong impetuosity: but it had left the entire tract of sex in him one seared and branded scar. even when they were alone together, which rarely happened--val saw to that--he had as yet made no open love to her: it was difficult to do so when one was never secure from interruption for ten minutes together. of late he had begun to chafe against val's cobweb barriers. three months is a long time! and patience was not a virtue that came natural to lawrence hyde. he found laura cutting off dead roses, a sufficiently harmless occupation, one would have thought: a trifle thinner, a trifle paler than when he came: and were those grey threads in her brown hair? "berns wants you," said lawrence. "i've done such an awful thing, laura--" again that flash of imperfect perception! what was going on under the surface at wanhope, that laura should turn as white as her handkerchief? he hurried on as if he had noticed nothing. "bernard and i have been laying our heads together. do you know what i'm going to do? run you up to town to see the new moore play at hadow's." "delightful!" already laura had recovered herself: her smile was as sweet as ever, and as serene. "was it your idea or bernard's?" "mine. . . i say, laura: bernard is all right, isn't he?" "in what way, all right?" lawrence reddened, regretting his indiscretion. "i've fancied his manner queer, once or twice." "there is a close connection, of course, between the spine and the brain," said laura quietly. "but my husband is perfectly sane. . . . oh my dear lawrence, of course i forgive you! what is there to forgive? i only wish i could come tonight, but i'm afraid it can't be managed--" "she says it can't be managed," said lawrence, standing aside for laura to pass in. "pitch into her, bernard. hear her talk like a woman of sixty! are you frightened of the night air, laura? or would chilmark chatter?" "it might, if you and i went alone," laura smiled. "make up a party then," suggested lawrence. "get the bendishes to come too." she shook her head. "they're dining with the dean." "and decanal dinner-parties can't be thrown over." when he made the suggestion, lawrence had known that the bendishes were dining with the dean. "some one else, then." "whom could i ask like this at the last moment? no, i won't go--thank you all the same. i'm not so keen on late hours and long train journeys as i used to be. go by yourself and you can tell us all about it afterwards. berns and i shall enjoy that as much as seeing it ourselves. shan't we, berns?" clowes gave a short laugh: he could not have expressed his opinion more clearly if he had called his wife a fool to her face. "you weren't so particular before you married me, my love. when you ran that french flat with yvonne you jolly well knew how to amuse yourself." "girls do many things before they're married," said laura vaguely. "i know better now." "oh, you know a lot. she ought to go, lawrence. it'll do her good. now you shall go, my dear, that's flat." lawrence began to wish he had held his tongue. he had his own ends to serve, but, to do him justice, he had not meant to serve them at laura's expense. but he had still his trump card to play. "surely we could find a chaperon?" he said gently, ignoring bernard. "what about the staffords? hardly in val's line, perhaps. but the child--little miss isabel--won't she do?" to his relief, laura's eyes lit up with pleasure. "isabel? i never thought of her! yes, she would love to come!--but, if she does, she must come as my guest. you would never have asked her of your own accord, and the staffords are so proud, i'm sure val wouldn't like you to pay for her." again bernard's short, sardonic laugh translated the silence of his cousin's constraint and dismay. "hark to her! i'll sort her for you, lawrence. she shall go, and you shall be paymaster. yes, and for the stafford brat too. lawrence and i don't understand these modern manners, my dear. when we take a pretty woman out we like to do the treating. now cut along and see about the tickets, lawrence. you can 'phone from the post office." lawrence had secured a box ten days ago, but he strolled out, thinking that the husband and wife might understand each other better when alone. as soon as he was out of earshot bernard turned on laura and seized her by the wrist, his features altering, their sardonic mask recast in deep lines of hate. "why wouldn't you go up alone? that's what he wanted. why have you saddled him with the little stafford girl? you can't take her to dine in a private room." "it was because i foresaw this that i refused. why do you torment yourself by forcing me to go?" "i? what do i care? do you think i should shed many tears if you walked out of the house and never came back? think i don't know he's your lover? you're uncommonly circumspect with your stable door! . . . a woman like you! look here." he picked up the persian dagger. "see it? that's been used before. i should like to use it on you. i should like to cut your tongue out with it. don't be afraid, i'm not going to stab you." "afraid?" said his wife with her serene ironical smile. "my dear bernard, you tempt me to wish you were." "oh, not before tonight. jolly time you'll have tonight, you and lawrence . . . i can only trust you'll respect the stafford child's innocence." "bernard! bernard!" "don't you bernard me. you can't take me in. stop. where are you off to now?" "to tell lawrence not to get the tickets. i shan't go with him." "you will go with him," said bernard clowes, his fingers tightening on her wrist. "stop here: come closer." he locked his arm round her waist. "is he your lover yet, lally? tell me: i swear i won't kill you if you do. are you on the borderland of virtue still, or over it?" "let me go," said laura, panting for breath under his clenched grip. "i will not answer such questions. you know you don't mean one word of them. take care, you're tearing my blouse. oh, that frightful war! what has it done to you, to turn you from the man i married into what you are?" "what am i?" "a madman, or not far off it. end this horrible life: send him away. it's killing me, and as for you, if you were sane enough to understand what you're doing, you would blow your brains out." "likely enough," said bernard clowes. he let her go. "come back to me now, laura." his wife leant over him, unfaltering, though she had known for some time that she was dealing with the abnormal. "kiss me." laura touched his lips. "that's better, old girl. i am a cross-grained devil and i make your life a hell to you, don't i? but don't--don't leave me. don't chuck me over. let me have your love to cling to. i don't believe in god, i don't believe in any other man, often enough i don't believe in myself, i feel, i feel unreal . . . ." he stopped, shut his eyes, moved his head on the pillow, and felt about over his rug with the blind groping hands of a delirious, almost of a dying man. laura gathered them up and held them to her heart. "that's better," said bernard, his voice gaining strength as he opened his eyes on the beautiful still face bent over him. "just now and again, in my lucid moments, i do--i do believe in you, old girl. you are just the one thing i have left. you won't forsake me, will you, ever? not whatever i do to you." "never, my darling." "seems a bit one-sided, that bargain," said bernard. he lay perfectly still for a little while, his great hands softly pressed against his wife's firm breast. "and now get your hat and trot up to the village with lawrence. yes, i should like you to go tonight. it'll do you good. give you a breath of fresh air after your extra dose of sulphur. yes, you shall take isabel. then you'll be safe: i can't insult you if you and lawrence weren't alone. now run along, i've had enough emotions. but don't forget. laura," he spoke thickly and with effort, turning his head away as he pushed her from him "yes, get out, i've had enough of you for the present--but don't forget all the same that you're the one thing on earth that ever is real to me." isabel was up a ladder in the orchard picking plums. waving her hand to laura and lawrence hyde, she called out to them to look the other way while she came down. it must be owned that neither laura nor lawrence obeyed her, and they were rewarded, while she felt about for the top rung, with an unimpeded view of two very pretty legs. lawrence really thought she was going to fall out of the tree, but eventually she came safe to earth, and approached holding out a basket full of glowing fruit. "though you don't deserve them," she said reproachfully, "because i could feel you looking at me. i did think i should be safe at this hour in the morning!" "do i see val?" said laura, screwing up her eyes to peer in through the slats of the green jalousies. "i'll go and talk him round, while you break the news to miss stafford. such do's, isabel! you don't know what dissipations are in store for you, if only val will say yes." she like every one else elevated val to the parental dignity vice mr. stafford deposed. "he's come in for some lunch. he'll love to have you watch him eat," said isabel. "what's it to be, captain hyde? a picnic?" isabel's imagination had never soared beyond a picnic. when lawrence unfolded the london scheme her eyes grew round with astonishment and an awed silence fell on her. "oh, it won't happen," she said, when she had recovered sufficiently to reply at all. "nothing so angelically wonderful ever would happen to me. i'm perfectly certain val will say no. now we've settled that, you can tell me all about it, because of course you and laura will go in any case." "but that's precisely what we can't do." gently and imperceptibly lawrence impelled her through the rose archway into the kitchen garden, where they were partly sheltered behind the walls of lilacs, a little thinner than they had been in june but still an effective screen. he had not found himself alone with isabel for ten days. since val was with laura, lawrence drew the rather cynical conclusion that he could count on a breathing space, and he wondered if isabel too were glad of it. she was in a brown cotton dress, her right sleeve still tucked up high on her bare arm: a rounded slender arm not much tanned even at the wrist, for her skin was almost impervious to sunburn. above the elbow it was milk-white with a faint bloom on it, in texture not like ivory, which is a dead, cold, and polished material, but like a flower petal, one of those flowers that have a downy sheen on them, white hyacinths or tall lilies. lawrence fixed his eyes on it unconsciously but so steadily that isabel became aware of his admiration. she blushed and was going to pull down her sleeve, but checked herself, and turning a little away, so that she could pretend not to know that he was looking at her, raised her arm to smooth her hair, lifting it and pushing a loosened hairpin into place. after all . . . this was isabel's first venture into coquetry. but it was half unconscious. "why can't you? oh, i suppose people would be silly. major clowes himself is silly enough for anything. oh, i'm so sorry, i always forget he's your cousin! is that why you want me to go?" "no." she laughed. "never mind, you'll soon find some one else. what play is it?" "'she promised to marry.'" "oh ah, yes: that's by moore, who wrote 'the milkmaid' and 'sheddon, m.p.' i've read some of his things. i liked them so, i made rowsley give me them for my last birthday. they're quite cheap in brown paper. o! dear, i should love to see one of them on the stage!" isabel gave a great sigh. "a london stage too! i've never been to a theatre except in salisbury. and hadow's is the one to go to, isn't it? where they play the clever plays that aren't tiresome. who's acting tonight?" "madeleine wild and peter sennet." "have you ever seen them?" lawrence laughed outright. "i was at their wedding. madeleine is half french: i knew her first when she was singing in a cafe chantant on the champs elysees. she is dark and pretty and peter is fair and pretty, and peter is the deadliest poker player that ever scored off an american train crook." "oh," said isabel with a second sigh that nearly blew her away, "how i should love to know actors and actresses and people who play poker! it must make life so intensely interesting!" behind her badinage was she half in earnest? lawrence's eye ranged over the old pale walls of the vicarage, on which the climbing roses were already beginning to redden their leaves: over the lavender borders: over the dry pale turf underfoot and the silver and brown of the plain, burnt by a hot summer. the fruit that had been green in june was ripe now, and down the painted-lady apple-trees fell such a cascade of ruby and coral-coloured apples, from high sprig to heavy bole, that they looked like trees in a kate greenaway drawing. but there was no other change. life at chilmark flowed on uneventful from day to day. he did not admonish isabel to be content with it. "should you like to live in chelsea?" isabel shut her eyes. "i should like fifteen thousand a year and a yacht. don't tell jimmy, it would break his heart. he says money is a curse. but he's not much of a judge, dear angel, because he's never had any. what's your opinion--you're rich, aren't you? has it done you any harm?" "oh, i am a fairly decent sort of fellow as men go." "but would you be a nobler character if you were poor?" isabel asked, pillowing her round chin on her palm and examining lawrence apparently in a spirit of scientific enquiry. "because that is jimmy's theory, and merely to say that you're noble now doesn't meet the case. do you do good with your money?" "no fear! i encourage trade. i've never touched second rate stuff in my life." "oh, you are different!" isabel exclaimed. they had been using words for counters, to mean at once less and more than they said, but under his irony she penetrated to a hard material egoism, as swiftly as he had detected in her the eternal unrest of youth. "val was right." "what saith the gospel according to st. val?" "that you were only a bird of passage." lawrence waited a moment before replying. "birds of passage have their mating seasons." once more isabel, not knowing what to make of this remark, let it alone. "but i should like to possess val's good opinion. what have i done to offend him? can't you give me any tips?" "it isn't so much what you do as what you are. val's very, very english." "but what am i?" "foreign," said isabel simply. "a jew? yes, i knew i should have that prejudice to live down. but i'm not a hall-marked israelite, am i? after all i'm half english by birth and wholly so by breeding." isabel was betrayed into an involuntary and fleeting smile. "hallo! what's this?" "oh, captain hyde--" "go on." "no: it's the tiniest trifle, and besides i've no right." "ask me anything you like, i give you the right." isabel blushed. "you must be descended from jephthah!-- o! dear, i didn't mean that!" "never mind," said lawrence, unable to help laughing. "my feelings are not sensitive. but do finish--you fill me with curiosity. what shibboleth do i fail in?" faithful are the wounds of a friend. "englishmen don't wear jewellery," murmured isabel apologetic. "sac a papier!" said lawrence. "my rings?" he stretched out his hand, a characteristic hand, strong and flexible, but soft from idleness and white from gaston's daily attentions: a diamond richly set in a cluster of diamonds and emeralds sparkled on the second finger, and a royal turquoise from iran, an immense stone the colour of the mediterranean in april, on the third. "does val object to them? certainly val is very english. my pocket editions of beauty! that diamond was presented by one of the rothschilds in gratitude for the help old hyde-and-seek gave him in getting together his collection of early english watercolours: as for the other, it never ought to have left the persian treasury, and there'd have been trouble in the royal house if my father had worn it at the court. have you ever seen such a blue? on a dull railway journey i can sit and watch those stones by the hour together. but val would rather read the daily mail" "every one laughs at them: jack and lord grantchester, and even jimmy." "and you?" said lawrence, taking off the rings:--not visibly nettled, but a trifle regretful. isabel knit her brows. "can a thing be very beautiful and historic, and yet not in good taste?-- it can if it's out of harmony: that's what the greeks never forgot. men ought not to look effeminate-- oh! o captain hyde, don't!" lawrence, standing up, had with one powerful smooth drive of the arm sent both rings skimming over the borders, under the apple trees, over the garden wall, to scatter and drop on the open moor. "and here comes mrs. clowes, so now i shall learn my fate. i thought val would not leave us long together.-- well, val, what is it to be? may the young lady come?" isabel also sprang up, changing from woman to child as lawrence changed from deference to patronage. their manner to each other when alone was always different from their manner before an audience. but this change, deliberate in lawrence, had hitherto been instinctive and almost unconscious in isabel. it was not so now, she fled to val and to her younger self for refuge. what a fanfaronade! why couldn't captain hyde have put the rings in his pocket? but no, it must all be done with an air--and what an air! rings worth thousands--historic mementoes--stripped off and tossed away to please--! and at that isabel, enchanted and terrified, bundled the entire dialogue into the cellars of her mind and locked the doors on it. later,--later,--when one was alone! "oh, val, say i may go!" she cried, clasping her hands on val's arm, so cool and firm amid a spinning world. [footnote] what actually happened later that afternoon was that isabel, who had a practical mind, spent three-quarters of an hour on the moor hunting for the rings. the turquoise she found, conspicuous on a patch of smooth turf: the other was never recovered. [end of footnote] "you may," said val laughing. he disliked the scheme, but was incapable of refusing laura clowes: he gave her isabel as he would have given her the last drops of his blood, if she had asked for them in that low voice of hers, and with those sweet eyes that never seemed to anticipate refusal. there are women--not necessarily the most beautiful of their sex--to whom men find it hard to refuse anything. and, consenting, it was not in val to consent with an ill grace. "certainly you may, if captain hyde is kind enough to take you!" stafford's lips, finely cut and sensitive, betrayed the sarcastic sense of humour which he ruled out of his voice: perhaps the less said about kindness the better! "but do look over her wardrobe first, laura: i'm never sure whether isabel is grown up or not, but she could hardly figure at hadow's in her present easy-going kit--" he stopped, because isabel was trying to waltz him round the lawn. in her reaction from a deeper excitement, she was as excited as a child. she released val soon and hugged laura clowes instead, while lawrence, looking on with his wintry smile, wondered whether she would have extended the same civility to him if she had known how much he desired it. . . . there were moments when he hated isabel. was she never going to grow up? not at present, apparently. "what must i wear, laura? do people wear evening dress? where shall we sit? what time shall we get back? how are you going? what time must i be ready? will you have dinner before you go or take sandwiches with you?"--how long the patter of questions would have run on it is hard to say, if the extreme naivete of the last one had not drowned them in universal laughter, and isabel in crimson. mrs. jack bendish rode up while they were talking, slipped from her saddle, and threw the reins to val without apology, though she knew there was no one but val to take the mare to the stable. yvonne was the only member of the castle household who presumed on val's subordinate position. she treated him like a superior servant. when she heard what was in the wind her eyes were as green as a cat's. "how kind of captain hyde!" she drawled, as lawrence, irritated by her manner, went to help val, while isabel was called indoors by fanny to listen to a tale of distress, unravel a grievance, and prescribe for anemia. "some one ought to warn the child." "warn her of what?" "has it never struck you that isabel is a pretty girl and lawrence a good looking man?" "but isabel is too intelligent to have her head turned by the first handsome man she meets!" yvonne looked as though she found her sister rather hopeless. "dear, you really must be sensible!" laura pleaded. "it's not as if poor lawrence had tried to flirt with her. he never even thought of asking her for tonight till i suggested it!" this was the impression left on laura's memory. "she isn't the sort of woman to attract him." "what sort of woman would attract him, i wonder?" said mrs. jack, blowing rings of smoke delicately down her thin nostrils. "oh, when he marries it will be some one older than isabel, more sophisticated, more a woman of the world. i like lawrence immensely, but there is just that in him: he's one of the men who expect their wives to do them credit." "some one more like me," suggested yvonne. "or you." her face was a study in untroubled innocence. laura eyed her rather sharply. "but lawrence isn't a marrying man. he won't marry till some woman raises the price on him." "you speak as if between men and women life were always a duel." "so it is." laura made a small inarticulate sound of dissent. "sex is a duel. don't you know"--an infinitesimal hesitation marked the conscious forcing of a barrier: cynically frank as she was on most points, mrs. bendish had always left her sister's married life alone:--"that--that's what's wrong with bernard? oh! laura! simpleton that you are. . . i'm often frightfully sorry for bernard. it has thrown him clean off the rails. one can't wonder that he's consumed with jealousy." in the stillness that followed yvonne occupied herself with her cigarette. mrs. clowes was formidable even to her sister in her delicately inaccessible dignity. "had you any special motive in saying this to me now, yvonne?" "this theatre business." "i don't contemplate running away with lawrence, if that is what you mean." "wish you would!" confessed mrs. bendish frankly. "then bernard could divorce you and you could start fair again. i'm fed up with bernard. i'm sorry for him, poor devil, but he never was much of a joy as a husband, and he's going from bad to worse. think i'm blind? of course he's jealous. high dresses and lace cuffs aren't the fashion now, lal." her sister slowly turned back the frill from her wrist and examined the scarlet stain of bernard's finger-print. "does it show so plainly? i hope other people haven't noticed. bernard doesn't remember how strong his hands still are." "doesn't care, you mean." "do you want me quite naked?" said laura. "well, doesn't care, then." yvonne was not accustomed to the smart of pity. she winced under it, and her tongue, an edge-tool of intelligence or passion, but not naturally prone to express tenderness, became more than ever articulate. "sorry!" she said with difficulty, and then, "didn't want to rake all this up. but i'm fond of you. we've always been pals, you and i, lulu." "say whatever you like." "then--" she sat up, throwing away her cigarette-"i'm going to warn you. all chilmark believes lawrence is your lover." "and do you?" "no. i know you wouldn't run an intrigue." "thank you." "but jack and i both think, if you don't want to cut and run with him, you ought to pack him off. mind, if you do want to, you can count me in, and jack too. i'm not religious: jack is, but he's not narrow. as for the social bother of it--marriage is a useful institution and all that, but it's perfectly obvious that one can get--over the rails and back again if one has money. there aren't twenty houses (worth going to) in london that would cut you if you turned up properly remarried to a rich man." "are you . . . recommending this course?" "i'd like you to be happy." "and what about bernard?" "put in a couple of good trained nurses who wouldn't give him his head as you do, and he'd be a different man by the spring." "he certainly would," said laura drily. "he would be dead." "not he. he's far too strong to die of being made uncomfortable. as a matter of fact it would do him all the good in the world," pursued yvonne calmly. "he cries out to be bullied. what's so irritating in the present situation is that though you let him rack you to pieces you never give him what he wants! you don't shine as a wife, my dear." "it will end in my sending lawrence away," said laura with a subdued sigh. "i didn't want to because in many ways he has done bernard so much good; no one else has ever had the same influence over him; besides, i liked having him at wanhope for my own sake--he freshened us up and gave us different things to talk about, outside interests, new ideas. and after all, so far as bernard himself is concerned, one is as good as another. he always has been jealous and always will be. but if all chilmark credits us with the rather ignominious feat of betraying him, lawrence will have to go." "lawrence may have something to say to that." "he's not in love with me." yvonne's eyes widened in genuine scepticism.--"oh dear, as if i shouldn't know!" laura broke out petulantly. might not yvonne have remembered that, in the days when they were living together in a french appartement, laura's experience had been pretty nearly as wide as her own? "he is not, i tell you! nor i with him. but, if we were, i shouldn't desert bernard. i do not believe in your two highly trained nurses. i don't think you much believe in them yourself. they might break him in, because nurses are drilled to deal with tiresome and unmanageable patients, but it would be worse for him, not better. he rebels fiercely enough now, but if i weren't there he would rebel still more fiercely, and all the rage and humiliation would have no outlet. you want me to be happy? we selincourts are so quick to seize happiness! father did it . . . and lucian does it: dear lulu! we both love him, but it's difficult to be proud of him. yet he has good qualities, good abilities. he's far cleverer than i am, and so are you," laura's tone was diffident, "but oh, you are wrong in thinking so much of mere happiness. there is an immense amount of pain in the world, and if one doesn't bear one's own share it falls on some one else. my life with bernard isn't--always easy," she found a momentary difficulty in controlling her voice, "but he's my husband and i shall stick to him. the more so for being deeply conscious that a different woman might manage him better. no i don't mind your saying it. oh, how often i've felt the truth of it! but, such as i am, i'm all he has." "you're a thousand times too good for him. why are you so good?" "i'm not good and no more is lulu." mrs. bendish sighed, impressed perhaps by laura's alien moralities, certainly by her determination. "however, if you won't you won't, and in a way i'm glad, selfishly that is, because of jack's people. but in that case, dear girl, do get rid of lawrence! the situation strikes me as fraught with danger. one of those situations where every one says something's sure to happen, and then they're all flabbergasted when it does." "bernard is not a formidable enemy," said mrs. clowes drily. "but, yes, lawrence must go. i'll speak to him tomorrow." "why not today?" "it would spoil our evening." "give it up." "and disappoint isabel?" "i don't like it." "nor i. but i was forced into it, and i can't break my word to lawrence and the child. after all, there's no great odds between today and tomorrow. what can happen in twenty-four hours?" chapter xiii in after life, when isabel was destined to look back on that day as the last day of her youth, she recalled no part of it more clearly than wandering up to her own room after an early tea to dress, and flinging herself down on her bed instead of dressing. she slept next to val. but while val's room, sailor-like in its neatness, was bare as any garret and got no sun at all, isabel's was comfortable in a shabby way and faced south and west over the garden: an autumn garden now, bathed in westering sunshine, fortified from the valley by a carved gold height of beech trees, open on every other side over sunburnt moorland pale and rough as a stubble-field in its autumn feathering of light brown grasses and seedling flowers aflicker in a west wind. tonight however isabel saw nothing of it, she lay as if asleep, her face hidden in her pillow: she, the most active person in the house, who was never tired like val nor lazy like rowsley! conscience pricked her, but she was muffled so thick in happiness that she scarcely felt it: the fancies that floated into her mind frightened her, and yet they were too sweet to banish: and then after all were they wrong? always on clear evenings the sun flung a great ray across her wall, turning the faded pale green paper into a liquid gold-green like sunlit water, evoking a dusty gleam from her mirror, and deepening the shadows in an old mezzo tint of botticelli's spring which was pinned up where she could gaze at it while she brushed her hair. the room thus illumined was that of a young girl with little time to spare and less money, and an ungrown individual taste not yet critical enough to throw off early loyalties. there were no other pictures, except an engraving of "the light of the world," given her by val, who admired it. there was a tall bookcase, the top shelves devoted to sweet's "anglo-saxon reader," lanson's "histoire de la litterature francaise," and other textbooks that she was reading for her examination in october, the lower a ragged regiment of novels and verse--"the three musketeers," "typhoon," "many inventions," landor's "hellenics," "with fondest love from laura," "une vie" and "fort comme la mort" in yellow and initialled "y.b." there were also a big table strewn with papers and books, and a chintz covered box-ottoman into which isabel bundled all those rubbishing treasures that people who love their past can never make up their weak minds to throw away. she examined them all in the stream of gold sunlight as if she had never seen them before. it was time to get up and arrange her hair and change into her lace petticoats. if she did not get up at once she would be late and they would lose their train. and it seemed to her that she would die if they lost their train, that she never could survive such a disappointment: and yet she could not bring herself to get up and give over dreaming. and what dreams they were, oh! what would val say to them?--and yet again after all were they so wicked?--they were incredibly naif and innocent, and so dim that within twenty-four hours isabel was to look back on them as a woman looks back on her childhood. she was not ignorant of the mysteries of birth and death. she had lived all her life among the poor, and knew many things which are not included in school curricula, such as the gentle art of keeping children's hair clean, how to divide a four-roomed cottage between a man and wife and six children and a lodger, and what to say when shown "a beautiful corpse": but she had never had a lover of her own. there were no marriageable men in chilmark--there never are in an english village--and she was too young for rowsley's brother officers, or they were too young for her. she had dreamed of fairy princes (blases-men-of-the-world, mostly in the guards or the diplomatic service), but it was never precisely isabel stafford whom they clasped to their hearts--no, it was lasignora isabella, the star of covent garden, or the lady isabel de stafford, a duke's daughter in disguise. and lawrence came to her in the mantle of these patrician ghosts. but--and at this point isabel hid her face on her arm--he was no ghost: he knew what he wanted and he meant to have it: and it was a far cry from visionary heroes to lawrence hyde in the flesh, son of a jew, smelling of cigar-smoke, and taking hold of her with his large, fair, overmanicured hands. a far cry even from val or jack bendish: from the cool, mannered englishman to the hot oriental blood. when people were engaged they often kissed each other . . . but when it came to imagining oneself . . . one's head against that thick tweed . . . no . . . it must be one of the things that are safe to do but dangerous to dream of doing. oh, never, never!--but she had been trained in sincerity: and was this cry sincere? her mind was chaos. and yet after all why dangerous? even laura, val's adored laura, had been engaged twice before she married major clowes: as for yvonne, isabel felt sure she had been kissed many times, and not by jack bendish only. such things happen, then! in real life, not only in books. as for the cigars and the valet . . . and val's warnings . . . one can't have all one wants in this world! it contains no ideal heroes: what was it yvonne had once said? "every marriage is either a delusion or a compromise." and isabel had shortcomings enough of her own: she was irritable, lazy, selfish: read novels when she ought to have been at her lessons: left household jobs undone in the certainty that val, however tired he was, would do them for her: small sins, but then her temptations were small! take it by and large, she was probably no better than captain hyde except for want of opportunity. and how he would laugh if he heard her say so! she liked him for laughing. she had been brought up in an atmosphere of scruple. her father overworked his conscience, treating a question of taste as a moral issue, and drawing no line between great and small--like the man who gave a penny to a beggar and implored him not to spend it on debauchery. charity and a sense of fun saved val, but if more lenient to others he was ruthlessly stern to himself. lawrence blew on isabel like a breath of sea air. in her reaction she liked his external characteristics, his manner to servants, his expensive clothes and boots, all the signs of money spent freely on himself. she even liked his politics. isabel had been brought up all her life to talk politics. mr. stafford was a christian socialist, a creed which in her private opinion was nicely calculated to produce the maximum of human discomfort: and from a conversation between hyde and jack bendish she had learnt that hyde was all of her own view. there was no nonsense about him--none of that sweet blind altruism which, as isabel saw it, only made the altruist and his family so bitterly uncomfortable without doing any good to the poor. the poor? she knew intuitively that servants and porters and waiters would far rather serve hyde than her father. mr. stafford longed to uplift the working classes, but isabel had never got herself thoroughly convinced that they stood in need of uplifting. her practical common sense rose in arms against movements that tried to get them to go to picture galleries instead of picture palaces. why shouldn't they do as they liked? does one reform one's friends? captain hyde would live and let live. and he was rich. few girls as cramped as isabel could have remained blind to that wide horizon, and she made no pretence of doing so: she was honest with herself and owned that she had always longed to be rich. no one could call her discontented! her happy sunny temper took life as it came and enjoyed every minute of it, but her tastes were not really simple, though val thought they were. she had long felt a clear though perfectly good-humoured and philosophic impatience of her narrow scope. hyde could give her all and more than all she had ever desired-- foreign countries and fine clothes, books and paintings, and power apparently and the admiration of men . . . isabel hyde . . . mrs. lawrence hyde . . . .smiling she tried his name under her breath . . .and suddenly she found herself standing before the mirror, examining her face in its dusky shallows and asking of it the question that has perplexed many a young girl as beautiful as she--"am i pretty?" she pulled the pins out of her hair and ran a comb through it till it fell this way and that like an indian veil, darkly burnished and sunset-shot with threads of bronze. "lawrence has never seen it loose," she reflected: "surely i am rather pretty?" and then "oh, oh, i shall be late!" and isabel's dreams were drenched and scattered under the shock of cold water. dreamlike the run through the warm september landscape: dreamlike the slip of country platform, where, while lawrence took their tickets, she and laura walked up and down and fingered the tall hollyhocks flowering upward in quilled rosettes of lemon-yellow and coral red, like paper lanterns lit by a fairy lamplighter on a spiral stair: and most dreamlike of all the discovery that the exeter express had been flagged for them and that she was expected to precede laura into a reserved first class carriage. it was not more than once or twice in a year that isabel went by train, and she had never travelled but third class in her life. how smoothly life runs for those who have great possessions! how polite the railway staff were! the station master himself held open the door for the wanhope party. now she knew mr. chivers very well, but in all previous intercourse one finger to his cap had been enough for young miss isabel. certainly it was agreeable, this hothouse atmosphere. "shall you feel cold?" lawrence asked, and isabel, murmuring "no, thank you," blushed in response to the touch of formality in his manner. she felt what women often feel in the early stages of a love affair, that he had been nearer to her when he was not there, than now when they were together in the presence of a third person. she had grown shy and strange before this careless composed man lounging opposite her with his light overcoat thrown open and his crush hat on his knees, conventionally polite, his long legs stretched out sideways to give her and laura plenty of room. and lawrence on the journey neither spoke to her nor watched her, though isabel shone in borrowed plumes. there had been no time to buy clothes, and so val, though grudgingly, had allowed laura and yvonne to ransack their shelves and presses for cinderella's adornment. but one glance had painted her portrait for him, tall and slender in a long sealskin coat of yvonne's which was rulled and collared and flounced with fur, her glossy hair parted on one side and drawn back into what she called a soup-plate of plaits. once only he directly addressed her, when laura loosened her own sables. "do undo your coat, won't you? it's hot tonight for september." "i'm not hot, thank you," said isabel stiffly: but slowly, as if against her will, she opened the collar of her coat and pushed it back from her young neck and the crossed folds of her lace gown. the gown was very old, it had indeed belonged to laura selincourt: it was because laura loved its soft, graceful, dateless lines that it had survived so long. she had seized on it with her unerring tact: this was right for isabel, this dim transparency of rosepoint modelling itself over the immature slenderness of nineteen: and she and her maid catherine and mrs. bendish had spent patient hours trying it on and modifying it to suit the fashion of the day. laura had refused to impose upon isabel either her own modish elegance or yvonne's effect of the arresting and bizarre. "isn't she almost too slight for it?" yvonne had asked, and laura for all answer had hummed a little french song-- 'mignonne allons voir si la rose qui ce matin avoit desclose sa robe de pourpre au soleil a point perdu ceste vespree i as plis de sa robe pourpree et son teint au votre pareil . . .' she discerned in isabel that quality of beauty, noble, spirited, and yet wistful, which requires a most expensive setting of simplicity. and that was why isabel opened her coat. if captain hyde had admired her in her chilmark muslin, what would he think of flounce and fold of rose-point of alencon under yvonne's perfumed furs? and then she blushed again because the yearning in his eyes made her wonder if he cared after all whether she wore lace or cotton. everything was so strange! strangest of all it was, to the brink of unreality, that laura evidently remained blind. but laura was always blind. "why, she never even sees val!" reflected isabel scornfully. and yet-- suppose isabel were deceiving herself? what if captain hyde were not in earnest? but her older self comforted her child's self: careless was he, and composed? "you were not always so composed, lawrence," in her own mind the elder isabel mocked him with her sparkling eyes. waterloo, lamplit and resonant: the pulsing of many lamps, the hurry of many steps, the flitting by of many faces under an arch of gloom: dark quiet and the scent of violets in a waiting car. "what a jolly taxi!" isabel exclaimed. "i never was in a taxi like this before. is it a more expensive kind?" "my dear lawrence, you certainly have the art of making your life run on wheels!" said laura smiling. "how many telegrams have you sent today?" "if you do a thing at all you may as well do it in decent comfort," lawrence replied sententiously. "half past seven; that'll give us easy time! i booked a table at malvani's, i thought you would prefer it to one of the big crowded shows." "are we going to have supper--dinner i mean--at a restaurant?" asked isabel awestruck. laurance smiled at her with irrepressible tenderness. "did you think you weren't going to get anything to eat at all?" he forbore to remind her of her unfortunate allusion to sandwiches-- for which isabel was grateful to him. "aren't you hungry?" "oh yes: but then i often am. is malvani's a very quiet place?" lawrence looked at laura with a comical expression. "what an ass i was! wouldn't the ritz have been more to the point?" "never mind, sweetheart," said laura. "malvani's isn't dowdily quiet. it's the smartest of the smart, and there are always a lot of distinguished people in it. dear me, how long it is since i've dined in town! really it's great fun, i feel as if i had come out of a tomb--" she checked herself: but she might have been as indiscreet as she liked, for her companions were not listening. laura was faintly, very faintly startled by their attitude--hyde leaning forward in the half-light of the brougham to button isabel's glove--but she was soon smiling at her own fancy. "poor isabel, poor simple isabel!" she was only a child after all. a child, but a very gay and winning child, when she came into malvani's with her long swaying step, direct glance, and joyous mouth. a spirit of excitement sparkled in isabel tonight, and every movement was a separate and conscious pleasure to her: the physical sensation of walking delicately, the ripple of her skirt over her ankles, the poise of her shoulders under their transparent veil. . . . laura saw a dozen men turn to look after the wanhope party, and took no credit for it, though not long ago she had been accustomed to be watched when she moved through a public room. but now she was better pleased to see isabel admired than to be admired herself. as they neared their reserved table a man who had been sitting at it rose with an amused smile. "have you forgotten who i am, laura?" "one might as well be even numbers," lawrence explained. "so, as i knew selincourt was in town, i wired to him to join us." a worn, fatigued-looking, but not ungentle rake of forty, selincourt had stayed once at wanhope, but the visit had not been a success: indeed laura had been thankful when it ended before host and guest threw the decanters at each other's heads. that she was pleased to see him now there could be no doubt: she had taken him by both hands and was smiling at him as if she would have liked to fling decorum to the winds and kiss him. lawrence also smiled but with a touch of finesse. his plan was working. laura was going to enjoy herself: bon! he was truly fond of laura and delighted to give her pleasure. but by it he would be left free to devote himself to isabel. it was to this end that he had planned the entire expedition. at chilmark they met continually in the same setting, and he had no means of printing a fresh image of himself on her mind, but here he was free of country customs, a rich man among his equals, an expert in the art of "doing oneself well"--one of those who rule over modern civilization by divine right of a chequebook and a trained manner. isabel had been brought up by high churchmen, had she? let them test what hold they had of her! every aspect of their journey and of the supper-table at malvani's, with its heady music and smell of rich food and wines, had been calculated to produce a certain effect--an intoxication of excitement and pleasure. and he set himself to stamp his own impression on isabel, naming to her, in his soft, isolating undertones, the notable men and women in the room, describing their careers, their finances, even their scandals--it amused him to watch her repress a start. it amused him still more to stand up and shake hands when the immense body and hebraic nose of an international financier went by with two great ladies and a cabinet minister in tow. "one of my countrymen," hyde turned to isabel with a mocking smile. "i am a citizen of no mean city. those--" with an imperceptible jerk of the head--"would lick the dust off his boots to find out what line the jew bankers mean to take in the syrian question. they might as well lick mine." "why, do you know?" breathed isabel. "verily, o gentile maiden." lawrence grinned at her over his champagne. "i lunched raphael last time i was in town and he told me all about it. but i shouldn't tell them. it isn't good for gentiles to know too much about weltpotitik. that's our show." he leant back in his chair and his hot eyes challenged her to call him a dirty jew. selincourt caught his last remark and looked him up and down with a twinkling glance. he no longer wondered why lawrence had spent his summer in the tents of kedar--so differently do brothers look on their own and other men's sisters. but he knew men and things pretty well, and at a moment when laura was speaking to isabel he looked straight at lawrence and touched his glass with a murmured, "go slow, old man." the elder man had seen instantly what neither mrs. clowes nor isabel had any notion of, that under his easy manner hyde's nerves were all on edge. lawrence started and stared at him, half offended: but after a moment his good sense extorted a grudging "thanks." it warned him to be grateful for the hint, and he took it: a second glass of champagne that night would infallibly have gone to his head. a darkened theatre, fantastically decorated in scarlet and silver: a french orchestra already playing a delicate prelude: a lively audience--a typical "moor" audience--agreeably ready to be piqued and scandalized as well as amused. all the plays isabel had ever seen were salisbury matinees of "as you like it" and "julius caesar." it was not by chance that hyde introduced her tonight to this filigree comedy, so cynical under its glittering dialogue. he could find no swifter way to present to her le monde ou l'on s'amuse in all its refined and defiant charm. he liked to watch her laugh, he laughed himself and gave a languid clap or two when madeleine wild made one of her famous entries, but his main interest was in his plan of campaign. yet chance can never he counted out. when the lights went up after the first act lawrence found himself looking directly across the rather small and narrow proscenium at a lady in the opposite box. who the devil was it?--the devil, with a vengeance! it was mrs. cleve. chapter xiv conscious to his fingertips that selincourt was watching him with an amused smile, lawrence returned mrs. cleve's nod with less than his usual ease. her eye ranged on from selincourt, to whom she waved a butterfly salute, over the rather faded elegance of laura clowes and the extremely youthful charms of isabel: apparently she did not admire lawrence's ladies: she spoke to her cavalier, an elderly, foreign-looking man with a copper complexion and curly dark hair, and they laughed together. what ensued between them was not difficult to follow. she made him a request, he rolled plaintive eyeballs at her, the lady carried her point, the gentleman left the box. then--one saw it coming--she leaned forward till the diamonds in her plenitude of fair hair sparkled like a crown of flame, and beckoned lawrence to join her. he cursed her impertinence. apart from leaving isabel, he did not want to talk to mrs. cleve: he had forgotten her existence, and it was a shock to him to meet her again. good heavens, had he ever admired her? that white blanc-mange of a woman in her ruby-red french gown, cut open lower than one of yvonne's without the saying of yvonne's wiry slimness? remembering the summerhouse at bingley lawrence blushed with shame, not for his morals but for his taste: he was thankful to have gone no further and wondered why he had gone so far.--he had not yet realized that during three months among women of a different stamp his taste had imperceptibly modified itself from day to day. but she had been his hostess. impossible to refuse: and with a vexed word of apology to laura he went out. "dear me, what an opulent lady!" said laura with lifted eyebrows. "who's your friend, lulu?" lucian drily named her. "queen's gate, and sundays at the metropole. they're shipping people, which is where the diamond ta-ra-ras come from. oh yes, there's a husband, quite a nice fellow, crocked in the flying corps. no, i don't know who the chap is she's got with her. some dusky brother. not cleve." he fell silent as lawrence appeared in the opposite box. it was an odd scene to watch in dumbshow. mrs. cleve shook hands, and lawrence was held for more than the conventional moment. he remained standing till she pointed to her cavalier's empty chair: then dropped into it, but sat forward leaning his aim along the balcony, while she, drawn back behind her curtain, was almost drowned in shadow except for an occasional flash of diamonds, or an opaque gleam of white and dimpled neck. an interlude entirely decorous, and yet, so crude was the force of philippa's personality, one would have had to be very young, or very innocent, to overlook her drift. "well, my darling," said laura, "and what do you think of madeleine wild?" she did not wish isabel to watch mrs. cleve. "is she as nice as your salisbury rosalind?" "angelical!" said isabel. "and isn't it luck for me, royalty coming tonight? i've never seen any one royal before. it's one of those evenings when nothing goes wrong." was not isabel a trifle too guileless for this wicked world? she prattled on, selincourt and laura lending an indulgent ear, selincourt, like any other man of his type, touched by her innocence, laura faintly irritated: and meanwhile isabel through her black lashes watched, not the duchess of cumberland's rubies, but those two in the opposite box. between it and her stretched a beautiful woodland drop-scene, the glitter of the stalls, and the murmur of violins humming through the rising flames of the feuerzauber . . . presently the fire charm eddied away and the lights went down, yet still lawrence sat on though the interval was over. across the semi-dark of a "courtyard by moonlight" it was hard to distinguish anything but the silhouette of his hand and arm, and mrs. cleve's fair hair and immense jewelled fan. what were they saying to each other in this public isolation where anything might be said so long as decorum was preserved? selincourt gave a little laugh as the curtain rose. "an old flame," he whispered to laura, not dreaming that isabel would understand even if she heard. "what's an old flame?" asked isabel, examining him with her brilliant eyes. "feuerzauber," said selincourt readily. "it means fire spell. it's often played between the acts." "lucian, lucian!" said his sister laughing. "i don't know much about music," said isabel. "was it well played?" "ah! i know a lot about music," said selincourt, looking at her very kindly. "no, it was rottenly played. but some fellers can't tell a good tune from a bad one." lawrence did not return till the middle of the third act, and offered no apology. he looked fierce and jaded and his eyes were strained. "past eleven," he said, hurrying laura into her coat while the orchestra played through the national anthem, for which selincourt stood stiffly to attention. "no time for supper, our train goes at : , i hate first nights, the waits between the acts are so infernally long." laura's eyebrows, faintly arched, hinted at derision. "oh, it dragged," said lawrence impatiently. "let's get out of this." it was a clear autumn night: the air was mild, and stars were burning overhead almost as brightly as the lamps in shaftesbury avenue. what a chase of lamps, high and low, like fireflies in a wood: green as grass, red as blood, or yellow as a naked flame! what a sombre city, and what a fleeting crowd! isabel had never seen midnight london before. coming out into the hurrying street roofed with stars, she was seized by an impression of a solitude lonelier than any desert, and dark, like the terror of an eerie sunset or a dry storm on the moor. "these taxis are waiting for us," lawrence had come up behind her and his hand was on her arm. "will you bring your sister, selincourt?-- miss isabel, will you come with me?" "oh but--!" said laura, startled. she was responsible to val for isabel, and she was not sure that either val or isabel would welcome this arrangement. "thank you," said isabel, obediently getting into the second cab. "better come, dear," said selincourt with a shrug, and laura yielded, for it would have been tiresome to make isabel get out again, and after all what signified a twenty minutes' run? yet after the cleve incident she did not quite like it. nor did selincourt; hyde's overbearing manner set his teeth on edge; but the gentle lucian would sooner have faced a loaded rifle than a dispute. he agreed with laura, however, that her fair arcadian was a trifle too innocent for her years. alone with isabel, lawrence took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thick fair hair, so thick that it might have been grey, while the deep lines round his mouth began to soften as though fatigue and irritation were being wiped away. "thank heaven that's over." "i've enjoyed every minute of it," said isabel smiling. "thank you, captain hyde, for giving me such a delightful treat! if i weren't sleepy i should like to begin again." "oh, don't get sleepy yet," said lawrence. he pulled up the fur collar of her coat and buttoned it under her chin. "i can't have you catching cold, or what will val say? you aren't used to driving about in evening dress and we've a long run before us. and how i have been longing for it all the evening, haven't you? i didn't know how to sit through that confounded play. yes, you can take in selincourt and laura but you can't take me in. i know you must have hated it as much as i did. but it's all right now." sitting sideways with one knee crossed over the other, his face turned towards isabel, without warning he put his arm round her waist. he had determined not to ask her to marry him till he was sure of her answer, but he was sure of it now, intuitively sure of it . . . the truth being that under his impassive manner impulse was driving him along like a leaf in the wind. "i love you, isabel, and you love me. don't deny it." "don't do that," said isabel: "don't hold me." "why not? no one can see us." "take your arm away. i won't have you hold me. no, captain hyde, i will not. i am not mrs. cleve." "isabel!" said lawrence, turning grey under his bronze. "o! i oughtn't to have said that," isabel murmured. she hid her face in her hands. "oh val-- i wish val were here!" "my darling," they were among the dark streets now that border the river, and he leant forward making no effort to conceal his tenderness, "what is there you can't say to me or i to you? you're so strange, my isabel, a child one minute and a woman the next, i never know where to have you, but i love the woman more than the child, and there's nothing on earth you need be ashamed to ask me. naturally you want to be sure. . . . but there was nothing in it except that i hated leaving you, there never has been; i can't discuss it, but there's no tie, no--do you understand?" "yes." "then, dearest darling of the world, what are you crying for?" "i'm not crying." she tried to face him, but he was too old for her, and mingling in his love she discerned indulgence, the seasoned judgment and the fixed view. struggling in imperfect apprehensions of life, she was not yet master of her forces-- they came near to mastering her. in his eyes it was natural for her to be jealous. but she was not jealous. that passion can hardly coexist with such sincere and cool contempt as she had felt for mrs. cleve. what had pierced her heart and killed her childhood in her was terror lest lawrence should turn out to have lowered himself to the same level. she knew now that she loved him, and too much to care whether he was saxon or jew or rich or poor, but he must--he must be what in her child's vocabulary she called "good," or if not that he must at least see good and bad with clear eyes: sins one can pardon, but the idea of any essential inferiority of taste was torture to her. and meanwhile lawrence wide of the mark began to coax her. . "my own," his arm stole inside her coat again, "there's nothing to get so red about! come, you do like me--confess now--you like me better than val?" "no, no," isabel murmured, and slowly, though she had not strength to free herself, she turned her head away. "if you kiss me now i never shall forgive you." "i won't, but why are you so shy? my isabel, what is there to be afraid of?" "you," isabel sighed out. he was gratified, and betrayed it. "no, lawrence, you misunderstand. i am not--not shy of you . . ." under his mocking eyes she gave it up and tried again. "well, i am, but if that were all i shouldn't refuse . . . i should like you to be happy. oh! yes, i love you, and i'd so far rather not fight, i'd rather--" she waited a moment like a swimmer on the sand's edge, but his deep need of her carried her away and with a little sigh she flung herself into the open sea--"let you kiss me, because i don't want anything so much as to make you happy, and i believe you would be, and besides i--i should like it myself. but i must know more. i must know the truth. she--mrs. cleve--" "i've already given you my word: do you think i would lie to you?" "no, i don't; they say men do, but i'm sure you wouldn't. i don't believe you ever would deceive me. but there have been other women, haven't there, since your wife left you?" lawrence assented briefly. at that moment he would have liked to see mrs. cleve hanged and drawn and quartered. "other women who were-- who--with whom--" "must you distress yourself like this? wouldn't it do if i promised to lay my record before val, and let him be judge?" "would you do that?" "if you wish it." "wouldn't you hate it?" lawrence smiled. "and i should hate it for you,", said isabel. "no: no one can judge you for me and no one shall try. i know you better than val ever would. no, if you're to be humiliated it shall be before me and me only." she brought the colour into his face. "there have been others, lawrence?" "my dear, i've lived the life of other men." "do all men live so?" "pretty well all." "does val?" he shrugged his shoulders. "his facilities are limited!" "he did once--might again?" "couldn't we confine the issue to ourselves?" "are you afraid of my misjudging val? i never should: my dearest darling val is a fixed standard for me, and nothing could alter the way i think of him." "don't challenge luck," lawrence muttered. "i'm not, it's true. i'm surer of val than i am of myself, or you, or the sun's rising tomorrow. all i want is to cheek you by him." "val is genuinely religious and a bit of an ascetic. i have no doubt that his life is now and will continue to be spotless. but that it was always so is most unlikely. army subalterns during the war were given no end of a good time. and quite right too, it was the least that could be done for us: and the most, in nine cases out of ten: personally i had no use for munition workers in mud-coloured overalls, but i still remember with gratitude the nymphs who decorated my week end leaves." isabel shivered: the hand that he was holding had grown icy cold. "there, you see!" said hyde with his saddened cynicism. "you will have it all out but you can't stand it when it comes. you had better have left it to val: not but what i'd rather talk to you, but i hate to distress you, and you're not old enough yet, my darling, to see these trivial things--yes, trivial to nine-tenths of the world: it's only the clergy, and unmarried women, and a small number of hyper-sensitives like val, who attach an importance to them that they don't deserve. but you're too young to see them in perspective. try to do it for my sake. try to see me as i am." "well, show me then." but what he showed her was not himself but the aspect of himself that he wished her to see--a very different matter. "i'm too old for you. i'm the son of a jew, and a houndsditch jew at that. but i'm rich--what's called rich in my set--and when i marry i shan't keep my wife dependent on me. ah! don't misunderstand me--yours is a rich manysided nature, and you're too intelligent to underrate the value of money. it means a wide life and lots of interests, books, pictures, music, travel, mixing with the men and women best worth knowing. you're ambitious, my dear, and as my wife you can build yourself up any social position you like. farringay's not as big as wharton, but on my soul it's more perfect in its way. i've never seen such panelling in my life, and the gardens are admittedly the most beautiful in dorsetshire. there are sevres services more precious than gold plate, and if you come to that there's gold plate into the bargain. can't i see you there as chatelaine, entertaining the county! you'll wear the sapphires my mother wore; the old man couldn't have been more happily inspired, they're the very colour of your eyes. and there'll be no price to pay, for since i'm a jew and a cosmopolitan, and not a country squire, you'll keep your personal freedom inviolate. you'll give what you will, when you will, as you will. any other terms are to my mind unthinkable--a brutalizing of what ought to be the most delicate of things. heavens, how i hate a middleclass english marriage! ah! but i'm not so accommodating as i sound, for you won't be a grudging giver; you're not an ascetic like val, there's passion in you though you've been trained to repress it, you'll soon learn what love means as we understand it in the sunny countries. . . . isabel, my isabel, when we get away from these grey english skies you won't refuse to let me kiss you. . ." isabel had ceased to listen. without her own will a scene had sprung up before her eyes: an imaginary scene, like one of those romantic adventures that she had invented a thousand times before--but this was not romantic nor was she precisely the heroine. a foreign hotel with long corridors and many rooms: a door thoughtlessly left ajar: and through it a glimpse of lawrence--her husband--holding another woman in his arms. it was lifelike, she could have counted the buds embroidered on the girl's blouse, their rose-pink reflected in the hot flush on hyde's cheek and the glow in his eyes as he stooped over her. and then the imaginary isabel with a pain at her heart like the stab of a knife, and a smile of inexpressible self-contempt on her lips, noiselessly closed the door so that no one else might see what she had seen, and left him. . . . it would all happen one day, if not that way, some other way; and he would come to her by and by without explanation--she was convinced that he would not lie to her--smiling, the hot glow still on his face, a subdued air of well-being diffused over him from head to foot--and then? the vision faded; her clairvoyance, which had already carried her far beyond her experience, broke down in sheer anguish. but reason took it up and told her that she would speak to him, and that he would apologize and she would forgive him--and that it would all happen again the next time temptation met him in a weak hour. faithful? it was not in him to be faithful: with so much that was generous and gallant, there was this vice of taste in him which had offended her that first morning on the moor and again at night in laura's garden, and which now led him to make love to her when she was under his protection and while the scent of mrs. cleve's flowers still clung to his coat. and what love! if he had simply spoken to her out of his need of her, one would not have known how to resist, but it was he who was to be the giver, and what he offered was the measure of what he desired--a lesson in passion and a liberal allowance. . . . "o no, no, no, i can't!" isabel cried out, turning from him. "yes, i love you, but i don't trust you, and i won't marry you. i'm too much afraid." "afraid of me?" "afraid of the pain." "what pain?" "and the--wickedness of it." lawrence, frozen with astonishment--he had foreseen resistance, but not of this quality--let fall her hand. "yes, we'll part now. we can part now. i love you, but not too much to get over it in a year or so; and you? you'll forget sooner, because i'm not worth remembering." "forget you?" "oh! yes, it's not as if you really cared for me; you wouldn't talk to me of money if you did. but i suppose you've known so many. . . . val warned me long ago that you had not a good name with women." "val said that? val!" "and now you're angry with val; i repeat what i oughtn't to repeat, and make mischief. lawrence, this isn't val's doing; it isn't even mrs. cleve's: it's my own cowardice. i daren't marry you." "but why not?" "you're not trying to be good." "the language of the nursery defeats me, isabel." she flushed. "that means i've hurt you." "naturally." "i can't help it." that was truer than he realized, for she could hardly help crying. she could not soften her refusal, because she was so shaken and exhausted by the strain of it that she dared not venture on more than one sentence at a time. "i'm very sorry." "but as my wife you could be as 'good' as you liked?" "you would not leave me strength for it." "i should corrupt you?" "yes, i think you would deliberately tempt me. . . . i think you have tonight." "do you care for no one but yourself?" he flung at her in his vertigo of humiliation and anger. "no: i care for god." "for god!" lawrence repeated stupidly: "what has that to do with your marrying me?" he heard his own betise as it left his lips, and felt the immeasurable depth of it, but he had not time to retract before every personal consideration was wiped from his mind by a cry from isabel in a very different accent--"lawrence! oh! look at the time!" she pointed to the dial of an illuminated clock, hanging high in the soft september night. it was eight minutes to twelve. "what time did you say our train went?" they were in whitehall. lawrence caught up the speaking tube. "waterloo main entrance--and drive like the devil, please, we're late." "i thought we had plenty of time?" "so we had: so much so that i told the man to drive round and round for a bit." "and have we still time?" "no." "we shan't lose the train?" "unless it's delayed in starting, which isn't likely." "will the others go on and leave us?" "hardly!" "you don't mean that laura won't get home till tomorrow? oh!" "no. but don't look so frightened, no one will blame you--the responsibility is mine entirely." isabel's lip curled. it was for laura that she felt afraid and not for herself, and surely he might have guessed as much as that! "did you do it on purpose?" "no." "i beg your pardon. that was stupid of me." "very," said lawrence with his keen sarcastic smile. at waterloo he sprang out, tossed a sovereign to the driver, and made isabel catch up her skirts and run like a deer. but before they reached the platform it was after twelve and the rails beyond were empty. selincourt and laura were waiting by the barrier, selincourt red with impatience, laura very pale. "are you aware you've lost the last train down?" said the elder man with ill-concealed anger, as lawrence, shortening his step, strolled up in apparent tranquillity with isabel on his arm. "what on earth has become of you? we've been waiting here for half an hour!" "we were held up in the traffic," said lawrence deliberately. isabel turned scarlet. the truth would have been insupportable, but so was the lie. "although it was no fault of mine, laura, i'm more sorry than i can say. will you let me telephone for my own car and motor you down? i could get you to chilmark in the small hours--long before the first morning train." laura hesitated: but selincourt's brow was dark. the streets that night had not been unusually crowded, ample time had been allowed to cover any ordinary delay, and isabel was cruelly confused. in his simple code hyde had committed at least one if not two unpardonable sins--he had neglected one of the ladies in his care if he had not affronted the other. "that wouldn't do at all," he said with decision. "you've been either careless or unlucky once, lawrence. it might happen again." it was a direct challenge, and cost him an effort, but it was not resented. "it would not. from my soul i regret this contretemps, lucian. do you settle what's to be done: you're laura's brother, i put myself unreservedly in your hands." "my dear fellow!" the gentle lucian was instantly disarmed. "after all we needn't make a mountain out of a molehill--they'll know we're all right, four of us together!" "at all events it can't be helped," said mrs. clowes, smiling at lawrence with her kind trustful eyes, "so don't distress yourself. my sweet isabel too, so tired!" she took isabel's cold hand. "never mind, val won't let your father worry, and we shall be home by ten or eleven in the morning. it is only to go to an hotel for a few hours. come, dear lawrence, don't look so subdued! it wasn't your fault, so you mustn't trouble even if--" "even if what?" "even if bernard locks the door in my face," she finished laughing. "he'll be fearfully cross! but i dare say val will go down and smooth his ruffled plumage." chapter xv "i do not like all this running about to places of amusement," said mr. stafford, rumpling up his curls till they stood on end in a plume. "if you or rowsley were to visit a theatre i should say nothing. you're men and must judge for yourselves. but isabel is different. i have a good mind to put my foot down once and for all. an atmosphere of luxury is not good for a young girl." he stretched himself out in his shabby chair; a shabby, slight man, whose delicate foot, the toes poking out of a shabby slipper, looked as if it were too small to make much impression however firmly put down. val, smoking his temperate pipe on the other side of the diningroom hearth, temperately suggested that the amount of luxury in isabel's life wouldn't hurt a fly. "one grain of strychnine will destroy a life: and one hour of temptation may destroy a soul for ever." val bowed his head in assent. "why are we all so fond of isabel? because she hasn't a particle of self-consciousness in her. a single evening's flattery may infect her with that detestable vice." "she must grow up some time." "more's the pity," retorted the vicar. "another point: i'm not by any means sure i approve of that fellow hyde. i doubt if he's a religious man." val brushed away a smile. "he comes to church with laura pretty regularly, but would he come if her influence were removed? i greatly doubt it." so did val, therefore he prudently held his tongue. "i hate to be uncharitable," continued mr. stafford "but i doubt if he is even what one narrowly calls a moral man. take jack bendish, now one can see at a glance that he's a good fellow, right-living and clean-minded. but hyde doesn't inspire me with any such confidence. i know nothing of his private life--" "nor do i," said val rather wearily. "but what does any man know of another man's private life? if you come to that, jim, what do you know of rowsley's--or mine?" "pouf, nonsense!" said mr. stafford. at his feet lay a small black cat, curled up in the attitude of a comma. before going on he inserted one toe under her waist, rapidly turned her upside down, and chucked her under her ruffled and indignant chin. "val, my boy, has any one repeated to you a nasty bit of gossip that's going about the village?" "this violence to a lady!" val held out his hand and made small coaxing noises with his lips. but amelia after a cold stare walked away and sat down in the middle of the floor, turning her back and sticking out a refined but implacable tail. "there now! you've hurt her feelings." "of course there's nothing in it--on one side at least. but i can't help wondering whether hyde . . . . our dear laura would naturally be the last to hear of it. but hyde's a man of the world and knows how quickly tongues begin to wag. in laura's unprotected position he ought to be doubly careful." "he ought." "but he is not. now is that designed or accidental? we'll allow him the benefit of the doubt and call it an error of judgment. then some one ought to give him a hint." "some one would be knocked down for his pains." "d'you think he'd knock me down?" asked mr. stafford, casting a comical glance over his slender elderly frame. "hardly," said val laughing. "but--no, jim, it wouldn't do. too formal, too official." his real objection was that mr. stafford would base his appeal on ethical and spiritual grounds, which were not likely to influence lawrence, as val read him. "but if you like i'll give him a hint myself. i can do it informally; and i very nearly did it as long ago as last june. hyde is amenable to treatment if he's taken quietly." mr. stafford, by temperament and training a member of the church militant, clearly felt a trifle disappointed, but he had little petty vanity and accepted val's amendment without a murmur. "very well, if you think you can do it better! i don't care who does it so long as it's done." the clock struck. "half past eleven is that? isabel can't be home before four. dear me, how i hate these ridiculous hours, turning night into day!" as some correspondents put the point of a letter into a postscript, so the vicar in returning to his church times revealed the peculiar sting that was working in his mind. "and i don't-- i do not like isabel to make one of that trio--in view of what's being said." "she is with mrs. clowes," said val shortly, and colouring all over his face. fling enough mud and some of it is sure to stick! if his unworldly father could think laura, though innocent, so far compromised that isabel was not safe in her care, what were other people saying? val got up. "i shall walk down and smoke a pipe with clowes. he won't go to bed till they come in." the beechen way was dark and steep; roosting birds blundered out from overhead with a sleepy clamour of alarm-notes and a great rustle of leaf-brushed wings; one could have tracked val's course by the commotion they made. on the footbridge dark in alder-shadow he lingered to enjoy the cool woodland air and lulling ripple underfoot. not a star pierced to that black water, it might have been unfathomably deep; and though the village street was only a quarter of a mile away the night was intensely quiet, for all chilmark went to bed after closing time. it was not often that val, overworked and popular, tasted such a profound solitude. not a leaf stirred: no one was near: under golden stars it was chilling towards one of the first faint frosts of the year: and insensibly val relaxed his guard: a heavy sigh broke from him, and he moved restlessly, indulging himself in recollection as a man who habitually endures pain without wincing will now and then allow himself the relief of defeat. for it is a relief not to pretend any more nor fight: to let pain take its way, like a slow tide invading every nerve and flooding every recess of thought, till one is pierced and penetrated by it, married to it, indifferent so long as one can drop the mask of that cruel courage which exacts so many sacrifices. val was still only twenty-nine. forty years more of a life like this! . . . lawrence had once compared him to a man on the rack. but, though lawrence knew all, val had never relaxed the strain before him: was incapable of relaxing it before any spectator. he needed to be not only alone, but in the dark, hidden even from himself: and even so no open expression was possible to him, not a movement after the first deep sigh: it was relief enough for him to be sincere with himself and own that he was unhappy. but why specially unhappy now? midnight: the church clock had begun to strike in a deep whirring chime, muffled among the million leaves of the wood. that trio were in the train now, isabel probably fast falling asleep, hyde and laura virtually alone for the run from waterloo to chilmark. a handsome man, hyde, and attractive to women, or so rumour and yvonne bendish affirmed. if even yvonne, who was laura's own sister, was afraid of hyde! ... well, hyde was to be given the hint to take himself off, and surely no more than such a hint would be necessary? val smiled, the prospect was not without a wry humour. if he had been hyde's brother, what he had to say would not have said itself easily. "let us hope he won't knock me down," val reflected, "or the situation will really become strained; but he won't--that's not his way." what was his way? the worst of it was that val was not at all sure what way hyde would take, nor whether he would consent to go alone. a handsome man, confound him, and a picked specimen of his type: one of those high-geared and smoothly running physical machines that are all grace in a lady's drawingroom and all steel under their skins. what a contrast between him and poor bernard! the one so impotent and devil-ridden, the other so virile, unscrupulous, and serene. val stirred restlessly and gripped the rail of the bridge between his clenched hands. his mind was a chaos of loose ends and he dared not follow any one of them to its logical conclusion. what was he letting himself think of laura? such fears were an insult to her clear chastity and strength of will. or, in any event, what was it to him? he was bernard's friend, and laura's but he was not the keeper of bernard's honour. . . . but hyde and laura . . . alone . . . the train with its plume of fire rushing on through the dark sleeping night. . . . "in manus tuas . . ." val raised his head, and shivered, the wind struck chill: he was tired out. yet only a second or so had gone by while he was indulging himself in useless regrets for what could never be undone, and still more useless anxiety for a future which was not only beyond his control but outside his province as bernard's agent. that after all was his status at wanhope, he had no other. it was still striking twelve: the last echo of the last chime trembled away on a faint, fresh sough of wind. . . . a lolloping splash off the bank into the water--what was that? a dark blot among ripples on a flat and steely glimmer, the sketch of a whiskered feline mask . . . val made a mental note to speak to jack bendish about it: otters are bad housekeepers in a trout stream. "hallo! good man!" major clowes was on his back in the drawingroom, in evening dress, and playing patience. "i've tried kings, queens and knaves, and little demon, and fair lucy, and brought every one of 'em out first round. something must be going to happen." with a sweep of his arm he flung all the cards on the floor. "what do you want?" "a pipe," said val, going on one knee to pick up the scattered pack. "i looked in to see how you were getting on. aren't you going to bed?" "not before they come in." "nor will jimmy, i left him sitting up for isabel. you're both of you very silly, you'll be dead tired tomorrow, and what's the object of it?" "to make sure they do come in," bernard explained with a broad grin. val sprang up: intolerable, this reflection of his own fear in bernard's distorting mirror! "ha ha! suppose they didn't? laura was rather fond of larks before she married me. she was, i give you my word--she and the other girl. you wouldn't think it of laura, would you? butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. but she might like a fling for a change. who'd blame her? i'm no good as a husband, and lawrence is a picked specimen. quelle type, eh?" "very good-looking." "'very good-looking!'" bernard mocked at him. "you and your army vocabulary! and i'm a nice chap, and laura's quite a pretty woman, and this is a topping knife, isn't it, and life's a jolly old beano-- pity i can't get out of it, by the by: if physiology is the basis of marriage, those two would run well in harness." "there's an otter in the river," remarked val, examining the little dagger, the same that lawrence had given bernard. "i heard him from the bridge. they come down from the upper reaches. remind me to tell jack, he's always charmed to get a day's sport with his hounds." he laid the dagger on a side-table. "have one of my cigars? you can't afford cigars, can you? poor devil! they're on that shelf. not those: they're hyde's." val put back the box as if it had burnt his fingers. "leaves his things about as if the place were a hotel!" grumbled major clowes. "that's one of his books. pick it up. what is it?" val read out the title. "poetry? good lord deliver us! do you read poetry, val?" "i occasionally dip into tennyson," val replied, settling himself in an easy chair. "i can't understand modern verse as a rule, it's too clever for me, and the fellows who write it always seem to go in for such gloomy subjects. i don't like gloomy books, i like stuff that rests and refreshes you. there are enough sad things in life without writing stories about them. i can read the 'idylls of the king,' but i can't read bernard shaw." "nor anybody else," said bernard. he fixed his eyes on val: eyes like his cousin's in form and colour, large, and so black under their black lashes that the pupil was almost indistinguishable from the iris, but smouldering in a perpetual glow, while hyde's were clear and indifferent. "you're a good sort to have come down to look after me. i don't feel very brash tonight. oh val! oh val! i know i'm a brute, a coarse-minded, foul-mouthed brute. i usedn't to be. when i was twenty-five, if any man had said before me what i say of laura, i'd have kicked him out of his own house. why don't you kick me?" "i am not violent." "ain't you? i am." he flung out his arm. "give me your hand." val complied, amused or touched: as often happened when they were alone, he remained on the borderline. but it was taken in no affectionate clasp. bernard's grip closed on him, tighter and tighter, till the nails were driven into his palm. "is that painful?" clowes asked with his satanic grin. "glad of it. i'm in pain too. i've got neuritis in my spine and i can't sleep for it. i haven't had any proper sleep for a week.--oh my god, my god, my god! do you think i'd grumble if that were all? i can't, i can't lie on my back all my life playing patience or fiddling over secondhand penknives! i was born for action. action, val! i'm not a curate. i'd like to smash something--crush it to a jelly." val mincingly pointed out that such a consummation was not far off, but he was ignored. "oh damn the war! and damn england too--what did we go to fight for? what asses we were! did we ever believe in a reason? give me these ten years over again and i wouldn't be such a fool. who cares whether we lick germany or germany licks england? i don't." "i do." bernard stared at him, incredulous. "what--'freedom and honour' and all the rest of it?" "in a defensive war--" "oh for god's sake! i've just had my supper." "--any man who won't fight for his country deserves to be shot." "you combine the brains of a rabbit with the morals of a eunuch." val crossed his legs and withdrew his cigar to laugh. "ah! i apologize." clowes shrugged his shoulders. "'eunuch' is the wrong word for you--as a breed they're a cowardly lot. but i used the term in the sense of a palace favourite who swallows all the slop that's pumped into him. 'lloyd george for ever and britannia rules the waves.' dare say i should sing it myself if i'd come out covered with glory like you did." "i met gainsford today. he says the longacre fences ought to be renewed before winter. parts of them are so rotten that the first gale will bring them down." "damn gainsford and damn the fences and damn you." "really, really!" val stretched himself out and put his feet up. "you're very monotonous tonight." "and you, you're tired: i wear you both out, you and laura--and yet you're the only people on earth. . . . why can't i die? sometimes i wonder if it's anything but cowardice that prevents me from cutting my throat. but my life is infernally strong in me, i don't want to die: what i want is to get on my legs again and kick that fellow hyde down the steps. what does he stop on here for?" "well, you're always pressing him to stay, aren't you? why do you do it, if this is the way you feel towards him?" "because i've always sworn i'd give laura all the rope she wanted," said clowes between his teeth. "if she wants to hang herself, let her. i should score in the long run. hyde would chuck her away like an old shoe when he got sick of her." there was a fire not far from madness burning now in the wide, dilated eyes. "afterwards she'd have to come back, because those selincourts haven't got twopence between the lot of them, and if she did she'd be mine for good and all. hyde would break her in for me." "you don't realize what you're saying, berns, old man. you can't," said val gently, "or you wouldn't say it. it is too unutterably beastly." "ah! perhaps the point of view is a bit warped," bernard returned carelessly to sanity. "it shocks you, does it? but the fact is laura has the whip hand of me and i can't forgive her for it. she's the saint and i'm the sinner. she's a bit too good. if hyde broke her in and sent her home on her knees, i should have the whip hand of her, and i'd like to reverse the positions. can you follow that? yes! a bit warped, i own. but i am warped-- bound to be. give the body such a wrench as the saxons gave mine and you're bound to get some corresponding wrench in the mind." "that's rank materialism." "bosh! it's common sense. look at your own case! do you never analyze your own behaviour? you would if you lay on your back year in year out like me. you're maimed too." "no, am i?" val reached for a fourth cushion. "think o' that, now." "or you wouldn't be content to hang on in chilmark, riding over another man's property and squiring another man's wife. the shot that broke your arm broke your life. you had the makings of a fine soldier in you, but you were knocked out of your profession and you don't care for any other. with all your ability you'll never be worth more than six or seven hundred a year, for you've no initiative and you're as nervous as a cat. you're not married and you'll never marry: you're too passive, too continent, too much of a monk to attract a healthy woman. no: don't you flatter yourself that you've escaped any more than i have. the only difference is that the saxons mucked up my life and you've mucked up your own. you fool! you high-minded, over-scrupulous fool! . . . you and i are wreckage of war, val: cursed, senseless devilry of war.-- go and play a tune, i'm sick of talking." val was not any less sick of listening. he went to the piano, but not to play a tune. impossible to insult that crippled tempest on the sofa with the sweet eternal placidities of mozart or bach. his fingers wandered over the lower register, improvising, modulating from one minor key to another in a cobweb of silver harmony spun pale and low from a minimum of technical attention. for once bernard had struck home. "the shot that broke your arm broke your life." stripped of bernard's rhetoric, was it true? val could not remember the time when his ambition had not been set on soldiering: regiments of hussars and dragoons had deployed on his earliest land of counterpane: he had never cared for any other toys. but as soon as war was over he had resigned his commission, a high sense of duty driving him from a field in which he felt unfit to serve. he had pitilessly executed his own judgment: no man can do more. but what if in judgement itself had been unhinged--warped--deflected by the interaction of splintered bone and cut sinew and dazed, ghost-ridden mind? have not psychologists said that few fighting men were strictly normal in or for some time after the war? if that were true, val had wasted the best years of his life on a delusion. it was a disturbing thought, but it brought a sparkle to his eyes and an electric force to his fingertips: he raised his head and looked out into the september night as if there was stirring in him the restless sap of spring. after all he was still a young man. forty years more! if these grey ten years since the war could be taken as finite, not endless: if after them one were to break the chain, tear off the hair shirt, come out of one's cell into the warm sun--then, oh then--val's shoulders remembered their military set--life might be life again and not life in death. "what the devil are you strumming now?" "tipperary." "that's not much in your line." "oh! i was in the army once," said val. "you go to sleep." he had his wish. the heavy eyelids closed, the great chest rose and fell evenly, and some--not all--of the deep lines of pain were smoothed away from bernard's lips. even in sleep it was a restless, suffering head, but it was no longer so devil-ridden as when he was talking of his wife. val played on softly: once when he desisted bernard stirred and muttered something which sounded like "go on, damn you," a proof that his mind was not far from his body, only the thinnest of veils lying over its terrible activity. david would have played the clock round, if saul would have slept on. saul did not. he woke--with a tremendous start, sure sign of broken nerves: a start that shook him like a fall and shook the couch too. "hallo!" he came instantly into full possession of his faculties: "you still here? what's the time? i feel as if i'd been asleep for years. why, it's daylight!" he dragged out his watch. "what the devil is the time?" val rose and pulled back a curtain. the morning sky was full of grey light, and long pale shadows fell over frost-silvered turf: mists were steaming up like pale smoke from the river, over whose surface they swept in fantastic shapes like ghosts taking hands in an evanescent arabesque: the clouds, the birds, the flowers were all awake. the house was awake too, and in fact it was the clatter of a housemaid's brush on the staircase that had roused bernard. "it's nearly six o'clock," said val. "you've had a long sleep, berns. i'm afraid the others have missed their train." "missed their train!" "first night performances are often slow, and they mayn't have been able to get a cab at once. it's tiresome, but there's no cause for anxiety." "missed their train!" "well, they can't all have been swallowed up by an earthquake! of course fire or a railway smash is on the cards, but the less thrilling explanation is more probable, don't you think, old man?" "missed the last train and were obliged to stay in town?" "and a rotten time they'll have of it. it's no joke, trying to get rooms in a london hotel when you've ladies with you and no luggage." "you think laura would let hyde take her to an hotel?" "well, berns, what else are they to do?" said val impatiently. "they can't very well sit in a waterloo waitingroom!" "no, no," said clowes. "much better pass the night at an hotel. is that what you call a rotten time? if i were lawrence i should call it a jolly one." val turned round from the window. "if i were hyde," he said stiffly, "i should take the ladies to some decent place and go to a club myself. you might give your cousin credit for common sense if not for common decency! you seem to forget the existence of isabel." "oh, all right," said bernard after a moment. "i was only joking. no offence to your sister, val, i'm sure laura will look after her all right. but it is a bit awkward in a gossippy hole like chilmark. when does the next train get in?" no man knows offhand the trains that leave london in the small hours, but val hunted up a timetable--its date of eighteen mouths ago a pregnant commentary on life at wanhope--and came back with the information that if they left at seven-fifteen they could be at countisford by ten. "too late to keep it quiet," he owned. "the servants are a nuisance. but thank heaven isabel's with them." "thank heaven indeed," bernard assented. "not that i care two straws for gossip myself, but laura would hate to be talked about. well, well! here's a pretty kettle of fish. how would it be if you were to meet them at the station? i suppose they're safe to come by that train? or will they wait for a second one? getting up early is not laura's strong point at the best of times, and she'll be extra tired after the varied excitements of the night." val examined him narrowly. his manner was natural if a trifle subdued; the unhealthy glow had died down and his black eyes were frank and clear. nevertheless val was not at ease, this natural way of taking the mishap was for bernard clowes so unnatural and extraordinary: if he had stormed and sworn val would have felt more tranquil. but perhaps after the fireworks of last night the devil had gone out of him for a season? yet val knew from painful experience that bernard's devil was tenacious and wiry, not soon tired. "they might," he said cautiously, "but i shouldn't think they will. laura knows you, old fellow. she'll be prepared for a terrific wigging, and she'll want to get home and get it over." a dim gleam of mirth relieved val's mind a trifle: when the devil of jealousy was in possession he always cast out bernard's sense of humour, a subordinate imp at the best of times and not of a healthy breed. "besides, there's isabel to consider. she'll be in a great state of mind, poor child, though it probably isn't in the least her fault. by the bye, if there's no more i can do for you, i ought to go home and see after jim. he expressed his intention of sitting up for isabel, and i only wonder he hasn't been down here before now. probably he went to sleep over his church times, or else buried himself in some venerable volume of patristic literature and forgot about her. but when fanny gets down he'll be tearing his hair." "go by all means," said bernard. "you must be fagged out, val; have you been at the piano all these hours? how you spoil me, you and laura! get some breakfast, lie down for a nap, and after that you can go on to countisford and meet them in the car." "all right!" in face of bernard's thoughtful and practical good humour val's suspicions had faded. "shall i come back or will you send the car up for me?" neither he nor clowes saw anything unusual in these demands on his time and energy: it was understood that the duties of the agency comprised doing anything bernard wanted done at any hour of day or night. "i'll send her up. stop a bit." clowes knit his brows and looked down, evidently deep in thought. "yes, that's the ticket. you take isabel home and send lawrence and laura on alone. drop them at the lodge before you drive her up. she'll be tired out and it's a good step up the hill. and you must apologize for me to your father for giving him so much anxiety. lawrence must have been abominably careless to let them lose their train: they ought to have had half an hour to spare." "he is casual." "oh very: thinks of nothing but himself. pity you and he can't strike a balance! good-bye. mind you take your sister straight home and apologize to your father for hyde's antics. say i'm sorry, very sorry to mix her up in such a pickle, and i wouldn't have let her in for it if it could have been avoided. touch the bell for me before you go, will you? i want barry." val let himself out by the window and the impassive valet entered. but it was some time before bernard spoke to him. "is that you, barry? i didn't hear you come in." "now what's in the wind?" speculated barry behind his professional mask. "up all night and civil in the morning? oh no, i don't think." "shall i wheel you to your room, sir?" "not yet," said clowes. he waited to collect his strength. "shut all those windows." barry obeyed. "turn on the electric light . . . .put up the shutters and fasten them securely . . . . now i want you to go all over the house and shut and fasten all the other ground floor windows: then come back to me." "am i to turn on the electric light everywhere, sir?" barry asked after a pause. "where necessary. not in the billiard room; nor in mrs. clowes' parlour." barry had executed too many equally singular orders to raise any demur. he came back in ten minutes with the news that it was done. "now wheel me into the hall," said clowes. barry obeyed. "shut the front doors. . . . lock them and put up the chain." this time barry did hesitate. "sir, if i do that no one won't be able to get in or out except by the back way: and it's close on seven o'clock." "you do what you're told." barry obeyed. "now wheel my couch in front of the doors." "mad as a march hare!" was barry's private comment. "lord, i wish mr. stafford was here." "that will do," said clowes. he settled his great shoulders square and comfortable on his pillow and folded his arms over his breast. "i want you to take an important message from me to the other servants. tell them that if mrs. clowes or captain hyde come to the house they're not to be let in. mrs. clowes has left me and i do not intend her to return. if they force their way in i'll deal with them, but any one who opens the door will leave my service today. now get me some breakfast. i'll have some coffee and eggs and bacon. tell fryar to see that the boiled milk's properly hot." barry, stupefied, went out without a word, leaving the big couch, and the big helpless body stretched out upon it, drawn like a bar across the door. chapter xvi it was a fatigued and jaded party that got out on the platform at countisford. the mere wearing of evening dress when other people are at breakfast will damp the spirits of the most hardened, and even lawrence had an up-all-night expression which reddened his eyelids and brought out the lines about his mouth. isabel's hair was rumpled and her fresh bloom all dimmed. laura clowes had suffered least: there was not a thread astray in her satin waves, and the finished grace of her aspect had survived a night in a chair. but even she was very pale, though she contrived to smile at val. "how's bernard?" were her first words. "all serene. he slept most of the time. i was with him, luckily. we guessed what had happened. you missed your train?" in this question val included lawrence. "it was my fault," said lawrence shortly. it was what he would have said if it had not been his fault. "it was nobody's fault!" cried laura. "we were held up in the traffic. but lawrence is one of those people who will feel responsible if they have ladies with them on the day of judgment, won't you, lawrence?" "i ought to have left more time," said lawrence impatiently. "let's get home." in the car val heard from laura the details of their misadventure. selincourt had waited with the women while lawrence secured rooms for them in a waterloo hotel: when they were safe, lawrence had gone to lucian's rooms in victoria street, where the men had passed what remained of the night in a mild game of cards. they had all breakfasted together by lamplight at the hotel, and selincourt had seen his sister into the chilmark train. nothing could have been more circumspect-- comically circumspect! between selincourt and isabel and the chambermaid, malice itself was put to silence. but lawrence was fever-fretted by the secret sense of guilt. at the lodge gates val drew up. "it's preposterous, but i'm under bernard's express orders to drive isabel straight home. i don't know how to apologize for turning you and hyde out of your own car, laura!" no apology was needed, laura and lawrence knew too well how direct bernard's orders commonly were to val. lawrence silently offered his hand to mrs. clowes. the morning air was fresh, fog was still hanging over the river, and the sun had not yet thrown off an autumn quilting of cloud. touched by the chill of dawn, some leaves had fallen and lay in the dust, their ribs beaded with dark dew: others, yellow and shrivelling, where shaken down by the wind of the car and fluttered slowly in the eddying air. laura drew her sable scarf close over her bare neck. "what i should like best, lawrence, would be for you to go home with isabel and make our excuses to mr. stafford. would you mind? or is it too much to ask before you get out of your evening dress?" "i should be delighted," said lawrence, feeling and indeed looking entirely the reverse. "but miss isabel has her brother to take care of her, she doesn't want me." isabel gave that indefinable start which is the prelude of candour, but remained dumb. "i don't like to leave you to walk up to wanhope alone." this, was as near as in civilized life he could go to saying "to face clowes alone." "the length of the drive?" said laura smiling. "i should prefer it. you know what berns is." this was what lawrence had never known. "if he's put out i'd rather you weren't there." "why, you can't imagine i should care what bernard said?" laura struck her hands together.-"there! there!" she turned to val, "can you wonder bernard feels it?" "i beg your pardon," said lawrence from his heart. "no, the contrast is poignant,'' said val coldly. "dear val, you always agree with me," said laura. "take captain hyde home and give him some breakfast. i'd rather go alone, lawrence: it will be easier that way, believe me." it was impossible to argue with her. but while val wheeled and turned in the wide cross, before they took their upward bend under the climbing beechwood, lawrence glanced over his shoulder and saw mrs. clowes still standing by the gate of wanhope, solitary, a wan gleam of sunlight striking down over her gold embroideries and ivory coat, a russet leaf or two whirling slowly round her drooping head: like a butterfly in winter, delicate, fantastic, and astray. breakfast at the vicarage was not a genial meal. val was anxious and preoccupied, isabel in eclipse, even mr. stafford out of humour--vexed with lawrence, and with val for bringing lawrence in under the immunities of a guest. lawrence himself was in a frozen mood. as soon as they had finished he rose: "if you'll excuse my rushing off i'll go down to wanhope now." "by all means," said mr. stafford drily. "good-bye," said isabel, casting about for a form of consolation, and evolving one which, in the circumstances, was possibly unique: "you'll feel better when you've had a bath." "i'll walk down with you to wanhope" said val. "you? oh! no, don't bother," said lawrence very curtly. "i can manage my cousin, thanks." but val's only reply was to open the door for him and stroll with him across the lawn. at the wicket gate hyde turned: "excuse my saying so, but i prefer to go alone." "i'm not coming in at wanhope. but i've ten words to say to you before you go there." "oh?" said lawrence. he swung through leaving val to follow or not as he liked. "stop, hyde, you must listen. you're going into a house full of the materials for an explosion. you don't know your own danger." "i dislike hints. what are you driving at?" "laura." "mrs. clowes?" "naturally," said val with a faint smile. "you know as well as i do how pointless that correction is. you imply by it that as i'm not her brother i've no right to meddle. but i told you in june that i should interfere if it became necessary to protect others." "and since when, my dear val, has it become necessary? last night?" "well, not that only: all chilmark has been talking for weeks and weeks." "chilmark--" "oh," val interrupted, flinging out his delicate hands, "what's the good of that? who would ever suggest that you care what chilmark says? but she has to live in it." the scene had to be faced, and a secret vein of cruelty in lawrence was not averse from facing it. this storm had been brewing all summer.--they were alone, for the beechen way was used only as a short cut to the vicarage. above them the garden wall lifted its feathery fringe of grass into great golden boughs that drooped over it: all round them the beech forest ran down into the valley, the eye losing itself among clear glades at the end of which perhaps a thicket of hollies twinkled darkly or a marbled gleam of blue shone in from overhead; the steep dark path was illumined by the golden lamplight of millions on millions of pointed leaves, hanging motionless in the sunny autumnal morning air which smelt of dry moss and wood smoke. "and what's the rumour? that i'm going to prevail or that i've prevailed already?" "the worst of it is," val kept his point and his temper, "that it's not only chilmark. one could afford to ignore village gossip, but this has reached wharton, my father--mrs. clowes herself. you wouldn't willingly do anything to make her unhappy: indeed it's because of your consistent and delicate kindness both to her and to bernard that i've refrained from giving you a hint before. you've done bernard an immense amount of good. but the good doesn't any longer counterbalance the involuntary mischief: hasn't for some time past: can't you see it for yourself? one has only to watch the change coming over her, to look into her eyes--" "really, if you'll excuse my saying so, you seem to have looked into them a little too often yourself." val waited to take out his case and light a cigarette. he offered one to hyde--"won't you?" "no, thanks: if you've done i'll be moving on." "why i haven't really begun yet. you make me nervous--it's a rotten thing to say to any man, and doubly difficult from me to you--and i express myself badly, but i must chance being called impertinent. the trouble is with your cousin. if you had heard him last night. . . . he's madly jealous." "of me? last night?" lawrence gave a short laugh: this time he really was amused. "dangerously jealous." "there's not room for a shadow of suspicion. go and interview selincourt's servant if you like, or nose around the continental." "well," said val, coaxing a lucifer between his cupped palms, "i dare say it'll come to that. i've done a good deal of bernard's dirty work. some one has to do it for the sake of a quiet life. his suspicions aren't rational, you know." "i should think you put them into his head." "i?" the serene eyes widened slightly, irritating lawrence by their effect of a delicacy too fastidious for contempt. for this courtesy, of finer grain than his own sarcasm, made him itch to violate and soil it, as mobs will destroy what they never can possess. "need we drag in personalities? he was jealous of you before you came to wanhope. he fancies or pretends to fancy that you were in love with mrs. clowes when you were boy and girl. we're not dealing with a sane or normal nature: he was practically mad last night--he frightened me. may i give you, word for word, what he said? that he let you stay on because he meant to give his wife rope enough to hang herself." "what do you want me to do?" said lawrence after a pause. "to leave wanhope." more at his ease than val, in spite of the disadvantage of his evening dress, lawrence stood looking down at him with brilliant inexpressive eyes. "is it your own idea that i stayed on at wanhope to make love to laura?" "if i answer that, you'll tell me that i'm meddling with what is none of my business, and this time you'll be right." "no: after going so far, you owe me a reply." "well then, i've never been able to see any other reason." "oh? bernard's my cousin." "since you will have it, hyde, i can't see you burying yourself in a country village out of cousinly affection. you said you'd stay as long as you were comfortable. well, it won't be comfortable now! i'm not presuming to judge you. i've no idea what your ethical or social standards are. quite likely you would consider yourself justified in taking away your cousin's wife. some modern professors and people who write about social questions would say, wouldn't they, that she ought to be able to divorce him: that a marriage which can't be fruitful ought not to be a binding tie? i've never got up the subject because for me it's settled out of hand on religious grounds, but they may not influence you, nor perhaps would the other possible deterrent, pity for the weak--if one can call bernard weak. it would be an impertinence for me to judge you by my code, when perhaps your own is pure social expediency--which would certainly be better served if mrs. clowes went to you." "assuming that you've correctly defined my standard--why should i go?" val shrugged his shoulders. "you know well enough. because mrs. clowes is old-fashioned; her duty to bernard is the ruling force in her life, and you could never make her give him up. or if you did she wouldn't live long enough for you to grow tired of her-- it would break her heart." "really?" said lawrence. "before i grew tired of her?" he had never been so angry in his life. to be brought to book at all was bad enough, but what rankled worst was the nature of the charge. sometimes it takes a false accusation to make a man realize the esteem in which he is held, the opinions which others attribute to him and which perhaps, without examining them too closely, he has allowed to pass for his own. lawrence had indulged in plenty of loose talk about nietzschean ethics and the danger of altruism and the social inexpediency of sacrificing the strong for the weak, but when it came to his own honour not val himself could have held a more conservative view. he, take advantage of a cripple? he commit a breach of hospitality? he sneak into wanhope as his cousin's friend to corrupt his cousin's wife? what has been called the pickpocket form of adultery had never been to his taste. had bernard been on his feet, a strong man armed, lawrence might, if he had fallen in love with laura, have gloried in carrying her off openly; but of the baseness of which val accused him he knew himself to be incapable. "really?" he said, looking down at val out of his wide black eyes, so like bernard's except that they concealed all that bernard revealed. "so now we understand each other. i know why you want me to go and you know why i want to stay." "if i've done you an injustice i'm sorry for it." "oh, don't apologize," said lawrence laughing. his manner bewildered val, who could make nothing of it except that it was incompatible with any sense of guilt. "but, then," the question broke from val involuntarily, "why did you stay?" "why do you?" "i?" "yes, you. did it never strike you that i might retort with a tu quoque?" "how on earth--?" "you were perhaps a little preoccupied," said lawrence with his deadly smile. "i suggest, val, that whether clowes was jealous or not--you were." "i?" "yes, my dear fellow:" the jew laughed: it gave him precisely the same satisfaction to violate val's reticence, as it might have given one of his ancestors to cut christian flesh to ribbons in the markets of the east: "and who's to blame you? thrown so much into the society of a very pretty and very unhappy woman, what more natural than for you to--how shall i put it?--constitute yourself her protector? set your mind at rest. you have only one rival, val--her husband." he enjoyed his triumph for a few moments, during which stafford was slowly taking account with himself. "i'm not such a cautious moralist as you are," lawrence pursued, "and so i don't hold a pistol to your head and give you ten minutes to clear out of wanhope, as you did to mine. on the contrary, i hope you'll long continue to act as bernard's agent. i'm sure he'll never get a better one. as for laura, she won't discover your passion unless you proclaim it, which i'm sure you'll never do. she looks on you as a brother--an affectionate younger brother invaluable for running errands. and you'll continue to fetch and carry, enduring all things from her and bernard much as you do from me. when i do go--which won't be just yet--i shan't feel the faintest compunction about leaving you behind. i'm sure bernard's honour will be as safe in your hands as it is in mine." and thus one paved the way to pleasant relations with ones brother-in-law. the civilized second self, always a dismayed and cynical spectator of hyde's lapses into savagery, raised its voice in vain. "you seem a little confused, val--you always were a modest chap. but surely you of all men can trust my discretion--?" "that's enough," said val. he touched hyde's coat with his finger-tips, an airy movement, almost a caress, which seemed to come from a long way off. "lawrence, you're hurting yourself more than me." it was enough and more than enough: an arrest instant and final. later lawrence wondered whether val knew what he had done, or whether it was only a thought unconsciously made visible; it was so unlike all he had seen of val, so like much that he had felt. it put him to silence. not only so, but it flung a light cloud of mystery over what had seemed noonday clear. since that first night when he had watched in a mirror the disentangling of laura's scarf, lawrence had entertained no doubt of val's sentiments, but now he was left uncertain. val had translated himself into a country to which lawrence could not follow him, and the light of an unknown sun was on his way. lawrence drew back with an impatient gesture. "oh, let's drop all this!" the civilized second self was in revolt alike against his own morbid cruelty and val's escape into heaven: he would admit nothing except that he had gone through one trying scene after another in the last eighteen hours, and that val had paid for the irritation produced successively by mrs. cleve, isabel, a white night, and a distressed anxious consciousness of unavowed guilt. "we shall be at each other's throats in a minute, which wouldn't suit either your book or mine--you've no idea, val, how little it would suit mine! i'm sorry i was so offensive. but you wrong me, you do indeed; i'm not in love with laura, and, if i were, the notion of picking poor bernard's pocket is absolutely repugnant to me. social expediency be hanged! what! as his guest?-- but let's drop recrimination; i had no right to resent what you said after forcing you to say it, nor, in any case, to taunt you . . . i beg your pardon: there! for heaven's sake let's leave it at that." "will you release me from my parole?" "yes, and wish to heaven i'd never extracted it. i had no right to impose it on you or to hold you to it. but don't give yourself away, val, i can't bear to think of what you'll have to face. it will be what you once called it--crucifixion." "no, freedom," said val. "after all these years in prison." he put up his hand to his head. "the brand--the--what's the matter?" lawrence had seized his arm. "am i--am i talking rubbish? i feel half asleep. but one night's sitting up aughtn't to-- oh, this is absurd! . . ." lawrence waited in the patience of dismay. it was no excuse to plead that till then he had not known all the harm he had done; men should not set racks to work in ignorance of their effect on trembling human nerves. "that's over," said val, wiping his forehead. "sorry to make a fuss, but it came rather suddenly. things always happen so simply when they do happen." "are you going to confess?" "oh yes. i ought to have done it long ago. in fact last night i made up my mind to break my parole if you wouldn't let me off, but i'd rather have it this way. remains only to choose time and place: that'll need care, for i mustn't hurt others more than i can help. but i wouldn't mind betting it'll all be as simple as shelling peas. the odds are that people won't believe half i say. they'll have forgotten all about the war by now, and they'll make far too much allowance for my being only nineteen." "and for a voluntary confession: that always carries great weight. they would judge you very differently if it had come out by chance. rightly, too: if you're going to make such a confession at your time of life, it will be difficult for any one to call you a coward." "thank you!" val shrugged his shoulders with the old indolent irony. "but moral courage was always my long suit." "how young you still are!" said lawrence smiling at him, "young enough to be bitter. but you're under a delusion. no, let me finish-- i'm an older man than you are, i've seen a good deal of life, and i had four years out there instead of six weeks like you. so far as i can judge you never were a coward. thousands and hundreds of thousands of men broke down like you, but they were lucky and it wasn't known, or at all events it wasn't critical. their failure of nerve didn't coincide with the special call to action. you would have redeemed yourself if you had been able to stick to your profession. you have redeemed yourself: and you'd prove it fast enough if you got the chance, only of course in these piping times of peace unluckily you won't." he coloured suddenly to his temples. "good god, val! if there were any weakness left in you, could you have mastered me like this?" chapter xvii the quickest way to wanhope was by high street and field path. but lawrence to avoid the village entered the drive by the lodge, through iron gates over which bernard had set up the arms and motto of his family: fortis et fidelis, faithful and strong. winding between dense shrubs of rhododendron under darker deodars, the road was long and gloomy, but lawrence was thankful to be out of sight of chilmark. he hurried on with his light swinging step--light for his build--his tired mind vacant or intent only on a bath and a change of clothes, till in the last bend, within a hundred yards of wanhope he came on mrs. clowes. he never could clearly remember his first sight of her, the shock was too great, but as he came up she put out her hands to him and he took them in his own. she was still in her evening dress but without cloak or fur, which had probably slipped off her shoulders: they were bare, and her beautiful bodice was torn. "oh, here you are," she said with her faint smile. "i was afraid you would come by the field." she looked down at herself and made a weak and ineffective effort to gather her loosened laces together. "i'm--i'm not very tidy, am i?" lawrence was carrying an overcoat on his arm. he put her into it, and, as she did not seem able to cope with it, buttoned it for her. "what has happened, dear?" "bernard has turned me out," said laura with the same piteous, bewildered smile. "indeed he never let me in. i went home soon after you left me. the door was shut, i tried the window, but that was shut too, so i had to go back to the door. i couldn't open it and i rang. he answered me through the door, 'who's there?'" she ended as if the motive power of speech had died down in her. "and you--?" "oh, i said, 'it's i--laura.'" "go on, dear," lawrence gently prompted her. "i said 'i'm your wife.' he said 'i have no wife.' and he called me--coarse names, words i couldn't repeat to any one. i couldn't answer him. then he said 'where's hyde? are you there, hyde?' and that you were a coward or you wouldn't stand by and hear him calling me a--what he had called me. so i told him you weren't there, that you had gone back with isabel and val. he said: after you had had all you wanted out of me--i beg your pardon?" "nothing. go on, dear: tell me all about it." "but ought i to?" said laura, raising her dimmed eyes to his face. "it's such a horrible story to tell a man, especially the very man who--i feel so queer, lawrence: don't let me say anything i ought not!" "laura dear, whatever you say is sacred to me. besides, i'm your cousin by marriage, and it's my business to think and act for you: let me help you into this alley." a little further on there was a by-path through the shrubberies, and lawrence drew her towards it, but her limbs were giving way under her, and after a momentary hesitation he carried her into it in his arms. "there: sit on this bank. lean on me," he sat down by her. "is that better?" "oh yes: thank you: i'm so glad to be out of the drive," said laura, letting her head fall, like a child, on his shoulder. "i seem to have been there such a long while. i didn't know where to go. once a tradesman's cart drove by, the butcher's it was: you know bernard gets so cross because they will drive this way to save the long round by the stables. he stared at me, but i didn't know what to do." lawrence repressed a groan: it would be all over the village then, there was no help for it. "where was i to go in these clothes? i did wish you would come, i always feel so safe with you." lawrence silently stroked her hair. his heart was riven. "so safe?" and this was all his doing. "was the door locked?" "yes." "and he refused to open it?" "no, he did open it." "he did open it, do you say?" "yes, because--oh, my head." "you aren't hurt anywhere, are you?" asked lawrence, feeling cold to his fingertips. "no, no," she roused herself, dimly sensible of his anxiety, "it's only that i feel faint, but it's passing off. no, i don't want any water! i'd far rather you stayed with me. it's such a comfort to have you here." lawrence was speechless. her hands went to her hair. "oh dear, i wish i weren't so untidy! never mind, i shall be all right directly: it does me more good than anything else just to tell you about it." "well, tell me then." "the door was locked," she continued languidly but a thought more clearly, "and the chain was up and bernard's couch was drawn across inside. he must have got barry to wheel it over. when i begged him to let me in he unlocked the door but left it on the chain so that it would only open a few inches. i tried to push my way in, but he held me back." "laura, did he strike you?" "no, no," said laura with greater energy than she had yet shown. lawrence drew a breath of relief. he had felt a horrible fear that her faintness might be the result of a blow or a fall. "oh, how could you think that? all he did was to put his hand out flat against my chest and push me back." "but your dress is torn" said lawrence, sickening over the question yet feeling that he must know all. "his ring caught in it. these crepe de chine dresses tear if you look at them." "well, did you give it up after that?" "no, oh no: i never can be angry with berns because it--it isn't berns really," she glanced up at lawrence with her pleading eyes. "it's a possession of the devil. he suffers so frightfully, lawrence: he never ceases to rebel, and no one can soothe him but me. so that i hadn't the heart to leave him. you'll think it poor-spirited of me, but i--i can't help loving the real bernard, a bernard you've never seen. so i waited because--i never can make yvonne understand--i am so sorry for him: he hurts himself more than me--" lawrence started. the echo struck strangely on his ear. "i understand." "you always understand. so i tried again; i said: would he at least let me go to my room and change my clothes and get some money. but he said it was your turn to buy my clothes now. when i'd convinced myself that he was unapproachable, i thought of trying to get in by a side door or through the kitchen. it would have been ignominious, but anything was better than standing on the steps; bernard was talking at the top of his voice, and the maids were at the bedroom windows overhead. i didn't look up but i saw the curtains flutter." "servants don't matter much. but you did quite right. what happened?" "he held me by the arm as i turned to go, and told me that all the doors and windows were locked and that he had given orders not to admit me: not to admit either of us." "either you or--?" "yourself. if we liked to stay out all night together we could stay out for ever." "and then?" "don't ask me." she shuddered and drooped, and the colour came up into her face, a rose-pink patch of fever. "i can't remember any more." "he must have gone raving mad." "he is not mad, lawrence. but he has indulged his imagination too long and now it has the mastery of him," said laura slowly. "it's fatal to do that. 'withstand the beginning: after-remedies come too late.' ever since you came he's been nursing an imaginary jealousy of you: though he knew it was imaginary, he indulged it as though it were genuine: and now it has turned on him and got him by the throat. oh, he is so unhappy? but what can i do?" what, indeed? lawrence, recalling val's warning, subdued a curse or a groan. "a house full of the materials for an explosion." and he had lived in that house--blind fool!--week after week and had noticed nothing! "why--why did no one warn me before?" he stammered. "my poor laura! why didn't you send me away?" "but if it hadn't been you it would have been someone else!" said mrs. clowes simply. "at one time it was val: then it was dr. verney's junior partner, who attended me for influenza while dr. verney was away: and once it was a young chauffeur we had, who happened to be a university man. i did get rid of him, because he found out, and that made everything so awkward. but i couldn't get rid of val, and in many ways i was most unwilling to let you go,--you did him so much good. but i'd made up my mind to turn you out: yvonne was at me--" she paused--"yes, it really was only yesterday! i promised her to speak to you this morning. well, i've done it!" "did you explain to bernard that selincourt and isabel were with us all the time?" "he talked me down." "he must be made to listen to reason." "he won't: not yet. later, perhaps, but not in time to save the situation. never mind, you're not married, and if he does divorce me people will only say 'another selincourt gone wrong.'" a dreary and rather cynical gleam of humour played over laura's lips. "i'm sorry mainly for yvonne, jack's people are so particular; they hated the marriage, and now, when she's lived it all down and made them fond of her, i must needs go and compromise myself and drag our wretched family into the mud again!" "good heavens! he can't propose to divorce you?" "he said he would." bit by bit it was all coming out, the cruel and sordid drama played before an audience of housemaids, as one admission led to another and her strength revived for the ordeal. lawrence shuddered and sat silent, trying to gauge the extent of the mischief. "what can i do?" said laura. she looked down at herself and blushed again. "i do feel so--so disreputable in these clothes. i haven't even been able to wash my face and hands or tidy my hair since i left the hotel." "have you been wandering about in the drive all this time?" "i suppose so. i was afraid to go into the road in such a pickle." "these infernal clothes!" lawrence burst out exasperated. their wretched plight was reduced to farce by the fact that they were locked out of their bedrooms, unable to get at their wardrobes, their soaps and sponges and brushes, his collars, her hairpins, all those trifles of the toilette without which civilized man can scarcely feel himself civilized. most of these wants the vicarage could supply; but to reach the vicarage they had to cross the road. lawrence got up and stood looking down at laura. "can you trust your maid?" "trust her? i can't trust her not to gossip. she's a nice girl and a very good maid, but i've only had her a year." "silly question! one doesn't trust servants nowadays. my man's a scamp, but i can depend on him up to a certain point because i pay him well. anyhow we must make the best of a bad job. if i cut straight down from here i shall get into the tradesmen's drive, shan't i?" "but you can't go to the back door!" "apparently i can't go to the front," said lawrence with his wintry smile. he promised himself to go to the front by and by, but not while laura was shivering in torn clothes under a bush. "but what are you going to do?" "simply to get us a few necessaries of life. you can't be seen like this, and you can't stand here forever, catching cold with next to nothing on: besides, you've had no food since five o'clock this morning--and not much then." "but the servants--if they have orders--" "servants!" he laughed. "but you don't mean to force your way in?" "not past bernard, dear. don't be afraid: i shall skulk in by the rear." it was easy to say "don't be afraid": doubly easy for lawrence, who had never known bernard's darker temper. but there was no coward blood in mrs. clowes, and she steadied herself under the rallying influence of hyde's firm look and tone. "go, then, but don't be long. and, lawrence promise me. . ." "anything, dear." "you won't touch bernard, will you?" lawrence was dumb, from wonder, not from indecision. "no one can do that," said laura under her breath. "oh, i know you wouldn't dream of it. but yet--if he insulted you, if he struck you . . . if he insulted me. . . ?" "no, on my honour." he touched her hand with his lips--a ceremony performed by lawrence only once beforehand in what different circumstances!-- and left her: more like a winter butterfly than ever, with her shining hair, pale face, and gallant eyes, and the silver threads of her embroidered skirt flowing round her over the sunburnt turf. wanhope was an old-fashioned house, and the domestic premises were much the same as they had been in the eighteenth century, except that clowes had turned one wing of the stables into a garage and rooms for the chauffeur. he kept no indoor menservants except barry, the groom and gardener living in the village, while three or four maids were ample to wait on that quiet family. pursuing the tradesman's drive between coach-house, tool shed, coal shed, and miscellaneous outbuildings, lawrence emerged on a brick yard, ducked under a clothes-line, made for an open doorway, and found himself in the scullery. it was empty, and he went on into a big old-fashioned kitchen, draughty enough with its high roof and blue plastered walls. here, too, there was not a soul to be seen: a kettle was furiously boiling over on the hob, a gas ring was running to waste near by, turned on but left unlit and volleying evil fumes. his next researches carried him into a flagged passage, on his right a sunlit pantry, on his left a dingy alcove evidently dedicated to the trimming of lamps and the cleaning of boots. he began to wonder if every one had run away. but no: a sharp turn, a couple of steps, and he came on an inner door, comfortably covered with green baize, through which issued a perfect hubbub of voices all talking at once. he listened long enough to hear himself characterized by a baritone as a stinking jew, and by a treble as not her style and a bit too gay but quite the gentleman, before he raised the latch and stepped in. his appearance produced a perfect hush. except barry and his own valet they were all there, the entire domestic staff of wanhope: and to face them was not the least courageous act that lawrence had ever performed. it was a large, comfortable room, lit by large windows overlooking the kitchen garden; a cheerful fire burnt in the grate this autumn morning, and in a big chair before it sat a cheerful, comely person in a print gown, in whom he recognized mrs. fryar the cook. gordon the chauffeur, a pragmatic young man from the clyde, in this levelling hour was sitting on the edge of the table with a glass of beer in his hand. caroline, the baptist housemaid, held the floor: she was declaiming, when lawrence entered, that it was a shame of major clowes and she didn't care who heard her say so, but apparently lawrence was an exception, for like all the rest she was instantly stricken dumb as the grave. lawrence remained standing in the open doorway. he would have given a thousand pounds to be in morning attire, but no constraint was perceptible in the big, careless, impassive figure framed against the sunlit yard. "are you mrs. clowes's maid?" he singled out a tall, rather stiff, quiet-looking girl in the plain black dress of her calling. "is your name catherine? i want to speak to you." she stood up--they were all standing by now except gordon--but she looked at him very oddly, as if she were half frightened and half inclined to be familiar. "i suppose you can tell me where my lady is, sir?" "she is waiting for you," said lawrence. "i say that i want to speak to you by yourself. come in here, please." catherine continued to look as if she felt inclined to flounce and toss her head, but under his cold and steady eyes she thought better of it and followed him into the pantry. lawrence shut the door. "i'd have gone to my lady, sir, if i'd known where she was." "you're going to her now," said lawrence. "i want you, please, to run up to her room and fetch some clothes, the sort of clothes she would wear to go out walking: you understand what i mean? a jacket and dress and hat, walking boots, a veil--" catherine intimated that she did understand: much better than any gentleman, her smile implied. "perhaps," she suggested, "what you would like is for me to pack a small box for her, sir? my lady will want a lot of things that gentlemen don't think of: underskirts and--" "good god, what do i care?" said lawrence impatiently. "no, nothing of that sort: take just what she wants to change out of evening dress into morning dress. it'll be only for a few hours. go and get them, and be as quick and quiet as you can. say nothing to major clowes." he laid his hand on her shoulder. "are you a decent girl, i wonder?" she drew up and for the first time looked him straight in the eyes. "if you mean, sir, that you're going to take my poor lady away, why, i think it's high time too. i was always brought up respectable, but when it comes to a gentleman calling his own married wife such names, why, it's time some one did interfere. i heard him with my own ears call her a--" "that'll do," said lawrence. "and struck her, that he did, which you ought to know," catherine persisted eagerly: "put his arm out through the door and gave her a great blow! and it's not the first time neither. many's the night when i've undressed my lady but perhaps you've seen for yourself--" she stopped short and put her hand over her mouth. "go and get the things," said lawrence, "then wait for me in the yard." catherine retired in disorder and lawrence followed her out. he found barry waiting to speak to him. "where's my man?" lawrence asked. "send him to me, will you?" "beg pardon, sir, but are you going to speak to major clowes?" "why?" barry looked down. "his orders was that you weren't to be admitted, sir." "how is major clowes?" "very queer. i took it on myself to send for the doctor, but he was out: but they sent word that he'd step round as soon as he came in. i'd have liked to catch mr. val, but he slipped off while i was waiting on the major." "but major clowes isn't ill?" "oh no, sir. but i don't care for so much responsibility." "shall i have a look at him?" "oh no," a much more decided negative. "i wouldn't go near the major, sir, not if i was you." "why, what's the matter with him?" lawrence asked curiously. but barry refused to commit himself beyond repeating that the major was very queer, and after promising to send val to the rescue lawrence dismissed him, as gaston came hurrying up. something suspiciously like a grin twinkled over the little frenchman's face when he found his master waiting for him on the sill of caroline's pantry, silhouetted against row on row of shining glass and silver, and wearing at noon-day the purple and fine linen, the white waistcoat and thin boots of last night. but his french breeding triumphed and he remained, except for that one furtive twinkle, the conscientious valet, nescient and urbane. lawrence did not give him even so much explanation as he had given catherine. "is there a back staircase?" he asked, and then, "take me up by it. i'm going to my room." gaston led the way through the servants' hall. lawrence, following, had to fight down a nausea of humiliation that was almost physical: he had never before done anything that so sickened him as this sneaking progress through the kitchen quarters in another man's house. at length gaston, holding up a finger to enjoin silence, brought him out on the main landing overlooking the hall. there was no carpet on the polished floor but lawrence when he chose could tread like a cat. he stepped to the balustrade. it was as dark as a dark evening, for the great doors were still fast shut, and what scanty light filtered through the painted panes was absorbed, not reflected, by raftered roof, panelled walls, and jacobean stair. but as he grew used to the gloom he could distinguish bernard's couch and the powerful prostrate figure stretched out on it like a living bar. bernard's arms were crossed over his breast: his features were the colour of stone: he might have been dead. lawrence was startled. but he could do no good now, and the frenchman was fidgeting at his bedroom door. later . . . secure of privacy gaston's decorum relaxed a trifle, for it was clear to him that confidences must be at least tacitly exchanged: m'sieur le captaine could not hope to keep him in the dark, there never was an elopement yet of which valet and lady's maid were not cognizant. like catherine, "you wish i pack for you, sare?" he asked in his lively imperfect english. he was naturally a chatterbox and brimful of a parisian's salted malice, even after six years in the service of captain hyde, who did not encourage his attendants to be communicative. lawrence was tearing off his accursed evening clothes. (all day it had been the one drop of sweetness in his bitter cup that he had borrowed lucian's razor and shaved in lucian's rooms.) "get me a tweed suit and boots." gaston frowned, wrinkling his nose: if m'sieur imagined that that nose had no scent for an affair of gallantry--! but still he persisted, even he, though the snub was a bitter pill: himself a gallant man, could allow for jaded nerves. "you wish i pack, yes?" he deprecated reticence by his insinuatingly sympathetic tone. "no," said lawrence, tying his tie before a mirror. "i'm coming back." "'ere? back--so--'ere, m'sieur?" "yes, before tonight." it was more than flesh and blood could stand. "sir clowes 'e say no," remarked gaston in a detached and nonchalant tone, as he gathered up the garments which his master had strewn over the floor. "'e verree angree. 'e say 'zut! m'sieur le captaine est parti!--il ne revient plus.'" "gaston." the frenchman turned from the press in which he was hanging up lawrence's coat. "you're a perfect scamp, my man," lawrence spoke over his shoulder as he ran through the contents of a pocketbook, "and i should be sorry to think you were attached to me. but your billet is comfortable, i believe: i pay you jolly good wages, you steal pretty much what you like, and you have the additional pleasure of reading all my letters. now listen: i'm coming back to wanhope before tonight and so is mrs. clowes. i'm not going to run away with her, as major clowes gave you all to understand. what you think is of no importance whatever to any one, what you say is equally trilling, but i don't choose to have my servant say it: so, if you continue to drop these interesting hints, i shall not only boot you out, but" --he turned "i shall give you such a thrashing in the rear, gaston--in this direction, gaston--that you won't be able to sit down comfortably for a month." "m'sieur is so droll," murmured gaston, removing himself with dignified agility and an unabashed grimace. lawrence let himself out by the back stairs again and the kitchen --now in a state of great activity, the gas ring lit and preparations for lunch going on apace--and forth into the yard. out in the open air he drew a long breath: safe in tweeds and a felt hat, he was his own man again, but he felt as though he had been wading in mud. the mystified catherine followed him at a sign into the drive. there hyde stood still. "take that path to the left. you'll find your mistress waiting for you. help her to dress, and tell her i shall be at the lodge gates when she's ready. and, catherine--" he paused, feeling an almost insuperable distaste for his job. but it had to be done, the girl must not find him tight with his money: that she would hold her tongue was beyond expectation, but if well tipped at least she might not invent lies. it went against the grain of his temper to bribe one of bernard's maids, but fate was not now consulting his likes or dislikes. he thrust his hand into his pocket--"look after your mistress, will you?" the respectably brought up catherine turned scarlet. she put her hand behind her back. "i'm sure, sir, i don't want your money to make me do that!" "if you prick us shall we not bleed?" it was the first time that lawrence had ever discovered a servant to be a human being: and his philosophical musings were chequered, till he moved out of earshot, by the clamour of catherine's irrepressible dismay. "oh madam!" he heard, and, "well, if i ever-!" and then in a tone suddenly softened from horror to sympathy, "there now, there, let me get your dress off . . . ." from mrs. clowes came no answer, or none audible to him. laura joined him in ten minutes' time, neatly dressed, gloved, and veiled, her hair smoothed--it had never been rough so far as lawrence could observe--her complexion regulated by catherine's powder puff. "are you better?" said lawrence, examining her anxiously: "able to walk as far as the vicarage?" "the vicarage?" "wharton's too far off. you're dead tired: you'll have to lie down and keep quiet. isabel will look after you." it speaks to the complete overthrow of lawrence's ideas that for the last hour he had not recollected isabel's existence. "and we shall have to wait till bernard raises the siege: one can't bawl explanations through a keyhole. besides, i must wire to lucian." he slipped his hand under her arm. "would you like this good girl of yours to come with you?" "i will come, madam, directly i've fetched my hat," said catherine eagerly. "you must have some one to look after you, and your hair never brushed and all." but laura shook her head, catherine must not defy her master. "if you want to please me," she said not without humour "--i can't help it, lawrence--try to look after major clowes. you had better not go near him yourself, because as you know he isn't very pleased with me just now, but see that mrs. fryar sends him in a nice lunch and ask barry to try to get him to eat it. i ordered some oysters to come this morning, and major clowes will enjoy those when he won't touch anything else." catherine watched her lady up the road with a disappointed eye. it was a tame conclusion to a promising adventure. although respectably brought up, her sympathies were all with captain hyde: she had foreseen herself, the image of regretful discretion, sacrificing her lifelong principles to escort mrs. clowes to brighton, or switzerland, or that place where they had the little horses that mr. duval made such a 'mysterious joke about--it would have been amusing to do foreign parts with mr. duval. but when laura took the turning to the vicarage catherine was invaded by a creeping chill of doubt. was it possible that captain hyde was not mrs. clowes's lover after all? "i know which i'd choose," she said to gordon. "i've no patience with the major. such a way to behave! and my poor lady with the patience of an angel, putting up and putting up-- no man's worth it, that's what i say." "well, it is a bit thick," said gordon: "calling his own wife a--" "mr. gordon!" the son of the clyde was a contentious young man, and a jealous one. "you didn't seem to mind when the french chap was talking about a fille de joy. what d'ye suppose a fille de joy is in english? but there's some of us can do no wrong." "french sounds so much more refined," said catherine firmly. chapter xviii inaction was hard on lawrence. he hated it: and he was not used to it: his impulse was to go direct to wanhope and break down the door: but it was not to be done. when he reached the vicarage mr. stafford had gone out after an early lunch to take a wedding in countisford, while val had been obliged to ride over to a neighbouring farm. leaving laura to isabel, who startled him by her cool "so major clowes has done it at last?" he hurried down to the post office to telephone to selincourt (aware on his way that every eye was staring at him: no doubt the tale was already on every lip), but selincourt too was out, and he had to be content with despatching colourless duplicate telegrams to his rooms and club. from a hint let fall during the night he was aware that no more than the most laconic wire would be needed, but he fretted under the delay, which meant that selincourt could not arrive before six o'clock. after that he would have liked to go to wharton, but dared not, for, though jack's grandfather was what yvonne called a romantic, the grantchesters were old-fashioned straightlaced people who had better not hear of the scandal till it was over. no, till selincourt and val appeared there was no more to be done, and lawrence, returned to the vicarage and flung himself into a chair to wait. he dreaded inaction: inaction meant thought: and thought meant such bitter realities as he knew not how to stand up against: but what he liked or disliked was no longer to the point. in that easy-going household, where comfort was obtained at the expense of appearances, there was always a diningroom fire in cold weather, and on this september morning the glow of the flames had a lulling effect. dead tired, he dropped asleep, to be roused by the feeling that there was some one in the room. there was, it was isabel; and in the drugged heaviness that follows daylight slumber hyde simply held out his arms to her in oblivion of last night. "oh, oh!" said isabel smiling at him and touching his palms with the tips of her fingers, "were you dreaming of me?" hyde drew back, a deep flush covering his face. what had changed isabel? she was pure fascination. "i've been watching you a long time while you were asleep. i thought you would never wake. you're so, so tired! here's a cup of coffee for you." "thank you," said lawrence, entirely subdued. he still felt half dazed: confused and shy, emotions the harder to disguise because they were so unfamiliar: and restless under isabel's merry eyes. how near she was to him, the leaping flames flinging a dance of light and shadow over her silk shirt, and the bloom on her cheek, and the dark hair parted on one side (a boyish fashion which he had always disliked) and waved over her head! so near that without rising he could have pressed his lips to that white throat of hers. . . . last night it had been beauty clouded, beauty averse, but this morning it was beauty in the most delicate and derisive and fleeting sunlight of pleasure; and the temperament of his race delivered lawrence hand and foot into its power. the deep waters went over him and he ceased to struggle--"isabel," he heard himself saying in a level voice but without his own volition, "should you mind if i were to kiss you?" what a banality to ask of a woman, his second self scoffed at him: a woman who should be kissed or left alone, but never asked for a kiss! "not very much," said isabel, presenting her smooth cheek. "not if it would do you any good." oh irony, oh disenchantment! "thank you." he curbed his passion and sat still. "i am not val." "shut your eyes then." he held his breath: the thick beating of his heart was like a muffled hammer. "this isn't the way i kiss val." "isabel!" exclaimed lawrence. he held out his arms again but they closed on the empty firelight: she had gone dancing off, the most fugitive, the most insubstantial of mistresses, nothing left of her to him but the memory of that moth's wing touch. "isabel, come here!" he, sprang to his feet. from the other end of the room isabel turned round, wistful, her head bent, glancing up at him under her eyelashes. "oh must you have me?--all of me? oh lawrence!--well then--" she advanced step by step, slowly. lawrence waited, convinced that if he tried to seize her she would be gone, such a vague thistledown grace there was in her slender immaturity. he waited and isabel came to him, drifted into his arms, was lying for a moment on his breast, and then, "let me go: dearest, don't hold me!" he kept her long enough to ask "but are you mine?" "yes," said isabel, sighing. "this is a grudging gift, isabel." "oh no," she whispered, "not grudging. all my heart: all of me. only don't hold me, i'm still afraid." "of me?" "yes: now are you triumphant?" she escaped. "will you sit down in a chair, you sprite, and let me kneel at your ladyship's feet?" "no--yes--no, you too sit down." then as lawrence, enchained, relapsed into the deep easy chair by the fire, she came behind and leant over him, wreathing her arms over his shoulders. "there: now lie still: so: is that cosy for you? now will you go to sleep?" "circe . . ." "you don't feel as though you were going to sleep." "mon dieu!" lawrence murmured under his breath. "don't say that," her voice was so soft that it was like the voice of his own heart speaking to him, "it isn't a proper reply to make when a lady says she loves you." "oh! provided that you do love me--!" she took his temples between her fingertips and again her enchanting caress brushed his lips. lawrence lay helpless. it was like receiving the caresses of a fairy: a delight and a torment, a serenity and a flame. "i love you. i will marry you. i shall be a most exacting wife, 'december when i wed.' very soon you'll wish you had never set eyes on me. you'll have to marry val too and all the family." her long lashes were fluttering against his cheek. "as you're thirty-six and i'm only nineteen, you'll have to be very docile or i shall tell you you're ungenerous." "presuming on my income, as you said--was it last night?" "when you were free. does it seem so long ago?" she gave a little laugh, airy and sweet. "oh poor benedict! would you like to cry off? let me see: you may scratch any time before i tell val, which will be when he comes in at five o'clock. now then?" this mention of val was like a dash of cold water, and lawrence tried to rouse himself. "will you be serious for half a second, you incarnation of mischief?" "no--yes--no, i don't want to be serious," she turned in his arms and the isabel of last night pierced him with her dark, humid, brilliant eyes. "i want to forget. make me forget!" "forget what?" "other women." "there are no other women, isabel." "there have been.--lawrence!" the scent of the honeysuckle pinned into her blouse seemed to narcotize all his senses with its irresistible sweetness, "you will be true to me, won't you? you won't love other women now? say you never wanted to kiss any of them so much as-- oh!" drunk with her circean cup, hyde was more than willing to convince her, but in a fashion of his own. isabel gave a little sigh and faded out of his clasp: he tried to seize her but she was gone, leaving only the scent of bruised petals and the memory of a silken contact. "you're so--so stormy," the gossamer voice mocked him with its magic of youth and gaiety. "val says--" "isabel, i'm sick of that formula. you're going to marry me, not val." "--you're not one-third english." "i've lived in countries where they knew how to manage women," lawrence muttered. "with a whip?" "no." "what a pity!" "no, the other method is more effective." "you terrify me," her eyes were sparkling now like a diamond. "don't fling any more of those dark threats at me or i shall never marry you at all. some day you'll be madly jealous of me like major clowes--you are like him: you could be just as brutal: and i'm not like laura--and you'll lure me out of england and wreak a mysterious vengeance." "i wish we were out of england now." "so do i. oh lawrence, i'd sell my soul to go to egypt!" "red-hot days and blue sands in the moonlight. shall i take you there for our honeymoon?" "or spain: or sicily: or what about majorea?-- let's slip off alone in a nom de plume and an aeroplane to some place where no one ever goes, all roses and lemon thyme and honey-coloured cliffs and a bay of blue sea--" "should you like to be alone with me?" "yes ... why not?" "good!" said hyde laughing. "i see no reason if you don't." he put his hand before his eyes, which were throbbing as though he had looked too long at a bright light. but isabel pulled down his wrist. "don't do that. i like to watch your eyes. i allow no reserves, lawrence. and isn't it rather too late to lock the door? i've seen you--" "isabel!" he freed himself and stood up. "i beg your pardon, but you must not-- i can't stand--" his face was burning. isabel had not realized--it is difficult for a young girl to realize, convinced of her own insignificance--how deeply his pride had been cut overnight, but she was under no delusion now. he was hot with shame and anger, and had to wait to fight them down before he could go on. "nineteen are you--or nine? i can't play with you today. make allowance for me, dearest! i'm in a most difficult position. i've done incalculable mischief, and, to tell you the truth, i shouldn't have chosen to raise this subject again till i'm clear of it. your people may very fairly object. my cousin is threatening a divorce action. he's mad: and no decent lawyer would take his case into court: but the fact remains that poor laura has been turned out of doors, and for that i am, in myself-centred carelessness, to blame. you won't misunderstand me, will you, if i say that while this abominable business is hanging over me we can't be formally engaged? val must be told--nothing would induce me to keep him in the dark for an hour. but for all that i shan't know how to face him. what! ask him for you, and in the same breath tell him that laura has been turned adrift because i've compromised her? if i were val there'd be the devil and all to pay. in the meantime i must--i must be sure of you. but you change like the wind: last night you refused me, and to-day . . ." he walked over to the window and stood looking out into the garden, fighting down one of those tremendous storms of memory which swept over him from time to time and made the present seem absolutely one with the past. "what's the matter?" he turned, but his voice was thick. "last time i trusted a woman she betrayed me." "you're thinking of your wife." "i often think of her," hyde said savagely, "and wonder if all women are tarred with the same brush." "oh, that is brutal," said isabel, paling: "but you're tired out." it was true, he was too tired to rest: heartsick and ashamed, painfully aware of the immense harm he had done and uncertain how to mend it. this sense of guilt was the more harassing because he was not in the habit of regretting his actions, good or bad: but now he could no longer fling off responsibility: it was riveted on him by all the other emotions which wanhope had evoked, pity for bernard, and affection for laura, and humility before val. among the lilacs a robin was singing his delicate and bold welcome to autumn, and over the window a branch of red roses nodded persistently and rhythmically in a draught of wind. lawrence stood looking out into the garden of which he saw nothing, and isabel, watching him, felt tears coming into her own eyes, the tears of that unnerving pity which a woman feels for the man she loves, when she has never before seen him in defeat or depression. no wonder he thought her fickle! how could he read what was dark to her? isabel had not deliberately altered her mind in the night. she had lain down free and risen up bond, waking from sound sleep, the sleep of a child, to find that the silent inner court of appeal had reversed her verdict while she slept. her first thought had been, "i'm going to marry lawrence!" for he needed her: that was what she had forgotten last night: by his parade of wealth he had defeated his own ends, but, her first anger over, she had realized that one should no more refuse a man for being rich, than accept him. far other were the grounds on which that decision had to be made. it had been pity that carried isabel away. perhaps in any case she could not have held out for long. did she expect to be happy? scarcely, for she did not trust him enough to be frank with him. sophisticated men soon tire of candid women: it was in this faith that isabel had clouded herself in such an iridescence of mystery and coquetry, laughing when she felt more inclined to cry, eluding lawrence when she would rather have rested in his arms. roses and steel: innocence in a saffron scarf: ascendancy won and held only by surrender: such was to be the life of the woman who married lawrence hyde, as she had seen it long ago on a june evening, and as, with some necessary failings for human weakness, she carried it out to the end. if any moralities at all were to be fulfilled in their union, it was for her to impose them, for hyde had none. within the limits of his code of honour he would simply do as he liked. and with nine-tenths of her nature isabel would have liked nothing better than to shut her eyes and yield to him as all her life she had yielded to val, for she too loved red roses and sunshine and the pleasure of the senses: but her innermost self, the warder of her will, would rather have died than yield, she the child of an ascetic and trained in val's simple code of duty. but there should be compromise: one must not--one need not--cheat him of the pride of his manhood. isabel's heart ached for her lover. she could not defend herself against him any longer, and in her yielding the warder of her will whispered, "you may yield now. not to be frank with him now would be unfair as well as unkind." she came softly to him in the window, and instantly by some change of tension lawrence discovered to his delight that circe had vanished. his mistress was his own now, a girl of nineteen who had promised to be his wife, and he was carried beyond doubt or anger by the rush of tenderness which went over him when he began to taste the sweetness of his victory. "have i won you?" he whispered, his voice as unsteady as a boy's in his first passion. "you won't fail me?" "oh never! never!" "you have the most beautiful eyes in the world. i believe one reason why i always secretly liked val was that his eyes reminded me of yours. i can't stand it when he looks at me under your eyelashes. i always want to say 'here take it val.'" "take what?" "anything he wants. i'm going to extend a protecting wing over my young brother-in-law. he shall not, no, i swear he shall not come to grief. i can't stand it, he's too like you. when did you first fall in love with me?" "when did you?" "the night you went to sleep in the garden at wanhope." "oh! when you kissed me?" "when i--?" isabel was speechless. "how do you know i kissed you, isabel? i thought you were asleep." "so i was," said isabel, blushing deeply. "oh! captain hyde, i wasn't pretending! but i woke up directly after, and heard a rustling in the wood, and i--i knew, don't ask me: i could feel -" "this?" "yes," isabel murmured, resigning herself. "how strange!" said lawrence under his breath. "you were asleep and you felt me kiss you?" she looked up at him through her eyelashes. "is that so strange?" "rather: because i never did kiss you." "not?" "no: i bent over you to do it, but you were so defenceless and so young, i didn't dare.-- isabel! my darling! what have i done?" the first days of love are supposed to be blind days, but too often they are days of overstrained criticism, when from very fear each sees slips and imperfections even where they do not exist. the discovery that she had misjudged hyde was an exquisite joy to isabel. this trivial, crucial scruple, of morality or taste, whichever one liked to call it, was the sign of a chastity of mind which could coexist, it seemed, with the coarse and careless sins that he had never denied. after all no marriage on earth is perfect, and husbands as well as wives have to make allowances; but as years go on, and affection does its daily work, the rubs are less and less felt, till the time comes when deeper wisdom can look back smiling on the fears of youth. isabel at nineteen did not possess this wisdom but she had youth itself. the flames crackled low on the hearth: the wind, a small autumn wind, piped weakly round white wall and high chimneypot: outside in the garden late roses were shedding their petals loosened by a touch of frost in the night. "tears because you mistrusted me?" said hyde in his soft voice. "but why should the gentile maiden trust a jew?" chapter xix riding back from liddiard st. agnes in the low september sunshine, val became aware of something pleasantly pictorial in the landscape. it was a day when the hills looked higher than usual, the tilt of the plain sharper, the shadows a darker umber, the light clearer under a softly-quilted autumn sky. when he crossed a reaped cornfield, the pale golden stalks of stubble to westward were tipped each with a spark of light, so that all the upland flashed away from him toward the declining sun. in his own mind there was a lull which corresponded with this clear quietness of nature: a pleasant vacancy and a suspension of personal interest, so that even his anxiety about laura was put at a little distance, and he could see her and bernard, and lawrence himself, like figures in a picture, hazed over by a kind of moral sunlight--the grace of god, say, which from val's point of view shapes all our ends: i do not ask to see the distant scene: one step enough for me, this courage came to val now without effort, and not for himself only, which would have been easy at any time, but for laura in her difficult married life, and for those other beloved heads on which he was fated to bring disgrace--his father, rowsley, isabel: come what might, sorrow could not harm them, nor fear annoy. how quiet it was! the quieter for the wrangling of rooks in the border elms, and for the low autumn wind that rustled in the hedgerows: and how full of light the sky, in spite of the soft bloomy clouds that had hung about all day, imbrowning the sunshine! far off in the valley doves were grieving, and over the reaped and glittering cornstalks curlews were flying and calling with their melancholy--shrill wail, an echo from the sea, while small birds in flocks flew away twittering as he rode up, and settled again further on, and rose and settled again, always with a clatter of tiny wings. evening coming on: and winter coming on: and light, light everywhere, and calm, over the harvest fields and the darkened copses, and the far blue headlands that seemed to lift themselves up into immeasurable serenities of sky. it was lucky for val that he was able to enjoy this quiet hour, for it was soon over. when he crossed the turf to the diningroom window, the fire had burnt down into red embers and not much light came in from out of doors under that low ceiling, but there was enough to show him isabel in lawrence's arms. fatality! he had not foreseen it, not for a moment: and yet directly he saw it he seemed to have known it all along. after a momentary suspension of his faculties, during which his ideas shifted much as they do when an unfamiliar turns into a familiar road, val tapped on the glass and strolled in, giving his young sister one of his light teasing smiles. "am i to bestow my consent, isabel?" "oh val!-- don't be angry, or not with lawrence anyhow, it wasn't his fault." isabel disengaged herself but without confusion. her brother watched her in increasing surprise. rosy and sparkling, she seemed to have grown from child to woman in an hour, as after a late spring the first hot day brings a million buds into leaf. "are you startled?" she asked, holding up her cheek for a kiss. "not so much so as i should have been twenty-four hours ago. no, i didn't guess--not a bit; i suppose brothers never expect people to want to marry their sisters. we know too much about you." "better run off to the nursery, isabel," said lawrence. isabel made him a little smiling curtsey eloquent of her disdain--it was so like captain hyde to be saucy before val!--and slipped away. when lawrence returned after holding open the door for her, he found a certain difficulty in meeting val's eyes. "and this then is the mysterious attraction that has kept you at wanhope all the summer? wonderful! what will mrs. jack say? but i suppose nineteen, for forty, has a charm of its own." lawrence was not forty. but he refused to be drawn. "she is very beautiful." "oh, very," val was nothing if not cordial. "but her face is her fortune. i needn't ask if you can keep her in the state to which she's accustomed," his eye wandered over the dilapidated vicarage furniture, "or whether your attentions are disinterested. evidently you're one of those men who like their wives to be dependent on them-- dear me!" "damn the money!" said lawrence at white heat. "jew i may be, but it's you and isabel that harp on it, not i." "come, come!" val arched his eyebrows. "so sorry to ruffle you, but these questions are in all the etiquette books and some one has to ask them. if you could look on me as isabel's father--?" it was too much. angry as he was, lawrence began to laugh. "no, i won't look on you as isabel's father," he had regained the advantage of age and position, neutralized till now by val's cooler self-restraint. "i won't look on you as anything but a brother-in-law; a younger brother of my own, val, if you can support the relation. won't you start fresh with me? i've not given you much cause to think well of me up to now, but i love isabel, and i'll do my best to make her happy. i might find forgiveness difficult if i were you, but then," for his life he could not have said whether he was in earnest or chaffing val, "i'm a jew of shylock's breed and you're a christian." "but, my dear fellow, what is there to forgive? we're only too delighted and grateful for the honour done us: it's a brilliant match, of course, far better than she could expect to make." a duller man than lawrence could not have missed the secret silken mischief. "and to me, to all of us, you're more than kind; it's nice to feel that instead of losing a sister i shall gain a brother." "you are an infernal prig, val!" "oh," said val, this time without irony, "it's easy for you to come with an apology in one hand and a cheque in the other." he turned away and stood looking out into the garden. in the lilac bushes over the lawn isabel's robin was still singing his winter carol, and the atmosphere was saturated with the smell of wet, dead leaves, the poignant, fatal smell of autumn. "there's winter in the air tonight," said val half aloud. "what?" said lawrence startled. "i say that life's too short for quarrelling." he held out his hand. "but be gentle with her, she is very young.-- yes, what is it, fanny?" "major clowes's compliments, sir, and he would be glad to see captain hyde as soon as convenient." at wanhope half an hour later the sun had gone down behind a bank of purple fog, and cloud after cloud had put off its vermilion glow and faded into a vague dimness of twilight: house and garden were quiet, except for the silver rippling of the river which went on and on, ceaselessly fleeting over shallows or washing along through faded sedge. these river murmurs haunted wanhope all day and night, and so did the low river-mists: in autumn by six o'clock the grass was already ankle deep and white as a field of lilies. the tall doors were wide open now: no lamps were lit, but a big log fire blazed on the hearth, and through the empurpled evening air the house streamed with flame-light, flinging a ruddy glow over leafless acacia and misty turf. stretched on his couch in a warm and dark angle by the staircase, clowes was busy with his collection, examining and sorting a number of small objects which were laid out on his tray: sparks of light winked between his fingers as iron or gold or steel turned up a reflecting edge. his face as white as his hands, the wide eyes blackened by the expansion of their pupils, he looked like a ghost, but a ghost of normal habits, washed and shaved and dressed in ordinary tweeds. "hullo, bernard." "good evening, lawrence. oh, you've brought val and-- selincourt, is it? what years since we've met, selincourt! very good of you to come down, and i'm delighted to see you, one can't have too many witnesses. mild evening, isn't it? leave the doors open, val, barry has made up an immense fire, big enough for january. now sit down all of you, will you? i shan't keep you long." propped high on cushions, he lay like a statue, his huge shoulders squared against them as boldly as if he were in the saddle. lawrence, so like him in frame and colouring, stood with his back to the hearth: selincourt with his tired eyes and grey hair sat near the door, one hand slipped between his crossed knees: val preferred to stay in the background, a spectator, interested and deeply sympathetic, but a trifle shadowy. they were three to one, but the dominant personality was that of the cripple. "it's with you, lawrence, that i have to do business. you passed last night with my wife." the heavy voice was deadened out of all heat except grossness. how had clowes spent the last twelve hours? in reliving over and over again his wife's fall: defiling her image and poisoning his own soul with emanations of a diseased mind, from which selincourt, a straightforward sinner, would have turned in disgust. men of strong passions like bernard need greater control than bernard possessed to curb what they cannot indulge: and a mind full of gross imagery was nature's revenge on him for a love that had been to him "hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea." but for the friend, the brother, and the lover it was difficult to grant him such allowances as would have been made by a physician. "that'll do," said lawrence, raising his hand. "your wife is innocent. send any one you like to the hotel--private detective if you like--and find out what rooms miss stafford and laura had, or whether selincourt and i stayed five minutes in the place after the ladies went upstairs." "so laura said this morning." "there's no loophole for suspicion. i went back with selincourt to his rooms and we sat up the rest of the night smoking and playing auction piquet. he won about five pounds off me. ask him: he'll confirm it." "that's what he came for, isn't it?" bernard smiled. "my good chap, think i don't know that if you gave him a five pound note to do it selincourt would hold the door for you?" selincourt's pale face was scarlet. "i say she shall not return to him!" he broke out loudly. "if this is a specimen of what he'll say to us, what does he say to her?" "no offence, no offence,'' bernard bore him down, insolent and jovial. "'the lord commended the unjust steward.' i foresaw that lawrence would lie through thick and thin, and if i'd given it a thought either way i should have known you'd be brought down to back him up. and quite right too to stand by your sister--the more so that all you selincourts are as poor as church rats and naturally don't want your damaged goods back on your hands. but don't get huffy, keep calm like me. you deny everything, lawrence. quite right: a man's not worth his salt if he won't lie to protect a woman. laura also denies everything. quite right again: a woman's bound to lie to save her reputation. but the husband also has his natural function, which is to exercise a decent incredulity. perhaps it's a bit difficult for you to enter into my feelings. you're none of you married men and you don't know how it stings a man up when his wife makes him a-- hallo!" "what?" "what's the matter with you?" "go on," said lawrence, flinging himself into a chair: "if you have a point, come to it. i'm pretty well sick of this." "so it seems," said bernard staring at him. "is it the good old-fashioned english word that you can't stomach? all right, after tonight i shan't offend again. that's my point and i'm coming to it as fast as i can. i won't have any one of the lot of you near me again except val: i acquit him of complicity: he probably believes laura innocent. don't you, val?" "there's no evidence whatever against her, outside your imagination, old man." "you're in love with her yourself," bernard retorted brutally. val started, it was the second time in twelve hours. "oh! think i haven't seen that? there's not much i don't see, that goes on around me. cheer up, i'm not really jealous of you. laura never cared that for you. she was my wife for ten days, after all: it takes a man to master her." "what he wants is a medical man," said lawrence to selincourt in a low voice. he dared not look at val. "after tonight neither selincourt nor you, lawrence nor your lady friend will darken my doors again. try it on and i'll have you warned off by the police." "bernard, you over-rate the attractions of your society." "pass to my second point. i don't propose to divorce laura." "you couldn't get a divorce, you ass: you've no case." "but equally i don't propose to take her back. if she lives alone and conducts herself decently i'll make her an allowance--say four or five hundred a year. if she lives with a lover or tries to force her way in here i won't give her a stiver. now, selincourt, you had better use your influence or you'll have her planted on you directly lawrence gets sick of her. if she goes from me to lawrence she can go from lawrence on the streets for all i--shut that door, val!--keep her out!" "laura! go away!" cried selincourt. the scene was rising into a nightmare and his nerves shivered under it. but he was too late. the wide doorway had filled with people: laura with her satin hair, her flying veil, her ineffaceable french grace of air and dress: isabel bare-headed, very pale and reluctant: and mr. stafford, who had come down to exercise a moderating influence in the direction of compromise. isabel edged round towards lawrence, while mr. stafford stood glancing from one to another with keen authoritative eyes, waiting a chance to strike in. but laura after her long sleep had recovered her fighting temper and was no longer content to remain a cipher in her own house. she smiled and shook her head at lucian, reddening under her dark skin. "bernard, have they told you the truth yet? no, i thought not, lawrence was too shy." high spirited, for all her sensitiveness, she laid her slight hand on her husband's wrist. "did you think if lawrence stayed on at wanhope it must be because he admired me? you forget that there are younger and prettier women in chilmark than i am. lawrence is going to marry isabel. it's a romantic tale," was there a touch of pique in laura's charming voice? "and i'm afraid they both of them took some pains to throw dust in our eyes. i've only this moment learnt it from isabel." yes, undeniably a trace of pique. women like laura, used to the admiration of men however innocent, cannot forego it without a sigh. she did not grudge isabel her happiness or even envy it, and she had never believed lawrence to be in love with herself, and yet this courtship that had gone on under her blind eyes produced in her a faint sense of irritation, of male defection that had made her look a little silly. she was aware of it herself and faintly amused and faintly ashamed. "my time for romantic adventure has gone by. oh my poor berns, you forget that i'm thirty-six!" here was the authentic accent of truth. clowes heard it, but he had got beyond the point where a man is capable of saying "i was wrong, forgive me." at that moment he no longer desired laura to be innocent, he would have preferred to justify himself by proving her guilty. "take your damned face out of this," he said, enveloping her in an intensity of hate before which laura's delicate personality seemed to shrivel like a scorched leaf. "take it away before i kill you." he struck her hand from his wrist and dashed himself down on the pillow, his great arms and shoulders writhing above the marble waist like some fierce animal trapped by the loins. "oh, i can't stand it, i can't stand it . . ." "oh dear, this is awful," said selincourt weakly. he got up and stood in the doorway. despair is a terrible thing to watch. not even lawrence dared go near bernard. it was the priest, inured to scenes of grief and rebellion, who came forward with the cold strong common sense of the christian stoic. "but you will have to stand it," said mr. stafford sternly, "it is the will of god and rebellion only makes it worse. after all, thousands of men of all ranks have had to bear the same trial and with much less alleviation. you know now that your wife is innocent and is prepared to forgive you." it did not strike mr. stafford that men like bernard clowes do not care to be forgiven by their wives. there was no confessional box in chilmark church. "you have plenty of interests left and plenty of friends: so long as you don't alienate them by behaving in such an unmanly way. lift him, val.-- come, major clowes, you're torturing your wife. this is cowardice--" "like val's, eh?" "like--?" "like your precious val behaved ten years ago." clowes raised himself on his elbows. "aha! how's that for a smack in the eye?" "val, my darling lad," said mr. stafford, stumbling a little in his speech, "what--what is this?" "poor chap!" clowes gave his curt "ha ha!" as he reached out a long arm to turn on all the lights. "who was that chap, hercules was it, that pulled the temple on his own head? by god, if my life's gone to pieces, i'll take some of you with me. you, val, i was always fond of you: tell your daddy, or shall i, what you did in the great war?" "bernard. . . ." "can't stand it, eh? but, like me, you'll have to stand it. come, come, val, this is cowardice--" "lawrence, don't touch him: let it come." but no one dared touch clowes. "before his sister!" selincourt muttered. he had no idea what was coming but val's grey pallor frightened him. "and the old man!" lawrence added with clenched hands. clowes ignored them both. he held the entire group in subjection by sheer savage force of personality. "simple little anecdote of war. dale, you remember, was a brother officer of mine. he was shot in a raid and left hanging on the german wire. in the night when he was dying another chap in our regiment, that had been lying up all day between the lines with a bullet in his ribs, crawled across for him. the boches opened fire but he got dale off and started back. three quarters of the way over they found a third casualty, a subaltern in the dorchesters. this chap wasn't hurt but he was weeping with fear. he had gone to ground in a shellhole during the advance and stayed there too frightened to move. the winchester man was by now done to the world. he kicked the dorchester to his feet and ordered him to carry on with dale. the dorchester pointed out that if he turned up without a scratch on him, he would probably be shot by court martial, so the other fellow by way of pretext put a shot through his arm. 'now you can tell 'em it was you who fetched dale.' 'oh i can't, i'm frightened,' says the dorchester boy. 'by god you shall,' says the other, 'or i'll put a second bullet through your brains.' now, val, you finish telling us how you did the return trip in tears with dale on your shoulders and lawrence at your heels chivying you with a revolver." "you unutterable devil," said lawrence under his breath, "who told you that?" bernard grinned at him almost amicably. he had got one blow home at last and felt better. "why, i've always known it. dale told me himself. he lived twenty minutes after you got him in." "val," said mr. stafford, "this isn't true?" "perfectly true, sir." undefended, unreserved, stripped even of pride, val stood up before them all as if before a firing party, for the others had involuntarily fallen back leaving him alone. . . . to lawrence the silence seemed endless, it went on and on, while through the open doorway grey shadows crept in, the leafy smell of night and the liquid river-murmur so much louder than it could have been heard by day. suddenly, as if he could not stand the strain any longer, val covered his eyes with his hands. the movement, full of shame galvanized lawrence into activity. but he had not the courage to approach val. he had but one desire which was to get out of the house. "bernard, if you weren't a cripple i'd put the fear of god into you with a stick" he stood near the door eyeing his cousin with a cold dislike more cutting than anger. "you're as safe as a woman. but i'm through with you. i'll never forgive you this, never. i'm going: and i shall take your wife with me." he turned. "come, laura--" "take care, lawrence!" cried isabel. she spoke too late. bernard's hand was already raised and a glint of steel shone between his fingers. no one was near enough to disarm him. unable to move without exposing laura, lawrence mechanically threw up his wrist on guard, but the trick of bernard's left-handed throw was difficult to counter, and lawrence was bracing himself for a shock when val stepped into the line of fire. selincourt uttered an exclamation of horror, and val reeled heavily. "for me!" said lawrence under his breath. he was by val in a moment, bending over him, tender and protecting, an arm round his shoulders. "are you hurt, val? what is it, old man?" stafford had one hand pressed to his side. "he meant it for you," he said, grimacing over the words as if he had not perfect control of his facial muscles. "take care. ah! that's better." selincourt with a sweep of his arm had sent the remaining contents of the swing-tray flying across the floor. there was no need of such violence, however, for the devil had gone out of bernard clowes now. deathly pale, his eyes blank with startled fear, his great frame seemed to break and collapse and he turned like a lost child to his wife: laura--laura . . ." "i'm here, my darling." in panic, as if the police were already at the door, laura fell on her knees by the low couch. come what might he was still her husband, still the man she loved, to be defended against the consequences of his own acts irrespective of his deserts. there was much of the wife but more of the mother in the way she covered him with her arms and breast. "no one shall touch you, no one. it was only an accident, you never meant it, and besides val's only a little hurt--" val, still with that wrenched grimace of pain, turned round and leant against lawrence. "get me out of this," he said weakly. "invent some story. anything, but spare her. get me out, i'm going to faint." between them, lawrence and selincourt carried him out and laid him on the steps. no one else paid any attention. laura was taken up with bernard. mr. stafford had shuffled over to the fire and was stooping down to warm his fingers while isabel tried brokenly to soothe the anguish from which old and tired hearts rarely recover. she was more frightened for him than for val, and the grief she felt for him was a grief outside herself, which could be pitied and comforted, whereas the blow that had fallen on val seemed to have fallen on her own life also, withering where it struck. she suffered for her father but with val, and this intensity of communion hardened her into steel, for it seemed as weak and vain to pity him as it would have been to pity herself if she like him had fallen under the stress of war. the weak must first be served--later, later there would be time to pity the strong. she did not realize that for val, whom instinctively she still classed among the strong, time and opportunity were over. he fainted before they got him out into the air, and his hand fell away from his side, and then they saw what was wrong. he had been stabbed: stabbed with the persian dagger that lawrence himself had given bernard. val had taken it under his left breast, and it was buried to its delicate hilt. when lawrence opened his coat and shirt there was scarcely any blood flowing: scarcely any sign of mischief except his leaden pallor and the all-but-cessation of his pulse. "internal haemorrhage," said lawrence. he drew out the weapon, which came forth with a slow sidelong wrench of its curved blade: a gush of blood followed, running down over val's shirt, over his shabby coat, over the steps of wanhope and the dry autumn turf. lawrence held the lips of the wound together with his hand. "go and find verney, will you? mind, it was an accident. don't be drawn into giving any details. we must all stick to the same story." "but--but" selincourt could not frame a coherent question with his pale frightened lips: "you don't--you can't think--" "that he's dying? he won't see another sun rise." "but do they--do they--in there--understand?" "oh for them," said lawrence with his bitter ironical smile, "he died five minutes ago." this then was the end. waiting in the autumn twilight with val's head on his arm lawrence tried to retrace the steps by which it had been reached. bernard's revenge had struck blind and wild as revenge is apt to strike, but it had helped to bring the wheel full circle. val's expiation was complete. in his heart lawrence knew that his own was complete also. in breaking val's life he had permanently scarred his own. and the night when it had all begun came back to him, a march night, quiet and dark but for the periodical fanbeam of an enemy searchlight from the slope of an opposite hill: a mild rain had been falling, falling, ceaselessly, plashingly, over muddy ploughland or sere grass, over the intricacy of trenchwork behind the firing lines and the dreary expanse of no man's land between them: falling over wire entanglements from which dangled rags of uniform and rags of flesh: falling on faces of the unburied dead that it was helping to dissolve into, their primal pulp of clay. war! always war! and no theatre of scarlet and gold and cavalry charges, but a rat's war of mud and cold and fleas and unutterable, nerve-dissolving fatigue. not far off occasionally the rustle of clothes or the tinkle of an entrenching tool, as a sleeper turned over or the group sentry shifted arms on the parapet; and always in a lulling undertone the plash of rain on grass or wire, and the heavy breathing of tired men. for four years these nocturnal sounds of war had been familiar in the ears of lawrence hyde. he could hear them now, the river-murmur repeated them. and then as now he had taken young stafford's head on his arm, the boy lying as he had lain for eighteen hours, immovable, the rain running down over his face and through his short fair hair. he had failed . . . lawrence recalled his own first near glimpse of death, a fellow subaltern hideously killed at his side: he had turned faint as the nightmare shape fell and rose and fell again, spouting blood over his clothes: contact with elder men had steadied him. by night and alone? well: even by night and alone lawrence knew that he would have recovered himself and gone on. it was no more than they all had to fight through, thousands of officers, millions of men. val had failed. . . . yet how vast the disproportion between the crime and the punishment! endurance is at a low ebb at nineteen when one's eyelids are dropping and one's head nodding with fatigue. oh to sleep--sleep for twelve hours on a bed between clean sheets, and wake with a mind wiped clear of bloody memories! . . . memories above all . . . incommunicable things that even years later, even to men who have shared them, cannot be recalled except by a half-averted glance and a low "do you remember--?" like frightened children holding hands in the dark of the world. . . . had any one of them kept sane that night--those many nights? . . . but how should a civilian understand? he felt val's heart. it was beating slower and slower. if one could only have one's life over again! but the gods themselves cannot recall their gifts. chapter xx it was one march evening six mouths later, one of those warm, still, sunshot-and-grey march evenings when elm-root are blue with violets and the air is full of the faint indeterminate scent of tree flowers, that lawrence brought his bride home to farringay. march weather is uncertain, and he preferred to go where he could be sure of comfort, while isabel, having once consented to be married, left all arrangements to him. it was eight o'clock before they reached the house, and isabel never forgot the impression which it made on her when she came in out of the bloomy twilight; warm and dim and smelling of violets that were set about in bowls on bookcase and cabinet, while the flames of an immense wood fire on an open hearth flickered over the blue and rose of porcelain or the oakleaf and gold of morocco. she stood in the middle of an ocean of polished floor and looked round her as if she had lost her way in it, till lawrence came to her and kissed her hands. "isabel, do you like the look of your new home?" "very much. thank you." "may i take off your furs for you?" getting no answer he took them off. framed in the sable cap and scarf that yvonne had given her isabel still parted her hair on one side, a fashion which lawrence had grown to admire immensely, but her young throat and the fine straight masque of her features were thin and she had lost much of her colour since the autumn. lawrence held her by the wrists and stood looking down at her, compelling her to raise her eyes, though they soon fell again with a flutter of the sensitive eyelids. "are you tired, sweetheart?" "oh no, thank you." "cold?" "not now." "frightened?" "a little." "you wouldn't rather i left you for a little while?" isabel almost imperceptibly shook her head, but with a shade of mockery in her smile which prevented lawrence from taking her in his arms. "am i an unsatisfactory wife? will you soon be tired of me? no, not yet," she said, moving away from him to put down her gloves and muff. "i've hardly had time to thank you for my presents yet. oh lawrence, how you spoil me!" she held up her watch to admire the lettering on its roman enamel. "'i.h.' does that stand for me--am i really isabel hyde? and are those sapphires mine, and can i drink my tea out of this roseleaf dresden cup? it does seem strange that saying a few words and writing one's name in a book should make so much difference." "regretful?" "a little oppressed, that's all. i shall soon get used to it. if you were not you i should hate it. but there's something essentially generous and careless in you, lawrence, that makes it easy to take from you. come here." he came to her. "oh, i've made you blush!" said isabel, naively surprised. under her rare and unexpected praise he had coloured against his will. "oh foolish one!" she kissed him sweetly. "lawrence, are you sorry val died?" lawrence freed himself and turned away. it was six months since val's death, but he still could not bear to think of it and he had scarcely spoken of it to isabel. there had been no protracted farewell for val. he had died in lawrence's arms on the steps of wanhope without recovering consciousness, while verney stood by helpless, and isabel, by a stroke of irony, tried to convince poor agonized laura clowes that the law should not touch her husband. it had not done so. he had been saved mainly by the unscrupulous concerted perjury of lawrence and selincourt, who swore that val had stumbled and fallen by accident with the dagger in his hand, while verney confined himself to drily agreeing that the wound might have been self-inflicted. in the absence of any contrary evidence the lie was allowed to pass, but perhaps it would hardly have done so if it had not been universally taken for a half-truth. the day before the inquest there appeared in the gazette a laconic notice that second lieutenant valentine ormsby stafford, late of the dorchester regiment, had been deprived of his distinction on account of circumstances recently brought to light. after that, no need to ask why val should have had a dagger in his hand! a jury who had known val and his father before him were not anxious to press the case; and perhaps even the coroner was secretly grateful for evidence which spared him the pain of calling mr. stafford. except in chilmark, the scandal scarcely ran its nine days, but there of course it raged like a fire, and no one was much surprised when the vicar resigned his living and crept away to a bed-sittingroom in museum street, a broken old man, to spend the brief remainder of his life among black letter texts and incunabula. he could have borne any sin in the decalogue less hardly than a breach of the military oath. he stopped isabel, rowsley, lawrence himself when they tried to plead for val. "i am not angry," he said feebly. "if my son were alive i wouldn't shut my door on him. but it's better as it is." he even tried to persuade isabel to break with lawrence. "captain hyde is an honourable man and no doubt considers himself bound to you, so you mustn't wait for him to release himself. it is very sad for you, my dear, but you belong to a disgraced family now and you must suffer with the rest of us." isabel agreed, and returned her engagement ring. followed a rather fiery scene, in which lawrence lost his temper, and isabel wept: and finally mr. stafford, finding lawrence obdurate, broke down and owned that his one last wish was to see his daughter happily married. he refused to take her to bloomsbury. she stayed with rowsley or at the castle till lawrence brought her to farringay. so there were changes at chilmark, for the parish went to a hot-tempered welshman with a wife and six children, and wanhope was let to an american steel magnate, and mrs. jack bendish, always mischievous when she was unhappy, embroiled them with each other first and then quarrelled with both. yes, wanhope was let: a fortnight after val's death major clowes went by car to cornwall with his wife for a change of air after the shock. he was reported to have stood the journey very well, but laura's letters were not expansive. nor was isabel: nor any other of those who had been eyewitnesses of the tragedy at wanhope. the memory of it cast a shadow and a silence. lawrence had never discussed it with isabel; nor with selincourt, except in a hurried whispered interchange of notes to avoid discrepancy in their evidence; nor with bernard . . . the murderer. since the night when he carried val dead over the vicarage threshold lawrence had not seen his cousin. he had seen laura and tried to comfort her, but what could one say? it was murder. had it not been for laura he would have left clowes to stand his trial. even for her sake he would not have kept the secret if rowsley, to whom alone it was revealed, had not given his leave, in the dim blinded room where revenge and anger seemed small things, and val's last words, almost unremarked at the time, took on the solemn force of a dying injunction. the grey placidity of val's closed eyelids and crossed hands was the last memory that lawrence would have chosen to evoke on his wedding night. "come and get warm," said isabel. she saw that she had startled and distressed her husband, and she drew him down into an immense armchair by the fire, a man's chair, spacious and soft. "is there room for me too?" she slipped into it beside him and threw her arms round his neck. lawrence held her lightly and passively. not once during their engagement had she so surrendered herself to him for more than a moment, and he dared not take advantage of his opportunities for fear of losing her again. but isabel smiled at him with shut eyes. "all my heart," she murmured; "don't be afraid, i'm not going to slip through your fingers now . . . i love you too, too much . . . val would say it was wrong to care so much for any one." val again! lawrence lifted her eyelashes with his finger. "isabel, why are you haunted by val now? i don't want you to think of any one but me." "are you jealous of the dead?" "not i!" his voice rang out harsh with passion: "with you in my arms why should i be jealous of any one in heaven or earth?" "val would say that was wrong too. . . . lawrence, do you remember your first wedding night?" "well enough." "was lizzie beautiful?" "i thought so then. she was a tall, well-made piece: black hair, blue eyes, buxom and plenty of colour. i was shy of her because-- it's a curious fact--she was my first experience of your sex: but she was not shy with me, though i believe she too was-- technically--innocent. even at the time i was conscious of something wanting--some grace, some reserve, some economy of effect. she was of a coming-on disposition, very amorous and towardly." "val would call that coarse." "probably. do you object? you asked for it." "not a bit. i don't mind your telling me any thing that's a fact. bad thoughts are different, but facts, good or bad, coarse or refined, are the stuff the world's made of, and why should we shut our eyes to them? i like to take life as it comes without expurgation. lawrence, lizzie never had any children, did she?" "by me?" "yes." "no, our married life didn't last long. i should have warned you, my dear, if i had had any responsibilities of that description." "so you would--i forgot that." isabel lay silent a moment, nestling her closed eyelids against his throat. "lawrence, my darling, i don't want to hurt you; but tell me, did she have any children after she left you?" "yes--one, a boy: rendell's." "what became of him after rendell died?" "when it became impossible to leave him with lizzie i sent him to school. he spends his holidays with my agent here at farringay. he's quite a nice little chap, and good looking, like arther, and by the gossip of the neighbourhood i'm supposed to be his father. do you mind leaving it at that? it's no worse for him and less ignominious for me." "nothing in what i've heard of your married life is ignominious for you. so you brought up rendell's child? essentially generous . . . . kiss me." isabel's pale beauty glowed like a flame. a christian malagre lui and very much ashamed of it, lawrence gave her the lightest of butterfly kisses, one on either eyelid. "oh, i suppose you'll say i am--what was it?--towardly too," murmured isabel. "don't you want to kiss me?" he shook his head. isabel, a trifle startled, opened her eyes, but was apparently satisfied, for she shut them again hurriedly and let her arm fall across them. "we'll go and see rendell's boy tomorrow. you shall take me. i can say what i like to you now, can't i? . . . shall you like to have one of our own?" "isabel, isabel!" "but it's perfectly proper now we're married! oh lawrence, it'll so soon come to seem commonplace-- i want to taste the strangeness of it while i'm still near enough to isabel stafford to realize what a miracle it'll be. our own! it seems so strange to say 'ours.'" "i don't want any brats to come between you and me." "aren't you always in your secret soul afraid of life?" "afraid of life--i?" "you have no faith . . . everything we possess--your happiness, our love, the children you'll give me--don't you hold it all at the sword's point? you're afraid of death or change?" "yes." "how frank you are!" isabel smiled fleetingly. "aren't there any locked doors?--no?--i may go wherever i like ?--lawrence, are you sorry val's dead?" "oh, for heaven's sake, not val again!" "one locked door after all?" "i was fond of him," said lawrence with difficult passion. "he told me once that i broke his life, it was no one's doing but mine that he had to go through the crucifixion of that last hour at wanhope, and he was killed for me." he left her and went to the window, flung it up and stood looking out into the night. "i'd have given my life to save him. i'd give it now--now." "i heard from laura this morning." "i wonder she dared write to you." "major clowes is wonderfully better. he drives out with her every day and mixes with other people in the sanatorium and makes friends with them. he's been sleeping better than he has ever done since his accident." "good god!" "he has been having a new massage treatment, and there's just a faint hope that some day he may be able to get about on crutches." lawrence had an inclination to laugh. "that's enough," he said, shuddering. "i don't want to hear any more." "she sent a message to you." "well, give it to me, then." "'don't let lawrence suppose that bernard has gone unpunished.'" "he should have stood his trial," said lawrence thickly. "it was murder." he understood all that laura's laconic message implied. bernard reformed was bernard broken by remorse: if he had shot himself-- which was what lawrence had anticipated--he would have deserved less pity. yet lawrence would have liked some swifter and less subtle form of punishment. out of doors in the garden an owl was hooting and the night air breathed on him its perfume of lilac and violets. how quiet it was and how fragrant and dim! one could scarcely distinguish between the dewy glimmer of turf and the dark island-like thickets of guelder-rose and other flowering shrubs. it was one of those late spring nights that are full of the promise of summer; but for val there were no summers to come. his death had been as quiet as his life and without any struggle; his head on lawrence's arm, he had stretched himself out with a little sigh, and was gone. lawrence with his keen physical memory could still feel that light burden leaning on him. isabel too had memories she was afraid of, the watch ticking on the dead man's wrist was one of them. many tears had been shed for val, some very bitter ones by yvonne bendish, but none by lawrence or by isabel. it was murder: a flash of devil's lightning, that withered where it struck. isabel turned in her chair to watch her husband. he had brought her straight into the drawingroom without staying to remove his leathern driving coat, which set off his big frame and the drilled flatness of his shoulders; everything he wore or used was expensive and fashionable. there came on her suddenly the impression of being shut up alone with a stranger, a man of whom she knew nothing except that in upbringing and outlook he was entirely different from her and her family. the room seemed immense and hyde was at the other end of it. suddenly he turned and came striding back to isabel. her instinct was to defend herself. she checked it and kept still, her arms and hands thrown out motionless along the arms of the chair in which her slight figure was lying in perfect repose. lawrence tenderly took her head between his finger-tips and kissed her mouth. "why did you raise a ghost you can't lay?" he said. "my cousin killed your brother." isabel smiled at him without moving. her eyes were mysteriously full of light. lawrence knelt down and threw his arms round her waist and let his head fall against her bosom. what strength there was in this immature personality neither yielded nor withdrawn! lawrence was entirely disarmed and subdued. he uttered a deep sigh and gave up to isabel with the simplicity of a child the secret of his tormented restlessness. "i am unhappy, isabel." "i know you are, my darling, and that's why i raised the ghost. what is it troubles you?" "my own guilt. i never knew what remorse meant before, but your christian ethics have mastered me this time. i had no right to extract that promise from val." "no. why did you? it seems so motiveless." "because it amused me to get a man into my power." isabel felt him shuddering. "is this what you call the sense of sin? i used to hear it described as a theological fiction. but it tears one's heart out. bernard killed him: but who put the weapon into bernard's hand?" "val did." "i don't understand you." "the original fault was val's, and you and major clowes were entangled in the consequences of it. let us two face the truth once and for all! val can stand it--can't you, val? . . . he broke his military oath. he deserved a sharp stinging punishment, and if you had reported him he would have had it; perhaps a worse one than you exacted, except for that last awful hour at wanhope, and for that major clowes, not you, was responsible. oh, i won't say he deserved precisely what he got! because judgment ought to be dispassionate, and in yours there was an element of cruelty for cruelty's sake; wasn't there? you half enjoyed it and half shivered under it . . ." "more than half enjoyed it," said hyde under his breath. "but i do not believe that was your only motive. i think you were sorry for val. haven't i seen you watching him at wanhope? with such a strange half-unwilling pity, as if you hated yourself for it. oh lawrence, it's for that i love you!" lawrence shook his head. he had never been able to analyse the complex of feelings that had determined his attitude to val. "well, in any case it was not your fault only. a coward is an irresistible temptation to a bully." "do you call val a coward? nervous collapses were not so uncommon as you may have gathered from the daily mail." "did major clowes describe the scene truthfully?" "yes." "did you ever break down like val?" "i was older." "there were plenty of boys of nineteen, officers and men. did you ever know such another case so complete, so prolonged?" "i've commanded a firing party." "for cowardice?" "for cowardice." "a worse exhibition than val's?" "isabel, you are pitiless!" "because val deserves justice not mercy. it's his due: he died to earn it." hyde was silent, not thoroughly understanding her. "he wasn't a coward when he died," said isabel with her sweet half melancholy smile. "he fought under a heavy handicap, and won: he paid his debt, paid it to the last farthing; and now do you grudge him his sleep? 'he hates him, that would upon the rack of this tough world stretch him out longer. . . .'" her beautiful voice dropped to a murmur which was almost lost in the rustling of flames on the hearth and the stir of wind among budded branches in the garden. the clock struck ten and lawrence raised his head. "it's growing late, isabel. aren't you tired?" "a little. i got up at five to say good-bye to all the animals." "all the--?" "my cocks and hens and val's mare and dodor and zou-zou and rowsley's old rabbits. they're at the castle, don't you remember? jack bendish offered to take charge of them when we turned out of the vicarage." "i hope you put your pinafore on," said her husband. he took her by the hands and raised her to her feet, and isabel with irreproachable docility began to collect her scattered belongings, her sable scarf and mull and veil. lawrence forestalled her. "mayn't i even carry my own gloves?" isabel pleaded. "no, you're so slow," said lawrence laughing down at her. isabel's cheeks flew their scarlet flag before the invading enemy. "isabel," lawrence murmured, "are you shy of me?" "a little. i'm only twenty," isabel excused herself. "and i'm not gentle. i shall brush the bloom off. . . . yet i love the bloom." he went to close the window. a breath of night wind shook through the bushes on the lawn and blew off a snow of petals through the soft air. he was not a believer in the immortality of the soul, but tonight he would have given much to know that val was near him, a spirit of smiling tenderness. but no: the night was empty of everything except moonlight and petals and the sighing of wind over diapered turf. youth passes, and beauty, and bloom: it is of the essence of their sweetness that they cannot last. yet, while they last, how sweet they are! proofreading team. the miracle man by frank l. packard author of greater love hath no man, etc. new york grosset & dunlap publishers to nearly everybody contents chapter i the "roost" ii a new cult iii needley iv the patriarch v a strange conversation vi officially endorsed vii the patriarch's grand niece viii in which the bait is nibbled ix the pilgrimage x the miracle xi the aftermath xii "said the spider to the fly" xiii real money xiv knotting the strings xv the miracle overdone xvi a fly in the ointment xvii in which helena takes a ride xviii the boomerang xix the sanctuary of darkness xx to the victor are the spoils xxi face value xxii the shrine xxiii the way out xxiv vale! the miracle man --i-- the "roost" he was a misshapen thing, bulking a black blotch in the night at the entrance of the dark alleyway--like some lurking creature in its lair. he neither stood, nor kneeled, nor sat--no single word would describe his posture--he combined all three in a sort of repulsive, formless heap. the flopper moved. he came out from the alleyway onto the pavement, into the lurid lights of the bowery, flopping along knee to toe on one leg, dragging the other leg behind him--and the leg he dragged was limp and wobbled from the knee. one hand sought the pavement to balance himself and aid in locomotion; the other arm, the right, was twisted out from his body in the shape of an inverted v, the palm of his hand, with half curled, contorted fingers, almost touching his chin, as his head sagged at a stiff, set angle into his right shoulder. hair straggled from the brim of a nondescript felt hat into his eyes, and curled, dirty and unshorn, around his ears and the nape of his neck. his face was covered with a stubble of four days' growth, his body with rags--a coat; a shirt, the button long since gone at the neck; and trousers gaping in wide rents at the knees, and torn at the ankles where they flapped around miss-mated socks and shoes. a hundred, two hundred people passed him in a block, the populace of the bowery awakening into fullest life at midnight, men, women and children--the dregs of the city's scum--the aristocracy of upper fifth avenue, of riverside drive, aping bohemianism, seeking the lure of the turkey trot, transported from the barbary coast of san francisco. rich and poor, squalor and affluence, vice and near-vice surged by him, voicing their different interests with laughter and sobs and soft words and blasphemy, and, in a sort of mocking chorus, the composite effect rose and fell in pitiful, jangling discords. few gave him heed--and these few but a cursory, callous glance. the flopper, on the inside of the sidewalk, in the shadow of the buildings, gave as little as he got, though his eyes were fastened sharply, now ahead, now, screwing around his body to look behind him, on the faces of the pedestrians as they passed; or, rather, he appeared to look through and beyond those in his immediate vicinity to the ones that followed in his rear from further down the street, or approached him from the next corner. suddenly the flopper shrank into a doorway. from amidst the crowd behind, the yellow flare of a gasoline lamp, outhanging from a secondhand shop, glinted on brass buttons. an officer, leisurely accommodating his pace to his own monarchial pleasure, causing his hurrying fellow occupants of the pavement to break and circle around him, sauntered casually by. the flopper's black eyes contracted with hate and a scowl settled on his face, as he watched the policeman pass; then, as the other was lost again in the crowd ahead, he once more resumed his progress down the block. the flopper crossed the intersecting street, his leg trailing a helpless, sinuous path on its not over-clean surface, and started along the next block. halfway down was a garishly lighted establishment. when near this the flopper began to hurry desperately, as from further along the street again his ear caught the peculiar raucous note of an automobile horn accompanied by the rumbling approach of a heavy motor vehicle. he edged his way now, wriggling, squirming and dodging between the pedestrians, to the outer edge of the sidewalk, and stopped in front of the music hall. a sight-seeing car, crammed to capacity, reaching its momentary mecca, drew up at the curb; and the guide's voice rose over the screech of the brakes: "now, ladies and gentlemen, we will get out here for a little while. this is black ike's famous auditorium, the scene of last week's sensational triple murder! please remember that there is no charge for admission to patrons of the company. just show your coupons, ladies and gentlemen, and walk right ahead." the passengers began to pour from the long seats to the ground. the flopper's hat was in his hand. "fer god's sake, gents an' ladies, don't pass me by," he cried piteously. "i could work once, but look at me now--i was run over by a fire truck. god bring pity to yer hearts--youse have money fer pleasure, spare something fer me." the first man down from the seat halted and stared at the twisted, unsightly thing before him, and, with a little gasp, reached into his pocket and dropped a bill into the flopper's hat. "god bless you!" stammered the flopper--and the tears sprang swimming to his eyes. the first man passed on with a gruff, "oh, all right," but he had left an example behind him that few of his fellow passengers ignored. "t'ank you, mum," mumbled the flopper, as the money dropped into his hat. "god reward you, sir.... ah, miss, may you never know a tear.... 'twas heaven brought you 'ere to-night, lady." they passed, following the guide. the flopper scooped the money into a pile in his hat, began to tuck it away in some recess of his shirt--when a hand was thrust suddenly under his nose. "come on, now, divvy!" snapped a voice in his ear. it was the driver of the car, who had dropped from his seat to the ground. a gleam of hate replaced the tears in the flopper's eyes. "go to hell!" he snarled through thin lips--and his hand closed automatically over the cap. "come on, now, i ain't got no time to fool!" prompted the man, with a leer. "i'm dead onto your lay, and there's a bull comin' along now--half or him, which?" the flopper's eyes caught the brass buttons of the officer returning on his beat, and his face was white with an inhuman passion, as, clutching a portion of what was left in the hat, he lifted his hand from the rest. "thanks!" grinned the chauffeur, snatching at the remainder. "'tain't half, but it'll do"--and he hurried across the sidewalk, and disappeared inside a saloon. oaths, voicing a passion that rocked the flopper to his soul, purled in a torrid stream from his lips, and for a moment made him forget the proximity of the brass buttons. he raised his fist, that still clenched some of the money, and shook it after the other--and his fist, uplifted in midair, was caught in a vicious grip--the harness bull was standing over him. "beat it!" rasped the officer roughly, "or i'll--hullo, what you got here? open your hand!"--he gave a sharp twist as he spoke, the flopper's fingers uncurled, and the money dropped into the policeman's other hand--held conveniently below the flopper's. "it's mine--gimme it back," whined the flopper. "yours! yours, is it!" growled the officer. "where'd you get it? stole it, eh? go on, now, beat it--or i'll run you in! beat it!" with twitching fingers, the flopper picked up his cap, placed it on his head and sidled away. ten yards along, in the shadow of the buildings again, he looked back--the officer was still standing there, twirling his stick, one hand just emerging from his pocket. the flopper's finger nails scratched along the stone pavement and curved into the palm of his hand until the skin under the knuckles was bloodless white, and his lips moved in ugly, whispered words--then, still whispering, he went on again. down the bowery he went like a human toad, keeping in the shadows, keeping his eyes on the ground before him, a glint like a shudder in their depths--on he went with hopping, lurching jerks, with whispering lips. street after street he passed, and then at a corner he turned and went east--not far, only to the side entrance of the saloon on the corner known, to those who _knew_, as the "roost." the door before which he stopped, on a level with the street, might readily have passed for the entrance to one of the adjoining tenements, for it was innocent to all appearances of any connection with the unlovely resort of which it was a part--and it was closed. the flopper rang no bell. after a quick glance around him to assure himself that he was not observed, he reached up for the doorknob, turned it, and with surprising agility hopped oven the threshold and closed the door behind him. a staircase, making one side of a narrow and dimly lighted hall, from down whose length came muffled sounds from the barroom, was before him; and this, without hesitation, the flopper began to mount, his knee thumping from step to step, his dangling leg echoing the sound in a peculiar; quick double thump. he reached the first landing, went along it, and started up the second flight--but now the thumping sound he made seemed accentuated intentionally, and upon his face there spread a grin of malicious humor. he halted before the door opposite the head of the second flight of stairs, opened it, wriggled inside and shut it behind him. "hullo, helena!" he snickered. "pipe me comin'?" the room was a fairly large one, gaudily appointed with cheap furnishings, one of the roost's private parlors--a girl on a couch in the corner had raised herself on her elbow, and her dark eyes were fixed uncompromisingly upon the flopper, but she made no answer. the flopper laughed--then a spasm seemed to run through him, a horrible boneless contortion of limbs and body, a slippery, twitching movement, a repulsive though almost inaudible clicking of rehabilitated joints--and the flopper stood erect. the girl was on her feet, her eyes flashing. "can that stunt!" she cried angrily. "you give me the shivers! next time you throw your fit, you throw it before you come around me, or i'll make you wish you had--see?" the flopper was swinging legs and arms to restore a normal channel of circulation. "y'oughter get used to it," said he, with a grin. "ain't pale face harry come yet, an' where's the doc?" "behind the axe under the table," said the girl tartly--and flung herself back on the couch. "t'anks," said the flopper. "say, helena, wot's de new lay de doc has got up his sleeve?" helena made no answer. "is yer grouch painin' you so's yer tongue's hurt?" inquired the flopper solicitously. still no answer. "well, go to the devil!" said the flopper politely. he resumed the swinging of his arms and legs, but stopped suddenly a moment later as a step, sounded outside in the hall and he turned expectantly. a young man, thin, emaciated, with gaunt, hollow face, abnormally bright eyes and sallow skin, entered. he was well, but modestly, dressed; and he coughed a little now, as though the two flights' climb had overtaxed him--it was the man who had headed the subscription list to the flopper half an hour before in front of black ike's auditorium. "hello, helena!" he greeted, nodding toward the couch. "i shook the rubber-neck bunch at ike's, flopper. that was a peach of a haul, eh, old pal--the boobs came to it as though they couldn't get enough." a sudden and reminiscent scowl clouded the flopper's face. he stepped to the table, reached his hand into his shirt, and flung down a single one-dollar bill and a few coins. "dere's de haul, harry--help yerself"--his invitation was a snarl. pale face harry had followed to the table. he looked first at the money, then at the flopper--and a tinge of red dyed his cheek. he coughed before he spoke. "y'ain't going to stall on _me_, flopper, are you?" he demanded, in an ominous monotone. "stall!"--the word came away in a roar too genuine to leave any doubt of the flopper's sincerity, or the turbulent state of the flopper's soul. "stall nothin'! de driver held me up fer some of it, an' de cop pinched de rest." "and you the king of floppers!" breathed pale face harry sadly. "d'ye hear that, helena? come over here and listen. go ahead, flopper, tell us about it." helena rose from the couch and came over to the table. "poor flopper!" said she sweetly. "shut up!" snapped the flopper savagely. "go on," prompted pale face harry. "go on, flopper--tell us about it." "i told you, ain't i?" growled the flopper. "de driver called a divvy wid de cop comin', an i had ter shell--an' wot he left de cop pinched. dat's all"--the flopper's mouth was working again with the rage that burned within him. pale face harry, with pointed forefinger, gingerly and facetiously laid the coins out in a row on the table. "and you the king of floppers!" he murmured softly. "it's a wonder you didn't let the salvation army get the rest away from you on the way along!" helena laughed--but the flopper didn't. he stepped close to pale face harry, and shoved his face within an inch of the other's. "you close yer jaw," he snarled, "or i'll make yer map look like wot's goin' ter happen ter dat cross-eyed snitch of a guy dat did me--him an' de harness bull, when i--" the flopper stopped abruptly, and edged away from pale face harry. "hullo, doc," he said meekly. "i didn't hear youse comin' in." a man, fair-haired, broad-shouldered, immaculate in well-tailored tweeds, reliant in poise, leaned nonchalantly against the door--inside the room. he was young, not more than twenty-eight, with clean-shaven, pleasant, open face--a handsome face, marred only to the close observer by the wrinkles beginning to pucker around his eyes, and a slight, scarcely discernible puffiness in his skin--"doc" madison, gentleman crook and high-class, polished con-man, who had lifted his profession to an art, was still too young to be indelibly stamped with the hall-marks of dissipation. his gray eyes travelled from one to another, lingered an instant on helena, and came back to the flopper. "what's the trouble?" he demanded quietly. it was pale face harry who answered him. "the flopper's got it in for a couple of ginks that handed him one--a bull and a chauffeur on a gape-wagon," he grinned, punctuating his words with a cough. "the flopper's got an idea the corpse-preserver's business is dull, and he's going to help 'em out with two orders and pay for the flowers himself." doc madison shook his head and smiled a little grimly. "forget it, flopper!" he said crisply. "i've something better for you to do. you fade away, disappear and lay low from this minute. i don't care what you do when you're resurrected, but from now on the three of you are dead and buried, and the police go into mourning for at least six months." "what you got for us, doc?--something nice?"--helena pushed pale face harry and the flopper unceremoniously out of her line of vision as she spoke. "yes--the drinks. cleggy's bringing them," madison laughed--and opened the door, as the tinkle of glass and a shuffling footstep sounded without. a man, big, hulking, thick-set and slouching, with shifty, cunning little black eyes and the face of a bruiser, his nose bent over and almost flattened down on one cheek, entered the room, carrying four glasses on a tin tray. he set down the tray, and, as he lifted the glasses from it and placed them on the table, he leered around at the little group. "gee!" he said, sucking in his breath. "de doc, an' helena, an' pale face, an' de flopper! gee, dis looks like de real t'ing--dis looks like biz." "it does--fifty-cents' worth--ten for yourself," said doc madison suavely, flipping the coin into the tray. "now, clear out!" "say"--cleggy put his forefinger significantly to the side of his nose--"say, can't youse let a sport in on--" "clear out!" doc madison broke in quite as suavely as before--but there was a sudden glint of steel in the gray eyes as they held the bruiser's, and cleggy, hastily picking up the tray, scuffled from the room. madison watched the door close, then he began to pace slowly up and down the room. "pull the chairs up to the table so we can take things comfortably," he directed. "there ain't but two," grinned pale face harry. "oh, well, never mind," said madison. "slew the couch around and pull that up--helena and i will sit on the head of it." still pacing up and down the length of the room, his hands in his pockets, doc madison watched the others as they carried out his directions; and then, suddenly, as he neared the door, his hand shot out, wrenched the door open, and, quick as a panther in its spring, he was in the hall without. there was a yell, a scuffle, the rip and crash of rending bannisters, an instant's silence, then a heavy thud--and then cleggy's voice from somewhere below in a choice and fervent flow of profanity. doc madison re-entered the room, closed the door, dispassionately arranged a disordered cuff, brushed a few particles of dust from his sleeves and shoulder, and, this done, started toward the table--and stopped. helena had swung herself to the table edge, and, glass in hand, dangling her neatly shod little feet, was smoking a cigarette, her brown hair with a glint of amber in it, her dark eyes veiled now by their heavy lashes; on the other side of the table pale face harry coughed, as, with sleeve rolled back, he was intent on the hypodermic needle he was pushing into his arm; while the flopper, his eyes with a dog-like admiration in them fixed on madison, stood facing the door, a grotesque, unpleasant figure, unkempt, unshaven, furtive-faced, his rags hanging disreputably about him, his trousers with their frayed edges, now that he stood upright, reaching far above his boot tops and flagrantly exposing his wretched substitutes for socks. doc madison reached thoughtfully into his pocket, brought out a silver cigarette case, and carefully selected a cigarette from amongst its fellows. "yes; cleggy was right," he said softly, tapping the end of the cigarette on his thumb nail. "you're the real thing--the real, real thing." --ii-- a new cult doc madison swung helena lightly down from the table to the head of the couch, sat down beside her, one arm circling her waist, and motioned the flopper to a chair--then he leaned forward and watched pale face harry critically, as the latter carefully replaced the shining little hypodermic in its case. "harry," said he abruptly, jerking his free hand toward the hypodermic, "could you give up that dope-needle?" "sure, i could--if i wanted to!" asserted pale face harry defiantly. "that's good," said madison cheerfully. "because you'll have to." "eh?"--pale face harry stared at doc madison in amazement. "because you'll have to--by and by," said madison coolly. "and how about that cough--can you quit coughing?" "when i'm dead--which won't be long," sniffed pale face harry. "d'ye think i cough because i like it? how'm i going to quit coughing?" "i don't know," admitted doc madison, frowning seriously. "i only know you'll have to." pale face harry, with jaw dropped, accentuating the gaunt leanness of his hollow-cheeked, emaciated face, gazed at doc madison with a curious mingling of incredulity and affront--and coughed. "say," he inquired grimly, "what's the answer?" doc madison took his arm from helena's waist, pulled a newspaper from his pocket, spread it out on the table--and his manner changed suddenly--enthusiasm was in his eyes, his voice, his face. "i've steered you three through a few deals," said he impressively, "that have sized up big enough to keep you out of the raw vaudeville turn you, harry, and you, flopper, are so fond of, and that would have put helena here on easy street, if you hadn't blown in all you got about ten minutes after you got your hands on it--but i've got one here that sizes up so big you wouldn't be able to spend the money fast enough to close out your bank account if you did your damnedest! get that? it's the greatest cinch that ever came down from the gateway of heaven--and that's where it came from--heaven. it couldn't have come from anywhere else--it's too good. and it's new, bran new--it's never had the string cut or the wrapper taken off. it's got anything that was ever run beaten by more laps than there are in the track, and it's got a purse tied on to the end of it that's the biggest ever offered since adam. but you've got to work for it, and that's what i brought you here for to-night--to learn your little pieces so's you can say 'em nice and cute when you get up on the platform before the audience." the flopper's tongue made a greedy circuit of his upper and under lips, and he hitched his chair closer to the table. a flush spread over pale face harry's cheeks, and his eyes, abnormally bright, grew brighter. "you're all right, doc," he assured doc madison anxiously. "you're all right." "u-uu-mm!" cooed helena excitedly. "go on, doc--go on!" "listen," said doc madison, his voice lowered a little. "i found this tucked away as a filler in a corner of the newspaper this evening. it's headed, 'a new cult,' with an interrogation mark after it. now listen, while i read it:" a new cult? needley, maine, offers no attraction for aspiring young medical men. one who tried it recently, and who pulled down his shingle in disgust after a week, says competition is too strong, as the village is obsessed with the belief that they have a sort of faith-healer in their midst to whom is attributed cures of all descriptions stretching back for a generation or more. the healer, he adds, who rejoices in the name of the patriarch and lives in solitude a mile or so from the village, is something of an anomaly in himself, being both deaf and dumb. we-- "but that's all that interests us," said doc madison, as he stopped reading abruptly and lifted his head to scrutinize his companions quizzically. pale face harry's eyes had lost their gleam and dulled--he gaped reproachfully at doc madison. helena's small mouth drooped downward in a disappointed _moue_. only the flopper evidenced enthusiastic response. "sure!" he chortled. "sure t'ing! i see. de old geezer'll have a pile of shekels hid away, an' he lives by his lonesome a mile from de town. we sneaks down dere, croaks de guy wid de queer monaker, an' beats it wid de shekels--sure!" doc madison turned a sad gray eye on the flopper. "flopper," said he pathetically, "your soul, like your bones, runs to rank realism. no; we don't 'croak de guy'--we cherish him, we nurse him, we fondle him. he's our one best bet, and we fold him to our breasts tenderly, and we protect him from all harm and danger and sudden death." the flopper blinked a little helplessly. "mabbe," said the flopper, "i got de wrong dope. some of dem words you read i ain't hip to. wot's anymaly mean?" "anomaly?"--doc madison reached for his glass, tossed off the contents and set it down. "it means, flopper, in this particular instance," he said gravely, "that there shouldn't be any interrogation point after the heading." again the flopper blinked helplessly--and his fingers picked uncertainly at the stubble on his chin. the other two gazed disconsolately--and helena a little pityingly as well--at doc madison. doc madison flung out his arms suddenly. "what's the matter with you all?" he demanded sarcastically. "you look as though your faces pained you! what's the matter with you? you're bright enough ordinarily, helena, and, harry, you're no dub--what's the matter with you? can't you see it--can't you see it! why, it's sticking out a mile--it's _waiting_ for us! the whole plant's there and all we've got to do is get steam under the boilers. we'll have 'em coming for the cure from every state in the union, and begging us to let them throw their diamond tiaras at us for a look-in at the shrine. don't you see it--can't you get it--can't you _get_ it!" helena bent suddenly over doc madison's shoulder, her eyes opening wide with dawning comprehension. "the cure?" she breathed. "sure--the cure," said doc madison earnestly. "the new cult--that's us. get the people talking, show 'em something, and you'll have to put up fences and 'keep off the grass' signs to stop the lame and the halt and the blind and the neurasthenics from crowding and suffocating to death for want of air. we'll start a shrine down there that'll be a winner, and the railroads will be running excursion-rate pilgrimages inside of two months." pale face harry's chair creaked, as, like the flopper, he now crowded it in toward the table. "i get you!" said he feverishly. "i get you! i've read about them shrines--only you gotter have churches, and a carload of crutches, and that sort of thing laying around." doc madison smiled pleasantly. "yes; you've got me, harry--only we'll do the stage setting a little differently. mostly what is required is--faith. get them going on that, and everybody that's sick or near-sick in this great united states, that's got the swellest collection of boobs and millionaires on earth, will swarm thitherward like bees--there won't be any one left in the sanatoriums throughout the length of this broad land of freedom but the bell boys and the elevator men. get them going, and all we've got to do is look out we don't let anything get by us in the crush--a snowball rolling down hill will size up like a plugged nickel alongside of a twenty-dollar gold piece when it gets to the bottom, compared with what we start rolling." "i've got you, too," said helena. "but i don't see where the faith is coming from, or how you're going to get them coming. you've got to show them--you said so yourself--even the boobs. how are you going to do that?" "well," said doc madison placidly, "we'll start the show with--a miracle. i haven't thought of anything more effective than that so far." "a what?" inquired pale face harry, with a grin. "a miracle," repeated doc madison imperturbably. "a miracle--with the flopper here in the star rôle. the flopper goes down there all tied up in knots, the high priest, alias the deaf and dumb healer, alias the patriarch, lays his soothing hands upon him, the flopper uncoils into something that looks like a human being--and the trumpets blow, the band plays, and the box office opens for receipts." helena slid from her seat, and, with hands on the edge of the table, advanced her piquant little face close to doc madison's, staring at him, breathing hard. "say that again," she gasped. "say that again--say it just once more." pale face harry's hand, trembling visibly with emotion, was thrust out across the table. "put it there, doc," he whispered hoarsely. the flopper, practical, earnestly so, lifted his right arm, wriggled it a little and began to twist it around, as though it were on a pivot at the elbow, preparatory to drawing it in, a crippled thing, toward his chin. doc madison reached out hurriedly and stopped him. "here, that'll do, flopper," he said quietly. "you don't need any rehearsal to hold your job--you're down for the number and your check's written out." "swipe me!" said the flopper to the universe. "i can smell de pine woods of maine in me nostrils now. when does i beat it, doc--to-morrer?" doc madison laughed. "no, flopper, not to-morrow--nor for several to-morrows--not till the bill-posters get through, and the stage is dark, and you can hear a pin drop in the house. i don't want you camping out and catching cold and missing any of the luxuries you're accustomed to, so i'll start along ahead in a day or so myself and see what kind of accommodations i can secure." "swipe me!" said the flopper again. "an' to think of me wastin' me talent on rubber-neck fleets!" a puzzled little frown puckered helena's forehead. "i was thinking about the deaf and dumb man," she said slowly. "how about him, when we pull this off--will he stand for it--and what'll he do?" "aw!" said pale face harry impatiently. "he don't count! he'll have bats in his belfry anyway, and if he ain't he'll go off his chump for fair getting stuck on himself when he sees the stunt he'll think he's done. he'll be looking for the wings between his shoulder blades, and hunting for the halo around his head." "harry is waking up," observed doc madison affably. "that's about the idea, helena. i haven't seen the patriarch yet, but i don't imagine from his description that it'll be very hard to make him believe in himself. he doesn't stand for anything--we don't deal him any cards--he's just the kitty that circles around with the jackpots while we annex the chips." doc madison reached into his vest pocket, took out a penknife whose handle was gold-chased, opened it, and very carefully cut the article he had read from the paper. "flopper," said he, "you've heard of gold bonds, haven't you?" the flopper's eyes gleamed an eloquent response. "only you've never had any, eh?" supplied doc madison. "where'd i get 'em?" inquired the flopper, with some bitterness. "right here," smiled doc madison, handing him the clipping. "here's a trainload and a bank vault full of them combined. put it away, flopper, and don't lose it. lose anything you've got first--lose your life. it's worth a private car to you with a buffet full of fizz, and sambo to wait on you for the rest of your life. get that? don't lose it!" the flopper tucked the clipping into the mysterious recess of his shirt. "say," he said earnestly, "if you say so, doc, it'll be here when dey plant me." "all right, flopper," nodded doc madison. "and now let's get down to cases. i've been able to pay my club dues lately, and there's money enough on deck to buy the costumes and put the show on the road. i start for needley as soon as i can get away. when i'm ready for the support, you three will hear from me--and in the meantime you lay low. nothing doing--understand? you'll get all the lime-light you want before you're through, and it's just as well not to show up so familiar when they throw the spot on you that even the school kids will know the date of your birth, and the population will start in squabbling over the choice of reserved niches for you in the hall of fame. see?" the flopper, pale face harry and helena nodded their heads with one accord. "give us the whole lay, doc," urged pale face harry. "and give it to us quick." "me mouth's waterin'," observed the flopper, licking his lips again. helena lighted another cigarette, and swung herself back to her perch on the head of the couch. doc madison surveyed the three with mingled admiration and delight. "the world is ours!" he murmured softly. "oh, hurry up and give us the rest of it," purred helena. "we know we're an all-star cast, all right." "very good," said doc madison--and laughed. "well then, the order of your stage cues will depend on circumstances and what turns up down there, but we'll start with the flopper now. first of all, flopper, you've got to have a name. what's your real name--what did they decorate you with at the baptismal font back in the dark ages?" the flopper scrubbed at his very dirty chin with a very dirty thumb and forefinger. "i dunno," said the flopper anxiously. "well, never mind," said doc madison reassuringly. "maybe you are blessed above most people--you can pick one out for yourself. what'll it be?" the flopper's thumb and forefinger scratched desperately for a moment, then his face lighted with inspiration. "swipe me!" said he excitedly. "i got it--jimmy de squirm." doc madison shook his head gravely. "no, flopper, i'm afraid not," he said gently. "that's another weak point in your interpretation of the rôle, that i'll come to in a minute. we'll give you an irish name by way of charity--it'll help to make your classical english sound like brogue. we'll call you coogan--michael coogan--that lets you off with plain mike in times of stress." "swipe me!" said the flopper, with perfect complacence. "glad it pleases you," smiled doc madison, "here's your lay, then. you've got to remember that you were born crooked and--" helena giggled. "i didn't mean it"--doc madison's gray eyes twinkled. "you are waking up, too, helena. i mean, flopper, you've got to remember that you were born twisted up into the same shape you are in when you hit needley. you come from--let's see--we'll have to have a big city where the next door neighbors pass each other with a vacant stare. ever been in chicago?" "naw! wot fer?" said the flopper, with withering spontaneity. "noo yoik fer mine." "well, all right--new york it is, then," agreed doc madison. "you're poor, but respectable--and that brings us to the other point. before you go down there, helena's going to start a little night-school with a grammar, and teach you to paddle along the fringe of the great american language so's you won't fall in and get wet all over every time you open your mouth." "my!" exclaimed helena. "won't that be nice!" "i hope so," said doc madison drily. "and don't run away with the idea that i'm joking about this--that goes. i don't expect to make a silver-tongued orator out of you, flopper, and perhaps not even a purist--but i hope to eradicate a few minor touches of bad land vernacular from your vocabulary." "i've gotcher--swipe me!" grinned the flopper. "me at school! say, wouldn't that put a smile on de maps of de harness bulls, an' de dips, an' de lags doin' spaces up de river!" "quite so," admitted doc madison pleasantly. "you won't laugh when i get through with you," remarked helena, her eyes on the curl of smoke from her cigarette. "there's just one more thing," went on doc madison, "and i'm through with you, flopper. don't come down there looking like a skate--that's too raw. get new clothes and a shave--and keep shaved. and from the minute you buy your ticket, you keep your bones, or whatever a beneficent nature has given you in place of them, out of joint--see?" "i'm hip," declared the flopper--and the dog-like admiration for doc madison burned in his eyes. "say, doc, youse are de--" "never mind, flopper," madison cut in brightly. "it's getting late. now, harry, about you. you've got a name, i believe. evans, isn't it? yes--well, that will do. now, don't kill yourself at it, but the more you work your dope needle overtime before you start, and the harder you cough when you first land there the better. we've got to have variety, you know. you're a physical wreck with the folks back home sending the casket and trimmings after you on the next train in care of the station agent." "i guess," coughed pale face harry, with a sickly smile, "i look the part." "you certainly do," said helena cheerfully, beating a tattoo with her heels on the end of the couch. pale face harry scowled. "i ain't no artist with the paint," he sniffed. "i don't paint," said helena sweetly. "it's rouge." "are you through?" inquired doc madison patiently. "because, if you are, i'll go on. when the train whistles for needley, harry, you put the soft pedal on the dope--that ought to help some. and then you begin to taper that cough off and become a cure--that's all." "i ain't like the flopper," said pale face harry ruefully. "i told you once i can't stop the hack, and i ask you again how'm i going to?" "have faith in the patriarch," suggested helena innocently. "you close your trap!" exclaimed pale face harry savagely; then, to madison: "go on, doc--it's up to you." "no," said doc madison coolly, "it's up to you. you've got to try, and if you can't stop altogether you can make yourself scarce when you feel the fit coming on--you won't have to climb up on the grandstand and cough in people's faces, will you?" "he might carry a screen around with him and cough behind that," volunteered helena. "that's enough about the flopper and pale face--what about muh? where do i get off?" "you?" said doc madison calmly. "oh, you're a moral neurasthenic." "and what's that when it's at home?" demanded helena sharply. doc madison threw out his hands in a comically helpless, impotent gesture. "it's what we need to keep up the standard of variety," he said. "we're playing to the masses. don't you like the rôle, helena--it's the leading woman's." "what do i do?" countered helena non-committingly. "do?" echoed doc madison. "why, you go down there like a whole parade and a gorgeous pageant rolled into one, in feathers and paint and diamond boulders in your ears--and you come out of it in a gingham apron and coy sunbonnet as sweet sixteen." "oh!" said helena--and her eyes were on the curl of smoke from her cigarette again. "say," said pale face harry suddenly, evidently still worried about his cough, "we ain't going to have no easy cinch of this." "no," said doc madison, with a grim smile; "you're not! it's going to be the hardest work any of you have ever done--you've got to lead decent lives for awhile." "sure--dat's right," said the loyal flopper; "but we stands fer anyt'ing dat de doc says--an' dat goes!" "it'll come hard on some of us," remarked pale face harry, with a sly glance at helena, which met with contemptuous silence. doc madison leaned back, felt carefully at his carefully adjusted tie--and smiled engagingly. "well?" he asked. "can you see them coming?" pale face harry stared at him with a far-away expression in his eyes. "when we get through with this, if i ain't handed in my checks before," he said dreamily, "it's mine for a brownstone on the avenue, and one of them life-size landscapes with a shack on it for the season down to pa'm beach that they call country cottages. i'll dress the ginks that scrub the horses down in solid gold braid, and put the corpse of chamber ladies in irish lace--i bust into society, marry a duke's one and only, and swipe her coronet for my manly brow. did you ask me anything, doc?" "swipe me!" said the flopper. "me in me private pullman in a plush seat an' anudder to put me feet in, an' me thumbs in de armholes of me vest. i wears a high polished lid an' a red tie, an' scatters simoleans outer de window in me travels to the gazaboes on de platforms as i pass--an' den i joins tammany hall so's i can stick me fingers to me nose every time i sees a cop." "flopper," said doc madison in an awed voice, "the honor is all mine." helena went off into a peal of rippling, silvery, contagious laughter, and her little heels again beat an exuberant tattoo on the end of the couch. "yes?" invited doc madison, smiling at her. "i'm seeing them coming," said helena--and one heel went through the cretonne upholstery of the couch. "good!" said doc madison--and from the inside pocket of his coat he pulled out a package of crisp, new, yellow-backed bills. "you understand that down there none of you ever heard of each other or of me before, and you drop the 'doc'--bury it! my name is john g. madison--g. for garfield." his fingers passed deftly over the edges of the bills. he pushed a little pile toward the hopper, another toward pale face harry, and tucked the remainder into his coat pocket again. "that'll do for expenses," he said. "and now, if you understand everything, principally that you're to go to church sundays till you hear from me, and you're quite satisfied with the lay, we'll adjourn, _sine die_, to needley." helena was holding out a very dainty hand, with pink, wiggling fingers. "i'll need, oh, ever so much more than they will," she declared, with a bewitching pout. "and, please, i'm waiting very patiently." doc madison laughed. "by and by, helena," he said, patting her hand. "well, flopper, well, harry--what do you say?" the flopper pushed back his chair and stood up hesitantly like a man unexpectedly called upon for an after-dinner speech. he stood there awkwardly a moment gazing at doc madison, his tongue slowly circling his lips; then, with a gulp, as though words to express his feelings were utterly beyond him, he turned and started for the door. pale face harry, as he rose, shoved out his hand. "i don't deserve my luck to be in on this," he said modestly. "only, doc, push it along on the high gear, will you--i ain't going to be able to sleep thinking about it." he looked at helena a little undecidedly--and compromised on brevity. "'night, helena," he flung out. "oh, good-night, harry," she smiled. the flopper turned at the door and came back a few steps into the room. "say, doc," he said, blinking furiously, "youse can wipe yer feet on me any time youse like--dat's wot!" "all right, flopper," said doc madison gravely. "when you've joined tammany hall--good-night." he followed across the room, and from the doorway watched the two descend the stairs. "good-night," he said again, then closed the door and came back into the room. "well, helena?" he remarked tentatively. "well--garfield?"--helena clasped her hands around one knee and rocked gently. "don't be familiar, helena," doc madison chuckled. "is that all you've got to say?" "i'm busy thinking about the great american play," she said pertly. "there's one thing you forgot." "what's that?" he asked, still smiling. "the curtain on the last act," she said. "the getaway." doc madison shook his head. "nothing doing!" he returned. "there's no getaway. it's safe--so safe that there's nothing to it. we don't guarantee anything, and there's no entrance fee to the pavilion--all contributions are strictly voluntary." "that's all right," said helena. "but of course we can't really cure them. we can get them going hard enough to make them think they are for awhile, but after they've thrown away their crutches and got back home--what then?" "well, what then?" inquired doc madison easily. "they'll yell 'fake!' and swear out warrants," said helena, her dark eyes studying doc madison. "not according to statistics," replied doc madison, and his lips twitched quizzically at the corners. "according to statistics they'll buy another crutch and come back to buck the tiger again. say, helena, to-morrow, you go up to the public library and read up on shrines--they've been running since the ark--and they're running still. you never heard any howl about them, did you? what's the answer to those cures?" "that's different," said helena. "that's religion, and they've got relics and things." "it's faith," said doc madison, "and it doesn't matter what the basis of it is. faith, helena, _faith_--get that? and we're going to imbue them with a faith that'll set them crazy and send them into hysterics. and talk about relics! haven't we got one? look at the patriarch! can't you see the whole town yelling 'i told you so!' and swopping testimonials hard enough to crowd the print down so fine, if you tried to get it all into the papers, that you'd have to use a magnifying glass to read it, once we've pulled off the miracle? don't you worry about the getaway. if there's any sign of anything like that, you and i, helena, will be taking moonlight rides in the gondolas of venice long before it breaks." helena choked--and began to laugh deliciously. doc madison stared at her for a moment whimsically--then he, too, burst into a laugh. "oh, lord!" he gurgled. "it's rich, isn't it?" and sweeping helena off the couch and into his arms, he began to dance around and around the table. "ring-around-a-rosy!" he cried. "we haven't done so bad in the misty past, but here's where we cross to the enchanted shore and play on jewelled harps with golden strings and--" "is that all?" gasped helena, laughing and breathless, as at last she pulled herself away. "no," panted doc madison. "there's a table i've reserved up at the rivoli that's waiting for us now. we're about to part for days and days, lady mine, that's the tough luck of it, but we'll make a night of it to-night anyway--what?" "you bet!" said helena, doing a cake-walk towards the door. "come on!" --iii-- needley "needley?" it wasn't wholly an interrogation--it seemed to madison that there was even sympathy in the parlor-car conductor's voice, as the other took his seat check. "health," said madison meekly. "perfect rest and quiet--been overdoing it, you know." "_needley_!"--the train conductor of the bar harbor express, collecting the transportation, threw the word at madison as though it were a personal affront. the tone seemed to demand an apology from madison--and madison apologized. "health," he said apologetically. "perfect rest and quiet--been overdoing it, you know." "we're five minutes late now," grunted the conductor uncompromisingly and, to madison, quite irrelevantly, as he passed on down the aisle. somehow, this inspired madison to consult his timetable. he drew it from his pocket, ran his eye down the long list of stations--and stopped at "needley." needley had an asterisk after it. by consulting a block of small type at the bottom of the page, he found a corresponding asterisk with the words: "flag station. stops only on signal, or to discharge eastbound passengers from portland." john garfield madison went into the smoking compartment of the car for a cigar--several cigars--until needley was reached some two hours later, when the dusky attendant, as he pocketed madison's dollar, set down his little rubber-topped footstool with a flourish on a desolate and forbidding-looking platform. madison was neither surprised nor dismayed--the parlor-car conductor, the train conductor and the timetable had in no way attempted to deceive him--he was only cold. he turned up his coat collar--and blew on his kid-gloved fingers. as far as he could see everything was white with a thin layer of snow--he kicked some of it off his toes onto the unshovelled platform. the landscape was disconsolately void of even a vestige of life, there was not a sign of habitation--just woods of bare trees, except the firs, whose green seemed out of place. "i have arrived," said john garfield madison to himself, "at a cemetery." there was a very small station, and through the window he caught sight of a harassed-faced, red-haired man. there was a thump, another one, a very vicious one--and madison stirred uneasily--the train, with its five minutes' delinquency hanging over it, was already moving out, as his trunks, from the baggage car ahead, shot unceremoniously to the platform. madison watched a man, the sole occupant of the platform apart from himself, save the trunks from rolling under the wheels of the train; then his eyes fastened on a rickety, two-seated wagon, drawn by a horse that at first glance appeared to earn all it got. the train left the platform--and left quite as uninviting a perspective on the other side of the track as had previously greeted madison's restricted view. but now the man who had salvaged his baggage came down the platform toward him. madison inspected the approaching figure with interest. the man ambled along without haste, his jaws wagging industriously upon his tobacco, his iron-gray chin whiskers, from the wagging, flapping like a burgee in a breeze. he wore a round fur cap, quite bare of fur at the edges where the pelt showed shiny, and a red woollen tippet was tied round his neck and knotted at the back with the ends dangling down over his coat. the coat itself, a long one of some fuzzy material, with huge side pockets into which the man's hands were plunged, reached to the cavernous tops of jackboots where the nether ends of his trousers were stowed away. the man halted before madison, and, reaching a mittened hand under his chin, reflectively lifted his whiskers to an acute angle, while his blue eyes over the rims of steel-bowed spectacles wandered from madison to madison's dress-suit case and back to madison again. "be you goin' to git off here?" he inquired. madison smiled at him engagingly. "well," he said, "i wouldn't care to have it known, but if you can keep a secret--" "hee-hee!" tittered the other. "now that's right smart, that be. waren't expectin' nobody to meet you, was you? i ain't heerd of none of the folks lookin' for visitors." "no," said madison. "but there's a hotel in the town, isn't there?" "two of 'em," said the other. "the waalderf an' the congress, but the waalderf ain't done a sight of business since we got pro'bition in the state an' has kinder got run down. i reckon the congress'll suit you best if you ain't against payin' a mite more, which i reckon you ain't for i see you come down in the parler car." "and what," asked madison, "does the congress charge?" "well," said the other, "ordinary, it's a dollar a day or five dollars a week, but this bein' off season an' nobody there, 'twouldn't surprise me if walt'ud kind of shade the price for you--waalderf's three an' a half a week. them your duds up the platform? i'll drive you over for forty cents. what was it you said your name was?" "forty cents is a most disinterested offer, and i accept it heartily," said madison affably. "and my name's madison--john garfield madison, from new york." "mine's higgins," volunteered the other. "hiram higgins, an' i'm postmaster an' town constable of needley. an' now, mr. madison, i reckon we'll just get these effects of your'n onto the wagon an' move along--folks'll be gettin' kinder rambunctious for their mail." hiram higgins backed the democrat around, roped the baggage onto the tail-board, picked up the hungry-looking mail-bag from where the mail clerk had slung it from the car to the platform, threw it down in front of the dashboard, and got in after it. madison clambered into the back seat, and they bumped off along the road. "had a mite of snow night before last," observed mr. higgins, pointing it out with his whip, as he settled himself comfortably. "kinder reckoned we'd got rid of it for good till next fall till this come along, but you can't never tell. what was it you said brought you down here, mr. madison?" madison smiled. "rest and quiet--complete change," he said. "nervous breakdown, according to the doctors--that's what they always call it, you know, when they can't find any other name for it. i've been overdoing it, i suppose." "be that so!" returned mr. higgins sympathetically. "i want to know! well, now, that's too bad! lookin' for quiet, be you? well, i reckon mabbe folks don't scurry around here quite so lively as they do in some of the bigger towns like noo york, but there's a tolerable lot goin' on most every week, church festivals, an' spellin' bees, an' such. folks here is right hospitable, but you ain't in no way obliged to join in if you don't feel up to it. i'll explain matters to 'em, an'--" hiram higgins stopped, excitedly gathered reins and whip into one hand, and with the other smote his knee a resounding whack. "well, i swan!" he exclaimed. "an' i never thought of it until this minute! i reckon you've come to just the right place, and just as soon as you get settled you go right out an' see the patriarch--you won't need no more doctor, an' folks up your way won't know when you go back." "the patriarch?" inquired madison, with a puzzled air. "who is he?" "why," said mr. higgins, "he's--he's the patriarch. been curin' us folks around here longer'n any one can remember--just does it by faith, too." madison shook his head slowly. "i might just as well be frank with you, mr. higgins," he said. "i've never taken much stock in faith cure and that sort of thing." "mabbe," suggested mr. higgins deeply, "you ain't had much experience." "no," confessed madison reflectively; "i haven't--i haven't had any." "well then, you just wait an' see," said mr. higgins, waving his mittened hand as though the whole matter were conclusively settled. "you just wait an' see." "but i'm afraid i don't quite understand," prodded madison innocently. "what kind of cures does he perform?" they turned a right-angled bend in the road, disclosing a straggling hamlet in a hollow below, and, farther away in the distance, a sweep of ocean. "most any kind," said mr. higgins. "there's needley now. all you've got to do is ask the first person you see about him." "yes," said madison, "but take yourself, for instance. did this patriarch ever do anything for you?" "he did," said mr. higgins impressively. "an' 'twasn't but last week. i'm glad you asked me. for two nights i couldn't sleep. had the earache powerful. poured hot oil an' laud'num into it, an' kept a hot brick rolled up in flannel against it, but didn't do no good. then mrs. higgins says, 'hiram, why in the land's sake don't you go out an' see the patriarch?' an' i hitched right up, an' every step that horse took i could feel it gettin' better, an' i wasn't five minutes with the patriarch before i was cured, an' i ain't had a twinge since." "it certainly looks as though there were something in that," admitted madison cautiously. hiram higgins smiled a world of tolerance. "'tain't worth mentionin' alongside some of the things he's done," he said deprecatingly. "you'll hear about 'em fast enough." "what's the local doctor say about it?" asked madison. "there ain't enough pickin's to keep a doctor here, though some of 'em's tried," chuckled mr. higgins. "have to have 'em for _some_ things, of course--an' then he drives over from barton's mills, seven miles from here." "and do _all_ the people in needley believe in the patriarch?"--madison's voice was full of grave interest. "well," said mr. higgins, "to be plumb downright honest with you, they don't. folks as was born here an' are old inhabitants do, but the holmes, bein' newcomers, is kinder set in their ways. they come down here eight years ago last august with new-fangled notions, which they ain't got rid of yet. you can see the consequences for yourself--got a little boy, twelve year old, walking around lame on a crutch--an' i reckon he always will. doctor looks at him every time he comes over from barton's mills, but it don't do no good. folks tried to get the holmes to take him out to the patriarch's till they got discouraged. 'pears old man holmes kinder got around to a common sense view of it, but the women folks say mrs. holmes is stubborner than all git-out, an' that old man holmes' voice ain't loud enough to be heerd when she gets goin'. 'tain't but fair to mention 'em, as i dunno of any one else that's an exception." mr. higgins pointed ahead with his whip. "see them woods over there beyond the town?" "yes," said madison. "that's where the patriarch lives," said mr. higgins. "on the other side of 'em, down by the seashore. an' here we be most home. folks'll be glad to see you, mr. madison, and now you're here i hope you'll make a real smart stay--we'll try to make you feel to home." "thank you," said madison cordially. "i haven't any idea, of course, how long i'll be here--it all depends on circumstances." "no," said mr. higgins; "i don't suppose you have. anyway, i hope you'll take a notion to go out an' see what the patriarch can do for you. an' now you ain't told me yet which hotel you're goin' to." "oh!" said madison gravely. "well, since you recommend it, i guess we'd better make it the congress." --iv-- the patriarch "bet you a cookie," shrilled hiram higgins, in what he meant to be a breathless whisper, "that there's where he's goin' now--only he don't want us to know he's give in." "shet your fool mouth, hiram!" cautioned walt perkins, the proprietor of the congress hotel. "he kin hear you." "get out!" retorted mr. higgins. "no, he can't neither. he ain't feelin' no ways perky, any one can see that, an' i'm tickled most to pieces that he's come 'round--i've took up with him consid'rable, i have. patriarch'll just make a new-born critter outer him--you watch through the window where he goes. bet you a quarter that's what he's up to!" john garfield madison, outside on the veranda of the congress hotel, smiled at the words, as he lighted his cigar and turned up his coat collar. he stepped off the veranda, crossed the little lawn to the village street, and began to saunter nonchalantly and indifferently oceanwards. he did not look around--he had no desire to bring consternation to the massed faces of the leading citizens flattened against the window panes--but he chuckled inwardly as he pictured them. there would be hiram higgins, postmaster and town constable, walt perkins, hotel man and town moderator, lem hodges, selectman, assessor and overseer of the poor, nathan elmes, likewise selectman, assessor and overseer of the poor, and cale rodgers, school committee-man and proprietor of the general store. madison sauntered slowly along. "i have arrived," he said, "not at a cemetery, but at an el dorado and a land flowing with milk and honey." there was a humorous pucker around the corners of madison's eyes, as he reviewed his two days' sojourn in needley--spent mostly in the "office" of the congress hotel beside the stove with his feet up on the wood-box. he had never lacked company--the office stove and the spitbox filled with sawdust was the admitted rendezvous of the chosen spirits who were still gazing after him from the window. morning, afternoon and evening they congregated there, and he had been promptly admitted to membership in the select circle. at each sitting they had discussed the spring planting and the weather, and then inevitably, led by hiram higgins, had resolved themselves into an "experience" meeting on the patriarch--he, madison, as a minority leader of one, grudgingly conceding an occasional point. the sessions had invariably ended the same way--hiram higgins, with the back of his hand underneath his chin, would stroke earnestly at his chin-whiskers, and remark: "well, now, mr. madison, 'twon't do you a mite of harm to go out there an' see for yourself. we've kinder got to look on you as one of us, an' there ain't no use in you sufferin' around with what ails you when there ain't no need of it." madison's replies had been equally void of versatility--he would shake his head doubtfully, while his cigar-case circulated around the group. madison sniffed luxuriously at his thoroughbred havana. he had passed out of sight of the hotel window now, and he swung into a brisk walk. it was a mile to the patriarch's by a wagon track through the woods, that led off from the road to the left just across the bridge. he had not needed to ask directions. with magnificent inadvertence hiram higgins had mentioned the exact way to reach the patriarch's a dozen times, if he had once. also, by now, madison had learned all that the town knew about the patriarch--which after all, he reflected with some satisfaction, wasn't much. the patriarch was over eighty years of age, and he had come, deaf and dumb, to needley sixty years ago--nobody knew from where, nor his previous history, nor his name. they had called him the hermit at first, for immediately on his arrival he had gone out to the shore of the ocean, away from the village, and built a crude hut there for himself--which, in the after years, he had made into a more pretentious dwelling. the cures had come "kinder gradual-like an' took the folks mabbe forty years to get around to believin' in him real serious," as hiram higgins put it; and then, as the hermit grew old, and the local reverence for him had become more deep-seated, they had changed his name to the patriarch. that was about all--but it seemed to suit madison, for his smile broadened. "i wonder," said he to himself, as he stepped onto the bridge to cross the little river, "if i'm not dreaming--this is like being let loose in the u.s. treasury with nobody looking!" "hullo, mister!" piped a young voice suddenly out of the dusk. "hullo!" responded madison mechanically--and turned to watch a small figure, going in the opposite direction, thump by him on a crutch. madison stopped and stared after the cripple--and removed his cigar very slowly from his lips. "that's that holmes boy," he muttered. "i don't know as he'd look well on the platform when the excursion trains get to running. wonder if i can't get a job for his father somewhere about a thousand miles from here and have the family move!" the cripple disappeared down the road, and madison, with a sort of speculative flip to the ash of his cigar, resumed his way. just across the bridge he found the wagon track, and turned into it. it ran through a thick wood of fir and spruce, and here, apart from now being able to see but little before him--he had elected to "steal" away in the darkness after supper--he found the going far from good. half curiously, half whimsically, he tried to visualize the patriarch from the word pictures that had been painted around the stove in the hotel office. the man would be old--of course. and to have lived alone for sixty years, to have shunned human companionship he must have been either mildly or violently insane to begin with, which would account for his belief in himself as a healer--he would unquestionably, in some form or other, "have bats in his belfry," as pale face harry had put it. madison's brows contracted as he went along. a man living by himself under such conditions, with no incentive for the care of his person, not even the pride engendered by the association of others, erudite as the standard might be in his vicinity, was apt to grow very shortly into a somewhat sorry spectacle. give him sixty years of this and add an unbalanced mind, and--madison did not like the picture that now rose up suddenly before him--a creature, bent, vapid of face, deaf and dumb, frowsy of dress, and a world removed from the thought of a morning bath. it might be picturesque in a way--but it wasn't a way madison liked. somehow, he'd have to jerk the old chap out of his rut and get him rigged up a little more becomingly, before the trusting public, simple as they were, were invited down to see the exhibit. madison's dramatic instinct, which was developed to a keen sense of what the public craved for, rebelled against any _faux pas_ in the scenic effects. he fell to designing a costume that would more appropriately expound the rôle. "got to give 'em something for their money," murmured john garfield madison. "some sort of long, flowing robe now, washed every day, sort of grecian effect with a rope girdle, bare feet and sandals--um-m--dunno about the sandals--don't want to slop over, and besides"--madison grinned a little to himself--"he might kick!" still reflecting, but arrived at no conclusion other than first to size up the patriarch and see how best to handle him, madison reached the end of the wagon track--and halted. it was a little lighter here, now that he had left the woods, and what appeared to be a sweep of snow-covered lawn was before him. around this, forming a perfect square, was a row of full-grown, magnificent maples--a regal hedge, as it were, bordering the four sides--planted sixty years ago! madison's imagination fired exhilarantly at the inspiring thought of these in leaf--in another few weeks. he shook hands with himself cordially. "behold the amphitheater!" he said. "this is where we stage the greatest act of the century!" behind the row of trees, directly across the lawn in front of him, loomed the dark shadow of a long, low, cottage-like building, and from a window a light twinkled out between the tree trunks; while from beyond again came the roll of surf, low, rhythmic, like the soft accompaniment of orchestral music. "wonderful!" breathed madison. "i feel," said he, "as though i had just had a drink!" he walked across the lawn, passed between the trees, and reached the end of the cottage away from where the light showed in the window. "the patriarch being deaf," he remarked, "i might as well explore." from the row of trees to the cottage was perhaps twenty feet. the door of the cottage, porticoed with trellis-work, was in the center of the cottage itself. everywhere madison turned were trellis-work frames for flowers--the walls of the cottage were covered, literally covered, with bare, slumbering shoots of virginia creeper. in a little while now the place would be a veritable paradise. madison raised his hat reverently. "fancy this on a new york stage!" said he esthetically, invoking the universe. "could you beat it! i could play the patriarch myself with this setting, and everybody would fall for it. there's nothing to it, nothing to it, but his make-up--and i'll guarantee to take care of that. and now we'll have a look at aladdin's lamp and see just what kind of rubbing up will invoke the genii!" madison walked along the length of the cottage, past the door, and, as he reached the lighted window, drew well away from the wall--and stared inside. surprise and incredulity swept across his features, and then his face beamed and his gray eyes lighted with the fire of an artist who sees the elusive imagery of the great picture at last transferred to canvas, vivid, actual, transcending his wildest hopes. he was gazing upon the sweetest and most venerable face he had ever seen. here and there within upon the floor were strewn old-fashioned, round rag mats that would enrapture a connoisseur, and the floor where it showed between the mats was scrubbed to a glistening white. the furnishings were few and homemade, but full of simple artistry--a chair or two, and a table, upon which burned a lamp. in a fireplace, made of stones cemented together, the natural effect unspoiled by any attempt to hew the stones into uniformity, a log fire glowed, sputtered, and now and then leaped cheerily into flame. between the table and the fire, half turned toward madison, sat the patriarch. he was reading, his head bent forward, his book held very close to his eyes. hair, a wealth of it, soft, silky and snow-white, reached just below his coat collar--a silvery beard fell far below his book. but it was the face itself, no single distinguishing feature, neither the blue eyes, the sensitive lips, nor the broad, fine forehead, that held madison's gaze--it seemed to combine something that he had never seen in a face before, and to look upon it was to be drawn instantly to the man--there was purity of thought and act stamped upon it with a seal ineffaceable, and there was gentleness there, and sympathy, and trust, and a simple, unassuming dignity and self-possession--and, too, there was a shadow there, a little of sadness, a little of weariness, a background, a relief, as it were, a touch such as a genius might conceive to lift the picture with his brush into wondrous, lingering, haunting consonance. madison's eyes, slowly, as though loath to leave the patriarch's face, travelled over the gray homespun suit that clothed the man, the white wristbands of the home-washed shirt, unstarched, but spotlessly clean--and his fancy of flowing, grecian robes with rope girdles seemed to hold him up to mockery as a crude and paltry bungler before the perfect, unostentatious harmony of reality. "there's nothing to it!" whispered madison softly to himself. "nothing to it! there isn't a thing left to do--not even a chance of making a bluff at earning the money--it's just like _stealing_ it. why, say, it would get _me_ if i weren't behind the scenes--honest now, it would!" madison drew back from the window and walked toward the door of the cottage. "it should take me about fifteen minutes to establish myself on the basis of a long-lost son with the patriarch clinging confidingly around my neck," he observed. "if it takes me any longer than that i'd feel depressed every time i met myself in the looking-glass." he reached the cottage door, and, lifting the brass knocker that shone dimly in the darkness, knocked once, lifted it to knock again--and his hand fell away as he smiled a little foolishly. "i forgot the patriarch was deaf," he muttered. "wonder what you're supposed to do? walk right in, or--" the door swung suddenly wide open, and upon madison's face, usually so perfectly at its owner's control, came a look of stunned surprise. the patriarch was standing on the threshold, and, with a gesture of welcome, was motioning him to enter. --v-- a strange conversation madison, quite in command of himself again in an instant, stepped, smiling, into the cottage. he took the patriarch's extended hand in a cordial grip and nodded understandingly as the other, with quick, rapid motions, touched lips and ears to signify that he could neither hear nor speak. but, inwardly puzzled, madison searched the patriarch's face--was the other playing a part? could he _hear_, after all--and perhaps speak as well, if he wanted to! there was certainly no guile in the venerable, gentle face--or was it guile of a very high order? the patriarch closed the door, and drawing his own armchair to the table offered it to madison with a courteous smile. madison refused by gently forcing the old man into it himself, pulled another up to face the patriarch, sat down--and his eyes fixed suddenly on the ceiling above his head. swaying slowly back and forth was a sort of miniature punkah of waving white canvas. he studied this for a moment, then his eyes shifted to the patriarch, who was regarding him humorously. the patriarch rose from his chair, walked to the door, opened it, moved the knocker up and down--and pointed to the ceiling. the canvas was waving violently now, and madison traced the cord attachment, on little pulleys, across the ceiling to where it ran through the door and was affixed to the knocker without. it was very simple, even primitive--every time the knocker was lifted the cord was pulled and the canvas waved back and forth. madison nodded his head and smiled approvingly, as the patriarch once more closed the door and resumed his seat. madison leaned back in his chair and allowed his eyes to stray, not impertinently but with pleased endorsement, around the room, to permit an unhampered opportunity for the scrutiny of the blue eyes which he felt upon him. "and to think," he mused reproachfully, "that i could have doubted him for a single instant--he certainly hung one on me that time." the patriarch reached into the drawer of the table beside him, took out a slate and pencil, scratched a few words on the slate and handed both pencil and slate to madison. "your name is madison, isn't it?" madison read. "from new york? hiram told me about you." "hiram," said madison to himself, "is a man of many parts, and the most useful man i have ever known. hiram, by reflected glory, will some day become famous." on the slate he replied: "yes; that is my name--john madison. it was good of mr. higgins to speak of me." the patriarch held the slate within a bare inch or two of his face, and moved it back and forth before his eyes to follow the lines. as he lowered it, madison reached for it politely. "i am afraid you do not see very well," he scribbled. "shall i write larger?" again the patriarch deciphered the words laboriously; then he wrote, and handed the slate to madison. "i am going blind," he had written. "please write as large as possible." "blind!"--madison's attitude and expression were eloquent enough not only to be a perfect interpretation of his exclamation, but to convey his shocked and pained surprise as well. the patriarch bowed his head affirmatively, smiling a little wistfully. madison impetuously drew his chair closer to the other, laid his hand sympathetically upon the patriarch's sleeve, and, with the slate upon his knee, wrote with the other hand impulsively: "i am sorry--very, very sorry. would you care to tell me about it?" the patriarch's face lighted up while reading the slate, but he shook his head slowly as he smiled again. "by _and_ by, if you wish," he wrote. "but first about yourself. you are sick--and you have come to me for help?" the slate now passed from hand to hand quite rapidly. "yes," wrote madison. "can you cure me?" "no," replied the patriarch; "not in your present mental condition." "what do you mean?" asked madison. "your question itself implies that you are skeptical. while that state of mind exists, i can do nothing--it depends entirely on yourself." "and if i put skepticism aside?" madison's pencil demanded. "can you cure me then?" "unquestionably," wrote the patriarch, "if you really put it aside. faith is the simplest thing in the world and the most complex--but it is fundamental. without faith nothing is possible; with faith nothing is impossible." madison's gray eyes rested, magnificently thoughtful and troubled, upon the patriarch. "i have never thought much about it," he replied upon the slate, after a tactful moment's pause. "but i believe that. there is something here, about the place, about you that inspires confidence--i was prepared to cling to my skepticism when i came in, but i do not feel that way now. if only i knew you a little better, were with you a little more, i believe i could have the faith you speak of." "how long do you remain in needley?" the patriarch wrote. madison got up from his chair, went slowly to the fireplace, and, with his back to the patriarch, stood watching the crackling logs. "the old chap's no fool," he informed himself, "even if he is gone a little in one particular. he certainly does believe in himself for fair! wonder where he got his education--notice the english he writes? and, say--_going blind_! fancy that! santa claus, you overwhelm me, you are too bountiful, you are too generous--you'll have nothing left for the next chimney! deaf and dumb--and blind. really, i do not deserve this--i really don't--let me at least tip the hat-boy, or i'll feel mean." he turned gravely to the patriarch; resuming his chair with an expression on his face as one arrived at a weighty decision after a mental battle with one's self. "i will stay here until i am cured. i put myself in your hands. what am i to do?" he wrote quickly--and held out his hand almost anxiously for the other's assent. the patriarch smiled seriously as, after peering at the slate, he took the outstretched hand and laid his other one unaffectedly upon madison's shoulder. "be sure then that i can help you," wrote the patriarch cheerfully. "there is no course of treatment such as you may, perhaps, imagine. my power lies in a perfect faith to help you once you, in turn, have faith yourself--that is all. it is but the practical application of the old dogma that mind is superior to matter. you must come and see me every day, and we will talk together." "i will come--gladly," madison replied; and, taking the slate, carefully wiped off the writing--as he had previously wiped it off every time it came into his hands--with a damp rag that the patriarch had taken from the table drawer when he had produced the slate and pencil. "this slate racket is the limit," said madison to himself, as his pencil began to move and screech again; "but i've got to get a little deeper under his vest yet." he handed the slate to the patriarch, and on it were the words: "won't you tell me something of yourself, how you came to live here alone, and your name, perhaps? i do not mean to presume, but i am deeply interested." "there is never presumption in kindliness and sympathy," answered the patriarch. "but my name and story is buried in the past--perhaps when i am gone those who care to know may know. i have not hurt you by refusing to answer?" "no, indeed!" said madison politely to himself. "the element of mystery is one of the best drawing cards i know--it's got needley going strong. far, far be it from me to tear the veil asunder. i mentioned it only as a feeler." but upon the slate he wrote: "far from being hurt, i respect your silence. but your eyes--you were to tell me about them." the patriarch's face saddened suddenly as he read the words. "i have made no secret of it," he wrote. "i have been going blind for nearly a year now. the end, i am afraid, is very near--within a few days, perhaps even to-morrow. i think i should not mind it much myself, for i am very old and have not a great while longer to live in any case, but for the time that is left it will mar my usefulness. i have been able to help the people here and they have come to depend upon me--that is my life. i trust i am not boastful if i say my greatest joy has been in helping others." he had come to the bottom of the slate and held it out for madison to read; then wiped it off, and went on: "i have dreamed often of a wider field, of reaching out to help the thousands beyond this little town--but i have realized that it could be no more than a dream. i have been successful here because the people believe in me and have unquestioning faith in me--to go outside amongst strangers would only have been to be received as a charlatan and faker, or as a poor deaf and dumb fool at best." madison took the slate. "but if these thousands of others came to you--what then?" the patriarch's face glowed. "it would be a wondrous joy," he wrote. "too wondrous to dwell upon--because it could never be. if they came i could help them, for their very coming would be an evidence of faith--and faith alone is necessary. think of the joy of helping so many others--it is the fulness of life. but let us not dream any more, friend madison." "of course," communed madison, studying the illumined face, "he's slightly touched in his upper story on the faith stunt; but he's in dead earnest, and he's got the brotherhood-of-man bug bad. come to think of it, hiram did say something about his 'sight failing,' but i didn't think it was anything like this. if he's going to go finally blind in, say, a week, perhaps it would be just as well to postpone the opening night until he does." madison took the slate. "stranger things than that have happened," he wrote. "i never heard of you before, yet i am one of the thousands beyond this little town and i am here--why not the others?" the patriarch shook his head sadly. "it is but a dream," he wrote. madison held the slate in his hands for quite a long time before he wrote again; his attitude one of sympathetic hesitancy as his eyes played over the form and face before him, while the patriarch smiled at him with gentle, patient resignation. back in madison's fertile brain the germ of an inspiration was developing into fuller life. "what will you do here alone when you are blind?" he asked--and his face was disturbed and solicitous as he passed the patriarch the slate. "i need very little," the patriarch wrote back. "you must not worry about me. my garden supplies nearly all my wants, and there are many in the village, i am sure, who will help me with that when the snow is gone." "i am quite certain of that," madison's pencil agreed. "but here in the house you cannot be alone--there are so many things to do, little things that i am sure you have not thought of--some one must cook for you, for instance. you will need a woman's hand here--have you no one, no relative that you can call upon?" the patriarch lowered the slate from his eyes, shook his head a little pathetically, and began to write. "i do not think they would have cared to come, even if they were still alive; but they are all gone many years ago--except perhaps a grand-niece, and i do not know what has become of her." "why, that's just the thing," wrote madison. "suppose we try to find her?" again the patriarch shook his head. "i am afraid that would be impossible. i do not even know that she is alive. i know only of her birth, and that is twenty years ago." "even that is not hopeless," wrote madison optimistically, and his face as he looked at the patriarch was seriously thoughtful. "where was she born?" "new york," the patriarch answered. "and i never half appreciated the old town nor the fulness thereof until i came to needley!" said madison plaintively to the toe of his boot, while his hand scrawled the inquiry: "what is her name?" "vail," wrote the patriarch. "that was her father's name. she is my grand-niece on her mother's side. i do not know what they christened her." madison once more, apparently deep in thought, sought refuge at the fireplace, his hands plunged in his pockets, his shoulders drawn a little forward, his back to the patriarch. "fiction," he assured a crack in the cement between two stones, "was never, never like this. it seems to me that i remember the occurrence. it had grown a little dim with the lapse of time, it is true; but now that i recall it, it comes back with remarkable clearness. i am quite sure they christened her--helena. helena vail! now isn't that a perfectly lovely name for a novel! and she'll be so good to the dear old chap too--washing and ironing and cooking for him--and stealing out into the woodshed for a drag on her cigarette--_not_. no, my dear, not even that--this is serious business." he turned, came back to his chair, picked up the slate, and wrote: "i have the fortune, or misfortune perhaps, to be what is commonly called a rich man. money, they say, will do anything, and if it will i'll find this niece for you." the patriarch's eyes grew moist as he read the words, and his hand trembled a little with emotion as he held the pencil. "i cannot let you do that," he protested. "you are very kind, and it seems almost as though you had been brought to me providentially at the end of long years of loneliness for a purpose, when my hour of helplessness was near; but, indeed, i have no right to allow you to do this." "they tell me in the village," wrote madison in reply, "that you have always refused to accept a penny for anything you have ever done for them. i have no doubt you would equally refuse to accept anything from me for what you may do, and i should hesitate to offer it however much i felt indebted, but this is something that you must let me do. it will make me feel more--how shall i say it?--more as though i had a right to the privilege of coming here." the patriarch wiped his still moist eyes before he answered. "what can i say to you? it does not seem right that i should let a stranger do so much, and yet it seems that i should not say no because--" madison was bending over the slate, reading as the other wrote, and he took the pencil gently from the patriarch's hand. "you must not look on me any longer as a stranger," he wrote. "let us just consider that it is all arranged--only i would strongly advise making no mention of it until we make sure that she is alive." "i think nothing should be said," agreed the patriarch. "for even if you found her she might not care to come--i have little here to offer a young girl--few comforts--the care of a blind man who is deaf and dumb." "we'll see about that when we find her"--madison smiled brightly at the patriarch, as he wrote. "now that's settled for the time being, isn't it?" the dumb lips moved and both hands reached out to madison. madison took them in a firm, strong, reassuring clasp, then shook his finger in a sort of playfully emotional embarrassment, excellently well done, at the patriarch--and picked up the slate again. "it is getting late," he wrote, "and i must not tire you out. i am afraid you will think i am far more inquisitive than i have any right to be, but there is one more question that i would like to ask--may i?" the patriarch nodded his head, and laid his hand on madison's sleeve in a quaint, almost affectionate way. "it is about your education. you came here sixty years ago, and you have lived alone. you could have had but few advantages, with your handicap, previous to that, and yet you write and use such perfect english." "the answer is very simple," replied the patriarch on the slate. "until within the last year, i have read largely. would you care to look at my books? they are there in the nook on the other side of the fireplace." madison, promptly and full of interest, rose from his chair, passed around the fireplace, and halted before a row of shelves set in against the wall. "i pass," madison admitted to himself after a moment, during which his eyes roved over the well chosen classics. "i've heard of one or two of these before--casually. i've an idea that if the patriarch's got all this inside his gray matter, it's just as well for the flopper, for pale face harry, for helena and yours truly that he's deaf and dumb--and will be blind." madison came back to the patriarch with beaming face, and picked up the slate. "i read a great deal myself," he wrote. "it is a pleasure to find _real_ books here. may i, during my stay in needley, look upon them in a little way as my own library?" "you are very welcome indeed," the patriarch answered. "thank you," wrote madison. "and now, surely, i must go"--he smiled at the patriarch. "come to-morrow," invited the patriarch. "i would like to show you all around my little place here." "indeed, i will," madison scratched upon the slate, "and do you know that somehow, since i came here to-night, i feel a sense of relief, a sort of guarantee that everything is going to be all right with me in the future." the patriarch smiled quietly, almost tolerantly. "i know that," he wrote. "keep your mind free of doubt, be optimistic and cheerful as regards yourself, nourish the faith that has already taken root and that i feel responds to mine; keep in the open air and take plenty of exercise." slowly, with an apparently abstracted air, madison read the slate, wiped it carefully, laid it down, and then held out his hand. "good-night!" he nodded warmly. the patriarch, still with the quiet smile upon his lips, rose from his armchair, and, keeping his clasp on madison's hand, led madison to the door, opened it, and with a gesture at once courtly and affectionate bade his guest good-night. madison crossed the lawn at a thoughtful pace, turned into the wagon track, and, in the shelter of the woods now, whimsically felt his pulse; then, lighting a cigar, tramped on with a buoyant stride. "there's only one answer, of course," he mused. "the patriarch's got a brain kink on faith--it's the natural outcome of living alone for sixty years. outside of that and his books, he's as simple and innocent and trusting as a babe. i suppose the thing's kind of grown on him--hiram said it had taken forty years--which isn't sudden unless you say it quick. hanged if i don't like the old sport though, and if helena isn't the best ever to him i'll stop her chewing gum allowance." madison looked up through the arched, leafless branches overhead. "beautiful night, isn't it?" said he pleasantly. a little later he reached the main road and paused a moment on the bridge, as though to sum up the thoughts and imaginings that had occupied him on the way along. "it's a queer world," said john garfield madison profoundly to the turbid little stream that flowed beneath his feet. "i wonder why some of us are born with brains--and some are born just plain damned fools!" he went on again, arrived at the congress hotel, and, discovering through the window that the leading citizens of needley were still in session, negotiated the back entrance. on the way upstairs he stumbled--quite inadvertently--and stopped to listen. "there he be now," announced hiram higgins' voice excitedly. "goin' up to his room to meditate. knew he'd come back feelin' like that. i be goin' out there to-morrow to see the patriarch myself." madison smiled, mounted the remaining stairs, entered his room, and lighted his lamp. "having got my hand in at writing," he remarked, "i guess i'd better keep it up and write helena--vail." he extracted a pad of writing paper and an envelope from the tray of his trunk, his fountain pen from his pocket, and, drawing his chair to the table and laying down his cigar reluctantly at his elbow, began to write. at the end of fifteen minutes, he tilted back his chair, relighted the stub of his cigar, and critically read over his epistle. "dear kid," it ran. "do not be anxious about me--i am feeling better already. have had my first treatment, and am now eating fried eggs and ham regularly three times a day. a sunday-school picnic taking to washboilers full of thin coffee and the left-over cakes kindly contributed by deacon jones' household, is nothing to the way the boobs will take to the patriarch--who has kindly consented to go blind to make our thorny paths as smooth as possible for us. "do you get that, helena--he's going blind! in just a few days, my dear, you will be with me, have patience. the meteorological bureau is a little hazy yet on the exact date of the total eclipse, but it's due to happen any minute. now listen. your name is helena vail. you're the patriarch's grand-niece, and you're coming to live alone with him and soothe his declining years; but you can't come yet because i've got to find you first, and besides, until he's blind, he'll stick to a nasty habit he's got of asking questions on his little slate. you needn't have any hesitation about coming on the score of propriety, i assure you it is perfectly proper--he is running methuselah pretty near a dead heat. and, as far as the town is concerned, apart from the fact that you are a grand-niece, orphaned, you don't have to know anything about yourself, either--that's part of the patriarch's dark, mysterious past, where the lights go out and the fiddles get rickets. "that's about all. i'll let you know when to come. remember me to mr. coogan and harry, and keep my picture under your pillow. ever thine, j.g.m." madison picked up his pen again and added another line: "p.s. better buy a cook-book." he folded the pages, inserted them in the envelope, sealed the envelope and addressed it to miss helena smith--street and number not far from the tenderloin district of new york. then madison yawned pleasantly, tucked the letter in his pocket--and prepared for bed. --vi-- officially endorsed ten days had passed, bringing with them many changes. the snow was gone, and the warm, balmy airs of springtime had brought the buds upon the trees almost to leaf. it seemed indeed a new land, and one now full of charm and delight--the desolate, straggling hamlet, once so barren, frozen and hopeless looking, was now a quaint, alluring little village nestling picturesquely in its hollow, framed in green fields and majestic woods. quiet, restful, peaceful it was--like a dream place, untroubled. upon the farms about men plowed their furrows, calling to each other and to their horses; in the homes the doors and windows were thrown hospitably wide to the sweet, fresh, vernal airs, and the thrifty housewives were busy at their cleaning. and there had been other changes, too. the ten days had found madison more and more a constant visitor, and finally a most intimate one, at the patriarch's cottage--while to the circle in the hotel office his voice no longer rose in even feeble protest, he was one of them. and, perhaps most vital change of all, the patriarch was nearly blind--so nearly blind that conversation now was limited to but little more than a single word at a time upon the slate. it was morning, in the patriarch's sitting-room, and madison was seated in his usual place beside the table facing the other. for upwards of an hour, it had taken him that long, he had been engaged, having decided that the time was ripe, in telling the patriarch that his grand-niece had been found and that now it was only necessary to write and ask her to come to needley. the patriarch's fine old face was aglow with pleasure as he finally understood. letter writing was beyond him now, a thing of the past, so upon the slate he scrawled: "you write." madison shook his head; and again with gentle patience explained that perhaps it would be better if the letter came from some one holding an official position in the village, rather than from one who, even in an abstract way, would be unknown to her--the postmaster, for instance. and the patriarch, patting madison's sleeve gratefully, agreed. out in the garden behind the cottage, where for the first time in sixty seasons the work must be done by other hands, hiram higgins, the volunteer for the moment, was busy at his "spell." madison stepped to the door and called him in. "mr. higgins," he said, "the patriarch has just told me that he has a grand-niece living in new york, and he wants you to write to her and ask her to come to him." "be that so!" exclaimed mr. higgins, gazing earnestly at the patriarch. "well, 'tain't no surprise to me--always calc'lated he must have folks somewheres. an' i'm right glad now he needs 'em he's made up his mind to have 'em come. wants me to write, does he?" "he can't write any more himself," said madison. "he seems to think that you, as the postmaster, as well as the town police official, are the proper person to do it--and i quite agree with him." "so i be," declared mr. higgins importantly. "i'll write it on the town paper, an' comin' from the postmaster there won't be no doubt in her mind that it's any of them bunco games or the lurin' of young women away such as i've read about, for i reckon perhaps she ain't never heerd of him before--never knew _him_ to write a letter, an' i calc'late to see most everything that goes out." mr. higgins picked up the slate and wrote the word "grand-niece?" upon it in enormous characters; then, amplifying his interrogation by many gestures of his hands, deft from long practice, he held the slate up to the patriarch. the patriarch nodded, and hiram higgins nodded back encouragingly. "where be her address?" mr. higgins inquired of madison. madison stepped to the bookshelves out of view of the patriarch around the fireplace, but in full view of mr. higgins, and, reaching down the bible from the topmost shelf, extracted from inside its cover the aged, yellow slip of paper that he had deposited there when he had entered the cottage that morning, and on which was inscribed helena's name and address in a stiff, old-fashioned, angular hand resembling the patriarch's--an effect that madison had stayed up half the night to produce. "i guess this must be it," he said. "he said it was here--we'll make sure though"--and he handed it to the patriarch. long and painfully the patriarch studied it, anxiously deciphering the words that he had never seen before, anxious to know all and whatever this might tell him about his niece--then again he nodded his head and expressed his gratitude by, patting madison's sleeve. madison's smile modestly disavowed any thanks, as he passed the slip to mr. higgins. "reckon that be it," mr. higgins agreed. "an' now, i guess i'll go right back to town an' write it--i allow that the sooner we get her down here the better. folks'll be glad to hear this--the women folks was figurin' on takin' spells an' helpin' out in the house same as the men in the garden--'pears now there won't be no need of it." madison accompanied mr. higgins outside and helped him to harness up. "look here, mr. madison," said hiram higgins, as he made ready to go and climbed into the democrat, "would you allow that the patriarch's goin' blind was goin' to interfere any with his power of curin' folks? it'll be a powerful blow to the town if it does." "why, of course not!" said madison decisively. "certainly not! indeed, i wouldn't be surprised if it enhanced his power--it's purely mental, you know. they say that the loss of any one or more of the senses generally tends to make the others only the more acute--it's the--er--law of compensation." "glad to hear you say so," said mr. higgins, with a sigh of relief, "'cause i got another letter to write 'sides this one for the patriarch. it come last night, an' i was figurin' on speakin' to you about it." mr. higgins dropped the reins on the dashboard, and dove into first one pocket and then another. "shucks!" said he disgustedly. "now if i ain't gone an' left it to home after all. but i dunno as it makes much difference. it was from a fellow up your way by the name of michael coogan, an' was addressed to the postmaster. 'pears he read a piece in the papers about the patriarch which he sent along with the letter. allows he's been ailin' quite a spell, though he don't say what's the matter with him, an' wants to know if what's in that piece is all gospel truth, 'cause if 'tis he's comin' down. that's why i'm right glad to have heerd you say what you just said. bein' postmaster an' writin' 'fficially, i got to be conscientious and pretty partic'lar." "yes, of course--naturally," said madison. "and what are you going to say to him?" "why," returned mr. higgins, "there ain't no trouble about it now. goin' to tell him that if the patriarch can't help him there ain't nobody on earth can--thought of mentionin' your name, too." "by all means," assented madison cordially. "i feel like a new man since i've come here. i only wish more people knew about the patriarch--it makes your heart ache to think of the suffering and sickness that people endure so hopelessly when there isn't any need of it." "yes, so it do," said mr. higgins. he picked up the reins. "so it do," he said heartily. madison watched the democrat as it started off behind the ambling horse--watched with a sort of fascination at the inebriate, sideways stagger of the wheels, a sort of wonder that the rear ones didn't shut up like a jack-knife under the body of the vehicle and the democrat promptly sit down on its tail-board; then, smiling, he walked back into the cottage. the patriarch was still sitting in the armchair beside the table. madison halted before the other. "well," said he confidentially to the patriarch, "that's settled and i don't mind admitting that it's a load off my mind. i hate to think of what we'd have done without hiram higgins--in fact, it distresses me to think of it. let us think of something else. day after to-morrow helena'll be along. helena is the one and only--but you'll find that out for yourself. i don't mind telling you though that she wears a number two shoe, and you can guess the rest without any help from me. then a day or so later the flopper and pale face harry'll be along--you'll enjoy them--things aren't going to be a bit slow from now on. i expect the flopper will bring some friends with him, too, so's to make a nice little house-party--i wrote him about it, and--" madison stopped abruptly. the patriarch, evidently catching a movement of madison's lips, was gesticulating violently toward his ears, while he smiled half tolerantly, half protestingly. madison nodded quickly and smiled deprecatingly in return. "by jove!" he said apologetically. "i always keep forgetting that you can't hear. i was suggesting that perhaps you might like to go for a walk--mr. higgins says it's a fine day." madison picked up the slate and in huge letters that sprawled from one end of the slate to the other wrote the word: "walk?" the patriarch rose from his chair with a pleased expression, and madison helped him solicitously to the door. they passed out into the sunshine and headed for the beach--the patriarch, erect and strong, guiding himself with his hand on madison's arm. reaching the beach, the patriarch paused and turned his face toward the ocean, while he drew in great breaths of the invigorating air--and madison involuntarily stepped a little aside to look at the other critically, as one might seek a vantage ground from which to view a picture in all its variant lights and shades. against the crested, breaking surf, the fume-sprayed ledges of rock, the patriarch stood out a majestic, almost saintly figure--tall, stately, grand with the true grandeur of simplicity, simple in dress, simple in attitude and mien, patience, sweetness and trust illumining his face, his silver-crowned head thrown back. "i can shut my eyes," said madison softly, "and see the flopper being cured right now--and the flopper couldn't help it if he wanted to!" --vii-- the patriarch's grand-niece it was hiram higgins who introduced helena vail to madison, two days later. madison had led the patriarch outside the door of the cottage as the sound of wheels announced the expected arrival, and was waiting for her as mr. higgins drove up in the democrat. helena, marvelously garbed, in the extreme of fashion, was demurely surveying her surroundings; while mr. higgins was very evidently excited and not a little flustered. a huge trunk and two smaller ones occupied the rear of the democrat, with the dismantled back seat lashed on top of them. madison, leaving the patriarch, hastened forward politely. "mr. madison," said hiram higgins importantly, "this be the patriarch's grand-niece come to stay with him." from under a picture hat, helena's eyes smiled down at madison. "oh, i am so glad to meet you, mr. madison," she said cordially. "mr. higgins has been telling me about you, and how good you have been to my--my grand-uncle." "you are very kind to say so, miss vail," responded madison modestly. "may i help you down?" she gave him a daintily gloved hand, exposed a daintily stockinged ankle as she placed her foot a little hesitantly on the wheel, and jumped lightly to the ground. "that," she said quickly and a little anxiously for mr. higgins' ears, indicating the patriarch, "that is my grand-uncle there, i am sure." "yes," said madison, leading her toward the patriarch. "and he has been looking forward very anxiously all day to your arrival--it seemed as though the afternoon would never come for him." "gee!" said helena under her breath. "i had the rubes in the village on the run--you ought to have seen them stare as the chariot drove along." "i don't wonder," said madison softly. "the sun's rather strong down here, helena, and if you're not careful you'll scorch your neck with those burning-glasses you've got in your ears." "don't i look nice?" demanded helena, with a pout. "you bet you do!" said madison earnestly. "you've got the swellest thing on broadway beaten from forty-second street to the battery. now, here you are"--they had halted before the patriarch. the venerable face was turned toward them, as though by instinct the patriarch knew that they were there--and his hands were held out in greeting. helena clasped them firmly, and submitted sweetly as the patriarch drew her into his arms. the patriarch released her after an instant, and his hands, in lieu of eyes, reaching out to search her face, came bewilderingly in contact with the picture hat. helena, a little uncertainly, looked at madison. "is he _all_ blind?" she whispered. "quite blind," said madison sadly. helena's face clouded a little, and into the brown eyes crept a strange, sudden, sympathetic look. "doc," she said, "it--it isn't fair. it's a shame--he can't fight back." "one error to you, miss vail," said madison pleasantly. "eliminate the 'doc.' don't shed tears, you're down here to be sweet to him, aren't you--well, get into the game." helena turned from madison, and, impulsively taking the patriarch's groping hands, guided them to her cheeks and held them there. "lucky dog!" observed madison; then, raising his voice: "i am sure you would like to be alone together, miss vail--perhaps you will take him into the cottage. if you will excuse me, i'll help mr. higgins with the trunks." madison turned and walked over to where mr. higgins, beside the democrat with a handful of chin whiskers, was observing the scene. "fine girl!" declared mr. higgins, as helena, with the patriarch's arm in hers, disappeared inside the cottage. "'pears she must have money, an' i'm right glad 'count of the patriarch--said her father an' mother was dead an' she was alone in the world--them jewels she wore must have cost a pile. reckon she's been used to livin' kinder different from the way folks down here do--hope 'tain't goin' to be so hard on her she won't want to stay." "i was thinking about that myself," said madison gravely, knotting his brows as he nodded his head. "there's no doubt it will be a big change for her, but i imagine she had some sort of an idea what to expect--it is certainly greatly to her credit that she would give up her own interests unselfishly and come here to devote her life to the care of a relative whom she had never seen before. i've an idea that the girl who would do that is the kind of a girl who's got grit enough to see it through." "so she be," said mr. higgins heartily. "ain't every one 'ud do it--not by a heap!" "i'll give you a hand with the trunks," said madison thoughtfully. they carried the large trunk between them into the cottage and, as helena called to them, down the little hallway past what madison knew to be the patriarch's bedroom, and stopped before the next door, which was open. madison remembered the room, when nearly two weeks ago now the patriarch had shown him through the cottage, as a sort of store-room full of odds and ends. mr. higgins, too, evidently had known it only in that guise, for he whistled softly and reached for his whiskers. "well now, if that ain't right smart of the patriarch!" he exclaimed. "real set he must have been on makin' you feel to home, miss vail--an' never said a word to no one, neither." "yes," said helena, "isn't it pretty? and did he really fix this up for me all by himself?"--she was looking at madison, as she stood in the center of the room beside the patriarch. "must have," said madison, surveying the room. it wasn't luxurious, the little chamber, nor was there over much of furniture, nor was that even of a high order--there was a bed with a red-checkered crazy-quilt; a washstand with severe, heavy white crockery; a rocking chair, homemade, of hickory; a rag mat, round, many-colored; and white muslin curtains on the windows. it wasn't luxurious, the little chamber--it was fresh and sweet and clean. upon the patriarch's face was a sort of pleased expectancy, and helena promptly took his arm and pressed it affectionately. "isn't it perfectly dear of him!" she said softly. "to think of him going to all this trouble for me when he could scarcely see!" "well, 'tain't no more'n you deserve," said mr. higgins gallantly, as he slewed the trunk around against the wall. "i'll lug them other trunks in myself, ain't but small ones, they ain't"--and he hurried from the room, as though fearful that madison might secure a share in the honors. "i guess you've made a hit with mr. higgins, helena," observed madison, with a grin. "have i?" returned helena absently; then abruptly: "this is a real nice lay you've steered me into, john madison." "yes; not bad," said madison complacently. "bring your uncle into the front room, helena; and then you can get hiram to show you the well and the old oaken bucket and where the pantries and cupboards are, he knows more about them than i do--it's pretty near time for you to be thinking about getting supper." "are you going to stay for it?" inquired helena pertly. "for the first attempt!" ejaculated madison, with a wry face. "good heavens, no! i'm just convalescing from a serious illness." in the front room madison settled himself to a study of the patriarch's beaming, happy face, while helena under mr. higgins' attentive guidance explored the cottage. "d'ye know, old chap," he said, and leaned across the table to touch the patriarch's hand, "i feel like a blooming philanthropist. an outsider might think i was playing you pretty low and taking advantage of you, and even helena's got a budding hunch that way it seems--but just think of the mess you'd have been in if it wasn't for me, just think of the good you're going to do, and just look at yourself and see how pleased and happy you look." the patriarch smiled responsively to the touch upon his hand. "of course you are," said madison affably. presently there came the sound of an axe busily at work, and a moment later helena came laughingly into the room. "he's filling up the wood-box," she explained, and darting across to madison put her arms around his neck. "aren't you going to tell me you're glad to see me?" she whispered coyly. "oh, i've been longing so for you! kiss me"--she held out tempting little red lips, invitingly pursed up. "nix on that!" said madison, smiling but firm, as he disengaged her arms. "soft pedal, helena, my dear." "but he can't see or hear," pouted helena. "i should hope not!" said madison, with a gasp. "but you never know who else might, or when they might--we begin right, and run no risks--see? people have a charming habit of dropping around informally here--everybody's at home." "don't you love me any more?" inquired helena, unconvinced, and still pouting. "of course, i do!" asserted madison, laughing at her. "don't be a goose, helena. you remember what i told you all in the roost, don't you? well, i haven't been living in a maine village ten days or two weeks for nothing, and what i said then goes now more than ever. now, don't get sore, kid--there's a big stake up, and if we're going to play the game we've got to play it to the limit. we live perfectly, ultra-proper, decent lives, mentally, morally, physically, till we beat it out of here for keeps." "ain't we going to have a nice time!" murmured helena sarcastically. "oh, cheer up!" said madison. "it may be quiet for a day or two--but not much longer than that. now tell me about the flopper and pale face before higgins gets back--have they got things straight? and pat your uncle's hand while you talk, helena--get the habit." "i don't have to get the habit," said helena a little crossly, perching herself on the arm of the patriarch's chair and taking his hand. "i think he's a perfect dear, and for us to sit here and take advantage of him when he trusts us is--" "now cut that out," said madison cheerfully. "think of those gondolas in venice when we get through with this--that'll make you feel better. go on about the flopper and pale face--can the flopper speak any english yet?" helena laughed in spite of herself. "i've had a dream of a time with him," she said. "he's broken his neck trying, at any rate; and he's not so bad as he was--quite." "good!" said madison. "and?" "i read them your last letter saying they were to come together and work the train on the way down," she continued. "the flopper got the postmaster's letter, too." "how did it size up as a testimonial?" inquired madison. helena's dark eyes flashed with amusement. "lovely!" "too thick--fishy?" asked madison. "oh, no," said helena, "not if you have faith--just strong. it's all right, though; i told him he could use it--it's a drawing card in itself, for some of them would be curious enough to get off and see the finish. everything is all fixed--they'll be here to-morrow." "good girl!" said madison approvingly. "we'll pull it off out there on the lawn where all the multitude can see--you'll have to lead his nibs out and guide him to the flopper while the hush falls and you look kind of scared--you know the lay. there's no one can touch you when it comes to playing up to the house. and now, there's just one thing more--you'll need some one around here to help you and keep an eye on the offerings when they begin to come in. well, that's the flopper's rôle in the second act--see? overwhelmed with gratitude at his cure, he attaches himself to the patriarch with dog-like fidelity--beautiful thought!--get the idea? and--" "hush!" cautioned helena. "here's mr. higgins coming." "all right," said madison, rising and moving to the door. "i'm going now, then--guess you understand. see you in the morning for the final touches. tell mr. higgins i'm waiting outside for him to drive me home." he raised his voice. "good afternoon, miss vail," he said, and stepped out onto the lawn. --viii-- in which the bait is nibbled there was a group around the flopper on the portland platform beside the bar harbor express; some wore pitying expressions, others smiled a little tolerantly--pale face harry, from the circle, sneered openly. "nutty!" he coughed, and touched his forehead. "nothing doing in the upper story--some one ought to look after him." the flopper, a crippled thing on the ground, fixed pale face harry with a pointed forefinger. "youse don't look like you had many weeps to spare for anybody but yerself--yer fallin' to pieces," said the flopper. "i didn't ask you nor any of youse to butt in--i was talkin' to dis lady here"--he motioned toward a young woman in a wheeled, invalid chair, who, between a trained nurse on one side and a gentleman on the other, was regarding him with a startled expression in her eyes. she turned now and spoke to the gentleman beside her. "robert," she said, in a low, anxious tone, "do you think that--that there can be anything in it?" "have you lost your head, naida?" the man laughed. "the age of miracles has passed." "but he is so _sure_," she whispered. "poppycock!" said her companion contemptuously. the flopper, in good, if unfashionable and ready-made clothes, fresh linen, and a clean shave, turned a bright, intelligent face on the man at this remark. "i guess youse are de kind," he said, with a grim smile, "dat ain't had to kill yerself worryin' much about any kind of trouble, an' it ain't nothin' to you to cut de ground of hope out from another guy's feet an' let him slide. mabbe you think i'm nutty too, because i know i'm goin' to be cured--but it don't hurt you none to have me think so, does it? mabbe someday you might like to hope a little yerself, an' if--" "'board! all aboard!"--the conductor's voice boomed down the platform. the young woman leaned forward in her chair toward the flopper. "i know what it is to hope," she said softly. "will you come back into our car after awhile? i'd like to have you tell me more about this. please do." "sure," said the flopper amiably. "sure, mum, i will, if youse wants me to." the crowd broke up, hurrying for the train; and the flopper, dragging a valise along beside him, jerked himself toward the steps. "swipe me, if i ain't got a bite already!" said the flopper to himself. "an' outer a private car, too--wouldn't dat bump you! an' say, wait till you see de doc t'row up his dukes when he listens to me handin' out me sterilized english!" the brakeman and a kindly-hearted fellow passenger helped the flopper into the train--and thereafter for an hour or more, in a first class coach, the flopper held undisputed sway. the passengers, flocking from the other cars, filled the aisle and seriously interfered with the lordly movements of the train crew, challenging the conductor's authority with passive indifference until that functionary, exasperated beyond endurance, threatened to curtail the ride the flopper had paid for and put him off at the next station--whereat the passive attitude of the passengers vanished. the american public is always interested in a novelty, and on occasions is not to be gainsaid--the american public, as represented by the patrons of the bar harbor express, was interested at the moment in the flopper, and they passed the conductor from hand to hand--it was the only way he could have got through the car--and deposited him outside in the vestibule to tell his troubles to the buffer-plate. the flopper was in deadly, serious earnest; there was no doubt, no possible room for doubt on that score--one had but to look at the flush upon his cheeks and note the ring of conviction in his voice. even pale face harry's gibes and sneers melted before the unshakable assurance, and he became, with reservations, noticeably impressed. a metropolitan newspaper man was struck with the idea of a humorous series of articles to pay for his vacation, entitled, "characters i have met in maine"--and forthwith, perched on the back of the seat behind the flopper, proceeded to sketch out the first one, with the mental determination to get off at needley for the local color necessary to its climax. a soap drummer nudged a fellow drummer whose line was lingerie. "ever do needley?" he grinned. the lingerie exponent had a sense of humor--he grinned back. "my house is everlastingly rubbing it into me to open up new territory," said the soap salesman. "me too," responded the white-goods man. "needley," said he of the soap persuasion, "would be virgin soil for any drummer." "i'd like to see the finish," said the lingerie man--still grinning. "well?" inquired the soap man--still grinning. "what do you say?" "you bet!" said the man with eight trunks full of daintiness in the baggage car ahead. "it's needley for ours--you're on!" the flopper was an artist--and he was in his glory. where his position was indubitably weak, he side-stepped with the frank admission that he knew no more than they. he knew only one thing, and that was the only thing he cared about, the rest made no odds to him, he was going down to needley to be cured--and he let them see mr. higgins' letter. a porter from the rear car squirmed and wriggled his way down to the seat occupied by the flopper. "mistah tho'nton, sah," he announced importantly, "would like to see you in his private car, if you could done make it convenient, sah." "sure!" said the flopper. the passengers crowded up, standing on the seats and arm-rests, to make room for the flopper to crawl down the aisle, while the porter preceded him to open the doors. through the car in the rear of the one he had occupied, the regular parlor car, the flopper, a piteous spectacle, made his way--chairs turned, the occupants craned their necks after the deformed and broken creature, while smothered exclamations and little cries of sympathy from the women followed him along. the flopper's eyes never lifted from the strip of carpet before him, but his lips moved. "gee!" he muttered. "dis has de gape-wagon skun a mile. wish i could pass de hat--i'd make de killin' of me young life. pipe de hydrogen hair on de gran'mother wid de sparkler on her thumb an' weeps in her eyes, an' look at de guy wid de yellow gloves rolled back on his wrists to heighten de intelligint look on his face, dat she's kiddin'--i could play dem to a fare-thee-well if i only had de chanst. oh, gee!"--the flopper sighed--"an' i got to let it go!" with regret still poignantly affecting him, the flopper passed on into the private car, and the porter ushered him into a sort of combination observation and sitting-room compartment. the flopper's eyes lifted and made a quick, comprehensive tour of his surroundings. the young woman who had spoken to him on the platform was reclining on a couch; the nurse sat on the foot of the couch; and the man was tilted back in an armchair against the window. the young woman raised herself to a sitting posture and held out her hand. "i am mrs. thornton," she said, with a smile. "this is my husband, and this is miss harvey, my nurse. it was very good of you to come, mr.--?" she paused invitingly. "coogan," supplied the flopper. "michael coogan." "let me offer you a chair, mr. coogan," said thornton, a little ironically, pushing one toward the flopper. "or would you be more comfortable on the floor?" the flopper's eyelids fell--covering a quick, ugly glint. "t'anks!" he said--and swung himself, by his arms, into the chair. "i want you to tell me all about this strange man in needley, and how you came to hear of him and believe in him," said mrs. thornton. "i was only able to get just the barest outline of it out there on the platform with the crowd around." "dat's easy," said the flopper earnestly. "sure, i'll tell you. i saw a piece about dis patriarch in one of de noo yoik papers, so i writes to de postmaster of de town to find out if he was on de level--see?" "yes," said mrs. thornton. "and what did the postmaster say?" the flopper took hiram higgins' letter from his pocket and handed it to mrs. thornton. "youse can read it fer yerself, mum," he said, with an air of one delivering a final and irrefutable argument. mrs. thornton read the letter carefully, almost anxiously. "if only a part of this is true," she said wistfully, passing it to her husband, "it is perfectly wonderful." mr. thornton read it--with a grin. "i don't know, i am sure," he observed caustically, handing the letter to miss harvey, "how the medical profession would stand on this--would your school endorse it, nurse?" miss harvey read it with her back to the others--then she glanced at mrs. thornton--and checked herself as she was about to speak. she folded the letter slowly and returned it to the flopper without comment. robert thornton, master of millions, hard-headed and practical for all his youth, leaned forward in his chair toward the flopper. "look here," he said bluntly, "you don't mean to say that you believe this seriously, do you?" "oh, no!" said the flopper softly. "nothin' like dat! of course i don't believe it! i'm only guyin' myself--see? i'm just goin' dere fer fun--an' spendin' me last red to get dere. say"--his voice snapped--"wot do youse t'ink i am, anyway?" "surely, robert," said mrs. thornton gently, "it is evident enough that he believes it." thornton did not look at her--he was still gazing at the flopper, his brows knitted. "how long have you been like this?" he demanded sharply. "all me life," said the flopper. "i was born dat way." "and you expect to go down here and by some means, which i must confess is quite beyond my ability to grasp, be cured in a miraculous manner!"--thornton smiled tolerantly. "sure, i do!" asserted the flopper doggedly. "if he's done it fer de crowd dere, why can't he do it fer me? didn't de postmaster say all yer gotter have is faith? well, i got de faith--an' i got it hard enough to stake all i got on it. dis time to-morrow--say, dis time to-morrow i wouldn't change places wid any man in de united states." thornton's tolerant smile deepened. "i guess you're sincere enough," he said; "and i'm not trying to cut the ground of hope out from under your feet, as you put it out on the platform--but it seems to me that it is only the kindly thing to do to warn you that the more faith you put in a thing like this the worse you are making it for yourself--you are laying up a bitter disappointment in store that can only make your present misfortune the more unbearable." the flopper shook his head. "if he's done it fer others, he can do it fer me," he repeated, with unshaken conviction. "an' dat goes--i can't lose." thornton tilted his chair back again, and stared at the flopper with pitying incredulity. there was silence for a moment; then mrs. thornton spoke. "robert," she said slowly, "i want to stop at needley." the front legs of thornton's chair came down on the heavy carpet with a dull thud, and he whirled around in his seat to stare at his wife. "you don't mean to say, naida," he gasped, "that you've got faith in this thing, too!" "no; not faith," she answered pathetically. "i hardly dare to _hope_. i have hoped so much in the last year, and--" "but this is sheer nonsense!" thornton broke in with irritable impatience. "i can understand this man here, in a way--he has the superstition, if you like to call it that, due to lack of education, if he'll pardon my saying so in his presence; but you, naida, surely you can't take any stock in it!" she smiled at him a little wanly. "i have told you that i didn't even dare to hope," she said. "but i want to see--i want to see. i have tried sanatoriums and consulted specialists until it has all become a nightmare to me and i am no better--i sometimes think i never shall be any better." "but," exploded thornton, rising from his chair, "that's nothing to do with this--this is rank foolishness! nurse, you--" miss harvey, too, had risen, and was regarding mrs. thornton anxiously. "it is better to humor her than to excite her," she said in a low voice. mrs. thornton had dropped back on the couch and her face was turned away from the others, but she stretched out her hand to her husband. "i am not asking very much, robert, dear--am i?" she said. "not very much. won't you do this for me?" thornton bit his lips and scowled at the flopper. "well, i'll be damned!" he muttered--and moving to the side of the car pushed a bell-button viciously. "sam," he snapped, as his colored man appeared, "go and tell the conductor that i want my car put off on the siding at needley." "yes, sah," said sam. thornton sat down again heavily. "mabbe," announced the flopper tactfully, "mabbe i'd better be gettin' back to me valise--we're most dere, ain't we?" mrs. thornton turned toward him. "no; please don't go, mr. coogan--it's too hard for you to get through the train. sam will get your things as soon as he comes back. do stay right where you are until we get to needley." "no; don't think of going, mr. coogan," said thornton savagely. the flopper looked at mrs. thornton gratefully, and at mr. thornton thoughtfully. "t'anks!" said the flopper pleasantly--and wriggled himself into a more comfortable position in his chair. half an hour later, the train, that stopped only on signal to discharge eastbound passengers from portland, drew up at needley--and hiram higgins, on the platform, stared at a scene never before witnessed in the history of the town. it was not one passenger, or two, or three, that alighted--they streamed in a bewildering fashion from every vestibule of every car. it is true that the majority got back into the train later, but that did not lessen the effect any on mr. higgins. mr. higgins' jaw dropped, and he grabbed at his chin whiskers for support. "merciful daylights!" he breathed heavily. "now what in the land's sakes be it all about?" his eyes, following the hurrying passengers, fixed on the twisted shape of the flopper, being helped to the platform from the private car. "three cheers for coogan!" yelled some excitable passenger. the cheers were given with a will. "good luck to you, coogan!" shouted another--and the crowd took it up in chorus: "good luck to you, coogan!" "_coogan!_"--mr. higgins' face paled, and he took a firmer grip on his whiskers. "now if you ain't gone an' put your fool foot in it, hiram higgins," he said miserably. "if that there's the fellow that you writ to, you've just laid out to make a plumb fool of the patriarch, 'cause i reckon the almighty knew his own mind when he made a critter like that, an' didn't calc'late to have his work upsot much this side of the grave--not even by the patriarch." --ix-- the pilgrimage faith is an inheritance common to the human race; and the human race in its daily life, in its daily dealings, man to man, could not go on without it--but faith is a matter of degree. faith, in the abstract, the element of it, is inborn in every soul; and while dormant, until put to a crucial test along any given line, is boundless and unlimited--a sort of tacitly accepted, existing state, unquestioned. faith in many is a sturdy, virile thing--to a certain point. it is the fire that proves. needley had faith in the patriarch--a faith that never before had been questioned. but needley had more than that--needley held the patriarch in affection, as a cherished thing, almost sacredly, almost as an idol. faith the simple people of needley had always had--to a certain point--but it faltered before this grotesque, inhuman, twisted shape that squatted in the road before the congress hotel like a hideous caricature of an abnormal toad. their faith failed to bridge the span that gave the patriarch power over such as this, and they saw their idol shattered in their own eyes, and held up to mockery before the eyes of these strangers who had so suddenly and tempestuously swarmed upon them. hiram higgins, seeking out doc madison inside the hotel, was in a state bordering on distraction. "i druve him over from the station 'cause he couldn't walk, him an' a man, an' two women, an' a wheel-chair," mr. higgins explained. "but what's to be done now? he wants me to drive him out to the patriarch's. i got faith in the patriarch, but i never said he could work miracles--there ain't no one on earth could straighten that critter out. don't stand to reason that the patriarch's to be made a fool of." "certainly not," agreed madison emphatically. "it's most unfortunate. i suppose all of us here in needley"--he looked around at the assembled group of leading citizens--"feel the same way, too?" "of course we do," said mr. higgins helplessly. "couldn't feel no ways else." madison laid his hand suddenly, impressively, upon mr. higgins' shoulder and looked meaningly into mr. higgins' eyes--and into the eyes of the selectmen, the overseers of the poor, the general-store proprietor, and the school committee. "don't drive him over, then," he said significantly. "don't any of the rest of you do it either--and tell everybody else not to. make him _crawl_. if he's determined to go, let him get there by himself if he can, make him crawl--he'll never be able to do it." "that's so," said mr. higgins, brightening, while the others nodded; then, dubiously: "but s'pose he _does_ get there--how be we goin' to stop him?" "if he can get there by himself you can't stop him," said madison seriously. "you can't do anything like that. to use force would be carrying things too far, and would only place the patriarch in a worse light. if this fellow--what's his name?--coogan?--can crawl there, let him--that's his own business. none of _us_ are encouraging him, the patriarch didn't ask him to come, and no one has a right to expect miracles--so it can't hurt the patriarch seriously under those conditions. besides, if this coogan has got faith enough to crawl that mile, who knows what might happen--make him crawl." mr. higgins, with a grim nod, headed a determined exodus from the hotel office--and madison strolled out onto the veranda. needley was in a furor. the news spread like an oil-fed conflagration. the farmers left their work in the fields and hurried into the village; from the houses and cottages came the women and children to cluster around the congress hotel; from the station, scarcely of less interest to the inhabitants than the flopper himself, straggled in those curious enough to have left the train, nearly a dozen of them--and amongst them pale face harry coughed, as he trudged laboriously along. larger and larger grew the circle around the flopper, filling and blocking the road, overflowing into front yards, and massing on the little lawn of the hotel clear up to the veranda--until fields and houses were deserted, and to the last inhabitant needley was there. upon the ground squatted the flopper, his eyes sweeping the ring of faces that was like a wall around him--the grinning faces of his fellow passengers from the train; the stony, concerned and rather sullen faces of the men of needley; the anxious, excited faces of the women; the bewildered, curious and somewhat frightened faces of the children, who pushed and shoved their elders for better vantage ground. the flopper licked his lips, and renewed the appeal he had been making for nearly five minutes. "ain't no one goin' to drive me out to de patriarch's?" "horses are all busy in the fields," said a voice, uncompromisingly. "yes," said the flopper, with bitter irony, "drivin' each other around, while youse are here starin' at me an' won't help." his eyes caught doc madison's from the veranda and held an instant to read a message and interpret the almost imperceptible, but significant, movement of madison's head. "gee!" said the flopper to himself, as his eyes swept the faces around him again. "dis is a nice game de doc's planted on me--he wants me to do de wiggle out dere fer de rubes! ain't dey a peachy lot--look at de saucer eyes on de kids!" mrs. thornton, in her wheel-chair on the inner edge of the circle, turned to her husband. "it's very strange that no one seems willing to drive him," she said. "oh, not very," responded thornton, with a short laugh. "i don't blame them--they don't want this healer of theirs made a monkey of." "if no one will drive him, he shall have my wheel-chair," announced mrs. thornton impulsively. "i think it is a perfect shame--the poor man!" "nonsense!" said thornton gruffly. "you'll do nothing of the kind." "yes, robert, i will," declared mrs. thornton with determination. she leaned forward and called to the flopper. "mr. coogan," she said anxiously, "if you can't find any other way of getting out there, i want you to take this chair of mine--you'll be able to manage with it, i am sure." the flopper looked at her with gratitude--but shook his head--mindful of doc madison. "t'anks, mum," he said, "but i couldn't t'ink of it--you needs it more'n me." "please do," she insisted. "t'anks, mum," said the flopper again, "but i couldn't. you needs it, an' i can get along widout it. dey're stallin' on me, but i can get dere by myself if any one'll show me de way." "i'll show you, mister," piped a shrill voice--and young holmes on his crutch hopped into the circle. "i'll show you, mister--an' 'tain't fur, neither." "swipe me!" muttered the flopper, as he surveyed the lad. "dis is de limit fer fair!" perturbed and uncertain what to do, he tried to catch doc madison's eye again, but a movement in the crowd had hidden madison. some one in the crowd, the lingerie drummer, getting the grim humor of the situation, laughed--and the laugh came like a challenge, taunting the quick-tempered, turbulent soul of the flopper. "come on, mister!" urged the boy excitedly. "'tain't fur--i'll show you." "god bless you, son," said the flopper, while he flung an inward curse at the man who had laughed. "son, god bless you fer yer good heart--go ahead--i'll stick to you." the crowd opened, making a lane through which the boy stumped on his crutch, his face flushed and eager, and through which the flopper followed, slowly, rocking from side to side as he helped himself along with the palm of his left hand flat in the dust of the road, trailing his wobbling leg behind him. the crowd closed in behind and moved forward. mrs. thornton's face was fever-flushed, her eyes bright; in her weak state she was on the verge of nervous hysteria. "i want to go, robert," she cried. "i must go." "but, my dear," protested thornton harshly, "this is simply the height of absurdity. for heaven's sake be sensible, naida. just imagine what people would say if they saw us here with this outfit of idiots--they'd think we'd gone mad." "i don't care what they'd think," she returned feverishly, her frail fingers plucking nervously at the arms of her chair. "i must go--i must--i must." thornton glanced at the nurse, then stared at his wife--miss harvey's meaning look was hardly necessary to drive home to him the fact that mrs. thornton was in no condition to be denied anything. red-faced, thornton strode to the back of the chair and began to push it along. "of all the damned foolishness that ever i heard of," he gritted savagely, "this is the worst!" his face went redder still with mortification. "if this ever leaks out i'll never hear the last of it. look at us--bringing up the rear of a gibbering mob of yokels! we're fit for a padded cell!" in the crowd, madison rubbed shoulders for a moment with pale face harry. "who's the party with the wheel-chair behind?" he asked. "millionaire--chicago--private car--flopper's got the wife going hard--rode down with them," coughed pale face harry behind his hand. "i guess i'll get acquainted," said madison. "circulate, harry, and cough your head off--don't hide your light under a bushel--circulate." and madison fell back to scrape acquaintance with the man of millions. close-packed upon the road, the procession spread out for a hundred yards behind the flopper--bare-footed children; women in multi-colored gingham and calico; men in the uncouth dress of the fields, the uncouthness accentuated by the sprinkling of more pretentious clothing worn by those who had come from the train. and slowly, very slowly, this conglomerate human cosmorama moved on, undulating queerly with the variant movements of its component parts, snail-like, for the flopper's pace was slow--as strange a spectacle, perhaps, as the human eye had ever witnessed, something of grimness, something of humor, something of awe, something of fear exuding from it--it seemed to contain within itself the range, and to express, the gamut of all human emotion. on the procession went--so slowly as to be almost sinister in its movement. and a strange sound rose from it and seemed to float and hover over it like a weird, invisible, acoustic canopy. three hundred voices, men's, women's and children's, rose and fell, rose and fell--at first in a medley of scoffings, laughter, sullen murmurs, earnest dispute and children's prattle--a strange composite sound indeed! but as the minutes passed and the mass moved on and stopped as the flopper paused to rest, and moved on and stopped and moved on again, gradually this changed, very gradually, not abruptly, but as though the scoffings and the laughter were dying away almost imperceptibly in the distance. for as the flopper stopped to rest, those near him gazed upon his face, distorted, full of muscular distress, sweat pouring from his forehead, pain and suffering written in every lineament--and drew back whispering into the crowd, giving place to others until all had seen. and so the strange sound from this strange congregation grew lower, until it was a sort of breathless, long-sustained and wavering note, a prescience, a premonition of something to come, a ghastly mockery or a tragedy to befall, until it was an awe-struck murmuring thing. some spoke to him now and in pity offered to get him a horse and wagon, offered even to carry him--but the flopper shook his head. "'tain't goin' to be but a few minutes now," he panted in an exalted voice, "before i'm cured--i got de faith to know dat--i got de faith." and the crippled lad upon the crutch beside him urged him on. the boy's face was strained and eager, full of mingled emotions--pride in the leading part he played, wonder and expectancy. "come on, mister, come on!" he kept saying, impatiently accommodating his own restricted pace to the flopper's still slower one. through the wagon track, through the woods beneath the trees, the dead, slow, shuffling tread went on--and now even the murmuring sound was hushed. men and women stared into each other's faces--children sought their elders' hands. what did it mean? faith--yes, they had had faith--but never faith like this. they looked at the awful deformity over one another's heads, crawling inch by inch along before them--watched the stubborn, bitter struggle of pain and suffering of the wretched man who led them, spurred on by a faith cast in a heroic mold such as none there had ever dreamed of before--and they spoke no more. there was only the sound of movement now--and that curiously subdued. men seemed to choose their footing, seeking to tread noiselessly, as though in some solemn presence that awed them and held them in an intangible, heart-quickening suspense. onward they went--following the lurching, wriggling, reeling, broken thing before them--following the flopper, his right hand and arm curved piteously inward to his chin, his neck thrown sideways, his sagging leg seeming to hold only to his body by spasmodic jerks to catch up with the body itself, like the steel when detached from the magnet that bounds forward to re-attach itself again, his eyes starting from his head, his face bloodless with exertion and twisted as fearfully as were his limbs, but upon his lips a smile of resolution, of indomitable assurance. onward they went--a huddled mass of humanity, literate and illiterate, of all ages, of all conditions, and none laughed, none grinned, none smiled, none spoke--all that was past. they stopped, they moved again--as the flopper stopped and moved. occasionally a child cried out--occasionally there came a discordant, racking cough--that was all. tenser grew the very atmosphere they breathed--heavier upon them fell the sense of something almost supernatural, beyond the human and the finite. skeptic and faint believer, sinner, christian and scoffer, they were all alike now in the presence of a faith whose evidence was before them in harrowing vividness, in the torment and agony of a fellow creature who sought again through faith a restoration to the image of his kind. there was no creed, no school of ethical belief, no conflicting orthodoxy to quibble over, no ground on which atheist and theologian even might stand apart--there was only _faith_--a faith whose trappings none might take issue with, for it was naked faith and the trappings were stripped from it--it was faith in its very essence, boundless, utter, simple, limitless, staggering, appalling them. its consummation? that was another thing--a thing that in the presence of such faith as this brought human pity, sympathy and sorrow to its full, brought dread and terror. faith such as this they had never conceived; faith such as this, if it was to prove a shattered thing, was for its exponent to drink the very dregs of misery and despair--and yet, rising above that possibility, flinging grim challenge at their doubts, stood this very faith, mighty in itself, perfect in its confidence, heroic in its agony, that all might gaze upon from a common standpoint and know--as faith. no whispering breeze stirred the young leaves in the trees; in the stillness of the afternoon came only the heavy, pulsing throb of nature's breathing. one hundred, two, three hundred, they moved along, slow, sinuous, troubled, their eyes straight before them or upon the ground at their feet--only the children looked with frightened, startled eyes into their parents' faces, and clung the closer. out upon the wagon track they debouched and spread in a long, thin line beneath the maples on either side of the flopper--and waited. --x-- the miracle there was utter silence now--the tread of shuffling feet was gone--no man moved--it seemed as though no man _breathed_--they stood as carven things, inanimate, men, women and children strained forward, their faces drawn, tense and rigid. in the very air, around them, everywhere, imprisoning them, clutching like an icy hand at the heart, something unseen, a dread, intangible presence weighed them down and lay heavy upon them. what was to come? what drear tragedy was to be enacted? what awful mockery was to fall upon this maimed and mutilated creature within whose deformed and pitiful body there too was a human soul? from the cottage door across the lawn came two figures--a girl in simple, clinging white, her head bowed, the sun itself seeming to caress the dark brown wealth of hair upon her head, changing it to glinting strands of burnished copper; and beside her walked the patriarch, his hand resting lightly upon her arm, a wondrous figure of a man, majestic, simple, grand, his silvered-hair bared to the sun, his face illumined. "there he is, mister!" whispered young holmes hoarsely. "there he is! go on, mister, go on--see what he can do for you!" there came a sound that was like a great, gasping intake of breath, as men and women watched. out toward the patriarch, alone now, the flopper began to wriggle and writhe his way along. god in heaven have pity! what was this sight they looked upon--this poor, distorted, mangled thing that grovelled in the earth--that figure towering there in the sunlight with venerable white beard and hair, erect, symbolic of some strange, mystic power that awed them, his head turned slightly in a curious listening attitude, the sightless eyes closed, upon the face a great calm like a solemn benediction. fell a stillness that was as the stillness of death; came a hush until in men's ears was the quick, fierce pound and throb of their own hearts. on, on toward the patriarch slithered and twisted that frightful deformity that they had followed over that long, torturing mile--on, on he went, and they watched scarce drawing breath, their faces white, their very limbs held as in a palsied, fearsome spell--and then, sudden, abrupt, terrifying, there rose a shriek, wild, hysterical, prolonged, in a woman's voice, the cadence wavering from guttural to shrill and ending in a high-pitched, broken scream. the flopper halted and turned himself about, while his left hand swept his livid face, brushing from it the spurting drops, sweeping back the damp, tangled hair from his eyes--faced them till they saw an agony on human countenance that struck, stabbing, to their souls--faced them while his eyes traversed the long, long line of ghastly white faces before him, out of which eyes everywhere, row on row of them, straining, fixed, fascinated, seemed to burn like living fires as they held him in their focus. he had not gone far, perhaps ten yards--no more. by the group around the wheel-chair, almost in the center of the line, stood madison, his chin in his hand in a meditative, thoughtful attitude, the single soul who watched the scene from under lowered lids; thornton had involuntarily edged a little forward from behind the chair until he stood now at its side in a strange, abashed way as though his own personality were over-ruled, obliterated, his face with a white sternness upon it, his eyes, like all other eyes, agleam with an unnatural fire; mrs. thornton had pulled herself forward in the chair, one hand clutching at her breast, the frail fingers of the other woven in a grasp so tight around the arm of the chair that the flesh was bloodless; a little way off, a group of three, the two salesmen and the metropolitan newspaper man, seemed as though stricken into stone, stripped of all assurance, all complacence, awed, tense, palpitant, as the patched, bare-legged tatterdemalion of ten from the fields, that stood beside them, was awed and tense and palpitant. and away on either side stretched the line of white, rigid faces, the never-ending, burning eyes--but the silence with that shriek was gone now, for another woman and another, overwrought, needing but that sudden shock to unnerve them utterly, shrieked in turn--and through the line seemed to run a shudder, and it moved a little though no foot stirred, moved with a strange, sinuous, rocking, swaying movement, from the hips, backward and forward and to either side. men raised their eyes, stole frightened, questioning glances at their neighbors--and fixed their eyes on the flopper again--on the flopper and that majestic figure in the center of the lawn, so calm of mien, of attitude and pose. once again the flopper's eyes swept the scene. a few feet in advance of the crowd, as though drawn irresistibly forward, young holmes hung upon his crutch. the boy's soul seemed in his face--hope, a world of it, as he gazed at the patriarch, sickening fear as he looked at the flopper; his lips moving without sound, his body trembling with emotional excitement. still once again the flopper's eyes swept the line of men and women and children, fast reaching toward a common ungovernable hysteria--and then he turned with an unbalanced, impotent, broken movement, flung out his good arm toward the patriarch in piteous supplication, and, jerking himself forward, went on. slowly, very slowly at first, he resumed his way, crawling it seemed by no more than a painful inch on inch, in mortal pain, in mortal agony and struggle--then gradually his movements began to quicken, as though growing upon him were a mad, elated haste that he could not control--quicker and quicker he went, pitching and lurching wildly; from a pace that was beyond him. a strange, low, moaning sound rose from behind him, fluttering, inarticulate, that voiceless utterance that seeks to find some vent for human emotion when human emotion sweeps with mighty surge to engulf the soul. it rose and died away and rose again--and died away--and children began to whimper with a fear and terror that they did not understand, and seeking solace in their elders' faces found added cause for fear instead. nearer to that saintly figure who stood so calm, so quiet, the massive white-locked head still turned a little in that curious listening attitude, beside whom, close drawn now, was that white-clad girlish form, whose eyes were lowered, whose sweet face seemed to hold a heaven of pity and infinite compassion, upon whose lips there was a smile of divine tenderness, drew that piteous mockery of the image of a man, whose every movement appeared one of agony beyond human power to endure--and the agony found echo in the watchers' souls, and a low, muffled groan as of men in pain and hurt, ran tremulously along the line. still nearer to the patriarch drew the flopper. more heart-rending was his every movement, for with his quickened pace he sought to move without the aid of the only member that was as other men's, his left hand and arm that, in pleading, yearning supplication, was stretched out before him to the patriarch. the extreme ends of the long line of watchers curled a little inward, almost imperceptibly, a half step taken without volition. the crippled boy, swaying upon his crutch, his lips parted, trembling in every limb, edged forward hesitantly, fearfully, now a foot, now another, now the bare space of a single inch. and now down the entire length of the line from end to end that wavering, rocking movement in swaying, pregnant unison grew stronger--men knew not what they did--it seemed the very air they breathed must smother them--and, in that dull, weird, lingering note, rose again the sound of moaning that seemed to beat in consonance with the distant mournful rhythm of the endless beat of surf on shore. women clutched at their breasts now; men's knuckles went white beneath the tight-drawn skin; the children drew behind their mothers' skirts and, terror-stricken, cried aloud. surcharged, on the edge, the bare and ragged edge of frenzy now was every man and woman in the crowd. it was a sight, a spectacle that racked them in every fibre of their beings, that stirred them to pity, to hope, to fear, until the awful misery of this blighted and crawling thing was their own in its every twitch of agony--that struck them with a terror, the greater because it was indefinable, a prescience, a reaching out beyond human realm, the invoking of a supernal power--the thought of which very power, once loosed, chilled them with panic-dread. yet still they watched--it was beyond their power to turn their eyes--enthralled, a moaning, swaying, rocking mob, they watched. madness was creeping upon them rampant. like a mighty tide, the ocean weight behind it, hurling itself against flood-gates that could never stand, it mounted higher and higher; and already, as the water first seeps between the gates, grim forecast of what was to come, it showed itself now in that long, sobbing, convulsive inhalation, in that strange, sinuous, restless movement. on went the flopper. there was still a yard to go--two feet--_one_. stopped in a sudden deathless hush was all sound. the flopper flung himself forward upon his face at the patriarch's feet. stopped was all movement, haggard and tense every face, strained every eye. for a moment that seemed to span eternity, in a huddled heap, that crippled, twisted thing lay there before them motionless, without sign of life--the venerable face above it, still intent, still listening, turned slowly downwards. then there was a movement, a movement that blanched the watching faces to a more pallid white--that dangling, wobbling leg drew inward slowly, very slowly, and hip and knee, as though guided by some mighty power, immutable, supreme, came deliberately into normal form. a shriek, a cry, a wail, a sob, a prayer--it came now unrestrained--hysteria was loosed in a mad ungovernable orgasm--men clutched at each other and cowered, hiding their faces with their hands--women dropped to their knees and, sobbing, screaming, prayed. loud it rose, the turmoil of human souls aghast and quailing before a manifestation that seemed to fling them face to face, uncovered, naked, before the awful power and majesty and might of heaven itself. they looked again--fearfully. the twisted thing was standing now, standing but still deformed--with crooked neck, with curved, bent, palsied arm. and nearer had drawn little holmes, his head thrust forward, shaking as with the ague as he gazed on the group before him, oblivious to all else around him. a twinge of frightful torture swept the flopper's face--and with that same slow, awful deliberation the misshapen arm straightened out. men cried aloud again and again--a woman fainted, another here, another there--children wailed and ran, some shrieking, some whimpering, for the woods. again the spasm crossed the flopper's face, a shuddering, muscular contortion--and from the shoulder rose his head. inward drew the ends of the line of paroxysm-stricken people--not far, not near to that hallowed group for something held them back; but inward gradually until the line, no longer straight, was half a circle, crescent shaped. louder came that harrowing medley of sounds, its component parts voicing the uttermost depths of the soul of each separate individual man and woman there--some moaned in terror; some prayed, mumbling, still upon their knees; some laughed hoarsely, wildly, their senses for the moment gone; and some were dumb; and some shrieked their prayers in frenzy. louder it grew--the end had come--that deformed thing stood erect, a perfect man--he turned his face toward them--he stretched out his arms--and they answered him with their wails, their sobs, their moans, their cries--they answered him in their terror, in their shaken senses, clutching at each other again--answered him from their knees, their voices hoarse--answered him with trembling lips and tongues that would not move. and then suddenly, as though riven where they stood and kneeled and crouched, all movement ceased--and every heart stood still as ringing clear above all else, shocking all else to stunned, petrified silence, there came a cry--a cry in a young voice. it rang again and again, trembling with glad, new life, vibrant, a cry that seemed to thrill with chords of happiness and ecstasy immeasurable. again it came, again, exultant, pulsing with a mighty joy--young holmes had _flung his crutch from him_, and, with outstretched arms, was running toward the patriarch across the lawn. for an instant more that stunned, awed silence held. all eyes were riveted and fixed upon the scene--none looked at madison--if any had they would have seen that his face had gone an ivory white. --xi-- the aftermath "i am cured, robert! robert! robert! see, i too am cured! oh, robert, what wondrous joy!"--mrs. thornton had left her wheel-chair and was standing beside her husband, standing alone, unaided for the first time in many months. "naida!"--it was a hoarse cry from thornton. then his hand passed heavily across his face as though to force his brain to coherent action, to lift the spell of what seemed a wild phantasm in all around him. "naida!"--he sought now to control his voice--"naida, get back into your chair again." she laughed--a little hysterically--but in the laugh too was the uplift of a soul enraptured. "but i am cured, robert. see, dear, can't you understand?" she shook his arm. "see--i am cured. i can walk just as i could before i was ill. oh, robert, robert! see! see!"--she went from him, walking a little, running a little--and laughing in a low, rippling, glorious laugh that was like the music of silver chimes ringing out in glad acclaim. he stared at her, both hands now to his temples; then he turned to look strangely at the empty chair--but it was not empty. miss harvey, the nurse, on her knees, had flung herself across it and, with buried head, was sobbing unrestrainedly. and now upon the lawn was a scene indescribable. the long line was broken. men and women ran hither and thither, for the most part aimlessly, as though in some strange state of coma where the mind refused its functions. they talked and cried and shouted at each other in frenzy without knowing what they said--some with tears raining down their faces, others with blank countenances, no sign of emotion upon them other than in their wild, dilated eyes. here and there they rushed without volition, their throat-noises rising above them, floating through the still air in a sound that no ear had ever heard before, weird, terrifying, without license, beyond control. like mad creatures rushing against each other in the dark they were, stupified by a sight that was no mortal sight, a sight that blinded them mentally because it was no _human_ sight. faith? faith is a matter of degree, is it not? or is it at its full in power and efficacy at moments when hysteria in paroxysm is at its height? who shall define faith? who shall say what it is, and who shall place its limitations upon it? out in the center of the lawn young holmes was in his mother's arms, the father pathetically trying to wrap both mother and child in his own. around them, attracted in that strange uncertain way, the crowd constantly grew larger. further out again, helena was leading the patriarch toward the cottage, the flopper close behind her--the patriarch walking with a slow tread, his head still turned a little in that listening attitude--and at a distance followed a straggling crowd. then the cottage door was shut--and helena, the patriarch and the flopper disappeared from view. a dozen yards from the wheel-chair stood madison, riveted to the spot, motionless save for a nervous twitching of the lips, his eyes, now upon the invalid who walked about, now on the little lad who had thrown away his crutch. some one plucked at his sleeve, but madison gave no heed--again his arm was pulled, and he turned to look into pale face harry's face. the other's countenance was gray, the eyes full of a shrinking, terrified light. "doc, for god's sake, doc, what's it mean?" whispered pale face harry shakily, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. "doc, this ain't no bunk--there's something in it." the words seemed to rouse madison--to leadership. he stared at pale face harry for a moment, then a grim smile flickered across his face. "something in it!" he repeated with an ironic laugh--and suddenly grabbed pale face harry's arm and shook him. "there's so much in it that i'm drunk with it, crazy with it--but i'm trying to make myself believe it isn't too good to be true. get that? get a grip on that, and hang on. don't lose your nerve, harry!" "i guess i ain't much worse than you," mumbled pale face harry. "you're whiter than a sheet." "you're right," admitted madison frankly. "i'm queer, but i'm coming around. helena seems to be the only one who never lost her grip--she's got the patriarch and the flopper out of the way and under cover. brace up, harry--what i thought we'd get in the roost that night is counterfeit money to what'll come from this." his eyes fastened on a figure that, separating itself from the group around young holmes, now dashed frantically, hatless, and with dishevelled hair to mr. and mrs. thornton. "who's that, harry? he came down on the train with you--know him?" "he's only some newspaper guy or other," answered pale face harry mechanically, his eyes still roving wildly over the scene around him. "oh, is that _all_!" ejaculated madison with a little gasp. "i've already exhausted my thanks to santa claus and here he comes with another package done up in dinky pink paper tied with baby ribbon--and the gold platter it's on goes with it!" "what d'ye mean?" asked pale face harry heavily. the newspaper man, the instinct of his calling now rising paramount to all else, had left the thorntons and was tearing for the wagon track on his way to the station and the telegraph office like one possessed. "by to-morrow morning," said madison softly, "the missionaries will be explaining this to the esquimaux at oo-lou-lou, the near-invalids in california will be packing their trunks, likewise those in the languid shade of the florida palms; they'll be listing it on the stock exchange in new york, and the breath of eden will waft itself o'er plain and valley until--" he stopped suddenly, as mrs. thornton's voice reached him. "i am going to _walk_ back, robert." "yes; but, naida," thornton protested, "you're not strong enough yet." "don't you understand?" she cried, half laughing, half sobbing. "there is no 'yet'--i am cured, dear--_all_ cured. i'm well and strong. try to understand, robert--oh, i'm so happy, so--so thankful. i know it's miraculous, that it's almost impossible to believe--but try to understand." "i am trying to," said thornton numbly, watching her as she moved about. "and it seems as though i were in a dream--that this isn't real--that you're not real." "it's not a dream," she said. "oh, i'm so strong again. why, robert, it would be just as absurd for me to be wheeled back in that chair as for you to be--and besides i have no right to do that now. it would be a sacrilege, profaning the gratitude in my heart--i am cured and these poor people here must see that i am cured--robert, we must leave that wheel-chair here that others, poor sufferers who will come now, will see and believe and be cured too. and, robert, in some way, i do not know just how, we who are rich must do something to help people to get here." "naida," said thornton, his voice low, shaken, "i feel as though i were in another world. i have seen what i can hardly make myself believe that i have seen. i can't explain--i am speaking, but my very voice seems strange to me. i feel as you do about helping others--how could i feel otherwise? what we could do i do not know as yet, either--but i will do anything. i was a scoffing fool--and you were cured before my eyes--a boy was cured--and that other, deformed as no creature was ever deformed before, was cured"--thornton's lips quivered, and he hid his face in his hands. "while the iron is hot--strike," murmured madison. he gazed a moment longer at the group--mrs. thornton's hand was on her husband's shoulder now--then his eyes roved over the frenzied scenes still being enacted everywhere upon the lawn. "i wonder?" he muttered. the frown on his forehead cleared suddenly. "of course!" said he to pale face harry. "it's a cinch--it's as good as done!" pale face harry stared at him queerly. "no, harry," smiled madison, "my pulse is quite normal now, thank you. listen. this is where we call the first showdown on cold hands--and the dealer slips himself an ace." he drew a key from his pocket and put it in pale face harry's hand. "that's the key of the small trunk in my room at the hotel--front room, right hand side of the hall. there's a check-book in the tray--and i'll give you twenty minutes to get back here with it. you'll find me somewhere around here, but you needn't let the whole earth in on the presentation--see? now beat it!" as pale face harry hurried away, madison, seemingly as aimless, as hysterical as the hundreds about him, moved here and there, but unostentatiously he kept nearing the upper end of the lawn, and, finally, hidden by the woodshed at the further end of the cottage, he slipped quickly around to the rear. here the garden stretched almost to the edge of the sandy beach--not a soul was in sight--and the beat of the surf deadened the sound from the front lawn to little more than a low, indistinct murmur. quickly now, madison stepped to where one of the old-fashioned windows, that swung inward from the center like double doors, was open, and, reaching in his hand, tapped sharply twice in succession with his knuckles on the pane. the sill was not quite on a level with his shoulders and he could see inside--it was helena's room, and the door to the hall was open. again he knocked. came then the sound of footsteps--and from the hall the flopper's face peered cautiously around the jamb of the door. "tell helena to come here," called madison softly. the flopper turned his head, called obediently, and in a dazed sort of way came himself to the window. his face was haggard, and he shivered as he licked his lips. "i pulled de stunt," said the flopper in a croaking voice, "but de kid--doc--did youse see de kid? i got de shakes--it's like de whole of hell an' de other place was loose, an' helena's gone batty, an'--pipe her, dere she is." into the room came helena, her face like chalk--all color gone from even her lips. she clutched at the window beside the flopper for support. "i'm frightened," she whispered. "we've gone too far--it's--it's--john madison, i'm frightened." madison did not speak for a moment--madison was a consummate leader. he looked, smiling reassuringly, from one to the other--and then leaned soothingly, confidentially, in over the sill. "i know how you feel--felt just the same myself for a bit," said he quietly. "but now look here, you've got to pull yourselves together--there's nothing to be afraid of. it's natural enough. it's faith, helena--and that's what we were banking on--only not quite so hard. that kid and mrs. thornton annexed the real brand, that's all--and when the genuine thing is on tap i cross my fingers and yell for faith--there's nothing to stop it. and that's the way it's got both of you too, eh? well, that only makes our game the safer and the more certain, doesn't it? so, come on now, pull yourselves together." "in de last act when i was gettin' me head into joint," mumbled the flopper, "was when de kid yelled--i can hear it yet, an'--" "forget it!" madison broke in a little sharply; then, tactfully, his voice full of unbounded admiration: "you're an artist, flopper--a wonder. you pulled the greatest act that was ever on the boards, and you pulled it as no other man on earth could have pulled it. flopper, you make me feel humble when i look at you." "swipe me!" said the flopper, brightening. "d'ye mean it, doc--honest?" "mean it!" ejaculated madison. "you're the whole thing, flopper--you win. come on now, helena, buck up--we've got another little act due in about fifteen minutes--don't let a lot of yowling rubes get your goat. why, say, we've got the whole show on the stampede--and we've got to rush our luck." "sure!" said the flopper. "dat's de way to talk--leave it to de doc every time--. i ain't feazed half de way i was." "i'm all right," said helena a little tremulously. "what is it we're to do?" "good!" said madison, smiling at her approvingly. "that sounds better. now listen--and listen hard. from this minute this cottage is the shrine. get that?--shrine. you've got to keep the hush falling here, and keep it falling all the time--a sort of holy, hallowed silence, understand? lay it on thick--make the crowd stand back--make the guy that comes in here feel as though he ought to come in on his knees and as if he'd be struck dead if he didn't. get the slow music and the low lights working. and keep the patriarch well back of the drop except when he's on for a turn. get me? he's no side-show with a barker in front of the tent--don't forget that for a minute. the harder it is to see the patriarch and the less he's seen, the bigger he plays up when he's on. he goes to no man under any conditions, and the only man or woman that gets to him is through faith and supplication, and a double order of it at that. keep the solemn, breathless tap turned on all the time." helena looked at him with a strange little smile quivering on her lips. "it's a good thing i've got a sense of humor," she said slowly, "or else i think i'd--i'd--" "no, you wouldn't," said madison cheerfully. "but time's flying. you're going to have visitors in a few minutes, and here's where the patriarch gets tucked away out of sight behind the veil for a starter, leaving his presence hovering and throbbing all around in the air--you stay with him, flopper, in a back room somewhere and hold his hand. where is he now?" "in his armchair in the sitting-room," said helena. "and he's still listening in that queer way he did out on the lawn. i think he knows in a little way what's happened." "that's good," said madison; "it'll make him happy. well, lead him gently into retirement. i guess that's all--now hurry." "who is it that's coming?" interposed helena quickly, as madison started away from the window. madison grinned. "some friends of the hopper's. mr. and mrs. thankoffering--you'll like them immensely, helena. the lady walks quite well now, and--" "walks!" exclaimed the flopper, who evidently had not assimilated madison's previous reference to mrs. thornton. "de lady dat i come wid in de private car--_walks_?" "of course," said madison pleasantly. "cured? all cured?" gasped the flopper. "of course," said madison again--complacently. "say," said the flopper, "say, i'm goin' dippy. another one de same as de kid, doc?" "same as the kid, flopper--faith." "swipe me!" said the flopper helplessly. --xii-- "said the spider to the fly" by the wheel-chair, mrs. thornton, her husband and doc madison were in earnest conversation--and around them was a mass of people. the crowd had divided into two, or, rather, was constantly coming and going between two points--young holmes and mrs. thornton--and still the hysteria was upon men and women, still that wavering, moanlike sound floated over the lawn. "i am stunned and stupified," madison was saying, and his hand trembled visibly in its outflung gesture. "i am not, i am afraid, a man of deep sensibilities, but i cannot help feeling that i have been permitted, been chosen even, to witness this sight, a sight that will stay with me till i die, for some great, ulterior purpose. it's as though this place were hallowed, set apart; that here, if only one has faith, that man's miraculous power is boundless--that i should help someway. i--i'm afraid i don't explain myself well." "i know what you mean," mrs. thornton returned eagerly. "it is what i was saying to my husband--to make this place known, to help to bring suffering people here." madison nodded silently. "and if you, who have no personal cause for gratitude, feel like that, how much more should we who--who--oh, there are no words to tell it--my heart is too full"--mrs. thornton smiled through tears. "robert, you said you would do anything." "yes, dear," thornton answered gravely. "but what? we cannot do things in a moment. if money--" madison shook his head. "it's beyond money," he said. "money is only a secondary consideration. it's the needs of the place that are paramount. it's not so much the bringing of people here--they will hear of what has taken place and will come of their own accord, they will flock here in numbers as time goes on. but then--what? what can be done with them in this little village? for a time perhaps they could be accommodated--but after that they must be turned away." "turned away!" exclaimed mrs. thornton, in a hurt cry. "turned away from hope--to bitterness and misery again! no, no, they must not i why"--she grasped her husband's arm agitatedly--"why couldn't we buy land and put little houses upon it where they could stay?" madison leaned suddenly toward her. "i believe you've hit on the idea, mrs. thornton," he said excitedly. "why not? it would be the finest thing that was ever done in the world. but why not go further--this should not be a private enterprise with the burden on the few." he turned abruptly to mr. thornton. "what a monument from grateful hearts, what a tribute to that saintly soul a huge sanatorium, built and properly endowed, would be! and it is feasible--purely from the voluntary contributions of those who come here and have money--free as the air to the poor who are sick--free to _all_, for that matter--no one asked to give--but the poorest would gladly lay down their mites." "yes--oh, yes!" cried mrs. thornton raptly. "yes," admitted mr. thornton thoughtfully; "that might be done." "there is no doubt of it," asserted madison enthusiastically. "it needs but the initiative on the part of some one, on our part, and the rest will take care of itself. but we must, of course, have the endorsement of the patriarch--why not go to the cottage now, at once, and talk it over?" "can we see _him_?" asked mrs. thornton wistfully. "oh, i would like to kneel at his feet and pour out my gratitude. but see how all these people go no nearer than that row of trees, as though love or fear or reverence kept them from going further, as though it were almost forbidden, holy ground, as though they were held back by an invisible barrier in spite of themselves." "true," said madison; "and i sense that very thing myself--all men must sense it after what has taken place, all must feel the presence of a power too majestic, too full of awe for the mind to grasp. this faith"--he threw out his hands in an impotent gesture--"we can only accept it unquestioningly, as a mighty thing, an actual, living, existent thing, even if we cannot fully understand. but i feel that with what we have in mind we have a right to go there now--and we should take that little lad who was cured as well--and his parents, they should come too." "and shall we see _him_?" mrs. thornton asked again tensely. "why, i do not know," madison replied; "but at least we shall see his niece, miss vail, and it is with her in any case that we would have to discuss the plan, for the patriarch, you know, is deaf and dumb and blind." "you know them, don't you?" thornton inquired. madison smiled, a little strangely, a little deprecatingly. "if one can speak of 'knowing' such as they--yes," he answered. "when i came two weeks ago, the patriarch was not wholly blind, and he was very kind to me. i learned to love the gentle soul of the man, and in a way, skeptical though i was, i felt his power--but i never realized until this afternoon how stupendous, how immeasurable it was." "let us go to the cottage, then," said thornton. "naida, dear, let me help you; it is quite a little distance and--" she put out her hands in a happy, intimate way to hold him off. "you can't realize it, robert, can you? that dear, practical business head of yours makes it even harder for you than it is for me--and i can hardly realize it myself. but i _am_ cured, dear, and i'm well and strong, and i don't need any help--why, robert, i am going to help you now, instead of always being a source of worry and anxiety to you. come, let us go." "if you will walk slowly," suggested madison, "i'll speak to the little holmes boy and his parents, and bring them with us." he moved away as he spoke--in the direction of a racking cough, that rose above the confused, murmuring, whispering, shaken voices on every hand; and in a little knot of people he was, for a moment, pressed close against pale face harry. "all right," whispered pale face harry, "it's in your pocket now--but, say, no more runs like that for me, i'm all in. i thought sure i was cured myself--i hadn't coughed for--" "never mind about that now," said madison rapidly. "i want the crowd kept away from the doors of the bank vault if they show any tendency to get too close, though i don't think that'll happen--they're too numbed and scared yet. but you know the game. keep the awe going and the 'holy ground' signs up. anybody that steps across that stretch between the trees and the cottage on and after the present date of writing does it with bowed head and his shoes off--get the idea?" pale face harry grinned. "that's easy," he said. "anything'd steer 'em now--they're like sheep. leave it to me to keep the soft pedal on." with a nod, madison turned away, the tense expression on his face assumed again--and presently he was talking to mr. and mrs. holmes, and patting the boy's head in a clumsy, overwrought way. "i--i don't dar'st to go," said mrs. holmes, clutching wildly at the boy, still sobbing, still beyond control of herself. "but mrs. thornton is going," said madison gently, "and i know your gratitude is no less than hers--it couldn't be less with this little lad restored to you. i am sure you want to show it--don't you?" "i think we'd orter go, ma," said mr. holmes uneasily. the boy put his hand in madison's. "i want to go, mister," he choked. "take me, mister, won't you?" "yes, i think we'd orter go," repeated mr. holmes. "come along, ma," he said, taking his wife's arm. it was a strange group--the thorntons, rich, refined, to whom luxury was necessity; the holmes, poor, uncultured, coarsely dressed; and madison, who walked with set face, head lowered a little, his pace slowing perceptibly, humbly it seemed, the nearer he came to the cottage door. neither thornton, nor holmes, nor holmes' wife spoke. mrs. thornton's arm was flung around the boy's shoulder, and he kept looking up into her tearful face--there was a bond between them that, young as he was, held him in its thrall. out across the lawn, dotted here and there, in knots and groups and little crowds, men and women stopped where they stood and watched, making no effort to follow--and some, at the renewed evidence of the miraculous, once more so vividly before their eyes, dropped again to their knees. they reached the door, and madison drew back a little and with the others waited silently after he had knocked. then the door opened slowly, and helena, slim and girlish in her simple white dress, appeared upon the threshold. her great dark eyes travelled slowly from one to another, and then her face lighted with a gentle smile. "miss vail," said madison diffidently, "this is mrs. thornton and her husband, and the little lad, with his parents, who owes so much to the patriarch, and they have come to--" "to try and say a little of what is in their hearts"--mrs. thornton stepped impulsively forward and held out her hands to helena--and then, breaking down suddenly, she began to sob, and the two were in each other's arms, mrs. thornton's head buried on helena's shoulder, helena's face lowered, her brown hair mingling with the gold of the other's, her arms about the frail form that shook convulsively. doc madison shot a covert glance at the three behind him--thornton, and holmes, and mrs. holmes. holmes, with downcast eyes, was shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot; mrs. holmes, her woman's instinct touched, was watching the scene with face aglow, her eyes moist anew; thornton was staring fascinated at helena, a sort of breathless, wondering admiration in his eyes. madison involuntarily followed thornton's look; then stole a glance back at thornton again--thornton was still gazing intently at helena. "say," observed madison to himself, "the longer you live the more you learn, don't you? that's the kind of stuff helena wears from now on, the clinging white with the bare throat effect and all that. why, say, like that she's what the poets call radiantly divine--eh, what?" mrs. thornton raised her head, and her hands creeping to helena's face brushed the brown hair tenderly back from the white forehead. "oh, how good and sweet and pure you are!" she murmured brokenly. a quick, sudden flush, passing to all but madison as one of demure and startled modesty, swept in a crimson tide to helena's face. "you--you must not say that," she faltered, shaking her head. "i--you must not say that." mrs. thornton smiled at her--and slipped her arm affectionately around helena's waist. "i could not help it, dear," she whispered. "it came spontaneously. and it makes me so happy to find you like this, and it makes it so much more a joy in doing what we have come to talk to you about." "what you have come to talk to me about?"--helena, steadying herself, repeated the words almost composedly. "oh, yes," said mrs. thornton, an eagerness in her voice again. "but--may we come in? is it--" "all may come in here," helena answered softly, "and"--her eyes met thornton's fixed gaze and dropped quickly--"please come in," she ended abruptly. --xiii-- real money the two women passed inside the cottage, mrs. thornton holding out her hand again to the little lad; while holmes and his wife followed hesitantly, awed. in the rear, thornton grasped madison's arm suddenly. "i never saw such a beautiful face," he whispered tensely. "it's wonderful." "yes," assented madison. "but everything here seems full of a rare, strange beauty, a hallowed something--it lifts one beyond material things. you _feel_ it--a great, calm solemnity all about you." he closed the door softly behind him. mrs. thornton's eyes swept questioningly, anxiously and a little timidly about the plain, simple, quiet room; and then she spoke, her voice unconsciously hushed: "he--he is not here?" helena shook her head, as she led mrs. thornton to a chair. "not now," she said in a low voice. "the strain of this afternoon has left him very weary and very tired--much has gone out of him in response to the faith he felt but could not see." "but he knows?" said mrs. thornton eagerly, reaching for helena's hand. "he knows?" "yes," helena replied quietly, "he knows. he always knows." she nodded gravely to the others. "please sit down," she said. madison quietly took the chair nearest the table; thornton one a little in front of madison and nearer his wife and helena, who were close by the big, open fireplace; the two holmes sat down on the edges of chairs a little behind madison; while young holmes knelt, his arms in mrs. thornton's lap, his head turned a little sideways, his chin cupped in one hand, as he stared breathlessly around him. it was the boy who broke the momentary silence. "ain't that other fellow here, neither--the fellow that was worse'n me?" he whispered. helena leaned toward him. "yes; he is here," she answered, smiling sweetly. "he is with the patriarch." she lifted her head to include the others in her words. "it is very wonderful, his gratitude. he will not leave the patriarch--he says he will not leave him ever, that all he has to give for the debt he owes is the life that the patriarch gave back to him, and he will listen to nothing but that he should devote that life to the patriarch's service." "i'd like to, too," said young holmes, with a quick flush on his face. "can i, miss--can i?" "perhaps," said helena gently. "who knows what there may be that you can do?" "dear boy," said mrs. thornton, stroking the lad's head. she looked quickly at helena. "we, too, are grateful, more than there are words to tell, and we, too, would like to show our gratitude. we are rich and money--" "money!" the word came in shocked, hurt interruption from helena, as a signal flashed from madison's eyes. "the patriarch does not do these things for money--it would be a bitter grief to him to be misjudged in that way, even in thought. it is the love in his heart for the suffering ones, and his power goes out to all who ask it freely, with no thought of recompense or gain, and his joy and happiness is the joy and happiness of others." "and right off the bat too!" said madison admiringly to himself. "now, wouldn't that get you! say, could you beat it--could you beat it!" "oh, i did not mean that," said mrs. thornton almost piteously. "please, please do not think so, for i know so well that money in a personal sense could have no place here, that it would indeed be sacrilege. it is in quite another way--robert, mr. madison, you explain what we would like to do." it was madison who explained. "it is mrs. thornton's idea, miss vail," he said earnestly; "and it is one that i know will realize the patriarch's dearest wish--to extend his sphere of helpfulness to others, to reach out to all who are stricken and have faith to come. i remember his writing that on the slate, which he used for conversation before his sight was completely taken from him. i remember the words as though they were before me now: 'i have dreamed often of a wider field, of reaching out to help the thousands beyond this little town--it would be wondrous joy.'" "yes?" said helena in a suppressed voice. "in a way," madison went on gravely, "his dream is already realized. what has happened here this afternoon will in a few hours be known to the whole civilized world, and there will be no room for incredulity or doubt--on whatever ground people see fit to base their belief, they must still believe; and, believing, they will come here in ever increasing numbers--but this little village is totally inadequate to accommodate them. at first, yes, as i said to mrs. thornton; but afterwards--no. mrs. thornton's idea, mr. thornton's idea and my own, if i may say so, is to build and endow a great sanatorium that, in consonance with the patriarch's ideals, shall be free to all--and we feel that the money for this purpose will come gladly and spontaneously, as it so appropriately should come, from those who find joy and peace and health again at the patriarch's hands." helena half rose from her chair, as she stole a veiled glance at madison. "it would be wonderful," she said, with a little catch in her voice. "and he--it would be the one thing in the world for him. but--but it would take a great deal of money." "yes," said madison slowly; "at least half a million." thornton turned toward madison. "as much as that?" he asked tentatively. "i should say so," replied madison thoughtfully. "you see, it's the endowment after all that is the most important. say that the building and equipment cost only a hundred thousand, that would only leave an income, from the other four hundred thousand at six per cent., of twenty-four thousand dollars--not enough in itself even, but it would be augmented of course by the contributions that would still go on." thornton nodded his head. "that is so," he agreed; "but there is the time to consider--it would take a long time to raise that amount." "no," said madison. "a few months at the outside. thornton"--he reached out and laid his hand impressively on the other's sleeve--we are not dealing with ordinary things here--we have witnessed this afternoon a sight that should teach us that. here, in this very room, beside us now, your wife, that little boy, is evidence of power beyond anything we have ever known before. have we not that same power to count on still? it would be an ingrate heart indeed that, owing all, returned nothing." "yes," murmured mrs. thornton. "mr. madison is right. i know it, i feel it--the money will come faster than we have any idea of." madison smiled at her quietly. "it will come," he said. "people will give their money, their jewels, anything, and give joyfully--and until the amount in hand is large enough to warrant beginning operations, miss vail naturally will be its guardian." "i?" said helena hesitatingly. "i--i am only a girl, i would not know what to do." "you would not have to do anything, miss vail," madison informed her reassuringly. "when the time comes for advice, the making of plans and the carrying of them out, the brightest minds in this country will be offered freely and voluntarily, you will see." "and meanwhile," inquired thornton--he had been studying helena's profile intently, "would you propose keeping the contributions here?" "of course!" said madison. "and not only here, but openly displayed as an added incentive for others to give--if added incentive be needed. here, for instance"--he rose as he spoke, went to the mantel over the fireplace and lifted down a quaint, japanned box, fashioned in the shape of a little chest, which he placed upon the table. "and here, too"--he crossed to the bookshelves in the alcove, and took down a very old, flexible-covered book. "once," he said, "the patriarch showed me this. it was a blank book originally, half of it is blank still; but in the front, in the patriarch's own writing, is an essay he wrote in the years gone by on 'the power of faith'--what could be more fitting than that the remaining pages should be filled with a record of the contributions to that faith?" he laid the book on the table beside the little chest, and sat down again. "there is no display, no ornamentation, no attempt at anything of that kind--it is simplicity, those things serving which are first at hand--as it seems to me it should be--those who give record their names and gifts in this book--the little chest to hold the gifts is open, free to the inspection of all." "but is that wise?" demurred thornton. "so large a sum of money as must accumulate to be left openly about? would it not be a temptation to some to steal? might it not even endanger miss vail and the patriarch himself--subject them, indeed, to attack?" "i get your idea," said madison to himself--while he gazed at thornton in pained surprise; "but there'll never be more than the day's catch in the box at a time, though of course you don't know that. you see, we'll empty it every night, and start it off fresh every morning, with a trinket or two put back for bait. i'm glad you mentioned it though, it's a little detail i mustn't forget to speak to the flopper about." but aloud he said, and there was a sort of shocked awe in his voice: "steal--_here_! in this sacred place! no man would dare--the most hardened criminal would draw back. why do even we who sit here speak as we have been speaking with hushed and lowered voices?--that very sense of a presence unseen around us, that hovers over us, is a mightier safeguard than the strongest bolts and locks, than the steel-barred vaults of any bank. it would seem indeed to profane our own faith even to entertain such an idea--to me this place is a solemn shrine, and there is only purity and faith and stillness here, the dwelling place of a power as compassionate as it is mighty." madison stopped abruptly--and a silence fell. each seemed busy with their own thoughts. about them was quiet, stillness, peace--twilight was falling, and a soft, mellow light was in the room. "no one would dare"--the words came from mrs. thornton in almost breathless corroboration, almost of their own accord it seemed, as though heavy upon her lay the solemnity of her surroundings. madison's hand went to his pocket--slowly he drew out his check-book and laid it upon the table. "i am not a rich man"--his voice was very low, very earnest--"but i feel that this is something deeper, grander, bigger than anything the world perhaps has ever known before; something higher and above one's own self; it seems as though here were the chrysalis that, once developed to its perfect state, would sweep pain and sorrow from suffering humanity; it is as though a new, glad era had dawned for all mankind. i am glad to give and humbly proud to have a part in this." he took out his fountain pen, opened the check-book, and began to write. thornton leaned forward a little, watching him. silence fell again--there was no sound save the almost inaudible scratching of madison's pen. upon mrs. thornton's face was a happy, radiant smile; helena's face was impassive, but in the dark eyes lurked a puzzled light; the two holmes sat awkwardly, still upon the edges of their chairs, gazing at their son across the room, incredulously, as though they still could not believe--and occasionally mrs. holmes wiped her eyes. madison's pen moved on: "pay to the order of miss helena vail the sum of ten thousand dollars." he carefully inscribed the amount in numerals in the lower left-hand corner. "honest," he confided to himself, as he signed the check, "i feel so philanthropic i could almost make myself believe i had this money in the bank." he tore the check from its stub, and, standing up, handed it to helena. "i am not a rich man, miss vail, as i said," he smiled gravely, "but i can give this, and i give it with great joy in my heart." helena took the check, glanced at it, gasped a little, lifted her eyes, an instant's mocking glint in them, and veiled them quickly with her long lashes. "no"--madison's hand, palm up, went out protestingly--"no, do not thank me--it is little enough." he sat down again, drew the patriarch's blank book toward him, and, on the line beneath the one where the patriarch had ended his essay with the words, "such is the power of faith," wrote his name and set down the amount of his contribution after it. "ten thousand dollars!"--it was mrs. thornton speaking, as she took the check from helena. she turned quickly to her husband. "robert, have you your check-book here?" thornton shook his head. "no, dear," he said. "i'm afraid i haven't." "well, it doesn't matter," said mrs. thornton brightly. "you can use one of mr. madison's checks and write the name of your own bank on it--you've often done that, you know." "a suggestion," said madison to himself, "for which i thank you, mrs. thornton--it sounds so much less crude coming from you than from me." but aloud he said courteously, "take my pen, mr. thornton." "thank you," said thornton, as madison placed it in his hand. mrs. thornton and her husband had their heads together now, and were whispering--thornton with his eyes on helena, who sat with lowered head, twirling madison's check in her hands. then thornton drew the check-book toward him, scratched out the printed name of the bank that it bore, wrote in another, and went on filling out the check. "eeny-meeny-miny-mo," said madison to himself. "the suspense is awful. how much does he raise the ante? next to the miracle, this is the first real thrill i've had--i feel like an elevator starting down quick." as madison had done, thornton tore out the check and handed it to helena. helena stared at it, lifted her eyes to thornton, flushed--and looked down at the check again. "_fifty thousand_," she murmured breathlessly. "splendid!" cried madison enthusiastically, rising from his chair and pushing the newly established record of contributions toward thornton. "splendid! there's sixty thousand of the five hundred already. splendid!" young holmes ran toward his parents. "i want to give too, dad," he whispered. "i want to give too." "reckon so," said holmes, getting up heavily. "reckon so--an' i was a-goin' to. i ain't got much though," he added timorously, as his hand went into his pocket. there was a little exclamation from helena, and she moved a step forward as though to interpose. madison looked at her quickly--and quietly stepped around the table, placing himself between her and holmes; and, facing holmes, leaned over the table from the far side toward the other. "it's not the amount, holmes," he said kindly. "in the broad, true sense the amount counts for nothing--all cannot give the same." "yes," said holmes. "reckon that's the way i feel." he counted the bills in his hand, and dropped them into the little japanned box; then scrawled his name in the book beneath thornton's, adding the amount--eight dollars. madison looked around the group benignantly. "i think they should know out there what we have done," he said, pointing toward the lawn. "let us go and tell them, not in any set speech, but just simply--each of us speaking to a few--the few will tell others. shall we go?" "yes," said mrs. thornton. "yes; let us tell them." she turned to helena and kissed her. "try and come often to see me, dear--we shall be here now for a little while at least. is it asking too much? robert will bring you back and forth from the village. and perhaps, if i may, i will come out here to see you--may i?" "i shall be very glad to do as my wife suggests," said thornton, holding out his hand. "you will come, miss vail?" "you are very good, both of you," helena answered simply. she raised her eyes to thornton--her hand was still in his. "yes, i will try to come." "oh, break away!" muttered madison impatiently--but silently. he stepped to the door and opened it. "will you lead the way, mrs. thornton?" he said calmly. thornton and his wife passed out; and the holmes, with clumsy, earnest words upon their lips to helena, followed. madison hung back--then stepped quickly to helena. "tear up that check of mine so small you can't find the pieces, helena," he said hurriedly; "and send thornton's right off to any old bank you like in new york. endorse it, and write them a note saying you wish to open an account. enclose your signature, and tell them to mail back the bank-book, a check-book, deposit slips and all that. they'll know by the newspapers that thornton's subscribed fifty thousand before they get the check, and they'll feel honored to be your depository. do it to-night, understand?" "yes," said helena, nodding her head. "i'll see to it all right." then, a little perturbed: "but those poor holmes and their eight dollars, doc, i--" "now don't be greedy, helena," said madison cheerfully. "you mustn't expect everybody to hand out ten and fifty thousand, just because thornton and i did--try and appreciate the little things of life too." "oh!" exclaimed helena angrily. "doc madison, i'd like to--" "yes, all right, of course," interrupted madison, grinning. "good-by, that's all--i'm off--see, they're waiting for me"--and leaving helena with an outraged little flush upon her cheek, he hurried through the door after the others. --xiv-- knotting the strings it is a very old saying, and therefore of course indisputably true, that some have greatness thrust upon them. true of men, it is, in one instance at least, true of places--needley, from an unheard of, modest, innocuous and unassuming little hamlet, leaped in a flash into the focus of the world's eyes. in huge headlines the papers in every city of every state carried it on their front pages. and while the first astounding despatch from the metropolitan newspaper man was being copied by leading dailies everywhere, there came on top of it, clinching its veracity beyond possibility of doubt, the news that robert thornton, the well known chicago multi-millionaire, had given fifty thousand dollars to the cause. a man, much less a multi-millionaire, does not give fifty thousand dollars for a bubble, so the managing editors of the leading dailies rushed for their star reporters--and the star reporters rushed for needley--and the red-haired, sorrowful-faced man in the needley station grew haggard, tottered on the verge of collapse, and, between the sheafs of flimsy that the reporters fought for the opportunity of pushing at him, wired desperately for a relief. needley awoke and came to life--as from the dead. there was bustle, activity, and suppressed and unsuppressed excitement on every hand--the waldorf hotel once more opened its doors--the congress hotel was already full. the reporters interviewed everybody with but one exception--the patriarch. they interviewed madison--and madison talked to them gravely, quietly, a little self-deprecatingly, a little abashed at the thought of personal exploitage. "i wouldn't be interviewed at all," he told them, "if it were not that mankind at large is entitled to every bit of evidence that can be obtained. yes; i gave what i could afford, but it was holmes, a poor man, who gave most of all--have you seen him? myself? what does that matter? i am unknown, my personality, unlike mr. thornton's, can carry no weight. i am, i suppose, what you might call a rolling stone, a world wanderer. my parents left me a moderate fortune, and i have travelled pretty well and pretty constantly all over the world during the last twelve or fifteen years. how did i come to needley? well, you can call it luck, or something more than that, whichever way it appeals to you. i was feeling seedy, a little off-color, and i started down for a rest and lay-off in maine. i happened to ask a man in portland if he knew of a quiet place. he meant to be humorous, i imagine. he said needley was the quietest place he knew of. i took him at his word." "but how do you account for these miraculous cures?" they asked. "you have seen them--the results," madison replied. "you know the cures to be living, vital, irrefutable facts--don't you?" "yes," they agreed. "then," said madison, "there can be but one answer--faith. there is no other--faith. are we not, in view of what has happened, of what exists before our very eyes, forced to the belief that faith is the greatest thing, the most potential factor in the world?" "and do you believe then that all who come here will be cured?" madison shook his head. "ah, no," he said; "far from it. many will come with but the semblance of faith, and for those there can be no cure--that is evident on the face of it, is it not?" they interviewed thornton--and thornton, too, talked to them, but the very presence of mrs. thornton was weightier far than words. they interviewed the holmes, and they interviewed needley individually and collectively; and they interviewed helena--but they did not interview the patriarch. here helena barred their way--they were free to enter the cottage, to copy the names, the record of gifts inscribed in the book, already a long list for needley had required no other incentive to give than the example that had been set--but that was all. quietly, with demure simplicity, helena, prompted by madison, like a priestess who guards some holy, inner shrine, told them that sensational notoriety had no place there--and the notoriety for that very cause became the greater! not that they were denied a sight of the patriarch's venerable and saintly form--they were permitted to catch glimpses of him on the beach, on the lawn, walking with bowed head in meditation, a figure whose simple majesty inspired words and columns of glowing tribute--but from personal contact, helena and the flopper, always in attendance, warded them off; retreating always to the privacy of the cottage, to the inner rooms. all this had taken four days; and now, on the fourth day, there came to needley the vanguard of those who sought this new healing power--just a few of them, two or three, like far, outflung skirmishers evidencing the presence of the army corps to follow. with the reporters, as far as madison was concerned, it was simple enough; he had but to let them go their way, to let them revel in the stories that were on every tongue, to let them view with their own eyes _facts_, while he, modestly and diffidently, full of quiet earnestness, effaced himself, never thrusting himself forward, talking to them only when they pressed him--but the handling of the sufferers who would flock to needley in response to a newspaper publicity and endorsement that had been beyond his wildest dreams, was quite another matter. madison viewed the first arrivals--brought in from the station on cot beds to the waldorf hotel--and retired to his room in the congress hotel to wrestle with the niceties and minutiæ of the problem. "you see," said madison to the tip of his cigar, as he tilted back his chair and extended his legs full length with his heels comfortably up on the table edge, "you see, i believe in faith all right--and that's no josh. but the trouble with faith is that it's about the scarcest article on earth--and i haven't got any more floppers to lead the way." madison adroitly sent the cigar ash through the window with a tap of his forefinger on the body of the cigar--he frowned, and for a long time sat musingly silent. then he spoke again; this time addressing the toes of his boots: "with the house sold out for the season, the box-office doing itself proud and the audience crazy over the first two acts, how about act three--h'm?--how about act three? kind of a delicate proposition, the staging of act three--and it's time for the curtain to go up. i can hear 'em stamping out front now. i can't pull off any more orgies like last monday afternoon, even if i wanted to--but everybody's got to have a run for their money. say, how about act three?" madison burned up quite a little tobacco in the interval before supper, and quite a little more afterward before the setting for his perplexing "third act" appeared to unfold itself satisfactorily before his mind--indeed, it was close onto half past ten when, by a roundabout way, he very cautiously and silently approached the patriarch's cottage. in the front of the cottage, the shrine-room, as he christened it, and the patriarch's sleeping room were both dark. madison passed around to the beach side--here, helena's room was dark too, but in the flopper's window, the end room next to the kitchen and woodshed, there was a light. the night was warm, and, though the shade was drawn, the window was open. madison whistled softly, and the flopper stuck out his head. "hello, flopper," said madison; "come out here--i want to have a talk with you. helena in bed?" "no; she's out," replied the flopper. "well, hurry up!" said madison. "come around in front by the trellis where we can see the other fellow first if anybody happens to be strolling about." madison withdrew from the window and walked around to the front of the cottage. here, a few yards from the porch, by the trellis, already beginning to be leafy green, was a rustic bench on which he seated himself. the moon was not full, but there was light enough to enable him to see across the lawn through the interposing row of maples, and, hidden by the shadows himself, the seat strategetically met his requirements. presently, the flopper came out of the front door and joined him. "say, doc," announced the flopper abruptly, "de patriarch's been askin' fer youse yesterday an' to-day." "asking?" repeated madison. "sure," said the flopper. "he can scrawl if he is blind, can't he? he scrawls yer name on de slate. we can't tell him nothin', an' he's kinder got de fidgets like he t'inks youse had flown de coop." "that's so," said madison. "it is rather difficult to communicate with him, isn't it? i guess we'll have to get him some raised letters." "what's them?" inquired the flopper. "i don't know exactly," madison answered. "i never saw any, but i believe they have such things. been asking for me, has he? well, i'll fix it to see him to-morrow. where did you say helena had gone?" "i said she was out," said the flopper. "if you ask me where, i'd say de same place as last night an' de night before--down to dat private car wid his nibs. say, dere's some class to dat guy all right, an' i guess helena ain't got her eyes shut." "hey!" ejaculated madison. "what do you mean?" "well, he's got de rocks, ain't he?" declared the flopper. "why shouldn't she be after him? dat's wot we're here fer, ain't it, de whole bunch of us?--an' she ain't t'rowin' us, is she, if she sees a chanst to pick up somet'ing on her own?" madison turned quickly on the flopper. "you mean," he said sharply, "that there's something going on between helena and thornton--already?" "aw, stop kiddin'!" said the flopper. "already! wot's 'already' got to do wid it? we ain't none of us church members, are we? say, where'd you pick up helena yerself--and how long did it take youse? i don't know whether dere's anyt'ing goin' on or not--mabbe she's only gettin' lonely--youse ain't hung around her much lately, doc." madison laughed suddenly. "you're talking through your hat, flopper," he said shortly. "you don't know helena." "it's a wise guy dat knows skirts," said the flopper profoundly; then, with something approaching a sigh: "say, doc, dere's a lalapazoozoo, a peach down here." "hullo!" exclaimed madison, shooting a hurried and critical glance at the flopper in the moonlight. "what's this, flopper--what's this? what have you been up to? you're supposed to be attending strictly to business." "an' you needn't t'ink i ain't," asserted the flopper. "but i can't stop de town fallin' over itself to bring de whole farmyard, an' eggs, an' butter, an' flour, an' everyt'ing else out here every mornin', can i? she's blown in twice wid cream fer de patriarch." "what's her name?" inquired madison quizzically. "mamie rodgers," said the flopper. "she says her old man keeps a store in de village." "i know her," nodded madison. "pretty girl and all right, flopper. but mind what you're doing, that's all. i don't want any complications to queer things around here--understand? but let's get down to the business that i came out about--the lay from now on. you can put helena wise." "sure," said the flopper earnestly. "well then, listen," said madison. "the patients have begun to arrive--there were three of them in to-day. there's no more circus parades--everything's under the tent after this. i want you to wean the patriarch entirely from that front room--that's to be free for anybody to enter so's they can drink in atmosphere--and see the contribution box. but they don't see the patriarch. get his armchair into his own room, make him comfortable there--get the idea? now, there's no consultation hours--the patriarch can't be seen just by asking for him--the only chance they get at the patriarch is by an exercise of patience that'll work their faith up to a pitch that'll do them some good. the harder it is to get a thing, the more it's worth and the more you want it--that's the principle. see?" "sure," said the flopper, licking his lips. "sometimes," madison went on, "you're to keep the patriarch under cover for two or three days, while they hang around working themselves into a frenzy. and when they do see him they have to scramble for it. you don't lead him out to them--ever. make them waylay him when you take him for a walk--make them crawl and hop and show they've got faith, make them believe they've got faith themselves--we'll get some more cures, or near-cures anyway, that way, and we won't get them any other way, and we've got to have some sort of cures coming along fairly regularly. do you get me, flopper? if there's a party on a cot a hundred yards away and he begs you to bring the patriarch to him, say him nay. everybody has got to get into the reserved paddock by themselves--tell them that no man can be cured who has not got the faith to reach the patriarch by himself--tell them to get up and _walk_ to him--tell them what you did." "swipe me!" said the flopper. "say, doc, youse are de one an' only. i gotcher--put it up to _dem_ everytime." "exactly," said madison. "it's their move every minute--make them feel that if they don't get what they're after it's their own fault--that it's their own lack of faith that's to blame. and the longer they have to wait to see the patriarch, the more they become impressed that faith is necessary, and--oh, well, psychology is the greatest jollier of them all." "eh?" inquired the flopper. "i ain't on dere, doc." "it's very simple," smiled madison, "they'll want to convince themselves that they _have_ got faith, that it's all bottled up and ready to have the cork drawn when called for, and they'll prove it to themselves by laying an offering upon the shrine as evidence of faith _before_ the goods are delivered." "i gotcher!" said the flopper enthusiastically. "why say, doc, dat's de way i'd do meself--swipe me, if i wouldn't!" "that's the way nearly everybody would do," said madison, laughing. "there's at least a few similar kinks common to our noble race--we're busy most of the time trying to fool ourselves one way or another. well, that's about all. i can't lay out a programme for every minute of the day--you and helena have got to use your heads and work along that general idea. you play up your gratitude strong. and, oh yes--keep the altar box well baited. let helena put some of her near-diamond rings and joujabs in until we collect some genuine ones--and then keep the genuine ones going--change every day for variety, you know. and take the silver money out every time you see any in--not that we scorn it in the great aggregate, far from it--it's just psychology again, flopper. i went to church once and sat beside a duck with a white waistcoat and chop whiskers, who wore the dollar sign sticking out so thick all over him that you couldn't see anything else; and when it came time for collection he peeled a bill off a roll the size of a house, and waited for the collection plate to come along. but he got his eye on the plate a couple of pews ahead and it was full of coppers and chicken feed, and he did the palming act with the bill slicker than a faro dealer--and whispered to me to change a quarter for him." "and did you?" asked the flopper anxiously. "oh, wake up, flopper!" grinned madison; then, suddenly: "hullo! who's that?" across the lawn, coming through the row of maples from the direction of the wagon track, appeared two figures. "dat's who," said the flopper, after gazing an instant. "it's helena an' thornton." "so it is," agreed madison. "get behind the trellis here then--it wouldn't do for him to see me out here at this time of night." they rose noiselessly from the bench, and slipped quickly behind the trellis. toward them, walking slowly came the two figures, helena leaning on thornton's arm. thornton was talking, but in too low a tone to be overheard. then a silence appeared to fall between the two, and it was not until they reached the porch, close to madison and the flopper, that either spoke again. then thornton held out his hand. "good-night, miss vail--and good-by temporarily," he said. "i suppose i shall be gone four or five days; i'm going up on the morning train, you know. i wish you'd go as often as you can to see naida in the car while i'm away--will you? her condition worries me, though she insists that she is completely cured, and she will not listen to any advice. i have an idea that she has overtaxed herself--apart from her hip disease, her heart was in a very critical state. you'll go to her, won't you?" "yes," said helena, "of course, i will." their voices dropped lower, and for a moment only a murmur reached madison; and then, with another "good-night, miss vail," thornton started back across the lawn. madison could hear helena fumbling with the door latch, and by the time she had succeeded in opening the door the retreating figure of thornton was a safe distance away. madison called in a whisper: "here, helena! wait a minute!" there was a quick, startled little exclamation from the doorway, and helena came out hurriedly from the porch. "who's there?" she cried in a low voice. "oh"--as they stepped into view--"you, doc, and the flopper! what were you doing behind that trellis?" "keeping out of thornton's road," said madison. "so he's going away, eh? what for?" "business," replied helena. "has to go to some meeting in chicago--he's leaving his wife and the private car here. what did you come at this hour for?" "lines for the next act," said madison; "but the flopper's got it all, and he'll put you on." he stepped toward helena and slipped his arm around her waist. "come on, it's early yet, let's go for a little walk. the flopper'll excuse us, and i--" "i thought you said," helena interrupted, disengaging herself quietly, "that we had to play the game to the limit and take no chances." "well, so i did," admitted madison, and his arm crept around her again; "but i guess we've earned a little holiday and--" "'nix on that,' i think was what you said," said helena with a queer little laugh, drawing away again. "and i really think you were right, doc--we ought to play the game without breaking the rules, and so--good-night"--and she turned and ran from him into the cottage. madison stared after her in a sort of helpless state of chagrin. "mabbe," said the flopper, "mabbe she's lonely." --xv-- a miracle overdone helena sat in the patriarch's room, and her piquant little face was pursed up into a scowl so daintily grim as to be almost ludicrous. the patriarch, in his armchair, had been scrawling words upon the slate all evening--and she had been wiping them off! he scrawled another now--and mechanically, without looking at it, by way of answer she pressed his arm to appease him. she had been restless all day, and she was restless now. what had induced her to treat madison the way she had the night before? pique, probably. no; it wasn't pique. it was just getting back at him--and he deserved it. he hadn't seemed to mind it much, though--he had only laughed and teased her about it that morning when he had joined the patriarch and herself in their walk along the beach. with her chin in her hands, she began to study the patriarch through half closed eyes--deaf and dumb and blind--and somehow it all seemed excruciatingly funny and she wanted to laugh hysterically. he seemed to sense the fact that she was looking at him, and, with quick, instant intuition, he smiled and reached out his hand toward her. unconsciously, involuntarily, she drew back--then, recovering herself the next instant, she took his hand. now, why had she done that? what was the matter with her? again she felt that sudden impulse to scream, or laugh, or shout, or make some noise--it seemed as though she were penned in, smothered somehow, imprisoned. what _was_ the matter? nerves? she had never known what nerves were in all her life! couldn't she play the game and act her part without making a fool of herself? she had played a part all her life, hadn't she? maybe it was quite a shock to her system to take a place amongst really good and simple folk! she laughed a little shortly--then rose abruptly from her chair, and began to walk up and down the room. the trouble was that the soft pedal was getting unbearable. that air of awed hush and solemnity, morning, noon and night, without anything to relieve it, was just a trifle too drastic and sudden a change in life for her to accept calmly and swallow in one dose without feeling any effects from it! if she could be transported now for an hour, say, to the roost, or heligman's and the turkey trot, or the rivoli, or any old place--except needley, maine! "gee!" said helena to herself. "if i don't break loose and kick the traces over for a minute or two, i'll be clawing the bars of a dippy asylum before i'm through--and just listen to the sweet, girlish language i'm using--i'd like to bite something!" she turned impulsively to the door, stepped out into the hall, and called the flopper from his room. "flopper, you go in there and stay with the patriarch for awhile," she ordered curtly. "i'm going down on the beach to yell." "yell?" inquired the flopper, blinking helplessly. "i'm going outside to yell--_yell._ you know what 'yell' means, don't you?" she snapped. "swipe me!" observed the flopper, gazing at her anxiously. "skirts is all de same--youse never know wot dey'll do next. wot you wanter yell fer?" "you mind your own business and do as you're told!" said helena tartly. "go in there and stay with the patriarch." "sure," said the flopper, grinning a little now. "sure t'ing--but youse needn't get on yer ear about it. cheer up, mabbe de doc'll be out to-night, an' if he don't hear youse yellin' himself will i tell him youse are out on de beach t'rowin' a fit?" "no," helena answered sharply; "tell him nothing--i'm out." then, quite as quickly, changing her mind: "yes; tell him i'm down there--or come and get me yourself"--and she walked abruptly into her own room. "now wot do youse t'ink of dat?" demanded the flopper of the universe. he blinked at the door she had closed in his face. "say," he asserted, with sublime inconsistency, "if mamie rodgers was like all de rest of dem, i'd t'row up me dukes before de gong rang." the flopper went into the patriarch's room, and took the chair beside the other that helena had vacated. "swipe me, if i wouldn't!" he added fervently, by way of confirmation. helena, in her own room, opened one of her trunks, lifted out the tray, worked somewhat impatiently down through several layers of yellow, paper-covered literature, that would have made the classics on the patriarch's bookshelves shrivel up and draw their skirts hurriedly around them in righteous horror could they but have known or been capable of such intensely human characteristics, and finally produced a daintily jewelled little cigarette case and match box. she slammed the tray back, slammed the cover of the trunk down, snatched up a wrap, flung it over her head and shoulders--and left the cottage. she ran down to the beach at top speed, as if she couldn't get there fast enough. "and now i'm just going to yell and go crazy as much as ever i like!" panted helena to the rollers. instead, she sat down with her back to a rock, and opened her cigarette case. she took out a cigarette, extracted a match from the match box, lighted the match--and flung both cigarette and match from her. "i don't want to be crazy--i don't know what i want," said helena petulantly. her chin went into her hands, and she stared wide-eyed at the breaking surf. "i wonder what it all means?" she murmured, with a mirthless little laugh. her thoughts began to run riot. what _did_ it all mean? what was this faith? there was, there _must_ be something in it. there was the holmes boy--suppose it _was_ only some nervous disorder--well, something had risen superior to whatever it was and had _cured_ him. there was naida thornton--true, she was ill again--her heart, mr. thornton had said--but she could still walk, a thing she had not been able to do for a long time until she came to needley. helena laughed again--oh, it was a good game! the doc had made no mistake about that--but then, when it came to planting anything the doc rarely did make a mistake. fancy fifty thousand dollars in one haul! _fifty thousand in one haul!_ the bank had sent her a passbook with that amount to her credit. and that was only the beginning--hardly anybody had come yet, and already there was several hundred dollars more in real money that she had handed over to madison from the offering box. money! they'd have more money than they'd know what to do with before they got through--there was nothing the matter with the game--all there was to do was to play it to a finish. and there wasn't the slightest risk about it--everything was given voluntarily. oh, the game was all right--but somehow she wasn't happy--not nearly so happy as she had been in new york, even in lean periods when she and the doc had been pressed for money. but, anyway, then they had been together, and fought, and laughed, and loved, and quarrelled through flush times and bad. maybe that was it! the doc! of course, she loved him--she had loved him ever since she had known him. there was no secret about that--she loved him fiercely, passionately, more than she loved anything else in the world, with all the love she was capable of--more than he loved her--he seemed to accept her, too often, so casually, so indifferently, so much as a matter of course. he was so confidently and complacently sure of her--and she was not at all sure of him. she was only sure that he was quite right in being sure--she couldn't help loving him if she tried. she had hardly seen anything of him since that night in the roost before he had left for needley--and he hadn't seemed to care much whether she did or not. that talk about playing the game and taking no chances was all bosh--there had been plenty of chances where it wouldn't have hurt the game any. perhaps the little jolt she had given him last night, turning the tables a little, would wake him up a bit. perhaps, as the flopper had said, he would come out to-night, and-- "helena! helena!" helena sat suddenly upright--the noise of the surf muffled the sound of the voice, but that was probably doc now--she could hear footsteps running from the direction of the cottage. deliberately, helena leaned back again against the rock, took out a cigarette and with no attempt to shade the flame of the match, rather to use it as a challenging beacon, held it to the cigarette--but for the second time she flung both match and cigarette hurriedly away. it wasn't madison at all--it was only the flopper. "say!" gasped the flopper, blowing hard. "why can't youse answer when yer called? wot you tryin' ter do--light a bonfire ter save yer voice? say, youse wanter get a wiggle on--beat it--quick! dey're after you." "what?" cried helena sharply, jumping to her feet. "after me? who? what do you mean?" "i dunno," said the flopper with sudden imperturbability--and evidently quite pleased with the agitation he had caused. "he talks like his mouth was full, an' he's got a scare t'rown inter him so's his teeth have got de jiggles." helena caught the flopper's arm and shook him angrily. "what are you talking about--what is it?" she demanded fiercely. "it's de porter from de private car," said the flopper, wriggling away from her. "he drove out here. de lady's on de toboggan--sick. she's askin' fer youse an'--" helena waited for no more. she raced to the cottage and around to the front. a wagon was standing before the porch; the negro porter on the seat. "what is it, sam?" she called anxiously, as she came up. "is mrs. thornton seriously ill?" "yas--yas'um, miss," sam answered excitedly. "i done feel in mah bones she's gwine to die. miss harvey she done tole me to get a team an' drive foh you-all like de debbil." without waste of words, helena clambered in beside him. "then drive," she said shortly. "drive as fast as you can." at first, as they drove along, helena plied sam with questions--and then lapsed into silence. the man did not know very much--only that mrs. thornton had been taken suddenly ill, and that the nurse had sent him on the errand that had brought him to the cottage. a turmoil of conflicting emotions filled helena's mind, obtruding upon her anxiety, for she had grown to care a great deal for naida thornton--this was a complication that doc madison must know about--thornton had left that morning and was already far away--the newspaper men, or some of them at least, were still in the town--and there were so many things else--they all came crowding upon her, as she clung to her seat in the jolting wagon. but doc must know--that rose a paramount consideration. it seemed an age, an eternity before they stopped finally at the station. she sprang out and turned to sam. "sam," she directed hurriedly, "you go back to the congress hotel and get mr. madison. mr. madison is a friend of mr. thornton's, you know. go about it quietly--you needn't let any one know what you came for. you can tell mr. madison what the trouble is--and tell him that i sent you, and that i am here. do you understand?" "yas'um, mum," said sam impressively. "just you done leab all that to me, missy." across the track on the siding, the private car was dimly lighted, the window curtains down. helena crossed the track and mounted the steps. as she reached the platform, miss harvey, who had evidently heard her coming, opened the door and drew her quietly inside. a glance at the nurse's face brought a sudden chill to helena's heart. miss harvey, capable, controlled, grave, smiled at her a little sadly. "i sent for you, miss vail," she said in a low tone, "because mrs. thornton has been asking for you incessantly ever since the attack came on three-quarters of an hour ago." "you mean," said helena, "that--that there is--" "no hope," the nurse completed. "i am afraid there is none--it is her heart. the condition has been aggravated by her activity during the last few days since she has been able to walk--though i have done everything within my power to keep her quiet." miss harvey laid her hand on helena's arm. "there is one thing, miss vail, i feel that i must say to you, in justice both to you and to myself, before you see her. whatever my personal ideas may be of what has taken place here, my professional duty as a nurse demanded that i send for a doctor at once, and i want you to know that is what i did, though i have not been successful in getting one. there is no doctor here, so i telegraphed; but the doctor at barton's mills is away." "yes," said helena mechanically. "i just wanted you to understand," said miss harvey. "will you come and see mrs. thornton now?" "does she know," whispered helena, as she followed the nurse down the corridor of the car, "does she know that--how ill she is?" "yes," miss harvey answered simply. she stopped before a compartment door, opened it softly, and, stepping aside, motioned helena to enter. a little cry rose to helena's lips that she choked back somehow, and a mist for a moment blinded her eyes--then she was kneeling beside the brass bed, and was holding in both her own the hand that was stretched out to her. "helena--dear--i am so glad you came," said mrs. thornton faintly. "i--i am not going to get better, and there are some things i want to say to you." "oh, but you are," returned helena quickly, smiling bravely now. "you mustn't say that." mrs. thornton shook her head. "dear," she said, "i know. and i know that what i have to say i must say quickly." her voice seemed to grow suddenly stronger with a great earnestness. "listen, dear. this must not make any difference to this wonderful work that has just begun here. i was cured of my hip disease--perfectly cured--no one can deny that--this is my own fault, i have overdone it--i would not listen to reason--to do what i have done in the last few days, when for a year and a half i had never moved a step, was more than my heart could stand. i should have been more quiet--but i was so glad, so happy--and i wanted to tell everybody--i wanted all the world to know, so that others could find the joy that i had found." she paused--and helena sought for words that, somehow, would not come. the nurse was bending over the bed on the other side, and mrs. thornton turned her head toward miss harvey now. she smiled gently, as though to rob her words of any possible hurt. "nurse, i want--to be alone with miss vail for just a moment." miss harvey, doubtful, hesitated. "only for a moment," pleaded mrs. thornton. "you can stay just outside the door." reluctantly, miss harvey complied, and left the room. mrs. thornton pressed helena's hand tightly. "listen, dear--this must not make any difference. it--it is the one thing that will make me happy now--to know that. i--i have written a little note to robert about it, to be given to him. oh, if i could only have lived to help--i should have tried so hard to be worthy to have a part in it. not like you, dear, with your sweetness and nobleness, for god seems to have singled you out for this--but just to have had a little part. how wonderful it would have been, bringing peace and health and gladness where only sorrow and misery was before, and--and--" mrs. thornton's eyes closed, and she lay for a moment quiet. a blackness seemed to settle upon helena--and how cold it was! she shivered. her dark eyes, wide, tearless now, stared, startled, dazed, at the white face on the pillow crowned with its mass of golden hair. her sweetness! her nobleness! helena's lips half parted and her breath came in quick, fierce, little gasps--it seemed as though she had been struck a blow that she could not quite understand because somehow it had numbed her senses--only there was a hurt that curiously, strangely seemed to mock as it stabbed with pain. "there is robert"--mrs. thornton spoke again--"i am sure he will do as i have asked him to do about this, but--you can have a great deal of influence with him. it--it perhaps may seem a strange thing to say, but i pray that you two may be brought very close to each other. robert needs a good, true woman so much in his life--and i--we--we--my illness--we have never had a home in its truest sense. yes, it is strange for me perhaps to talk like this--but it is in my heart. i would like to think of you both engaged in this wonderful work together." again, through exhaustion, mrs. thornton stopped--and helena, from gazing at the other's pallid countenance in a sort of involuntary, frightened fascination, dropped her head suddenly upon the bed-spread and hid her face. mrs. thornton's hand found helena's head and rested upon it. "i would like to see robert happy," she murmured, after a little silence. "riches do not make happiness--they are so sad and empty a thing when the heart is empty. i know he would be happy with you--he has spoken so much of you lately--perhaps--perhaps--" mrs. thornton's voice was very faint--the words reached helena plainly enough as words, but they seemed to reach her consciousness in an unreal, unnatural, blunted way, coma-like--pregnant of significance, yet with the significance itself elusive, evading her. "a good woman," whispered mrs. thornton, "i have tried to be a good woman--but--but my life, our wealth, our position has made it so artificial. you have never known these things, dear--and so you are just as god made you--good woman, so pure, so wonderful in your freshness and your innocence. robert's life has been so barren--so barren. i would like to know that--that it will not always be so. oh, if it could only be that you and he should carry on this great, glad work together--and love should come into his life--and yours--and sunshine--promise me, dear, that--" the voice died away. helena, with head still buried, waited for mrs. thornton to speak again. it seemed she waited for a great length of time--and yet there was no such thing as time. it seemed as though she were transported to a place of great and intense blackness where it was miserably cold and chill, and she stood alone and lost, and strove to find her way--and there was no way--only blackness everywhere, immeasurable. she lifted her head suddenly, desperately, to shake the unreality from her--and her eyes fell upon the gentle face, peaceful, smiling, calm, and so _still_--and a startled, frightened cry rang from her lips. there was the quick, hurried rush of some one coming into the room, and the nurse brushed by her and bent instantly over the bed--after that, quite soon after that it seemed, and yet it might have been quite a little while, she found herself outside in the corridor and the nurse was speaking to her. "sam is still out there," said miss harvey gently. "i told him to keep the team. you cannot help me, and i want you to go home, dear. and will you ask sam to go for mr. madison at the hotel on the way back--i do not know who else i can call upon for advice." "i've sent for him already," said helena numbly. "have you, dear?" miss harvey said. "that was very thoughtful of you--i'm sure he'll be here presently then. and now, dear, it is much better that you should go." there were no tears in helena's eyes as she stepped down from the car vestibule to the tracks--only a drawn misery in her face. that was doc over there, pacing up and down on the platform in the darkness--wasn't it weird the way his cigar glowed bright and then went out and then glowed bright again--like a gigantic firefly! she was across the tracks before he saw her, then, hurrying forward, he helped her to the platform. "well?" he asked quickly. helena did not answer. madison took the cigar from his lips, leaned forward, and peered into helena's face--then drew back with a low whistle. "dead?" he said. helena nodded. "miss harvey wants to see you," she said. "say," said madison slowly, "first crack out of the box this looks bad, don't it? if this gets around here without a muffler on it, it might make the railroad companies hang fire with those circulars for excursion rates to needley--what?" "i--i think i hate you!" helena cried out suddenly, passionately. "she's--she's dead--and that's all you think about!" madison stared at helena for a moment calmly. "now, look here, helena," said he quietly, "don't get excited. of course i'm sorry--i'm not a brute and i've got feelings--but i can't afford to lose my head. something's got to be done, and done quick. we don't want this headlined in every paper in the united states to-morrow morning--thornton wouldn't want it either. you say miss harvey wants to see me? well, that'll help some--she'll probably do as she's told, and--" madison paused abruptly, gazed abstractedly at the private car across the tracks on the siding, and pulled at his cigar. helena watched him in silence--a little bitterly. that quick, clever, cunning brain of his was at work again--scheming--scheming--always scheming--and naida thornton was dead. "i'll tell you," said madison, speaking again as abruptly as he had stopped. "it's simple enough. there's a westbound train due in an hour or so--we'll couple the private car onto that and send it right along to chicago. what the authorities don't know won't hurt them. there's no reason for anybody except thornton to know what's happened till she gets there--i'll wire him. the main thing is that the car won't be here in the morning, and that'll take a little of the intimate touch of needley off. it might well have happened on her way home--journey too much for her--left too soon--see? thornton'll see it in the right light because he's got fifty thousand dollars worth of faith in what's going on here--get that? he won't want to harm the 'cause.' there'll be some publicity of course, we can't help that--but it won't hurt much--and thornton can gag a whole lot of it--he'd want to anyway for his own sake. now then, kid, there's sam over there--you pile into the wagon and go home, while i get busy--and don't you say a word about this, even to the flopper." and so helena drove back to the patriarch's cottage that night, a little silent figure in the back seat of the wagon--and her hands were locked tightly together in her lap--and to her, as she drove over the peaceful, moonlit road, and under the still, arched branches of the trees in the wood that hid the starlight, came again and again the words of one who had gone, who perhaps knew better now--"you are as god made you." --xvi-- a fly in the ointment the days passed. and with the days, morning, noon and night, they came by almost every train, the sick and suffering, the lame, the paralytics and the maimed--a steady influx by twos and threes and fours--from north over the canadian boundary line, from the far west, and from the southernmost tip of the florida coast. no longer on the company's schedule was needley a flag station--it was a regular stop, and its passenger traffic returns were benign and pleasing things in the auditor's office. and it was an accustomed sight now, many times a day--what had once been a strange, rare spectacle--that slow procession wending its way from the station to the town, some carried, some limping upon crutches, all snatching at hope of life and health and happiness again. needley, perforce, had become a vast boarding house, as it were--there were few homes indeed that did not harbor their quota of those who sought the "cure." but there were others too who came--who were not sick--who had not faith--who came to laugh and peer and peek. pleasure yachts dropped their anchors in the cove around the headland from the patriarch's cottage--and their dingeys brought women decked out _de rigeur_ in middy blouses and sailor collars, and nattily attired gentlemen whose only claim to seamanship was the clothes, or rather, the costumes that they wore. they came laughing, supercilious, tolerant, contemptuous, pitying the inanity of those they held less strongly-minded than themselves who should be taken in by so apparent, glaring and monstrous a fake. they came because it was the rage, the thing to do, quite the thing to do, quite a necessary part of the summer's itinerary. but that they, should they have been sick, would ever have dreamed of coming there was too perfectly ridiculous an idea for words. how strange a thing is the human animal! they came in their rather cruel, merciless gaiety--and they left sobered and impressed; the ladies holding their embroidered parasols at a less jaunty angle; the men with lightened pockets, their names enrolled in the contribution book in that quiet, simple room, whose door was open, whose cash-box was unguarded, where none asked them to either enter or withdraw. they came and found no air of charlatanism such as they had looked for--only a peaceful, unostentatious, patient air of sincerity that left them remorseful and abashed. they came and went, a source of revenue not counted on or thought of before by madison; but a source that swelled the coffers, brimming fuller day by day, to overflowing. in three weeks from the night of mrs. thornton's death, which had had at least no visible effect on needley, needley was metamorphosed--with a spontaneity, so to speak, that astounded even madison himself--into something that approximated very closely in reality the word-picture he had drawn of it that night in the roost. madison looked upon his work and saw that it was pleasing beyond his dreams. money was pouring in--no single breath of suspicion came to disquiet him. even the cures were working satisfactorily--even pale face harry, who had become great friends with the farmer at whose house he boarded, and who now spent most of his time in the fields, was showing an improvement--pale face harry coughed less. the flopper was as happy as a lark--and mamie rodgers blushed now at mention of the name of coogan. helena, demure, adored by all who saw her, went daily about her housework in the cottage, and waited upon the patriarch with gentle tenderness; while the patriarch, docile, full of supreme trust and confidence in every one, radiant in helena's companionship, was as putty in their hands. and so madison looked upon his work and saw no flaw--but with the days he grew ill at ease. "it's too easy," he told himself. "i guess that's it--it's too easy. the whole show runs itself. why, there's nothing to do but count the cash!" and yet in his heart he knew that wasn't it--it was helena. helena was beginning to trouble him a little. she was playing the game all right--playing it to the limit--and making a hit at every performance. her name was on every tongue, and men and women alike spoke of her sweetness, her goodness, her loveliness. well, that was all right, helena was a star no matter where you put her--but something was the matter. helena wasn't the helena of a month ago back in little old new york. he hadn't managed to get a dozen words with her since that night on the station platform, without taking chances and gaining admission to the cottage through the flopper's window after dark--and then she had held him at arm's length. "the matter with me?" she had said. "there isn't anything the matter with me--is there? i'm--i'm playing the game." it certainly couldn't be grief over mrs. thornton's death--she had begun to act that way before mrs. thornton died--that night when she came home with thornton, and he and the flopper were behind the trellis. thornton! had thornton anything to do with it, after all? no--madison had laughed at it then, and he had much more reason to laugh at it now. thornton was still in chicago, and hadn't been back to needley. for three weeks this sort of thing occupied a considerably larger share of madison's thoughts than he was wont to allow even the most vexing problems to disturb his usually imperturbable and complacent self--and then one afternoon, he smiled a little grimly, and, leaving the hotel, started along the road toward the patriarch's cottage. "what helena needs is--a jolt!" said madison to himself. "i guess her trouble is one of those everlasting feminine kinks that all women since adam's wife have patted themselves on the back over, because they think it's a dark veil of mystery that is beyond the acumen of brute man to understand. that's what the novelists write pages about--wade right in up to the armpits in it--feminine psychology--great! and the women smile commiseratingly at the novelist--the idea of a man even pretending to understand them--kind of a blooming merry-go-round and everybody happy! feminine psychology! i guess a little masculine kick-up is about the right dope! what the deuce have i been standing for it for? i don't have to--i don't have to go around making sheep's-eyes at her--what? she wants grabbing up and being rushed right off her feet _à la_ roost, and--hello, mr. marvin, how are you to-day!"--he had halted beside a middle-aged man who was sitting on the grass at the roadside. "better, mr. madison, better," returned the man, heartily. "really very much better." "fine!" said madison. "we all saw the patriarch to-day--god bless him!" said marvin. "we've been waiting out there two days, you know--that woman with the bad back got up off her stretcher." "splendid!" exclaimed madison enthusiastically. "and the glorious thing about it is that there's no reason why everybody can't be cured if they'll only come here in the right spirit." "that's so!" agreed marvin. "none are so blind as those who won't see--they're in utter blackness compared with the physical blindness of that grand and marvelous man. i'm going home myself in another week--better than ever i was in my life. it was stomach with me, you know--doctors said there wasn't any chance except to operate, and that an operation was too slim a chance to be worth risking it." he got up and laughed, carefree, joyous. "god-given place down here, isn't it? clean--that's it. clean air, clean-souled people, clean everything you see or do or hear. say, it kind of opens your eyes to real living, doesn't it--it's the luxuries and the worries and the pace and the damn-fooleries that kill. well, i'm going along back now to get some of mrs. perkins' cream--clean, rich cream--and homemade bread and butter--imagine me with an appetite and able to eat!" he laughed again--and madison joined him in the laugh, slapping him a cordial good-by on the shoulder. madison started on once more--but now his progress was slow, frequently interrupted, for he stopped a score of times to chat and exchange a few words with those whom he passed on the road. there were cheery faces everywhere--even those of the sufferers who straggled out along the road coming back from the patriarch's cottage. it was a cheery afternoon, warm and balmy and bright--everything was cheery. the farmers, their vocations for the moment changed, waved their whips at him and shouted friendly pleasantries as they drove by with those who were unable to make the trip from the patriarch's unaided. madison began to experience a strange, exhilarating sense of uplift upon him, a sort of rather commendatory and gratified feeling with himself. marvin had hit it pretty nearly right with his "clean-wholesomeness" idea--it kind of made one feel good to be a part of it. madison, for the time being, relegated helena and his immediate mission to a secondary place in his thoughts. young girls, young men, middle-aged men, elderly women, all ages of both sexes he passed as he went along; some alone, some in couples, some in little groups, some on crutches, some in wheel-chairs, some walking without extraneous aid--he had turned into the woods now, and he could see them strewn out all along the wagon track under the cool, interlacing branches overhead. now he stepped aside to let a wagon pass him, and answered the farmer's call and the smile of the occupants in kind; now some one stopped to tell him again the story of the afternoon--there had been cures that day and the patriarch had come amongst them. some laughed, some sang a little, softly, to themselves--all smiled--all spoke in glad, hopeful words, clean words--there seemed no base thought in any mind, only that cleanness, that wholesomeness that had so appealed to marvin--that somehow madison found he was taking a delight in responding to, and, because it afforded him whimsical pleasure, chose to pretend that he was quite a genuine exponent of it himself. he reached the end of the wagon track, and paused involuntarily on the edge of the patriarch's lawn as he came out from the trees. like low, lulling music came the distant, mellowed noise of waters, the breaking surf. and the cottage was a bower of green now, clothed in ivy and vine--upon the trellises the early roses were budding--fragrance of growing things blended with the salt, invigorating breeze from the ocean. and upon the lawn, flanked with its sturdy maples, all in leaf, that toned the sunshine in soft-falling shadows, stood, or sat, or reclined on cots, the supplicants who still tarried though the patriarch had gone. and now one came reverently out of the cottage door from that room that was never closed; now another went in--and still another. madison smiled suddenly, broadly, with immense satisfaction and contentment--and then his eyes fixed quite as suddenly on the single-seated buggy that was coming toward him on the driveway across the lawn. that was mamie rodgers driving--and that was helena beside her. madison recalled instantly the object of his visit--and instantly he whistled a rather surprised little whistle under his breath. how alluringly helena's brown hair coiled in wavy wealth upon her head; there wasn't any need of rouge for color in the oval face; the dark eyes were soft and deep and glorious; and she sat there in a little white muslin frock as dainty as a medallion from a master's brush. "say," said madison to himself, "say, i never quite got it before. say, she's--she's lovely--and that's my helena. it's no wonder thornton stared at her that day we touched him for the fifty, and"--suddenly--"damn thornton!" but the buggy was beside him now, and he lifted his hat as mamie rodgers pulled up the horse. "good afternoon, miss rodgers," he said. "good afternoon, miss vail--how is the patriarch to-day?" "he is very well, thank you," helena answered--and being custodian of the whip brushed a fly off the horse's flank. "i was just coming out to pay you a little visit," remarked madison, trying to catch her eye. "oh, i'm _so_ sorry!" said helena sweetly, still busy with the fly. "mamie is going to take me for a drive--and afterwards we are going to her house for tea." "oh!" said madison, a little blankly. helena smiled at him, nodded, and touched the horse with the whip--and then she leaned suddenly out toward him, as the buggy started forward. "oh, mr. madison," she called, "i forgot to tell you! i had a letter from mr. thornton to-day--and he's coming back to-morrow." --xvii-- in which helena takes a ride the wind kissed helena's face, bringing dainty color to her cheeks, tossing truant wisps of hair this way and that, as the car swept onward. but she sat strangely silent now beside thornton at the steering wheel. it seemed to her that she was living, not her own life, not life as she had known and looked upon it in the years before, but living, as it were, in a strange, suspended state that was neither real nor unreal, as in a dream that led her, now through cool, deep forests, beside clear, sparkling streams where all was a great peace and the soul was at rest, serene, untroubled, now into desolate places where misery had its birth and shame was, where there was fear, and the mind stood staggered and appalled and lost and knew not how to guide her that she might flee from it all. at moments most unexpected, as now when motoring with thornton in the car that he had brought back with him on, his return to needley, when laughing at the flopper's determined pursuit of mamie rodgers, when engaged in the homely, practical details of housekeeping about the cottage, there came flashing suddenly upon her the picture of mrs. thornton lying on the brass bed in the car compartment that night, every line of the pale, gentle face as vivid, as actual as though it were once more before her in reality, and in her ears rang again, stabbing her with their unmeant condemnation, those words of sweetness, love and purity that held her up to gaze upon herself in ghastly, terrifying mockery. it stupified her, bewildered her, frightened her. she seemed, for days and weeks now, to be drifting with a current that, eddying, swirling, swept her this way and that. how wonderful it was, this life she was now leading compared with the old life--so full of the better things, the better emotions, the better thoughts that she had never known before! how monstrous in its irony that she was leading it to _steal_, that she might play her part in a criminal scheme for a criminal end! and yet, somehow, it did not all seem sham, this part she played--and that very thought, too, frightened her. why was it now that madison's oft-attempted, and as oft-repulsed, kiss upon her lips was something from which she shrank and battled back, no longer from a sense of pique or to bring him to his knees, but because something new within her, intangible, that she did not understand, rose up against it! why did she do this--she, who had known the depths, who had known no other guide or mentor than the turbulent, passionate love she had yielded him and in her abandonment had once found contentment! was her love for him gone? or, if it was not that--what was it? what was it? a week, another, two more, a month had slipped away since thornton had returned, and there had been so much of genuineness crowded into this sham part of hers that it seemed at times the part itself was genuine. she had come to love that little room of hers, love it for its dear simplicity, the white muslin curtains, the rag mat, the patch-quilt on the bed; those daily duties of a woman, that she had never done before, that she had at first looked at askance, brought now a sense of keen, housewifely pride; the gentle patience of the patriarch, his love for her, his simple trust in her had found a quick and instant response in her own heart, and daily her affection for him had grown; and there was thornton--this man beside her, whose companionship somehow she seemed to crave for, who, in his grave, quiet manliness, seemed a sort of inspiration to her, who seemed in a curious way to appease a new hunger that had come to her for association, for contact with better thoughts and better ideals. what was it? environment? yes; there must be something in that. it was having its effect even on pale face harry and the flopper. what was it that harry, a surprisingly lusty farmhand now, had said to her a week or so ago: "say, helena, do you ever feel that while you was trying to kid the crowd about this living on the square, you was kind of getting kidded yourself? i dunno! i ain't coughed for a month--honest. but it ain't only that. say--i dunno! do you ever feel that way?" yes; there must be something in environment. the old life had never brought her thoughts such as these, thoughts that had been with her now almost since the first day she had come to needley--this disquiet, this self-questioning, these sudden floods of condemnatory confusion; and, mingling with them, a startled thrill, a strange, half-glad, half-premonitory awakening, a vague pronouncement that innately it might be true that she was not what she _really_ was--but what all those around her held her to be--what mrs. thornton had said she was--and-- her fingers closed with a quick, fierce pressure on the arm-rest of her seat--and she shifted her position with a sudden, involuntary movement. thornton, a road-map tacked on a piece of board and propped up at his feet, raised his head, and, self-occupied himself, had apparently not noticed her silence, for he spoke irrelevantly. "i hope you won't mind if the road is a bit rougher than usual for a few miles," he said; "but you know we decided we didn't like the looks of the weather at tea-time, and according to the map, which labels it 'rough but passable,' this is a short cut that will lop off about ten miles and take us back to needley through barton's mills." "of course, i don't mind," helena answered. "how far are we from needley?" "about thirty-five miles or so," thornton replied. "say, an hour and a half with any kind of going at all. we ought to be back by nine." helena nodded brightly and leaned back in her seat. rather than objecting to the short cut that thornton had begun to negotiate, the road, now that she gave her attention to it, she found to be quite the prettiest bit she had seen in the whole afternoon's run, where, in the rough, sparsely settled north country, all was both pretty and a delight--miles and miles without the sign of even a farmhouse, just the great maine forests, so majestic and grand in their solitude, bordering the road that undulated with the country, now to a rise with its magnificent sweep of scenery, now to the cool, fresh valleys full of the sweet pine-scent of the woods. they had explored much of it together in the little 'run-about,' nearly every day a short spin somewhere; to-day a little more ambitious run--the whole afternoon, and tea, a picnic tea, an hour or more back, in a charming glade beside a little brook. "oh, this is perfectly lovely!" she exclaimed; and then, with a breathless laugh, as a bump lifted her out of her seat: "it _is_ rough--isn't it?" thornton laughed and slowed down. "i don't fancy it's used much, except in the winter for logging. but if the map says we can get through, i guess we're all right--there's about an eight mile stretch of it." it was growing dusk, and the shadows, fanciful and picturesque; were deepening around them. now it showed a solid mass of green ahead, and, like a sylvan path, the road, converging in the distance, lost itself in a wall of foliage; now it swerved rapidly, this way and that, in short curves, as though, like one lost, it sought its way. a half hour passed. thornton stopped the car, got down and lighted his lamps, then started on again. the going had seemed to be growing steadily worse--the road, as thornton had said, was little more indeed than a logging trail through the heart of the woods; and now, deeper in, with increasing frequency, the tires slipped and skidded on damp, moist earth that at times approached very nearly to being oozy mud. silence for a long while had held between them. it was taking thornton all his time now to guide the car, that, negotiating fallen branches strewn across the way, bad holes and ruts, was crawling at a snail's pace. "'rough but passable'!" he laughed once, clambering back to his seat after clearing away a dead tree-trunk from in front of them. "but there's no use trying to go back, as we must be halfway through, and it can't be any worse ahead than it's been behind. i'd like to tell the fellow that made this map something!" and then upon helena, just why she could not tell, began to steal an uneasiness that frightened her a little. it had grown suddenly, intensely dark--quicker than the slow, creeping change of dusk blending softly into night. sort of eerie, it seemed--and a wind springing up and rustling through the branches made strange noises all about. they seemed to be shut in by a wall of blackness on every hand, except ahead where, like great streaming eyes of fire, the powerful lamps shot out their rays making weird color effects in the forest--huge tree-trunks loomed a dead drab, like mute sentinels, grim and ominous, that barred their way; now, in the full glare, the foliage took on the softest fairy shade of green; now, tapering off, heavier in color, it merged into impenetrable black; and, with the jouncing of the car, the light rays jiggling up and down gave an unnatural semblance as of moving, animate things before them, a myriad of them, ever retreating, but ever marshalling their forces again as though threatening attack, as though to oppose the car's advance. what was there to be afraid of? she tried to laugh at herself--it was perfectly ridiculous. a little bit of rough road--the forest that she loved around her--even if it was very dark. they would come out eventually somewhere on the trunk-road to barton's mills--that was all there was to it. meanwhile, it was quite an experience, and she had every confidence in thornton. she glanced at him now. it was too dark to get more than an indistinct outline of the clean-cut profile, but there was something inspiriting in the alert, self-possessed, competent poise of his body as he crouched well forward over the wheel, his eyes never lifting from the road ahead. they appeared to be going a little faster now, too--undoubtedly the road was getting better. what was there to be afraid of? it didn't make it any more pleasant for thornton, who was probably reproaching himself rather bitterly for having been tempted by the "short cut," to have her sit and mope beside him! she began to hum an air softly to herself--and then laughingly sang a bar or two aloud. thornton shot a quick, appreciative glance at her and nodded, joining in the laugh. "by jove!" he said approvingly. "that sounds good to me. i was afraid this beastly stretch, bumping and crawling along in the dark, was making you miserable." "miserable!" exclaimed helena. "why, the idea! what is there to be miserable about? we'll get through after a while--and the road's better now than it was anyhow, isn't it?" "better?" "you're running faster." "oh--er--yes, of course," said thornton quickly. "i wasn't thinking of what i said. i--" he stopped suddenly, as helena lifted her hand to her face. "why, it's beginning to rain," she said. "yes; i'm afraid so," he admitted. "i was hoping we would get out of here before it came." "oh!" said helena. "and the worst of it is," he added hurriedly, "there's no top to the car, and you've no wraps." "perhaps it won't be anything more than a shower," said helena hopefully. "perhaps not," he agreed. "anyway"--he stopped the car, and took off his coat--"put this on." "no--please," protested helena. "you'll need it yourself." "not at all," said thornton cheerily. "and that light dress of yours would be soaked through in no time." he held the coat for her, and she slipped it on--and his hand around her shoulder and neck, as he turned the collar up and buttoned it gently about her, seemed to linger as it touched her throat, and yet linger with the most curious diffidence--a sort of reverence. helena suddenly wanted to laugh--and, quick in her intuition, as suddenly wanted to cry. it wasn't much--only a little touch. it didn't mean love, or passion, or feeling--only that, unconsciously in his respect, he held her up to gaze upon herself again in that mocking mirror where all was sham. they started on--thornton silent once more, busy with the car; helena, her mind in riot, with no wish for words. the rain came steadily in a drizzle. she could feel her dress growing damp around her knees--and she shivered a little. how strangely wonderful the rain-beads looked on their background of green leaves where the lamps played upon them--they seemed to catch and hold and reflect back the light in a quick, passing procession of clear, sparkling crystals. but it was raining more heavily now, wasn't it? the drops were no longer clinging to the leaves, they were spattering dull and lustrelessly to the ground. and thornton seemed suddenly to be in trouble--he was bending down working at something. how jerkily the car was moving! and now it stopped. thornton swung out of his seat to the ground. "it's all right!" he called out reassuringly. "i'll have it fixed in a minute." it was muddy enough now, and the ruts, holding the rain, were regular wheel-traps. apart from any other trouble, thornton did not like the prospect--and, away from helena now, his face was serious. he cranked the engine--no result. he tried it again with equal futility--then, going to the tool-box, he took out his electric flashlight, and, lifting the engine hood, began to peer into the machinery. everything seemed all right. he tried the crank again--the engine, like some cold, dead thing, refused to respond. "what's the matter?" helena asked him from the car. "i don't know," thornton answered lightly. "i haven't found out yet--but don't you worry, it's nothing serious. i'll have it in a jiffy." helena's knowledge of motor cars and engine trouble was not extensive--she was conversant only with the "fool's mate" of motoring. "maybe there's no gasoline," she suggested helpfully. "nonsense!" returned thornton, with a laugh. "i told babson to see that the tank was full before he brought the car around--he wouldn't forget a thing like that." thornton, nevertheless, tested the gasoline tank. "well?" inquired helena, breaking the silence that followed. "there is no--gasoline," said thornton heavily. neither spoke for a moment. there was no sound but the steady drip from the leaves. then helena forced a laugh. "isn't it ridiculous!" she said. "that is what one is always making fun of others for. i--i don't think it's going to stop raining--do you? and we're miles and miles from anywhere. what _do_ people do when they're caught like this?" thornton did not answer at once. bitterly reproachful with himself, he stood there coatless in the rain. if it had been a breakdown, an accident that was unavoidable, a little of the sting might have gone out of the situation--but _gasoline_! this--from rank, blatant, glaring, inexcusable idiocy. not on his part perhaps--but that did not lessen his responsibility. they were miles, as she had said, from anywhere--four miles at least in either direction from the main road, and as many more probably after that from any farmhouse--he remembered that for half an hour before they had turned into the "short cut" they had seen no sign of habitation--and what lay in the other direction, ahead, would in all probability be the same--they were up in the timber regions, in the heart of them--she couldn't walk miles in the rain with the roads in a vile condition, and growing viler every minute as the rain sank in and the mud grew deeper. and then another thought--a thought that came now, sharp and quick, engulfing the mere discomfort of a miserable night spent there in the woods--the clatter of busy, gossiping tongues seemed already to be dinning their abominable noises in his ears. and that he, that he--yes, it seemed to sweep upon him in a sudden, overmastering surge, the realization that the delight and joy of her companionship through the month that was gone was love that leaped now into fierce, jealous flame, maddened at a breath that would smirch her in the eyes of others--that _he_ should be the cause of it! "what _do_ people do when they're caught like this?"--in their innocence there seemed an unfathomed depth of irony in her words, but as he unconsciously repeated them they cleared his brain and brought him suddenly to face the immediate practical problem that confronted them. what was to be done? "shall--shall i get out?" she called to him, a hint of reminder in her tones that she had spoken to him before and received no answer. thornton moved back to the side of the car. "miss vail," he said contritely, "i--i don't know what to say to you for getting you into this. i--" "i know," she interrupted quickly, leaning over the side of the car and placing her hand on his arm. "don't try to say anything. it's not your fault--it's not either of our faults. now tell me what you think the best thing is to do, and, you'll see, i'll make the best of it--there's no use being miserable about it." "you're a game little woman!" he said earnestly, quite unnecessarily clasping the hand on his arm and wringing it to endorse his verdict. "and that makes it a lot easier, you know. well then, we might as well face the whole truth at one fell swoop. we're up against it"--he laughed cheerfully--"hard. it's miles to anywhere--we don't know where 'anywhere' is--and of course you can't walk aimlessly around in the mud and rain." "n--no," she said thoughtfully. "i suppose there's no sense in that." "and of course you can't sit out here in the wet all night." "that sounds comforting--propitious even," commented helena. "quite!" agreed thornton, laughing again. "well, you wait here a moment, and i'll see if i can't knock up some sort of shelter--i used to be pretty good at that sort of thing." "and i'll help," announced helena, preparing to get out. "by keeping at least your feet dry," he amended. "no--please. just stay where you are, miss vail. you'll get as much protection here from the branches overhead as you will anywhere meanwhile, and you'll be more comfortable." she watched him as he disappeared into the wood, and after that, like a flitting will-o'-the-wisp, watched his flashlight moving about amongst the trees. then presently the cheery blaze of a fire from where he was at work sprang up, and she heard the crackle of resinous pine knots--then a great crashing about, the snapping of branches as he broke them from larger limbs--and a rapid fire of small talk from him as he worked. helena answered him more or less mechanically--her mind, roving from one consideration of their plight to another, had caught at a certain viewpoint and was groping with it. they were stalled more effectively than any accident to the car could have stalled them--they were there for the night, there seemed no escape from that. but there was nothing to be afraid of. she had no fears about passing the night alone with him here in the woods--why should she? _why should she!_ she laughed low, suddenly, bitterly. why should she--even if he were other than the man he was, even if he were of the lowest type! fear--of _that_! a yearning, so intense as for an instant to leave her weak, swept upon her--a yearning full of pain, of shame, of remorse, of hopelessness--oh, god, if only she might have had the _right_ to fear! then passion seized her in wild, turbulent unrestraint--hatred for this clean-limbed, pure-minded man, who flaunted all that his life stood for in her face--hatred for everybody in this life of hers, for all were good save her--hatred, miserable, unbridled hatred for herself. and then it passed, the mood--and she tried to think more calmly, still answering him as he called from the woods. she had seen a great deal of thornton lately--a great deal. he had been kind and thoughtful and considerate--nothing more. more! what more could there have been? love! there was something of mockery in that, wasn't there? everything she thought about lately, every way her mind turned seemed to hold something of mockery now. of course, mrs. thornton's words expressing the wish that she and thornton might come together had been often enough with her--mockingly again!--but thornton could have known nothing of that--so, after all, what did that matter? she had snatched at every opportunity to motor with thornton despite doc's protests, protests that had grown sullen and angry of late--snatched at the opportunities eagerly, as she would snatch at a breath of air where all else stifled her--snatched at them because they took her out of herself temporarily, away from everything, where everything at times seemed to be driving her mad. hate thornton! no, of course, she didn't hate him--she had thought that a moment ago because--because her brain was--was--oh, she didn't know--so tired and weary, and she was cold now and quite wet. she didn't hate him, she even-- "all ready now--house to let furnished"--he was calling out, laughing as he came thrashing through the undergrowth--"excellent situation, high altitude, luxuriant pine grove surrounds the property, and--and"--he had halted beside the car and opened the door--"what else do they say?" helena caught his spirit--or, rather, forced herself to do so. it wasn't quite fair that one of them should do all the pretending. "flies," she laughed. "they always speak of flies in maine." "none!" said thornton promptly. "there hasn't been one since the house was built. now then, miss vail"--he held out his arms. "oh, but really, i can walk." "and i can carry you," he said--and, from the step, gathered her into his arms. and then, as she lay there passively at first, she seemed to sense again that curious diffidence, that gentleness, like the touch upon her throat of a little while ago, though now he held her in both his arms. how strong he was--and, oh, how miserably wet--her hand around his shoulder felt the thin shirt clinging soggily to his arm. yes; she was glad he hadn't let her walk--it wasn't far, but she would have had to force her way continually through bushes that scattered showers from their dripping leaves, and underfoot she could hear his boots squash through the mud. and then suddenly it happened--the trees, just a yard or so from the fire, were thick together, tangled--she bent her head quickly, instinctively, to avoid a low-hanging branch as he for the same reason swerved a little--and their cheeks lay close-pressed against each other's, her hair sweeping his forehead, their lips mingling one another's breaths. he seemed to stumble--then his arms closed about her in a quick, fierce pressure, clasping her, straining her to him--relaxed as suddenly--and then he had set her down inside the shelter he had built. quick her breath was coming now, and across the fire for a moment she met his eyes. his face was gray, and his hands at his sides were clenched. "i'll--i'll get the seat out of the car," he said hoarsely. "it will help to make things more comfortable." and turning abruptly, he started back for the road again. helena did not move. mechanically her eyes took in the little hut, crude, but rainproof at least--branches heaped across two forked limbs for a roof; the trunk of a big tree for the rear wall; branches thrust upright into the ground for the sides--the whole a little triangular shaped affair. the fire blazed in front just within shelter at the entrance; and beside it was piled quite a little heap of fuel that he had gathered. he came back bringing the leather upholstered seat, shook the rain from it, and dried it with the help of the fire and his handkerchief--then set it down inside the hut. his face was turned from her; and as he spoke, breaking an awkward silence, his voice was conscious, hurried. "i'm not going to be gone a minute more than i can help, miss vail. it's mighty rough accommodation for you, but there's one consolation at least--you'll be perfectly safe." helena seated herself, and held her skirt to the fire. "gone!" she said, a little dully. "where are you going?" "why, to get help of course," he told her. "help!"--she shook her head. "you don't know where to find any--you only know for a certainty that there isn't any within miles." "i know there's a house back on the main road," he said. "i noticed it as we came along." "that's seven or eight miles from here," she returned. "and it's raining harder than ever--mud up to your ankles--it would take you hours to reach it." "possibly two, or two and a half," he said lightly. "yes; and another two at least to get back. i won't hear of you doing any such thing--you are wet through now. it's far better to wait for daylight and then probably the storm will be over." "but don't you see, miss vail"--his voice was suddenly grave, masterful--"don't you see that there is no other thing to do?" "no," said helena. "i don't see anything of the kind. i won't have you do anything like that for me--it's not to be thought of." thornton stooped, placed a knot upon the fire, straightened up--and faced her. "it's awfully good of you to think of me," he said in a low tone; "but, really, it won't be half as bad as you are picturing it in your mind. and really"--he hesitated, fumbling for his words--"you see--that is--what other people might say--your--reputation--" with a sudden cry, white-faced, helena was on her feet, staring at him, her hands clutched at her bosom--a wild, demoniacal, mocking orgy in her soul. her reputation! it seemed she wanted to scream out the words--_her reputation_! thornton's face flushed with a quick-sweeping flood of crimson. "i'm a brute--a brute with a blundering tongue!" he cried miserably. "you had not thought of that--and i made you. i could have found another excuse for going if i had only had wit enough. i was a brute once before to-night, and--" he stopped, and for a moment stood there looking at her, stood in the firelight, his face white again even in the ruddy glow--and then he was gone. time passed without meaning to helena. the steady patter of the rain was on the leaves, the sullen, constant drip of water to the ground, and now, occasionally, a rush of wind, a heavier downpour. she sat before the fire, staring into it, her elbows on her knees, her face held tightly in her hands, the brown hair, wet and wayward now, about her temples. once she moved, once her eyes changed their direction--to fix upon her sleeve in a strange, questioning surprise. "i let him go without his coat," she said. --xviii-- the boomerang it was early afternoon, as madison, emerging from the wagon track, and walking slowly, started across the lawn toward the patriarch's cottage. he was in a mood that he made no attempt to define--except that it wasn't a very pleasant mood. before thornton had returned to needley it had been bad enough, after that, with his infernal car, it had been--hell. madison's fists clenched, and his gray eyes glinted angrily. his hands had been tied like a baby's--like a damned infant's! helena was getting away from him further every day, and he couldn't stop it--without stopping the game! he couldn't tell thornton that helena belonged to him--had belonged to him! he couldn't even evidence an interest in what was going on. he had to put on a front, a suave, cordial, dignified front before thornton--while he itched to smash the other's face to pulp! hell--that's what it was--pure, unadulterated hell! he couldn't get near helena alone with a ten-foot pole, morning, noon or night--she had taken good care of that. and he wanted helena--he _wanted_ her! it was an obsession with him now--at times driving him half crazy,--and it didn't help any that he saw her grow more glorious, more beautiful every day! of course she knew she had him--had him where she knew he couldn't do a thing--where she could laugh at him--go the limit with thornton if she liked. but, curse it, it wasn't only thornton--that was what he could not understand--she had begun to keep away from him before ever thornton had come back. madison was near the porch now, and, raising his eyes, noted a supplicant going into the shrine-room--a woman, richly dressed but in widow's weeds, who walked feebly. the game went on by itself, once started--there were half a hundred more about the lawn! like a snowball rolling down hill, as he had put it at the roost. the roost! if he only had helena back there for about a minute there'd be an end of this! she'd go a little too far one of these days--a little too far--it was pretty near far enough now--and then there'd be a showdown, game or no game, and somebody would get hurt in the smash, and-- he lifted his eyes again, as some one came hurrying through the cottage door. it was the flopper. and then to his surprise, he found himself being pushed unceremoniously from the porch and pulled excitedly behind the trellis. "what's the matter with you!" he demanded angrily. "are you crazy!" "t'ank de lord youse have showed up!" gasped the flopper. "say, honest, i can't do nothin' wid him--he's got me near bughouse." "who?"--madison scowled irritably. "de patriarch, of course. he's noivous, an' gettin' worse all de time. he won't eat an' he won't keep still. he wants helena, an' he keeps writin' her name on de slate--he's got me going fer fair." "well, i'm not helena!" growled madison. "why doesn't she go to him?" "now wouldn't dat sting youse!" ejaculated the flopper. "how's she goin' to him when she ain't here?" "not here?" repeated madison sharply. "where is she?" the flopper looked down his nose. "i dunno," said he. madison stared at him for a moment--then he reached out and caught the flopper's arm in a sudden and far from gentle grip. "out with it!" he snapped. "i dunno where she is," said the flopper, with some reluctance. "she ain't back yet, dat's all." "back from where?"--madison's grip tightened. the flopper blinked. "aw, wot's de use!" he blurted out, as though his mind, suddenly made up, brought him unbounded relief. "youse'll find it out anyhow. say, she went off wid thornton in de buzz-wagon yesterday, an' i put de patriarch to bed last night 'cause she wasn't back, an' dat's wot's de matter wid him, she ain't showed up since an' he's near off his chump, an'--fer god's sake let go my arm, doc, youse're breakin' it!" a sort of cold frenzy seemed to seize madison. he was perfectly calm, he felt himself perfectly calm and composed. off all night with thornton--eh? funny, wasn't it? she'd gone pretty far at last--gone the limit. "why didn't you send me word this morning?"--was that his own voice speaking? well, he wouldn't have recognized it--but he was perfectly calm nevertheless. "fer god's sake let go my arm," whimpered the flopper. "i--i ain't no squealer, dat's why." madison's arm fell away--to his side. he felt a whiteness creeping to his face and lips, felt his lips twitch, felt the fingers of his hands curl in and the nails begin to press into the palms. "mabbe," suggested the flopper timidly, "mabbe dere was an accident." madison made no answer. the flopper shifted from foot to foot and licked his lips, stealing frightened glances at madison's face. "wot--wot'll i do wid de patriarch?" he stammered out miserably. and then madison smiled at him--not happily, but eloquently. "swipe me!" mumbled the flopper, as he backed out from the trellis. "dis love game's fierce--an' mabbe _i_ don't know! 'sposin' she'd been mamie an' me the doc--'sposin' it had!" he gulped hastily. "swipe me!" said the flopper with emotion. madison, motionless, watched the flopper disappear. he wasn't quite so calm now, not so cool and collected and composed. he must go somewhere and think this out--somewhere where it would be quiet and he wouldn't be disturbed. a step sounded on the path--madison looked through the trellis. a man, with yellow, unhealthy skin and sunken cheeks, his head bowed, was passing in through the porch. it caught madison with fierce, exquisite irony. why not go there himself if he wanted quiet--the shrine-room--the place of meditation! well, he wanted to _meditate_! he laughed jarringly. the shrine-room--for him! great! immense! magnificent! why not? that's what he had created it for, wasn't it--to meditate in! he stepped inside. the woman, whom he had seen enter a short while before, was sitting in a sort of rigid, strained attitude in the far corner; the man, who had just preceded him, had taken the chair by the fireplace--they were the only occupants of the room. there was no sound save his own footsteps--neither of the others looked at him. there was quiet, a profound stillness--and the softened light from the shuttered window fell mellow all about, fell like a benediction upon the simplicity of the few plain articles that the room contained--the round rag mats upon the white-scrubbed floor; the hickory chairs, severe, uncushioned; the table, with its little japanned box and book. madison's eyes fixed upon the japanned box, as he leaned now, arms folded, against the wall--a jewel, even in the subdued light, glowed crimson-warm where it nested on a crumpled bed of bank-notes--a ruby ring--the last contribution--it must have been the woman who had placed it there. madison glanced at her involuntarily--but his thoughts were far away again in a moment. anger and a blind rage of jealousy were gripping him now. _accident!_ the thought only fanned his fury. accident! yes; it was likely--as an excuse! there would have been an accident all right--leave that to them! thornton perhaps wasn't the stamp of man to seek an adventure of that kind deliberately--perhaps he wasn't--and perhaps he was--you never could tell--but what difference did that make! _helena was that kind of a woman_--though he'd always thought her true to him since he'd known her--and thornton, whatever kind of a man he was, wouldn't run away from her arms, would he? the red glow from the ruby ring had vanished--the man had risen from his seat and was placing something in the box on top of the ring--madison's mind subconsciously absorbed the fact that it was a little sheaf of yellow-backed bills. and now the man bent to the table and was writing in the book. yellow-backs and rubies! rubies and yellowbacks! madison's lips thinned and curled downward at the corners. oh, it was coming all right, money, jewels, pelf, rolling in merrily every day, there wasn't any stopping it, but he was paying for it, and paying for it at a price he didn't like--helena. helena! she wanted thornton, did she--with his money! wanted to dangle a millionaire on her string--eh? she'd throw him over--would she! and she thought she had him where he couldn't lift a finger to stop it--just sit back and grin like a poor, sick fool! the red crept up the knotted cords of madison's neck, suffused the set jaws, and, as though suddenly liberated to run its course where it would, swept in a tide over cheeks and temples. he couldn't do a thing--_couldn't he!_ well, he'd see the game in gehenna before thornton or any other man got her away from him. she belonged to him--to _him!_ and he'd have her, hold her, own her--she was his--_his!_ and he'd settle with thornton too, by heaven! a laugh, low, unpleasant, purled to his lips--and he checked it with a sort of strange mechanical realization that he must not laugh aloud. his eyes swept the room--the man had returned to his seat, the woman had not moved, both were silent, motionless--that ghastly, hallowed, sanctimonious hush--that subdued, damnable light--meditation! "for god's sake let me get out of here," he muttered, "or i'll go mad." he turned--and stopped. came a cry spontaneously from the man and the woman--they were on their feet--no, on their knees. the doorway at the further end of the room was framing a majestic figure, tall and stately--and a sun-gleam struggling suddenly through the lattice seemed to leap in a golden ray to caress in homage the snow-white hair, the silver beard that fell upon the breast, the saintly face of the patriarch. then into the room advanced the patriarch, and his hands were outstretched before him, and he moved them a little to and fro--and the gesture, the poise, the mien, as, touching nothing he seemed to feel his way through space itself, was as one invoking a blessing of peace ineffable. spellbound, madison watched. upon the face was a yearning that saddened it, and, saddening, glorified it; the head was slightly turned as though to listen--while slowly, with measured, certain tread, as though indeed he had no need for eyes, the patriarch circled the table and passed on down the room. the man and the woman reached out and touched him reverently, and drew back reverently to let him pass, and, rising from their knees, followed him through the door and out onto the porch. the room was empty. madison stared at the doorway. upon him fell a sudden awe--it was as though a vision, an ethereal presence, some strange embodiment of power, had been and gone--and yet still remained. and now from without there came a sound like a distant murmur. it rose and swelled, and began to roll in its volume, and then, like the clarion sound of trumpets, voices burst into glad acclaim. "the patriarch! the patriarch! the patriarch!" from the little hallway came the flopper, running--and he stopped and gaped at madison. "i left him in his room fer a minute," he gasped. "he's--he's lookin' fer helena." and then madison shook himself together--and smiled ironically. and at the smile the flopper hurried on. madison stepped out onto the porch. helena! helena! within him seemed to burn a rage of hell; but it seemed, too, most strangely that for the moment this rage was held in abeyance, that something temporarily supplanted it--this scene before him. onward across the lawn moved the patriarch, and the flopper had joined him now; but the patriarch, unheeding, turning neither to the right nor to the left, his arms still extended before him, kept on. and the people cried aloud: "he is coming--he is coming! the patriarch! the patriarch!" madison moved on--out upon the lawn himself. from everywhere, from every scattered spot where they had been, men and women ran and limped and dragged themselves along, all converging on one point--the patriarch. madison, in the midst of them now, hurried--for it was plainly evident that the flopper's control over the patriarch was gone. he reached the patriarch and touched the other's arm--and at the touch the patriarch halted instantly, his hand went out and lay upon madison's sleeve in recognition, and he turned his face, and it was smiling and there was relief upon it--and confidence and trust, as, suffering himself to be guided, they started back toward the cottage. and then upon madison came again that sense of awe, but now intensified. from every hand tear-stained faces greeted him, white faces, faces full of sorrow and suffering through which struggled hope--hope--hope. they flung themselves before the patriarch--yet never blocked the way. they cried, they wept, they prayed--and some were silent. it seemed that souls, naked, stripped, bare, held themselves up to his gaze. men, prostrate on stretchers, tried to rise and stagger nearer--and fell. friends, where there were friends to help, tugged and dragged desperately at cots--and from the cots in piteous, agonized appeal the helpless cried out to the patriarch to come to them. all of human agony and fear and hope and despair and terror seemed loosed in a mad and swirling vortex. and ever the cries arose, and ever around them, giving way, closing in again, pressed the soul-rent throng. and presently to madison it seemed as though he had awakened from some terrifying dream, as, in the patriarch's room again, he swept away a bead of sweat from his forehead, and stood and looked at the patriarch and the flopper. the flopper licked his lips, and pulled the patriarch's chair forward--but his hands trembled violently. "it's been gettin' me, doc," he whispered, "an' i can't help it. it's been gettin' into me all de time. say, i wisht it was over. honest to god i do! dis--dis makes me queer. say, de patriarch's got me, doc--an'--an'--say--dere's been somethin' goin' on inside me dat's got me hard." madison did not answer--but he started suddenly--and as suddenly stepped to the window and looked out. over the cries, the wailings, the confused medley of voices, growing lower now, subsiding, there had come the throb of a motor car. madison's eyes narrowed--_that_ was supreme again. a car was coming to a stop before the porch--thornton was helping helena to alight. madison turned and caught the flopper's arm in a fierce, imperative grasp. "you keep your mouth shut--do you hear?" he flung out, clipping off his words. "you haven't seen me to-day--understand!" and, dropping the flopper's arm, he stepped quickly across the little hall to helena's door, opened it, went in--and closed the door behind him. and the flopper, staring, licked his lips again. "swipe me!" he croaked hoarsely. "pipe de eyes on de doc! dere'll be somethin' doin' now!" --xix-- the sanctuary of darkness there was a grim, merciless smile on madison's lips; and a whiteness in his face windowed the passion that seethed within him. he stood motionless, listening, in helena's room. he heard the automobile going away again; then he heard helena's light step in the hallway without--and the smile died as his lips thinned. but she did not come in--instead, he heard her go into the patriarch's room, heard her talking to the patriarch, and bid the flopper go to the kitchen and make her some tea. then the flopper's step sounded, passing down to the rear, of the cottage. the minutes passed--then that light footfall again. the door of the room swung suddenly wide--and closed--there was a cry--and helena, wide-eyed, the red of her cheeks fading away, leaned heavily back against the door. neither spoke. madison, in the center of the room, did not move. the smile came back to his lips. helena's great brown eyes met the gray ones, read the ugly glint, dropped, raised again--and held the gray ones steadily. madison gave a short laugh--that was like a curse. his hands at his sides knotted into lumps. then madison spoke. "why don't you say, 'you!--_you_!'--and scream it out and clutch at your bosom the way they do in story books!" he flung out raucously. "why don't you do your little stunt--go on, you're on for the turn--you can put anything over me, i'm only a complacent, blind-eyed fool! anything goes! why don't you start your act?" "you don't know what you are saying," she said in a low voice. "if there's anything you want to talk about, we'd better wait until you're cooler." "oh, hell!" he roared, his passion full to the surface now. "cut out the bunk--cut it out! _anything_! no, it isn't much of anything--for you--out all night with thornton. do you think i'm going to stand for it! do you think i'm going to sit and suck my thumb and _share_ you, and--" "you lie!" she was away from the door now, close before him, her breath coming fast, white to the lips, and in a frenzy her little fists pummelled upon him. "it's a lie--a lie--a lie! it's a lie--and you know it!" he pushed her roughly from him. "it is, eh?"--his words came in a sort of wild laugh. "and i know it--do i? why should i know it? what do you think you are? say, you'd think you were trying to kid yourself into believing you're the real thing--the real, sweet, shy, modest miss vail. cut it out! you're name's smith--maybe! and it's my money that's keeping you, and you belong to me--do you understand?" she stood swaying a little, her hands still tightly clenched, breathing through half parted lips in short, quick, jerky inhalations like dry sobs. "it's true," she faltered suddenly--and suddenly buried her face in her hands. and then she looked up again, and the brown eyes in their depths held an anger and a shame. "it's true--i was--was--what you say. but now"--her voice hurried on, an eagerness, a strange earnestness in it--"you must believe me--you must. i'll make you--i must make you." "oh, don't hurt yourself trying to do it!" jeered madison. "we're talking plain now. i'm not taking into account how you feel about it --don't you fool yourself for a minute. the sanctity of my home hasn't been ruined--because it couldn't be! get that? thornton don't get you--not for _keeps_! but you and he don't make a monkey of me again. do you understand--say, do you get that? you're _mine_--whether you like it or not--whether you'd rather have thornton or not. but i'll fix you both for this--i'm no angel with a cherub's smile! i'll take it out of thornton till the laugh he's got now fades to a fare-thee-well; and i'll put you where there aren't any strings tying me up the way there are here. do you understand!" his voice rose suddenly, and for a moment he seemed to lose all control of himself as he reached for her and caught her shoulder. "i love you," he flashed out between his teeth. "i love you--that's what's the matter with me! and you know that--you know you've got me there--and you'd play the fool with me, would you!" he dropped his hands--and laughed a short, savage bark--and stepped back and stared at her. "will you listen?"--she was twisting her hands, her head was drooped, the long lashes veiled her eyes, her lips were quivering. "will you listen?" she said again, fighting to steady her voice. "it was an accident." "i saw the machine when you drove up--it was a wreck!" snapped madison sarcastically. "we ran out of gasoline," she said quietly. and then madison laughed--fiercely--in his derision. "oh, keep on!" he rasped. "i told you i was only a blind fool that you could put anything over on! that accounts for it, of course--a breakdown isn't so easy to get away with. gasoline!" "we were miles from anywhere," she went on. "we had taken what we thought was a short cut. mr. thornton built a shelter for me in the woods, and went to--to--" he caught up her hesitation like a flash. "fake the lines, helena, if you haven't had enough rehearsals," he suggested ironically. "anything goes--with me." and now a tinge of color came to helena's cheeks, and the brown eyes raised, and flashed, and dropped. "he went to try and find help," she said. "he was out all night in the storm. i do not know how far he must have walked. i know the nearest house was five or six miles away--and there was no horse there--the man had driven to some town that morning. it was almost daylight before mr. thornton at last came back with a team. we were forty miles from here--we sent the team to the nearest town for gasoline and then motored back." she stopped--and then, with a catch in her voice: "he--he was very good to me." "good to me"--the words seemed to stab at madison, seemed to ring in his ears and goad him with a fiercer jealousy--and her story of the night, what she had been saying, save those words, was as nothing, meant nothing, was swept from his consciousness--and only she, standing there before him, glorious, maddening in her beauty, remained. soul, mind and body leaped into fiery passion--she was his, and his she always would be--those eyes, those lips, the white throat, those perfect arms to cling about his neck--and all of heaven and hell and earth were naught beside her. "i love you!"--his face was white, his words fierce-breathed, almost incoherent--and he leaned toward her with a sudden, uncontrollable movement, his arms sweeping out to clasp her. "i love you, helena--i love you. do you understand--it's _you_! you--i love you!" "you _love_ me!"--she retreated from him, but her head was raised now, and her voice rang with a bitterness cold as the touch of death. "love! what do you know of _love_! we talk plain, you say. love--love for me! passion, vice, lust, sin--and, oh, my god, degradation and misery and shame--love! love! that is _your_ love!" he stood for a moment and stared at her again--and her face was as pallid ivory. and something seemed to daze him, and he brushed his hand across his eyes--the logic was faulty, torn and pitiful, and he groped after the flaw. "it's--it's your love as well as mine," he said in a stumbling way--then his brain flashed quick into action. "my love--what other love have _you_ known but that?" he cried. "it's _our_ love--the love we have known together--and we're going back to it--see? i've had enough of this. you pack your trunks--and pack them quick! we're going to beat it out of here! we're going back to our--love. we're going back where i don't have to sit around like a puling fool and watch thornton chuck you under the chin--we're going where he'll want a tombstone if he ever shows his face there. you thought the game would hold me to the last jackpot--did you? well, i've got enough--and there's no game big enough to make me stand for this. that looks like love--doesn't it?" he burst again into a sudden, mirthless laugh--and once again swept his hand across his eyes. "we're going to beat it out of here now--to-night--to-morrow morning." but now she had drawn further away from him--and there was a frightened look in her eyes, and her lips quivered pitifully. "no--i can't--i can't," she cried out. "no, no--i can't--i can't go back to _that_." "that! that--is love," he said wildly. "the only love you know. what more do you want? there's loot enough now, and--ha, ha!--that little contribution of thornton's, to give you all the money you want. love, helena--you and i--the old love--you and i together again, helena. i tell you i love you--do you hear? i love you--and i'll have you--i love you! what do you know, what do you care about any other kind of love!" she looked at him, misery and fear still in her eyes, and her slight figure seemed to droop, and her hands hung heavy, listless, at her sides. "i care"--the words came in a strange mechanical way from her lips. "oh, i care. i can't--i won't go back to that. and i know--i know now. i have learned what love is." quick over madison's face surged the red in an unstemmed tide--volcanic within him his love that he knew now possessed his very soul, jealousy that, blinding, robbed him of his senses, roused him to frenzy. "oh, you've learned what love is, have you--_with him_!" he cried--and sprang for her and snatched her into his arms. "and you won't come, eh? well, i've learned what love is too in the last month--and if i can't get it one way, i'll get it another"--he was raining mad kisses upon her face, her hair, her eyes--"i love you, i tell you--i love you!" with a cry she tried to struggle from him--and then fought and struck at him, beating upon his face with her fists. fiercer, closer he held her--around the little room, staggering this way and that, they circled. he kissed her, laughing hoarsely like a madman, laughing at the blows, beside himself, not knowing what he did--mad--mad--mad. he kissed her, kissed the white throat where the dress was torn now at the neck; imprisoned a little fist that struck at him and kissed the quivering knuckles; kissed the wealth of glorious, burnished-copper hair that, unloosened, fell about her, kissed it and buried his face in its rare fragrance. and then--and then his arms were empty--and he was staring at the calm, majestic figure of the patriarch--and helena was crouched upon the floor, and, sobbing, was clinging with arms entwined around the old man's knees. and so for a little while madison stood and stared--what had brought the patriarch there--the patriarch who could neither see nor hear nor speak--what had brought him from his own room across the hall! and madison stared, and his hands crept to his temples and pressed upon them--weak he seemed as from some paroxysm of madness that had passed over him. the sunlight streaming through the window sheened the luxuriant mass of hair that falling over shoulders and to the waist seemed alone to cloak the little figure in its crouched position--the little figure that shook so convulsively with sobs--the little figure that clung so desperately at the feet of this god-like, regal man, whose beard was silver, whose hair was hoary white, upon whose face, marring none its strength or self-possession, was a troubled, anxious, questioning look. strange! strange! madison's hands fell to his sides. the patriarch's eyes were turned full upon him, wavering not so much as by the fraction of an inch--full upon him. and then, as into some holy sanctuary, fending her from harm and danger, the patriarch turned a little to interpose himself before madison, and, raising helena, held her in his arms, her head against his bosom--and one hand lay upon her head and stroked it tenderly. but upon madison was still turned those sightless eyes, that noble face, serene, commanding even in its perturbation, even in its alert and searching look. madison stirred now--stirred uneasily--while the silence held. there was a solemnity in the silence that seemed to creep upon and pervade the room--a sense of a vast something that was the antithesis of turmoil, passion, strife, that seemed to radiate from the saintly figure whose lips were mute, whose ears heard no sound, whose eyes saw no sight. and upon madison it fell potent, masterful, and passion fled, and in its place came a strange, groping response within him, a revulsion, a penitence--and he bowed his head. and then helena spoke--but her head was turned away from him, hidden on the patriarch's breast. "once," she said, and her words were like broken whispers, for she was sobbing still, "once, long, long ago, when i was a little girl, i read the story of mary magdalen. i had almost forgotten it, it was so long ago, but it has come back to me, and--and it is a glad story--at the end." she stopped--and madison raised his head, and his face was strained as with some sudden wonder as he looked at her. "it is a glad story," she said presently. "it--it is my story." "you mean"--madison's voice was hoarse--"you mean that you've turned--_straight_!" "they love me here," she said. "they trust me and they think me good--as they are. all think me that--the little children and this dear man here--and for a little while, since i have been here, i have lived like that. they made me believe that it was true--_true_. and there was shame and agony--and hope. it seemed they could not all be wrong, and i have asked and prayed that i might make it true always--and--and forgiveness for what i was." "you mean," he said again hoarsely, and he stepped toward her now, "you mean that you are--_straight_!" she did not answer--only now she turned her face toward him and lifted up her head. and for a long minute madison gazed into the tear-splashed eyes, deep, brave in chastened wistfulness, gazed--and like a man stunned walked from the room, the cottage, and out across the lawn. --xx-- to the victor are the spoils many were still about the lawn as he left the cottage--they were all about him, those sick, half frantic creatures--and still they made noises; still some of them cried and sobbed; still in their waning paroxysms they moved hither and thither. they appealed to some numbed, dormant sense in madison, in a subconscious way, as things to be avoided. and so, almost mechanically, he took the little path that, striking off at right angles to the wagon track where it joined the patriarch's lawn, came out again upon the main road at the further end of the village. and, as he walked, like tidal waves on-rushing, emotions, utterly at variance one with another, hurled themselves upon him, and he was swept from his mental balance, tossed here and there, rolled gasping, strangling in the chaos and turmoil of the waters, as it were, and, rising, was hurled back again. white as death itself was madison's face; and at times his fingers with a twitching movement curled into clenched fists, at times his open palms sought his temples in a queer wriggling way and pressed upon them. doubt, anger, fear, a rage unhallowed--in cycles--buffeted him until his brain reeled, and he was as a man distraught. it began at the beginning, that cycle, and dragged him along--and left him like one swooning, tottering, upon the edge of a precipice. and then it began over again. and it began always with a picture of the roost that night--the vicious, unkempt, ragged figure of the flopper--the sickly, thin, greedy face of pale face harry, the drug fiend, winching a little as he plunged the needle into his flesh--the easy, unprincipled gaiety and eagerness of helena for the new path of crime--crime--crime--the roost exuded crime--filth--immorality--typified them, framed them well as they had sat there, the four of them, while that bruised-nosed bouncer had brought them drink on his rattling tin tray. and then his own self-satisfied, smug, complacent egotism at his own cleverness, his unbounded confidence in his own ability to pull off the game, and-- well, he had pulled it off--he'd won it--won it--won it--everybody had fallen for it--the boobs had been plentiful--the harvest rich. what was the matter with him! he'd won--was winning every time the clock ticked. somebody back there was probably throwing good hard coin at him this minute--the damned fool! madison threw back his head to laugh in derision, for there was mocking, contemptuous laughter in his soul--but the laugh died still-born upon his lips. it was fear now--fear--staggering, appalling him. he was facing something--_something_--his brain did not seem to define it--something that was cold and stern and immutable, that was omnipotent, that embodied awe--a condemnation unalterable, unchangeable, before which he shrank back with his soul afraid. before him seemed to unfold itself the wagon track, the road to the patriarch's cottage; and he was there again, and whispering lips were around him, and men and women and children were there, and in front of them, leading them, slithered that twisted, misshapen, formless thing--and now they were upon the lawn, and about him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere was a sea of white faces out of which the eyes burned like living coals. what power was this that, loosed, had stricken them to palsied, moaning things! madison shivered a little--and a sweat bead oozed out and glistened upon his forehead. hark--what was that! clarionlike, clear as the chimes of a silver bell, rang now that childish voice--rang out, and rang out again--and the crutch was gone--and the lame boy ran, ran--_ran_! and who was that, that stood before him now--that golden-haired woman beside an empty wheel-chair, whose face was radiant, who cried aloud that she was _cured_! and who were these others of later days, this motley crowd of old and young, that passed before him in procession, that cried out the same words that golden-haired woman by the wheel-chair had cried--and cried out: "faith! faith! faith!" madison swept the sweat bead from his forehead with a trembling hand. it was a lie--a lie--a lie! he had taught them to say that--but it was all bunk--and all were fools! he could laugh at them, jeer at them, mock at them, deride them--they were his playthings--and faith was his plaything--and he could laugh at them all! and again he raised his head to laugh; and again the laugh was choked in his throat, still-born--_helena was straight_! to his temples went his twitching hands. anger raged upon him--and died in fear. anger, for the instant maddening him, that he should lose her; rage in ungovernable fury that the game, his plans, the hoard accumulated, was bursting like a bubble before his eyes--died in fear. no, no; he had not meant to laugh or mock--no, no; not that, not that! what was this loosed titanic power that had done these things--that had brought this change in helena; that had brought a change in the flopper, transforming the miserable, pitiful, whining thief into a man reaching out for decent things; that had wrought at least a physical metamorphosis in pale face harry--that had transfigured those three who, in their ugly, abandoned natures then, had hung like vultures on his words in the roost that night! what was this power that he was trifling with, that brought him now this cold, dead fear before which he quailed! what was this _something_ that in his temerity he had dared invoke--that rose now engulfing him, a puny maggot--that snatched him up and flung him headlong, shackled, before this nebulous, terrifying tribunal, where out of nothingness, out of a void, the calm, majestic features of the patriarch took form and changed, and changed, and kept changing, and grew implacable, set with the stamp of doom. what was it--in god's name, what was it brought these sweat beads bursting to his forehead! was he going mad--was he mad already! and then the cycle again--doubt, anger, fear--until his brain, exhausted, seemed to refuse its functions; and it was as though, heavy, oppressing, a dense fog shut down upon his mind and enveloped it; and now he walked as a man in great haste, hurrying, and now his pace was slow, uncertain. and so he went on, following the little path that bordered the woods on one hand and the fields on the other; went on until he neared the village--and then he stopped suddenly, and turned about. some one had called his name. from the field, a man climbed over the fence and came toward him. the man's face was tanned and rugged, his form erect, and the sleeves rolled back above the elbows displayed browned and muscular forearms. madison stared at the man apathetically. this was the farm of course where pale face harry boarded, and this was pale face harry--but-- "doc," said pale face harry, and he shuffled his feet and looked down, "doc, i got something i've been wanting to say to you for a week." madison still gazed at him apathetically--pale face harry for the moment was as some unwarrantable apparition suddenly appearing before him. pale face harry raised his eyes, lowered them, kicked at a clod of earth with the toe of his boot--and raised his eyes again. "say," he blurted out, "i'm through, doc. i'm--i'm going to quit." into madison's stumbling brain leaped and took form but one idea--and he jumped forward, reaching savagely for pale face harry's throat. "you'd throw me, would you! you'd throw the game--would you!" he snarled, as his fingers locked. pale face harry, twisting, wriggled free--and retreated a step. "no; i ain't!" he gasped--and then his sentences came tumbling out upon each other jerkily, as though he were trying to compress what he had to say into as few words as possible and as quickly as he could, while he watched madison warily. "i ain't throwing nothing. i just want to quit myself. i keeps my mouth shut--see? i don't want none of the share what's coming. say, i've got more'n a hundred times that out of it. look at me, doc! say, i'm like a horse. that's the patriarch and living honest. say, in all me life i never knew what it was before till we comes here. if i took the dough what's coming i'd go back to the old hell, and i'd go down and out again. say, it ain't worth it, there's nothing in it. i ain't throwing you, doc--i just blows out of here with me trap closed. say, look at me, doc--don't you get what i mean?" and then madison burst into a peal of wild, strange laughter; and, as though no man stood before him, started on along the path--and pale face harry sidled out of his way and stared after him. "for--for god's sake, doc," he called out, stammering, "what's the matter?" but madison made no answer. he heard pale face harry call out behind him; in a subconscious, mazed way, he sensed the other following him, gropingly, hesitantly, for a few yards, then hold back--and finally stop. the path swerved. madison went on--blindly, mechanically, as though, once set in motion, he must go on. some ghastly, unnatural thing was clogging his brain; not only in a mental way, but clogging it until there was physical hurt and pain, an awful tightness--something--if he could only reach it with his fingers and claw it away! there was black madness here, and a pain insufferable--a damnable impotence, robbing him of even the power, the faculty to think or reason, or to make himself understand in any logical degree the meaning or the cause of this thing that sent his brain swirling sick. he halted. his lips were working; the muscles of his face quivered. and suddenly, snatching his hat from his head, he flung himself on the ground and plunged face and head, feverishly, tigerishly, into the little brook that ran beside the path. again and again he buried his face in the cold, clear, refreshing water--and then, still on hands and knees, he raised his head to listen. softly, full of a great peace, full of a strange sweetness that knew no discord, no strife, the notes of the chapel bell floated across the fields. evening had come; the day's work was done--it was benediction time. it was the call of the faithful--the angelus of those who believed. it came, the revulsion, to madison in a choked sob--and he stood up. the day's work was done--here. here they would go in quiet thankfulness each from the farm to his little cottage, each to his simple, wholesome meal, each to the twilight hours of gentle communion as they talked to one another from their doorways, each to his bed and his rest, tranquil in the love of god and of man. madison flung back the dripping hair from his forehead. strange, the contrast that, unbidden, came insistently to him now: the liquid notes of the bell wafted sweetly on the evening breeze; the howling, jangling turmoil of the city slums, of his familiar haunts where, in mad chaos, reigned the hawkers' cries, the thunder of the elevated trains, the noisome traffic of the street, the raucous clang of trolley bells--the sweet perfume of the, fields, the smell of trees, of earth, of all of god's pure things untouched, unsoiled; the stench of chatham square, the reek of whiskey spilled with the breath of obscene, filthy lips--the little village that he could see beyond him, the tiny curls of blue smoke rising like the incense from an altar over the roofs of houses whose doors had no locks, whose windows were not barred, where plain, homely folk, unsullied, lived at peace with god and the world; the closed areaways of the bowery, the creaking stairs, the dim hallways leading to dens of vileness and iniquity where, safe by bolts from interruption, crime bred its offsprings and vice was hatched. what did it mean! and so he stood there for a little space; then presently he started forward again; and presently he reached the village street, walked down its length, greeted from every doorway with hearty, unaffected sincerity, and after a little while he came to the hotel, and to his room--and there he locked the door. helena was straight--the words were repeating themselves over and over in his brain. he began to pace up and down the room. the words seemed to take form and shape in fiery red letters, being scrawled by invisible hands upon the walls--_helena was straight_. straight with thornton, straight with any man--straight with her maker. he knew that now--he had read it as a soul-truth in those brave, deep, tear-dimmed eyes. and he had _lost_ her! it seemed as though he had become suddenly conscious that he was enduring some agony that was never to know an end, that from now on must be with him always. he had lost her--lost helena. from his pocket he drew out his keys and opened his trunks, and took out the trays and spread them about. there were very many trays, they nested one upon the other--and they were exceedingly ingenious trays--false-bottomed every one. and now he opened these false-bottoms, every one of them, and stood and looked at them. the surest, safest, biggest game he had ever played, the game that had known no single hitch, the game that had brought no whispering breath of suspicion flung its tribute in his face. money that he had never tried to count, notes of all denominations, large and small, glutted the receptacles--jewels in necklaces, in rings, in pendants, in brooches, in bracelets, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, winked at him and scintillated and glowed and were afire. and he stood and looked upon them. what was it the flopper had said when they had brought the patriarch back--he did not remember. what was it that pale face harry had said a little while ago--he did not remember. these were jewels here and money--wealth--and he had won the greatest game that was ever played--only he had lost her--lost helena. and he stood and looked upon them--and slowly there crept to his face a white-lipped smile. "i'm beat!" he whispered hoarsely. "beat--by the game--i won." --xxi-- face value it was evening of the same day--and there came a knock at the outer door of the cottage porch. the flopper answered it, and came back to the patriarch's room; where the patriarch sat in his armchair; where the lamp, turned low, throwing the little room into half shadow, burned upon the table; where helena, far away from her immediate surroundings, quite silent and still, her own chair close beside the other's, nestled with her head on the patriarch's shoulder. helena looked up as the flopper returned. upon the flopper's face was a curious expression--not one that in the days gone by had been habitual--it seemed to mingle a diffidence, a kindly solicitude and a sort of anxious responsibility. "it's thornton askin' fer youse," announced the flopper. helena rose from her chair, and started for the door--but the flopper blocked the way. helena halted and looked at him in astonishment. the flopper licked his lips. "say, helena," he said earnestly, "if i was youse i wouldn't go--say, i'll tell him youse have got de pip an' gone ter bed." "not go?" echoed helena. "what do you mean?" the flopper scratched at his chin uneasily. "oh, you know!" he said. "de doc let youse down easy ter-day. say, if youse had piped his lamps when you drives up in de buzz-wagon dis afternoon youse wouldn't be lookin' fer any more trouble. say, i'm tellin' youse straight, helena. when i was out dere in de kitchen an' youse was in yer room wid him me heart was in me mouth all de time. youse can take it from me, helena, he let youse down easy." helena's brown eyes, a little wistfully, a little softly, held upon the flopper. "yes?" she said quietly. "youse had better cut it out ter-night, helena," the flopper went on. "y'oughter know de doc by dis time--de guy dat starts anything wid de doc gets his--dat's all! remember de night he threw cleggy down de stairs in de roost?--an' he was only havin' fun! say, you go out wid thornton again ter-night an' de doc finds it out--an' something'll happen. say, helena, fer god's sake, don't youse do it--de doc was bad enough dis afternoon when he let youse down easy, but he's worse now, an'--" "worse?" helena interrupted, smiling a little apathetically. "in what way is he worse? and how do you know? you haven't seen doc, have you?" "no," the flopper answered, circling his lips with his tongue again. "no; i ain't seen de doc since--but i seen pale face. say, helena"--the flopper's words came stumbling out now, agitated, perturbed, not altogether coherent--"wot's de answer i dunno; i dunno wot's de matter here. say"--he pointed suddenly to the patriarch, whose face was turned toward them as he stroked thoughtfully at his silver beard--"he's got me fer fair--dere ain't no fake here--dis way ter live is de real t'ing--he ain't like you an' me--he's _more'n_ dat--look at him now--youse'd t'ink he could see us, an' was listenin' ter wot we said. i dunno wot's de end--i dunno wot's de matter wid me. i was scared more'n ever out dere dis afternoon on de lawn, an' i thought mabbe god 'ud strike me dead--but 'tain't only dat i'm scared ter buck de game any more, 'tain't only dat--i don't _wanter_ any more, an' it don't make no difference about de dough--i wanter live straight, same as him, same as de guys around here, same--same as mamie. say, helena, say, do youse believe in love--in--in de _real_ t'ing?" helena's apathy was gone now--a flush dyed her cheeks. she was not startled at what the flopper had said--she had seen it coming, subconsciously, vaguely, mistily, for days now, only she had been immersed in herself--she was not startled, and yet, in a way, she was. the end! she too had been thinking about that--and she too did not know. what _was_ the end? "you were going to say something about pale face," she said, prompting the flopper. "something about pale face and doc." "yes," said the flopper, and again the tip of his tongue sought his lips nervously. "dat's why i don't want youse ter go out wid thornton ter-night. pale face has got it de same as me, an' he told de doc dis afternoon, out in de path dere, after de doc left de cottage here. dere was a showdown--see? de doc 'ud kill youse an' thornton ter-night if he caught youse ter-gether. he's like a wild man. when pale face tells him he was goin' ter quit, de doc makes a grab fer him by de t'roat like a tiger, only pale face gets away, an' den de doc goes off widout a word, laughin' like he'd escaped out of a dippy-house. an' pale face was shakin' like he had a fit when he gets here. say, helena, don't youse go ter-night." helena made no answer for a moment. thoughts, a world of them, confused her, crowded upon her, as they had ever since madison had left her room a few hours ago--and the future was as some dread, bewildering maze through which she had tried to stumble and grope her way--and had lost herself ever deeper. how full of utter, miserable, bitter irony it was that this thing, unscrupulous and shameful, that they had created in their guilt should have brought the beauty and the glory and the yearning of a new life to her--and yet should chain her remorselessly to the old! true, she had broken with madison, irrevocably, forever, she supposed, it could not be other than that, for the ugly bond between them was severed--but the game still went on! in repentance, on her bended knees, sobbing as a tired and worn-out child, she could ask for forgiveness; but the double life, the duplicity, by reason of the very nature in which they had fashioned this iniquitous monster, still went on, and like some hideous octopus reached out its waving, feeling tentacles to encircle her--the patriarch there; the world-wide publicity, those poor creatures upon whose misery and whose suffering, upon whose frantic, frenzied snatching out at hope they had preyed and fed and gorged themselves; the life itself that she had taken up, in its minutiæ, in its care of this great-souled, great-hearted man so dear to her now, the life itself because it was what it was, changed though she herself might be, though her soul cried out against it in its new-found purity--all this still held her fast! the end--she could not see the end. what would madison do--and there was thornton. thornton! she caught her breath a little. yes; she had promised thornton she would see him to-night--she knew well enough why he wanted to see her--last night had told her that--he loved her. her face softened. last night--it seemed a thousand years ago, and it seemed but as an instant passed--last night--she had learned what love was, and-- the flopper stirred uneasily. "wot'll i tell him?" asked the flopper. "he's waitin' out dere by de porch." "why--why nothing," said helena, and she smiled a little tremulously at the flopper. "nothing. i'll--i'll go and see him." "say, helena," protested the flopper, "don't youse--" but helena stepped by him now. "don't leave the patriarch," she cautioned, turning on the threshold. "i--i won't be late." she passed down the little hall, through the still, quiet room beyond, empty now, through the porch, and out into the night--and then from out the shadows by the row of maples, thornton came hurriedly toward her, holding out his hands. "it's good of you to come, miss vail," he said, in his grave, quiet way. "you must be nearly dead with weariness after last night, and i am afraid i am not very thoughtful--only i--" he broke off suddenly. "shall we sit here on the bench for a little while, or would you rather walk--i--i have something to say to you." it was very dark--the storm of the night before still lingered in a wrack of flying clouds, scurrying one after the other, veiling the stars--and the moon was hidden--and hidden too was the sudden whiteness of helena's face. she knew what he had to say, knew it before she had come to him--and yet she was there--and she had come resolutely enough--only now she was afraid. "i would rather walk a little, i think," she said. "here where--where i can be within call. my absence last night seems to have made the patriarch very uneasy, you know, and--and--let us just walk up and down here beneath the maples in front of the cottage." how heavy upon the air lay the fragrance of the flowers; how still the night was, save for the constant muffled boom of the breaking surf!--for a moment an almost ungovernable impulse swept upon her to make some excuse, anything, no matter how wild, a sudden faintness, anything, and run from him back into the cottage. and then she tried to think, think in a desperate sort of way of some subject of conversation that she might introduce that would stave off, postpone, defer the words that she knew were even now on his lips--nothing--she could think of nothing--only that she might have let the flopper have his way, have let him tell thornton that she had gone to bed with--the pip. the _pip_! she could have screamed out hysterically as the word flashed all unbidden upon her--it stood for a very great deal that word--her world of the years of yesterday. could she never get away from that world; was it too late--already! could she, even with all the earnestness, all the yearning that filled her soul, ever live it down, ever be what naida thornton had called her that night--a good woman! could she-- thornton was speaking now--how strange that she would have done anything, given anything to prevent his speaking--and done anything, given anything to make him speak! how strange and perplexed and dismayed her brain was! love! yes; she wanted love! god knew she wanted love such as his was--for he had shown her what love, free from abasing passion, in its purest sense, was. like a glimpse of glory, hallowed, full of wondrous amazement, it came to her--and then her head was lowered, and the whiteness was upon her face again. he had halted suddenly and detained her with his hand upon her arm--with that touch, so full of reverence, of fine deference, that had thrilled her before--that thrilled her now, awakening into fuller life these new emotions whose birth was in gladder, sweeter, purer aspirations. "miss vail," he said, in a low voice, "there was a letter--a letter that naida left--did you know of it?" they were close together, and it was very dark--but was it dark enough to hide the crimson that she felt sweeping in a flood to her face! what was in that letter? had mrs. thornton written as she had talked, or only about the patriarch and the work in needley? she had forgotten for the moment about the letter--if there were more in it than that, if it were about thornton and herself and what mrs. thornton had hoped for between them, and she admitted knowledge of it, what would he think, what _could_ he think of her! but to deny it--no, not now. once, and this came to her in a little thrill of gladness, she would not have hesitated; but now it--it was--it was not that world of yesterday. "yes," she said faintly; "she told me that she had left a letter for you." "it was about the work here," said thornton gently. "her whole soul seemed wrapt up in that--and she asked me as her last wish to do what she would have done if she had lived; and she spoke of you very beautifully." thornton paused for a moment--then he laid his hands on helena's shoulders--and she felt them tremble a little. "miss vail--helena," he said, and his voice was full of passionate earnestness now, "i cannot say these things well--only simply. i came back here to take an interest in the work, for i too have it at heart--but i have more than that now--there is _you_--your dear self. i love you, helena--you have come into my life until you are everything and all to me. helena, look up at me--will you marry me, dear? tell me what i long to hear. helena, helena--i love you!" but helena did not answer--only very slowly she raised her head. and his hands on her shoulders tightened, and he was drawing her gently toward him. then he bent his head until it was close to hers, and his breath was upon her cheek as it had been that other night--and the longing to know that it was hers, a caress, pure in its motive, hers, snatched out of all that had gone before that sought to rob her of the right to ever know it, fascinated her, held her spellbound, possessed her. closer his lips came to hers, closer, until they touched her--and then, with a cry, she sprang back, and her hands were fiercely pressed against her cheeks, her throbbing temples. was she mad! mad! was it for this that she had forced herself to give him the opportunity to speak to-night, when her motive was so different, when it had seemed the only _right_ thing left for her to do! and now, still holding her temples, she raised her eyes to thornton--he had stepped back like a man stricken, his hands dropped to his sides. "i--we are mad!" she whispered. "helena!" he said in a numbed way; and again; "helena!" then, with an effort to control his voice: "you--you do not care--you do not love me?" "no," she said--and thereafter for a long time a silence held between them. then thornton spoke. "some day perhaps, helena," he said, "you could learn to love me--for i would teach you. perhaps now you feel that your whole duty lies here in this work to which you have so unselfishly given your life; but i would not hinder that, only try to help as best i could. perhaps i have been abrupt, have spoken too soon--it is only a few weeks since i saw you first, but it seems as though in those few weeks i had come to know you as if i had known you all my life and--" but now she interrupted him, shaking her head in a sad little fashion. "you do not know me," she said. "sometimes i think i do not know myself. think! you do not know where i came from to join the patriarch here; you have no single shred of knowledge about me; you do not know a single particular of my life before you knew me." "i do not need to know," he answered gravely. "you are as genuine as pure gold is genuine--it is in your voice, your smile, your eyes. it is a crude simile perhaps, but one never asks where the pure gold was dug--it stands for itself, for what it is, because it is what it is--pure gold--at its face value." the words seemed to stab at helena, condemning, accusing; and yet, too, in a strange, vague way, they seemed to bring her a hope, a promise for the days to come--at face value! if she could live hereafter--at face value! "listen," she said, and her voice was very low. "i do not know how to say what i must say to you. last night i knew that--that you loved me. i had not thought of you like that, in that way, until then, or--or i should have tried never to have let this hurt come to you. but last night i knew, and since then i have known that sooner or later you would--would tell me of it." she stopped for an instant--her eyes full of tears now. "and so," she went on presently, "i have let you speak to-night because it was better, it was even necessary that i should do so at once--because this could not go on--because you must go away and--" "necessary?" he repeated. "i--i do not understand." "no," she said helplessly; "you do not understand--and i--i cannot explain. oh, i do not know what to say to you, only that you must take what i say, as you have taken me--at face value." "i do not understand," he said again. "helena, i do not understand. are you in trouble--tell me?" "no," she said. "but i cannot go away like this!" he cried out suddenly. "i cannot go and leave you, helena. you have come into my life and filled it; and i cannot let you pass out of it--like this--without an effort to hold what has come to mean everything to me now. you may not love me now, but some day--" she shook her head, interrupting him once more. "there can never be a 'some day,'" she said. "oh, i do not want to hurt you--you, to whom i owe more than you will ever know--but--but there can never be anything between us, and--and we are only making it harder for ourselves now--aren't we?" and then he leaned abruptly toward her. "is there--some one else?" he asked in a strained voice. and to helena the question came as though it had been an inspiration given him--for after that he would ask no more, seek no more to understand, for he was too big and strong and fine for that; and even if it was hopeless now this love that she had known for madison, even if it could never be again, still that love was hers, and she could answer truthfully. "yes," she said beneath her breath. for a moment thornton neither moved nor spoke. then he held out his hand. "miss vail," he said simply, "will you tell this 'some one else' that another man beside himself is the better for having known you. good-night. and may god bring you happiness through all your life." but she did not speak--they were standing by the rustic bench and she sank down upon it, and, with her head hidden in one arm outflung across the back of the seat, was sobbing softly. and he stood and watched her for a little space, his face grave and white; then taking the hand that lay listlessly in her lap, he raised it to his lips--and turned away. and so he left her--and so, because of this, he knocked upon another door that night, and all unwittingly gave to that "some one else" himself the message that he had asked helena to deliver. madison, pacing his room like a caged beast, his teeth working upon the cigar that he had never thought to light, paid no attention to the summons until it had been repeated twice; then, with a glance around the room, his eyes lingering for a critical instant upon the trunks, closed now, the trays restored to their hiding places, he stepped to the door, unlocked it, and flung it open. and at sight of thornton, mechanically, as second nature to him, outwardly, like a mask, there came a smile upon his working lips, a suave, unconcerned composure to his face; while inwardly, in his dazed, fogged brain where chaos raged, surged an impulse to fling himself upon the other, wreck a mad vengeance upon the man--and then swift upon the heels of this an impulse to refrain, for if helena was straight why should he harm thornton--and then the shuttle again--why should he not--hadn't helena said that she had learned what love was last night--and last night she had been with thornton. how his brain whirled! what had brought thornton here, anyhow? if he stayed very long perhaps he would batter thornton to jelly after all! quick, almost instantaneous in their sequence came this wild jumble singing dizzily its crazy refrain through his mind--and then to his amazement he heard some one speaking pleasantly--and to his amazement it was himself. "come in, thornton. come in--and take a chair." "thanks," thornton answered; and, entering the room, closed the door behind him. "no; i won't sit down--i shall only remain a moment." the lamp was on the washstand, and, intuitively again, madison shifted his position to bring his face into shadow--and leaned against the foot of the bed. he stared at thornton, nodding--thornton's face was white and exceedingly haggard--rather curious for thornton to look that way! "madison," said thornton abruptly, "i believe you to be a gentleman in the best sense of the word, and because of that, and because of the unusual circumstances that first brought us together and the mutual interests that have since been ours, i have come to you to-night to tell you, first, that i am going away from needley and that i shall not return--and then to ask a service and repose a trust in you. you have said several times that you intended to remain here and take a personal and active part in the work?" madison removed the chewed cigar end from one corner of his mouth--and placed it in the other. "yes," said madison. "then this is what i want to say," said thornton seriously. "for my own sake, because it was my wife's wish, and for other reasons as well, my interest here, though i am going away, will be just as great as it has ever been; and so i want you to keep me thoroughly posted, and when the time comes that i can be of further material assistance to let me know. i impose only one condition--you are to say nothing to miss vail about it--you can make anything that i may do appear to come from yourself." "say nothing to miss vail!" repeated madison vaguely--then a sort of ironic jest seemed to take possession of him: "but miss vail keeps all the funds." "that is why i am asking you to represent me," said thornton quietly. "i am afraid that she might have a natural diffidence about accepting anything more from me--i asked miss vail to marry me to-night, and she refused." the cigar kind of slid down unnoticed from the corner of madison's mouth--and he leaned forward, hanging with a hand behind him to the bedpost--and stared at thornton. "you--_what_!" he gasped. "yes; i know," thornton answered--and moved abruptly toward the door. "love makes one's temerity very great--doesn't it? i asked her to marry me--because i loved her." he came back from the door and held out his hand, "i've told you what i would tell no other man, madison. you understand now why--and you'll do this for me?" what answer madison made he never knew himself--he only knew that he was staring at the door after thornton had gone out, and that he wanted to laugh crazily. marry helena! thornton had asked helena to marry him because he loved her. god, there was humor here! his brain itself seemed to cackle at it--_marry_ helena! and then suddenly there seemed no humor at all--only black, infamous shame and condemnation--and he straightened up from where he leaned against the bedpost, his face set and strained. "thornton had asked helena to marry him because he _loved_ her"--the words came slowly, haltingly, aloud--and then he covered his face with his hands. but he, he who loved her too--what had _he_ done! --xxii-- the shrine for a little time madison stood there in his room, motionless, staring unseeingly before him--and then, as one awakening from a dream that had brought dismay and a torment too realistic to be thrown from him on the instant, his brain still a little blunted, he took up his hat mechanically, went out from the room, descended by the back stairs to the rear door of the hotel, and took the road to the patriarch's cottage. and as he walked in the freshness of the night, the restless turmoil of his soul that since early afternoon had brought him near to the verge of madness itself, that had robbed him of sane virility, that a moment since in his room had suddenly begun to lift from him even as the leaden clouds in the vault above him now were scattering, breaking, and through the rifts a moon-glint and the starlight came, passed from him utterly--and a strange calm, a strange joy, a strange sadness was upon him--and his brain for the first time in many hours was rational, keen--and he was master of himself again--and yet master of himself no more! he smiled a little at the seeming paradox--smiled a little wistfully. he was beaten--by the game--he had won. how strange it was that sense of more than resignation now--a sense that seemed like one of thankfulness--a sense that bade him fling wide his arms as though suddenly they had been loosed from bondage and he was free, free as the god-given air around him. he could understand helena, and the flopper, and pale face harry now. with them it had come slowly, in a gradual concatenation, a progression, as it were, that had worked upon them, molding them, changing them day by day--and he had been too blind to see, or, seeing, had measured the changes only by a standard as false as all his life had been false. with him it had come in a crash, unheralded, that had left him a naked, quivering, stricken thing to know madness, terror and despair, to taste of emotions that had sickened the soul itself. on madison walked--along the road, across the little bridge, into the wagon track where, under the arched branches, it was utter dark. there was no one upon the road--he passed no one--saw no one--he was alone. he had lost helena--but he understood her now--understood the depth of remorse that she was living through, the terror and the dread as she sought escape, the fear of him--yes, it would be fear now where once it had been love! he had lost helena--that was the price he had paid--but he understood her now, and he was going to her to help her if he could, going to tell her that he, too, was changed--as she was changed. his hands clenched suddenly. god, the misery, the hopelessness, the wreck and ruin that lay at his door! and amends--what amends could he make--it was too late for that! how clearly he saw now--when it was too late! her life was a broken thing, robbed, stripped and despoiled for all the years to come. their love had not been love--she had given it its name--"passion, vice, lust, sin, degradation and misery and shame." and then love had come to her, into her life, love as god had meant love to be, and she had learned what love was she had said--only that she might never know its fulness, only that it might bring her added bitterness and added sorrow! thornton had asked her to marry him that night--and she had refused him--because the past, it must have been as a shuddering, hideous phantom that the past had risen before her, had left her no other thing to do but turn away. it seemed he could see her--see her bury her face in her hands and-- he stopped short in his walk. was he changed so much as this! did he care so much that it was her happiness--even with another--that counted most! yes; it was true--he was changed indeed. and the change had brought him too, it seemed, to learn what love was--too late. he went forward again--a little more slowly; now; a sadness upon him, but, through the sadness, an uplift from that new sense of freedom that was as a balm, soothing him in the most curious way. his had been a rude awakening--mind and body and soul had been torn asunder; but he knew now, as he recalled the hours just past when he had looked on fear, when the gamut of human passion had raged over him, when he had stood staggered and appalled before, yes, before his god, that he had come forth a new man. and how strange had been the ending, how strange and simple, and yet how significant, typifying the broad, clean outlook on life, bringing coherency to his tottering mind, had been those words of thornton's--"because he loved her." he had reached the end of the wagon track now, and he walked across the lawn, his steps noiseless on the velvet sward, and passed between the maples; and the moon gleam--for the flying clouds, rear-guard of the routed storm, were flung wide apart, dispersed--fell upon a coiled and huddled little figure all in white, that was quite still and motionless upon the rustic seat beside the porch. she did not see him, did not hear him, until he stood before her and called her name. "helena!" he said unsteadily. "helena!" she raised her head and looked at him; and then she rose from the bench, and, still holding to it by one hand, drew back a little. there was no outcry, no startled action. her dark eyes played questioningly upon him--and he could see that they were wet with tears, and that the face from out of which they looked was very white. "why have you come back here to-night?" she asked in a low tone; and then, suddenly, a fear, a terror in her voice, as the flopper's warning flashed upon her: "thornton--you have seen thornton?" "yes," he said, surprised a little that she should know; "i saw thornton a few minutes ago." she came toward him now and clutched his arm. "what have you done?" she cried tensely. "answer me! you--you met him on your way here?" it was a moment before madison replied. he had schooled himself of course for more than this, yet the words hurt--that was why she had asked for thornton--she was afraid that he had harmed the man. "no," he said; "i did not meet him. i think you must have been longer here on that bench than you imagined--haven't you? he came to my room." "your room! what for? tell me!" madison smiled with grave whimsicality. "to call me a gentleman and repose a trust." she stepped back again, uncertainly. "i do not know what you are talking about," she said in a strained way. "and you are talking very strangely." "yes," he said. "everything is strange to-night. it is like a new world, and--and i have not found my way--yet." she drew back still further. "are you mad?" she whispered. "no," he answered. "not now--that is past." she looked at him for a little time; and, her hands joined before her, her fingers locked and interlocked nervously. "and--and thornton?" she asked, at last. "it was a trust," said madison slowly; "but it was betrayed before it was given. he did not know--the game. he did not know what was between--you and me." "no," she said--and the word came almost inaudibly. "and so," he said, "i will tell you, for it cannot matter now in any case. he told me that he had asked you to marry him to-night--and that you had refused." madison paused, and swept his hand across his forehead--his voice somehow had suddenly grown hoarse, beyond control. "yes," she said--and reached again for the back of the bench, supporting herself against it. "he is going away," madison continued; "and he is to send more money here for the 'cause'--when i ask for it--only you are not to know, because you might be diffident about taking it after refusing him." she stared at him numbly--there was no sarcasm in his words; in his tones only a sort of dreary monotony. she shivered a little--how cold it seemed! she did not quite grasp his words--and yet she shrank from them. and then her very soul seemed to cry out against them, to pit itself against their meaning, as their meaning surged upon her. and unconsciously she drew herself up, and the whiteness of her face fled before a rush of color. "oh, the shame of it!" she burst out. "the bitter shame of it! you shall not touch the money--do you hear! you shall not touch it! i--i thought that you had understood this afternoon. i am glad then that you have come to-night--if i must say more to make you understand. this is the end! i do not care what happens--the little i can do now to atone for what i have done, i am going to do. the game is at an end--you shall not touch another cent--and everything that we have taken goes back to those whom we have worse than robbed it from! you hear--you understand! i will cry it out in the town street if there is no other way--but it shall stop--it shall stop to-night"--she was panting, breathless, the little figure erect, outraged, quivering--and then suddenly the shoulders seemed to droop, the lips to tremble, and she was on her knees upon the grass beside the bench, and sobbing as a child. "helena!" madison said hoarsely. "helena! listen! that is what i came for to-night--to find a way out for you, for us all, if i can." the passionate outburst passed--and she was on her feet again, facing him. "you are clever--clever!" she cried fiercely. "but you shall not play with me--you shall not trick me--i meant every word i said!" but now madison made no answer. the moonlight bathed them both in its clear, white radiance; and touched the sward, shading it to softest green; and the trees limned out like fairy things against the night; and the calm light flooded the little cottage with its hidden walls where the ivy and the creepers grew, and lingered over the trellises to drink the fragrance of the flowers that peeped out from their leafy beds. and upon madison's face crept slowly the anguish that was in his soul--until it was mirrored there--until unconsciously it answered her where words would have been useless things. like some white-robed, sorrowing angel, she seemed, as she stood there before him--the brown eyes full of shadow, troubled; the sweet face tear-splashed; the little figure in its simple muslin frock, pitiful in its brave defiance. and pure--just god, how pure she looked!--the brow stainless white under the mass of dark, coiled hair; the perfect throat of ivory. and--and the misery that was in every feature of her face, in every line of her poise--and he had brought her that--_he_ had brought her to that--and now when he loved her as he might have loved her once and known her love in return, when his heart cried out for her, when she was all in life he cared for, she was gone from him, out of his life, and between them was a barrier he could never pass--a barrier of his own raising. and so he made no answer, for indeed he had not heard her; but she was coming toward him now, her hands outstretched in a wondering way, wistfully, pleadingly, as though to hold back a refutation that would change the dawning light upon her face to dismay and grief again. "it--it is true," she faltered. "it has come to you too--this change, this new life that has come to me. it is true--i can see it in your face." "yes; it is true," he answered, in a low voice. "thank god!" she whispered--and hid her face in her hands--and presently he heard her sob again. a tiny cloud edged the moon, and the light faded, and it grew dark, and the darkness hid her; then softly, timidly almost it seemed, the radiance came creeping through the branches overhead again--and then he spoke. "helena," he said, steadying his voice with an effort, "you spoke of atonement a little while ago; but there is no atonement that i can make to you--nothing that i can do to change what i would give my soul to change. i know what it meant to you to send thornton away to-night, for i love you now as you love him--i know why you did it, and--" she was staring at him a little wildly--her hands pressed against her cheeks. "love--thornton," she repeated in a sort of wondering way, a long pause between the words. "yes," he said gently; "i know. have you forgotten what you told me this afternoon?--that you had learned--last night--what love was." she shook her head. "i do not love thornton," she said in a monotone. "and yet it is true that through him i learned what love was, what it _could_ be--don't you understand?" understand! no; it seemed that he could never understand! she did not love thornton! and then, as some fiery cordial, the words seemed to whip through his veins, quickening the beat of his heart into wild, tumultuous throbbing. yes, yes, he could understand--it was true--true--she did not love thornton. "helena!" he cried--and stretched out his arms to her. "i thought, oh, god, i thought that i had lost you--helena!" but she did not move. "what does it matter to you whether i love thornton or not?" she said dully. "does it change anything where you and i are concerned--does it change what i told you this afternoon--that i would not go back to _that_." "to that! ah, no!"--his voice rang dominant, vibrant, triumphant now. "helena, don't you understand? we are to begin life again--in a new way, the true way, the only way. don't you see--i love you!" still she did not move--but there was a great whiteness in her face, and in the whiteness a great light. "you mean?"--her lips scarcely seemed to form the words. "yes!" he cried. "yes; to make a home for you, to marry you if only you love me still, to live in god's own sight and hold you as a sacred gift--helena! helena!"--his arms went out to her again, and the yearning in his soul was in his voice--to crush her to him, to hold her in his arms, and hold her there where none should take her from him, to shield and guard her through the years to come, to live with her a life that seemed to break now in a vista of gladness, of glory, as the day-dawn breaks with its golden rays of god-given promise--the new life, perfect and pure and innocent--because he loved her. "helena! speak to me. tell me that it is not too late--tell me that you love me too." and then her eyes were raised to his, and they were wet--but there was love-light and a wondrous happiness shining through the tears. "helena!" he murmured brokenly--and swept her into his arms--and kissed the eyelids, lowered now, the hair, the white brow, the lips--kissed her, and held her there, her clinging arms about his neck, her face half hidden on his shoulder. and so for a space they stood there--and there were no words to say, only the song in their hearts in deathless melody--but after a little time he held her from him, and lifted up her face that he might look his fill upon it. "helena," he said, "i cannot understand it all yet--it is as though it were born out of the sin and the darkness and the blackness of what is gone--as though here at this shrine that we created in mockery and crime it was meant that you and i should save each other for each other. and yet this shrine as we have made it is a thing of guilt, and it has brought us all, you and i, and harry, and the flopper to a new life." she lay still for a moment in his arms--then her hand crept up and touched his forehead and smoothed back his hair. "i do not quite know how to say it," she said a little timidly. "when you went away this afternoon, the patriarch took me back into his room, and--and i knelt at his knees--and after a little while my mind seemed very calm and quiet--do you know what i mean? and i tried to think things out--and understand. and it seemed to come to me that there was a shrine everywhere if we would only look for it--that god has put a shrine in every heart, only we are so blind--that every one can make their own surroundings beautiful and good and true, no matter where they are, or how poor, or how rich--and if they live like that they must be good and true themselves." "yes," he said slowly; then, after a moment: "and faith too is very much like that." "only some need a sign," she said. there was silence again, while her hand crept over his face and back to his forehead to smooth his hair once more--and then very gently she slipped out of his arms. "what are we to do about--about everything here?" she asked soberly. "we are forgetting that in our own happiness. how are we going to return the money that we have taken?" "i don't know yet," he answered. "i haven't thought much about it--but we'll manage somehow." she shook her head. "i've thought a great deal about it since yesterday--and i'm not so sure it is to be 'managed somehow'--and the more i've thought the more tangled and complicated it has become." "well, we'll untangle it to-morrow," said madison, with a smile, "and--" "no"--she touched his sleeve. "to-night. let us do it now--to-night. i should be so happy then." he smiled at her again, and drew her to him. "but we ought to have pale face and the flopper too, don't you think so?" he said. "of course," she said; "and so we will. the flopper is here, and we can send him for harry. it's early yet--not ten o'clock." "all right," said madison; "if you wish it. we'll go in then and get the flopper." and so they walked to the cottage door, and into the porch--but in the porch madison held her for a moment, and lifted up her face again and looked into her eyes. "my--wife," he whispered--and took her in his arms. --xxiii-- the way out strange scene indeed! strange antithesis to that other night when these four were gathered in that crime-reeked, sordid room at the roost--where pale face harry, gaunt, emaciated, coughed, and, trembling, plunged a morphine needle in his arm; where the flopper, a wretched tatterdemalion from the gutter, licked greedy lips and gloated in his rascality; where helena, flushed-faced, inhaled her interminable cigarettes and dangled her legs from the table edge; where madison, suave, flippant, so certain of his own infallibility, glorying in his crooked masterpiece, laid the tribute to genius at his own feet! strange scene! strange antithesis indeed! it was quiet here--very still--only the distant, muffled boom of the pounding surf. and the shrine-room, for the first time since its creation, was locked against the night. it lay now in shadow from the single lamp upon the table--and the light, where it fell in a shortened circle, for the lamp itself had a little green paper shade, was soft, subdued and mellow. where he had been wont to sit in the days gone by, the patriarch sat now in his armchair by the empty fireplace--in the shadow--his head turned in his strange, listening, attentive way toward the table--toward the four who were grouped around it. there had been no one to stay with him in his own room, and so helena had brought him there--to play his silent part. at the table, pale face harry, bronzed and rugged, clear-eyed, a robust figure from his clean living, his months of the out-of-doors, traced the grain of the wood on the table mechanically with his finger nail, his face sober, perplexed; while the flopper, clear-eyed too, his face almost a handsome one in its bright alertness, now that it had rounded out and the hard, premature lines were gone, mirrored pale face harry's perturbed expression, his eyes fixed anxiously on madison opposite him; and helena, sitting beside madison, was very quiet, her forehead wrinkled and pursed up into little furrows, the brown eyes with a hint of dismay and consternation lurking in their depths, one hand stretched out to lay quite unconsciously on madison's sleeve--and from the sleeve to steal occasionally into madison's hand. madison, his lips tight, pushed back his chair suddenly--they had been sitting there an hour. "you were right, helena," he said, with a nervous laugh. "the more you try to figure it out the worse it gets." "aw, say, doc," pleaded the flopper desperately, "don't youse give it up--youse have got de head--youse ain't never left us in a hole yet." madison looked at him, and smiled mirthlessly. "my head!" he exclaimed bitterly. "i got you into this, all of you--but it will take more than my head to get you out. if i could stand for it myself, i'd do it--but i can't without dragging you in too--we're too intimately mixed up. if i said it was a deal of mine--they'd ask where helena came from--they'd ask where you came from, flopper. we're beaten--beaten every way we turn. the game has got us--we haven't a move. we played it to the limit, the slickest swindle that was ever worked, and it worked till there's more money than i've tried to count. and then it changed us from thieves, from--from anything you like--and now that we want to quit, now that we want a chance to make good, it's got us in its grip and we can't get away." he flirted a bead of moisture from his forehead. "my god, i don't know what to do!" he muttered hoarsely. "it was easy enough to _talk_ about stopping this thing, about returning the money--but i can't see the way out." no one answered him--all were silent--as silent as the mute and venerable figure that sat, listening attentively it seemed, in the armchair by the fireplace. madison turned abruptly after a moment to pale face harry. "you, harry," he said, laying a hand on the other's shoulder, "you're the only one of the four that can walk out of it--you don't show in the center of the stage--you go. you said the old folks would cry over you--twenty years is a long time to stay away from the old folks--i--i never knew mine. you go on back to the little farm out there in the west where you said you'd like to go, and--and give the old people a hand for the years they've got left." pale face harry shook his head. "god knows i'd like to," he said, choking a little; "that's what i counted on. god knows i'd like to go out there and lead a decent life--but i don't go that way--i don't crawl out and leave you--what's coming to you is coming to me." "that won't help us any, harry," said madison softly, and his hand tightened in an eloquent pressure on pale face harry's shoulder. "you go--and god bless you!" again pale face harry shook his head. "no," he said. "i stick. if the game's got you, it's got me too--to the limit. there's no use talking about that." the flopper licked his lips miserably. "swipe me!" he mumbled. "hell wasn't never like dis! me an' mamie we've got it fixed, an' her old man says he'll take me inter de store. say, doc, say--ain't dere a chanst ter live straight now we wants ter?" but madison did not hear the flopper save in a vague, inconsequential way--he was looking at helena. she had drooped forward a little over the table, her chin in her hands, her lips quivering--and a white misery in her face seemed to bring a chill, a numbness to his heart. his hands clenched, and he began to pace up and down the room. how buoyantly he had tackled the problem--buoyant in his own emancipation, buoyant in his love, in the future full of dreams, full of inspiration, full of the new life that helena and he would live together! how confidently he had settled himself to undo in a moment the work of months, to outline a mere matter of detail, with never a thought that he was face to face with a problem that he could never solve--that brought him to the realization that the game, not he, was the master still, iron-handed, implacable--that though the mental chains were loosed it was but as if, in ironic justice, in grim punishment, only that he might look, clear-visioned, upon the ignominy of the physical shackles he himself had forged and fashioned so readily, whose breaking now was beyond his strength. he had done his work well! in the first few moments, an hour ago, when he had begun to consider the problem, as seeming difficulties arose, he had turned coolly from one alternative to another. and then slowly a sickening sense of the truth had begun to dawn upon him--and like a man lost in a great forest, peril around him, he had plunged then desperately in this direction and in that, as a glimmering point of light here or there had seemed to promise an avenue of escape--only to find it vanish at almost the first step, the way closed as by some invisible, remorseless power. no, not invisible--it seemed to take the form of the patriarch--for at every turn the majestic figure stood and would not let him pass. madison's face was gray now as he walked up and down the room--there was his own revulsion, his abhorrence at the part he had played, a frantic, honorable eagerness to be rid of it; there were these others too who looked to him, the flopper and pale face harry; and there was--helena! he did not dare to look at the misery in her face again--he was unmanned enough now. and then helena spoke. "it--it seems," she said, in a low broken way, "as if--as if god did not want to pardon us--as if our repentance had come too late, and that there was no eleventh hour for us." then, in passionate pleading, facing madison: "god cannot mean that--it is we who cannot see. there is some way out--there must be--there _must_ be." "it begins and ends with the patriarch," said madison monotonously. "we can't sacrifice him--can we! what's the use of going over it again? it all comes back to the same point--the patriarch." "yes, yes; i know, i know," she said piteously. "but think, doc--_think_! see now, we just send back all the money and jewels--we know to whom they belong." "well, what reason do we give?" madison said heavily. "the patriarch is alive and well. the immediate corollary is that from the moment we do that, to-morrow morning for instance, every gift, every offering here is suddenly refused. what reason do we give? if it were only the donors who were to be considered it might be done. it's human nature that ninety-nine out of every hundred of them"--his voice rose a little bitterly--"would probably be only too glad to get their money back--and the mere statement that you, as the patriarch's grand-niece, his only relative, on mature thought did not consider the project as planned advisable might suffice. but this thing goes beyond that, beyond even the remaining few who are earnestly interested and would cause us trouble--it is world-wide in its publicity! every newspaper in the land would snatch at it for a headline, and ask--why? and they would not be content with simply asking why--this thing is too big for that--too much before the people's eyes--too good 'copy.' they'd start in to find out--and the result is inevitable. our safety so far has lain in the fact that there has been no suspicion aroused; but snooping around a bank vault at midnight with a mask on and a bull's-eye lantern fades to a whisper as a suspicion-arouser compared with anybody willingly coughing up a bunch of money once they've got their claws on it--and a yellow journal, let alone an army corps of them, on the scent of a possible sensation has all the detective bureaus in the country pinned to the ropes--they'd have us uncovered quicker than i like to think about it--and that means--" he stopped, and with a hurried motion, carried his hands across his eyes--helena, pure as one of god's own angels now, to come to that, to come to-- it was the flopper who completed the sentence. "ten spaces up de river," said the flopper, and shivered, and his tongue sought his lips; "or mabbe--mabbe twenty." pale face harry stirred uneasily. "there's the other way," he said without looking up, his eyes on his finger nail that traced the grain of the wood again. "get the money and the sparklers all done up and addressed to the ones they came from, send 'em off in a bunch to thornton--and we fly the coop before he gets them, disappear, fade away--and take our chances of getting caught." "an' den it's all off wid me an' mamie"--the flopper's face grew hard. "nix on dat! dat don't go!" "we cannot do that, harry," said helena, in a tired voice. "there is--the patriarch." "yes," said madison, beginning his stride up and down the room again. "after all, whether we could give back the money without being caught, or whether we couldn't, is not the vital thing; there is--the patriarch." helena's eyes were on the silent figure in the shadows by the fireplace. "if--if it were not for him," she said, "i think that perhaps--perhaps i might be brave enough to confess it all, and--and not try to escape from the punishment that i deserve. but he would know--he cannot see, nor hear, nor speak, but he would know--as he seems so strangely, so wonderfully, so supernaturally to know and understand everything. and, oh, he means so much to me, to us all, for it is he, more than any one else, who has saved us from--from what we were. and he loves us. it would shatter his faith, ruin all that his life has meant to him, and--and we cannot bring him grief and sorrow like that. oh, what can we do! what _can_ we do! we cannot stop--and we cannot go on! we cannot stay here even if we returned the money successfully, and we cannot stay here if we kept it as it is; for things would still have to go on as they are, even if we didn't mean to steal any more, no matter what we might say or do, for it's beyond our control now, and to stay means that we should still have to live and lead our double lives, still have to practise hypocrisy and deceit, and--and i cannot--we cannot do that any more. and the only way to get away from it all is to run away--and we can't do that, either! there is--the patriarch. we cannot leave him--to break his heart--with none he loves to care for him. we can't do that. he is a very old, old man, and--and i think he has been happy with us, and--and we must make him happy always as long as he lives. we cannot go away and leave him. we can't do that." then, in a heartbroken, despairing cry: "we can't do--_anything_!" no one answered her. she had begged madison to go over it all again--and she had summed it up herself. there was--the patriarch. there was utter silence in the room now, save only for that low, solemn boom of distant surf--for madison had stopped his nervous pacing up and down, and stood now by the patriarch's armchair gazing into the fireplace. the minutes passed, and the silence in that dim, shadowed room grew tense--and tenser still--until the very shadows themselves, as the lamp flickered now and then, seemed to creep and shift and readjust themselves in stealth. no sound--no movement--utter stillness--only, from without, the mourning of the surf, like a dirge now. and then, with a sudden sob, helena flung out her arms across the table toward the patriarch. "oh, if he could only speak!" she cried pitifully. "if he could only speak--he would show us the way out." the words seemed to come to madison as an added pang. he turned his eyes instinctively from the fireplace to the patriarch beside him--and then, a moment, as a man stricken, he stood there--and then reaching quickly for the lamp from the table he held it up, and leaned forward toward the figure in the chair. helena, startled at the act, rose almost unconsciously to her feet, her hands holding tightly to the table edge--looking at madison, looking at the silent form where pale face harry, where the flopper looked. "what is it?" she asked tensely, under her breath. madison's lips moved--silently. his face was white, ashen--there was no color in it. then his lips moved once more. "the way out," he said; and again, in a low, awed way: "_the way out_. we can make restitution now--we can give it all back--he _has_ shown us the way out." helena's lips were quivering, tears were dimming the brown eyes, trembling on the lashes, as she stepped now to madison's side. "it is god who has shown us the way out," she whispered brokenly--and dropping down before the chair, her little form shaken with sobs, she hid her face on the patriarch's knees. and serene and peaceful as a child in sleep, a smile like a benediction on the saintly face, the patriarch sat in his armchair by the fireplace where he had been wont to sit in years gone by--and so he had passed on. the patriarch was dead. --xxiv-- vale! the years have passed--but in their passing have brought few changes to the little village nestling in the maine pines that border on the sea. not many changes--it is as though time had touched it loath to touch at all; as though some spirit lingering there, sweet and fresh and vernal, had bade time stay its hand. not many changes--the same familiar faces gather around the stove in the hotel office; and, neither as a memory, nor yet as of one who has gone, but as if he were amongst them, living still, they speak of the patriarch as of yore. and with this little circle of kindly, simple folk time has dealt gently too, for there is only one who is no more--cale rodgers, the proprietor of the general store. but the general store on the village street still flourishes, and in cale rodgers' place is one whose speech is still a marvelous thing in staid old new england ears--it is an irish brogue perhaps, for his name is michael coogan. there are little coogans too, and mamie is a happy wife. and to the coogans come sometimes letters from a far-western farm to say that things are well and that prosperity has come to one who signs himself--facetiously it always seems to mamie who reads the letters to her husband--as pale face harry. and so the years have passed, and it is summer time again. the fields are green; the trees in leaf; the flowers in bloom. and there are visitors who have come again to the scenes of yesterday--a man and woman--and between them a sturdy little lad of eight. they stop at the end of the wagon track and look out across the lawn. it is still and peaceful, tranquil--and to them conies the soft, low murmur of the surf. slowly they walk across the lawn, and pass beneath the splendid maples--and pause again. the cottage is like some poet's fancy, hidden shyly in its creepers and its vines; and seems to speak and breathe in its simple beauty of the gentle soul who once had lived there--and loved his fellow-men. it is as it always was, open, free for all to pass within who wish to enter; for loving hands have cared for it, and grateful purses, opened to its needs, have kept it as--a shrine. but they do not enter now, for madison points to where the sunlight, as it glints through the trees at the far end of the cottage, falls on a slender shaft of marble. "let us go there, helena," he said softly. and so they walked that way, past the trellises laden with flowers, past the end of the cottage; and presently they stopped again where, beneath the maples' shade, rises the pure white stone--and beyond it is the sweep of the eternal sea. madison, his hair streaking just a little gray at the temples now, removed his hat--and his face softened, saddened, as he read the simple inscription: the patriarch the boy glanced at his father a little wonderingly--and then spelt out the words. he shook his head. "i don't know what that means," he said. "what does that word mean?" madison patted his head. "you tell him, helena," he said--and came and stood beside her. and so helena told the boy in simple language as much of the patriarch's story as she thought he could understand--and when she had finished the boy's face was aglow. "and!" he said breathlessly, "and--and did he ever do a really, truly-truly miracle?" there was silence for an instant--then a tender smile came trembling to helena's lips, and into the brown eyes crept the love-light, as she reached out to madison and her hand found his and held it very tightly. and madison bent and kissed her; and drew the little lad between them and laid his hand on the boy's head, and answered for helena. "yes, my son," he said; "and some day when you are a man you will understand how great a miracle it was." the end story-tell lib ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------- story-tell lib by annie trumbull slosson author of "fishin' jimmy" charles scribner's sons new york . . . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------- _copyright, _ by charles scribner's sons _all rights reserved_ ------------------------------------------------------------------------- contents page i. story-tell lib ii. the shet-up posy iii. the horse that b'leeved he'd get there iv. the plant that lost its berry v. the stony head vi. diff'ent kind o' bundles vii. the boy that was scaret o' dyin' ------------------------------------------------------------------------- story-tell lib i story-tell lib that was what everybody in the little mountain village called her. her real name, as she often told me, ringing out each syllable proudly in her shrill sweet voice, was elizabeth rowena marietta york. a stately name, indeed, for the little crippled, stunted, helpless creature, and i myself could never think of her by any name but the one the village people used, story-tell lib. i had heard of her for two or three summers in my visits to greenhills. the village folk had talked to me of the little lame girl who told such pretty stories out of her own head, "kind o' fables that learnt folks things, and helped 'em without bein' too preachy." but i had no definite idea of what the child was till i saw and heard her myself. she was about thirteen years of age, but very small and fragile. she was lame, and could walk only with the aid of a crutch. indeed, she could but hobble painfully, a few steps at a time, with that assistance. her little white face was not an attractive one, her features being sharp and pinched, and her eyes faded, dull, and almost expressionless. only the full, prominent, rounding brow spoke of a mind out of the common. she was an orphan, and lived with her aunt, miss jane york, in an old-fashioned farmhouse on the upper road. miss jane was a good woman. she kept the child neatly clothed and comfortably fed, but i do not think she lavished many caresses or loving words on little lib, it was not her way, and the girl led a lonesome, quiet, unchildlike life. aunt jane tried to teach her to read and write, but, whether from the teacher's inability to impart knowledge, or from some strange lack in the child's odd brain, lib never learned the lesson. she could not read a word, she did not even know her alphabet. i cannot explain to myself or to you the one gift which gave her her homely village name. she told stories. i listened to many of them, and i took down from her lips several of these. they are, as you will see if you read them, "kind o' fables," as the country folk said. they were all simple little tales in the dialect of the hill country in which she lived. but each held some lesson, suggested some truth, which, strangely enough, the child herself did not seem to see; at least, she never admitted that she saw or intended any hidden meaning. i often questioned her as to this after we became friends. after listening to some tale in which i could discern just the lovely truth which would best help some troubled soul in her audience, i have questioned her as to its meaning. i can see now, in memory, the short-sighted, expressionless eyes of faded blue which met mine as she said, "don't mean anything,--it don't. it's jest a story. stories don't have to mean things; they're stories, and i tells 'em." that was all she would say, and the mystery remained. what did it mean? whence came that strange power of giving to the people who came to her something to help and cheer, both help and cheer hidden in a simple little story? was it, as i like to think, god-given, a treasure sent from above? or would you rather think it an inheritance from some ancestor, a writer, a teller of tales? or perhaps you believe in the transmigration of souls, and think that the spirit of some Æsop of old, who spoke in parables, had entered the frail crippled body of our little lib, and spoke through her pinched pale lips. i leave you your theories, i keep my own. but one thing which i find i have omitted thus far may seem to you to throw a little light on this matter. it does not help me much. lib was a wonderful listener, as well as a narrator. miss jane sometimes took an occasional boarder. teachers, clergymen, learned professors, had from time to time tarried under her roof. and while these talked to one another, or to some visitor from neighboring hotels, little lib would sit motionless and silent by the hour. one would scarcely call it listening; to listen seems too active a verb in this case. the girl's face wore no eager look of interest, the faded, short-sighted eyes did not light up with intelligence, nor the features quiver with varied emotions. if she received ideas from what fell upon her ears, it must have been by a sort of unconscious absorption. she took it in as the earth does the rain or the flower the sunshine. and so it was with any reading aloud from book or paper. she would sit, utterly quiet, while the reader's voice went on, and nothing could draw her away till it was ended. question her later as to what was read or spoken of, and you gained no satisfaction. if she had any idea of what she had heard, she had not the power of putting it into words. "i like it. i like it lots," she would say; that was all. throughout the whole summer in which i knew the child, the summer which came so quickly, so sadly, to an end, little lib sat, on bright, fair days, in a low wooden chair under the maples in front of the farmhouse. and it had grown to be the custom of her many friends, both young and old, to gather there, and listen to her stories, if she had any to tell. i often joined the group of listeners. on many, many days, as the season advanced, lib had no words for us. she had always been a fragile, puny little creature, and this year she seemed to grow weaker, thinner, more waxen white, each day. she had a wonderful voice, shrill, far-reaching, but strangely sweet and clear, with a certain vibrating, reedy, bird-like quality, which even yet thrills me as i recall it. i am going to tell you a few of the little stories, pictures, fables, parables, allegories,--i scarcely know what to call them,--which i heard story-tell lib relate. the words are her own, but i cannot give you the sweet tones, the quaint manner, the weird, strange personality, of the little narrator. let me say here that often the little parables seemed meant to cheer and lift up lib's own trembling soul, shut up in the frail, crippled body. meant, i say; perhaps that is not the right word. for did she mean anything by these tales, at least consciously? be that as it may, certain of these little stories seemed to touch her own case strangely. the shet-up posy ii the first story i ever heard the child tell was one of those which seemed to hold comfort and cheer for herself or for humble little souls like her. it was a story of the closed gentian, the title of which she announced, as she always did, loudly, and with an amusing little air of self-satisfaction. the shet-up posy once there was a posy. 't wa'n't a common kind o' posy, that blows out wide open, so's everybody can see its outsides and its insides too. but 't was one of them posies like what grows down the road, back o' your pa's sugar-house, danny, and don't come till way towards fall. they're sort o' blue, but real dark, and they look 's if they was buds 'stead o' posies,--only buds opens out, and these doesn't they're all shet up close and tight, and they never, never, never opens. never mind how much sun they get, never mind how much rain or how much drouth, whether it's cold or hot, them posies stay shet up tight, kind o' buddy, and not finished and humly. but if you pick 'em open, real careful, with a pin,--i've done it,--you find they're dreadful pretty inside. you couldn't see a posy that was finished off better, soft and nice, with pretty little stripes painted on 'em, and all the little things like threads in the middle, sech as the open posies has, standing up, with little knots on their tops, oh, so pretty,--you never did! makes you think real hard, that does; leastways, makes me. what's they that way for? if they ain't never goin' to open out, what's the use o' havin' the shet-up part so slicked up and nice, with nobody never seem' it? folks has different names for 'em, dumb foxgloves, blind genshuns, and all that, but i allers call 'em the shet-up posies. well, 't was one o' that kind o' posy i was goin' to tell you about. 'twas one o' the shet-uppest and the buddiest of all on 'em, all blacky-blue and straight up and down, and shet up fast and tight. nobody'd ever dream't was pretty inside. and the funniest thing, it didn't know 'twas so itself! it thought 'twas a mistake somehow, thought it had oughter been a posy, and was begun for one, but wa'n't finished, and 'twas terr'ble unhappy. it knew there was pretty posies all 'round there, goldenrod and purple daisies and all; and their inside was the right side, and they was proud of it, and held it open, and showed the pretty lining, all soft and nice with the little fuzzy yeller threads standin' up, with little balls on their tip ends. and the shet-up posy felt real bad; not mean and hateful and begrudgin', you know, and wantin' to take away the nice part from the other posies, but sorry, and kind o' 'shamed. "oh, deary me!" she says,--i most forgot to say 'twas a girl posy,--"deary me, what a humly, skimpy, awk'ard thing i be! i ain't more 'n half made; there ain't no nice, pretty lining inside o' me, like them other posies; and on'y my wrong side shows, and that's jest plain and common. i can't chirk up folks like the goldenrod and daisies does. nobody won't want to pick me and carry me home. i ain't no good to anybody, and i never shall be." so she kep' on, thinkin' these dreadful sorry thinkin's, and most wishin' she'd never been made at all. you know 't wa'n't jest at fust she felt this way. fust she thought she was a bud, like lots o' buds all 'round her, and she lotted on openin' like they did. but when the days kep' passin' by, and all the other buds opened out, and showed how pretty they was, and she didn't open, why, then she got terr'ble discouraged; and i don't wonder a mite. she'd see the dew a-layin' soft and cool on the other posies' faces, and the sun a-shinin' warm on 'em as they held 'em up, and sometimes she'd see a butterfly come down and light on 'em real soft, and kind o' put his head down to 'em, 's if he was kissin' 'em, and she thought 'twould be powerful nice to hold her face up to all them pleasant things. but she couldn't. but one day, afore she'd got very old, 'fore she'd dried up or fell off, or anything like that, she see somebody comin' along her way. 'twas a man, and he was lookin' at all the posies real hard and partic'lar, but he wasn't pickin' any of 'em. seems 's if he was lookin' for somethin' diff'rent from what he see, and the poor little shet-up posy begun to wonder what he was arter. bimeby she braced up, and she asked him about it in her shet-up, whisp'rin' voice. and says he, the man says: "i'm a-pickin' posies. that's what i work at most o' the time. 't ain't for myself," he says, "but the one i work for. i'm on'y his help. i run errands and do chores for him, and it's a partic'lar kind o' posy he's sent me for to-day." "what for does he want 'em?" says the shet-up posy. "why, to set out in his gardin," the man says. "he's got the beautif'lest gardin you never see, and i pick posies for 't." "deary me," thinks she to herself, "i jest wish he'd pick me. but i ain't the kind, i know." and then she says, so soft he can't hardly hear her, "what sort o' posies is it you're arter this time?" "well," says the man, "it's a dreadful sing'lar order i've got to-day. i got to find a posy that's handsomer inside than 't is outside, one that folks ain't took no notice of here, 'cause 'twas kind o' humly and queer to look at, not knowin' that inside 'twas as handsome as any posy on the airth. seen any o' that kind?" says the man. well, the shet-up posy was dreadful worked up. "deary dear!" she says to herself, "now if they'd on'y finished me off inside! i'm the right kind outside, humly and queer enough, but there's nothin' worth lookin' at inside,--i'm certin sure o' that." but she didn't say this nor anything else out loud, and bimeby, when the man had waited, and didn't get any answer, he begun to look at the shet-up posy more partic'lar, to see why she was so mum. and all of a suddent he says, the man did, "looks to me's if you was somethin' that kind yourself, ain't ye?" "oh, no, no, no!" whispers the shet-up posy. "i wish i was, i wish i was. i'm all right outside, humly and awk'ard, queer's i can be, but i ain't pretty inside,--oh! i most know i ain't." "i ain't so sure o' that myself," says the man, "but i can tell in a jiffy." "will you have to pick me to pieces?" says the shet-up posy. "no, ma'am," says the man; "i've got a way o' tellin', the one i work for showed me." the shet-up posy never knowed what he done to her. i don't know myself, but 'twas somethin' soft and pleasant, that didn't hurt a mite, and then the man he says, "well, well, well!" that's all he said, but he took her up real gentle, and begun to carry her away. "where be ye takin' me?" says the shet-up posy. "where ye belong," says the man; "to the gardin o' the one i work for," he says. "i didn't know i was nice enough inside," says the shet-up posy, very soft and still. "they most gen'ally don't," says the man. the horse that b'leeved he'd get there iii among those who sometimes came to listen to little lib's allegories was mary ann sherman, a tall, dark, gloomy woman of whom i had heard much. she was the daughter of old deacon sherman, a native of the village, who had, some years before i came to greenhills, died by his own hand, after suffering many years from a sort of religious melancholia. whether the trouble was hereditary and his daughter was born with a tendency inherited from her father, or whether she was influenced by what she had heard of his life, and death, i do not know. but she was a dreary creature with never a smile or a hopeful look upon her dark face. nothing to her was right or good; this world was a desert, her friends had all left her, strangers looked coldly upon her. as for the future, there was nothing to look forward to in this world or the next. as dave moony, the village cynic, said, "mary ann wa'n't proud or set up about nothin' but bein' the darter of a man that had c'mitted the onpar'nable sin." poor woman! her eyes were blinded to all the beauty and brightness of this world, to the hope and love and joy of the next. what wonder that one day, as she paused in passing the little group gathered around lib, and the child began the little story i give below, i thought it well fitted to the gloomy woman's case! the horse that b'leeved he'd get there you've seen them thrashin' machines they're usin' round here. the sort, you know, where the horses keep steppin' up a board thing 's if they was climbin' up-hill or goin' up a pair o' stairs, only they don't never get along a mite; they keep right in the same place all the time, steppin' and steppin', but never gittin' on. well, i knew a horse once, that worked on one o' them things. his name was jack, and he was a nice horse. first time they put him on to thrash, he didn't know what the machine was, and he walked along and up the boards quick and lively, and he didn't see why he didn't get on faster. there was a horse side of him named billy, a kind o' frettin', cross feller, and he see through it right off. "don't you go along," he says to jack; "'t ain't no use; you won't never get on, they're foolin' us, and i won't give in to 'em." so billy he hung back and shook his head, and tried to get away, and to kick, and the man whipped him, and hollered at him. but jack, he went on quiet and quick and pleasant, steppin' away, and he says softly to billy, "come along," he says; "it's all right, we'll be there bimeby. don't you see how i'm gittin' on a'ready?" and that was the ways things went every day. jack never gin up; he climbed and climbed, and walked and walked, jest's if he see the place he was goin' to, and 's if it got nearer and nearer. and every night, when they took him off, he was as pleased with his day's journey 's if he'd gone twenty mile. "i've done first-rate to-day," he says to cross, kickin' billy. "the roads was good, and i never picked up a stone nor dropped a shoe, and i got on a long piece. i'll be there pretty soon," says he. "why," says billy, "what a foolish fellow you be! you've been in the same place all day, and ain't got on one mite. what do you mean by _there_? where is it you think you're goin', anyway?" "well, i don't 'zackly know," says jack, "but i'm gittin' there real spry. i 'most see it one time to-day." he didn't mind billy's laughin' at him, and tryin' to keep him from bein' sat'sfied. he jest went on tryin' and tryin' to get there, and hopin' and believin' he would after a spell. he was always peart and comfortable, took his work real easy, relished his victuals and drink, and slept first rate nights. but billy he fretted and scolded and kicked and bit, and that made him hot and tired, and got him whipped, and hollered at, and pulled, and yanked. you see, he hadn't got anything in his mind to chirk him up, for he didn't believe anything good was comin', as jack did; he 'most knowed it wasn't, but jack 'most knowed it was. and jack took notice of things that billy never see at all. he see the trees a-growin', and heered the birds a-singin', and injun brook a-gugglin' along over the stones, and he watched the butterflies a-flyin', and sometimes a big yeller 'n black one would light right on his back. jack took notice of 'em all, and he'd say, "i'm gettin' along now, certin sure, for there's birds and posies and flyin' things here i never see back along. i guess i'm most there." "'there, there!'" billy'd say. "where is it, anyway? i ain't never seen any o' them posies and creaturs you talk about, and i'm right side of you on these old boards the whole time." and all the children round there liked jack. they'd watch the two horses workin', and they see billy all cross and skittish, holdin' back and shakin' his head and tryin' to kick, never takin' no notice o' them nor anything. and, again, they see jack steppin' along peart and spry, pleasant and willin', turnin' his head when they come up to him, and lookin' friendly at 'em out of his kind brown eyes, and they'd say, the boys and girls would, "good jack! nice old jack!" and they'd pat him, and give him an apple, or a carrot, or suthin' good. but they didn't give billy any. they didn't like his ways, and they was 'most afraid he'd bite their fingers. and jack would say, come evenin', "it's gittin' nicer and nicer we get further on the road,--ain't it? folks is pleasanter speakin', and the victuals 'pears better flavored, and things is comfortabler every way, seems 's if, and i jedge by that we're 'most there." but billy'd say, a-grumblin' away, "it's worse'n worse,--young ones a-botherin' my life out o' me, and the birds a-jabberin' and the posies a-smellin' till my head aches. oh, deary me! i'm 'most dead." so 't went on and kep' on. jack had every mite as hard work as billy, but he didn't mind it, he was so full o' what was comin' and how good 't would be to get there. and 'cause he was pleasant and willin' and worked so good, and 'cause he took notice o' all the nice things round him, and see new ones every day, he was treated real kind, and never got tired and used up and low in his mind like billy. even the flies didn't pester him's they done billy, for he on'y said, when he felt 'em bitin' and crawlin', "dog-days is come," says he, "for here's the flies worse and worse. so the summer's most over, and i'll get there in a jiffy now." "what am i stoppin' for," do you say, 'miry? 'cause that's all. you needn't make sech a fuss, child'en. it's done, this story is, i tell ye. leastways i don't know any more on it. i told you all about them two horses, and which had a good time and which didn't, and what 'twas made the differ'nce 'twixt 'em. but you want to know whether jack got there. well, i don't know no more 'n the horses did what _there_ was, but in my own mind i b'leeve he got it. mebbe 't was jest dyin' peaceful and quiet, and restin' after all that steppin' and climbin'. he'd a-liked that, partic'lar when he knowed the folks was sorry to have him go, and would allus rec'lect him. mebbe 't was jest livin' on and on, int'rested and enjoyin', and liked by folks, and then bein' took away from the hard work and put out to pastur' for the rest o' his days. mebbe 'twas--oh! i d'know. might 'a' been lots o' things, but i feel pretty certin sure he got it, and he was glad he hadn't gi'n up b'leevin' 't would come. for you 'member, all the time when billy 'most knowed it wasn't, jack 'most knowed 'twas. the plant that lost its berry iv it was a sad day in greenhills when we knew that susan holcomb's little jerusha was dead. we all loved the child, and she was her mother's dearest treasure. susan was a widow, and this was her only child. a pretty little creature she was, with yellow curls and dark-blue eyes, rosy and plump and sturdy. but a sudden, sharp attack of croup seized the child, and in a few hours she fell asleep. i need not tell you of the mother's grief. she could not be comforted because her child was not. one day a little neighbor, a boy with great faith--not wholly misplaced--in the helpfulness of story-tell lib's little parables, succeeded, with a child's art, in bringing the sad mother to the group of listeners. and it was that day that lib told this new story. the plant that lost its berry once there was a plant, and it had jest one little berry. and the berry was real pretty to look at. it was sort o' blue, with a kind o' whitey, foggy look all over the blue, and it wa'n't round like huckleberries and cramb'ries, but longish, and a little p'inted to each end. and the stem it growed on, the little bit of a stem, you know, comin' out o' the plant's big stem, like a little neck to the berry, was pinky and real pretty. and this berry didn't have a lot o' teenty little seeds inside on it, like most berries, but it jest had one pretty white stone in it, with raised up streaks on it. the plant set everything by her little berry. she thought there never was in all the airth sech a beautiful berry as hern,--so pretty shaped and so whitey blue, with sech a soft skin and pinky neck, and more partic'lar with that nice, white, striped stone inside of it. she held it all day and all night tight and fast. when it rained real hard, and the wind blowed, she kind o' stretched out some of her leaves, and covered her little berry up, and she done the same when the sun was too hot. and the berry growed and growed, and was so fat and smooth and pretty! and the plant was jest wropped up in her little berry, lovin' it terr'ble hard, and bein' dreadful proud on it, too. well, one day, real suddent, when the plant wasn't thinkin' of any storm comin', a little wind riz up. 't wa'n't a gale, 't wa'n't half as hard a blow as the berry'd seen lots o' times and never got hurt nor nothin'. and the plant wa'n't lookin' out for any danger, when all of a suddent there come a little bit of a snap, and the slimsy little pink stem broke, and the little berry fell and rolled away, and, 'fore you could say "jack robinson," 't was clean gone out o' sight. i can't begin to tell ye how that plant took on. seem 's if she'd die, or go ravin' crazy. it's only folks that has lost jest what they set most by on airth that can understand about it, i s'pose. she wouldn't b'leeve it fust off; she 'most knowed she'd wake up and feel her little berry a-holdin' close to her, hangin' on her, snugglin' up to her under the shady leaves. the other plants 'round there tried to chirk her up and help her. one on 'em told her how it had lost all its little berries itself, a long spell back, and how it had some ways stood it and got over it. "but they wa'n't like mine," thinks the poor plant. "there never, never was no berry like mine, with its pretty figger, its pinky, slim little neck, and its soft, smooth-feelin' skin." and another plant told her mebbe her berry was saved from growin' up a trouble to her, gettin' bad and hard, with mebbe a worm inside on it, to make her ashamed and sorry. "oh, no, no!" thinks the mother plant. "my berry'd never got bad and hard, and i'd 'a' kep' any worm from touchin' its little white heart." not a single thing the plant-folks said to her done a mite o' good. their talk only worried her and pestered her, when she jest wanted to be let alone, so's she could think about her little berry all to herself. just where the berry used to hang, and where the little pinky stem broke off, there was a sore place, a sort o' scar, that ached and smarted all day and all night, and never, never healed up. and bimeby the poor plant got all wore out with the achin' and the mournin' and the missin' and she 'peared to feel her heart all a-dryin' up and stoppin', and her leaves turned yeller and wrinkled, and--she was dead. she couldn't live on, ye see, without her little berry. they called it bein' dead, folks did, and it looked like it, for there she lay without a sign of life for a long, long, long spell. 'twas for days and weeks and months anyway. but it didn't seem so long to the mother plant. she shet up her eyes, feelin' powerful tired and lonesome, and the next thing she knowed she opened 'em again, and she was wide awoke. she hardly knowed herself, though, she was so fresh and juicy and 'live, so kind o' young every way. fust off she didn't think o' anything but that, how good and well she felt, and how beautiful things was all 'round her. then all of a suddent she rec'lected her little berry, and she says to herself, "oh, dear, dear me! if only my own little berry was here to see me now, and know how i feel!" she thought she said it to herself, but mebbe she talked out loud, for, jest as she said it, somebody answered her. 't was a angel, and he says, "why your little berry does see you,--look there." and she looked, and she see he was p'intin' to the beautif'lest little plant you never see,--straight and nice, with little bits o' soft green leaves, with the sun a-shinin' through 'em, and,--well, somehow, you never can get it through your head how mothers take in things,--she knowed cert'in sure that was her little berry. the angel begun to speak. he was goin' to explain how, if she hadn't never lost her berry, 'twouldn't never 'a' growed into this pretty plant, but, he see, all of a suddent, that he needn't take the trouble. she showed in her face she knowed all about it,--every blessed thing. i tell ye, even angels ain't much use explainin' when there's mothers, and it's got to do with their own child'en. yes, the mother plant see it all, without tellin'. she was jest a mite 'shamed but she was terr'ble pleased. the stony head v when little lib told the story i give below, deacon zenas welcome was one of the listeners. the deacon was a son of old elder welcome who had been many years before the pastor of the little church in a neighboring village. elder welcome was one of the old-fashioned sort not so common in these days, a good man, but stern and somewhat harsh. he preached only the terrors of the law, dwelt much upon the doctrines, the decrees, election, predestination, and eternal punishment, and rarely lingered over such themes as the fatherhood of god, his love to mankind, and his wonderful gift to a lost world. the son followed in his father's footsteps. he was a hard, austere, melancholy man, undemonstrative and reticent, shutting out all brightness from his own life, and clouding many an existence going on around him. i have always thought that his unwonted presence among us that day had a purpose, and that he had come to spy out some taint of heterodoxy in lib's tales, to reprove and condemn. he went away quietly, however, when the story was ended, and we heard nothing of reproof or condemnation. the stony head once there was somethin' way up on the side of a mountain that looked like a man's head. the rocks up there'd got fixed so's they jest made a great big head and face, and everybody could see it as plain as could be. folks called it the stony head, and they come to see it from miles away. there was a man lived round there jest where he could see the head from his winder. he was a man that things had gone wrong with all along; he'd had lots o' trouble, and he didn't take it very easy. he fretted and complained, and blamed it on other folks, and more partic'lar on--god. and one day--he'd jest come to live in them parts--he looked out of his winder, and he see, standin' out plain ag'in the sky, he see that stony head. it looked real ha'sh and hard and stony and dark, and all of a suddent the man thought it was--god. "yes," he says to hisself, "that's jest the way i 'most knowed he looked, ha'sh and hard and stony and dark, and that's him." the man was dreadful scaret of it, but some ways he couldn't stop lookin' at it. and bimeby he shet hisself up there all alone, and spent his whole time jest a-lookin' at that hard, stony face, and thinkin' who't was, and who'd brought all his trouble on him. there was poor folks all 'round that deestrict, but he never done nothin' to help 'em; let 'em be hungry or thirsty or ailin', or shet up in jail, or anything, he never helped 'em or done a thing for 'em, 'cause he was a-lookin' every single minute at that head, and seein' how stony and hard it was, and bein' scaret of it and the one he thought it looked like. folks that was in trouble come along and knocked at his door, and he never opened it a mite, even to see who was there. sheep and lambs that had got lost come a-strayin' into his yard, but he never took 'em in, nor showed 'em the way home. he wa'n't no good to nobody, not even to hisself, for he was terr'ble unhappy and scaret and angry. so 't went on, oh! i d'know how long, years and years, i guess likely, and there the man was shet up all alone, lookin' and lookin', and scaret at lookin' at that ha'sh, hard, stony face and head. but one day, as he was settin' there by the winder lookin', he heerd a little sound. i d'know what made him hear it jest then. there'd been sech sounds as that time and time ag'in, and he never took no notice. 'twas like a child a-cryin', and that's common enough. but this time it seemed diff'ent, and he couldn't help takin' notice. he tried not to hear it, but he had to. 't was a little child a-cryin' as if it had lost its way and was scaret, and the man found he couldn't stand it somehow. mebbe the reason was he'd had a little boy of his own once, and he lost him. now i think on 't, that was one o' the things he blamed on god, and thought about when he looked at the stone head. anyway, he couldn't stand this cryin' that time, and he started up, and, fust thing he knowed, he'd opened the door and gone out. he hadn't been out in the sunshine and the air for a long spell, and it made his head swimmy at fust. but he heerd the little cryin' ag'in, and he run along on to find the child. but he couldn't find it; every time he'd think he was close to it, he'd hear the cryin' a little further off. and he'd go on and on, a-stumblin' over stones and fallin' over logs and a-steppin' into holes, but stickin' to it, and forgettin' everything only that little cryin' voice ahead of him. seems 's if he jest must find that little lost boy or girl, 's if he'd be more 'n willin' to give up his own poor lonesome old life to save that child. and, jest 's he come to thinkin' that, he see somethin' ahead of him movin' and in a minute he knowed he'd found the lost child. 'fore he thought what he was a-doin', he got down on his knees jest's he used to do 'fore he got angry at god, and was goin' to thank him for helpin' him to save that child. then he rec'lected. it come back to him who god was, and how he'd seed his head, with the ha'sh stony face up on the mountain, and that made him look up to see it ag'in. and oh! what do you think he see? there was the same head up there,--he couldn't make a mistake about that,--but the face, oh! the face was so diff'ent. it wasn't ha'sh nor hard nor dark any more. there was such a lovin', beautiful, kind sort o' look on it now. some ways it made the man think a mite of the way his father, that had died ever so long ago, used to look at him when he was a boy, and had been bad, and then was sorry and 'shamed. oh, 't was the beautif'lest face you never see! "oh! what ever does it mean?" says the man out loud. "what's changed that face so? oh! what in the world's made it so diff'ent?" and jest that minute a angel come up close to him. 't was a little young angel, and i guess mebbe 't was what he'd took for a lost child, and that he'd been follerin' so fur. and the angel says, "the face ain't changed a mite. 'twas jest like that all the time, only you're lookin' at it from a diff'ent p'int." and 'twas so, and he see it right off. he'd been follerin' that cryin' so fur and so long that he'd got into a diff'ent section o' country, and he'd got a diff'ent view, oh! a terr'ble diff'ent view, and he never went back. diff'ent kind o' bundles vi everybody in greenhills knew "stoopin' jacob," the little humpbacked boy who lived at the north end of the village. from babyhood he had suffered from a grievous deformity which rounded his little shoulders and bowed the frail form. it was characteristic of the kindly folk of the neighborhood, that, instead of calling the boy hump-backed or crooked-backed jacob, they gave him the name of stoopin' jacob, as if the bowed and bent posture was voluntary, and not enforced. a lovely soul dwelt in that crooked, pain-racked body, and looked out of the gentle brown eyes shining in the pale, thin little face. every one loved the boy, most of all the dogs, cats, horses, cows of the little farms, the birds and animals of forest and brookside. he knew them all, and they knew, loved, and trusted him. the tinier creatures, such as butterflies, bees, ants, beetles, even caterpillars, downy or smooth, were his friends, or seemed so. he knew them, watched them, studied their habits, and was the little naturalist of greenhills village, consulted by all, even by older and wiser people. a close friendship existed between the boy and story-tell lib, and we all understood the tale she told us one day when stoopin' jacob was one of the listeners. diff'ent kind o' bundles once there was a lot o' folks, and every single one on 'em had bundles on their backs. but they was all diff'ent, oh! jest as diff'ent as--as anything, the bundles was. and these folks all b'longed to one person, that they called the head man. they was his folks, and nobody else's, and he had the whole say, and could do anything he wanted to. but he was real nice, and always done jest the best thing,--yes, sir, the bestest thing, whatever folks might say against it. well, i was tellin' ye about how these folks had diff'ent kind o' bundles on their backs. 'twas this way. one on 'em was a man that had a real hefty bundle on his back, that he'd put on there hisself,--not all to onct, but a mite to time, for years 'n' years. 'twas a real cur'us bundle, made up out o' little things in the road that'd got in his way, or hurt him, or put him back. some on 'em was jest little stones that had hurt his feet, and some was little stingin' weeds that smarted him as he went by 'em, and some was jest mites o' dirt somebody'd throwed at him, not meanin' no great o' harm. he'd picked 'em all up, every bit o' worryin', prickin', hurtin' little thing, and he'd piled 'em up on his back till he had a big bundle that he allers carried about and never forgot for a minute. he was f'rever lookin' out for sech troublin' things, too, and he'd see 'em way ahead on him in his road, and sometimes he'd think he see 'em when there wa'n't any there't all. and, 'stead o' lettin' 'em lay where they was, and goin' right ahead and forgettin' 'em, he'd pick every single one on 'em up and pile 'em on that bundle, and carry 'em wherever he went. and he was allers talkin' about 'em to folks, p'intin' out that little stone that he'd stubbed his toe on, and this pesky weed that stung him, and t'other little mite o' mud he'd conceited somebody'd throwed at him. he fretted and scolded and complained 'bout 'em, and made out that nobody never had so many tryin' things gettin' in his way as he had. he never took into 'count, ye see, that he'd picked 'em up hisself and piled 'em on his own back. if he'd jest let 'em lay, and gone along, he'd 'a' forgot 'em all, i guess, after a spell. then there was another man with a bundle, a cur'us one too, for 't was all made out o' money, dreadful heavy and cold and hard to carry. every speck o' money he could scrape together he'd put in that bundle, till he couldn't scursely heft it, 'twas that big and weighed so much. he had plenty o' chances to make it lighter, for there was folks all along the road that needed it bad,--little child'en that hadn't no clo'es nor no victuals, and sick folks and old folks, every one on 'em needin' money dreadful bad. but the man never gin 'em a mite. he kep' it all on his back, a-hurtin' and weighin' him down. then ag'in there was another man. he had a bundle that he didn't put on his back hisself, nor the head man didn't nuther. folks did it to him. he hadn't done nothin' to deserve it, 't was jest put on him by other people, and so 't was powerful hard to bear. but, ye see, the head man had pervided partic'lar for them kind, and he'd said in public, so 't everybody knowed about it, that he'd help folks like that,--said he'd help 'em carry sech bundles hisself, or mebbe take 'em off, if it 'peared to be best. but this man disremembered that,--or, worse still, p'r'aps he didn't 'zackly believe it. so he went along all scrunched down with that hefty bundle other folks had piled up on him, not scoldin' nor complainin' nor gittin' mad about it, but jest thinkin' it had got to be, and nobody could help him. but ye see it hadn't got to be, and somebody could 'a' helped him. and then bimeby along come a man that had sech a hefty, hefty bundle! 'twas right 'tween his shoulders, and it sort o' scrooched him down, and it hurt him in his back and in his feelin's. the head man had put that bundle on the man hisself when he was a little bit of a feller. he'd made it out o' flesh and skin and things. it was jest ezackly like the man's body, so 't when it ached he ached hisself. and he'd had to carry that thing about all his born days. i don't know why the head man done it, i'm sure, but i know how good and pleasant he was, and how he liked his folks and meant well to 'em, and how he knowed jest what oughter be and what hadn't oughter be, so 't stands to reason he'd done this thing a-purpose, and not careless like, and he hadn't made no mistake. i've guessed a lot o' reasons why he done it. mebbe he see the man wouldn't 'a' done so well without the bundle,--might 'a' run off, 'way, 'way off from the head man and the work he had to do. or, ag'in, p'r'aps he wanted to make a 'zample of the man, and show folks how patient and nice a body could be, even though he had a big, hefty bundle to carry all his born days, one made out o' flesh and skin and things, and that hurt dreadful. but my other guess is the one i b'leeve in most,--that the head man done it to scrooch him down, so's he'd take notice o' little teenty things, down below, that most folks never see, things that needed him to watch 'em, and do for 'em, and tell about 'em. that's my fav'rite guess. 'tany rate, the head man done right,--i'm cert'in sure o' that. and it _had_ made the man nicer, and pleasanter spoken, and kinder to folks, and partic'lar to creaturs. it had made him sort o' bend down, 'twas so hefty, and so he'd got to takin' notice o' teenty little things nobody else scursely'd see,--mites o' posies, and cunnin' little bugs, and creepin', crawlin' things. he took a heap o' comfort in 'em. and he told other folks 'bout them little things and their little ways, and what they was made for, and things they could learn us; and 'twas real int'restin', and done folks good too. and, deary me, he was that patient and good and uncomplainin', you never see! no, i ain't a-cryin'. this was a stranger, this man, you know, and i make a p'int o' never cryin' about strangers. there was a lot and a lot more kinds o' folks with bundles, but i'm only goin' to tell ye about them four,--this time, any way. well, come pay day, these folks all come up afore the head man to be settled with. and fust he called up the man that had the bundle all made out o' things that had pricked him, and tripped him up, and scratched him, and put him back on the road. and then he had up the man with the money weighin' him down,--the money he'd kep' away from poor folks and piled up on his own back. and then come the feller that was carryin' the heavy bundle folks had put on him when 't wa'n't no fault o' his'n, and that he might 'a' got red of a long spell back, if he'd only rec'lected what the head man had said 'bout sech cases, and how they could be helped. i ain't a-goin' to tell ye what he said to them folks, 'cause 't ain't my business, seems to me. whether he punished either on 'em, or scolded 'em, or sent 'em off to try ag'in, or what all, never mind. knowin' 's much as i do about the ways o' that head man, i bet he made 'em feel terrible ashamed, any way. but when he came to the man with the bundle made out o' flesh and skin and things, he looks at him a minute, and then says he, the head man does, "why," he says, "that's my own work! i made that bundle, and i fixed it on your back all myself. i hefted and i sized it, and i hefted you and sized you. a mite of a young one you was then. i made it jest hefty enough for you to carry, not a bit heftier, no more nor less. i rec'lect it well," he says. "i ain't forgot it. i never forgot it one minute sence i fitted in on, though mebbe you kind o' thought by spells that i had. and now," he says--no, i can't tell ye what he says. it's a secret, that is. but i don't mind lettin' ye know that the man was sat'sfied, perfec'ly sat'sfied. a angel told me he was, and went on to say the man was dreadful pleased to find he'd been wearin' a bundle the head man hisself had made and fixed on him, heftin' it and sizin' it, and heftin' him and sizin' him too, so's 'twa'n't too much for him to carry. but he ain't carryin' it no more. the angel said so. the boy that was scaret o' dyin' vii i have told you that little lib was a delicate child, and that she grew more and more fragile and weak as the summer went on. in the hot, dry days of august she drooped like a thirsty flower, and her strength failed very fast. her voice, though still sweet and clear, lost its shrillness, and one had to draw very close to the little speaker that he might not lose a word of the stories she told. aunt jane york often came out to us now, anxious and fussy, talking fretfully of and to little lib, feeling the small hands and feet to see if they were cold, and drawing the shawl closer around the wasted form. i know she loved the little girl, and perhaps she wished now that she had shown that love more tenderly. she talked freely, in the very presence of the child, of her rapid decline and the probability that she would not "last long." lib said nothing concerning her own condition, and showed no sign of having heard her aunt's comments. but one day, when miss york, after speaking very freely and plainly of the child's approaching end, had gone indoors, lib announced, in a low, sweet voice, a new story. the boy that was scaret o' dyin' once there was a boy that was dreadful scaret o' dyin'. some folks is that way, you know; they ain't never done it to know how it feels, and they're scaret. and this boy was that way. he wa'n't very rugged, his health was sort o' slim, and mebbe that made him think about sech things more. 'tany rate, he was terr'ble scaret o' dyin'. 'twas a long time ago this was,--the times when posies and creaturs could talk so's folks could know what they was sayin'. and one day, as this boy, his name was reuben,--i forget his other name,--as reuben was settin' under a tree, an ellum tree, cryin', he heerd a little, little bit of a voice,--not squeaky, you know, but small and thin and soft like,--and he see 'twas a posy talkin'. 'twas one o' them posies they call benjamins, with three-cornered whitey blowths with a mite o' pink on 'em, and it talked in a kind o' pinky-white voice, and it says, "what you cryin' for, reuben?" and he says, "'cause i'm scaret o' dyin'," says he; "i'm dreadful scaret o' dyin'." well, what do you think? that posy jest laughed,--the most cur'us little pinky-white laugh 't was,--and it says, the benjamin says: "dyin'! scaret o' dyin'? why, i die myself every single year o' my life." "die yourself!" says reuben. "you 're foolin'; you're alive this minute." "'course i be," says the benjamin; "but that's neither here nor there,--i've died every year sence i can remember." "don't it hurt?" says the boy. "no, it don't," says the posy; "it's real nice. you see, you get kind o' tired a-holdin' up your head straight and lookin' peart and wide awake, and tired o' the sun shinin' so hot, and the winds blowin' you to pieces, and the bees a-takin' your honey. so it's nice to feel sleepy and kind o' hang your head down, and get sleepier and sleepier, and then find you're droppin' off. then you wake up jest 't the nicest time o' year, and come up and look 'round, and--why, i like to die, i do." but someways that didn't help reuben much as you'd think. "i ain't a posy," he think to himself, "and mebbe i wouldn't come up." well, another time he was settin' on a stone in the lower pastur', cryin' again, and he heerd another cur'us little voice. 't wa'n't like the posy's voice, but 'twas a little, wooly, soft, fuzzy voice, and he see 't was a caterpillar a-talkin' to him. and the caterpillar says, in his fuzzy little voice, he says, "what you cryin' for, reuben?" and the boy, he says, "i'm powerful scaret o' dyin', that's why," he says. and that fuzzy caterpillar he laughed. "dyin'!" he says. "i'm lottin' on dyin' myself. all my fam'ly," he says, "die every once in a while, and when they wake up they're jest splendid,--got wings, and fly about, and live on honey and things. why, i wouldn't miss it for anything!" he says. "i'm lottin' on it." but somehow that didn't chirk up reuben much. "i ain't a caterpillar," he says, "and mebbe i wouldn't wake up at all." well, there was lots o' other things talked to that boy, and tried to help him,--trees and posies and grass and crawlin' things, that was allers a-dyin' and livin', and livin' and dyin'. reuben thought it didn't help him any, but i guess it did a little mite, for he couldn't help thinkin' o' what they every one on 'em said. but he was scaret all the same. and one summer he begun to fail up faster and faster, and he got so tired he couldn't hardly hold his head up, but he was scaret all the same. and one day he was layin' on the bed, and lookin' out o' the east winder, and the sun kep' a-shinin' in his eyes till he shet 'em up, and he fell asleep. he had a real good nap, and when he woke up he went out to take a walk. and he begun to think o' what the posies and trees and creaturs had said about dyin', and how they laughed at his bein' scaret at it, and he says to himself, "why, someways i don't feel so scaret to-day, but i s'pose i be." and jest then what do you think he done? why, he met a angel. he'd never seed one afore, but he knowed it right off. and the angel says, "ain't you happy, little boy?" and reuben says, "well, i would be, only i'm so dreadful scaret o' dyin'. it must be terr'ble cur'us," he says, "to be dead." and the angel says, "why, you be dead." and he was. * * * * * the story of the boy that was scaret o' dyin' was the last story that little lib ever told us. we saw her sometimes after that, but she was not strong enough to talk much. she sat no longer now in the low chair under the maples, but lay on a chintz-covered couch in the sitting-room, by the west windows. the once shrilly-sweet voice with its clear bird tones was but a whisper now, as she told us over and again, while she lay there, that she would tell us a new story "to-morrow." it was always "to-morrow" till the end came. and the story was to be, so the whisper went on, "the beautif'lest story,--oh, you never did!" and its name was to be,--what a faint and feeble reproduction of the old triumphant announcement of a new title!--"the posy gardin' that the king kep'." she never told us that story. before the autumn leaves had fallen, while the maples in front of the farmhouse were still red and glorious in their dying beauty, we laid our little friend to rest. perhaps she will tell us the tale some day. i am sure there will be "a angel" in it,--sure, too, that the story will have a new and tender meaning if we hear it there, that story of the king and of the posy gardin' he kep'. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- transcriber's notes . punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. . unusual spelling in chapter titles retained. [illustration: "it seemed scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness"--_page _] the secret garden by frances hodgson burnett _author of_ "_the shuttle_," "_the making of a marchioness_," "_the methods of lady walderhurst_," "_that lass o' lowries_," "_through one administration_," "_little lord fauntleroy_" "_a lady of quality_," etc. [illustration] new york frederick a. stokes company publishers _copyright, , by_ frances hodgson burnett _copyright, , , by_ the phillips publishing co. _all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian._ _august, ._ contents chapter page i there is no one left ii mistress mary quite contrary iii across the moor iv martha v the cry in the corridor vi "there was some one crying--there was!" vii the key of the garden viii the robin who showed the way ix the strangest house any one ever lived in x dickon xi the nest of the missel thrush xii "might i have a bit of earth?" xiii "i am colin" xiv a young rajah xv nest building xvi "i won't!" said mary xvii a tantrum xviii "tha' munnot waste no time" xix "it has come!" xx "i shall live forever--and ever--and ever!" xxi ben weatherstaff xxii when the sun went down xxiii magic xxiv "let them laugh" xxv the curtain xxvi "it's mother!" xxvii in the garden the secret garden chapter i there is no one left when mary lennox was sent to misselthwaite manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. it was true, too. she had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression. her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in india and had always been ill in one way or another. her father had held a position under the english government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay people. she had not wanted a little girl at all, and when mary was born she handed her over to the care of an ayah, who was made to understand that if she wished to please the mem sahib she must keep the child out of sight as much as possible. so when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the way also. she never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark faces of her ayah and the other native servants, and as they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, because the mem sahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying, by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived. the young english governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months, and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always went away in a shorter time than the first one. so if mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have learned her letters at all. one frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she awakened feeling very cross, and she became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her ayah. "why did you come?" she said to the strange woman. "i will not let you stay. send my ayah to me." the woman looked frightened, but she only stammered that the ayah could not come and when mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the ayah to come to missie sahib. there was something mysterious in the air that morning. nothing was done in its regular order and several of the native servants seemed missing, while those whom mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces. but no one would tell her anything and her ayah did not come. she was actually left alone as the morning went on, and at last she wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a tree near the veranda. she pretended that she was making a flower-bed, and she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth, all the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things she would say and the names she would call saidie when she returned. "pig! pig! daughter of pigs!" she said, because to call a native a pig is the worst insult of all. she was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out on the veranda with some one. she was with a fair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices. mary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy. she had heard that he was a very young officer who had just come from england. the child stared at him, but she stared most at her mother. she always did this when she had a chance to see her, because the mem sahib--mary used to call her that oftener than anything else--was such a tall, slim, pretty person and wore such lovely clothes. her hair was like curly silk and she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things, and she had large laughing eyes. all her clothes were thin and floating, and mary said they were "full of lace." they looked fuller of lace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all. they were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer's face. "is it so very bad? oh, is it?" mary heard her say. "awfully," the young man answered in a trembling voice. "awfully, mrs. lennox. you ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago." the mem sahib wrung her hands. "oh, i know i ought!" she cried. "i only stayed to go to that silly dinner party. what a fool i was!" at that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servants' quarters that she clutched the young man's arm, and mary stood shivering from head to foot. the wailing grew wilder and wilder. "what is it? what is it?" mrs. lennox gasped. "some one has died," answered the boy officer. "you did not say it had broken out among your servants." "i did not know!" the mem sahib cried. "come with me! come with me!" and she turned and ran into the house. after that appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to mary. the cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies. the ayah had been taken ill in the night, and it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts. before the next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror. there was panic on every side, and dying people in all the bungalows. during the confusion and bewilderment of the second day mary hid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by every one. nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew nothing. mary alternately cried and slept through the hours. she only knew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and frightening sounds. once she crept into the dining-room and found it empty, though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and plates looked as if they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for some reason. the child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being thirsty she drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled. it was sweet, and she did not know how strong it was. very soon it made her intensely drowsy, and she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again, frightened by cries she heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet. the wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time. many things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily, but she was not disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being carried in and out of the bungalow. when she awakened she lay and stared at the wall. the house was perfectly still. she had never known it to be so silent before. she heard neither voices nor footsteps, and wondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trouble was over. she wondered also who would take care of her now her ayah was dead. there would be a new ayah, and perhaps she would know some new stories. mary had been rather tired of the old ones. she did not cry because her nurse had died. she was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for any one. the noise and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened her, and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember that she was alive. every one was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of. when people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves. but if every one had got well again, surely some one would remember and come to look for her. but no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent. she heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels. she was not frightened, because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room. he slipped under the door as she watched him. "how queer and quiet it is," she said. "it sounds as if there was no one in the bungalow but me and the snake." almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on the veranda. they were men's footsteps, and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices. no one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed to open doors and look into rooms. "what desolation!" she heard one voice say. "that pretty, pretty woman! i suppose the child, too. i heard there was a child, though no one ever saw her." mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes later. she looked an ugly, cross little thing and was frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected. the first man who came in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father. he looked tired and troubled, but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back. "barney!" he cried out. "there is a child here! a child alone! in a place like this! mercy on us, who is she!" "i am mary lennox," the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly. she thought the man was very rude to call her father's bungalow "a place like this!" "i fell asleep when every one had the cholera and i have only just wakened up. why does nobody come?" "it is the child no one ever saw!" exclaimed the man, turning to his companions. "she has actually been forgotten!" "why was i forgotten?" mary said, stamping her foot. "why does nobody come?" the young man whose name was barney looked at her very sadly. mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away. "poor little kid!" he said. "there is nobody left to come." it was in that strange and sudden way that mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a missie sahib. that was why the place was so quiet. it was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake. chapter ii mistress mary quite contrary mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone. she did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a self-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she had always done. if she had been older she would no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and as she had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be. what she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to nice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her ayah and the other native servants had done. she knew that she was not going to stay at the english clergyman's house where she was taken at first. she did not want to stay. the english clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other. mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her. by the second day they had given her a nickname which made her furious. it was basil who thought of it first. basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose and mary hated him. she was playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out. she was making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and basil came and stood near to watch her. presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion. "why don't you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?" he said. "there in the middle," and he leaned over her to point. "go away!" cried mary. "i don't want boys. go away!" for a moment basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. he was always teasing his sisters. he danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed. "mistress mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? with silver bells, and cockle shells, and marigolds all in a row." he sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the crosser mary got, the more they sang "mistress mary, quite contrary"; and after that as long as she stayed with them they called her "mistress mary quite contrary" when they spoke of her to each other, and often when they spoke to her. "you are going to be sent home," basil said to her, "at the end of the week. and we're glad of it." "i am glad of it, too," answered mary. "where is home?" "she doesn't know where home is!" said basil, with seven-year-old scorn. "it's england, of course. our grandmama lives there and our sister mabel was sent to her last year. you are not going to your grandmama. you have none. you are going to your uncle. his name is mr. archibald craven." "i don't know anything about him," snapped mary. "i know you don't," basil answered. "you don't know anything. girls never do. i heard father and mother talking about him. he lives in a great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him. he's so cross he won't let them, and they wouldn't come if he would let them. he's a hunchback, and he's horrid." "i don't believe you," said mary; and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more. but she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when mrs. crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to england in a few days and go to her uncle, mr. archibald craven, who lived at misselthwaite manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her. they tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when mrs. crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when mr. crawford patted her shoulder. "she is such a plain child," mrs. crawford said pityingly, afterward. "and her mother was such a pretty creature. she had a very pretty manner, too, and mary has the most unattractive ways i ever saw in a child. the children call her 'mistress mary quite contrary,' and though it's naughty of them, one can't help understanding it." "perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery mary might have learned some pretty ways too. it is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all." "i believe she scarcely ever looked at her," sighed mrs. crawford. "when her ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. colonel mcgrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room." mary made the long voyage to england under the care of an officer's wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school. she was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman mr. archibald craven sent to meet her, in london. the woman was his housekeeper at misselthwaite manor, and her name was mrs. medlock. she was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. she wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head. mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evident mrs. medlock did not think much of her. "my word! she's a plain little piece of goods!" she said. "and we'd heard that her mother was a beauty. she hasn't handed much of it down, has she, ma'am?" "perhaps she will improve as she grows older," the officer's wife said good-naturedly. "if she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression, her features are rather good. children alter so much." "she'll have to alter a good deal," answered mrs. medlock. "and there's nothing likely to improve children at misselthwaite--if you ask me!" they thought mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. she was watching the passing buses and cabs, and people, but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in. what sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? what was a hunchback? she had never seen one. perhaps there were none in india. since she had been living in other people's houses and had had no ayah, she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her. she had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to any one even when her father and mother had been alive. other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be any one's little girl. she had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. she did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did not know she was disagreeable. she often thought that other people were, but she did not know that she was so herself. she thought mrs. medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet. when the next day they set out on their journey to yorkshire, she walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her. it would have made her very angry to think people imagined she was her little girl. but mrs. medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts. she was the kind of woman who would "stand no nonsense from young ones." at least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked. she had not wanted to go to london just when her sister maria's daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid place as housekeeper at misselthwaite manor and the only way in which she could keep it was to do at once what mr. archibald craven told her to do. she never dared even to ask a question. "captain lennox and his wife died of the cholera," mr. craven had said in his short, cold way. "captain lennox was my wife's brother and i am their daughter's guardian. the child is to be brought here. you must go to london and bring her yourself." so she packed her small trunk and made the journey. mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful. she had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her thin little black-gloved hands in her lap. her black dress made her look yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under her black crêpe hat. "a more marred-looking young one i never saw in my life," mrs. medlock thought. (marred is a yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.) she had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk, hard voice. "i suppose i may as well tell you something about where you are going to," she said. "do you know anything about your uncle?" "no," said mary. "never heard your father and mother talk about him?" "no," said mary frowning. she frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular. certainly they had never told her things. "humph," muttered mrs. medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face. she did not say any more for a few moments and then she began again. "i suppose you might as well be told something--to prepare you. you are going to a queer place." mary said nothing at all, and mrs. medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on. "not but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way, and mr. craven's proud of it in his way--and that's gloomy enough, too. the house is six hundred years old and it's on the edge of the moor, and there's near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them's shut up and locked. and there's pictures and fine old furniture and things that's been there for ages, and there's a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground--some of them." she paused and took another breath. "but there's nothing else," she ended suddenly. mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. it all sounded so unlike india, and anything new rather attracted her. but she did not intend to look as if she were interested. that was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. so she sat still. "well," said mrs. medlock. "what do you think of it?" "nothing," she answered. "i know nothing about such places." that made mrs. medlock laugh a short sort of laugh. "eh!" she said, "but you are like an old woman. don't you care?" "it doesn't matter," said mary, "whether i care or not." "you are right enough there," said mrs. medlock. "it doesn't. what you're to be kept at misselthwaite manor for i don't know, unless because it's the easiest way. _he's_ not going to trouble himself about you, that's sure and certain. he never troubles himself about no one." she stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time. "he's got a crooked back," she said. "that set him wrong. he was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married." mary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care. she had never thought of the hunchback's being married and she was a trifle surprised. mrs. medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative woman she continued with more interest. this was one way of passing some of the time, at any rate. "she was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd have walked the world over to get her a blade o' grass she wanted. nobody thought she'd marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money. but she didn't--she didn't," positively. "when she died--" mary gave a little involuntary jump. "oh! did she die!" she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. she had just remembered a french fairy story she had once read called "riquet à la houppe." it had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly sorry for mr. archibald craven. "yes, she died," mrs. medlock answered. "and it made him queerer than ever. he cares about nobody. he won't see people. most of the time he goes away, and when he is at misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the west wing and won't let any one but pitcher see him. pitcher's an old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways." it sounded like something in a book and it did not make mary feel cheerful. a house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with their doors locked--a house on the edge of a moor--whatsoever a moor was--sounded dreary. a man with a crooked back who shut himself up also! she stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. if the pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to parties as she had done in frocks "full of lace." but she was not there any more. "you needn't expect to see him, because ten to one you won't," said mrs. medlock. "and you mustn't expect that there will be people to talk to you. you'll have to play about and look after yourself. you'll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you're to keep out of. there's gardens enough. but when you're in the house don't go wandering and poking about. mr. craven won't have it." "i shall not want to go poking about," said sour little mary; and just as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for mr. archibald craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that had happened to him. and she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever. she watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep. chapter iii across the moor she slept a long time, and when she awakened mrs. medlock had bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter and some hot tea. the rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs. the guard lighted the lamps in the carriage, and mrs. medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef. she ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep herself, and mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows. it was quite dark when she awakened again. the train had stopped at a station and mrs. medlock was shaking her. "you have had a sleep!" she said. "it's time to open your eyes! we're at thwaite station and we've got a long drive before us." mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while mrs. medlock collected her parcels. the little girl did not offer to help her, because in india native servants always picked up or carried things and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one. the station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train. the station-master spoke to mrs. medlock in a rough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which mary found out afterward was yorkshire. "i see tha's got back," he said. "an' tha's browt th' young 'un with thee." "aye, that's her," answered mrs. medlock, speaking with a yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward mary. "how's thy missus?" "well enow. th' carriage is waitin' outside for thee." a brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform. mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in. his long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the burly station-master included. when he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again. she sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queer place mrs. medlock had spoken of. she was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up--a house standing on the edge of a moor. "what is a moor?" she said suddenly to mrs. medlock. "look out of the window in about ten minutes and you'll see," the woman answered. "we've got to drive five miles across missel moor before we get to the manor. you won't see much because it's a dark night, but you can see something." mary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner, keeping her eyes on the window. the carriage lamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things they passed. after they had left the station they had driven through a tiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a public house. then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set out for sale. then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and trees. after that there seemed nothing different for a long time--or at least it seemed a long time to her. at last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing up-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees. she could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side. she leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt. "eh! we're on the moor now sure enough," said mrs. medlock. the carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them. a wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound. "it's--it's not the sea, is it?" said mary, looking round at her companion. "no, not it," answered mrs. medlock. "nor it isn't fields nor mountains, it's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep." "i feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it," said mary. "it sounds like the sea just now." "that's the wind blowing through the bushes," mrs. medlock said. "it's a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that likes it--particularly when the heather's in bloom." on and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. the road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land. "i don't like it," she said to herself. "i don't like it," and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together. the horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light. mrs. medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief. "eh, i am glad to see that bit o' light twinkling," she exclaimed. "it's the light in the lodge window. we shall get a good cup of tea after a bit, at all events." it was "after a bit," as she said, for when the carriage passed through the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault. they drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone court. at first mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner up-stairs showed a dull glow. the entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. it opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made mary feel that she did not want to look at them. as she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked. a neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them. "you are to take her to her room," he said in a husky voice. "he doesn't want to see her. he's going to london in the morning." "very well, mr. pitcher," mrs. medlock answered. "so long as i know what's expected of me, i can manage." "what's expected of you, mrs. medlock," mr. pitcher said, "is that you make sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he doesn't want to see." and then mary lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor and another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a room with a fire in it and a supper on a table. mrs. medlock said unceremoniously: "well, here you are! this room and the next are where you'll live--and you must keep to them. don't you forget that!" it was in this way mistress mary arrived at misselthwaite manor and she had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life. chapter iv martha when she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug raking out the cinders noisily. mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room. she had never seen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy. the walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on it. there were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle. there were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies. mary felt as if she were in the forest with them. out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it, and to look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea. "what is that?" she said, pointing out of the window. martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and pointed also. "that there?" she said. "yes." "that's th' moor," with a good-natured grin. "does tha' like it?" "no," answered mary. "i hate it." "that's because tha'rt not used to it," martha said, going back to her hearth. "tha' thinks it's too big an' bare now. but tha' will like it." "do you?" inquired mary. "aye, that i do," answered martha, cheerfully polishing away at the grate. "i just love it. it's none bare. it's covered wi' growin' things as smells sweet. it's fair lovely in spring an' summer when th' gorse an' broom an' heather's in flower. it smells o' honey an' there's such a lot o' fresh air--an' th' sky looks so high an' th' bees an' skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin' an' singin'. eh! i wouldn't live away from th' moor for anythin'." mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression. the native servants she had been used to in india were not in the least like this. they were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their masters as if they were their equals. they made salaams and called them "protector of the poor" and names of that sort. indian servants were commanded to do things, not asked. it was not the custom to say "please" and "thank you" and mary had always slapped her ayah in the face when she was angry. she wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face. she was a round, rosy, good-natured looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made mistress mary wonder if she might not even slap back--if the person who slapped her was only a little girl. "you are a strange servant," she said from her pillows, rather haughtily. martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper. "eh! i know that," she said. "if there was a grand missus at misselthwaite i should never have been even one of th' under housemaids. i might have been let to be scullery-maid but i'd never have been let up-stairs. i'm too common an' i talk too much yorkshire. but this is a funny house for all it's so grand. seems like there's neither master nor mistress except mr. pitcher an' mrs. medlock. mr. craven, he won't be troubled about anythin' when he's here, an' he's nearly always away. mrs. medlock gave me th' place out o' kindness. she told me she could never have done it if misselthwaite had been like other big houses." "are you going to be my servant?" mary asked, still in her imperious little indian way. martha began to rub her grate again. "i'm mrs. medlock's servant," she said stoutly. "an' she's mr. craven's--but i'm to do the housemaid's work up here an' wait on you a bit. but you won't need much waitin' on." "who is going to dress me?" demanded mary. martha sat up on her heels again and stared. she spoke in broad yorkshire in her amazement. "canna' tha' dress thysen!" she said. "what do you mean? i don't understand your language," said mary. "eh! i forgot," martha said. "mrs. medlock told me i'd have to be careful or you wouldn't know what i was sayin'. i mean can't you put on your own clothes?" "no," answered mary, quite indignantly. "i never did in my life. my ayah dressed me, of course." "well," said martha, evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent, "it's time tha' should learn. tha' cannot begin younger. it'll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit. my mother always said she couldn't see why grand people's children didn't turn out fair fools--what with nurses an' bein' washed an' dressed an' took out to walk as if they was puppies!" "it is different in india," said mistress mary disdainfully. she could scarcely stand this. but martha was not at all crushed. "eh! i can see it's different," she answered almost sympathetically. "i dare say it's because there's such a lot o' blacks there instead o' respectable white people. when i heard you was comin' from india i thought you was a black too." mary sat up in bed furious. "what!" she said. "what! you thought i was a native. you--you daughter of a pig!" martha stared and looked hot. "who are you callin' names?" she said. "you needn't be so vexed. that's not th' way for a young lady to talk. i've nothin' against th' blacks. when you read about 'em in tracts they're always very religious. you always read as a black's a man an' a brother. i've never seen a black an' i was fair pleased to think i was goin' to see one close. when i come in to light your fire this mornin' i crep' up to your bed an' pulled th' cover back careful to look at you. an' there you was," disappointedly, "no more black than me--for all you're so yeller." mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation. "you thought i was a native! you dared! you don't know anything about natives! they are not people--they're servants who must salaam to you. you know nothing about india. you know nothing about anything!" she was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl's simple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her, that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing. she sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured yorkshire martha was a little frightened and quite sorry for her. she went to the bed and bent over her. "eh! you mustn't cry like that there!" she begged. "you mustn't for sure. i didn't know you'd be vexed. i don't know anythin' about anythin'--just like you said. i beg your pardon, miss. do stop cryin'." there was something comforting and really friendly in her queer yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on mary. she gradually ceased crying and became quiet. martha looked relieved. "it's time for thee to get up now," she said. "mrs. medlock said i was to carry tha' breakfast an' tea an' dinner into th' room next to this. it's been made into a nursery for thee. i'll help thee on with thy clothes if tha'll get out o' bed. if th' buttons are at th' back tha' cannot button them up tha'self." when mary at last decided to get up, the clothes martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with mrs. medlock. "those are not mine," she said. "mine are black." she looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval: "those are nicer than mine." "these are th' ones tha' must put on," martha answered. "mr. craven ordered mrs. medlock to get 'em in london. he said 'i won't have a child dressed in black wanderin' about like a lost soul,' he said. 'it'd make the place sadder than it is. put color on her.' mother she said she knew what he meant. mother always knows what a body means. she doesn't hold with black hersel'." "i hate black things," said mary. the dressing process was one which taught them both something. martha had "buttoned up" her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own. "why doesn't tha' put on tha' own shoes?" she said when mary quietly held out her foot. "my ayah did it," answered mary, staring. "it was the custom." she said that very often--"it was the custom." the native servants were always saying it. if one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, "it is not the custom" and one knew that was the end of the matter. it had not been the custom that mistress mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at misselthwaite manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her--things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking up things she let fall. if martha had been a well-trained fine young lady's maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away. she was, however, only an untrained yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things. if mary lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would perhaps have laughed at martha's readiness to talk, but mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner. at first she was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered, homely way, mary began to notice what she was saying. "eh! you should see 'em all," she said. "there's twelve of us an' my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. i can tell you my mother's put to it to get porridge for 'em all. they tumble about on th' moor an' play there all day an' mother says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em. she says she believes they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponies do. our dickon, he's twelve years old and he's got a young pony he calls his own." "where did he get it?" asked mary. "he found it on th' moor with its mother when it was a little one an' he began to make friends with it an' give it bits o' bread an' pluck young grass for it. and it got to like him so it follows him about an' it lets him get on its back. dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes him." mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one. so she began to feel a slight interest in dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. when she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in. it was not a child's room, but a grown-up person's room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs. a table in the center was set with a good substantial breakfast. but she had always had a very small appetite, and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate martha set before her. "i don't want it," she said. "tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" martha exclaimed incredulously. "no." "tha' doesn't know how good it is. put a bit o' treacle on it or a bit o' sugar." "i don't want it," repeated mary. "eh!" said martha. "i can't abide to see good victuals go to waste. if our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes." "why?" said mary coldly. "why!" echoed martha. "because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. they're as hungry as young hawks an' foxes." "i don't know what it is to be hungry," said mary, with the indifference of ignorance. martha looked indignant. "well, it would do thee good to try it. i can see that plain enough," she said outspokenly. "i've no patience with folk as sits an' just stares at good bread an' meat. my word! don't i wish dickon and phil an' jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores." "why don't you take it to them?" suggested mary. "it's not mine," answered martha stoutly. "an' this isn't my day out. i get my day out once a month same as th' rest. then i go home an' clean up for mother an' give her a day's rest." mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade. "you wrap up warm an' run out an' play you," said martha. "it'll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat." mary went to the window. there were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry. "out? why should i go out on a day like this?" "well, if tha' doesn't go out tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha' got to do?" mary glanced about her. there was nothing to do. when mrs. medlock had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement. perhaps it would be better to go and see what the gardens were like. "who will go with me?" she inquired. martha stared. "you'll go by yourself," she answered. "you'll have to learn to play like other children does when they haven't got sisters and brothers. our dickon goes off on th' moor by himself an' plays for hours. that's how he made friends with th' pony. he's got sheep on th' moor that knows him, an' birds as comes an' eats out of his hand. however little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o' his bread to coax his pets." it was really this mention of dickon which made mary decide to go out, though she was not aware of it. there would be birds outside though there would not be ponies or sheep. they would be different from the birds in india and it might amuse her to look at them. martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots and she showed her her way down-stairs. "if tha' goes round that way tha'll come to th' gardens," she said, pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery. "there's lots o' flowers in summer-time, but there's nothin' bloomin' now." she seemed to hesitate a second before she added, "one of th' gardens is locked up. no one has been in it for ten years." "why?" asked mary in spite of herself. here was another locked door added to the hundred in the strange house. "mr. craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. he won't let no one go inside. it was her garden. he locked th' door an' dug a hole and buried th' key. there's mrs. medlock's bell ringing--i must run." after she was gone mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery. she could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been into for ten years. she wondered what it would look like and whether there were any flowers still alive in it. when she had passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders. there were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange shapes, and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst. but the flower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing. this was not the garden which was shut up. how could a garden be shut up? you could always walk into a garden. she was just thinking this when she saw that, at the end of the path she was following, there seemed to be a long wall, with ivy growing over it. she was not familiar enough with england to know that she was coming upon the kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing. she went toward the wall and found that there was a green door in the ivy, and that it stood open. this was not the closed garden, evidently, and she could go into it. she went through the door and found that it was a garden with walls all round it and that it was only one of several walled gardens which seemed to open into one another. she saw another open green door, revealing bushes and pathways between beds containing winter vegetables. fruit-trees were trained flat against the wall, and over some of the beds there were glass frames. the place was bare and ugly enough, mary thought, as she stood and stared about her. it might be nicer in summer when things were green, but there was nothing pretty about it now. presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the door leading from the second garden. he looked startled when he saw mary, and then touched his cap. he had a surly old face, and did not seem at all pleased to see her--but then she was displeased with his garden and wore her "quite contrary" expression, and certainly did not seem at all pleased to see him. "what is this place?" she asked. "one o' th' kitchen-gardens," he answered. "what is that?" said mary, pointing through the other green door. "another of 'em," shortly. "there's another on t'other side o' th' wall an' there's th' orchard t'other side o' that." "can i go in them?" asked mary. "if tha' likes. but there's nowt to see." mary made no response. she went down the path and through the second green door. there she found more walls and winter vegetables and glass frames, but in the second wall there was another green door and it was not open. perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen for ten years. as she was not at all a timid child and always did what she wanted to do, mary went to the green door and turned the handle. she hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had found the mysterious garden--but it did open quite easily and she walked through it and found herself in an orchard. there were walls all round it also and trees trained against them, and there were bare fruit-trees growing in the winter-browned grass--but there was no green door to be seen anywhere. mary looked for it, and yet when she had entered the upper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did not seem to end with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it enclosed a place at the other side. she could see the tops of trees above the wall, and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into his winter song--almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her. she stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling--even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself. if she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was "mistress mary quite contrary" she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile. she listened to him until he flew away. he was not like an indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again. perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it. perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the deserted garden. she was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like. why had mr. archibald craven buried the key? if he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden? she wondered if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he had done such a queer thing. "people never like me and i never like people," she thought. "and i never can talk as the crawford children could. they were always talking and laughing and making noises." she thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path. "i believe that tree was in the secret garden--i feel sure it was," she said. "there was a wall round the place and there was no door." she walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found the old man digging there. she went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in her cold little way. he took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him. "i have been into the other gardens," she said. "there was nothin' to prevent thee," he answered crustily. "i went into the orchard." "there was no dog at th' door to bite thee," he answered. "there was no door there into the other garden," said mary. "what garden?" he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a moment. "the one on the other side of the wall," answered mistress mary. "there are trees there--i saw the tops of them. a bird with a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang." to her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its expression. a slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different. it made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled. she had not thought of it before. he turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle--a low soft whistle. she could not understand how such a surly man could make such a coaxing sound. almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. she heard a soft little rushing flight through the air--and it was the bird with the red breast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite near to the gardener's foot. "here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if he were speaking to a child. "where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?" he said. "i've not seen thee before to-day. has tha' begun tha' courtin' this early in th' season? tha'rt too forrad." the bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop. he seemed quite familiar and not the least afraid. he hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking for seeds and insects. it actually gave mary a queer feeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person. he had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and slender delicate legs. "will he always come when you call him?" she asked almost in a whisper. "aye, that he will. i've knowed him ever since he was a fledgling. he come out of th' nest in th' other garden an' when first he flew over th' wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an' we got friendly. when he went over th' wall again th' rest of th' brood was gone an' he was lonely an' he come back to me." "what kind of a bird is he?" mary asked. "doesn't tha' know? he's a robin redbreast an' they're th' friendliest, curiousest birds alive. they're almost as friendly as dogs--if you know how to get on with 'em. watch him peckin' about there an' lookin' round at us now an' again. he knows we're talkin' about him." it was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow. he looked at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud and fond of him. "he's a conceited one," he chuckled. "he likes to hear folk talk about him. an' curious--bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an' meddlin'. he's always comin' to see what i'm plantin'. he knows all th' things mester craven never troubles hissel' to find out. he's th' head gardener, he is." the robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped and looked at them a little. mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed at her with great curiosity. it really seemed as if he were finding out all about her. the queer feeling in her heart increased. "where did the rest of the brood fly to?" she asked. "there's no knowin'. the old ones turn 'em out o' their nest an' make 'em fly an' they're scattered before you know it. this one was a knowin' one an' he knew he was lonely." mistress mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard. "i'm lonely," she said. she had not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross. she seemed to find it out when the robin looked at her and she looked at the robin. the old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her a minute. "art tha' th' little wench from india?" he asked. mary nodded. "then no wonder tha'rt lonely. tha'lt be lonelier before tha's done," he said. he began to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black garden soil while the robin hopped about very busily employed. "what is your name?" mary inquired. he stood up to answer her. "ben weatherstaff," he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle, "i'm lonely mysel' except when he's with me," and he jerked his thumb toward the robin. "he's th' only friend i've got." "i have no friends at all," said mary. "i never had. my ayah didn't like me and i never played with any one." it is a yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness, and old ben weatherstaff was a yorkshire moor man. "tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he said. "we was wove out of th' same cloth. we're neither of us good lookin' an' we're both of us as sour as we look. we've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, i'll warrant." this was plain speaking, and mary lennox had never heard the truth about herself in her life. native servants always salaamed and submitted to you, whatever you did. she had never thought much about her looks, but she wondered if she was as unattractive as ben weatherstaff and she also wondered if she looked as sour as he had looked before the robin came. she actually began to wonder also if she was "nasty tempered." she felt uncomfortable. suddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out near her and she turned round. she was standing a few feet from a young apple-tree and the robin had flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song. ben weatherstaff laughed outright. "what did he do that for?" asked mary. "he's made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied ben. "dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee." "to me?" said mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up. "would you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person. "would you?" and she did not say it either in her hard little voice or in her imperious indian voice, but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that ben weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle. "why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human as if tha' was a real child instead of a sharp old woman. tha' said it almost like dickon talks to his wild things on th' moor." "do you know dickon?" mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry. "everybody knows him. dickon's wanderin' about everywhere. th' very blackberries an' heather-bells knows him. i warrant th' foxes shows him where their cubs lies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests from him." mary would have liked to ask some more questions. she was almost as curious about dickon as she was about the deserted garden. but just that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings, spread them and flew away. he had made his visit and had other things to do. "he has flown over the wall!" mary cried out, watching him. "he has flown into the orchard--he has flown across the other wall--into the garden where there is no door!" "he lives there," said old ben. "he came out o' th' egg there. if he's courtin', he's makin' up to some young madam of a robin that lives among th' old rose-trees there." "rose-trees," said mary. "are there rose-trees?" ben weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig. "there was ten year' ago," he mumbled. "i should like to see them," said mary. "where is the green door? there must be a door somewhere." ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first saw him. "there was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said. "no door!" cried mary. "there must be." "none as any one can find, an' none as is any one's business. don't you be a meddlesome wench an' poke your nose where it's no cause to go. here, i must go on with my work. get you gone an' play you. i've no more time." and he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by. chapter v the cry in the corridor at first each day which passed by for mary lennox was exactly like the others. every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing--and so she went out. she did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. she ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see. but the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it. but after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty. "tha' got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said martha. "it tastes nice to-day," said mary, feeling a little surprised herself. "it's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals," answered martha. "it's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as appetite. there's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin' to put in it. you go on playin' you out o' doors every day an' you'll get some flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller." "i don't play," said mary. "i have nothing to play with." "nothin' to play with!" exclaimed martha. "our children plays with sticks and stones. they just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things." mary did not shout, but she looked at things. there was nothing else to do. she walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park. sometimes she looked for ben weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly. once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose. one place she went to oftener than to any other. it was the long walk outside the gardens with the walls round them. there were bare flower-beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly. there was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. it seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected. the rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all. a few days after she had talked to ben weatherstaff mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so. she had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, perched ben weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side. "oh!" she cried out, "is it you--is it you?" and it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she was sure that he would understand and answer her. he did answer. he twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things. it seemed to mistress mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. it was as if he said: "good morning! isn't the wind nice? isn't the sun nice? isn't everything nice? let us both chirp and hop and twitter. come on! come on!" mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. poor little thin, sallow, ugly mary--she actually looked almost pretty for a moment. "i like you! i like you!" she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. but the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. at last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly. that reminded mary of the first time she had seen him. he had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard. now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall--much lower down--and there was the same tree inside. "it's in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "it's the garden without a door. he lives in there. how i wish i could see what it is like!" she ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and beginning to preen his feathers with his beak. "it is the garden," she said. "i am sure it is." she walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before--that there was no door in it. then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door. "it's very queer," she said. "ben weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door. but there must have been one ten years ago, because mr. craven buried the key." this gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to misselthwaite manor. in india she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. the fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little. she stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. she did not feel cross when martha chattered away. she felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. she asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire. "why did mr. craven hate the garden?" she said. she had made martha stay with her and martha had not objected at all. she was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants' hall down-stairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves. martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in india, and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enough to attract her. she sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked. "art tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said. "i knew tha' would. that was just the way with me when i first heard about it." "why did he hate it?" mary persisted. martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable. "listen to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said. "you could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it to-night." mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened, and then she understood. it must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. but one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire. "but why did he hate it so?" she asked, after she had listened. she intended to know if martha did. then martha gave up her store of knowledge. "mind," she said, "mrs. medlock said it's not to be talked about. there's lots o' things in this place that's not to be talked over. that's mr. craven's orders. his troubles are none servants' business, he says. but for th' garden he wouldn't be like he is. it was mrs. craven's garden that she had made when first they were married an' she just loved it, an' they used to 'tend the flowers themselves. an' none o' th' gardeners was ever let to go in. him an' her used to go in an' shut th' door an' stay there hours an' hours, readin' an' talkin'. an' she was just a bit of a girl an' there was an old tree with a branch bent like a seat on it. an' she made roses grow over it an' she used to sit there. but one day when she was sittin' there th' branch broke an' she fell on th' ground an' was hurt so bad that next day she died. th' doctors thought he'd go out o' his mind an' die, too. that's why he hates it. no one's never gone in since, an' he won't let any one talk about it." mary did not ask any more questions. she looked at the red fire and listened to the wind "wutherin'." it seemed to be "wutherin'" louder than ever. at that moment a very good thing was happening to her. four good things had happened to her, in fact, since she came to misselthwaite manor. she had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one. she was getting on. but as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else. she did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself. it was a curious sound--it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere. sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently mistress mary felt quite sure that this sound was inside the house, not outside it. it was far away, but it was inside. she turned round and looked at martha. "do you hear any one crying?" she said. martha suddenly looked confused. "no," she answered. "it's th' wind. sometimes it sounds like as if some one was lost on th' moor an' wailin'. it's got all sorts o' sounds." "but listen," said mary. "it's in the house--down one of those long corridors." and at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere down-stairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever. "there!" said mary. "i told you so! it is some one crying--and it isn't a grown-up person." martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased "wutherin'" for a few moments. "it was th' wind," said martha stubbornly. "an' if it wasn't, it was little betty butterworth, th' scullery-maid. she's had th' toothache all day." but something troubled and awkward in her manner made mistress mary stare very hard at her. she did not believe she was speaking the truth. chapter vi "there was some one crying--there was!" the next day the rain poured down in torrents again, and when mary looked out of her window the moor was almost hidden by gray mist and cloud. there could be no going out to-day. "what do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?" she asked martha. "try to keep from under each other's feet mostly," martha answered. "eh! there does seem a lot of us then. mother's a good-tempered woman but she gets fair moithered. the biggest ones goes out in th' cow-shed and plays there. dickon he doesn't mind th' wet. he goes out just th' same as if th' sun was shinin'. he says he sees things on rainy days as doesn't show when it's fair weather. he once found a little fox cub half drowned in its hole and he brought it home in th' bosom of his shirt to keep it warm. its mother had been killed nearby an' th' hole was swum out an' th' rest o' th' litter was dead. he's got it at home now. he found a half-drowned young crow another time an' he brought it home, too, an' tamed it. it's named soot because it's so black, an' it hops an' flies about with him everywhere." the time had come when mary had forgotten to resent martha's familiar talk. she had even begun to find it interesting and to be sorry when she stopped or went away. the stories she had been told by her ayah when she lived in india had been quite unlike those martha had to tell about the moorland cottage which held fourteen people who lived in four little rooms and never had quite enough to eat. the children seemed to tumble about and amuse themselves like a litter of rough, good-natured collie puppies. mary was most attracted by the mother and dickon. when martha told stories of what "mother" said or did they always sounded comfortable. "if i had a raven or a fox cub i could play with it," said mary. "but i have nothing." martha looked perplexed. "can tha' knit?" she asked. "no," answered mary. "can tha' sew?" "no." "can tha' read?" "yes." "then why doesn't tha' read somethin', or learn a bit o' spellin'? tha'st old enough to be learnin' thy book a good bit now." "i haven't any books," said mary. "those i had were left in india." "that's a pity," said martha. "if mrs. medlock'd let thee go into th' library, there's thousands o' books there." mary did not ask where the library was, because she was suddenly inspired by a new idea. she made up her mind to go and find it herself. she was not troubled about mrs. medlock. mrs. medlock seemed always to be in her comfortable housekeeper's sitting-room down-stairs. in this queer place one scarcely ever saw any one at all. in fact, there was no one to see but the servants, and when their master was away they lived a luxurious life below stairs, where there was a huge kitchen hung about with shining brass and pewter, and a large servants' hall where there were four or five abundant meals eaten every day, and where a great deal of lively romping went on when mrs. medlock was out of the way. mary's meals were served regularly, and martha waited on her, but no one troubled themselves about her in the least. mrs. medlock came and looked at her every day or two, but no one inquired what she did or told her what to do. she supposed that perhaps this was the english way of treating children. in india she had always been attended by her ayah, who had followed her about and waited on her, hand and foot. she had often been tired of her company. now she was followed by nobody and was learning to dress herself because martha looked as though she thought she was silly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed to her and put on. "hasn't tha' got good sense?" she said once, when mary had stood waiting for her to put on her gloves for her. "our susan ann is twice as sharp as thee an' she's only four year' old. sometimes tha' looks fair soft in th' head." mary had worn her contrary scowl for an hour after that, but it made her think several entirely new things. she stood at the window for about ten minutes this morning after martha had swept up the hearth for the last time and gone down-stairs. she was thinking over the new idea which had come to her when she heard of the library. she did not care very much about the library itself, because she had read very few books; but to hear of it brought back to her mind the hundred rooms with closed doors. she wondered if they were all really locked and what she would find if she could get into any of them. were there a hundred really? why shouldn't she go and see how many doors she could count? it would be something to do on this morning when she could not go out. she had never been taught to ask permission to do things, and she knew nothing at all about authority, so she would not have thought it necessary to ask mrs. medlock if she might walk about the house, even if she had seen her. she opened the door of the room and went into the corridor, and then she began her wanderings. it was a long corridor and it branched into other corridors and it led her up short flights of steps which mounted to others again. there were doors and doors, and there were pictures on the walls. sometimes they were pictures of dark, curious landscapes, but oftenest they were portraits of men and women in queer, grand costumes made of satin and velvet. she found herself in one long gallery whose walls were covered with these portraits. she had never thought there could be so many in any house. she walked slowly down this place and stared at the faces which also seemed to stare at her. she felt as if they were wondering what a little girl from india was doing in their house. some were pictures of children--little girls in thick satin frocks which reached to their feet and stood out about them, and boys with puffed sleeves and lace collars and long hair, or with big ruffs around their necks. she always stopped to look at the children, and wonder what their names were, and where they had gone, and why they wore such odd clothes. there was a stiff, plain little girl rather like herself. she wore a green brocade dress and held a green parrot on her finger. her eyes had a sharp, curious look. "where do you live now?" said mary aloud to her. "i wish you were here." surely no other little girl ever spent such a queer morning. it seemed as if there was no one in all the huge rambling house but her own small self, wandering about up-stairs and down, through narrow passages and wide ones, where it seemed to her that no one but herself had ever walked. since so many rooms had been built, people must have lived in them, but it all seemed so empty that she could not quite believe it true. it was not until she climbed to the second floor that she thought of turning the handle of a door. all the doors were shut, as mrs. medlock had said they were, but at last she put her hand on the handle of one of them and turned it. she was almost frightened for a moment when she felt that it turned without difficulty and that when she pushed upon the door itself it slowly and heavily opened. it was a massive door and opened into a big bedroom. there were embroidered hangings on the wall, and inlaid furniture such as she had seen in india stood about the room. a broad window with leaded panes looked out upon the moor; and over the mantel was another portrait of the stiff, plain little girl who seemed to stare at her more curiously than ever. "perhaps she slept here once," said mary. "she stares at me so that she makes me feel queer." after that she opened more doors and more. she saw so many rooms that she became quite tired and began to think that there must be a hundred, though she had not counted them. in all of them there were old pictures or old tapestries with strange scenes worked on them. there were curious pieces of furniture and curious ornaments in nearly all of them. in one room, which looked like a lady's sitting-room, the hangings were all embroidered velvet, and in a cabinet were about a hundred little elephants made of ivory. they were of different sizes, and some had their mahouts or palanquins on their backs. some were much bigger than the others and some were so tiny that they seemed only babies. mary had seen carved ivory in india and she knew all about elephants. she opened the door of the cabinet and stood on a footstool and played with these for quite a long time. when she got tired she set the elephants in order and shut the door of the cabinet. in all her wanderings through the long corridors and the empty rooms, she had seen nothing alive; but in this room she saw something. just after she had closed the cabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound. it made her jump and look around at the sofa by the fireplace, from which it seemed to come. in the corner of the sofa there was a cushion, and in the velvet which covered it there was a hole, and out of the hole peeped a tiny head with a pair of frightened eyes in it. mary crept softly across the room to look. the bright eyes belonged to a little gray mouse, and the mouse had eaten a hole into the cushion and made a comfortable nest there. six baby mice were cuddled up asleep near her. if there was no one else alive in the hundred rooms there were seven mice who did not look lonely at all. "if they wouldn't be so frightened i would take them back with me," said mary. she had wandered about long enough to feel too tired to wander any farther, and she turned back. two or three times she lost her way by turning down the wrong corridor and was obliged to ramble up and down until she found the right one; but at last she reached her own floor again, though she was some distance from her own room and did not know exactly where she was. "i believe i have taken a wrong turning again," she said, standing still at what seemed the end of a short passage with tapestry on the wall. "i don't know which way to go. how still everything is!" it was while she was standing here and just after she had said this that the stillness was broken by a sound. it was another cry, but not quite like the one she had heard last night; it was only a short one, a fretful, childish whine muffled by passing through walls. "it's nearer than it was," said mary, her heart beating rather faster. "and it _is_ crying." she put her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her, and then sprang back, feeling quite startled. the tapestry was the covering of a door which fell open and showed her that there was another part of the corridor behind it, and mrs. medlock was coming up it with her bunch of keys in her hand and a very cross look on her face. "what are you doing here?" she said, and she took mary by the arm and pulled her away. "what did i tell you?" "i turned round the wrong corner," explained mary. "i didn't know which way to go and i heard some one crying." she quite hated mrs. medlock at the moment, but she hated her more the next. "you didn't hear anything of the sort," said the housekeeper. "you come along back to your own nursery or i'll box your ears." and she took her by the arm and half pushed, half pulled her up one passage and down another until she pushed her in at the door of her own room. "now," she said, "you stay where you're told to stay or you'll find yourself locked up. the master had better get you a governess, same as he said he would. you're one that needs some one to look sharp after you. i've got enough to do." she went out of the room and slammed the door after her, and mary went and sat on the hearth-rug, pale with rage. she did not cry, but ground her teeth. "there _was_ some one crying--there _was_--there _was_!" she said to herself. she had heard it twice now, and sometime she would find out. she had found out a great deal this morning. she felt as if she had been on a long journey, and at any rate she had had something to amuse her all the time, and she had played with the ivory elephants and had seen the gray mouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion. chapter vii the key of the garden two days after this, when mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed immediately, and called to martha. "look at the moor! look at the moor!" the rain-storm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the night by the wind. the wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland. never, never had mary dreamed of a sky so blue. in india skies were hot and blazing; this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. the far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray. "aye," said martha with a cheerful grin. "th' storm's over for a bit. it does like this at this time o' th' year. it goes off in a night like it was pretendin' it had never been here an' never meant to come again. that's because th' springtime's on its way. it's a long way off yet, but it's comin'." "i thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in england," mary said. "eh! no!" said martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes. "nowt o' th' soart!" "what does that mean?" asked mary seriously. in india the natives spoke different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not surprised when martha used words she did not know. martha laughed as she had done the first morning. "there now," she said. "i've talked broad yorkshire again like mrs. medlock said i mustn't. 'nowt o' th' soart' means 'nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and carefully, "but it takes so long to say it. yorkshire's th' sunniest place on earth when it is sunny. i told thee tha'd like th' moor after a bit. just you wait till you see th' gold-colored gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th' broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all purple bells, an' hundreds o' butterflies flutterin' an' bees hummin' an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. you'll want to get out on it at sunrise an' live out on it all day like dickon does." "could i ever get there?" asked mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue. it was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color. "i don't know," answered martha. "tha's never used tha' legs since tha' was born, it seems to me. tha' couldn't walk five mile. it's five mile to our cottage." "i should like to see your cottage." martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again. she was thinking that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it. it looked just a trifle like little susan ann's when she wanted something very much. "i'll ask my mother about it," she said. "she's one o' them that nearly always sees a way to do things. it's my day out to-day an' i'm goin' home. eh! i am glad. mrs. medlock thinks a lot o' mother. perhaps she could talk to her." "i like your mother," said mary. "i should think tha' did," agreed martha, polishing away. "i've never seen her," said mary. "no, tha' hasn't," replied martha. she sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite positively. "well, she's that sensible an' hard workin' an' good-natured an' clean that no one could help likin' her whether they'd seen her or not. when i'm goin' home to her on my day out i just jump for joy when i'm crossin' th' moor." "i like dickon," added mary. "and i've never seen him." "well," said martha stoutly, "i've told thee that th' very birds likes him an' th' rabbits an' wild sheep an' ponies, an' th' foxes themselves. i wonder," staring at her reflectively, "what dickon would think of thee?" "he wouldn't like me," said mary in her stiff, cold little way. "no one does." martha looked reflective again. "how does tha' like thysel'?" she inquired, really quite as if she were curious to know. mary hesitated a moment and thought it over. "not at all--really," she answered. "but i never thought of that before." martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection. "mother said that to me once," she said. "she was at her wash-tub an' i was in a bad temper an' talkin' ill of folk, an' she turns round on me an' says: 'tha' young vixon, tha'! there tha' stands sayin' tha' doesn't like this one an' tha' doesn't like that one. how does tha' like thysel'?' it made me laugh an' it brought me to my senses in a minute." she went away in high spirits as soon as she had given mary her breakfast. she was going to walk five miles across the moor to the cottage, and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself thoroughly. mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house. she went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times. she counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits. the sunshine made the whole place look different. the high, deep, blue sky arched over misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about. she went into the first kitchen-garden and found ben weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners. the change in the weather seemed to have done him good. he spoke to her of his own accord. "springtime's comin'," he said. "cannot tha' smell it?" mary sniffed and thought she could. "i smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said. "that's th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "it's in a good humor makin' ready to grow things. it's glad when plantin' time comes. it's dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. in th' flower gardens out there things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. th' sun's warmin' 'em. you'll see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black earth after a bit." "what will they be?" asked mary. "crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. has tha' never seen them?" "no. everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in india," said mary. "and i think things grow up in a night." "these won't grow up in a night," said weatherstaff. "tha'll have to wait for 'em. they'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. you watch 'em." "i am going to," answered mary. very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. he was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked ben weatherstaff a question. "do you think he remembers me?" she said. "remembers thee!" said weatherstaff indignantly. "he knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. he's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. tha's no need to try to hide anything from _him_." "are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" mary inquired. "what garden?" grunted weatherstaff, becoming surly again. "the one where the old rose-trees are." she could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the summer? are there ever any roses?" "ask him," said ben weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin. "he's the only one as knows. no one else has seen inside it for ten year'." ten years was a long time, mary thought. she had been born ten years ago. she walked away, slowly thinking. she had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and dickon and martha's mother. she was beginning to like martha, too. that seemed a good many people to like--when you were not used to liking. she thought of the robin as one of the people. she went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her, and it was all through ben weatherstaff's robin. she heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her. but she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little. "you do remember me!" she cried out. "you do! you are prettier than anything else in the world!" she chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered. it was as if he were talking. his red waistcoat was like satin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that it was really as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a robin could be. mistress mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds. oh! to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that! he knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or startle him in the least tiniest way. he knew it because he was a real person--only nicer than any other person in the world. she was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe. the flower-bed was not quite bare. it was bare of flowers because the perennial plants had been cut down for their winter rest, but there were tall shrubs and low ones which grew together at the back of the bed, and as the robin hopped about under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshly turned up earth. he stopped on it to look for a worm. the earth had been turned up because a dog had been trying to dig up a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole. mary looked at it, not really knowing why the hole was there, and as she looked she saw something almost buried in the newly-turned soil. it was something like a ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin flew up into a tree nearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up. it was more than a ring, however; it was an old key which looked as if it had been buried a long time. mistress mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face as it hung from her finger. "perhaps it has been buried for ten years," she said in a whisper. "perhaps it is the key to the garden!" chapter viii the robin who showed the way she looked at the key quite a long time. she turned it over and over, and thought about it. as i have said before, she was not a child who had been trained to ask permission or consult her elders about things. all she thought about the key was that if it was the key to the closed garden, and she could find out where the door was, she could perhaps open it and see what was inside the walls, and what had happened to the old rose-trees. it was because it had been shut up so long that she wanted to see it. it seemed as if it must be different from other places and that something strange must have happened to it during ten years. besides that, if she liked it she could go into it every day and shut the door behind her, and she could make up some play of her own and play it quite alone, because nobody would ever know where she was, but would think the door was still locked and the key buried in the earth. the thought of that pleased her very much. living as it were, all by herself in a house with a hundred mysteriously closed rooms and having nothing whatever to do to amuse herself, had set her inactive brain to working and was actually awakening her imagination. there is no doubt that the fresh, strong, pure air from the moor had a great deal to do with it. just as it had given her an appetite, and fighting with the wind had stirred her blood, so the same things had stirred her mind. in india she had always been too hot and languid and weak to care much about anything, but in this place she was beginning to care and to want to do new things. already she felt less "contrary," though she did not know why. she put the key in her pocket and walked up and down her walk. no one but herself ever seemed to come there, so she could walk slowly and look at the wall, or, rather, at the ivy growing on it. the ivy was the baffling thing. howsoever carefully she looked she could see nothing but thickly-growing, glossy, dark green leaves. she was very much disappointed. something of her contrariness came back to her as she paced the walk and looked over it at the tree-tops inside. it seemed so silly, she said to herself, to be near it and not be able to get in. she took the key in her pocket when she went back to the house, and she made up her mind that she would always carry it with her when she went out, so that if she ever should find the hidden door she would be ready. mrs. medlock had allowed martha to sleep all night at the cottage, but she was back at her work in the morning with cheeks redder than ever and in the best of spirits. "i got up at four o'clock," she said. "eh! it was pretty on th' moor with th' birds gettin' up an' th' rabbits scamperin' about an' th' sun risin'. i didn't walk all th' way. a man gave me a ride in his cart an' i can tell you i did enjoy myself." she was full of stories of the delights of her day out. her mother had been glad to see her and they had got the baking and washing all out of the way. she had even made each of the children a dough-cake with a bit of brown sugar in it. "i had 'em all pipin' hot when they came in from playin' on th' moor. an' th' cottage all smelt o' nice, clean hot bakin' an' there was a good fire, an' they just shouted for joy. our dickon he said our cottage was good enough for a king to live in." in the evening they had all sat round the fire, and martha and her mother had sewed patches on torn clothes and mended stockings and martha had told them about the little girl who had come from india and who had been waited on all her life by what martha called "blacks" until she didn't know how to put on her own stockings. "eh! they did like to hear about you," said martha. "they wanted to know all about th' blacks an' about th' ship you came in. i couldn't tell 'em enough." mary reflected a little. "i'll tell you a great deal more before your next day out," she said, "so that you will have more to talk about. i dare say they would like to hear about riding on elephants and camels, and about the officers going to hunt tigers." "my word!" cried delighted martha. "it would set 'em clean off their heads. would tha' really do that, miss? it would be same as a wild beast show like we heard they had in york once." "india is quite different from yorkshire," mary said slowly, as she thought the matter over. "i never thought of that. did dickon and your mother like to hear you talk about me?" "why, our dickon's eyes nearly started out o' his head, they got that round," answered martha. "but mother, she was put out about your seemin' to be all by yourself like. she said, 'hasn't mr. craven got no governess for her, nor no nurse?' and i said, 'no, he hasn't, though mrs. medlock says he will when he thinks of it, but she says he mayn't think of it for two or three years.'" "i don't want a governess," said mary sharply. "but mother says you ought to be learnin' your book by this time an' you ought to have a woman to look after you, an' she says: 'now, martha, you just think how you'd feel yourself, in a big place like that, wanderin' about all alone, an' no mother. you do your best to cheer her up,' she says, an' i said i would." mary gave her a long, steady look. "you do cheer me up," she said. "i like to hear you talk." presently martha went out of the room and came back with something held in her hands under her apron. "what does tha' think," she said, with a cheerful grin. "i've brought thee a present." "a present!" exclaimed mistress mary. how could a cottage full of fourteen hungry people give any one a present! "a man was drivin' across the moor peddlin'," martha explained. "an' he stopped his cart at our door. he had pots an' pans an' odds an' ends, but mother had no money to buy anythin'. just as he was goin' away our 'lizabeth ellen called out, 'mother, he's got skippin'-ropes with red an' blue handles.' an' mother she calls out quite sudden, 'here, stop, mister! how much are they?' an' he says 'tuppence,' an' mother she began fumblin' in her pocket an' she says to me, 'martha, tha's brought me thy wages like a good lass, an' i've got four places to put every penny, but i'm just goin' to take tuppence out of it to buy that child a skippin'-rope,' an' she bought one an' here it is." she brought it out from under her apron and exhibited it quite proudly. it was a strong, slender rope with a striped red and blue handle at each end, but mary lennox had never seen a skipping-rope before. she gazed at it with a mystified expression. "what is it for?" she asked curiously. "for!" cried out martha. "does tha' mean that they've not got skippin'-ropes in india, for all they've got elephants and tigers and camels! no wonder most of 'em's black. this is what it's for; just watch me." and she ran into the middle of the room and, taking a handle in each hand, began to skip, and skip, and skip, while mary turned in her chair to stare at her, and the queer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her, too, and wonder what on earth this common little cottager had the impudence to be doing under their very noses. but martha did not even see them. the interest and curiosity in mistress mary's face delighted her, and she went on skipping and counted as she skipped until she had reached a hundred. "i could skip longer than that," she said when she stopped. "i've skipped as much as five hundred when i was twelve, but i wasn't as fat then as i am now, an' i was in practice." mary got up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself. "it looks nice," she said. "your mother is a kind woman. do you think i could ever skip like that?" "you just try it," urged martha, handing her the skipping-rope. "you can't skip a hundred at first, but if you practise you'll mount up. that's what mother said. she says, 'nothin' will do her more good than skippin' rope. it's th' sensiblest toy a child can have. let her play out in th' fresh air skippin' an' it'll stretch her legs an' arms an' give her some strength in 'em.'" it was plain that there was not a great deal of strength in mistress mary's arms and legs when she first began to skip. she was not very clever at it, but she liked it so much that she did not want to stop. "put on tha' things and run an' skip out o' doors," said martha. "mother said i must tell you to keep out o' doors as much as you could, even when it rains a bit, so as tha' wrap up warm." mary put on her coat and hat and took her skipping-rope over her arm. she opened the door to go out, and then suddenly thought of something and turned back rather slowly. "martha," she said, "they were your wages. it was your twopence really. thank you." she said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her. "thank you," she said, and held out her hand because she did not know what else to do. martha gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if she was not accustomed to this sort of thing either. then she laughed. "eh! tha' art a queer, old-womanish thing," she said. "if tha'd been our 'lizabeth ellen tha'd have give me a kiss." mary looked stiffer than ever. "do you want me to kiss you?" martha laughed again. "nay, not me," she answered. "if tha' was different, p'raps tha'd want to thysel'. but tha' isn't. run off outside an' play with thy rope." mistress mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room. yorkshire people seemed strange, and martha was always rather a puzzle to her. at first she had disliked her very much, but now she did not. the skipping-rope was a wonderful thing. she counted and skipped, and skipped and counted, until her cheeks were quite red, and she was more interested than she had ever been since she was born. the sun was shining and a little wind was blowing--not a rough wind, but one which came in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly turned earth with it. she skipped round the fountain garden, and up one walk and down another. she skipped at last into the kitchen-garden and saw ben weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin, which was hopping about him. she skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted his head and looked at her with a curious expression. she had wondered if he would notice her. she really wanted him to see her skip. "well!" he exclaimed. "upon my word! p'raps tha' art a young 'un, after all, an' p'raps tha's got child's blood in thy veins instead of sour buttermilk. tha's skipped red into thy cheeks as sure as my name's ben weatherstaff. i wouldn't have believed tha' could do it." "i never skipped before," mary said. "i'm just beginning. i can only go up to twenty." "tha' keep on," said ben. "tha' shapes well enough at it for a young 'un that's lived with heathen. just see how he's watchin' thee," jerking his head toward the robin. "he followed after thee yesterday. he'll be at it again to-day. he'll be bound to find out what th' skippin'-rope is. he's never seen one. eh!" shaking his head at the bird, "tha' curosity will be th' death of thee sometime if tha' doesn't look sharp." mary skipped round all the gardens and round the orchard, resting every few minutes. at length she went to her own special walk and made up her mind to try if she could skip the whole length of it. it was a good long skip and she began slowly, but before she had gone half-way down the path she was so hot and breathless that she was obliged to stop. she did not mind much, because she had already counted up to thirty. she stopped with a little laugh of pleasure, and there, lo and behold, was the robin swaying on a long branch of ivy. he had followed her and he greeted her with a chirp. as mary had skipped toward him she felt something heavy in her pocket strike against her at each jump, and when she saw the robin she laughed again. "you showed me where the key was yesterday," she said. "you ought to show me the door to-day; but i don't believe you know!" the robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off. nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off--and they are nearly always doing it. mary lennox had heard a great deal about magic in her ayah's stories, and she always said that what happened almost at that moment was magic. one of the nice little gusts of wind rushed down the walk, and it was a stronger one than the rest. it was strong enough to wave the branches of the trees, and it was more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall. mary had stepped close to the robin, and suddenly the gust of wind swung aside some loose ivy trails, and more suddenly still she jumped toward it and caught it in her hand. this she did because she had seen something under it--a round knob which had been covered by the leaves hanging over it. it was the knob of a door. she put her hands under the leaves and began to pull and push them aside. thick as the ivy hung, it nearly all was a loose and swinging curtain, though some had crept over wood and iron. mary's heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement. the robin kept singing and twittering away and tilting his head on one side, as if he were as excited as she was. what was this under her hands which was square and made of iron and which her fingers found a hole in? it was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole. she put the key in and turned it. it took two hands to do it, but it did turn. and then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if any one was coming. no one was coming. no one ever did come, it seemed, and she took another long breath, because she could not help it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly--slowly. then she slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her back against it, looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement, and wonder, and delight. she was standing _inside_ the secret garden. chapter ix the strangest house any one ever lived in it was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place any one could imagine. the high walls which shut it in were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses which were so thick that they were matted together. mary lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great many roses in india. all the ground was covered with grass of a wintry brown and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rose-bushes if they were alive. there were numbers of standard roses which had so spread their branches that they were like little trees. there were other trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains, and here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching branch and had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves. there were neither leaves nor roses on them now and mary did not know whether they were dead or alive, but their thin gray or brown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading over everything, walls, and trees, and even brown grass, where they had fallen from their fastenings and run along the ground. it was this hazy tangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. mary had thought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left all by themselves so long; and indeed it was different from any other place she had ever seen in her life. "how still it is!" she whispered. "how still!" then she waited a moment and listened at the stillness. the robin, who had flown to his tree-top, was still as all the rest. he did not even flutter his wings; he sat without stirring, and looked at mary. "no wonder it is still," she whispered again. "i am the first person who has spoken in here for ten years." she moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were afraid of awakening some one. she was glad that there was grass under her feet and that her steps made no sounds. she walked under one of the fairy-like gray arches between the trees and looked up at the sprays and tendrils which formed them. "i wonder if they are all quite dead," she said. "is it all a quite dead garden? i wish it wasn't." if she had been ben weatherstaff she could have told whether the wood was alive by looking at it, but she could only see that there were only gray or brown sprays and branches and none showed any signs of even a tiny leaf-bud anywhere. but she was _inside_ the wonderful garden and she could come through the door under the ivy any time and she felt as if she had found a world all her own. the sun was shining inside the four walls and the high arch of blue sky over this particular piece of misselthwaite seemed even more brilliant and soft than it was over the moor. the robin flew down from his tree-top and hopped about or flew after her from one bush to another. he chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he were showing her things. everything was strange and silent and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from any one, but somehow she did not feel lonely at all. all that troubled her was her wish that she knew whether all the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had lived and might put out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer. she did not want it to be a quite dead garden. if it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful it would be, and what thousands of roses would grow on every side! her skipping-rope had hung over her arm when she came in and after she had walked about for a while she thought she would skip round the whole garden, stopping when she wanted to look at things. there seemed to have been grass paths here and there, and in one or two corners there were alcoves of evergreen with stone seats or tall moss-covered flower urns in them. as she came near the second of these alcoves she stopped skipping. there had once been a flower-bed in it, and she thought she saw something sticking out of the black earth--some sharp little pale green points. she remembered what ben weatherstaff had said and she knelt down to look at them. "yes, they are tiny growing things and they _might_ be crocuses or snowdrops or daffodils," she whispered. she bent very close to them and sniffed the fresh scent of the damp earth. she liked it very much. "perhaps there are some other ones coming up in other places," she said. "i will go all over the garden and look." she did not skip, but walked. she went slowly and kept her eyes on the ground. she looked in the old border beds and among the grass, and after she had gone round, trying to miss nothing, she had found ever so many more sharp, pale green points, and she had become quite excited again. "it isn't a quite dead garden," she cried out softly to herself. "even if the roses are dead, there are other things alive." she did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so thick in some of the places where the green points were pushing their way through that she thought they did not seem to have room enough to grow. she searched about until she found a rather sharp piece of wood and knelt down and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she made nice little clear places around them. "now they look as if they could breathe," she said, after she had finished with the first ones. "i am going to do ever so many more. i'll do all i can see. if i haven't time to-day i can come to-morrow." she went from place to place, and dug and weeded, and enjoyed herself so immensely that she was led on from bed to bed and into the grass under the trees. the exercise made her so warm that she first threw her coat off, and then her hat, and without knowing it she was smiling down on to the grass and the pale green points all the time. the robin was tremendously busy. he was very much pleased to see gardening begun on his own estate. he had often wondered at ben weatherstaff. where gardening is done all sorts of delightful things to eat are turned up with the soil. now here was this new kind of creature who was not half ben's size and yet had had the sense to come into his garden and begin at once. mistress mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner. in fact, she was rather late in remembering, and when she put on her coat and hat, and picked up her skipping-rope, she could not believe that she had been working two or three hours. she had been actually happy all the time; and dozens and dozens of the tiny, pale green points were to be seen in cleared places, looking twice as cheerful as they had looked before when the grass and weeds had been smothering them. "i shall come back this afternoon," she said, looking all round at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes as if they heard her. then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door and slipped through it under the ivy. she had such red cheeks and such bright eyes and ate such a dinner that martha was delighted. "two pieces o' meat an' two helps o' rice puddin'!" she said. "eh! mother will be pleased when i tell her what th' skippin'-rope's done for thee." in the course of her digging with her pointed stick mistress mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion. she had put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it and just now she wondered if martha could tell her what it was. "martha," she said, "what are those white roots that look like onions?" "they're bulbs," answered martha. "lots o' spring flowers grow from 'em. th' very little ones are snowdrops an' crocuses an' th' big ones are narcissusis an' jonquils an' daffydowndillys. th' biggest of all is lilies an' purple flags. eh! they are nice. dickon's got a whole lot of 'em planted in our bit o' garden." "does dickon know all about them?" asked mary, a new idea taking possession of her. "our dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. mother says he just whispers things out o' th' ground." "do bulbs live a long time? would they live years and years if no one helped them?" inquired mary anxiously. "they're things as helps themselves," said martha. "that's why poor folk can afford to have 'em. if you don't trouble 'em, most of 'em'll work away underground for a lifetime an' spread out an' have little 'uns. there's a place in th' park woods here where there's snowdrops by thousands. they're the prettiest sight in yorkshire when th' spring comes. no one knows when they was first planted." "i wish the spring was here now," said mary. "i want to see all the things that grow in england." she had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the hearth-rug. "i wish--i wish i had a little spade," she said. "whatever does tha' want a spade for?" asked martha, laughing. "art tha' goin' to take to diggin'? i must tell mother that, too." mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. she must be careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom. she wasn't doing any harm, but if mr. craven found out about the open door he would be fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it up forevermore. she really could not bear that. "this is such a big lonely place," she said slowly, as if she were turning matters over in her mind. "the house is lonely, and the park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely. so many places seem shut up. i never did many things in india, but there were more people to look at--natives and soldiers marching by--and sometimes bands playing, and my ayah told me stories. there is no one to talk to here except you and ben weatherstaff. and you have to do your work and ben weatherstaff won't speak to me often. i thought if i had a little spade i could dig somewhere as he does, and i might make a little garden if he would give me some seeds." martha's face quite lighted up. "there now!" she exclaimed, "if that wasn't one of th' things mother said. she says, 'there's such a lot o' room in that big place, why don't they give her a bit for herself, even if she doesn't plant nothin' but parsley an' radishes? she'd dig an' rake away an' be right down happy over it.' them was the very words she said." "were they?" said mary. "how many things she knows, doesn't she?" "eh!" said martha. "it's like she says: 'a woman as brings up twelve children learns something besides her a b c. children's as good as 'rithmetic to set you findin' out things.'" "how much would a spade cost--a little one?" mary asked. "well," was martha's reflective answer, "at thwaite village there's a shop or so an' i saw little garden sets with a spade an' a rake an' a fork all tied together for two shillings. an' they was stout enough to work with, too." "i've got more than that in my purse," said mary. "mrs. morrison gave me five shillings and mrs. medlock gave me some money from mr. craven." "did he remember thee that much?" exclaimed martha. "mrs. medlock said i was to have a shilling a week to spend. she gives me one every saturday. i didn't know what to spend it on." "my word! that's riches," said martha. "tha' can buy anything in th' world tha' wants. th' rent of our cottage is only one an' threepence an' it's like pullin' eye-teeth to get it. now i've just thought of somethin'," putting her hands on her hips. "what?" said mary eagerly. "in the shop at thwaite they sell packages o' flower-seeds for a penny each, and our dickon he knows which is th' prettiest ones an' how to make 'em grow. he walks over to thwaite many a day just for th' fun of it. does tha' know how to print letters?" suddenly. "i know how to write," mary answered. martha shook her head. "our dickon can only read printin'. if tha' could print we could write a letter to him an' ask him to go an' buy th' garden tools an' th' seeds at th' same time." "oh! you're a good girl!" mary cried. "you are, really! i didn't know you were so nice. i know i can print letters if i try. let's ask mrs. medlock for a pen and ink and some paper." "i've got some of my own," said martha. "i bought 'em so i could print a bit of a letter to mother of a sunday. i'll go and get it." she ran out of the room, and mary stood by the fire and twisted her thin little hands together with sheer pleasure. "if i have a spade," she whispered, "i can make the earth nice and soft and dig up weeds. if i have seeds and can make flowers grow the garden won't be dead at all--it will come alive." she did not go out again that afternoon because when martha returned with her pen and ink and paper she was obliged to clear the table and carry the plates and dishes down-stairs and when she got into the kitchen mrs. medlock was there and told her to do something, so mary waited for what seemed to her a long time before she came back. then it was a serious piece of work to write to dickon. mary had been taught very little because her governesses had disliked her too much to stay with her. she could not spell particularly well but she found that she could print letters when she tried. this was the letter martha dictated to her: "_my dear dickon:_ this comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present. miss mary has plenty of money and will you go to thwaite and buy her some flower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower-bed. pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow because she has never done it before and lived in india which is different. give my love to mother and every one of you. miss mary is going to tell me a lot more so that on my next day out you can hear about elephants and camels and gentlemen going hunting lions and tigers. "your loving sister, "martha phoebe sowerby." "we'll put the money in th' envelope an' i'll get th' butcher's boy to take it in his cart. he's a great friend o' dickon's," said martha. "how shall i get the things when dickon buys them?" asked mary. "he'll bring 'em to you himself. he'll like to walk over this way." "oh!" exclaimed mary, "then i shall see him! i never thought i should see dickon." "does tha' want to see him?" asked martha suddenly, she had looked so pleased. "yes, i do. i never saw a boy foxes and crows loved. i want to see him very much." martha gave a little start, as if she suddenly remembered something. "now to think," she broke out, "to think o' me forgettin' that there; an' i thought i was goin' to tell you first thing this mornin'. i asked mother--and she said she'd ask mrs. medlock her own self." "do you mean--" mary began. "what i said tuesday. ask her if you might be driven over to our cottage some day and have a bit o' mother's hot oat cake, an' butter, an' a glass o' milk." it seemed as if all the interesting things were happening in one day. to think of going over the moor in the daylight and when the sky was blue! to think of going into the cottage which held twelve children! "does she think mrs. medlock would let me go?" she asked, quite anxiously. "aye, she thinks she would. she knows what a tidy woman mother is and how clean she keeps the cottage." "if i went i should see your mother as well as dickon," said mary, thinking it over and liking the idea very much. "she doesn't seem to be like the mothers in india." her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by making her feel quiet and thoughtful. martha stayed with her until tea-time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little. but just before martha went down-stairs for the tea-tray, mary asked a question. "martha," she said, "has the scullery-maid had the toothache again to-day?" martha certainly started slightly. "what makes thee ask that?" she said. "because when i waited so long for you to come back i opened the door and walked down the corridor to see if you were coming. and i heard that far-off crying again, just as we heard it the other night. there isn't a wind to-day, so you see it couldn't have been the wind." "eh!" said martha restlessly. "tha' mustn't go walkin' about in corridors an' listenin'. mr. craven would be that there angry there's no knowin' what he'd do." "i wasn't listening," said mary. "i was just waiting for you--and i heard it. that's three times." "my word! there's mrs. medlock's bell," said martha, and she almost ran out of the room. "it's the strangest house any one ever lived in," said mary drowsily, as she dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her. fresh air, and digging, and skipping-rope had made her feel so comfortably tired that she fell asleep. chapter x dickon the sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. the secret garden was what mary called it when she was thinking of it. she liked the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. it seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place. the few books she had read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories. sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. she had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at misselthwaite. she was beginning to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it. she could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a hundred. the bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished. such nice clear places were made round them that they had all the breathing space they wanted, and really, if mistress mary had known it, they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously. the sun could get at them and warm them, and when the rain came down it could reach them at once, so they began to feel very much alive. mary was an odd, determined little person, and now she had something interesting to be determined about, she was very much absorbed, indeed. she worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more pleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it. it seemed to her like a fascinating sort of play. she found many more of the sprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to find. they seemed to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she found tiny new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth. there were so many that she remembered what martha had said about the "snowdrops by the thousands," and about bulbs spreading and making new ones. these had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they had spread, like the snowdrops, into thousands. she wondered how long it would be before they showed that they were flowers. sometimes she stopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine what it would be like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom. during that week of sunshine, she became more intimate with ben weatherstaff. she surprised him several times by seeming to start up beside him as if she sprang out of the earth. the truth was that she was afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her coming, so she always walked toward him as silently as possible. but, in fact, he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first. perhaps he was secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his elderly company. then, also, she was more civil than she had been. he did not know that when she first saw him she spoke to him as she would have spoken to a native, and had not known that a cross, sturdy old yorkshire man was not accustomed to salaam to his masters, and be merely commanded by them to do things. "tha'rt like th' robin," he said to her one morning when he lifted his head and saw her standing by him. "i never knows when i shall see thee or which side tha'll come from." "he's friends with me now," said mary. "that's like him," snapped ben weatherstaff. "makin' up to th' women folk just for vanity an' flightiness. there's nothin' he wouldn't do for th' sake o' showin' off an' flirtin' his tail-feathers. he's as full o' pride as an egg's full o' meat." he very seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer mary's questions except by a grunt, but this morning he said more than usual. he stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while he looked her over. "how long has tha' been here?" he jerked out. "i think it's about a month," she answered. "tha's beginnin' to do misselthwaite credit," he said. "tha's a bit fatter than tha' was an' tha's not quite so yeller. tha' looked like a young plucked crow when tha' first came into this garden. thinks i to myself i never set eyes on an uglier, sourer faced young 'un." mary was not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she was not greatly disturbed. "i know i'm fatter," she said. "my stockings are getting tighter. they used to make wrinkles. there's the robin, ben weatherstaff." there, indeed, was the robin, and she thought he looked nicer than ever. his red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his wings and tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively graces. he seemed determined to make ben weatherstaff admire him. but ben was sarcastic. "aye, there tha' art!" he said. "tha' can put up with me for a bit sometimes when tha's got no one better. tha's been reddinin' up thy waistcoat an' polishin' thy feathers this two weeks. i know what tha's up to. tha's courtin' some bold young madam somewhere, tellin' thy lies to her about bein' th' finest cock robin on missel moor an' ready to fight all th' rest of 'em." "oh! look at him!" exclaimed mary. the robin was evidently in a fascinating, bold mood. he hopped closer and closer and looked at ben weatherstaff more and more engagingly. he flew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a little song right at him. "tha' thinks tha'll get over me by doin' that," said ben, wrinkling his face up in such a way that mary felt sure he was trying not to look pleased. "tha' thinks no one can stand out against thee--that's what tha' thinks." the robin spread his wings--mary could scarcely believe her eyes. he flew right up to the handle of ben weatherstaff's spade and alighted on the top of it. then the old man's face wrinkled itself slowly into a new expression. he stood still as if he were afraid to breathe--as if he would not have stirred for the world, lest his robin should start away. he spoke quite in a whisper. "well, i'm danged!" he said as softly as if he were saying something quite different. "tha' does know how to get at a chap--tha' does! tha's fair unearthly, tha's so knowin'." and he stood without stirring--almost without drawing his breath--until the robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away. then he stood looking at the handle of the spade as if there might be magic in it, and then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes. but because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then, mary was not afraid to talk to him. "have you a garden of your own?" she asked. "no. i'm bachelder an' lodge with martin at th' gate." "if you had one," said mary, "what would you plant?" "cabbages an' 'taters an' onions." "but if you wanted to make a flower garden," persisted mary, "what would you plant?" "bulbs an' sweet-smellin' things--but mostly roses." mary's face lighted up. "do you like roses?" she said. ben weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered. "well, yes, i do. i was learned that by a young lady i was gardener to. she had a lot in a place she was fond of, an' she loved 'em like they was children--or robins. i've seen her bend over an' kiss 'em." he dragged out another weed and scowled at it. "that were as much as ten year' ago." "where is she now?" asked mary, much interested. "heaven," he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil, "'cording to what parson says." "what happened to the roses?" mary asked again, more interested than ever. "they was left to themselves." mary was becoming quite excited. "did they quite die? do roses quite die when they are left to themselves?" she ventured. "well, i'd got to like 'em--an' i liked her--an' she liked 'em," ben weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. "once or twice a year i'd go an' work at 'em a bit--prune 'em an' dig about th' roots. they run wild, but they was in rich soil, so some of 'em lived." "when they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you tell whether they are dead or alive?" inquired mary. "wait till th' spring gets at 'em--wait till th' sun shines on th' rain an' th' rain falls on th' sunshine an' then tha'll find out." "how--how?" cried mary, forgetting to be careful. "look along th' twigs an' branches an' if tha' sees a bit of a brown lump swelling here an' there, watch it after th' warm rain an' see what happens." he stopped suddenly and looked curiously at her eager face. "why does tha' care so much about roses an' such, all of a sudden?" he demanded. mistress mary felt her face grow red. she was almost afraid to answer. "i--i want to play that--that i have a garden of my own," she stammered. "i--there is nothing for me to do. i have nothing--and no one." "well," said ben weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, "that's true. tha' hasn't." he said it in such an odd way that mary wondered if he was actually a little sorry for her. she had never felt sorry for herself; she had only felt tired and cross, because she disliked people and things so much. but now the world seemed to be changing and getting nicer. if no one found out about the secret garden, she should enjoy herself always. she stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as many questions as she dared. he answered every one of them in his queer grunting way and he did not seem really cross and did not pick up his spade and leave her. he said something about roses just as she was going away and it reminded her of the ones he had said he had been fond of. "do you go and see those other roses now?" she asked. "not been this year. my rheumatics has made me too stiff in th' joints." he said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to get angry with her, though she did not see why he should. "now look here!" he said sharply. "don't tha' ask so many questions. tha'rt th' worst wench for askin' questions i've ever come across. get thee gone an' play thee. i've done talkin' for to-day." and he said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in staying another minute. she went skipping slowly down the outside walk, thinking him over and saying to herself that, queer as it was, here was another person whom she liked in spite of his crossness. she liked old ben weatherstaff. yes, she did like him. she always wanted to try to make him talk to her. also she began to believe that he knew everything in the world about flowers. there was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. she thought she would skip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were any rabbits hopping about. she enjoyed the skipping very much and when she reached the little gate she opened it and went through because she heard a low, peculiar whistling sound and wanted to find out what it was. it was a very strange thing indeed. she quite caught her breath as she stopped to look at it. a boy was sitting under a tree, with his back against it, playing on a rough wooden pipe. he was a funny looking boy about twelve. he looked very clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks were as red as poppies and never had mistress mary seen such round and such blue eyes in any boy's face. and on the trunk of the tree he leaned against, a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him, and from behind a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretching his neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up and sniffing with tremulous noses--and actually it appeared as if they were all drawing near to watch him and listen to the strange low little call his pipe seemed to make. when he saw mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost as low as and rather like his piping. "don't tha' move," he said. "it'd flight 'em." mary remained motionless. he stopped playing his pipe and began to rise from the ground. he moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he were moving at all, but at last he stood on his feet and then the squirrel scampered back up into the branches of his tree, the pheasant withdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop away, though not at all as if they were frightened. "i'm dickon," the boy said. "i know tha'rt miss mary." then mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was dickon. who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the natives charm snakes in india? he had a wide, red, curving mouth and his smile spread all over his face. "i got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes a quick move it startles 'em. a body 'as to move gentle an' speak low when wild things is about." he did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but as if he knew her quite well. mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy. "did you get martha's letter?" she asked. he nodded his curly, rust-colored head. "that's why i come." he stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground beside him when he piped. "i've got th' garden tools. there's a little spade an' rake an' a fork an' hoe. eh! they are good 'uns. there's a trowel, too. an' th' woman in th' shop threw in a packet o' white poppy an' one o' blue larkspur when i bought th' other seeds." "will you show the seeds to me?" mary said. she wished she could talk as he did. his speech was so quick and easy. it sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head. as she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. she liked it very much and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy. "let us sit down on this log and look at them," she said. they sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of his coat pocket. he untied the string and inside there were ever so many neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one. "there's a lot o' mignonette an' poppies," he said. "mignonette's th' sweetest smellin' thing as grows, an' it'll grow wherever you cast it, same as poppies will. them as'll come up an' bloom if you just whistle to 'em, them's th' nicest of all." he stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting up. "where's that robin as is callin' us?" he said. the chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and mary thought she knew whose it was. "is it really calling us?" she asked. "aye," said dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, "he's callin' some one he's friends with. that's same as sayin' 'here i am. look at me. i wants a bit of a chat.' there he is in the bush. whose is he?" "he's ben weatherstaff's, but i think he knows me a little," answered mary. "aye, he knows thee," said dickon in his low voice again. "an' he likes thee. he's took thee on. he'll tell me all about thee in a minute." he moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement mary had noticed before, and then he made a sound almost like the robin's own twitter. the robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered quite as if he were replying to a question. "aye, he's a friend o' yours," chuckled dickon. "do you think he is?" cried mary eagerly. she did so want to know. "do you think he really likes me?" "he wouldn't come near thee if he didn't," answered dickon. "birds is rare choosers an' a robin can flout a body worse than a man. see, he's making up to thee now. 'cannot tha' see a chap?' he's sayin'." and it really seemed as if it must be true. he so sidled and twittered and tilted as he hopped on his bush. "do you understand everything birds say?" said mary. dickon's grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed his rough head. "i think i do, and they think i do," he said. "i've lived on th' moor with 'em so long. i've watched 'em break shell an' come out an' fledge an' learn to fly an' begin to sing, till i think i'm one of 'em. sometimes i think p'raps i'm a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle, an' i don't know it." he laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower seeds again. he told her what they looked like when they were flowers; he told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them. "see here," he said suddenly, turning round to look at her. "i'll plant them for thee myself. where is tha' garden?" mary's thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap. she did not know what to say, so for a whole minute she said nothing. she had never thought of this. she felt miserable. and she felt as if she went red and then pale. "tha's got a bit o' garden, hasn't tha'?" dickon said. it was true that she had turned red and then pale. dickon saw her do it, and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled. "wouldn't they give thee a bit?" he asked. "hasn't tha' got any yet?" she held her hands even tighter and turned her eyes toward him. "i don't know anything about boys," she said slowly. "could you keep a secret, if i told you one? it's a great secret. i don't know what i should do if any one found it out. i believe i should die!" she said the last sentence quite fiercely. dickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his rough head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly. "i'm keepin' secrets all th' time," he said. "if i couldn't keep secrets from th' other lads, secrets about foxes' cubs, an' birds' nests, an' wild things' holes, there'd be naught safe on th' moor. aye, i can keep secrets." mistress mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve but she did it. "i've stolen a garden," she said very fast. "it isn't mine. it isn't anybody's. nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it. perhaps everything is dead in it already; i don't know." she began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life. "i don't care, i don't care! nobody has any right to take it from me when i care about it and they don't. they're letting it die, all shut in by itself," she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her face and burst out crying--poor little mistress mary. dickon's curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder. "eh-h-h!" he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant both wonder and sympathy. "i've nothing to do," said mary. "nothing belongs to me. i found it myself and i got into it myself. i was only just like the robin, and they wouldn't take it from the robin." "where is it?" asked dickon in a dropped voice. mistress mary got up from the log at once. she knew she felt contrary again, and obstinate, and she did not care at all. she was imperious and indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful. "come with me and i'll show you," she said. she led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so thickly. dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his face. he felt as if he were being led to look at some strange bird's nest and must move softly. when she stepped to the wall and lifted the hanging ivy he started. there was a door and mary pushed it slowly open and they passed in together, and then mary stood and waved her hand round defiantly. "it's this," she said. "it's a secret garden, and i'm the only one in the world who wants it to be alive." dickon looked round and round about it, and round and round again. "eh!" he almost whispered, "it is a queer, pretty place! it's like as if a body was in a dream." chapter xi the nest of the missel thrush for two or three minutes he stood looking round him, while mary watched him, and then he began to walk about softly, even more lightly than mary had walked the first time she had found herself inside the four walls. his eyes seemed to be taking in everything--the gray trees with the gray creepers climbing over them and hanging from their branches, the tangle on the walls and among the grass, the evergreen alcoves with the stone seats and tall flower urns standing in them. "i never thought i'd see this place," he said at last, in a whisper. "did you know about it?" asked mary. she had spoken aloud and he made a sign to her. "we must talk low," he said, "or some one'll hear us an' wonder what's to do in here." "oh! i forgot!" said mary, feeling frightened and putting her hand quickly against her mouth. "did you know about the garden?" she asked again when she had recovered herself. dickon nodded. "martha told me there was one as no one ever went inside," he answered. "us used to wonder what it was like." he stopped and looked round at the lovely gray tangle about him, and his round eyes looked queerly happy. "eh! the nests as'll be here come springtime," he said. "it'd be th' safest nestin' place in england. no one never comin' near an' tangles o' trees an' roses to build in. i wonder all th' birds on th' moor don't build here." mistress mary put her hand on his arm again without knowing it. "will there be roses?" she whispered. "can you tell? i thought perhaps they were all dead." "eh! no! not them--not all of 'em!" he answered. "look here!" he stepped over to the nearest tree--an old, old one with gray lichen all over its bark, but upholding a curtain of tangled sprays and branches. he took a thick knife out of his pocket and opened one of its blades. "there's lots o' dead wood as ought to be cut out," he said. "an' there's a lot o' old wood, but it made some new last year. this here's a new bit," and he touched a shoot which looked brownish green instead of hard, dry gray. mary touched it herself in an eager, reverent way. "that one?" she said. "is that one quite alive--quite?" dickon curved his wide smiling mouth. "it's as wick as you or me," he said; and mary remembered that martha had told her that "wick" meant "alive" or "lively." "i'm glad it's wick!" she cried out in her whisper. "i want them all to be wick. let us go round the garden and count how many wick ones there are." she quite panted with eagerness, and dickon was as eager as she was. they went from tree to tree and from bush to bush. dickon carried his knife in his hand and showed her things which she thought wonderful. "they've run wild," he said, "but th' strongest ones has fair thrived on it. the delicatest ones has died out, but th' others has growed an' growed, an' spread an' spread, till they's a wonder. see here!" and he pulled down a thick gray, dry-looking branch. "a body might think this was dead wood, but i don't believe it is--down to th' root. i'll cut it low down an' see." he knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-looking branch through, not far above the earth. "there!" he said exultantly. "i told thee so. there's green in that wood yet. look at it." mary was down on her knees before he spoke, gazing with all her might. "when it looks a bit greenish an' juicy like that, it's wick," he explained. "when th' inside is dry an' breaks easy, like this here piece i've cut off, it's done for. there's a big root here as all this live wood sprung out of, an' if th' old wood's cut off an' it's dug round, an' took care of there'll be--" he stopped and lifted his face to look up at the climbing and hanging sprays above him--"there'll be a fountain o' roses here this summer." they went from bush to bush and from tree to tree. he was very strong and clever with his knife and knew how to cut the dry and dead wood away, and could tell when an unpromising bough or twig had still green life in it. in the course of half an hour mary thought she could tell too, and when he cut through a lifeless-looking branch she would cry out joyfully under her breath when she caught sight of the least shade of moist green. the spade, and hoe, and fork were very useful. he showed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirred the earth and let the air in. they were working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses when he caught sight of something which made him utter an exclamation of surprise. "why!" he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away. "who did that there?" it was one of mary's own little clearings round the pale green points. "i did it," said mary. "why, i thought tha' didn't know nothin' about gardenin'," he exclaimed. "i don't," she answered, "but they were so little, and the grass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if they had no room to breathe. so i made a place for them. i don't even know what they are." dickon went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile. "tha' was right," he said. "a gardener couldn't have told thee better. they'll grow now like jack's bean-stalk. they're crocuses an' snowdrops, an' these here is narcissuses," turning to another patch, "an' here's daffydowndillys. eh! they will be a sight." he ran from one clearing to another. "tha' has done a lot o' work for such a little wench," he said, looking her over. "i'm growing fatter," said mary, "and i'm growing stronger. i used always to be tired. when i dig i'm not tired at all. i like to smell the earth when it's turned up." "it's rare good for thee," he said, nodding his head wisely. "there's naught as nice as th' smell o' good clean earth, except th' smell o' fresh growin' things when th' rain falls on 'em. i get out on th' moor many a day when it's rainin' an' i lie under a bush an' listen to th' soft swish o' drops on th' heather an' i just sniff an' sniff. my nose end fair quivers like a rabbit's, mother says." "do you never catch cold?" inquired mary, gazing at him wonderingly. she had never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one. "not me," he said, grinning. "i never ketched cold since i was born. i wasn't brought up nesh enough. i've chased about th' moor in all weathers same as th' rabbits does. mother says i've sniffed up too much fresh air for twelve year' to ever get to sniffin' with cold. i'm as tough as a white-thorn knobstick." he was working all the time he was talking and mary was following him and helping him with her fork or the trowel. "there's a lot of work to do here!" he said once, looking about quite exultantly. "will you come again and help me to do it?" mary begged. "i'm sure i can help, too. i can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me. oh! do come, dickon!" "i'll come every day if tha' wants me, rain or shine," he answered stoutly. "it's th' best fun i ever had in my life--shut in here an' wakenin' up a garden." "if you will come," said mary, "if you will help me to make it alive i'll--i don't know what i'll do," she ended helplessly. what could you do for a boy like that? "i'll tell thee what tha'll do," said dickon, with his happy grin. "tha'll get fat an' tha'll get as hungry as a young fox an' tha'll learn how to talk to th' robin same as i do. eh! we'll have a lot o' fun." he began to walk about, looking up in the trees and at the walls and bushes with a thoughtful expression. "i wouldn't want to make it look like a gardener's garden, all clipped an' spick an' span, would you?" he said. "it's nicer like this with things runnin' wild, an' swingin' an' catchin' hold of each other." "don't let us make it tidy," said mary anxiously. "it wouldn't seem like a secret garden if it was tidy." dickon stood rubbing his rusty-red head with a rather puzzled look. "it's a secret garden sure enough," he said, "but seems like some one besides th' robin must have been in it since it was shut up ten year' ago." "but the door was locked and the key was buried," said mary. "no one could get in." "that's true," he answered. "it's a queer place. seems to me as if there'd been a bit o' prunin' done here an' there, later than ten year' ago." "but how could it have been done?" said mary. he was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head. "aye! how could it!" he murmured. "with th' door locked an' th' key buried." mistress mary always felt that however many years she lived she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow. of course, it did seem to begin to grow for her that morning. when dickon began to clear places to plant seeds, she remembered what basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her. "are there any flowers that look like bells?" she inquired. "lilies o' th' valley does," he answered, digging away with the trowel, "an' there's canterbury bells, an' campanulas." "let us plant some," said mary. "there's lilies o' th' valley here already; i saw 'em. they'll have growed too close an' we'll have to separate 'em, but there's plenty. th' other ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but i can bring you some bits o' plants from our cottage garden. why does tha' want 'em?" then mary told him about basil and his brothers and sisters in india and of how she had hated them and of their calling her "mistress mary quite contrary." "they used to dance round and sing at me. they sang-- 'mistress mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? with silver bells, and cockle shells, and marigolds all in a row.' i just remembered it and it made me wonder if there were really flowers like silver bells." she frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spiteful dig into the earth. "i wasn't as contrary as they were." but dickon laughed. "eh!" he said, and as he crumbled the rich black soil she saw he was sniffing up the scent of it, "there doesn't seem to be no need for no one to be contrary when there's flowers an' such like, an' such lots o' friendly wild things runnin' about makin' homes for themselves, or buildin' nests an' singin' an' whistlin', does there?" mary, kneeling by him holding the seeds, looked at him and stopped frowning. "dickon," she said. "you are as nice as martha said you were. i like you, and you make the fifth person. i never thought i should like five people." dickon sat up on his heels as martha did when she was polishing the grate. he did look funny and delightful, mary thought, with his round blue eyes and red cheeks and happy looking turned-up nose. "only five folk as tha' likes?" he said. "who is th' other four?" "your mother and martha," mary checked them off on her fingers, "and the robin and ben weatherstaff." dickon laughed so that he was obliged to stifle the sound by putting his arm over his mouth. "i know tha' thinks i'm a queer lad," he said, "but i think tha' art th' queerest little lass i ever saw." then mary did a strange thing. she leaned forward and asked him a question she had never dreamed of asking any one before. and she tried to ask it in yorkshire because that was his language, and in india a native was always pleased if you knew his speech. "does tha' like me?" she said. "eh!" he answered heartily, "that i does. i likes thee wonderful, an' so does th' robin, i do believe!" "that's two, then," said mary. "that's two for me." and then they began to work harder than ever and more joyfully. mary was startled and sorry when she heard the big clock in the courtyard strike the hour of her midday dinner. "i shall have to go," she said mournfully. "and you will have to go too, won't you?" dickon grinned. "my dinner's easy to carry about with me," he said. "mother always lets me put a bit o' somethin' in my pocket." he picked up his coat from the grass and brought out of a pocket a lumpy little bundle tied up in a quiet clean, coarse, blue and white handkerchief. it held two thick pieces of bread with a slice of something laid between them. "it's oftenest naught but bread," he said, "but i've got a fine slice o' fat bacon with it to-day." mary thought it looked a queer dinner, but he seemed ready to enjoy it. "run on an' get thy victuals," he said. "i'll be done with mine first. i'll get some more work done before i start back home." he sat down with his back against a tree. "i'll call th' robin up," he said, "and give him th' rind o' th' bacon to peck at. they likes a bit o' fat wonderful." mary could scarcely bear to leave him. suddenly it seemed as if he might be a sort of wood fairy who might be gone when she came into the garden again. he seemed too good to be true. she went slowly half-way to the door in the wall and then she stopped and went back. "whatever happens, you--you never would tell?" she said. his poppy-colored cheeks were distended with his first big bite of bread and bacon, but he managed to smile encouragingly. "if tha' was a missel thrush an' showed me where thy nest was, does tha' think i'd tell any one? not me," he said. "tha' art as safe as a missel thrush." and she was quite sure she was. chapter xii "might i have a bit of earth?" mary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when she reached her room. her hair was ruffled on her forehead and her cheeks were bright pink. her dinner was waiting on the table, and martha was waiting near it. "tha's a bit late," she said. "where has tha' been?" "i've seen dickon!" said mary. "i've seen dickon!" "i knew he'd come," said martha exultantly. "how does tha' like him?" "i think--i think he's beautiful!" said mary in a determined voice. martha looked rather taken aback but she looked pleased, too. "well," she said, "he's th' best lad as ever was born, but us never thought he was handsome. his nose turns up too much." "i like it to turn up," said mary. "an' his eyes is so round," said martha, a trifle doubtful. "though they're a nice color." "i like them round," said mary. "and they are exactly the color of the sky over the moor." martha beamed with satisfaction. "mother says he made 'em that color with always lookin' up at th' birds an' th' clouds. but he has got a big mouth, hasn't he, now?" "i love his big mouth," said mary obstinately. "i wish mine were just like it." martha chuckled delightedly. "it'd look rare an' funny in thy bit of a face," she said. "but i knowed it would be that way when tha' saw him. how did tha' like th' seeds an' th' garden tools?" "how did you know he brought them?" asked mary. "eh! i never thought of him not bringin' 'em. he'd be sure to bring 'em if they was in yorkshire. he's such a trusty lad." mary was afraid that she might begin to ask difficult questions, but she did not. she was very much interested in the seeds and gardening tools, and there was only one moment when mary was frightened. this was when she began to ask where the flowers were to be planted. "who did tha' ask about it?" she inquired. "i haven't asked anybody yet," said mary, hesitating. "well, i wouldn't ask th' head gardener. he's too grand, mr. roach is." "i've never seen him," said mary. "i've only seen under-gardeners and ben weatherstaff." "if i was you, i'd ask ben weatherstaff," advised martha. "he's not half as bad as he looks, for all he's so crabbed. mr. craven lets him do what he likes because he was here when mrs. craven was alive, an' he used to make her laugh. she liked him. perhaps he'd find you a corner somewhere out o' the way." "if it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no one _could_ mind my having it, could they?" mary said anxiously. "there wouldn't be no reason," answered martha. "you wouldn't do no harm." mary ate her dinner as quickly as she could and when she rose from the table she was going to run to her room to put on her hat again, but martha stopped her. "i've got somethin' to tell you," she said. "i thought i'd let you eat your dinner first. mr. craven came back this mornin' and i think he wants to see you." mary turned quite pale. "oh!" she said. "why! why! he didn't want to see me when i came. i heard pitcher say he didn't." "well," explained martha, "mrs. medlock says it's because o' mother. she was walkin' to thwaite village an' she met him. she'd never spoke to him before, but mrs. craven had been to our cottage two or three times. he'd forgot, but mother hadn't an' she made bold to stop him. i don't know what she said to him about you but she said somethin' as put him in th' mind to see you before he goes away again, to-morrow." "oh!" cried mary, "is he going away to-morrow? i am so glad!" "he's goin' for a long time. he mayn't come back till autumn or winter. he's goin' to travel in foreign places. he's always doin' it." "oh! i'm so glad--so glad!" said mary thankfully. if he did not come back until winter, or even autumn, there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive. even if he found out then and took it away from her she would have had that much at least. "when do you think he will want to see--" she did not finish the sentence, because the door opened, and mrs. medlock walked in. she had on her best black dress and cap, and her collar was fastened with a large brooch with a picture of a man's face on it. it was a colored photograph of mr. medlock who had died years ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up. she looked nervous and excited. "your hair's rough," she said quickly. "go and brush it. martha, help her to slip on her best dress. mr. craven sent me to bring her to him in his study." all the pink left mary's cheeks. her heart began to thump and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain, silent child again. she did not even answer mrs. medlock, but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by martha. she said nothing while her dress was changed, and her hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followed mrs. medlock down the corridors, in silence. what was there for her to say? she was obliged to go and see mr. craven and he would not like her, and she would not like him. she knew what he would think of her. she was taken to a part of the house she had not been into before. at last mrs. medlock knocked at a door, and when some one said, "come in," they entered the room together. a man was sitting in an armchair before the fire, and mrs. medlock spoke to him. "this is miss mary, sir," she said. "you can go and leave her here. i will ring for you when i want you to take her away," said mr. craven. when she went out and closed the door, mary could only stand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thin hands together. she could see that the man in the chair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high, rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streaked with white. he turned his head over his high shoulders and spoke to her. "come here!" he said. mary went to him. he was not ugly. his face would have been handsome if it had not been so miserable. he looked as if the sight of her worried and fretted him and as if he did not know what in the world to do with her. "are you well?" he asked. "yes," answered mary. "do they take good care of you?" "yes." he rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over. "you are very thin," he said. "i am getting fatter," mary answered in what she knew was her stiffest way. what an unhappy face he had! his black eyes seemed as if they scarcely saw her, as if they were seeing something else, and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon her. "i forgot you," he said. "how could i remember you? i intended to send you a governess or a nurse, or some one of that sort, but i forgot." "please," began mary. "please--" and then the lump in her throat choked her. "what do you want to say?" he inquired. "i am--i am too big for a nurse," said mary. "and please--please don't make me have a governess yet." he rubbed his forehead again and stared at her. "that was what the sowerby woman said," he muttered absent-mindedly. then mary gathered a scrap of courage. "is she--is she martha's mother?" she stammered. "yes, i think so," he replied. "she knows about children," said mary. "she has twelve. she knows." he seemed to rouse himself. "what do you want to do?" "i want to play out of doors," mary answered, hoping that her voice did not tremble. "i never liked it in india. it makes me hungry here, and i am getting fatter." he was watching her. "mrs. sowerby said it would do you good. perhaps it will," he said. "she thought you had better get stronger before you had a governess." "it makes me feel strong when i play and the wind comes over the moor," argued mary. "where do you play?" he asked next. "everywhere," gasped mary. "martha's mother sent me a skipping-rope. i skip and run--and i look about to see if things are beginning to stick up out of the earth. i don't do any harm." "don't look so frightened," he said in a worried voice. "you could not do any harm, a child like you! you may do what you like." mary put her hand up to her throat because she was afraid he might see the excited lump which she felt jump into it. she came a step nearer to him. "may i?" she said tremulously. her anxious little face seemed to worry him more than ever. "don't look so frightened," he exclaimed. "of course you may. i am your guardian, though i am a poor one for any child. i cannot give you time or attention. i am too ill, and wretched and distracted; but i wish you to be happy and comfortable. i don't know anything about children, but mrs. medlock is to see that you have all you need. i sent for you to-day because mrs. sowerby said i ought to see you. her daughter had talked about you. she thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running about." "she knows all about children," mary said again in spite of herself. "she ought to," said mr. craven. "i thought her rather bold to stop me on the moor, but she said--mrs. craven had been kind to her." it seemed hard for him to speak his dead wife's name. "she is a respectable woman. now i have seen you i think she said sensible things. play out of doors as much as you like. it's a big place and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like. is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought had struck him. "do you want toys, books, dolls?" "might i," quavered mary, "might i have a bit of earth?" in her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words would sound and that they were not the ones she had meant to say. mr. craven looked quite startled. "earth!" he repeated. "what do you mean?" "to plant seeds in--to make things grow--to see them come alive," mary faltered. he gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes. "do you--care about gardens so much," he said slowly. "i didn't know about them in india," said mary. "i was always ill and tired and it was too hot. i sometimes made little beds in the sand and stuck flowers in them. but here it is different." mr. craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room. "a bit of earth," he said to himself, and mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. when he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind. "you can have as much earth as you want," he said. "you remind me of some one else who loved the earth and things that grow. when you see a bit of earth you want," with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make it come alive." "may i take it from anywhere--if it's not wanted?" "anywhere," he answered. "there! you must go now, i am tired." he touched the bell to call mrs. medlock. "good-by. i shall be away all summer." mrs. medlock came so quickly that mary thought she must have been waiting in the corridor. "mrs. medlock," mr. craven said to her, "now i have seen the child i understand what mrs. sowerby meant. she must be less delicate before she begins lessons. give her simple, healthy food. let her run wild in the garden. don't look after her too much. she needs liberty and fresh air and romping about. mrs. sowerby is to come and see her now and then and she may sometimes go to the cottage." mrs. medlock looked pleased. she was relieved to hear that she need not "look after" mary too much. she had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed seen as little of her as she dared. in addition to this she was fond of martha's mother. "thank you, sir," she said. "susan sowerby and me went to school together and she's as sensible and good-hearted a woman as you'd find in a day's walk. i never had any children myself and she's had twelve, and there never was healthier or better ones. miss mary can get no harm from them. i'd always take susan sowerby's advice about children myself. she's what you might call healthy-minded--if you understand me." "i understand," mr. craven answered. "take miss mary away now and send pitcher to me." when mrs. medlock left her at the end of her own corridor mary flew back to her room. she found martha waiting there. martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removed the dinner service. "i can have my garden!" cried mary. "i may have it where i like! i am not going to have a governess for a long time! your mother is coming to see me and i may go to your cottage! he says a little girl like me could not do any harm and i may do what i like--anywhere!" "eh!" said martha delightedly, "that was nice of him wasn't it?" "martha," said mary solemnly, "he is really a nice man, only his face is so miserable and his forehead is all drawn together." she ran as quickly as she could to the garden. she had been away so much longer than she had thought she should and she knew dickon would have to set out early on his five-mile walk. when she slipped through the door under the ivy, she saw he was not working where she had left him. the gardening tools were laid together under a tree. she ran to them, looking all round the place, but there was no dickon to be seen. he had gone away and the secret garden was empty--except for the robin who had just flown across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her. "he's gone," she said wofully. "oh! was he--was he--was he only a wood fairy?" something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught her eye. it was a piece of paper--in fact, it was a piece of the letter she had printed for martha to send to dickon. it was fastened on the bush with a long thorn, and in a minute she knew dickon had left it there. there were some roughly printed letters on it and a sort of picture. at first she could not tell what it was. then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sitting on it. underneath were the printed letters and they said: "i will cum bak." chapter xiii "i am colin" mary took the picture back to the house when she went to her supper and she showed it to martha. "eh!" said martha with great pride. "i never knew our dickon was as clever as that. that there's a picture of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an' twice as natural." then mary knew dickon had meant the picture to be a message. he had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret. her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush. oh, how she did like that queer, common boy! she hoped he would come back the very next day and she fell asleep looking forward to the morning. but you never know what the weather will do in yorkshire, particularly in the springtime. she was awakened in the night by the sound of rain beating with heavy drops against her window. it was pouring down in torrents and the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and in the chimneys of the huge old house. mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and angry. "the rain is as contrary as i ever was," she said. "it came because it knew i did not want it." she threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face. she did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering." she could not go to sleep again. the mournful sound kept her awake because she felt mournful herself. if she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. how it "wuthered" and how the big rain-drops poured down and beat against the pane! "it sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying," she said. * * * * * she had been lying awake turning from side to side for about an hour, when suddenly something made her sit up in bed and turn her head toward the door listening. she listened and she listened. "it isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper. "that isn't the wind. it is different. it is that crying i heard before." the door of her room was ajar and the sound came down the corridor, a far-off faint sound of fretful crying. she listened for a few minutes and each minute she became more and more sure. she felt as if she must find out what it was. it seemed even stranger than the secret garden and the buried key. perhaps the fact that she was in a rebellious mood made her bold. she put her foot out of bed and stood on the floor. "i am going to find out what it is," she said. "everybody is in bed and i don't care about mrs. medlock--i don't care!" there was a candle by her bedside and she took it up and went softly out of the room. the corridor looked very long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that. she thought she remembered the corners she must turn to find the short corridor with the door covered with tapestry--the one mrs. medlock had come through the day she lost herself. the sound had come up that passage. so she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way, her heart beating so loud that she fancied she could hear it. the far-off faint crying went on and led her. sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again. was this the right corner to turn? she stopped and thought. yes it was. down this passage and then to the left, and then up two broad steps, and then to the right again. yes, there was the tapestry door. she pushed it open very gently and closed it behind her, and she stood in the corridor and could hear the crying quite plainly, though it was not loud. it was on the other side of the wall at her left and a few yards farther on there was a door. she could see a glimmer of light coming from beneath it. the someone was crying in that room, and it was quite a young someone. so she walked to the door and pushed it open, and there she was standing in the room! it was a big room with ancient, handsome furniture in it. there was a low fire glowing faintly on the hearth and a night light burning by the side of a carved four-posted bed hung with brocade, and on the bed was lying a boy, crying fretfully. mary wondered if she was in a real place or if she had fallen asleep again and was dreaming without knowing it. the boy had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivory and he seemed to have eyes too big for it. he had also a lot of hair which tumbled over his forehead in heavy locks and made his thin face seem smaller. he looked like a boy who had been ill, but he was crying more as if he were tired and cross than as if he were in pain. mary stood near the door with her candle in her hand, holding her breath. then she crept across the room, and as she drew nearer the light attracted the boy's attention and he turned his head on his pillow and stared at her, his gray eyes opening so wide that they seemed immense. [illustration: "'who are you?--are you a ghost?'"--_page _] "who are you?" he said at last in a half-frightened whisper. "are you a ghost?" "no, i am not," mary answered, her own whisper sounding half frightened. "are you one?" he stared and stared and stared. mary could not help noticing what strange eyes he had. they were agate gray and they looked too big for his face because they had black lashes all round them. "no," he replied after waiting a moment or so. "i am colin." "who is colin?" she faltered. "i am colin craven. who are you?" "i am mary lennox. mr. craven is my uncle." "he is my father," said the boy. "your father!" gasped mary. "no one ever told me he had a boy! why didn't they?" "come here," he said, still keeping his strange eyes fixed on her with an anxious expression. she came close to the bed and he put out his hand and touched her. "you are real, aren't you?" he said. "i have such real dreams very often. you might be one of them." mary had slipped on a woolen wrapper before she left her room and she put a piece of it between his fingers. "rub that and see how thick and warm it is," she said. "i will pinch you a little if you like, to show you how real i am. for a minute i thought you might be a dream too." "where did you come from?" he asked. "from my own room. the wind wuthered so i couldn't go to sleep and i heard some one crying and wanted to find out who it was. what were you crying for?" "because i couldn't go to sleep either and my head ached. tell me your name again." "mary lennox. did no one ever tell you i had come to live here?" he was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but he began to look a little more as if he believed in her reality. "no," he answered. "they daren't." "why?" asked mary. "because i should have been afraid you would see me. i won't let people see me and talk me over." "why?" mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment. "because i am like this always, ill and having to lie down. my father won't let people talk me over either. the servants are not allowed to speak about me. if i live i may be a hunchback, but i shan't live. my father hates to think i may be like him." "oh, what a queer house this is!" mary said. "what a queer house! everything is a kind of secret. rooms are locked up and gardens are locked up--and you! have you been locked up?" "no. i stay in this room because i don't want to be moved out of it. it tires me too much." "does your father come and see you?" mary ventured. "sometimes. generally when i am asleep. he doesn't want to see me." "why?" mary could not help asking again. a sort of angry shadow passed over the boy's face. "my mother died when i was born and it makes him wretched to look at me. he thinks i don't know, but i've heard people talking. he almost hates me." "he hates the garden, because she died," said mary half speaking to herself. "what garden?" the boy asked. "oh! just--just a garden she used to like," mary stammered. "have you been here always?" "nearly always. sometimes i have been taken to places at the seaside, but i won't stay because people stare at me. i used to wear an iron thing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came from london to see me and said it was stupid. he told them to take it off and keep me out in the fresh air. i hate fresh air and i don't want to go out." "i didn't when first i came here," said mary. "why do you keep looking at me like that?" "because of the dreams that are so real," he answered rather fretfully. "sometimes when i open my eyes i don't believe i'm awake." "we're both awake," said mary. she glanced round the room with its high ceiling and shadowy corners and dim firelight. "it looks quite like a dream, and it's the middle of the night, and everybody in the house is asleep--everybody but us. we are wide awake." "i don't want it to be a dream," the boy said restlessly. mary thought of something all at once. "if you don't like people to see you," she began, "do you want me to go away?" he still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave it a little pull. "no," he said. "i should be sure you were a dream if you went. if you are real, sit down on that big footstool and talk. i want to hear about you." mary put down her candle on the table near the bed and sat down on the cushioned stool. she did not want to go away at all. she wanted to stay in the mysterious hidden-away room and talk to the mysterious boy. "what do you want me to tell you?" she said. he wanted to know how long she had been at misselthwaite; he wanted to know which corridor her room was on; he wanted to know what she had been doing; if she disliked the moor as he disliked it; where she had lived before she came to yorkshire. she answered all these questions and many more and he lay back on his pillow and listened. he made her tell him a great deal about india and about her voyage across the ocean. she found out that because he had been an invalid he had not learned things as other children had. one of his nurses had taught him to read when he was quite little and he was always reading and looking at pictures in splendid books. though his father rarely saw him when he was awake, he was given all sorts of wonderful things to amuse himself with. he never seemed to have been amused, however. he could have anything he asked for and was never made to do anything he did not like to do. "every one is obliged to do what pleases me," he said indifferently. "it makes me ill to be angry. no one believes i shall live to grow up." he said it as if he was so accustomed to the idea that it had ceased to matter to him at all. he seemed to like the sound of mary's voice. as she went on talking he listened in a drowsy, interested way. once or twice she wondered if he were not gradually falling into a doze. but at last he asked a question which opened up a new subject. "how old are you?" he asked. "i am ten," answered mary, forgetting herself for the moment, "and so are you." "how do you know that?" he demanded in a surprised voice. "because when you were born the garden door was locked and the key was buried. and it has been locked for ten years." colin half sat up, turning toward her, leaning on his elbows. "what garden door was locked? who did it? where was the key buried?" he exclaimed as if he were suddenly very much interested. "it--it was the garden mr. craven hates," said mary nervously. "he locked the door. no one--no one knew where he buried the key." "what sort of a garden is it?" colin persisted eagerly. "no one has been allowed to go into it for ten years," was mary's careful answer. but it was too late to be careful. he was too much like herself. he too had had nothing to think about and the idea of a hidden garden attracted him as it had attracted her. he asked question after question. where was it? had she never looked for the door? had she never asked the gardeners? "they won't talk about it," said mary. "i think they have been told not to answer questions." "i would make them," said colin. "could you?" mary faltered, beginning to feel frightened. if he could make people answer questions, who knew what might happen! "every one is obliged to please me. i told you that," he said. "if i were to live, this place would sometime belong to me. they all know that. i would make them tell me." mary had not known that she herself had been spoiled, but she could see quite plainly that this mysterious boy had been. he thought that the whole world belonged to him. how peculiar he was and how coolly he spoke of not living. "do you think you won't live?" she asked, partly because she was curious and partly in hope of making him forget the garden. "i don't suppose i shall," he answered as indifferently as he had spoken before. "ever since i remember anything i have heard people say i shan't. at first they thought i was too little to understand and now they think i don't hear. but i do. my doctor is my father's cousin. he is quite poor and if i die he will have all misselthwaite when my father is dead. i should think he wouldn't want me to live." "do you want to live?" inquired mary. "no," he answered, in a cross, tired fashion. "but i don't want to die. when i feel ill i lie here and think about it until i cry and cry." "i have heard you crying three times," mary said, "but i did not know who it was. were you crying about that?" she did so want him to forget the garden. "i dare say," he answered. "let us talk about something else. talk about that garden. don't you want to see it?" "yes," answered mary, in quite a low voice. "i do," he went on persistently. "i don't think i ever really wanted to see anything before, but i want to see that garden. i want the key dug up. i want the door unlocked. i would let them take me there in my chair. that would be getting fresh air. i am going to make them open the door." he had become quite excited and his strange eyes began to shine like stars and looked more immense than ever. "they have to please me," he said. "i will make them take me there and i will let you go, too." mary's hands clutched each other. everything would be spoiled--everything! dickon would never come back. she would never again feel like a missel thrush with a safe-hidden nest. "oh, don't--don't--don't--don't do that!" she cried out. he stared as if he thought she had gone crazy! "why?" he exclaimed. "you said you wanted to see it." "i do," she answered almost with a sob in her throat, "but if you make them open the door and take you in like that it will never be a secret again." he leaned still farther forward. "a secret," he said. "what do you mean? tell me." mary's words almost tumbled over one another. "you see--you see," she panted, "if no one knows but ourselves--if there was a door, hidden somewhere under the ivy--if there was--and we could find it; and if we could slip through it together and shut it behind us, and no one knew any one was inside and we called it our garden and pretended that--that we were missel thrushes and it was our nest, and if we played there almost every day and dug and planted seeds and made it all come alive--" "is it dead?" he interrupted her. "it soon will be if no one cares for it," she went on. "the bulbs will live but the roses--" he stopped her again as excited as she was herself. "what are bulbs?" he put in quickly. "they are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops. they are working in the earth now--pushing up pale green points because the spring is coming." "is the spring coming?" he said. "what is it like? you don't see it in rooms if you are ill." "it is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine, and things pushing up and working under the earth," said mary. "if the garden was a secret and we could get into it we could watch the things grow bigger every day, and see how many roses are alive. don't you see? oh, don't you see how much nicer it would be if it was a secret?" he dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an odd expression on his face. "i never had a secret," he said, "except that one about not living to grow up. they don't know i know that, so it is a sort of secret. but i like this kind better." "if you won't make them take you to the garden," pleaded mary, "perhaps--i feel almost sure i can find out how to get in sometime. and then--if the doctor wants you to go out in your chair, and if you can always do what you want to do, perhaps--perhaps we might find some boy who would push you, and we could go alone and it would always be a secret garden." "i should--like--that," he said very slowly, his eyes looking dreamy. "i should like that. i should not mind fresh air in a secret garden." mary began to recover her breath and feel safer because the idea of keeping the secret seemed to please him. she felt almost sure that if she kept on talking and could make him see the garden in his mind as she had seen it he would like it so much that he could not bear to think that everybody might tramp into it when they chose. "i'll tell you what i _think_ it would be like, if we could go into it," she said. "it has been shut up so long things have grown into a tangle perhaps." he lay quite still and listened while she went on talking about the roses which _might_ have clambered from tree to tree and hung down--about the many birds which _might_ have built their nests there because it was so safe. and then she told him about the robin and ben weatherstaff, and there was so much to tell about the robin and it was so easy and safe to talk about it that she ceased to feel afraid. the robin pleased him so much that he smiled until he looked almost beautiful, and at first mary had thought that he was even plainer than herself, with his big eyes and heavy locks of hair. "i did not know birds could be like that," he said. "but if you stay in a room you never see things. what a lot of things you know. i feel as if you had been inside that garden." she did not know what to say, so she did not say anything. he evidently did not expect an answer and the next moment he gave her a surprise. "i am going to let you look at something," he said. "do you see that rose-colored silk curtain hanging on the wall over the mantel-piece?" mary had not noticed it before, but she looked up and saw it. it was a curtain of soft silk hanging over what seemed to be some picture. "yes," she answered. "there is a cord hanging from it," said colin. "go and pull it." mary got up, much mystified, and found the cord. when she pulled it the silk curtain ran back on rings and when it ran back it uncovered a picture. it was the picture of a girl with a laughing face. she had bright hair tied up with a blue ribbon and her gay, lovely eyes were exactly like colin's unhappy ones, agate gray and looking twice as big as they really were because of the black lashes all round them. "she is my mother," said colin complainingly. "i don't see why she died. sometimes i hate her for doing it." "how queer!" said mary. "if she had lived i believe i should not have been ill always," he grumbled. "i dare say i should have lived, too. and my father would not have hated to look at me. i dare say i should have had a strong back. draw the curtain again." mary did as she was told and returned to her footstool. "she is much prettier than you," she said, "but her eyes are just like yours--at least they are the same shape and color. why is the curtain drawn over her?" he moved uncomfortably. "i made them do it," he said. "sometimes i don't like to see her looking at me. she smiles too much when i am ill and miserable. besides, she is mine and i don't want every one to see her." there were a few moments of silence and then mary spoke. "what would mrs. medlock do if she found out that i had been here?" she inquired. "she would do as i told her to do," he answered. "and i should tell her that i wanted you to come here and talk to me every day. i am glad you came." "so am i," said mary. "i will come as often as i can, but"--she hesitated--"i shall have to look every day for the garden door." "yes, you must," said colin, "and you can tell me about it afterward." he lay thinking a few minutes, as he had done before, and then he spoke again. "i think you shall be a secret, too," he said. "i will not tell them until they find out. i can always send the nurse out of the room and say that i want to be by myself. do you know martha?" "yes, i know her very well," said mary. "she waits on me." he nodded his head toward the outer corridor. "she is the one who is asleep in the other room. the nurse went away yesterday to stay all night with her sister and she always makes martha attend to me when she wants to go out. martha shall tell you when to come here." then mary understood martha's troubled look when she had asked questions about the crying. "martha knew about you all the time?" she said. "yes; she often attends to me. the nurse likes to get away from me and then martha comes." "i have been here a long time," said mary. "shall i go away now? your eyes look sleepy." "i wish i could go to sleep before you leave me," he said rather shyly. "shut your eyes," said mary, drawing her footstool closer, "and i will do what my ayah used to do in india. i will pat your hand and stroke it and sing something quite low." "i should like that perhaps," he said drowsily. somehow she was sorry for him and did not want him to lie awake, so she leaned against the bed and began to stroke and pat his hand and sing a very low little chanting song in hindustani. "that is nice," he said more drowsily still, and she went on chanting and stroking, but when she looked at him again his black lashes were lying close against his cheeks, for his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep. so she got up softly, took her candle and crept away without making a sound. chapter xiv a young rajah the moor was hidden in mist when the morning came and the rain had not stopped pouring down. there could be no going out of doors. martha was so busy that mary had no opportunity of talking to her, but in the afternoon she asked her to come and sit with her in the nursery. she came bringing the stocking she was always knitting when she was doing nothing else. "what's the matter with thee?" she asked as soon as they sat down. "tha' looks as if tha'd somethin' to say." "i have. i have found out what the crying was," said mary. martha let her knitting drop on her knee and gazed at her with startled eyes. "tha' hasn't!" she exclaimed. "never!" "i heard it in the night," mary went on. "and i got up and went to see where it came from. it was colin. i found him." martha's face became red with fright. "eh! miss mary!" she said half crying. "tha' shouldn't have done it--tha' shouldn't! tha'll get me in trouble. i never told thee nothin' about him--but tha'll get me in trouble. i shall lose my place and what'll mother do!" "you won't lose your place," said mary. "he was glad i came. we talked and talked and he said he was glad i came." "was he?" cried martha. "art tha' sure? tha' doesn't know what he's like when anything vexes him. he's a big lad to cry like a baby, but when he's in a passion he'll fair scream just to frighten us. he knows us daren't call our souls our own." "he wasn't vexed," said mary. "i asked him if i should go away and he made me stay. he asked me questions and i sat on a big footstool and talked to him about india and about the robin and gardens. he wouldn't let me go. he let me see his mother's picture. before i left him i sang him to sleep." martha fairly gasped with amazement. "i can scarcely believe thee!" she protested. "it's as if tha'd walked straight into a lion's den. if he'd been like he is most times he'd have throwed himself into one of his tantrums and roused th' house. he won't let strangers look at him." "he let me look at him. i looked at him all the time and he looked at me. we stared!" said mary. "i don't know what to do!" cried agitated martha. "if mrs. medlock finds out, she'll think i broke orders and told thee and i shall be packed back to mother." "he is not going to tell mrs. medlock anything about it yet. it's to be a sort of secret just at first," said mary firmly. "and he says everybody is obliged to do as he pleases." "aye, that's true enough--th' bad lad!" sighed martha, wiping her forehead with her apron. "he says mrs. medlock must. and he wants me to come and talk to him every day. and you are to tell me when he wants me." "me!" said martha; "i shall lose my place--i shall for sure!" "you can't if you are doing what he wants you to do and everybody is ordered to obey him," mary argued. "does tha' mean to say," cried martha with wide open eyes, "that he was nice to thee!" "i think he almost liked me," mary answered. "then tha' must have bewitched him!" decided martha, drawing a long breath. "do you mean magic?" inquired mary. "i've heard about magic in india, but i can't make it. i just went into his room and i was so surprised to see him i stood and stared. and then he turned round and stared at me. and he thought i was a ghost or a dream and i thought perhaps he was. and it was so queer being there alone together in the middle of the night and not knowing about each other. and we began to ask each other questions. and when i asked him if i must go away he said i must not." "th' world's comin' to a end!" gasped martha. "what is the matter with him?" asked mary. "nobody knows for sure and certain," said martha. "mr. craven went off his head like when he was born. th' doctors thought he'd have to be put in a 'sylum. it was because mrs. craven died like i told you. he wouldn't set eyes on th' baby. he just raved and said it'd be another hunchback like him and it'd better die." "is colin a hunchback?" mary asked. "he didn't look like one." "he isn't yet," said martha. "but he began all wrong. mother said that there was enough trouble and raging in th' house to set any child wrong. they was afraid his back was weak an' they've always been takin' care of it--keepin' him lyin' down and not lettin' him walk. once they made him wear a brace but he fretted so he was downright ill. then a big doctor came to see him an' made them take it off. he talked to th' other doctor quite rough--in a polite way. he said there'd been too much medicine and too much lettin' him have his own way." "i think he's a very spoiled boy," said mary. "he's th' worst young nowt as ever was!" said martha. "i won't say as he hasn't been ill a good bit. he's had coughs an' colds that's nearly killed him two or three times. once he had rheumatic fever an' once he had typhoid. eh! mrs. medlock did get a fright then. he'd been out of his head an' she was talkin' to th' nurse, thinkin' he didn't know nothin', an' she said, 'he'll die this time sure enough, an' best thing for him an' for everybody.' an' she looked at him an' there he was with his big eyes open, starin' at her as sensible as she was herself. she didn't know what'd happen but he just stared at her an' says, 'you give me some water an' stop talkin'.'" "do you think he will die?" asked mary. "mother says there's no reason why any child should live that gets no fresh air an' doesn't do nothin' but lie on his back an' read picture-books an' take medicine. he's weak and hates th' trouble o' bein' taken out o' doors, an' he gets cold so easy he says it makes him ill." mary sat and looked at the fire. "i wonder," she said slowly, "if it would not do him good to go out into a garden and watch things growing. it did me good." "one of th' worst fits he ever had," said martha, "was one time they took him out where the roses is by the fountain. he'd been readin' in a paper about people gettin' somethin' he called 'rose cold' an' he began to sneeze an' said he'd got it an' then a new gardener as didn't know th' rules passed by an' looked at him curious. he threw himself into a passion an' he said he'd looked at him because he was going to be a hunchback. he cried himself into a fever an' was ill all night." "if he ever gets angry at me, i'll never go and see him again," said mary. "he'll have thee if he wants thee," said martha. "tha' may as well know that at th' start." very soon afterward a bell rang and she rolled up her knitting. "i dare say th' nurse wants me to stay with him a bit," she said. "i hope he's in a good temper." she was out of the room about ten minutes and then she came back with a puzzled expression. "well, tha' has bewitched him," she said. "he's up on his sofa with his picture-books. he's told the nurse to stay away until six o'clock. i'm to wait in the next room. th' minute she was gone he called me to him an' says, 'i want mary lennox to come and talk to me, and remember you're not to tell any one.' you'd better go as quick as you can." mary was quite willing to go quickly. she did not want to see colin as much as she wanted to see dickon, but she wanted to see him very much. there was a bright fire on the hearth when she entered his room, and in the daylight she saw it was a very beautiful room indeed. there were rich colors in the rugs and hangings and pictures and books on the walls which made it look glowing and comfortable even in spite of the gray sky and falling rain. colin looked rather like a picture himself. he was wrapped in a velvet dressing-gown and sat against a big brocaded cushion. he had a red spot on each cheek. "come in," he said. "i've been thinking about you all morning." "i've been thinking about you, too," answered mary. "you don't know how frightened martha is. she says mrs. medlock will think she told me about you and then she will be sent away." he frowned. "go and tell her to come here," he said. "she is in the next room." mary went and brought her back. poor martha was shaking in her shoes. colin was still frowning. "have you to do what i please or have you not?" he demanded. "i have to do what you please, sir," martha faltered, turning quite red. "has medlock to do what i please?" "everybody has, sir," said martha. "well, then, if i order you to bring miss mary to me, how can medlock send you away if she finds it out?" "please don't let her, sir," pleaded martha. "i'll send _her_ away if she dares to say a word about such a thing," said master craven grandly. "she wouldn't like that, i can tell you." "thank you, sir," bobbing a curtsy, "i want to do my duty, sir." "what i want is your duty," said colin more grandly still. "i'll take care of you. now go away." when the door closed behind martha, colin found mistress mary gazing at him as if he had set her wondering. "why do you look at me like that?" he asked her. "what are you thinking about?" "i am thinking about two things." "what are they? sit down and tell me." "this is the first one," said mary, seating herself on the big stool. "once in india i saw a boy who was a rajah. he had rubies and emeralds and diamonds stuck all over him. he spoke to his people just as you spoke to martha. everybody had to do everything he told them--in a minute. i think they would have been killed if they hadn't." "i shall make you tell me about rajahs presently," he said, "but first tell me what the second thing was." "i was thinking," said mary, "how different you are from dickon." "who is dickon?" he said. "what a queer name!" she might as well tell him, she thought. she could talk about dickon without mentioning the secret garden. she had liked to hear martha talk about him. besides, she longed to talk about him. it would seem to bring him nearer. "he is martha's brother. he is twelve years old," she explained. "he is not like any one else in the world. he can charm foxes and squirrels and birds just as the natives in india charm snakes. he plays a very soft tune on a pipe and they come and listen." there were some big books on a table at his side and he dragged one suddenly toward him. "there is a picture of a snake-charmer in this," he exclaimed. "come and look at it." the book was a beautiful one with superb colored illustrations and he turned to one of them. "can he do that?" he asked eagerly. "he played on his pipe and they listened," mary explained. "but he doesn't call it magic. he says it's because he lives on the moor so much and he knows their ways. he says he feels sometimes as if he was a bird or a rabbit himself, he likes them so. i think he asked the robin questions. it seemed as if they talked to each other in soft chirps." colin lay back on his cushion and his eyes grew larger and larger and the spots on his cheeks burned. "tell me some more about him," he said. "he knows all about eggs and nests," mary went on. "and he knows where foxes and badgers and otters live. he keeps them secret so that other boys won't find their holes and frighten them. he knows about everything that grows or lives on the moor." "does he like the moor?" said colin. "how can he when it's such a great, bare, dreary place?" "it's the most beautiful place," protested mary. "thousands of lovely things grow on it and there are thousands of little creatures all busy building nests and making holes and burrows and chippering or singing or squeaking to each other. they are so busy and having such fun under the earth or in the trees or heather. it's their world." "how do you know all that?" said colin, turning on his elbow to look at her. "i have never been there once, really," said mary suddenly remembering. "i only drove over it in the dark. i thought it was hideous. martha told me about it first and then dickon. when dickon talks about it you feel as if you saw things and heard them and as if you were standing in the heather with the sun shining and the gorse smelling like honey--and all full of bees and butterflies." "you never see anything if you are ill," said colin restlessly. he looked like a person listening to a new sound in the distance and wondering what it was. "you can't if you stay in a room," said mary. "i couldn't go on the moor," he said in a resentful tone. mary was silent for a minute and then she said something bold. "you might--sometime." he moved as if he were startled. "go on the moor! how could i? i am going to die." "how do you know?" said mary unsympathetically. she didn't like the way he had of talking about dying. she did not feel very sympathetic. she felt rather as if he almost boasted about it. "oh, i've heard it ever since i remember," he answered crossly. "they are always whispering about it and thinking i don't notice. they wish i would, too." mistress mary felt quite contrary. she pinched her lips together. "if they wished i would," she said, "i wouldn't. who wishes you would?" "the servants--and of course dr. craven because he would get misselthwaite and be rich instead of poor. he daren't say so, but he always looks cheerful when i am worse. when i had typhoid fever his face got quite fat. i think my father wishes it, too." "i don't believe he does," said mary quite obstinately. that made colin turn and look at her again. "don't you?" he said. and then he lay back on his cushion and was still, as if he were thinking. and there was quite a long silence. perhaps they were both of them thinking strange things children do not usually think of. "i like the grand doctor from london, because he made them take the iron thing off," said mary at last. "did he say you were going to die?" "no." "what did he say?" "he didn't whisper," colin answered. "perhaps he knew i hated whispering. i heard him say one thing quite aloud. he said, 'the lad might live if he would make up his mind to it. put him in the humor.' it sounded as if he was in a temper." "i'll tell you who would put you in the humor, perhaps," said mary reflecting. she felt as if she would like this thing to be settled one way or the other. "i believe dickon would. he's always talking about live things. he never talks about dead things or things that are ill. he's always looking up in the sky to watch birds flying--or looking down at the earth to see something growing. he has such round blue eyes and they are so wide open with looking about. and he laughs such a big laugh with his wide mouth--and his cheeks are as red--as red as cherries." she pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her expression quite changed at the remembrance of the wide curving mouth and wide open eyes. "see here," she said. "don't let us talk about dying; i don't like it. let us talk about living. let us talk and talk about dickon. and then we will look at your pictures." it was the best thing she could have said. to talk about dickon meant to talk about the moor and about the cottage and the fourteen people who lived in it on sixteen shillings a week--and the children who got fat on the moor grass like the wild ponies. and about dickon's mother--and the skipping-rope--and the moor with the sun on it--and about pale green points sticking up out of the black sod. and it was all so alive that mary talked more than she had ever talked before--and colin both talked and listened as he had never done either before. and they both began to laugh over nothings as children will when they are happy together. and they laughed so that in the end they were making as much noise as if they had been two ordinary healthy natural ten-year-old creatures--instead of a hard, little, unloving girl and a sickly boy who believed that he was going to die. they enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot the pictures and they forgot about the time. they had been laughing quite loudly over ben weatherstaff and his robin and colin was actually sitting up as if he had forgotten about his weak back when he suddenly remembered something. "do you know there is one thing we have never once thought of," he said. "we are cousins." it seemed so queer that they had talked so much and never remembered this simple thing that they laughed more than ever, because they had got into the humor to laugh at anything. and in the midst of the fun the door opened and in walked dr. craven and mrs. medlock. dr. craven started in actual alarm and mrs. medlock almost fell back because he had accidentally bumped against her. "good lord!" exclaimed poor mrs. medlock, with her eyes almost starting out of her head. "good lord!" "what is this?" said dr. craven, coming forward. "what does it mean?" then mary was reminded of the boy rajah again. colin answered as if neither the doctor's alarm nor mrs. medlock's terror were of the slightest consequence. he was as little disturbed or frightened as if an elderly cat and dog had walked into the room. "this is my cousin, mary lennox," he said. "i asked her to come and talk to me. i like her. she must come and talk to me whenever i send for her." dr. craven turned reproachfully to mrs. medlock. "oh, sir," she panted. "i don't know how it's happened. there's not a servant on the place that'd dare to talk--they all have their orders." "nobody told her anything," said colin, "she heard me crying and found me herself. i am glad she came. don't be silly, medlock." mary saw that dr. craven did not look pleased, but it was quite plain that he dare not oppose his patient. he sat down by colin and felt his pulse. "i am afraid there has been too much excitement. excitement is not good for you, my boy," he said. "i should be excited if she kept away," answered colin, his eyes beginning to look dangerously sparkling. "i am better. she makes me better. the nurse must bring up her tea with mine. we will have tea together." mrs. medlock and dr. craven looked at each other in a troubled way, but there was evidently nothing to be done. "he does look rather better, sir," ventured mrs. medlock. "but"--thinking the matter over--"he looked better this morning before she came into the room." "she came into the room last night. she stayed with me a long time. she sang a hindustani song to me and it made me go to sleep," said colin. "i was better when i wakened up. i wanted my breakfast. i want my tea now. tell nurse, medlock." dr. craven did not stay very long. he talked to the nurse for a few minutes when she came into the room and said a few words of warning to colin. he must not talk too much; he must not forget that he was ill; he must not forget that he was very easily tired. mary thought that there seemed to be a number of uncomfortable things he was not to forget. colin looked fretful and kept his strange black-lashed eyes fixed on dr. craven's face. "i _want_ to forget it," he said at last. "she makes me forget it. that is why i want her." dr. craven did not look happy when he left the room. he gave a puzzled glance at the little girl sitting on the large stool. she had become a stiff, silent child again as soon as he entered and he could not see what the attraction was. the boy actually did look brighter, however--and he sighed rather heavily as he went down the corridor. "they are always wanting me to eat things when i don't want to," said colin, as the nurse brought in the tea and put it on the table by the sofa. "now, if you'll eat i will. those muffins look so nice and hot. tell me about rajahs." chapter xv nest building after another week of rain the high arch of blue sky appeared again and the sun which poured down was quite hot. though there had been no chance to see either the secret garden or dickon, mistress mary had enjoyed herself very much. the week had not seemed long. she had spent hours of every day with colin in his room, talking about rajahs or gardens or dickon and the cottage on the moor. they had looked at the splendid books and pictures and sometimes mary had read things to colin, and sometimes he had read a little to her. when he was amused and interested she thought he scarcely looked like an invalid at all, except that his face was so colorless and he was always on the sofa. "you are a sly young one to listen and get out of your bed to go following things up like you did that night," mrs. medlock said once. "but there's no saying it's not been a sort of blessing to the lot of us. he's not had a tantrum or a whining fit since you made friends. the nurse was just going to give up the case because she was so sick of him, but she says she doesn't mind staying now you've gone on duty with her," laughing a little. in her talks with colin, mary had tried to be very cautious about the secret garden. there were certain things she wanted to find out from him, but she felt that she must find them out without asking him direct questions. in the first place, as she began to like to be with him, she wanted to discover whether he was the kind of boy you could tell a secret to. he was not in the least like dickon, but he was evidently so pleased with the idea of a garden no one knew anything about that she thought perhaps he could be trusted. but she had not known him long enough to be sure. the second thing she wanted to find out was this: if he could be trusted--if he really could--wouldn't it be possible to take him to the garden without having any one find it out? the grand doctor had said that he must have fresh air and colin had said that he would not mind fresh air in a secret garden. perhaps if he had a great deal of fresh air and knew dickon and the robin and saw things growing he might not think so much about dying. mary had seen herself in the glass sometimes lately when she had realized that she looked quite a different creature from the child she had seen when she arrived from india. this child looked nicer. even martha had seen a change in her. "th' air from th' moor has done thee good already," she had said. "tha'rt not nigh so yeller and tha'rt not nigh so scrawny. even tha' hair doesn't slamp down on tha' head so flat. it's got some life in it so as it sticks out a bit." "it's like me," said mary. "it's growing stronger and fatter. i'm sure there's more of it." "it looks it, for sure," said martha, ruffling it up a little round her face. "tha'rt not half so ugly when it's that way an' there's a bit o' red in tha' cheeks." if gardens and fresh air had been good for her perhaps they would be good for colin. but then, if he hated people to look at him, perhaps he would not like to see dickon. "why does it make you angry when you are looked at?" she inquired one day. "i always hated it," he answered, "even when i was very little. then when they took me to the seaside and i used to lie in my carriage everybody used to stare and ladies would stop and talk to my nurse and then they would begin to whisper and i knew then they were saying i shouldn't live to grow up. then sometimes the ladies would pat my cheeks and say 'poor child!' once when a lady did that i screamed out loud and bit her hand. she was so frightened she ran away." "she thought you had gone mad like a dog," said mary, not at all admiringly. "i don't care what she thought," said colin, frowning. "i wonder why you didn't scream and bite me when i came into your room?" said mary. then she began to smile slowly. "i thought you were a ghost or a dream," he said. "you can't bite a ghost or a dream, and if you scream they don't care." "would you hate it if--if a boy looked at you?" mary asked uncertainly. he lay back on his cushion and paused thoughtfully. "there's one boy," he said quite slowly, as if he were thinking over every word, "there's one boy i believe i shouldn't mind. it's that boy who knows where the foxes live--dickon." "i'm sure you wouldn't mind him," said mary. "the birds don't and other animals," he said, still thinking it over, "perhaps that's why i shouldn't. he's a sort of animal charmer and i am a boy animal." then he laughed and she laughed too; in fact it ended in their both laughing a great deal and finding the idea of a boy animal hiding in his hole very funny indeed. what mary felt afterward was that she need not fear about dickon. * * * * * on that first morning when the sky was blue again mary wakened very early. the sun was pouring in slanting rays through the blinds and there was something so joyous in the sight of it that she jumped out of bed and ran to the window. she drew up the blinds and opened the window itself and a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon her. the moor was blue and the whole world looked as if something magic had happened to it. there were tender little fluting sounds here and there and everywhere, as if scores of birds were beginning to tune up for a concert. mary put her hand out of the window and held it in the sun. "it's warm--warm!" she said. "it will make the green points push up and up and up, and it will make the bulbs and roots work and struggle with all their might under the earth." she kneeled down and leaned out of the window as far as she could, breathing big breaths and sniffing the air until she laughed because she remembered what dickon's mother had said about the end of his nose quivering like a rabbit's. "it must be very early," she said. "the little clouds are all pink and i've never seen the sky look like this. no one is up. i don't even hear the stable boys." a sudden thought made her scramble to her feet. "i can't wait! i am going to see the garden!" she had learned to dress herself by this time and she put on her clothes in five minutes. she knew a small side door which she could unbolt herself and she flew down-stairs in her stocking feet and put on her shoes in the hall. she unchained and unbolted and unlocked and when the door was open she sprang across the step with one bound, and there she was standing on the grass, which seemed to have turned green, and with the sun pouring down on her and warm sweet wafts about her and the fluting and twittering and singing coming from every bush and tree. she clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the sky and it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and flooded with springtime light that she felt as if she must flute and sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robins and skylarks could not possibly help it. she ran around the shrubs and paths toward the secret garden. "it is all different already," she said. "the grass is greener and things are sticking up everywhere and things are uncurling and green buds of leaves are showing. this afternoon i am sure dickon will come." the long warm rain had done strange things to the herbaceous beds which bordered the walk by the lower wall. there were things sprouting and pushing out from the roots of clumps of plants and there were actually here and there glimpses of royal purple and yellow unfurling among the stems of crocuses. six months before mistress mary would not have seen how the world was waking up, but now she missed nothing. when she had reached the place where the door hid itself under the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound. it was the caw--caw of a crow and it came from the top of the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a big glossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her very wisely indeed. she had never seen a crow so close before and he made her a little nervous, but the next moment he spread his wings and flapped away across the garden. she hoped he was not going to stay inside and she pushed the door open wondering if he would. when she got fairly into the garden she saw that he probably did intend to stay because he had alighted on a dwarf apple-tree, and under the apple-tree was lying a little reddish animal with a bushy tail, and both of them were watching the stooping body and rust-red head of dickon, who was kneeling on the grass working hard. mary flew across the grass to him. "oh, dickon! dickon!" she cried out. "how could you get here so early! how could you! the sun has only just got up!" he got up himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled; his eyes like a bit of the sky. "eh!" he said. "i was up long before him. how could i have stayed abed! th' world's all fair begun again this mornin', it has. an' it's workin' an' hummin' an' scratchin' an' pipin' an' nest-buildin' an' breathin' out scents, till you've got to be out on it 'stead o' lyin' on your back. when th' sun did jump up, th' moor went mad for joy, an' i was in the midst of th' heather, an' i run like mad myself, shoutin' an' singin'. an' i come straight here. i couldn't have stayed away. why, th' garden was lyin' here waitin'!" mary put her hands on her chest, panting, as if she had been running herself. "oh, dickon! dickon!" she said. "i'm so happy i can scarcely breathe!" seeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailed animal rose from its place under the tree and came to him, and the rook, cawing once, flew down from its branch and settled quietly on his shoulder. "this is th' little fox cub," he said, rubbing the little reddish animal's head. "it's named captain. an' this here's soot. soot he flew across th' moor with me an' captain he run same as if th' hounds had been after him. they both felt same as i did." neither of the creatures looked as if he were the least afraid of mary. when dickon began to walk about, soot stayed on his shoulder and captain trotted quietly close to his side. "see here!" said dickon. "see how these has pushed up, an' these an' these! an' eh! look at these here!" he threw himself upon his knees and mary went down beside him. they had come upon a whole clump of crocuses burst into purple and orange and gold. mary bent her face down and kissed and kissed them. "you never kiss a person in that way," she said when she lifted her head. "flowers are so different." he looked puzzled but smiled. "eh!" he said, "i've kissed mother many a time that way when i come in from th' moor after a day's roamin' an' she stood there at th' door in th' sun, lookin' so glad an' comfortable." they ran from one part of the garden to another and found so many wonders that they were obliged to remind themselves that they must whisper or speak low. he showed her swelling leaf-buds on rose branches which had seemed dead. he showed her ten thousand new green points pushing through the mould. they put their eager young noses close to the earth and sniffed its warmed springtime breathing; they dug and pulled and laughed low with rapture until mistress mary's hair was as tumbled as dickon's and her cheeks were almost as poppy red as his. there was every joy on earth in the secret garden that morning, and in the midst of them came a delight more delightful than all, because it was more wonderful. swiftly something flew across the wall and darted through the trees to a close grown corner, a little flare of red-breasted bird with something hanging from its beak. dickon stood quite still and put his hand on mary almost as if they had suddenly found themselves laughing in a church. "we munnot stir," he whispered in broad yorkshire. "we munnot scarce breathe. i knowed he was mate-huntin' when i seed him last. it's ben weatherstaff's robin. he's buildin' his nest. he'll stay here if us don't flight him." they settled down softly upon the grass and sat there without moving. "us mustn't seem as if us was watchin' him too close," said dickon. "he'd be out with us for good if he got th' notion us was interferin' now. he'll be a good bit different till all this is over. he's settin' up housekeepin'. he'll be shyer an' readier to take things ill. he's got no time for visitin' an' gossipin'. us must keep still a bit an' try to look as if us was grass an' trees an' bushes. then when he's got used to seein' us i'll chirp a bit an' he'll know us'll not be in his way." mistress mary was not at all sure that she knew, as dickon seemed to, how to try to look like grass and trees and bushes. but he had said the queer thing as if it were the simplest and most natural thing in the world, and she felt it must be quite easy to him, and indeed she watched him for a few minutes carefully, wondering if it was possible for him to quietly turn green and put out branches and leaves. but he only sat wonderfully still, and when he spoke dropped his voice to such a softness that it was curious that she could hear him, but she could. "it's part o' th' springtime, this nest-buildin' is," he said. "i warrant it's been goin' on in th' same way every year since th' world was begun. they've got their way o' thinkin' and doin' things an' a body had better not meddle. you can lose a friend in springtime easier than any other season if you're too curious." "if we talk about him i can't help looking at him," mary said as softly as possible. "we must talk of something else. there is something i want to tell you." "he'll like it better if us talks o' somethin' else," said dickon. "what is it tha's got to tell me?" "well--do you know about colin?" she whispered. he turned his head to look at her. "what does tha' know about him?" he asked. "i've seen him. i have been to talk to him every day this week. he wants me to come. he says i'm making him forget about being ill and dying," answered mary. dickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprise died away from his round face. "i am glad o' that," he exclaimed. "i'm right down glad. it makes me easier. i knowed i must say nothin' about him an' i don't like havin' to hide things." "don't you like hiding the garden?" said mary. "i'll never tell about it," he answered. "but i says to mother, 'mother,' i says, 'i got a secret to keep. it's not a bad 'un, tha' knows that. it's no worse than hidin' where a bird's nest is. tha' doesn't mind it, does tha'?'" mary always wanted to hear about mother. "what did she say?" she asked, not at all afraid to hear. dickon grinned sweet-temperedly. "it was just like her, what she said," he answered. "she give my head a bit of a rub an' laughed an' she says, 'eh, lad, tha' can have all th' secrets tha' likes. i've knowed thee twelve year'.'" "how did you know about colin?" asked mary. "everybody as knowed about mester craven knowed there was a little lad as was like to be a cripple, an' they knowed mester craven didn't like him to be talked about. folks is sorry for mester craven because mrs. craven was such a pretty young lady an' they was so fond of each other. mrs. medlock stops in our cottage whenever she goes to thwaite an' she doesn't mind talkin' to mother before us children, because she knows us has been brought up to be trusty. how did tha' find out about him? martha was in fine trouble th' last time she came home. she said tha'd heard him frettin' an' tha' was askin' questions an' she didn't know what to say." mary told him her story about the midnight wuthering of the wind which had wakened her and about the faint far-off sounds of the complaining voice which had led her down the dark corridors with her candle and had ended with her opening of the door of the dimly lighted room with the carven four-posted bed in the corner. when she described the small ivory-white face and the strange black-rimmed eyes dickon shook his head. "them's just like his mother's eyes, only hers was always laughin', they say," he said. "they say as mr. craven can't bear to see him when he's awake an' it's because his eyes is so like his mother's an' yet looks so different in his miserable bit of a face." "do you think he wants him to die?" whispered mary. "no, but he wishes he'd never been born. mother she says that's th' worst thing on earth for a child. them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives. mester craven he'd buy anythin' as money could buy for th' poor lad but he'd like to forget as he's on earth. for one thing, he's afraid he'll look at him some day and find he's growed hunchback." "colin's so afraid of it himself that he won't sit up," said mary. "he says he's always thinking that if he should feel a lump coming he should go crazy and scream himself to death." "eh! he oughtn't to lie there thinkin' things like that," said dickon. "no lad could get well as thought them sort o' things." the fox was lying on the grass close by him looking up to ask for a pat now and then, and dickon bent down and rubbed his neck softly and thought a few minutes in silence. presently he lifted his head and looked round the garden. "when first we got in here," he said, "it seemed like everything was gray. look round now and tell me if tha' doesn't see a difference." mary looked and caught her breath a little. "why!" she cried, "the gray wall is changing. it is as if a green mist were creeping over it. it's almost like a green gauze veil." "aye," said dickon. "an' it'll be greener and greener till th' gray's all gone. can tha' guess what i was thinkin'?" "i know it was something nice," said mary eagerly. "i believe it was something about colin." "i was thinkin' that if he was out here he wouldn't be watchin' for lumps to grow on his back; he'd be watchin' for buds to break on th' rose-bushes, an' he'd likely be healthier," explained dickon. "i was wonderin' if us could ever get him in th' humor to come out here an' lie under th' trees in his carriage." "i've been wondering that myself. i've thought of it almost every time i've talked to him," said mary. "i've wondered if he could keep a secret and i've wondered if we could bring him here without any one seeing us. i thought perhaps you could push his carriage. the doctor said he must have fresh air and if he wants us to take him out no one dare disobey him. he won't go out for other people and perhaps they will be glad if he will go out with us. he could order the gardeners to keep away so they wouldn't find out." dickon was thinking very hard as he scratched captain's back. "it'd be good for him, i'll warrant," he said. "us'd not be thinkin' he'd better never been born. us'd be just two children watchin' a garden grow, an' he'd be another. two lads an' a little lass just lookin' on at th' springtime. i warrant it'd be better than doctor's stuff." "he's been lying in his room so long and he's always been so afraid of his back that it has made him queer," said mary. "he knows a good many things out of books but he doesn't know anything else. he says he has been too ill to notice things and he hates going out of doors and hates gardens and gardeners. but he likes to hear about this garden because it is a secret. i daren't tell him much but he said he wanted to see it." "us'll have him out here sometime for sure," said dickon. "i could push his carriage well enough. has tha' noticed how th' robin an' his mate has been workin' while we've been sittin' here? look at him perched on that branch wonderin' where it'd be best to put that twig he's got in his beak." he made one of his low whistling calls and the robin turned his head and looked at him inquiringly, still holding his twig. dickon spoke to him as ben weatherstaff did, but dickon's tone was one of friendly advice. "wheres'ever tha' puts it," he said, "it'll be all right. tha' knew how to build tha' nest before tha' came out o' th' egg. get on with thee, lad. tha'st got no time to lose." "oh, i do like to hear you talk to him!" mary said, laughing delightedly. "ben weatherstaff scolds him and makes fun of him, and he hops about and looks as if he understood every word, and i know he likes it. ben weatherstaff says he is so conceited he would rather have stones thrown at him than not be noticed." dickon laughed too and went on talking. "tha' knows us won't trouble thee," he said to the robin. "us is near bein' wild things ourselves. us is nest-buildin' too, bless thee. look out tha' doesn't tell on us." and though the robin did not answer, because his beak was occupied, mary knew that when he flew away with his twig to his own corner of the garden the darkness of his dew-bright eye meant that he would not tell their secret for the world. chapter xvi "i won't!" said mary they found a great deal to do that morning and mary was late in returning to the house and was also in such a hurry to get back to her work that she quite forgot colin until the last moment. "tell colin that i can't come and see him yet," she said to martha. "i'm very busy in the garden." martha looked rather frightened. "eh! miss mary," she said, "it may put him all out of humor when i tell him that." but mary was not as afraid of him as other people were and she was not a self-sacrificing person. "i can't stay," she answered. "dickon's waiting for me;" and she ran away. the afternoon was even lovelier and busier than the morning had been. already nearly all the weeds were cleared out of the garden and most of the roses and trees had been pruned or dug about. dickon had brought a spade of his own and he had taught mary to use all her tools, so that by this time it was plain that though the lovely wild place was not likely to become a "gardener's garden" it would be a wilderness of growing things before the springtime was over. "there'll be apple blossoms an' cherry blossoms overhead," dickon said, working away with all his might. "an' there'll be peach an' plum trees in bloom against th' walls, an' th' grass'll be a carpet o' flowers." the little fox and the rook were as happy and busy as they were, and the robin and his mate flew backward and forward like tiny streaks of lightning. sometimes the rook flapped his black wings and soared away over the tree-tops in the park. each time he came back and perched near dickon and cawed several times as if he were relating his adventures, and dickon talked to him just as he had talked to the robin. once when dickon was so busy that he did not answer him at first, soot flew on to his shoulders and gently tweaked his ear with his large beak. when mary wanted to rest a little dickon sat down with her under a tree and once he took his pipe out of his pocket and played the soft strange little notes and two squirrels appeared on the wall and looked and listened. "tha's a good bit stronger than tha' was," dickon said, looking at her as she was digging. "tha's beginning to look different, for sure." mary was glowing with exercise and good spirits. "i'm getting fatter and fatter every day," she said quite exultantly. "mrs. medlock will have to get me some bigger dresses. martha says my hair is growing thicker. it isn't so flat and stringy." the sun was beginning to set and sending deep gold-colored rays slanting under the trees when they parted. "it'll be fine to-morrow," said dickon. "i'll be at work by sunrise." "so will i," said mary. * * * * * she ran back to the house as quickly as her feet would carry her. she wanted to tell colin about dickon's fox cub and the rook and about what the springtime had been doing. she felt sure he would like to hear. so it was not very pleasant when she opened the door of her room, to see martha standing waiting for her with a doleful face. "what is the matter?" she asked. "what did colin say when you told him i couldn't come?" "eh!" said martha, "i wish tha'd gone. he was nigh goin' into one o' his tantrums. there's been a nice to do all afternoon to keep him quiet. he would watch the clock all th' time." mary's lips pinched themselves together. she was no more used to considering other people than colin was and she saw no reason why an ill-tempered boy should interfere with the thing she liked best. she knew nothing about the pitifulness of people who had been ill and nervous and who did not know that they could control their tempers and need not make other people ill and nervous, too. when she had had a headache in india she had done her best to see that everybody else also had a headache or something quite as bad. and she felt she was quite right; but of course now she felt that colin was quite wrong. he was not on his sofa when she went into his room. he was lying flat on his back in bed and he did not turn his head toward her as she came in. this was a bad beginning and mary marched up to him with her stiff manner. "why didn't you get up?" she said. "i did get up this morning when i thought you were coming," he answered, without looking at her. "i made them put me back in bed this afternoon. my back ached and my head ached and i was tired. why didn't you come?" "i was working in the garden with dickon," said mary. colin frowned and condescended to look at her. "i won't let that boy come here if you go and stay with him instead of coming to talk to me," he said. mary flew into a fine passion. she could fly into a passion without making a noise. she just grew sour and obstinate and did not care what happened. "if you send dickon away, i'll never come into this room again!" she retorted. "you'll have to if i want you," said colin. "i won't!" said mary. "i'll make you," said colin, "they shall drag you in." "shall they, mr. rajah!" said mary fiercely. "they may drag me in but they can't make me talk when they get me here. i'll sit and clench my teeth and never tell you one thing. i won't even look at you. i'll stare at the floor!" they were a nice agreeable pair as they glared at each other. if they had been two little street boys they would have sprung at each other and had a rough-and-tumble fight. as it was, they did the next thing to it. "you are a selfish thing!" cried colin. "what are you?" said mary. "selfish people always say that. any one is selfish who doesn't do what they want. you're more selfish than i am. you're the most selfish boy i ever saw." "i'm not!" snapped colin. "i'm not as selfish as your fine dickon is! he keeps you playing in the dirt when he knows i am all by myself. he's selfish, if you like!" mary's eyes flashed fire. "he's nicer than any other boy that ever lived!" she said. "he's--he's like an angel!" it might sound rather silly to say that but she did not care. "a nice angel!" colin sneered ferociously. "he's a common cottage boy off the moor!" "he's better than a common rajah!" retorted mary. "he's a thousand times better!" because she was the stronger of the two she was beginning to get the better of him. the truth was that he had never had a fight with any one like himself in his life and, upon the whole, it was rather good for him, though neither he nor mary knew anything about that. he turned his head on his pillow and shut his eyes and a big tear was squeezed out and ran down his cheek. he was beginning to feel pathetic and sorry for himself--not for any one else. "i'm not as selfish as you, because i'm always ill, and i'm sure there is a lump coming on my back," he said. "and i am going to die besides." "you're not!" contradicted mary unsympathetically. he opened his eyes quite wide with indignation. he had never heard such a thing said before. he was at once furious and slightly pleased, if a person could be both at the same time. "i'm not?" he cried. "i am! you know i am! everybody says so." "i don't believe it!" said mary sourly. "you just say that to make people sorry. i believe you're proud of it. i don't believe it! if you were a nice boy it might be true--but you're too nasty!" in spite of his invalid back colin sat up in bed in quite a healthy rage. "get out of the room!" he shouted and he caught hold of his pillow and threw it at her. he was not strong enough to throw it far and it only fell at her feet, but mary's face looked as pinched as a nutcracker. "i'm going," she said. "and i won't come back!" she walked to the door and when she reached it she turned round and spoke again. "i was going to tell you all sorts of nice things," she said. "dickon brought his fox and his rook and i was going to tell you all about them. now i won't tell you a single thing!" she marched out of the door and closed it behind her, and there to her great astonishment she found the trained nurse standing as if she had been listening and, more amazing still--she was laughing. she was a big handsome young woman who ought not to have been a trained nurse at all, as she could not bear invalids and she was always making excuses to leave colin to martha or any one else who would take her place. mary had never liked her, and she simply stood and gazed up at her as she stood giggling into her handkerchief. "what are you laughing at?" she asked her. "at you two young ones," said the nurse. "it's the best thing that could happen to the sickly pampered thing to have some one to stand up to him that's as spoiled as himself;" and she laughed into her handkerchief again. "if he'd had a young vixen of a sister to fight with it would have been the saving of him." "is he going to die?" "i don't know and i don't care," said the nurse. "hysterics and temper are half what ails him." "what are hysterics?" asked mary. "you'll find out if you work him into a tantrum after this--but at any rate you've given him something to have hysterics about, and i'm glad of it." mary went back to her room not feeling at all as she had felt when she had come in from the garden. she was cross and disappointed but not at all sorry for colin. she had looked forward to telling him a great many things and she had meant to try to make up her mind whether it would be safe to trust him with the great secret. she had been beginning to think it would be, but now she had changed her mind entirely. she would never tell him and he could stay in his room and never get any fresh air and die if he liked! it would serve him right! she felt so sour and unrelenting that for a few minutes she almost forgot about dickon and the green veil creeping over the world and the soft wind blowing down from the moor. martha was waiting for her and the trouble in her face had been temporarily replaced by interest and curiosity. there was a wooden box on the table and its cover had been removed and revealed that it was full of neat packages. "mr. craven sent it to you," said martha. "it looks as if it had picture-books in it." mary remembered what he had asked her the day she had gone to his room. "do you want anything--dolls--toys--books?" she opened the package wondering if he had sent a doll, and also wondering what she should do with it if he had. but he had not sent one. there were several beautiful books such as colin had, and two of them were about gardens and were full of pictures. there were two or three games and there was a beautiful little writing-case with a gold monogram on it and a gold pen and inkstand. everything was so nice that her pleasure began to crowd her anger out of her mind. she had not expected him to remember her at all and her hard little heart grew quite warm. "i can write better than i can print," she said, "and the first thing i shall write with that pen will be a letter to tell him i am much obliged." if she had been friends with colin she would have run to show him her presents at once, and they would have looked at the pictures and read some of the gardening books and perhaps tried playing the games, and he would have enjoyed himself so much he would never once have thought he was going to die or have put his hand on his spine to see if there was a lump coming. he had a way of doing that which she could not bear. it gave her an uncomfortable frightened feeling because he always looked so frightened himself. he said that if he felt even quite a little lump some day he should know his hunch had begun to grow. something he had heard mrs. medlock whispering to the nurse had given him the idea and he had thought over it in secret until it was quite firmly fixed in his mind. mrs. medlock had said his father's back had begun to show its crookedness in that way when he was a child. he had never told any one but mary that most of his "tantrums" as they called them grew out of his hysterical hidden fear. mary had been sorry for him when he had told her. "he always began to think about it when he was cross or tired," she said to herself. "and he has been cross to-day. perhaps--perhaps he has been thinking about it all afternoon." she stood still, looking down at the carpet and thinking. "i said i would never go back again--" she hesitated, knitting her brows--"but perhaps, just perhaps, i will go and see--if he wants me--in the morning. perhaps he'll try to throw his pillow at me again, but--i think--i'll go." chapter xvii a tantrum she had got up very early in the morning and had worked hard in the garden and she was tired and sleepy, so as soon as martha had brought her supper and she had eaten it, she was glad to go to bed. as she laid her head on the pillow she murmured to herself: "i'll go out before breakfast and work with dickon and then afterward--i believe--i'll go to see him." she thought it was the middle of the night when she was wakened by such dreadful sounds that she jumped out of bed in an instant. what was it--what was it? the next minute she felt quite sure she knew. doors were opened and shut and there were hurrying feet in the corridors and some one was crying and screaming at the same time, screaming and crying in a horrible way. "it's colin," she said. "he's having one of those tantrums the nurse called hysterics. how awful it sounds." as she listened to the sobbing screams she did not wonder that people were so frightened that they gave him his own way in everything rather than hear them. she put her hands over her ears and felt sick and shivering. "i don't know what to do. i don't know what to do," she kept saying. "i can't bear it." once she wondered if he would stop if she dared go to him and then she remembered how he had driven her out of the room and thought that perhaps the sight of her might make him worse. even when she pressed her hands more tightly over her ears she could not keep the awful sounds out. she hated them so and was so terrified by them that suddenly they began to make her angry and she felt as if she should like to fly into a tantrum herself and frighten him as he was frightening her. she was not used to any one's tempers but her own. she took her hands from her ears and sprang up and stamped her foot. "he ought to be stopped! somebody ought to make him stop! somebody ought to beat him!" she cried out. just then she heard feet almost running down the corridor and her door opened and the nurse came in. she was not laughing now by any means. she even looked rather pale. "he's worked himself into hysterics," she said in a great hurry. "he'll do himself harm. no one can do anything with him. you come and try, like a good child. he likes you." "he turned me out of the room this morning," said mary, stamping her foot with excitement. the stamp rather pleased the nurse. the truth was that she had been afraid she might find mary crying and hiding her head under the bed-clothes. "that's right," she said. "you're in the right humor. you go and scold him. give him something new to think of. do go, child, as quick as ever you can." it was not until afterward that mary realized that the thing had been funny as well as dreadful--that it was funny that all the grown-up people were so frightened that they came to a little girl just because they guessed she was almost as bad as colin himself. she flew along the corridor and the nearer she got to the screams the higher her temper mounted. she felt quite wicked by the time she reached the door. she slapped it open with her hand and ran across the room to the four-posted bed. "you stop!" she almost shouted. "you stop! i hate you! everybody hates you! i wish everybody would run out of the house and let you scream yourself to death! you _will_ scream yourself to death in a minute, and i wish you would!" a nice sympathetic child could neither have thought nor said such things, but it just happened that the shock of hearing them was the best possible thing for this hysterical boy whom no one had ever dared to restrain or contradict. he had been lying on his face beating his pillow with his hands and he actually almost jumped around, he turned so quickly at the sound of the furious little voice. his face looked dreadful, white and red and swollen, and he was gasping and choking; but savage little mary did not care an atom. "if you scream another scream," she said, "i'll scream too--and i can scream louder than you can and i'll frighten you, i'll frighten you!" he actually had stopped screaming because she had startled him so. the scream which had been coming almost choked him. the tears were streaming down his face and he shook all over. "i can't stop!" he gasped and sobbed. "i can't--i can't!" "you can!" shouted mary. "half that ails you is hysterics and temper--just hysterics--hysterics--hysterics!" and she stamped each time she said it. "i felt the lump--i felt it," choked out colin. "i knew i should. i shall have a hunch on my back and then i shall die," and he began to writhe again and turned on his face and sobbed and wailed but he didn't scream. "you didn't feel a lump!" contradicted mary fiercely. "if you did it was only a hysterical lump. hysterics makes lumps. there's nothing the matter with your horrid back--nothing but hysterics! turn over and let me look at it!" she liked the word "hysterics" and felt somehow as if it had an effect on him. he was probably like herself and had never heard it before. "nurse," she commanded, "come here and show me his back this minute!" the nurse, mrs. medlock and martha had been standing huddled together near the door staring at her, their mouths half open. all three had gasped with fright more than once. the nurse came forward as if she were half afraid. colin was heaving with great breathless sobs. "perhaps he--he won't let me," she hesitated in a low voice. colin heard her, however, and he gasped out between two sobs: "sh--show her! she--she'll see then!" it was a poor thin back to look at when it was bared. every rib could be counted and every joint of the spine, though mistress mary did not count them as she bent over and examined them with a solemn savage little face. she looked so sour and old-fashioned that the nurse turned her head aside to hide the twitching of her mouth. there was just a minute's silence, for even colin tried to hold his breath while mary looked up and down his spine, and down and up, as intently as if she had been the great doctor from london. "there's not a single lump there!" she said at last. "there's not a lump as big as a pin--except backbone lumps, and you can only feel them because you're thin. i've got backbone lumps myself, and they used to stick out as much as yours do, until i began to get fatter, and i am not fat enough yet to hide them. there's not a lump as big as a pin! if you ever say there is again, i shall laugh!" no one but colin himself knew what effect those crossly spoken childish words had on him. if he had ever had any one to talk to about his secret terrors--if he had ever dared to let himself ask questions--if he had had childish companions and had not lain on his back in the huge closed house, breathing an atmosphere heavy with the fears of people who were most of them ignorant and tired of him, he would have found out that most of his fright and illness was created by himself. but he had lain and thought of himself and his aches and weariness for hours and days and months and years. and now that an angry unsympathetic little girl insisted obstinately that he was not as ill as he thought he was he actually felt as if she might be speaking the truth. "i didn't know," ventured the nurse, "that he thought he had a lump on his spine. his back is weak because he won't try to sit up. i could have told him there was no lump there." colin gulped and turned his face a little to look at her. "c-could you?" he said pathetically. "yes, sir." "there!" said mary, and she gulped too. colin turned on his face again and but for his long-drawn broken breaths, which were the dying down of his storm of sobbing, he lay still for a minute, though great tears streamed down his face and wet the pillow. actually the tears meant that a curious great relief had come to him. presently he turned and looked at the nurse again and strangely enough he was not like a rajah at all as he spoke to her. "do you think--i could--live to grow up?" he said. the nurse was neither clever nor soft-hearted but she could repeat some of the london doctor's words. "you probably will if you will do what you are told to do and not give way to your temper, and stay out a great deal in the fresh air." colin's tantrum had passed and he was weak and worn out with crying and this perhaps made him feel gentle. he put out his hand a little toward mary, and i am glad to say that, her own tantrum having passed, she was softened too and met him half-way with her hand, so that it was a sort of making up. "i'll--i'll go out with you, mary," he said. "i shan't hate fresh air if we can find--" he remembered just in time to stop himself from saying "if we can find the secret garden" and he ended, "i shall like to go out with you if dickon will come and push my chair. i do so want to see dickon and the fox and the crow." the nurse remade the tumbled bed and shook and straightened the pillows. then she made colin a cup of beef tea and gave a cup to mary, who really was very glad to get it after her excitement. mrs. medlock and martha gladly slipped away, and after everything was neat and calm and in order the nurse looked as if she would very gladly slip away also. she was a healthy young woman who resented being robbed of her sleep and she yawned quite openly as she looked at mary, who had pushed her big footstool close to the four-posted bed and was holding colin's hand. "you must go back and get your sleep out," she said. "he'll drop off after a while--if he's not too upset. then i'll lie down myself in the next room." "would you like me to sing you that song i learned from my ayah?" mary whispered to colin. his hand pulled hers gently and he turned his tired eyes on her appealingly. "oh, yes!" he answered. "it's such a soft song. i shall go to sleep in a minute." "i will put him to sleep," mary said to the yawning nurse. "you can go if you like." "well," said the nurse, with an attempt at reluctance. "if he doesn't go to sleep in half an hour you must call me." "very well," answered mary. the nurse was out of the room in a minute and as soon as she was gone colin pulled mary's hand again. "i almost told," he said; "but i stopped myself in time. i won't talk and i'll go to sleep, but you said you had a whole lot of nice things to tell me. have you--do you think you have found out anything at all about the way into the secret garden?" mary looked at his poor little tired face and swollen eyes and her heart relented. "ye-es," she answered, "i think i have. and if you will go to sleep i will tell you to-morrow." his hand quite trembled. "oh, mary!" he said. "oh, mary! if i could get into it i think i should live to grow up! do you suppose that instead of singing the ayah song--you could just tell me softly as you did that first day what you imagine it looks like inside? i am sure it will make me go to sleep." "yes," answered mary. "shut your eyes." he closed his eyes and lay quite still and she held his hand and began to speak very slowly and in a very low voice. "i think it has been left alone so long--that it has grown all into a lovely tangle. i think the roses have climbed and climbed and climbed until they hang from the branches and walls and creep over the ground--almost like a strange gray mist. some of them have died but many--are alive and when the summer comes there will be curtains and fountains of roses. i think the ground is full of daffodils and snowdrops and lilies and iris working their way out of the dark. now the spring has begun--perhaps--perhaps--" the soft drone of her voice was making him stiller and stiller and she saw it and went on. "perhaps they are coming up through the grass--perhaps there are clusters of purple crocuses and gold ones--even now. perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out and uncurl--and perhaps--the gray is changing and a green gauze veil is creeping--and creeping over--everything. and the birds are coming to look at it--because it is--so safe and still. and perhaps--perhaps--perhaps--" very softly and slowly indeed, "the robin has found a mate--and is building a nest." and colin was asleep. chapter xviii "tha' munnot waste no time" of course mary did not waken early the next morning. she slept late because she was tired, and when martha brought her breakfast she told her that though colin was quite quiet he was ill and feverish as he always was after he had worn himself out with a fit of crying. mary ate her breakfast slowly as she listened. "he says he wishes tha' would please go and see him as soon as tha' can," martha said. "it's queer what a fancy he's took to thee. tha' did give it him last night for sure--didn't tha'? nobody else would have dared to do it. eh! poor lad! he's been spoiled till salt won't save him. mother says as th' two worst things as can happen to a child is never to have his own way--or always to have it. she doesn't know which is th' worst. tha' was in a fine temper tha'self, too. but he says to me when i went into his room, 'please ask miss mary if she'll please come an' talk to me?' think o' him saying please! will you go, miss?" "i'll run and see dickon first," said mary. "no, i'll go and see colin first and tell him--i know what i'll tell him," with a sudden inspiration. she had her hat on when she appeared in colin's room and for a second he looked disappointed. he was in bed and his face was pitifully white and there were dark circles round his eyes. "i'm glad you came," he said. "my head aches and i ache all over because i'm so tired. are you going somewhere?" mary went and leaned against his bed. "i won't be long," she said. "i'm going to dickon, but i'll come back. colin, it's--it's something about the secret garden." his whole face brightened and a little color came into it. "oh! is it!" he cried out. "i dreamed about it all night. i heard you say something about gray changing into green, and i dreamed i was standing in a place all filled with trembling little green leaves--and there were birds on nests everywhere and they looked so soft and still. i'll lie and think about it until you come back." in five minutes mary was with dickon in their garden. the fox and the crow were with him again and this time he had brought two tame squirrels. "i came over on the pony this mornin'," he said. "eh! he is a good little chap--jump is! i brought these two in my pockets. this here one he's called nut an' this here other one's called shell." when he said "nut" one squirrel leaped on to his right shoulder and when he said "shell" the other one leaped on to his left shoulder. when they sat down on the grass with captain curled at their feet, soot solemnly listening on a tree and nut and shell nosing about close to them, it seemed to mary that it would be scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness, but when she began to tell her story somehow the look in dickon's funny face gradually changed her mind. she could see he felt sorrier for colin than she did. he looked up at the sky and all about him. "just listen to them birds--th' world seems full of 'em--all whistlin' an' pipin'," he said. "look at 'em dartin' about, an' hearken at 'em callin' to each other. come springtime seems like as if all th' world's callin'. the leaves is uncurlin' so you can see 'em--an', my word, th' nice smells there is about!" sniffing with his happy turned-up nose. "an' that poor lad lyin' shut up an' seein' so little that he gets to thinkin' o' things as sets him screamin'. eh! my! we mun get him out here--we mun get him watchin' an' listenin' an' sniffin' up th' air an' get him just soaked through wi' sunshine. an' we munnot lose no time about it." when he was very much interested he often spoke quite broad yorkshire though at other times he tried to modify his dialect so that mary could better understand. but she loved his broad yorkshire and had in fact been trying to learn to speak it herself. so she spoke a little now. "aye, that we mun," she said (which meant "yes, indeed, we must"). "i'll tell thee what us'll do first," she proceeded, and dickon grinned, because when the little wench tried to twist her tongue into speaking yorkshire it amused him very much. "he's took a graidely fancy to thee. he wants to see thee and he wants to see soot an' captain. when i go back to the house to talk to him i'll ax him if tha' canna' come an' see him to-morrow mornin'--an' bring tha' creatures wi' thee--an' then--in a bit, when there's more leaves out, an' happen a bud or two, we'll get him to come out an' tha' shall push him in his chair an' we'll bring him here an' show him everything." when she stopped she was quite proud of herself. she had never made a long speech in yorkshire before and she had remembered very well. "tha' mun talk a bit o' yorkshire like that to mester colin," dickon chuckled. "tha'll make him laugh an' there's nowt as good for ill folk as laughin' is. mother says she believes as half a hour's good laugh every mornin' 'ud cure a chap as was makin' ready for typhus fever." "i'm going to talk yorkshire to him this very day," said mary, chuckling herself. the garden had reached the time when every day and every night it seemed as if magicians were passing through it drawing loveliness out of the earth and the boughs with wands. it was hard to go away and leave it all, particularly as nut had actually crept on to her dress and shell had scrambled down the trunk of the apple-tree they sat under and stayed there looking at her with inquiring eyes. but she went back to the house and when she sat down close to colin's bed he began to sniff as dickon did though not in such an experienced way. "you smell like flowers and--and fresh things," he cried out quite joyously. "what is it you smell of? it's cool and warm and sweet all at the same time." "it's th' wind from th' moor," said mary. "it comes o' sittin' on th' grass under a tree wi' dickon an' wi' captain an' soot an' nut an' shell. it's th' springtime an' out o' doors an' sunshine as smells so graidely." she said it as broadly as she could, and you do not know how broadly yorkshire sounds until you have heard some one speak it. colin began to laugh. "what are you doing?" he said. "i never heard you talk like that before. how funny it sounds." "i'm givin' thee a bit o' yorkshire," answered mary triumphantly. "i canna' talk as graidely as dickon an' martha can but tha' sees i can shape a bit. doesn't tha' understand a bit o' yorkshire when tha' hears it? an' tha' a yorkshire lad thysel' bred an' born! eh! i wonder tha'rt not ashamed o' thy face." and then she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could not stop themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and mrs. medlock opening the door to come in drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed. "well, upon my word!" she said, speaking rather broad yorkshire herself because there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished. "whoever heard th' like! whoever on earth would ha' thought it!" there was so much to talk about. it seemed as if colin could never hear enough of dickon and captain and soot and nut and shell and the pony whose name was jump. mary had run round into the wood with dickon to see jump. he was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet nose. he was rather thin with living on moor grass but he was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel springs. he had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw dickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder and then dickon had talked into his ear and jump had talked back in odd little whinnies and puffs and snorts. dickon had made him give mary his small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle. "does he really understand everything dickon says?" colin asked. "it seems as if he does," answered mary. "dickon says anything will understand if you're friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for sure." colin lay quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but mary saw he was thinking. "i wish i was friends with things," he said at last, "but i'm not. i never had anything to be friends with, and i can't bear people." "can't you bear me?" asked mary. "yes, i can," he answered. "it's very funny but i even like you." "ben weatherstaff said i was like him," said mary. "he said he'd warrant we'd both got the same nasty tempers. i think you are like him too. we are all three alike--you and i and ben weatherstaff. he said we were neither of us much to look at and we were as sour as we looked. but i don't feel as sour as i used to before i knew the robin and dickon." "did you feel as if you hated people?" "yes," answered mary without any affectation. "i should have detested you if i had seen you before i saw the robin and dickon." colin put out his thin hand and touched her. "mary," he said, "i wish i hadn't said what i did about sending dickon away. i hated you when you said he was like an angel and i laughed at you but--but perhaps he is." "well, it was rather funny to say it," she admitted frankly, "because his nose does turn up and he has a big mouth and his clothes have patches all over them and he talks broad yorkshire, but--but if an angel did come to yorkshire and live on the moor--if there was a yorkshire angel--i believe he'd understand the green things and know how to make them grow and he would know how to talk to the wild creatures as dickon does and they'd know he was friends for sure." "i shouldn't mind dickon looking at me," said colin; "i want to see him." "i'm glad you said that," answered mary, "because--because--" quite suddenly it came into her mind that this was the minute to tell him. colin knew something new was coming. "because what?" he cried eagerly. mary was so anxious that she got up from her stool and came to him and caught hold of both his hands. "can i trust you? i trusted dickon because birds trusted him. can i trust you--for sure--_for sure_?" she implored. her face was so solemn that he almost whispered his answer. "yes--yes!" "well, dickon will come to see you to-morrow morning, and he'll bring his creatures with him." "oh! oh!" colin cried out in delight. "but that's not all," mary went on, almost pale with solemn excitement. "the rest is better. there is a door into the garden. i found it. it is under the ivy on the wall." if he had been a strong healthy boy colin would probably have shouted "hooray! hooray! hooray!" but he was weak and rather hysterical; his eyes grew bigger and bigger and he gasped for breath. "oh! mary!" he cried out with a half sob. "shall i see it? shall i get into it? shall i _live_ to get into it?" and he clutched her hands and dragged her toward him. "of course you'll see it!" snapped mary indignantly. "of course you'll live to get into it! don't be silly!" and she was so un-hysterical and natural and childish that she brought him to his senses and he began to laugh at himself and a few minutes afterward she was sitting on her stool again telling him not what she imagined the secret garden to be like but what it really was, and colin's aches and tiredness were forgotten and he was listening enraptured. "it is just what you thought it would be," he said at last. "it sounds just as if you had really seen it. you know i said that when you told me first." mary hesitated about two minutes and then boldly spoke the truth. "i had seen it--and i had been in," she said. "i found the key and got in weeks ago. but i daren't tell you--i daren't because i was so afraid i couldn't trust you--_for sure_!" chapter xix "it has come!" of course dr. craven had been sent for the morning after colin had had his tantrum. he was always sent for at once when such a thing occurred and he always found, when he arrived, a white shaken boy lying on his bed, sulky and still so hysterical that he was ready to break into fresh sobbing at the least word. in fact, dr. craven dreaded and detested the difficulties of these visits. on this occasion he was away from misselthwaite manor until afternoon. "how is he?" he asked mrs. medlock rather irritably when he arrived. "he will break a blood-vessel in one of those fits some day. the boy is half insane with hysteria and self-indulgence." "well, sir," answered mrs. medlock, "you'll scarcely believe your eyes when you see him. that plain sour-faced child that's almost as bad as himself has just bewitched him. how she's done it there's no telling. the lord knows she's nothing to look at and you scarcely ever hear her speak, but she did what none of us dare do. she just flew at him like a little cat last night, and stamped her feet and ordered him to stop screaming, and somehow she startled him so that he actually did stop, and this afternoon--well just come up and see, sir. it's past crediting." the scene which dr. craven beheld when he entered his patient's room was indeed rather astonishing to him. as mrs. medlock opened the door he heard laughing and chattering. colin was on his sofa in his dressing-gown and he was sitting up quite straight looking at a picture in one of the garden books and talking to the plain child who at that moment could scarcely be called plain at all because her face was so glowing with enjoyment. "those long spires of blue ones--we'll have a lot of those," colin was announcing. "they're called del-phin-iums." "dickon says they're larkspurs made big and grand," cried mistress mary. "there are clumps there already." then they saw dr. craven and stopped. mary became quite still and colin looked fretful. "i am sorry to hear you were ill last night, my boy," dr. craven said a trifle nervously. he was rather a nervous man. "i'm better now--much better," colin answered, rather like a rajah. "i'm going out in my chair in a day or two if it is fine. i want some fresh air." dr. craven sat down by him and felt his pulse and looked at him curiously. "it must be a very fine day," he said, "and you must be very careful not to tire yourself." "fresh air won't tire me," said the young rajah. as there had been occasions when this same young gentleman had shrieked aloud with rage and had insisted that fresh air would give him cold and kill him, it is not to be wondered at that his doctor felt somewhat startled. "i thought you did not like fresh air," he said. "i don't when i am by myself," replied the rajah; "but my cousin is going out with me." "and the nurse, of course?" suggested dr. craven. "no, i will not have the nurse," so magnificently that mary could not help remembering how the young native prince had looked with his diamonds and emeralds and pearls stuck all over him and the great rubies on the small dark hand he had waved to command his servants to approach with salaams and receive his orders. "my cousin knows how to take care of me. i am always better when she is with me. she made me better last night. a very strong boy i know will push my carriage." dr. craven felt rather alarmed. if this tiresome hysterical boy should chance to get well he himself would lose all chance of inheriting misselthwaite; but he was not an unscrupulous man, though he was a weak one, and he did not intend to let him run into actual danger. "he must be a strong boy and a steady boy," he said. "and i must know something about him. who is he? what is his name?" "it's dickon," mary spoke up suddenly. she felt somehow that everybody who knew the moor must know dickon. and she was right, too. she saw that in a moment dr. craven's serious face relaxed into a relieved smile. "oh, dickon," he said. "if it is dickon you will be safe enough. he's as strong as a moor pony, is dickon." "and he's trusty," said mary. "he's th' trustiest lad i' yorkshire." she had been talking yorkshire to colin and she forgot herself. "did dickon teach you that?" asked dr. craven, laughing outright. "i'm learning it as if it was french," said mary rather coldly. "it's like a native dialect in india. very clever people try to learn them. i like it and so does colin." "well, well," he said. "if it amuses you perhaps it won't do you any harm. did you take your bromide last night, colin?" "no," colin answered. "i wouldn't take it at first and after mary made me quiet she talked me to sleep--in a low voice--about the spring creeping into a garden." "that sounds soothing," said dr. craven, more perplexed than ever and glancing sideways at mistress mary sitting on her stool and looking down silently at the carpet. "you are evidently better, but you must remember--" "i don't want to remember," interrupted the rajah, appearing again. "when i lie by myself and remember i begin to have pains everywhere and i think of things that make me begin to scream because i hate them so. if there was a doctor anywhere who could make you forget you were ill instead of remembering it i would have him brought here." and he waved a thin hand which ought really to have been covered with royal signet rings made of rubies. "it is because my cousin makes me forget that she makes me better." dr. craven had never made such a short stay after a "tantrum"; usually he was obliged to remain a very long time and do a great many things. this afternoon he did not give any medicine or leave any new orders and he was spared any disagreeable scenes. when he went down-stairs he looked very thoughtful and when he talked to mrs. medlock in the library she felt that he was a much puzzled man. "well, sir," she ventured, "could you have believed it?" "it is certainly a new state of affairs," said the doctor. "and there's no denying it is better than the old one." "i believe susan sowerby's right--i do that," said mrs. medlock. "i stopped in her cottage on my way to thwaite yesterday and had a bit of talk with her. and she says to me, 'well, sarah ann, she mayn't be a good child, an' she mayn't be a pretty one, but she's a child, an' children needs children.' we went to school together, susan sowerby and me." "she's the best sick nurse i know," said dr. craven. "when i find her in a cottage i know the chances are that i shall save my patient." mrs. medlock smiled. she was fond of susan sowerby. "she's got a way with her, has susan," she went on quite volubly. "i've been thinking all morning of one thing she said yesterday. she says, 'once when i was givin' th' children a bit of a preach after they'd been fightin' i ses to 'em all, "when i was at school my jography told as th' world was shaped like a orange an' i found out before i was ten that th' whole orange doesn't belong to nobody. no one owns more than his bit of a quarter an' there's times it seems like there's not enow quarters to go round. but don't you--none o' you--think as you own th' whole orange or you'll find out you're mistaken, an' you won't find it out without hard knocks." what children learns from children,' she says, 'is that there's no sense in grabbin' at th' whole orange--peel an' all. if you do you'll likely not get even th' pips, an' them's too bitter to eat.'" "she's a shrewd woman," said dr. craven, putting on his coat. "well, she's got a way of saying things," ended mrs. medlock, much pleased. "sometimes i've said to her, 'eh! susan, if you was a different woman an' didn't talk such broad yorkshire i've seen the times when i should have said you was clever.'" * * * * * that night colin slept without once awakening and when he opened his eyes in the morning he lay still and smiled without knowing it--smiled because he felt so curiously comfortable. it was actually nice to be awake, and he turned over and stretched his limbs luxuriously. he felt as if tight strings which had held him had loosened themselves and let him go. he did not know that dr. craven would have said that his nerves had relaxed and rested themselves. instead of lying and staring at the wall and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was full of the plans he and mary had made yesterday, of pictures of the garden and of dickon and his wild creatures. it was so nice to have things to think about. and he had not been awake more than ten minutes when he heard feet running along the corridor and mary was at the door. the next minute she was in the room and had run across to his bed, bringing with her a waft of fresh air full of the scent of the morning. "you've been out! you've been out! there's that nice smell of leaves!" he cried. she had been running and her hair was loose and blown and she was bright with the air and pink-cheeked, though he could not see it. "it's so beautiful!" she said, a little breathless with her speed. "you never saw anything so beautiful! it has _come_! i thought it had come that other morning, but it was only coming. it is here now! it has come, the spring! dickon says so!" "has it?" cried colin, and though he really knew nothing about it he felt his heart beat. he actually sat up in bed. "open the window!" he added, laughing half with joyful excitement and half at his own fancy. "perhaps we may hear golden trumpets!" and though he laughed, mary was at the window in a moment and in a moment more it was opened wide and freshness and softness and scents and birds' songs were pouring through. "that's fresh air," she said. "lie on your back and draw in long breaths of it. that's what dickon does when he's lying on the moor. he says he feels it in his veins and it makes him strong and he feels as if he could live forever and ever. breathe it and breathe it." she was only repeating what dickon had told her, but she caught colin's fancy. "'forever and ever'! does it make him feel like that?" he said, and he did as she told him, drawing in long deep breaths over and over again until he felt that something quite new and delightful was happening to him. mary was at his bedside again. "things are crowding up out of the earth," she ran on in a hurry. "and there are flowers uncurling and buds on everything and the green veil has covered nearly all the gray and the birds are in such a hurry about their nests for fear they may be too late that some of them are even fighting for places in the secret garden. and the rose-bushes look as wick as wick can be, and there are primroses in the lanes and woods, and the seeds we planted are up, and dickon has brought the fox and the crow and the squirrels and a new-born lamb." and then she paused for breath. the new-born lamb dickon had found three days before lying by its dead mother among the gorse bushes on the moor. it was not the first motherless lamb he had found and he knew what to do with it. he had taken it to the cottage wrapped in his jacket and he had let it lie near the fire and had fed it with warm milk. it was a soft thing with a darling silly baby face and legs rather long for its body. dickon had carried it over the moor in his arms and its feeding bottle was in his pocket with a squirrel, and when mary had sat under a tree with its limp warmness huddled on her lap she had felt as if she were too full of strange joy to speak. a lamb--a lamb! a living lamb who lay on your lap like a baby! she was describing it with great joy and colin was listening and drawing in long breaths of air when the nurse entered. she started a little at the sight of the open window. she had sat stifling in the room many a warm day because her patient was sure that open windows gave people cold. "are you sure you are not chilly, master colin?" she inquired. "no," was the answer. "i am breathing long breaths of fresh air. it makes you strong. i am going to get up to the sofa for breakfast and my cousin will have breakfast with me." the nurse went away, concealing a smile, to give the order for two breakfasts. she found the servants' hall a more amusing place than the invalid's chamber and just now everybody wanted to hear the news from up-stairs. there was a great deal of joking about the unpopular young recluse who, as the cook said, "had found his master, and good for him." the servants' hall had been very tired of the tantrums, and the butler, who was a man with a family, had more than once expressed his opinion that the invalid would be all the better "for a good hiding." when colin was on his sofa and the breakfast for two was put upon the table he made an announcement to the nurse in his most rajah-like manner. "a boy, and a fox, and a crow, and two squirrels, and a new-born lamb, are coming to see me this morning. i want them brought up-stairs as soon as they come," he said. "you are not to begin playing with the animals in the servants' hall and keep them there. i want them here." the nurse gave a slight gasp and tried to conceal it with a cough. "yes, sir," she answered. "i'll tell you what you can do," added colin, waving his hand. "you can tell martha to bring them here. the boy is martha's brother. his name is dickon and he is an animal charmer." "i hope the animals won't bite, master colin," said the nurse. "i told you he was a charmer," said colin austerely. "charmers' animals never bite." "there are snake-charmers in india," said mary; "and they can put their snakes' heads in their mouths." "goodness!" shuddered the nurse. they ate their breakfast with the morning air pouring in upon them. colin's breakfast was a very good one and mary watched him with serious interest. "you will begin to get fatter just as i did," she said. "i never wanted my breakfast when i was in india and now i always want it." "i wanted mine this morning," said colin. "perhaps it was the fresh air. when do you think dickon will come?" he was not long in coming. in about ten minutes mary held up her hand. "listen!" she said. "did you hear a caw?" colin listened and heard it, the oddest sound in the world to hear inside a house, a hoarse "caw-caw." "yes," he answered. "that's soot," said mary. "listen again! do you hear a bleat--a tiny one?" "oh, yes!" cried colin, quite flushing. "that's the new-born lamb," said mary. "he's coming." dickon's moorland boots were thick and clumsy and though he tried to walk quietly they made a clumping sound as he walked through the long corridors. mary and colin heard him marching--marching, until he passed through the tapestry door on to the soft carpet of colin's own passage. "if you please, sir," announced martha, opening the door, "if you please, sir, here's dickon an' his creatures." [illustration: "dickon came in smiling his nicest wide smile."--_page _] dickon came in smiling his nicest wide smile. the new-born lamb was in his arms and the little red fox trotted by his side. nut sat on his left shoulder and soot on his right and shell's head and paws peeped out of his coat pocket. colin slowly sat up and stared and stared--as he had stared when he first saw mary; but this was a stare of wonder and delight. the truth was that in spite of all he had heard he had not in the least understood what this boy would be like and that his fox and his crow and his squirrels and his lamb were so near to him and his friendliness that they seemed almost to be part of himself. colin had never talked to a boy in his life and he was so overwhelmed by his own pleasure and curiosity that he did not even think of speaking. but dickon did not feel the least shy or awkward. he had not felt embarrassed because the crow had not known his language and had only stared and had not spoken to him the first time they met. creatures were always like that until they found out about you. he walked over to colin's sofa and put the new-born lamb quietly on his lap, and immediately the little creature turned to the warm velvet dressing-gown and began to nuzzle and nuzzle into its folds and butt its tight-curled head with soft impatience against his side. of course no boy could have helped speaking then. "what is it doing?" cried colin. "what does it want?" "it wants its mother," said dickon, smiling more and more. "i brought it to thee a bit hungry because i knowed tha'd like to see it feed." he knelt down by the sofa and took a feeding-bottle from his pocket. "come on, little 'un," he said, turning the small woolly white head with a gentle brown hand. "this is what tha's after. tha'll get more out o' this than tha' will out o' silk velvet coats. there now," and he pushed the rubber tip of the bottle into the nuzzling mouth and the lamb began to suck it with ravenous ecstasy. after that there was no wondering what to say. by the time the lamb fell asleep questions poured forth and dickon answered them all. he told them how he had found the lamb just as the sun was rising three mornings ago. he had been standing on the moor listening to a skylark and watching him swing higher and higher into the sky until he was only a speck in the heights of blue. "i'd almost lost him but for his song an' i was wonderin' how a chap could hear it when it seemed as if he'd get out o' th' world in a minute--an' just then i heard somethin' else far off among th' gorse bushes. it was a weak bleatin' an' i knowed it was a new lamb as was hungry an' i knowed it wouldn't be hungry if it hadn't lost its mother somehow, so i set off searchin'. eh! i did have a look for it. i went in an' out among th' gorse bushes an' round an' round an' i always seemed to take th' wrong turnin'. but at last i seed a bit o' white by a rock on top o' th' moor an' i climbed up an' found th' little 'un half dead wi' cold an' clemmin'." while he talked, soot flew solemnly in and out of the open window and cawed remarks about the scenery while nut and shell made excursions into the big trees outside and ran up and down trunks and explored branches. captain curled up near dickon, who sat on the hearth-rug from preference. they looked at the pictures in the gardening books and dickon knew all the flowers by their country names and knew exactly which ones were already growing in the secret garden. "i couldna' say that there name," he said, pointing to one under which was written "aquilegia," "but us calls that a columbine, an' that there one it's a snapdragon and they both grow wild in hedges, but these is garden ones an' they're bigger an' grander. there's some big clumps o' columbine in th' garden. they'll look like a bed o' blue an' white butterflies flutterin' when they're out." "i'm going to see them," cried colin. "i am going to see them!" "aye, that tha' mun," said mary quite seriously. "an tha' munnot lose no time about it." chapter xx "i shall live forever--and ever--and ever!" but they were obliged to wait more than a week because first there came some very windy days and then colin was threatened with a cold, which two things happening one after the other would no doubt have thrown him into a rage but that there was so much careful and mysterious planning to do and almost every day dickon came in, if only for a few minutes, to talk about what was happening on the moor and in the lanes and hedges and on the borders of streams. the things he had to tell about otters' and badgers' and water-rats' houses, not to mention birds' nests and field-mice and their burrows, were enough to make you almost tremble with excitement when you heard all the intimate details from an animal charmer and realized with what thrilling eagerness and anxiety the whole busy underworld was working. "they're same as us," said dickon, "only they have to build their homes every year. an' it keeps 'em so busy they fair scuffle to get 'em done." the most absorbing thing, however, was the preparations to be made before colin could be transported with sufficient secrecy to the garden. no one must see the chair-carriage and dickon and mary after they turned a certain corner of the shrubbery and entered upon the walk outside the ivied walls. as each day passed, colin had become more and more fixed in his feeling that the mystery surrounding the garden was one of its greatest charms. nothing must spoil that. no one must ever suspect that they had a secret. people must think that he was simply going out with mary and dickon because he liked them and did not object to their looking at him. they had long and quite delightful talks about their route. they would go up this path and down that one and cross the other and go round among the fountain flower-beds as if they were looking at the "bedding-out plants" the head gardener, mr. roach, had been having arranged. that would seem such a rational thing to do that no one would think it at all mysterious. they would turn into the shrubbery walks and lose themselves until they came to the long walls. it was almost as serious and elaborately thought out as the plans of march made by great generals in time of war. rumors of the new and curious things which were occurring in the invalid's apartments had of course filtered through the servants' hall into the stable yards and out among the gardeners, but notwithstanding this, mr. roach was startled one day when he received orders from master colin's room to the effect that he must report himself in the apartment no outsider had ever seen, as the invalid himself desired to speak to him. "well, well," he said to himself as he hurriedly changed his coat, "what's to do now? his royal highness that wasn't to be looked at calling up a man he's never set eyes on." mr. roach was not without curiosity. he had never caught even a glimpse of the boy and had heard a dozen exaggerated stories about his uncanny looks and ways and his insane tempers. the thing he had heard oftenest was that he might die at any moment and there had been numerous fanciful descriptions of a humped back and helpless limbs, given by people who had never seen him. "things are changing in this house, mr. roach," said mrs. medlock, as she led him up the back staircase to the corridor on to which opened the hitherto mysterious chamber. "let's hope they're changing for the better, mrs. medlock," he answered. "they couldn't well change for the worse," she continued; "and queer as it all is there's them as finds their duties made a lot easier to stand up under. don't you be surprised, mr. roach, if you find yourself in the middle of a menagerie and martha sowerby's dickon more at home than you or me could ever be." there really was a sort of magic about dickon, as mary always privately believed. when mr. roach heard his name he smiled quite leniently. "he'd be at home in buckingham palace or at the bottom of a coal mine," he said. "and yet it's not impudence, either. he's just fine, is that lad." it was perhaps well he had been prepared or he might have been startled. when the bedroom door was opened a large crow, which seemed quite at home perched on the high back of a carven chair, announced the entrance of a visitor by saying "caw--caw" quite loudly. in spite of mrs. medlock's warning, mr. roach only just escaped being sufficiently undignified to jump backward. the young rajah was neither in bed nor on his sofa. he was sitting in an armchair and a young lamb was standing by him shaking its tail in feeding-lamb fashion as dickon knelt giving it milk from its bottle. a squirrel was perched on dickon's bent back attentively nibbling a nut. the little girl from india was sitting on a big footstool looking on. "here is mr. roach, master colin," said mrs. medlock. the young rajah turned and looked his servitor over--at least that was what the head gardener felt happened. "oh, you are roach, are you?" he said. "i sent for you to give you some very important orders." "very good, sir," answered roach, wondering if he was to receive instructions to fell all the oaks in the park or to transform the orchards into water-gardens. "i am going out in my chair this afternoon," said colin. "if the fresh air agrees with me i may go out every day. when i go, none of the gardeners are to be anywhere near the long walk by the garden walls. no one is to be there. i shall go out about two o'clock and every one must keep away until i send word that they may go back to their work." "very good, sir," replied mr. roach, much relieved to hear that the oaks might remain and that the orchards were safe. "mary," said colin, turning to her, "what is that thing you say in india when you have finished talking and want people to go?" "you say, 'you have my permission to go,'" answered mary. the rajah waved his hand. "you have my permission to go, roach," he said. "but, remember, this is very important." "caw--caw!" remarked the crow hoarsely but not impolitely. "very good, sir. thank you, sir," said mr. roach, and mrs. medlock took him out of the room. outside in the corridor, being a rather good-natured man, he smiled until he almost laughed. "my word!" he said, "he's got a fine lordly way with him, hasn't he? you'd think he was a whole royal family rolled into one--prince consort and all." "eh!" protested mrs. medlock, "we've had to let him trample all over every one of us ever since he had feet and he thinks that's what folks was born for." "perhaps he'll grow out of it, if he lives," suggested mr. roach. "well, there's one thing pretty sure," said mrs. medlock. "if he does live and that indian child stays here i'll warrant she teaches him that the whole orange does not belong to him, as susan sowerby says. and he'll be likely to find out the size of his own quarter." inside the room colin was leaning back on his cushions. "it's all safe now," he said. "and this afternoon i shall see it--this afternoon i shall be in it!" dickon went back to the garden with his creatures and mary stayed with colin. she did not think he looked tired but he was very quiet before their lunch came and he was quiet while they were eating it. she wondered why and asked him about it. "what big eyes you've got, colin," she said. "when you are thinking they get as big as saucers. what are you thinking about now?" "i can't help thinking about what it will look like," he answered. "the garden?" asked mary. "the springtime," he said. "i was thinking that i've really never seen it before. i scarcely ever went out and when i did go i never looked at it. i didn't even think about it." "i never saw it in india because there wasn't any," said mary. shut in and morbid as his life had been, colin had more imagination than she had and at least he had spent a good deal of time looking at wonderful books and pictures. "that morning when you ran in and said 'it's come! it's come!' you made me feel quite queer. it sounded as if things were coming with a great procession and big bursts and wafts of music. i've a picture like it in one of my books--crowds of lovely people and children with garlands and branches with blossoms on them, every one laughing and dancing and crowding and playing on pipes. that was why i said, 'perhaps we shall hear golden trumpets' and told you to throw open the window." "how funny!" said mary. "that's really just what it feels like. and if all the flowers and leaves and green things and birds and wild creatures danced past at once, what a crowd it would be! i'm sure they'd dance and sing and flute and that would be the wafts of music." they both laughed but it was not because the idea was laughable but because they both so liked it. a little later the nurse made colin ready. she noticed that instead of lying like a log while his clothes were put on he sat up and made some efforts to help himself, and he talked and laughed with mary all the time. "this is one of his good days, sir," she said to dr. craven, who dropped in to inspect him. "he's in such good spirits that it makes him stronger." "i'll call in again later in the afternoon, after he has come in," said dr. craven. "i must see how the going out agrees with him. i wish," in a very low voice, "that he would let you go with him." "i'd rather give up the case this moment, sir, than even stay here while it's suggested," answered the nurse with sudden firmness. "i hadn't really decided to suggest it," said the doctor, with his slight nervousness. "we'll try the experiment. dickon's a lad i'd trust with a new-born child." the strongest footman in the house carried colin down-stairs and put him in his wheeled chair near which dickon waited outside. after the manservant had arranged his rugs and cushions the rajah waved his hand to him and to the nurse. "you have my permission to go," he said, and they both disappeared quickly and it must be confessed giggled when they were safely inside the house. dickon began to push the wheeled chair slowly and steadily. mistress mary walked beside it and colin leaned back and lifted his face to the sky. the arch of it looked very high and the small snowy clouds seemed like white birds floating on outspread wings below its crystal blueness. the wind swept in soft big breaths down from the moor and was strange with a wild clear scented sweetness. colin kept lifting his thin chest to draw it in, and his big eyes looked as if it were they which were listening--listening, instead of his ears. "there are so many sounds of singing and humming and calling out," he said. "what is that scent the puffs of wind bring?" "it's gorse on th' moor that's openin' out," answered dickon. "eh! th' bees are at it wonderful to-day." not a human creature was to be caught sight of in the paths they took. in fact every gardener or gardener's lad had been witched away. but they wound in and out among the shrubbery and out and round the fountain beds, following their carefully planned route for the mere mysterious pleasure of it. but when at last they turned into the long walk by the ivied walls the excited sense of an approaching thrill made them, for some curious reason they could not have explained, begin to speak in whispers. "this is it," breathed mary. "this is where i used to walk up and down and wonder and wonder." "is it?" cried colin, and his eyes began to search the ivy with eager curiousness. "but i can see nothing," he whispered. "there is no door." "that's what i thought," said mary. then there was a lovely breathless silence and the chair wheeled on. "that is the garden where ben weatherstaff works," said mary. "is it?" said colin. a few yards more and mary whispered again. "this is where the robin flew over the wall," she said. "is it?" cried colin. "oh! i wish he'd come again!" "and that," said mary with solemn delight, pointing under a big lilac bush, "is where he perched on the little heap of earth and showed me the key." then colin sat up. "where? where? there?" he cried, and his eyes were as big as the wolf's in red riding-hood, when red riding-hood felt called upon to remark on them. dickon stood still and the wheeled chair stopped. "and this," said mary, stepping on to the bed close to the ivy, "is where i went to talk to him when he chirped at me from the top of the wall. and this is the ivy the wind blew back," and she took hold of the hanging green curtain. "oh! is it--is it!" gasped colin. "and here is the handle, and here is the door. dickon push him in--push him in quickly!" and dickon did it with one strong, steady, splendid push. but colin had actually dropped back against his cushions, even though he gasped with delight, and he had covered his eyes with his hands and held them there shutting out everything until they were inside and the chair stopped as if by magic and the door was closed. not till then did he take them away and look round and round and round as dickon and mary had done. and over walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees and the gray urns in the alcoves and here and there everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and scents. and the sun fell warm upon his face like a hand with a lovely touch. and in wonder mary and dickon stood and stared at him. he looked so strange and different because a pink glow of color had actually crept all over him--ivory face and neck and hands and all. "i shall get well! i shall get well!" he cried out. "mary! dickon! i shall get well! and i shall live forever and ever and ever!" chapter xxi ben weatherstaff one of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. one knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the east almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun--which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. one knows it then for a moment or so. and one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in some one's eyes. and it was like that with colin when he first saw and heard and felt the springtime inside the four high walls of a hidden garden. that afternoon the whole world seemed to devote itself to being perfect and radiantly beautiful and kind to one boy. perhaps out of pure heavenly goodness the spring came and crowded everything it possibly could into that one place. more than once dickon paused in what he was doing and stood still with a sort of growing wonder in his eyes, shaking his head softly. "eh! it is graidely," he said. "i'm twelve goin' on thirteen an' there's a lot o' afternoons in thirteen years, but seems to me like i never seed one as graidely as this 'ere." "aye, it is a graidely one," said mary, and she sighed for mere joy. "i'll warrant it's th' graidelest one as ever was in this world." "does tha' think," said colin with dreamy carefulness, "as happen it was made loike this 'ere all o' purpose for me?" "my word!" cried mary admiringly, "that there is a bit o' good yorkshire. tha'rt shapin' first-rate--that tha' art." and delight reigned. they drew the chair under the plum-tree, which was snow-white with blossoms and musical with bees. it was like a king's canopy, a fairy king's. there were flowering cherry-trees near and apple-trees whose buds were pink and white, and here and there one had burst open wide. between the blossoming branches of the canopy bits of blue sky looked down like wonderful eyes. mary and dickon worked a little here and there and colin watched them. they brought him things to look at--buds which were opening, buds which were tight closed, bits of twig whose leaves were just showing green, the feather of a woodpecker which had dropped on the grass, the empty shell of some bird early hatched. dickon pushed the chair slowly round and round the garden, stopping every other moment to let him look at wonders springing out of the earth or trailing down from trees. it was like being taken in state round the country of a magic king and queen and shown all the mysterious riches it contained. "i wonder if we shall see the robin?" said colin. "tha'll see him often enow after a bit," answered dickon. "when th' eggs hatches out th' little chap he'll be kep' so busy it'll make his head swim. tha'll see him flyin' backward an' for'ard carryin' worms nigh as big as himsel' an' that much noise goin' on in th' nest when he gets there as fair flusters him so as he scarce knows which big mouth to drop th' first piece in. an' gapin' beaks an' squawks on every side. mother says as when she sees th' work a robin has to keep them gapin' beaks filled, she feels like she was a lady with nothin' to do. she says she's seen th' little chaps when it seemed like th' sweat must be droppin' off 'em, though folk can't see it." this made them giggle so delightedly that they were obliged to cover their mouths with their hands, remembering that they must not be heard. colin had been instructed as to the law of whispers and low voices several days before. he liked the mysteriousness of it and did his best, but in the midst of excited enjoyment it is rather difficult never to laugh above a whisper. every moment of the afternoon was full of new things and every hour the sunshine grew more golden. the wheeled chair had been drawn back under the canopy and dickon had sat down on the grass and had just drawn out his pipe when colin saw something he had not had time to notice before. "that's a very old tree over there, isn't it?" he said. dickon looked across the grass at the tree and mary looked and there was a brief moment of stillness. "yes," answered dickon, after it, and his low voice had a very gentle sound. mary gazed at the tree and thought. "the branches are quite gray and there's not a single leaf anywhere," colin went on. "it's quite dead, isn't it?" "aye," admitted dickon. "but them roses as has climbed all over it will near hide every bit o' th' dead wood when they're full o' leaves an' flowers. it won't look dead then. it'll be th' prettiest of all." mary still gazed at the tree and thought. "it looks as if a big branch had been broken off," said colin. "i wonder how it was done." "it's been done many a year," answered dickon. "eh!" with a sudden relieved start and laying his hand on colin. "look at that robin! there he is! he's been foragin' for his mate." colin was almost too late but he just caught sight of him, the flash of red-breasted bird with something in his beak. he darted through the greenness and into the close-grown corner and was out of sight. colin leaned back on his cushion again, laughing a little. "he's taking her tea to her. perhaps it's five o'clock. i think i'd like some tea myself." and so they were safe. "it was magic which sent the robin," said mary secretly to dickon afterward. "i know it was magic." for both she and dickon had been afraid colin might ask something about the tree whose branch had broken off ten years ago and they had talked it over together and dickon had stood and rubbed his head in a troubled way. "we mun look as if it wasn't no different from th' other trees," he had said. "we couldn't never tell him how it broke, poor lad. if he says anything about it we mun--we mun try to look cheerful." "aye, that we mun," had answered mary. but she had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the tree. she wondered and wondered in those few moments if there was any reality in that other thing dickon had said. he had gone on rubbing his rust-red hair in a puzzled way, but a nice comforted look had begun to grow in his blue eyes. "mrs. craven was a very lovely young lady," he had gone on rather hesitatingly. "an' mother she thinks maybe she's about misselthwaite many a time lookin' after mester colin, same as all mothers do when they're took out o' th' world. they have to come back, tha' sees. happen she's been in the garden an' happen it was her set us to work, an' told us to bring him here." mary had thought he meant something about magic. she was a great believer in magic. secretly she quite believed that dickon worked magic, of course good magic, on everything near him and that was why people liked him so much and wild creatures knew he was their friend. she wondered, indeed, if it were not possible that his gift had brought the robin just at the right moment when colin asked that dangerous question. she felt that his magic was working all the afternoon and making colin look like an entirely different boy. it did not seem possible that he could be the crazy creature who had screamed and beaten and bitten his pillow. even his ivory whiteness seemed to change. the faint glow of color which had shown on his face and neck and hands when he first got inside the garden really never quite died away. he looked as if he were made of flesh instead of ivory or wax. they saw the robin carry food to his mate two or three times, and it was so suggestive of afternoon tea that colin felt they must have some. "go and make one of the men servants bring some in a basket to the rhododendron walk," he said. "and then you and dickon can bring it here." it was an agreeable idea, easily carried out, and when the white cloth was spread upon the grass, with hot tea and buttered toast and crumpets, a delightfully hungry meal was eaten, and several birds on domestic errands paused to inquire what was going on and were led into investigating crumbs with great activity. nut and shell whisked up trees with pieces of cake and soot took the entire half of a buttered crumpet into a corner and pecked at and examined and turned it over and made hoarse remarks about it until he decided to swallow it all joyfully in one gulp. the afternoon was dragging toward its mellow hour. the sun was deepening the gold of its lances, the bees were going home and the birds were flying past less often. dickon and mary were sitting on the grass, the tea-basket was re-packed ready to be taken back to the house, and colin was lying against his cushions with his heavy locks pushed back from his forehead and his face looking quite a natural color. "i don't want this afternoon to go," he said; "but i shall come back to-morrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after." "you'll get plenty of fresh air, won't you?" said mary. "i'm going to get nothing else," he answered. "i've seen the spring now and i'm going to see the summer. i'm going to see everything grow here. i'm going to grow here myself." "that tha' will," said dickon. "us'll have thee walkin' about here an' diggin' same as other folk afore long." colin flushed tremendously. "walk!" he said. "dig! shall i?" dickon's glance at him was delicately cautious. neither he nor mary had ever asked if anything was the matter with his legs. "for sure tha' will," he said stoutly. "tha'--tha's got legs o' thine own, same as other folks!" mary was rather frightened until she heard colin's answer. "nothing really ails them," he said, "but they are so thin and weak. they shake so that i'm afraid to try to stand on them." both mary and dickon drew a relieved breath. "when tha' stops bein' afraid tha'lt stand on 'em," dickon said with renewed cheer. "an' tha'lt stop bein' afraid in a bit." "i shall?" said colin, and he lay still as if he were wondering about things. they were really very quiet for a little while. the sun was dropping lower. it was that hour when everything stills itself, and they really had had a busy and exciting afternoon. colin looked as if he were resting luxuriously. even the creatures had ceased moving about and had drawn together and were resting near them. soot had perched on a low branch and drawn up one leg and dropped the gray film drowsily over his eyes. mary privately thought he looked as if he might snore in a minute. in the midst of this stillness it was rather startling when colin half lifted his head and exclaimed in a loud suddenly alarmed whisper: "who is that man?" dickon and mary scrambled to their feet. "man!" they both cried in low quick voices. colin pointed to the high wall. "look!" he whispered excitedly. "just look!" mary and dickon wheeled about and looked. there was ben weatherstaff's indignant face glaring at them over the wall from the top of a ladder! he actually shook his fist at mary. "if i wasn't a bachelder, an' tha' was a wench o' mine," he cried, "i'd give thee a hidin'!" he mounted another step threateningly as if it were his energetic intention to jump down and deal with her; but as she came toward him he evidently thought better of it and stood on the top step of his ladder shaking his fist down at her. "i never thowt much o' thee!" he harangued. "i couldna' abide thee th' first time i set eyes on thee. a scrawny buttermilk-faced young besom, allus askin' questions an' pokin' tha' nose where it wasna' wanted. i never knowed how tha' got so thick wi' me. if it hadna' been for th' robin--drat him--" "ben weatherstaff," called out mary, finding her breath. she stood below him and called up to him with a sort of gasp. "ben weatherstaff, it was the robin who showed me the way!" then it did seem as if ben really would scramble down on her side of the wall, he was so outraged. "tha' young bad 'un!" he called down at her. "layin' tha' badness on a robin,--not but what he's impidint enow for anythin'. him showin' thee th' way! him! eh! tha' young nowt,"--she could see his next words burst out because he was overpowered by curiosity--"however i' this world did tha' get in?" "it was the robin who showed me the way," she protested obstinately. "he didn't know he was doing it but he did. and i can't tell you from here while you're shaking your fist at me." he stopped shaking his fist very suddenly at that very moment and his jaw actually dropped as he stared over her head at something he saw coming over the grass toward him. at the first sound of his torrent of words colin had been so surprised that he had only sat up and listened as if he were spellbound. but in the midst of it he had recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to dickon. "wheel me over there!" he commanded. "wheel me quite close and stop right in front of him!" and this, if you please, this is what ben weatherstaff beheld and which made his jaw drop. a wheeled chair with luxurious cushions and robes which came toward him looking rather like some sort of state coach because a young rajah leaned back in it with royal command in his great black-rimmed eyes and a thin white hand extended haughtily toward him. and it stopped right under ben weatherstaff's nose. it was really no wonder his mouth dropped open. "do you know who i am?" demanded the rajah. how ben weatherstaff stared! his red old eyes fixed themselves on what was before him as if he were seeing a ghost. he gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down his throat and did not say a word. "do you know who i am?" demanded colin still more imperiously. "answer!" ben weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up and passed it over his eyes and over his forehead and then he did answer in a queer shaky voice. "who tha' art?" he said. "aye, that i do--wi' tha' mother's eyes starin' at me out o' tha' face. lord knows how tha' come here. but tha'rt th' poor cripple." colin forgot that he had ever had a back. his face flushed scarlet and he sat bolt upright. "i'm not a cripple!" he cried out furiously. "i'm not!" "he's not!" cried mary, almost shouting up the wall in her fierce indignation. "he's not got a lump as big as a pin! i looked and there was none there--not one!" ben weatherstaff passed his hand over his forehead again and gazed as if he could never gaze enough. his hand shook and his mouth shook and his voice shook. he was an ignorant old man and a tactless old man and he could only remember the things he had heard. "tha'--tha' hasn't got a crooked back?" he said hoarsely. "no!" shouted colin. "tha'--tha' hasn't got crooked legs?" quavered ben more hoarsely yet. it was too much. the strength which colin usually threw into his tantrums rushed through him now in a new way. never yet had he been accused of crooked legs--even in whispers--and the perfectly simple belief in their existence which was revealed by ben weatherstaff's voice was more than rajah flesh and blood could endure. his anger and insulted pride made him forget everything but this one moment and filled him with a power he had never known before, an almost unnatural strength. "come here!" he shouted to dickon, and he actually began to tear the coverings off his lower limbs and disentangle himself. "come here! come here! this minute!" dickon was by his side in a second. mary caught her breath in a short gasp and felt herself turn pale. "he can do it! he can do it! he can do it! he can!" she gabbled over to herself under her breath as fast as ever she could. there was a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossed on to the ground, dickon held colin's arm, the thin legs were out, the thin feet were on the grass. colin was standing upright--upright--as straight as an arrow and looking strangely tall--his head thrown back and his strange eyes flashing lightning. "look at me!" he flung up at ben weatherstaff. "just look at me--you! just look at me!" "he's as straight as i am!" cried dickon. "he's as straight as any lad i' yorkshire!" what ben weatherstaff did mary thought queer beyond measure. he choked and gulped and suddenly tears ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck his old hands together. "eh!" he burst forth, "th' lies folk tells! tha'rt as thin as a lath an' as white as a wraith, but there's not a knob on thee. tha'lt make a mon yet. god bless thee!" dickon held colin's arm strongly but the boy had not begun to falter. he stood straighter and straighter and looked ben weatherstaff in the face. "i'm your master," he said, "when my father is away. and you are to obey me. this is my garden. don't dare to say a word about it! you get down from that ladder and go out to the long walk and miss mary will meet you and bring you here. i want to talk to you. we did not want you, but now you will have to be in the secret. be quick!" ben weatherstaff's crabbed old face was still wet with that one queer rush of tears. it seemed as if he could not take his eyes from thin straight colin standing on his feet with his head thrown back. "eh! lad," he almost whispered. "eh! my lad!" and then remembering himself he suddenly touched his hat gardener fashion and said, "yes, sir! yes, sir!" and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder. chapter xxii when the sun went down when his head was out of sight colin turned to mary. "go and meet him," he said; and mary flew across the grass to the door under the ivy. dickon was watching him with sharp eyes. there were scarlet spots on his cheeks and he looked amazing, but he showed no signs of falling. "i can stand," he said, and his head was still held up and he said it quite grandly. "i told thee tha' could as soon as tha' stopped bein' afraid," answered dickon. "an' tha's stopped." "yes, i've stopped," said colin. then suddenly he remembered something mary had said. "are you making magic?" he asked sharply. dickon's curly mouth spread in a cheerful grin. "tha's doin' magic thysel'," he said. "it's same magic as made these 'ere work out o' th' earth," and he touched with his thick boot a clump of crocuses in the grass. colin looked down at them. "aye," he said slowly, "there couldna' be bigger magic then that there--there couldna' be." he drew himself up straighter than ever. "i'm going to walk to that tree," he said, pointing to one a few feet away from him. "i'm going to be standing when weatherstaff comes here. i can rest against the tree if i like. when i want to sit down i will sit down, but not before. bring a rug from the chair." he walked to the tree and though dickon held his arm he was wonderfully steady. when he stood against the tree trunk it was not too plain that he supported himself against it, and he still held himself so straight that he looked tall. when ben weatherstaff came through the door in the wall he saw him standing there and he heard mary muttering something under her breath. "what art sayin'?" he asked rather testily because he did not want his attention distracted from the long thin straight boy figure and proud face. but she did not tell him. what she was saying was this: "you can do it! you can do it! i told you you could! you can do it! you can do it! you _can_!" she was saying it to colin because she wanted to make magic and keep him on his feet looking like that. she could not bear that he should give in before ben weatherstaff. he did not give in. she was uplifted by a sudden feeling that he looked quite beautiful in spite of his thinness. he fixed his eyes on ben weatherstaff in his funny imperious way. "look at me!" he commanded. "look at me all over! am i a hunchback? have i got crooked legs?" ben weatherstaff had not quite got over his emotion, but he had recovered a little and answered almost in his usual way. "not tha'," he said. "nowt o' th' sort. what's tha' been doin' with thysel'--? hidin' out o' sight an' lettin' folk think tha' was cripple an' half-witted?" "half-witted!" said colin angrily. "who thought that?" "lots o' fools," said ben. "th' world's full o' jackasses brayin' an' they never bray nowt but lies. what did tha' shut thysel' up for?" "every one thought i was going to die," said colin shortly. "i'm not!" and he said it with such decision ben weatherstaff looked him over, up and down, down and up. "tha' die!" he said with dry exultation. "nowt o' th' sort! tha's got too much pluck in thee. when i seed thee put tha' legs on th' ground in such a hurry i knowed tha' was all right. sit thee down on th' rug a bit young mester an' give me thy orders." there was a queer mixture of crabbed tenderness and shrewd understanding in his manner. mary had poured out speech as rapidly as she could as they had come down the long walk. the chief thing to be remembered, she had told him, was that colin was getting well--getting well. the garden was doing it. no one must let him remember about having humps and dying. the rajah condescended to seat himself on a rug under the tree. "what work do you do in the gardens, weatherstaff?" he inquired. "anythin' i'm told to do," answered old ben. "i'm kep' on by favor--because she liked me." "she?" said colin. "tha' mother," answered ben weatherstaff. "my mother?" said colin, and he looked about him quietly. "this was her garden, wasn't it?" "aye, it was that!" and ben weatherstaff looked about him too. "she were main fond of it." "it is my garden now, i am fond of it. i shall come here every day," announced colin. "but it is to be a secret. my orders are that no one is to know that we come here. dickon and my cousin have worked and made it come alive. i shall send for you sometimes to help--but you must come when no one can see you." ben weatherstaff's face twisted itself in a dry old smile. "i've come here before when no one saw me," he said. "what!" exclaimed colin. "when?" "th' last time i was here," rubbing his chin and looking round, "was about two year' ago." "but no one has been in it for ten years!" cried colin. "there was no door!" "i'm no one," said old ben dryly. "an' i didn't come through th' door. i come over th' wall. th' rheumatics held me back th' last two year'." "tha' come an' did a bit o' prunin'!" cried dickon. "i couldn't make out how it had been done." "she was so fond of it--she was!" said ben weatherstaff slowly. "an' she was such a pretty young thing. she says to me once, 'ben,' says she laughin', 'if ever i'm ill or if i go away you must take care of my roses.' when she did go away th' orders was no one was ever to come nigh. but i come," with grumpy obstinacy. "over th' wall i come--until th' rheumatics stopped me--an' i did a bit o' work once a year. she'd gave her order first." "it wouldn't have been as wick as it is if tha' hadn't done it," said dickon. "i did wonder." "i'm glad you did it, weatherstaff," said colin. "you'll know how to keep the secret." "aye, i'll know, sir," answered ben. "an' it'll be easier for a man wi' rheumatics to come in at th' door." on the grass near the tree mary had dropped her trowel. colin stretched out his hand and took it up. an odd expression came into his face and he began to scratch at the earth. his thin hand was weak enough but presently as they watched him--mary with quite breathless interest--he drove the end of the trowel into the soil and turned some over. "you can do it! you can do it!" said mary to herself. "i tell you, you can!" dickon's round eyes were full of eager curiousness but he said not a word. ben weatherstaff looked on with interested face. colin persevered. after he had turned a few trowelfuls of soil he spoke exultantly to dickon in his best yorkshire. "tha' said as tha'd have me walkin' about here same as other folk--an' tha' said tha'd have me diggin'. i thowt tha' was just leein' to please me. this is only th' first day an' i've walked--an' here i am diggin'." ben weatherstaff's mouth fell open again when he heard him, but he ended by chuckling. "eh!" he said, "that sounds as if tha'd got wits enow. tha'rt a yorkshire lad for sure. an' tha'rt diggin', too. how'd tha' like to plant a bit o' somethin'? i can get thee a rose in a pot." "go and get it!" said colin, digging excitedly. "quick! quick!" it was done quickly enough indeed. ben weatherstaff went his way forgetting rheumatics. dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper and wider than a new digger with thin white hands could make it. mary slipped out to run and bring back a watering-can. when dickon had deepened the hole colin went on turning the soft earth over and over. he looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with the strangely new exercise, slight as it was. "i want to do it before the sun goes quite--quite down," he said. mary thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on purpose. ben weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the greenhouse. he hobbled over the grass as fast as he could. he had begun to be excited, too. he knelt down by the hole and broke the pot from the mould. "here, lad," he said, handing the plant to colin. "set it in the earth thysel' same as th' king does when he goes to a new place." the thin white hands shook a little and colin's flush grew deeper as he set the rose in the mould and held it while old ben made firm the earth. it was filled in and pressed down and made steady. mary was leaning forward on her hands and knees. soot had flown down and marched forward to see what was being done. nut and shell chattered about it from a cherry-tree. "it's planted!" said colin at last. "and the sun is only slipping over the edge. help me up, dickon. i want to be standing when it goes. that's part of the magic." and dickon helped him, and the magic--or whatever it was--so gave him strength that when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange lovely afternoon for them there he actually stood on his two feet--laughing. chapter xxiii magic dr. craven had been waiting some time at the house when they returned to it. he had indeed begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send some one out to explore the garden paths. when colin was brought back to his room the poor man looked him over seriously. "you should not have stayed so long," he said. "you must not overexert yourself." "i am not tired at all," said colin. "it has made me well. to-morrow i am going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon." "i am not sure that i can allow it," answered dr. craven. "i am afraid it would not be wise." "it would not be wise to try to stop me," said colin quite seriously. "i am going." even mary had found out that one of colin's chief peculiarities was that he did not know in the least what a rude little brute he was with his way of ordering people about. he had lived on a sort of desert island all his life and as he had been the king of it he had made his own manners and had had no one to compare himself with. mary had indeed been rather like him herself and since she had been at misselthwaite had gradually discovered that her own manners had not been of the kind which is usual or popular. having made this discovery she naturally thought it of enough interest to communicate to colin. so she sat and looked at him curiously for a few minutes after dr. craven had gone. she wanted to make him ask her why she was doing it and of course she did. "what are you looking at me for?" he said. "i'm thinking that i am rather sorry for dr. craven." "so am i," said colin calmly, but not without an air of some satisfaction. "he won't get misselthwaite at all now i'm not going to die." "i'm sorry for him because of that, of course," said mary, "but i was thinking just then that it must have been very horrid to have had to be polite for ten years to a boy who was always rude. i would never have done it." "am i rude?" colin inquired undisturbedly. "if you had been his own boy and he had been a slapping sort of man," said mary, "he would have slapped you." "but he daren't," said colin. "no, he daren't," answered mistress mary, thinking the thing out quite without prejudice. "nobody ever dared to do anything you didn't like--because you were going to die and things like that. you were such a poor thing." "but," announced colin stubbornly, "i am not going to be a poor thing. i won't let people think i'm one. i stood on my feet this afternoon." "it is always having your own way that has made you so queer," mary went on, thinking aloud. colin turned his head, frowning. "am i queer?" he demanded. "yes," answered mary, "very. but you needn't be cross," she added impartially, "because so am i queer--and so is ben weatherstaff. but i am not as queer as i was before i began to like people and before i found the garden." "i don't want to be queer," said colin. "i am not going to be," and he frowned again with determination. he was a very proud boy. he lay thinking for a while and then mary saw his beautiful smile begin and gradually change his whole face. "i shall stop being queer," he said, "if i go every day to the garden. there is magic in there--good magic, you know, mary. i am sure there is." "so am i," said mary. "even if it isn't real magic," colin said, "we can pretend it is. _something_ is there--_something_!" "it's magic," said mary, "but not black. it's as white as snow." they always called it magic and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed--the wonderful months--the radiant months--the amazing ones. oh! the things which happened in that garden! if you have never had a garden, you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. at first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. then the green things began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. in its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. ben weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on. iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas. "she was main fond o' them--she was," ben weatherstaff said. "she liked them things as was allus pointin' up to th' blue sky, she used to tell. not as she was one o' them as looked down on th' earth--not her. she just loved it but she said as th' blue sky allus looked so joyful." the seeds dickon and mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them. satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there. and the roses--the roses! rising out of the grass, tangled round the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades--they came alive day by day, hour by hour. fair fresh leaves, and buds--and buds--tiny at first but swelling and working magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air. colin saw it all, watching each change as it took place. every morning he was brought out and every hour of each day when it didn't rain he spent in the garden. even gray days pleased him. he would lie on the grass "watching things growing," he said. if you watched long enough, he declared, you could see buds unsheath themselves. also you could make the acquaintance of strange busy insect things running about on various unknown but evidently serious errands, sometimes carrying tiny scraps of straw or feather or food, or climbing blades of grass as if they were trees from whose tops one could look out to explore the country. a mole throwing up its mound at the end of its burrow and making its way out at last with the long-nailed paws which looked so like elfish hands, had absorbed him one whole morning. ants' ways, beetles' ways, bees' ways, frogs' ways, birds' ways, plants' ways, gave him a new world to explore and when dickon revealed them all and added foxes' ways, otters' ways, ferrets' ways, squirrels' ways, and trout's and water-rats' and badgers' ways, there was no end to the things to talk about and think over. and this was not the half of the magic. the fact that he had really once stood on his feet had set colin thinking tremendously and when mary told him of the spell she had worked he was excited and approved of it greatly. he talked of it constantly. "of course there must be lots of magic in the world," he said wisely one day, "but people don't know what it is like or how to make it. perhaps the beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen until you make them happen. i am going to try and experiment." the next morning when they went to the secret garden he sent at once for ben weatherstaff. ben came as quickly as he could and found the rajah standing on his feet under a tree and looking very grand but also very beautifully smiling. "good morning, ben weatherstaff," he said. "i want you and dickon and miss mary to stand in a row and listen to me because i am going to tell you something very important." "aye, aye, sir!" answered ben weatherstaff, touching his forehead. (one of the long concealed charms of ben weatherstaff was that in his boyhood he had once run away to sea and had made voyages. so he could reply like a sailor.) "i am going to try a scientific experiment," explained the rajah. "when i grow up i am going to make great scientific discoveries and i am going to begin now with this experiment." "aye, aye, sir!" said ben weatherstaff promptly, though this was the first time he had heard of great scientific discoveries. it was the first time mary had heard of them, either, but even at this stage she had begun to realize that, queer as he was, colin had read about a great many singular things and was somehow a very convincing sort of boy. when he held up his head and fixed his strange eyes on you it seemed as if you believed him almost in spite of yourself though he was only ten years old--going on eleven. at this moment he was especially convincing because he suddenly felt the fascination of actually making a sort of speech like a grown-up person. "the great scientific discoveries i am going to make," he went on, "will be about magic. magic is a great thing and scarcely any one knows anything about it except a few people in old books--and mary a little, because she was born in india where there are fakirs. i believe dickon knows some magic, but perhaps he doesn't know he knows it. he charms animals and people. i would never have let him come to see me if he had not been an animal charmer--which is a boy charmer, too, because a boy is an animal. i am sure there is magic in everything, only we have not sense enough to get hold of it and make it do things for us--like electricity and horses and steam." this sounded so imposing that ben weatherstaff became quite excited and really could not keep still. "aye, aye, sir," he said and he began to stand up quite straight. "when mary found this garden it looked quite dead," the orator proceeded. "then something began pushing things up out of the soil and making things out of nothing. one day things weren't there and another they were. i had never watched things before and it made me feel very curious. scientific people are always curious and i am going to be scientific. i keep saying to myself, 'what is it? what is it?' it's something. it can't be nothing! i don't know its name so i call it magic. i have never seen the sun rise but mary and dickon have and from what they tell me i am sure that is magic too. something pushes it up and draws it. sometimes since i've been in the garden i've looked up through the trees at the sky and i have had a strange feeling of being happy as if something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast. magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing. everything is made out of magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. so it must be all around us. in this garden--in all the places. the magic in this garden has made me stand up and know i am going to live to be a man. i am going to make the scientific experiment of trying to get some and put it in myself and make it push and draw me and make me strong. i don't know how to do it but i think that if you keep thinking about it and calling it perhaps it will come. perhaps that is the first baby way to get it. when i was going to try to stand that first time mary kept saying to herself as fast as she could, 'you can do it! you can do it!' and i did. i had to try myself at the same time, of course, but her magic helped me--and so did dickon's. every morning and evening and as often in the daytime as i can remember i am going to say, 'magic is in me! magic is making me well! i am going to be as strong as dickon, as strong as dickon!' and you must all do it, too. that is my experiment. will you help, ben weatherstaff?" "aye, aye, sir!" said ben weatherstaff. "aye, aye!" "if you keep doing it every day as regularly as soldiers go through drill we shall see what will happen and find out if the experiment succeeds. you learn things by saying them over and over and thinking about them until they stay in your mind forever and i think it will be the same with magic. if you keep calling it to come to you and help you it will get to be part of you and it will stay and do things." "i once heard an officer in india tell my mother that there were fakirs who said words over and over thousands of times," said mary. "i've heard jem fettleworth's wife say th' same thing over thousands o' times--callin' jem a drunken brute," said ben weatherstaff dryly. "summat allus come o' that, sure enough. he gave her a good hidin' an' went to th' blue lion an' got as drunk as a lord." colin drew his brows together and thought a few minutes. then he cheered up. "well," he said, "you see something did come of it. she used the wrong magic until she made him beat her. if she'd used the right magic and had said something nice perhaps he wouldn't have got as drunk as a lord and perhaps--perhaps he might have bought her a new bonnet." ben weatherstaff chuckled and there was shrewd admiration in his little old eyes. "tha'rt a clever lad as well as a straight-legged one, mester colin," he said. "next time i see bess fettleworth i'll give her a bit of a hint o' what magic will do for her. she'd be rare an' pleased if th' sinetifik 'speriment worked--an' so 'ud jem." dickon had stood listening to the lecture, his round eyes shining with curious delight. nut and shell were on his shoulders and he held a long-eared white rabbit in his arm and stroked and stroked it softly while it laid its ears along its back and enjoyed itself. "do you think the experiment will work?" colin asked him, wondering what he was thinking. he so often wondered what dickon was thinking when he saw him looking at him or at one of his "creatures" with his happy wide smile. he smiled now and his smile was wider than usual. "aye," he answered, "that i do. it'll work same as th' seeds do when th' sun shines on 'em. it'll work for sure. shall us begin it now?" colin was delighted and so was mary. fired by recollections of fakirs and devotees in illustrations colin suggested that they should all sit cross-legged under the tree which made a canopy. "it will be like sitting in a sort of temple," said colin. "i'm rather tired and i want to sit down." "eh!" said dickon, "tha' musn't begin by sayin' tha'rt tired. tha' might spoil th' magic." colin turned and looked at him--into his innocent round eyes. "that's true," he said slowly. "i must only think of the magic." it all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. ben weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. mistress mary felt solemnly enraptured. dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "the 'creatures' have come," said colin gravely. "they want to help us." colin really looked quite beautiful, mary thought. he held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. the light shone on him through the tree canopy. "now we will begin," he said. "shall we sway backward and forward, mary, as if we were dervishes?" "i canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said ben weatherstaff. "i've got th' rheumatics." "the magic will take them away," said colin in a high priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. we will only chant." "i canna' do no chantin'," said ben weatherstaff a trifle testily. "they turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time i ever tried it." no one smiled. they were all too much in earnest. colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. he was thinking only of the magic. "then i will chant," he said. and he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "the sun is shining--the sun is shining. that is the magic. the flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. that is the magic. being alive is the magic--being strong is the magic. the magic is in me--the magic is in me. it is in me--it is in me. it's in every one of us. it's in ben weatherstaff's back. magic! magic! come and help!" he said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. mary listened entranced. she felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. ben weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. the humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. at last colin stopped. "now i am going to walk round the garden," he announced. ben weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "you have been asleep," said colin. "nowt o' th' sort," mumbled ben. "th' sermon was good enow--but i'm bound to get out afore th' collection." he was not quite awake yet. "you're not in church," said colin. "not me," said ben, straightening himself. "who said i were? i heard every bit of it. you said th' magic was in my back. th' doctor calls it rheumatics." the rajah waved his hand. "that was the wrong magic," he said. "you will get better. you have my permission to go to your work. but come back to-morrow." "i'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted ben. it was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. in fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. the rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. it really did look like a procession. colin was at its head with dickon on one side and mary on the other. ben weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. it was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. every few yards it stopped to rest. colin leaned on dickon's arm and privately ben weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. his head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "the magic is in me!" he kept saying. "the magic is making me strong! i can feel it! i can feel it!" it seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. he sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. when he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "i did it! the magic worked!" he cried. "that is my first scientific discovery." "what will dr. craven say?" broke out mary. "he won't say anything," colin answered, "because he will not be told. this is to be the biggest secret of all. no one is to know anything about it until i have grown so strong that i can walk and run like any other boy. i shall come here every day in my chair and i shall be taken back in it. i won't have people whispering and asking questions and i won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. then sometime when he comes back to misselthwaite i shall just walk into his study and say 'here i am; i am like any other boy. i am quite well and i shall live to be a man. it has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "he will think he is in a dream," cried mary. "he won't believe his eyes." colin flushed triumphantly. he had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. and the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. one of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "he'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "one of the things i am going to do, after the magic works and before i begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "we shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said ben weatherstaff. "tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all england." colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. you must not take liberties because you are in the secret. however much the magic works i shall not be a prize-fighter. i shall be a scientific discoverer." "ax pardon--ax pardon, sir," answered ben, touching his forehead in salute. "i ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. he really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. chapter xxiv "let them laugh" the secret garden was not the only one dickon worked in. round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days colin and mary did not see him, dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. in the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. while he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of yorkshire moor songs or talked to soot or captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "we'd never get on as comfortable as we do," mrs. sowerby said, "if it wasn't for dickon's garden. anything'll grow for him. his 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." when she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. after supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. she could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. she loved this time. there were not only vegetables in this garden. dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. the low wall was one of the prettiest things in yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "all a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. they're just like th' 'creatures.' if they're thirsty give 'em a drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. they want to live same as we do. if they died i should feel as if i'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." it was in these twilight hours that mrs. sowerby heard of all that happened at misselthwaite manor. at first she was only told that "mester colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with miss mary and that it was doing him good. but it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that dickon's mother might "come into the secret." somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." so one beautiful still evening dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret mistress mary had planned never to reveal. the coming of dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of mester colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of ben weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and mester colin's sudden indignant strength, made mrs. sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "my word!" she said. "it was a good thing that little lass came to th' manor. it's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin' o' him. standin' on his feet! an' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." she asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "what do they make of it at th' manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "they don't know what to make of it," answered dickon. "every day as comes round his face looks different. it's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. but he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "what for, i' mercy's name?" asked mrs. sowerby. dickon chuckled. "he does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. if the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell mester craven. mester colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. he's goin' to practise his magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. but him an' miss mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." mrs. sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' theirselves, i'll warrant. they'll get a good bit o' play actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. let's hear what they do, dickon lad." dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. his eyes were twinkling with fun. "mester colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "an' he flies out at john, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. he makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. an' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. him an' miss mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'poor colin! does it hurt you so much? are you so weak as that, poor colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. when we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. an' they have to stuff their faces into mester colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of 'em's about." "th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said mrs. sowerby, still laughing herself. "good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. that pair'll plump up for sure." "they are plumpin' up," said dickon. "they're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. mester colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. miss mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." mrs. sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty, that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and dickon laughed with her. "i'll tell thee what, lad," mrs. sowerby said when she could speak. "i've thought of a way to help 'em. when tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' i'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th' fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "eh! mother!" said dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! tha' always sees a way out o' things. they was quite in a pother yesterday. they didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "they're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said mrs. sowerby. then she smiled dickon's own curving smile. "eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. she was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. colin and mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. the idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by dr. craven himself. "your appetite is improving very much, master colin," the nurse had said one day. "you used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "nothing disagrees with me now," replied colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "at least things don't so often disagree with me. it's the fresh air." "perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "but i must talk to dr. craven about it." "how she stared at you!" said mary when she went away. "as if she thought there must be something to find out." "i won't have her finding out things," said colin. "no one must begin to find out yet." when dr. craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. he asked a number of questions, to colin's great annoyance. "you stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "where do you go?" colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "i will not let any one know where i go," he answered. "i go to a place i like. every one has orders to keep out of the way. i won't be watched and stared at. you know that!" "you seem to be out all day but i do not think it has done you harm--i do not think so. the nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "perhaps," said colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "i do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said dr. craven. "you are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "perhaps--perhaps i am bloated and feverish," said colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "people who are not going to live are often--different." dr. craven shook his head. he was holding colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "you are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. if we can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. your father will be very happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "i won't have him told!" colin broke forth fiercely. "it will only disappoint him if i get worse again--and i may get worse this very night. i might have a raging fever. i feel as if i might be beginning to have one now. i won't have letters written to my father--i won't--i won't! you are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. i feel hot already. i hate being written about and being talked over as much as i hate being stared at!" "hush-h! my boy," dr. craven soothed him. "nothing shall be written without your permission. you are too sensitive about things. you must not undo the good which has been done." he said no more about writing to mr. craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "the boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "his advance seems almost abnormal. but of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." mary and colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. from this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "i may be obliged to have a tantrum," said colin regretfully. "i don't want to have one and i'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. perhaps i couldn't have one at all. that lump doesn't come in my throat now and i keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. but if they talk about writing to my father i shall have to do something." he made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "i think we shall have to eat it all this morning, mary," colin always ended by saying. "we can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." but they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "i do wish," colin would say also, "i do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "it's enough for a person who is going to die," answered mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. i sometimes feel as if i could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." the morning that dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rose-bush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. what a wonderful thing for mrs. sowerby to think of! what a kind, clever woman she must be! how good the buns were! and what delicious fresh milk! "magic is in her just as it is in dickon," said colin. "it makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. she is a magic person. tell her we are grateful, dickon--extremely grateful." he was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. he enjoyed them. he liked this so much that he improved upon it. "tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." and then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. this was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. they actually awoke to the fact that as mrs. sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. so they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. you could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. every beautiful morning the magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. after the ceremony colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. and each day his belief in the magic grew stronger--as well it might. he tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was dickon who showed him the best things of all. "yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "i went to thwaite for mother an' near th' blue cow inn i seed bob haworth. he's the strongest chap on th' moor. he's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. he's gone all th' way to scotland for th' sports some years. he's knowed me ever since i was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' i axed him some questions. th' gentry calls him a athlete and i thought o' thee, mester colin, and i says, 'how did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, bob? did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' an' he says 'well, yes, lad, i did. a strong man in a show that came to thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body.' an' i says, 'could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' i says, 'no, but i knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' i wish i knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' i didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. he's friendly same as i said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' i imitated what he did till i knowed it by heart." colin had been listening excitedly. "can you show me?" he cried. "will you?" "aye, to be sure," dickon answered, getting up. "but he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "i'll be careful," said colin. "show me! show me! dickon, you are the most magic boy in the world!" dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. colin watched them with widening eyes. he could do a few while he was sitting down. presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. mary began to do them also. soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. from that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the magic was. it became possible for both colin and mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. but the little oven in the hollow and mrs. sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that mrs. medlock and the nurse and dr. craven became mystified again. you can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oat-cakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "they are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "they'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. and yet see how they look." "look!" exclaimed mrs. medlock indignantly. "eh! i'm moithered to death with them. they're a pair of young satans. bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals cook can tempt them with. not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair _invented_ a pudding for them--and back it's sent. she almost cried. she's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." dr. craven came and looked at colin long and carefully. he wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by colin's sofa and examined him. he had been called to london on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. when young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. the waxen tinge had left colin's skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. his once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. his lips were fuller and of a normal color. in fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. dr. craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "i am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "that will not do. you will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. you ate so well a short time ago." "i told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered colin. mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "what is the matter?" said dr. craven, turning to look at her. mary became quite severe in her manner. "it was something between a sneeze and a cough," she replied with reproachful dignity, "and it got into my throat." "but" she said afterward to colin, "i couldn't stop myself. it just burst out because all at once i couldn't help remembering that last big potato you ate and the way your mouth stretched when you bit through that thick lovely crust with jam and clotted cream on it." "is there any way in which those children can get food secretly?" dr. craven inquired of mrs. medlock. "there's no way unless they dig it out of the earth or pick it off the trees," mrs. medlock answered. "they stay out in the grounds all day and see no one but each other. and if they want anything different to eat from what's sent up to them they need only ask for it." "well," said dr. craven, "so long as going without food agrees with them we need not disturb ourselves. the boy is a new creature." "so is the girl," said mrs. medlock. "she's begun to be downright pretty since she's filled out and lost her ugly little sour look. her hair's grown thick and healthy looking and she's got a bright color. the glummest, ill-natured little thing she used to be and now her and master colin laugh together like a pair of crazy young ones. perhaps they're growing fat on that." "perhaps they are," said dr. craven. "let them laugh." chapter xxv the curtain and the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles. in the robin's nest there were eggs and the robin's mate sat upon them keeping them warm with her feathery little breast and careful wings. at first she was very nervous and the robin himself was indignantly watchful. even dickon did not go near the close-grown corner in those days, but waited until by the quiet working of some mysterious spell he seemed to have conveyed to the soul of the little pair that in the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves--nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them--the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of eggs. if there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or her innermost being that if an egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end--if there had been even one who did not feel it and act accordingly there could have been no happiness even in that golden springtime air. but they all knew it and felt it and the robin and his mate knew they knew it. at first the robin watched mary and colin with sharp anxiety. for some mysterious reason he knew he need not watch dickon. the first moment he set his dew-bright black eye on dickon he knew he was not a stranger but a sort of robin without beak or feathers. he could speak robin (which is a quite distinct language not to be mistaken for any other). to speak robin to a robin is like speaking french to a frenchman. dickon always spoke it to the robin himself, so the queer gibberish he used when he spoke to humans did not matter in the least. the robin thought he spoke this gibberish to them because they were not intelligent enough to understand feathered speech. his movements also were robin. they never startled one by being sudden enough to seem dangerous or threatening. any robin could understand dickon, so his presence was not even disturbing. but at the outset it seemed necessary to be on guard against the other two. in the first place the boy creature did not come into the garden on his legs. he was pushed in on a thing with wheels and the skins of wild animals were thrown over him. that in itself was doubtful. then when he began to stand up and move about he did it in a queer unaccustomed way and the others seemed to have to help him. the robin used to secrete himself in a bush and watch this anxiously, his head tilted first on one side and then on the other. he thought that the slow movements might mean that he was preparing to pounce, as cats do. when cats are preparing to pounce they creep over the ground very slowly. the robin talked this over with his mate a great deal for a few days but after that he decided not to speak of the subject because her terror was so great that he was afraid it might be injurious to the eggs. when the boy began to walk by himself and even to move more quickly it was an immense relief. but for a long time--or it seemed a long time to the robin--he was a source of some anxiety. he did not act as the other humans did. he seemed very fond of walking but he had a way of sitting or lying down for a while and then getting up in a disconcerting manner to begin again. one day the robin remembered that when he himself had been made to learn to fly by his parents he had done much the same sort of thing. he had taken short flights of a few yards and then had been obliged to rest. so it occurred to him that this boy was learning to fly--or rather to walk. he mentioned this to his mate and when he told her that the eggs would probably conduct themselves in the same way after they were fledged she was quite comforted and even became eagerly interested and derived great pleasure from watching the boy over the edge of her nest--though she always thought that the eggs would be much cleverer and learn more quickly. but then she said indulgently that humans were always more clumsy and slow than eggs and most of them never seemed really to learn to fly at all. you never met them in the air or on tree-tops. after a while the boy began to move about as the others did, but all three of the children at times did unusual things. they would stand under the trees and move their arms and legs and heads about in a way which was neither walking nor running nor sitting down. they went through these movements at intervals every day and the robin was never able to explain to his mate what they were doing or trying to do. he could only say that he was sure that the eggs would never flap about in such a manner; but as the boy who could speak robin so fluently was doing the thing with them, birds could be quite sure that the actions were not of a dangerous nature. of course neither the robin nor his mate had ever heard of the champion wrestler, bob haworth, and his exercises for making the muscles stand out like lumps. robins are not like human beings; their muscles are always exercised from the first and so they develop themselves in a natural manner. if you have to fly about to find every meal you eat, your muscles do not become atrophied (atrophied means wasted away through want of use). when the boy was walking and running about and digging and weeding like the others, the nest in the corner was brooded over by a great peace and content. fears for the eggs became things of the past. knowing that your eggs were as safe as if they were locked in a bank vault and the fact that you could watch so many curious things going on made setting a most entertaining occupation. on wet days the eggs' mother sometimes felt even a little dull because the children did not come into the garden. but even on wet days it could not be said that mary and colin were dull. one morning when the rain streamed down unceasingly and colin was beginning to feel a little restive, as he was obliged to remain on his sofa because it was not safe to get up and walk about, mary had an inspiration. "now that i am a real boy," colin had said, "my legs and arms and all my body are so full of magic that i can't keep them still. they want to be doing things all the time. do you know that when i waken in the morning, mary, when it's quite early and the birds are just shouting outside and everything seems just shouting for joy--even the trees and things we can't really hear--i feel as if i must jump out of bed and shout myself. and if i did it, just think what would happen!" mary giggled inordinately. "the nurse would come running and mrs. medlock would come running and they would be sure you had gone crazy and they'd send for the doctor," she said. colin giggled himself. he could see how they would all look--how horrified by his outbreak and how amazed to see him standing upright. "i wish my father would come home," he said. "i want to tell him myself. i'm always thinking about it--but we couldn't go on like this much longer. i can't stand lying still and pretending, and besides i look too different. i wish it wasn't raining to-day." it was then mistress mary had her inspiration. "colin," she began mysteriously, "do you know how many rooms there are in this house?" "about a thousand, i suppose," he answered. "there's about a hundred no one ever goes into," said mary. "and one rainy day i went and looked into ever so many of them. no one ever knew, though mrs. medlock nearly found me out. i lost my way when i was coming back and i stopped at the end of your corridor. that was the second time i heard you crying." colin started up on his sofa. "a hundred rooms no one goes into," he said. "it sounds almost like a secret garden. suppose we go and look at them. you could wheel me in my chair and nobody would know where we went." "that's what i was thinking," said mary. "no one would dare to follow us. there are galleries where you could run. we could do our exercises. there is a little indian room where there is a cabinet full of ivory elephants. there are all sorts of rooms." "ring the bell," said colin. when the nurse came in he gave his orders. "i want my chair," he said. "miss mary and i are going to look at the part of the house which is not used. john can push me as far as the picture-gallery because there are some stairs. then he must go away and leave us alone until i send for him again." rainy days lost their terrors that morning. when the footman had wheeled the chair into the picture-gallery and left the two together in obedience to orders, colin and mary looked at each other delighted. as soon as mary had made sure that john was really on his way back to his own quarters below stairs, colin got out of his chair. "i am going to run from one end of the gallery to the other," he said, "and then i am going to jump and then we will do bob haworth's exercises." and they did all these things and many others. they looked at the portraits and found the plain little girl dressed in green brocade and holding the parrot on her finger. "all these," said colin, "must be my relations. they lived a long time ago. that parrot one, i believe, is one of my great, great, great, great aunts. she looks rather like you, mary--not as you look now but as you looked when you came here. now you are a great deal fatter and better looking." "so are you," said mary, and they both laughed. they went to the indian room and amused themselves with the ivory elephants. they found the rose-colored brocade boudoir and the hole in the cushion the mouse had left but the mice had grown up and run away and the hole was empty. they saw more rooms and made more discoveries than mary had made on her first pilgrimage. they found new corridors and corners and flights of steps and new old pictures they liked and weird old things they did not know the use of. it was a curiously entertaining morning and the feeling of wandering about in the same house with other people but at the same time feeling as if one were miles away from them was a fascinating thing. "i'm glad we came," colin said. "i never knew i lived in such a big queer old place. i like it. we will ramble about every rainy day. we shall always be finding new queer corners and things." that morning they had found among other things such good appetites that when they returned to colin's room it was not possible to send the luncheon away untouched. when the nurse carried the tray down-stairs she slapped it down on the kitchen dresser so that mrs. loomis, the cook, could see the highly polished dishes and plates. "look at that!" she said. "this is a house of mystery, and those two children are the greatest mysteries in it." "if they keep that up every day," said the strong young footman john, "there'd be small wonder that he weighs twice as much to-day as he did a month ago. i should have to give up my place in time, for fear of doing my muscles an injury." that afternoon mary noticed that something new had happened in colin's room. she had noticed it the day before but had said nothing because she thought the change might have been made by chance. she said nothing to-day but she sat and looked fixedly at the picture over the mantel. she could look at it because the curtain had been drawn aside. that was the change she noticed. "i know what you want me to tell you," said colin, after she had stared a few minutes. "i always know when you want me to tell you something. you are wondering why the curtain is drawn back. i am going to keep it like that." "why?" asked mary. "because it doesn't make me angry any more to see her laughing. i wakened when it was bright moonlight two nights ago and felt as if the magic was filling the room and making everything so splendid that i couldn't lie still. i got up and looked out of the window. the room was quite light and there was a patch of moonlight on the curtain and somehow that made me go and pull the cord. she looked right down at me as if she were laughing because she was glad i was standing there. it made me like to look at her. i want to see her laughing like that all the time. i think she must have been a sort of magic person perhaps." "you are so like her now," said mary, "that sometimes i think perhaps you are her ghost made into a boy." that idea seemed to impress colin. he thought it over and then answered her slowly. "if i were her ghost--my father would be fond of me," he said. "do you want him to be fond of you?" inquired mary. "i used to hate it because he was not fond of me. if he grew fond of me i think i should tell him about the magic. it might make him more cheerful." chapter xxvi "it's mother!" their belief in the magic was an abiding thing. after the morning's incantations colin sometimes gave them magic lectures. "i like to do it," he explained, "because when i grow up and make great scientific discoveries i shall be obliged to lecture about them and so this is practise. i can only give short lectures now because i am very young, and besides ben weatherstaff would feel as if he was in church and he would go to sleep." "th' best thing about lecturin'," said ben, "is that a chap can get up an' say aught he pleases an' no other chap can answer him back. i wouldn't be agen' lecturin' a bit mysel' sometimes." but when colin held forth under his tree old ben fixed devouring eyes on him and kept them there. he looked him over with critical affection. it was not so much the lecture which interested him as the legs which looked straighter and stronger each day, the boyish head which held itself up so well, the once sharp chin and hollow cheeks which had filled and rounded out and the eyes which had begun to hold the light he remembered in another pair. sometimes when colin felt ben's earnest gaze meant that he was much impressed he wondered what he was reflecting on and once when he had seemed quite entranced he questioned him. "what are you thinking about, ben weatherstaff?" he asked. "i was thinkin'," answered ben, "as i'd warrant tha's gone up three or four pound this week. i was lookin' at tha' calves an' tha' shoulders. i'd like to get thee on a pair o' scales." "it's the magic and--and mrs. sowerby's buns and milk and things," said colin. "you see the scientific experiment has succeeded." that morning dickon was too late to hear the lecture. when he came he was ruddy with running and his funny face looked more twinkling than usual. as they had a good deal of weeding to do after the rains they fell to work. they always had plenty to do after a warm deep sinking rain. the moisture which was good for the flowers was also good for the weeds which thrust up tiny blades of grass and points of leaves which must be pulled up before their roots took too firm hold. colin was as good at weeding as any one in these days and he could lecture while he was doing it. "the magic works best when you work yourself," he said this morning. "you can feel it in your bones and muscles. i am going to read books about bones and muscles, but i am going to write a book about magic. i am making it up now. i keep finding out things." it was not very long after he had said this that he laid down his trowel and stood up on his feet. he had been silent for several minutes and they had seen that he was thinking out lectures, as he often did. when he dropped his trowel and stood upright it seemed to mary and dickon as if a sudden strong thought had made him do it. he stretched himself out to his tallest height and he threw out his arms exultantly. color glowed in his face and his strange eyes widened with joyfulness. all at once he had realized something to the full. "mary! dickon!" he cried. "just look at me!" they stopped their weeding and looked at him. "do you remember that first morning you brought me in here?" he demanded. dickon was looking at him very hard. being an animal charmer he could see more things than most people could and many of them were things he never talked about. he saw some of them now in this boy. "aye, that we do," he answered. mary looked hard too, but she said nothing. "just this minute," said colin, "all at once i remembered it myself--when i looked at my hand digging with the trowel--and i had to stand up on my feet to see if it was real. and it _is_ real! i'm _well_--i'm _well_!" "aye, that tha' art!" said dickon. "i'm well! i'm well!" said colin again, and his face went quite red all over. he had known it before in a way, he had hoped it and felt it and thought about it, but just at that minute something had rushed all through him--a sort of rapturous belief and realization and it had been so strong that he could not help calling out. "i shall live forever and ever and ever!" he cried grandly. "i shall find out thousands and thousands of things. i shall find out about people and creatures and everything that grows--like dickon--and i shall never stop making magic. i'm well! i'm well! i feel--i feel as if i want to shout out something--something thankful, joyful!" ben weatherstaff, who had been working near a rose-bush, glanced round at him. "tha' might sing th' doxology," he suggested in his dryest grunt. he had no opinion of the doxology and he did not make the suggestion with any particular reverence. but colin was of an exploring mind and he knew nothing about the doxology. "what is that?" he inquired. "dickon can sing it for thee, i'll warrant," replied ben weatherstaff. dickon answered with his all-perceiving animal charmer's smile. "they sing it i' church," he said. "mother says she believes th' skylarks sings it when they gets up i' th' mornin'." "if she says that, it must be a nice song," colin answered. "i've never been in a church myself. i was always too ill. sing it, dickon. i want to hear it." dickon was quite simple and unaffected about it. he understood what colin felt better than colin did himself. he understood by a sort of instinct so natural that he did not know it was understanding. he pulled off his cap and looked round still smiling. "tha' must take off tha' cap," he said to colin, "an' so mun tha', ben--an' tha' mun stand up, tha' knows." colin took off his cap and the sun shone on and warmed his thick hair as he watched dickon intently. ben weatherstaff scrambled up from his knees and bared his head too with a sort of puzzled half-resentful look on his old face as if he didn't know exactly why he was doing this remarkable thing. dickon stood out among the trees and rose-bushes and began to sing in quite a simple matter-of-fact way and in a nice strong boy voice: "praise god from whom all blessings flow, praise him all creatures here below, praise him above ye heavenly host, praise father, son, and holy ghost. amen." when he had finished, ben weatherstaff was standing quite still with his jaws set obstinately but with a disturbed look in his eyes fixed on colin. colin's face was thoughtful and appreciative. "it is a very nice song," he said. "i like it. perhaps it means just what i mean when i want to shout out that i am thankful to the magic." he stopped and thought in a puzzled way. "perhaps they are both the same thing. how can we know the exact names of everything? sing it again, dickon. let us try, mary. i want to sing it, too. it's my song. how does it begin? 'praise god from whom all blessings flow'?" [illustration: "'praise god from whom all blessings flow'"--_page _] and they sang it again, and mary and colin lifted their voices as musically as they could and dickon's swelled quite loud and beautiful--and at the second line ben weatherstaff raspingly cleared his throat and at the third he joined in with such vigor that it seemed almost savage and when the "amen" came to an end mary observed that the very same thing had happened to him which had happened when he found out that colin was not a cripple--his chin was twitching and he was staring and winking and his leathery old cheeks were wet. "i never seed no sense in th' doxology afore," he said hoarsely, "but i may change my mind i' time. i should say tha'd gone up five pound this week, mester colin--five on 'em!" colin was looking across the garden at something attracting his attention and his expression had become a startled one. "who is coming in here?" he said quickly. "who is it?" the door in the ivied wall had been pushed gently open and a woman had entered. she had come in with the last line of their song and she had stood still listening and looking at them. with the ivy behind her, the sunlight drifting through the trees and dappling her long blue cloak, and her nice fresh face smiling across the greenery she was rather like a softly colored illustration in one of colin's books. she had wonderful affectionate eyes which seemed to take everything in--all of them, even ben weatherstaff and the "creatures" and every flower that was in bloom. unexpectedly as she had appeared, not one of them felt that she was an intruder at all. dickon's eyes lighted like lamps. "it's mother--that's who it is!" he cried and he went across the grass at a run. colin began to move toward her, too, and mary went with him. they both felt their pulses beat faster. "it's mother!" dickon said again when they met half-way. "i knowed tha' wanted to see her an' i told her where th' door was hid." colin held out his hand with a sort of flushed royal shyness but his eyes quite devoured her face. "even when i was ill i wanted to see you," he said, "you and dickon and the secret garden. i'd never wanted to see any one or anything before." the sight of his uplifted face brought about a sudden change in her own. she flushed and the corners of her mouth shook and a mist seemed to sweep over her eyes. "eh! dear lad!" she broke out tremulously. "eh! dear lad!" as if she had not known she were going to say it. she did not say, "mester colin," but just "dear lad" quite suddenly. she might have said it to dickon in the same way if she had seen something in his face which touched her. colin liked it. "are you surprised because i am so well?" he asked. she put her hand on his shoulder and smiled the mist out of her eyes. "aye, that i am!" she said; "but tha'rt so like thy mother tha' made my heart jump." "do you think," said colin a little awkwardly, "that will make my father like me?" "aye, for sure, dear lad," she answered and she gave his shoulder a soft quick pat. "he mun come home--he mun come home." "susan sowerby," said ben weatherstaff, getting close to her. "look at th' lad's legs, wilt tha'? they was like drumsticks i' stockin' two month' ago--an' i heard folk tell as they was bandy an' knock-kneed both at th' same time. look at 'em now!" susan sowerby laughed a comfortable laugh. "they're goin' to be fine strong lad's legs in a bit," she said. "let him go on playin' an' workin' in th' garden an' eatin' hearty an' drinkin' plenty o' good sweet milk an' there'll not be a finer pair i' yorkshire, thank god for it." she put both hands on mistress mary's shoulders and looked her little face over in a motherly fashion. "an' thee, too!" she said. "tha'rt grown near as hearty as our 'lizabeth ellen. i'll warrant tha'rt like thy mother too. our martha told me as mrs. medlock heard she was a pretty woman. tha'lt be like a blush rose when tha' grows up, my little lass, bless thee." she did not mention that when martha came home on her "day out" and described the plain sallow child she had said that she had no confidence whatever in what mrs. medlock had heard. "it doesn't stand to reason that a pretty woman could be th' mother o' such a fou' little lass," she had added obstinately. mary had not had time to pay much attention to her changing face. she had only known that she looked "different" and seemed to have a great deal more hair and that it was growing very fast. but remembering her pleasure in looking at the mem sahib in the past she was glad to hear that she might some day look like her. susan sowerby went round their garden with them and was told the whole story of it and shown every bush and tree which had come alive. colin walked on one side of her and mary on the other. each of them kept looking up at her comfortable rosy face, secretly curious about the delightful feeling she gave them--a sort of warm, supported feeling. it seemed as if she understood them as dickon understood his "creatures." she stooped over the flowers and talked about them as if they were children. soot followed her and once or twice cawed at her and flew upon her shoulder as if it were dickon's. when they told her about the robin and the first flight of the young ones she laughed a motherly little mellow laugh in her throat. "i suppose learnin' 'em to fly is like learnin' children to walk, but i'm feared i should be all in a worrit if mine had wings instead o' legs," she said. it was because she seemed such a wonderful woman in her nice moorland cottage way that at last she was told about the magic. "do you believe in magic?" asked colin after he had explained about indian fakirs. "i do hope you do." "that i do, lad," she answered. "i never knowed it by that name but what does th' name matter? i warrant they call it a different name i' france an' a different one i' germany. th' same thing as set th' seeds swellin' an' th' sun shinin' made thee a well lad an' it's th' good thing. it isn't like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called out of our names. th' big good thing doesn't stop to worrit, bless thee. it goes on makin' worlds by th' million--worlds like us. never thee stop believin' in th' big good thing an' knowin' th' world's full of it--an' call it what tha' likes. tha' wert singin' to it when i come into th' garden." "i felt so joyful," said colin, opening his beautiful strange eyes at her. "suddenly i felt how different i was--how strong my arms and legs were, you know--and how i could dig and stand--and i jumped up and wanted to shout out something to anything that would listen." "th' magic listened when tha' sung th' doxology. it would ha' listened to anything tha'd sung. it was th' joy that mattered. eh! lad, lad--what's names to th' joy maker," and she gave his shoulders a quick soft pat again. she had packed a basket which held a regular feast this morning, and when the hungry hour came and dickon brought it out from its hiding place, she sat down with them under their tree and watched them devour their food, laughing and quite gloating over their appetites. she was full of fun and made them laugh at all sorts of odd things. she told them stories in broad yorkshire and taught them new words. she laughed as if she could not help it when they told her of the increasing difficulty there was in pretending that colin was still a fretful invalid. "you see we can't help laughing nearly all the time when we are together," explained colin. "and it doesn't sound ill at all. we try to choke it back but it will burst out and that sounds worse than ever." "there's one thing that comes into my mind so often," said mary, "and i can scarcely ever hold in when i think of it suddenly. i keep thinking suppose colin's face should get to look like a full moon. it isn't like one yet but he gets a tiny bit fatter every day--and suppose some morning it should look like one--what should we do!" "bless us all, i can see tha' has a good bit o' play actin' to do," said susan sowerby. "but tha' won't have to keep it up much longer. mester craven'll come home." "do you think he will?" asked colin. "why?" susan sowerby chuckled softly. "i suppose it 'ud nigh break thy heart if he found out before tha' told him in tha' own way," she said. "tha's laid awake nights plannin' it." "i couldn't bear any one else to tell him," said colin. "i think about different ways every day. i think now i just want to run into his room." "that'd be a fine start for him," said susan sowerby. "i'd like to see his face, lad. i would that! he mun come back--that he mun." one of the things they talked of was the visit they were to make to her cottage. they planned it all. they were to drive over the moor and lunch out of doors among the heather. they would see all the twelve children and dickon's garden and would not come back until they were tired. susan sowerby got up at last to return to the house and mrs. medlock. it was time for colin to be wheeled back also. but before he got into his chair he stood quite close to susan and fixed his eyes on her with a kind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caught hold of the fold of her blue cloak and held it fast. "you are just what i--what i wanted," he said. "i wish you were my mother--as well as dickon's!" all at once susan sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms close against the bosom under the blue cloak--as if he had been dickon's brother. the quick mist swept over her eyes. "eh! dear lad!" she said. "thy own mother's in this 'ere very garden, i do believe. she couldna' keep out of it. thy father mun come back to thee--he mun!" chapter xxvii in the garden in each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered. in the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century before. in this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be brought to light. at first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done--then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. one of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts--just mere thoughts--are as powerful as electric batteries--as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. to let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. if you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live. so long as mistress mary's mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about her dislikes and sour opinions of people and her determination not to be pleased by or interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly, bored and wretched child. circumstances, however, were very kind to her, though she was not at all aware of it. they began to push her about for her own good. when her mind gradually filled itself with robins, and moorland cottages crowded with children, with queer crabbed old gardeners and common little yorkshire housemaids, with springtime and with secret gardens coming alive day by day, and also with a moor boy and his "creatures," there was no room left for the disagreeable thoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made her yellow and tired. so long as colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his fears and weakness and his detestation of people who looked at him and reflected hourly on humps and early death, he was a hysterical half-crazy little hypochondriac who knew nothing of the sunshine and the spring and also did not know that he could get well and could stand upon his feet if he tried to do it. when new beautiful thoughts began to push out the old hideous ones, life began to come back to him, his blood ran healthily through his veins and strength poured into him like a flood. his scientific experiment was quite practical and simple and there was nothing weird about it at all. much more surprising things can happen to any one who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting in an agreeable determinedly courageous one. two things cannot be in one place. "where you tend a rose, my lad, a thistle cannot grow." while the secret garden was coming alive and two children were coming alive with it, there was a man wandering about certain far-away beautiful places in the norwegian fiords and the valleys and mountains of switzerland and he was a man who for ten years had kept his mind filled with dark and heart-broken thinking. he had not been courageous; he had never tried to put any other thoughts in the place of the dark ones. he had wandered by blue lakes and thought them; he had lain on mountain-sides with sheets of deep blue gentians blooming all about him and flower breaths filling all the air and he had thought them. a terrible sorrow had fallen upon him when he had been happy and he had let his soul fill itself with blackness and had refused obstinately to allow any rift of light to pierce through. he had forgotten and deserted his home and his duties. when he traveled about, darkness so brooded over him that the sight of him was a wrong done to other people because it was as if he poisoned the air about him with gloom. most strangers thought he must be either half mad or a man with some hidden crime on his soul. he was a tall man with a drawn face and crooked shoulders and the name he always entered on hotel registers was, "archibald craven, misselthwaite manor, yorkshire, england." he had traveled far and wide since the day he saw mistress mary in his study and told her she might have her "bit of earth." he had been in the most beautiful places in europe, though he had remained nowhere more than a few days. he had chosen the quietest and remotest spots. he had been on the tops of mountains whose heads were in the clouds and had looked down on other mountains when the sun rose and touched them with such light as made it seem as if the world were just being born. but the light had never seemed to touch himself until one day when he realized that for the first time in ten years a strange thing had happened. he was in a wonderful valley in the austrian tyrol and he had been walking alone through such beauty as might have lifted any man's soul out of shadow. he had walked a long way and it had not lifted his. but at last he had felt tired and had thrown himself down to rest on a carpet of moss by a stream. it was a clear little stream which ran quite merrily along on its narrow way through the luscious damp greenness. sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughter as it bubbled over and round stones. he saw birds come and dip their heads to drink in it and then flick their wings and fly away. it seemed like a thing alive and yet its tiny voice made the stillness seem deeper. the valley was very, very still. as he sat gazing into the clear running of the water, archibald craven gradually felt his mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the valley itself. he wondered if he were going to sleep, but he was not. he sat and gazed at the sunlit water and his eyes began to see things growing at its edge. there was one lovely mass of blue forget-me-nots growing so close to the stream that its leaves were wet and at these he found himself looking as he remembered he had looked at such things years ago. he was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was and what wonders of blue its hundreds of little blossoms were. he did not know that just that simple thought was slowly filling his mind--filling and filling it until other things were softly pushed aside. it was as if a sweet clear spring had begun to rise in a stagnant pool and had risen and risen until at last it swept the dark water away. but of course he did not think of this himself. he only knew that the valley seemed to grow quieter and quieter as he sat and stared at the bright delicate blueness. he did not know how long he sat there or what was happening to him, but at last he moved as if he were awakening and he got up slowly and stood on the moss carpet, drawing a long, deep, soft breath and wondering at himself. something seemed to have been unbound and released in him, very quietly. "what is it?" he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed his hand over his forehead. "i almost feel as if--i were alive!" i do not know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscovered things to be able to explain how this had happened to him. neither does any one else yet. he did not understand at all himself--but he remembered this strange hour months afterward when he was at misselthwaite again and he found out quite by accident that on this very day colin had cried out as he went into the secret garden: "i am going to live forever and ever and ever!" the singular calmness remained with him the rest of the evening and he slept a new reposeful sleep; but it was not with him very long. he did not know that it could be kept. by the next night he had opened the doors wide to his dark thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing back. he left the valley and went on his wandering way again. but, strange as it seemed to him, there were minutes--sometimes half-hours--when, without his knowing why, the black burden seemed to lift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one. slowly--slowly--for no reason that he knew of--he was "coming alive" with the garden. as the golden summer changed into the deeper golden autumn he went to the lake of como. there he found the loveliness of a dream. he spent his days upon the crystal blueness of the lake or he walked back into the soft thick verdure of the hills and tramped until he was tired so that he might sleep. but by this time he had begun to sleep better, he knew, and his dreams had ceased to be a terror to him. "perhaps," he thought, "my body is growing stronger." it was growing stronger but--because of the rare peaceful hours when his thoughts were changed--his soul was slowly growing stronger, too. he began to think of misselthwaite and wonder if he should not go home. now and then he wondered vaguely about his boy and asked himself what he should feel when he went and stood by the carved four-posted bed again and looked down at the sharply chiseled ivory-white face while it slept and the black lashes rimmed so startlingly the close-shut eyes. he shrank from it. one marvel of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon was high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver. the stillness of lake and shore and wood was so wonderful that he did not go into the villa he lived in. he walked down to a little bowered terrace at the water's edge and sat upon a seat and breathed in all the heavenly scents of the night. he felt the strange calmness stealing over him and it grew deeper and deeper until he fell asleep. he did not know when he fell asleep and when he began to dream; his dream was so real that he did not feel as if he were dreaming. he remembered afterward how intensely wide awake and alert he had thought he was. he thought that as he sat and breathed in the scent of the late roses and listened to the lapping of the water at his feet he heard a voice calling. it was sweet and clear and happy and far away. it seemed very far, but he heard it as distinctly as if it had been at his very side. "archie! archie! archie!" it said, and then again, sweeter and clearer than before, "archie! archie!" he thought he sprang to his feet not even startled. it was such a real voice and it seemed so natural that he should hear it. "lilias! lilias!" he answered. "lilias! where are you?" "in the garden," it came back like a sound from a golden flute. "in the garden!" and then the dream ended. but he did not awaken. he slept soundly and sweetly all through the lovely night. when he did awake at last it was brilliant morning and a servant was standing staring at him. he was an italian servant and was accustomed, as all the servants of the villa were, to accepting without question any strange thing his foreign master might do. no one ever knew when he would go out or come in or where he would choose to sleep or if he would roam about the garden or lie in the boat on the lake all night. the man held a salver with some letters on it and he waited quietly until mr. craven took them. when he had gone away mr. craven sat a few moments holding them in his hand and looking at the lake. his strange calm was still upon him and something more--a lightness as if the cruel thing which had been done had not happened as he thought--as if something had changed. he was remembering the dream--the real--real dream. "in the garden!" he said, wondering at himself. "in the garden! but the door is locked and the key is buried deep." when he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one lying at the top of the rest was an english letter and came from yorkshire. it was directed in a plain woman's hand but it was not a hand he knew. he opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first words attracted his attention at once. "_dear sir:_ "i am susan sowerby that made bold to speak to you once on the moor. it was about miss mary i spoke. i will make bold to speak again. please, sir, i would come home if i was you. i think you would be glad to come and--if you will excuse me, sir--i think your lady would ask you to come if she was here. "your obedient servant, "susan sowerby." mr. craven read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope. he kept thinking about the dream. "i will go back to misselthwaite," he said. "yes, i'll go at once." and he went through the garden to the villa and ordered pitcher to prepare for his return to england. * * * * * in a few days he was in yorkshire again, and on his long railroad journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in all the ten years past. during those years he had only wished to forget him. now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him constantly drifted into his mind. he remembered the black days when he had raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was dead. he had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at last it had been such a weak wretched thing that every one had been sure it would die in a few days. but to the surprise of those who took care of it the days passed and it lived and then every one believed it would be a deformed and crippled creature. he had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father at all. he had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had shrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his own misery. the first time after a year's absence he returned to misselthwaite and the small miserable looking thing languidly and indifferently lifted to his face the great gray eyes with black lashes round them, so like and yet so horribly unlike the happy eyes he had adored, he could not bear the sight of them and turned away pale as death. after that he scarcely ever saw him except when he was asleep, and all he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a vicious, hysterical, half-insane temper. he could only be kept from furies dangerous to himself by being given his own way in every detail. all this was not an uplifting thing to recall, but as the train whirled him through mountain passes and golden plains the man who was "coming alive" began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and deeply. "perhaps i have been all wrong for ten years," he said to himself. "ten years is a long time. it may be too late to do anything--quite too late. what have i been thinking of!" of course this was the wrong magic--to begin by saying "too late." even colin could have told him that. but he knew nothing of magic--either black or white. this he had yet to learn. he wondered if susan sowerby had taken courage and written to him only because the motherly creature had realized that the boy was much worse--was fatally ill. if he had not been under the spell of the curious calmness which had taken possession of him he would have been more wretched than ever. but the calm had brought a sort of courage and hope with it. instead of giving way to thoughts of the worst he actually found he was trying to believe in better things. "could it be possible that she sees that i may be able to do him good and control him?" he thought. "i will go and see her on my way to misselthwaite." but when on his way across the moor he stopped the carriage at the cottage, seven or eight children who were playing about gathered in a group and bobbing seven or eight friendly and polite curtsies told him that their mother had gone to the other side of the moor early in the morning to help a woman who had a new baby. "our dickon," they volunteered, was over at the manor working in one of the gardens where he went several days each week. mr. craven looked over the collection of sturdy little bodies and round red-cheeked faces, each one grinning in its own particular way, and he awoke to the fact that they were a healthy likable lot. he smiled at their friendly grins and took a golden sovereign from his pocket and gave it to "our 'lizabeth ellen" who was the oldest. "if you divide that into eight parts there will be half a crown for each of you," he said. then amid grins and chuckles and bobbing of curtsies he drove away, leaving ecstasy and nudging elbows and little jumps of joy behind. the drive across the wonderfulness of the moor was a soothing thing. why did it seem to give him a sense of home-coming which he had been sure he could never feel again--that sense of the beauty of land and sky and purple bloom of distance and a warming of the heart at drawing nearer to the great old house which had held those of his blood for six hundred years? how he had driven away from it the last time, shuddering to think of its closed rooms and the boy lying in the four-posted bed with the brocaded hangings. was it possible that perhaps he might find him changed a little for the better and that he might overcome his shrinking from him? how real that dream had been--how wonderful and clear the voice which called back to him, "in the garden--in the garden!" "i will try to find the key," he said. "i will try to open the door. i must--though i don't know why." when he arrived at the manor the servants who received him with the usual ceremony noticed that he looked better and that he did not go to the remote rooms where he usually lived attended by pitcher. he went into the library and sent for mrs. medlock. she came to him somewhat excited and curious and flustered. "how is master colin, medlock?" he inquired. "well, sir," mrs. medlock answered, "he's--he's different, in a manner of speaking." "worse?" he suggested. mrs. medlock really was flushed. "well, you see, sir," she tried to explain, "neither dr. craven, nor the nurse, nor me can exactly make him out." "why is that?" "to tell the truth, sir, master colin might be better and he might be changing for the worse. his appetite, sir, is past understanding--and his ways--" "has he become more--more peculiar?" her master asked, knitting his brows anxiously. "that's it, sir. he's growing very peculiar--when you compare him with what he used to be. he used to eat nothing and then suddenly he began to eat something enormous--and then he stopped again all at once and the meals were sent back just as they used to be. you never knew, sir, perhaps, that out of doors he never would let himself be taken. the things we've gone through to get him to go out in his chair would leave a body trembling like a leaf. he'd throw himself into such a state that dr. craven said he couldn't be responsible for forcing him. well, sir, just without warning--not long after one of his worst tantrums he suddenly insisted on being taken out every day by miss mary and susan sowerby's boy dickon that could push his chair. he took a fancy to both miss mary and dickon, and dickon brought his tame animals, and, if you'll credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until night." "how does he look?" was the next question. "if he took his food natural, sir, you'd think he was putting on flesh--but we're afraid it may be a sort of bloat. he laughs sometimes in a queer way when he's alone with miss mary. he never used to laugh at all. dr. craven is coming to see you at once, if you'll allow him. he never was as puzzled in his life." "where is master colin now?" mr. craven asked. "in the garden, sir. he's always in the garden--though not a human creature is allowed to go near for fear they'll look at him." mr. craven scarcely heard her last words. "in the garden," he said, and after he had sent mrs. medlock away he stood and repeated it again and again. "in the garden!" he had to make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was standing in and when he felt he was on earth again he turned and went out of the room. he took his way, as mary had done, through the door in the shrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds. the fountain was playing now and was encircled by beds of brilliant autumn flowers. he crossed the lawn and turned into the long walk by the ivied walls. he did not walk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on the path. he felt as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long forsaken, and he did not know why. as he drew near to it his step became still more slow. he knew where the door was even though the ivy hung thick over it--but he did not know exactly where it lay--that buried key. so he stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment after he had paused he started and listened--asking himself if he were walking in a dream. the ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs, no human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years--and yet inside the garden there were sounds. they were the sounds of running scuffling feet seeming to chase round and round under the trees, they were strange sounds of lowered suppressed voices--exclamations and smothered joyous cries. it seemed actually like the laughter of young things, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying not to be heard but who in a moment or so--as their excitement mounted--would burst forth. what in heaven's name was he dreaming of--what in heaven's name did he hear? was he losing his reason and thinking he heard things which were not for human ears? was it that the far clear voice had meant? and then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds forgot to hush themselves. the feet ran faster and faster--they were nearing the garden door--there was quick strong young breathing and a wild outbreak of laughing shouts which could not be contained--and the door in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back, and a boy burst through it at full speed and, without seeing the outsider, dashed almost into his arms. mr. craven had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a result of his unseeing dash against him, and when he held him away to look at him in amazement at his being there he truly gasped for breath. he was a tall boy and a handsome one. he was glowing with life and his running had sent splendid color leaping to his face. he threw the thick hair back from his forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes--eyes full of boyish laughter and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe. it was the eyes which made mr. craven gasp for breath. "who--what? who!" he stammered. this was not what colin had expected--this was not what he had planned. he had never thought of such a meeting. and yet to come dashing out--winning a race--perhaps it was even better. he drew himself up to his very tallest. mary, who had been running with him and had dashed through the door too, believed that he managed to make himself look taller than he had ever looked before--inches taller. "father," he said, "i'm colin. you can't believe it. i scarcely can myself. i'm colin." like mrs. medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he said hurriedly: "in the garden! in the garden!" "yes," hurried on colin. "it was the garden that did it--and mary and dickon and the creatures--and the magic. no one knows. we kept it to tell you when you came. i'm well, i can beat mary in a race. i'm going to be an athlete." he said it all so like a healthy boy--his face flushed, his words tumbling over each other in his eagerness--that mr. craven's soul shook with unbelieving joy. colin put out his hand and laid it on his father's arm. "aren't you glad, father?" he ended. "aren't you glad? i'm going to live forever and ever and ever!" mr. craven put his hands on both the boy's shoulders and held him still. he knew he dared not even try to speak for a moment. "take me into the garden, my boy," he said at last. "and tell me all about it." and so they led him in. the place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet and on every side were sheaves of late lilies standing together--lilies which were white or white and ruby. he remembered well when the first of them had been planted that just at this season of the year their late glories should reveal themselves. late roses climbed and hung and clustered and the sunshine deepening the hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one stood in an embowered temple of gold. the newcomer stood silent just as the children had done when they came into its grayness. he looked round and round. "i thought it would be dead," he said. "mary thought so at first," said colin. "but it came alive." then they sat down under their tree--all but colin, who wanted to stand while he told the story. it was the strangest thing he had ever heard, archibald craven thought, as it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion. mystery and magic and wild creatures, the weird midnight meeting--the coming of the spring--the passion of insulted pride which had dragged the young rajah to his feet to defy old ben weatherstaff to his face. the odd companionship, the play acting, the great secret so carefully kept. the listener laughed until tears came into his eyes and sometimes tears came into his eyes when he was not laughing. the athlete, the lecturer, the scientific discoverer was a laughable, lovable, healthy young human thing. "now," he said at the end of the story, "it need not be a secret any more. i dare say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see me--but i am never going to get into the chair again. i shall walk back with you, father--to the house." * * * * * ben weatherstaff's duties rarely took him away from the gardens, but on this occasion he made an excuse to carry some vegetables to the kitchen and being invited into the servants' hall by mrs. medlock to drink a glass of beer he was on the spot--as he had hoped to be--when the most dramatic event misselthwaite manor had seen during the present generation actually took place. one of the windows looking upon the courtyard gave also a glimpse of the lawn. mrs. medlock, knowing ben had come from the gardens, hoped that he might have caught sight of his master and even by chance of his meeting with master colin. "did you see either of them, weatherstaff?" she asked. ben took his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "aye, that i did," he answered with a shrewdly significant air. "both of them?" suggested mrs. medlock. "both of 'em," returned ben weatherstaff. "thank ye kindly, ma'am, i could sup up another mug of it." "together?" said mrs. medlock, hastily overfilling his beer-mug in her excitement. "together, ma'am," and ben gulped down half of his new mug at one gulp. "where was master colin? how did he look? what did they say to each other?" "i didna' hear that," said ben, "along o' only bein' on th' step-ladder lookin' over th' wall. but i'll tell thee this. there's been things goin' on outside as you house people knows nowt about. an' what tha'll find out tha'll find out soon." and it was not two minutes before he swallowed the last of his beer and waved his mug solemnly toward the window which took in through the shrubbery a piece of the lawn. "look there," he said, "if tha's curious. look what's comin' across th' grass." when mrs. medlock looked she threw up her hands and gave a little shriek and every man and woman servant within hearing bolted across the servants' hall and stood looking through the window with their eyes almost starting out of their heads. across the lawn came the master of misselthwaite and he looked as many of them had never seen him. and by his side with his head up in the air and his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boy in yorkshire--master colin! the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: table of contents, an exclamation point was added to chapter vi's title to match the text. (there was!") page , quotation mark added. (india," said) page , apostrophe added to "an'". (readin' an') page , quotation mark added. (come to-morrow.") page , comma changed to period. (she ventured.) page , extraneous quotation mark removed. (the gardeners?) page , "it" changed to "if". (wondering if he) page , illustration: closing punctuation added. (wide smile.") page , period added. (he said.) page , apostrophe added. (dickon. "an') page , "every" changed to "very". (very easily) page , "eggs" changed to "eggs" to fit rest of text. (injurious to the eggs) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) flower of the dusk by myrtle reed g. p. putnam's sons new york and london the knickerbocker press copyright, by myrtle reed mccullough the knickerbocker press, new york by myrtle reed. flower of the dusk. love affairs of literary men. a spinner in the sun. love letters of a musician. later love letters of a musician. the spinster book. lavender and old lace. the master's violin. at the sign of the jack-o'-lantern. the shadow of victory. the book of clever beasts. pickaback songs. contents chapter page i--a maker of songs ii--miss mattie iii--the tower of cologne iv--the seventh of june v--eloise vi--a letter vii--an afternoon call viii--a fairy godmother ix--taking the chance x--in the garden xi--barbara's "to-morrow" xii--miriam xiii--"woman suffrage" xiv--barbara's birthday xv--the song of the pines xvi--betrayal xvii--"never again" xviii--the passing of fido xix--the dreams come true xx--pardon xxi--the perils of the city xxii--autumn leaves xxiii--letters to constance xxiv--the bells in the tower flower of the dusk [illustration: "secretly, too, both were ashamed, having come unawares upon knowledge that was not meant for them."--_page ._ _from a painting by clinton balmer_] i a maker of songs [sidenote: sunset] the pines, darkly purple, towered against the sunset. behind the hills, the splendid tapestry glowed and flamed, sending far messages of light to the grey east, where lay the sea, crooning itself to sleep. bare boughs dripped rain upon the sodden earth, where the dead leaves had so long been hidden by the snow. the thousand sounds and scents of spring at last had waked the world. the man who stood near the edge of the cliff, quite alone, and carefully feeling the ground before him with his cane, had chosen to face the valley and dream of the glory that, perchance, trailed down in living light from some vast loom of god's. his massive head was thrown back, as though he listened, with a secret sense, for music denied to those who see. [sidenote: joyful memories] he took off his hat and stray gleams came through the deepening shadows to rest, like an aureole, upon his silvered hair. remembered sunsets, from beyond the darkness of more than twenty years, came back to him with divine beauty and diviner joy. mnemosyne, that guardian angel of the soul, brought from her treasure-house gifts of laughter and tears; the laughter sweet with singing, and the bitterness of the tears eternally lost in the water of forgetfulness. slowly, the light died. dusk came upon the valley and crept softly to the hills. mist drifted in from the sleeping sea, and the hush of night brooded over the river as it murmured through the plain. a single star uplifted its exquisite lamp against the afterglow, near the veiled ivory of the crescent moon. sighing, the man turned away. "perhaps," he thought, whimsically, as he went cautiously down the path, searching out every step of the way, "there was no sunset at all." the road was clear until he came to a fallen tree, over which he stepped easily. the new softness of the soil had, for him, its own deep meaning of resurrection. he felt it in the swelling buds of the branches that sometimes swayed before him, and found it in the scent of the cedar as he crushed a bit of it in his hand. easily, yet carefully, he went around the base of the hill to the street, where his house was the first upon the right-hand side. the gate creaked on its hinges and he went quickly up the walk, passing the grey tangle of last summer's garden, where the marigolds had died and the larkspur fallen asleep. within the house, two women awaited him, one with anxious eagerness, the other with tenderly watchful love. the older one, who had long been listening, opened the door before he knocked, but it was barbara who spoke to him first. "you're late, father, dear." "am i, barbara? tell me, was there a sunset to-night?" "yes, a glorious one." [sidenote: seeing with the soul] "i thought so, and that accounts for my being late. i saw a beautiful sunset--i saw it with my soul." "give me your coat, ambrose." the older woman stood at his side, longing to do him some small service. "thank you, miriam; you are always kind." the tiny living-room was filled with relics of past luxury. fine pictures, in tarnished frames, hung on the dingy walls, and worn rugs covered the floor. the furniture was old mahogany, beautifully cared for, but decrepit, nevertheless, and the ancient square piano, outwardly, at least, showed every year of its age. still, the room had "atmosphere," of the indefinable quality that some people impart to a dwelling-place. entering, one felt refinement, daintiness, and the ability to live above mere externals. barbara had, very strongly, the house-love which belongs to some rare women. and who shall say that inanimate things do not answer to our love of them, and diffuse, between our four walls, a certain gracious spirit of kindliness and welcome? in the dining-room, where the table was set for supper, there were marked contrasts. a coarse cloth covered the table, but at the head of it was overlaid a remnant of heavy table-damask, the worn places carefully hidden. the china at this place was thin and fine, the silver was solid, and the cup from which ambrose north drank was satsuma. on the coarse cloth were the heavy, cheap dishes and the discouraging knives and forks which were the portion of the others. the five damask napkins remaining from the original stock of linen were used only by the blind man. [sidenote: a comforting deceit] for years the two women had carried on this comforting deceit, and the daily lie they lived, so lovingly, had become a sort of second nature. they had learned to speak, casually, of the difficulty in procuring servants, and to say how much easier it was to do their own small tasks than to watch continually over fine linen and rare china intrusted to incompetent hands. they talked of tapestries, laces, and jewels which had long ago been sold, and barbara frequently wore a string of beads which, with a lump in her throat, she called "mother's pearls." discovering that the sound of her crutches on the floor distressed him greatly, barbara had padded the sharp ends with flannel and was careful to move about as little as possible when he was in the house. she had gone, mouse-like, to her own particular chair while miriam was hanging up his coat and hat and placing his easy chair near the open fire. he sat down and held his slender hands close to the grateful warmth. "it isn't cold," he said, "and yet i am glad of the fire. to-day is the first day of spring." "by the almanac?" laughed barbara. "no, according to the almanac, i believe, it has been spring for ten days. nature does not move according to man's laws, but she forces him to observe hers--except in almanacs." [sidenote: kindly shadows] the firelight made kindly shadows in the room, softening the unloveliness and lending such beauty as it might. it gave to ambrose north's fine, strong face the delicacy and dignity of an old miniature. it transfigured barbara's yellow hair into a crown of gold, and put a new gentleness into miriam's lined face as she sat in the half-light, one of them in blood, yet singularly alien and apart. "what are you doing, barbara?" the sensitive hands strayed to her lap and lifted the sheer bit of linen upon which she was working. "making lingerie by hand." "you have a great deal of it, haven't you?" "not as much as you think, perhaps. it takes a long time to do it well." "it seems to me you are always sewing." "girls are very vain these days, father. we need a great many pretty things." "your dear mother used to sew a great deal. she--" his voice broke, for even after many years his grief was keenly alive. "is supper ready, aunt miriam?" asked barbara, quickly. "yes." "then come, let's go in." ambrose north took his place at the head of the table, which, purposely, was nearest the door. barbara and miriam sat together, at the other end. "where were you to-day, father?" [sidenote: at the top of the world] "on the summit of the highest hill, almost at the top of the world. i think i heard a robin, but i am not sure. i smelled spring in the maple branches and the cedar, and felt it in the salt mist that blew up from the sea. the winter has been so long!" "did you make a song?" [sidenote: always make a song] "yes--two. i'll tell you about them afterward. always make a song, barbara, no matter what comes." so the two talked, while the other woman watched them furtively. her face was that of one who has lived much in a short space of time and her dark, burning eyes betrayed tragic depths of feeling. her black hair, slightly tinged with grey, was brushed straight back from her wrinkled forehead. her shoulders were stooped and her hands rough from hard work. she was the older sister of ambrose north's dead wife--the woman he had so devotedly loved. ever since her sister's death, she had lived with them, taking care of little lame barbara, now grown into beautiful womanhood, except for the crutches. after his blindness, ambrose north had lost his wife, and then, by slow degrees, his fortune. mercifully, a long illness had made him forget a great deal. "never mind, barbara," said miriam, in a low tone, as they rose from the table. "it will make your hands too rough for the sewing." "shan't i wipe the dishes for you, aunty? i'd just as soon." "no--go with him." the fire had gone down, but the room was warm, so barbara turned up the light and began again on her endless stitching. her father's hands sought hers. "more sewing?" his voice was tender and appealing. "just a little bit, father, please. i'm so anxious to get this done." "but why, dear?" "because girls are so vain," she answered, with a laugh. "is my little girl vain?" "awfully. hasn't she the dearest father in the world and the prettiest"--she swallowed hard here--"the prettiest house and the loveliest clothes? who wouldn't be vain!" "i am so glad," said the old man, contentedly, "that i have been able to give you the things you want. i could not bear it if we were poor." "you told me you had made two songs to-day, father." [sidenote: song of the river] he drew closer to her and laid one hand upon the arm of her chair. quietly, she moved her crutches beyond his reach. "one is about the river," he began. "in winter, a cruel fairy put it to sleep in an enchanted tower, far up in the mountains, and walled up the door with crystal. all the while the river was asleep, it was dreaming of the green fields and the soft, fragrant winds. "it tossed and murmured in its sleep, and at last it woke, too soon, for the cruel fairy's spell could not have lasted much longer. when it found the door barred, it was very sad. then it grew rebellious and hurled itself against the door, trying to escape, but the barrier only seemed more unyielding. so, making the best of things, the river began to sing about the dream. "from its prison-house, it sang of the green fields and fragrant winds, the blue violets that starred the meadow, the strange, singing harps of the marsh grasses, and the wonder of the sea. a good fairy happened to be passing, and she stopped to hear the song. she became so interested that she wanted to see the singer, so she opened the door. the river laughed and ran out, still singing, and carrying the door along. it never stopped until it had taken every bit of the broken crystal far out to sea." "i made one, too, father." "what is it?" [sidenote: song of the flax] "mine is about the linen. once there was a little seed put away into the darkness and covered deep with earth. but there was a soul in the seed, and after the darkness grew warm it began to climb up and up, until one day it reached the sunshine. after that, it was so glad that it tossed out tiny, green branches and finally its soul blossomed into a blue flower. then a princess passed, and her hair was flaxen and her eyes were the colour of the flower. "the flower said, 'oh, pretty princess, i want to go with you.' "the princess answered, 'you would die, little flower, if you were picked,' and she went on. "but one day the reaper passed and the little blue flower and all its fellows were gathered. after a terrible time of darkness and pain, the flower found itself in a web of sheerest linen. there was much cutting and more pain, and thousands of pricking stitches, then a beautiful gown was made, all embroidered with the flax in palest blue and green. and it was the wedding gown of the pretty princess, because her hair was flaxen and her eyes the colour of the flower." [sidenote: barbara] "what colour is your hair, barbara?" he had asked the question many times. "the colour of ripe corn, daddy. don't you remember my telling you?" he leaned forward to stroke the shining braids. "and your eyes?" "like the larkspur that grows in the garden." "i know--your dear mother's eyes." he touched her face gently as he spoke. "your skin is so smooth--is it fair?" "yes, daddy." "i think you must be beautiful; i have asked miriam so often, but she will not tell me. she only says you look well enough and something like your mother. are you beautiful?" "oh, daddy! daddy!" laughed barbara, in confusion. "you mustn't ask such questions! didn't you say you had made two songs? what is the other one?" miriam sat in the dining-room, out of sight but within hearing. having observed that in her presence they laughed less, she spent her evenings alone unless they urged her to join them. she had a newspaper more than a week old, but, as yet, she had not read it. she sat staring into the shadows, with the light of her one candle flickering upon her face, nervously moving her work-worn hands. "the other song," reminded barbara, gently. [sidenote: song of the sunset] "this one was about a sunset," he sighed. "it was such a sunset as was never on sea or land, because two who loved each other saw it together. god and all his angels had hung a marvellous tapestry from the high walls of heaven, and it reached almost to the mountain-tops, where some of the little clouds sleep. "the man said, 'shall we always look for the sunsets together?' "the woman smiled and answered, 'yes, always.' "'and,' the man continued, 'when one of us goes on the last long journey?' "'then,' answered the woman, 'the other will not be watching alone. for, i think, there in the west is the golden city with the jasper walls and the jewelled foundations, where the twelve gates are twelve pearls.'" there was a long silence. "and so--" said barbara, softly. ambrose north lifted his grey head from his hands and rose to his feet unsteadily. "and so," he said, with difficulty, "she leans from the sunset toward him, but he can never see her, because he is blind. oh, barbara," he cried, passionately, "last night i dreamed that you could walk and i could see!" "so we can, daddy," said barbara, very gently. "our souls are neither blind nor lame. here, i am eyes for you and you are feet for me, so we belong together. and--past the sunset----" "past the sunset," repeated the old man, dreamily, "soul and body shall be as one. we must wait--for life is made up of waiting--and make what songs we can." "i think, father, that a song should be in poetry, shouldn't it?" [sidenote: the real song] "some of them are, but more are not. some are music and some are words, and some, like prayers, are feeling. the real song is in the thrush's heart, not in the silvery rain of sound that comes from the green boughs in spring. when you open the door of your heart and let all the joy rush out, laughing--then you are making a song." "but--is there always joy?" "yes, though sometimes it is sadly covered up with other things. we must find it and divide it, for only in that way it grows. good-night, my dear." he bent to kiss her, while miriam, with her heart full of nameless yearning, watched them from the far shadows. the sound of his footsteps died away and a distant door closed. soon afterward miriam took her candle and went noiselessly upstairs, but she did not say good-night to barbara. [sidenote: midnight] until midnight, the girl sat at her sewing, taking the finest of stitches in tuck and hem. the lamp burning low made her needle fly swiftly. in her own room was an old chest nearly full of dainty garments which she was never to wear. she had wrought miracles of embroidery upon some of them, and others were unadorned save by tucks and lace. when the work was finished, she folded it and laid it aside, then put away her thimble and thread. "when the guests come to the hotel," she thought--"ah, when they come, and buy all the things i've made the past year, and the preserves and the candied orange peel, the rag rugs and the quilts, then----" [sidenote: dying embers] so barbara fell a-dreaming, and the light of the dying embers lay lovingly upon her face, already transfigured by tenderness into beauty beyond words. the lamp went out and little by little the room faded into twilight, then into night. it was quite dark when she leaned over and picked up her crutches. "dear, dear father," she breathed. "he must never know!" ii miss mattie miss mattie was getting supper, sustained by the comforting thought that her task was utterly beneath her and had been forced upon her by the mysterious workings of an untoward fate. she was not really "miss," since she had been married and widowed, and a grown son was waiting impatiently in the sitting-room for his evening meal, but her neighbours, nearly all of whom had known her before her marriage, still called her "miss mattie." [sidenote: "old maids"] the arbitrary social distinctions, made regardless of personality, are often cruelly ironical. many a man, incapable by nature of life-long devotion to one woman, becomes a husband in half an hour, duly sanctioned by church and state. a woman who remains unmarried, because, with fine courage, she will have her true mate or none, is called "an old maid." she may have the heart of a wife and the soul of a mother, but she cannot escape her sinister label. the real "old maids" are of both sexes, and many are married, but alas! seldom to each other. [sidenote: a grievance] in his introspective moments, roger austin sometimes wondered why marriage, maternity, and bereavement should have left no trace upon his mother. the uttermost depths of life had been hers for the sounding, but miss mattie had refused to drop her plummet overboard and had spent the years in prolonged study of her own particular boat. she came in, with the irritating air of a martyr, and clucked sharply with her false teeth when she saw that her son was reading. "i don't know what i've done," she remarked, "that i should have to live all the time with people who keep their noses in books. your pa was forever readin' and you're marked with it. i could set here and set here and set here, and he took no more notice of me than if i was a piece of furniture. when he died, the brethren and sistern used to come to condole with me and say how i must miss him. there wasn't nothin' to miss, 'cause the books and his chair was left. i've a good mind to burn 'em all up." "i won't read if you don't want me to, mother," answered roger, laying his book aside regretfully. "i dunno but what i'd rather you would than to want to and not," she retorted, somewhat obscurely. "what i'm a-sayin' is that it's in the blood and you can't help it. if i'd known it was your pa's intention to give himself up so exclusive to readin', i'd never have married him, that's all i've got to say. there's no sense in it. lemme see what you're at now." she took the open book, that lay face downward upon the table, and read aloud, awkwardly: "leave to the diamond its ages to grow, nor expect to accelerate the births of the eternal. friendship demands a religious treatment. we talk of choosing our friends, but friends are self-elected." [sidenote: peculiar way of putting things] "now," she demanded, in a shrill voice, "what does that mean?" "i don't think i could explain it to you, mother." "that's just the point. your pa couldn't never explain nothin', neither. you're readin' and readin' and readin' and you never know what you're readin' about. diamonds growin' and births bein' hurried up, and friends bein' religious and voted for at township elections. who's runnin' for friend this year on the republican ticket?" she inquired, caustically. roger managed to force a laugh. "you have your own peculiar way of putting things, mother. is supper ready? i'm as hungry as a bear." "i suppose you are. when it ain't readin', it's eatin'. work all day to get a meal that don't last more'n fifteen minutes, and then see readin' goin' on till long past bedtime, and oil goin' up every six months. which'll you have--fresh apple sauce, or canned raspberries?" "it doesn't matter." "then i'll get the apple sauce, because the canned raspberries can lay over as long as they're kept cool." [sidenote: miss mattie's personal appearance] miss mattie shuffled back into the kitchen. during the winter she wore black knitted slippers attached to woollen inner soles which had no heels. she was well past the half-century mark, but her face had few lines in it and her grey eyes were sharp and penetrating. her smooth, pale brown hair, which did not show the grey in it, was parted precisely in the middle. every morning she brushed it violently with a stiff brush dipped into cold water, and twisted the ends into a tight knot at the back of her head. in militant moments, this knot seemed to rise and the protruding ends of the wire hairpins to bristle into formidable weapons of offence. she habitually wore her steel-bowed spectacles half-way down her nose. they might have fallen off had not a kindly providence placed a large wart where it would do the most good. on sundays, when she put on shoes, corsets, her best black silk, and her gold-bowed spectacles, she took great pains to wear them properly. when she reached home, however, she always took off her fine raiment and laid her spectacles aside with a great sigh of relief. miss mattie's disposition improved rapidly as soon as the old steel-bowed pair were in their rightful place, resting safely upon the wart. [sidenote: second-hand things] when they sat down to supper, she reverted to the original topic. "as i was sayin'," she began, "there ain't no sense in the books you and your pa has always set such store by. where he ever got 'em, i dunno, but they was always a comin'. lots of 'em was well-nigh wore out when he got 'em, and he wouldn't let me buy nothin' that had been used before, even if i knew the folks. "i got a silver coffin plate once at an auction over to the ridge for almost nothin' and your pa was as mad as a wet hen. there was a name on it, but it could have been scraped off, and the rest of it was perfectly good. when you need a coffin plate you need it awful bad. while your pa was rampin' around, he said he wouldn't have been surprised to see me comin' home with a second-hand coffin in the back of the buggy. who ever heard of a second-hand coffin? i've always thought his mind was unsettled by so much readin'. "i ain't a-sayin' but what some readin' is all right. some folks has just moved over to the ridge and the postmaster's wife was a-showin' me some papers they get, every week. one is _the metropolitan weekly_, and the other _the housewife's companion_. i must say, the stories in those papers is certainly beautiful. "once, when they come after their mail, they was as mad as anything because the papers hadn't come, but the postmaster's wife was readin' one of the stories and settin' up nights to do it, so she wa'n't to blame for not lettin' 'em go until she got through with 'em. they slip out of the covers just as easy, and nobody ever knows the difference. [sidenote: the doctor's darling] "she was tellin' me about one of the stories. it's named _lovely lulu, or the doctor's darling_. lovely lulu is a little orphant who has to do most of the housework for a family of eight, and the way they abuse that child is something awful. the young ladies are forever puttin' ruffled white skirts into her wash, and makin' her darn the lace on their blue silk mornin' dresses. "there's a rich doctor that they're all after and one day little lulu happens to open the front-door for him, and he gets a good look at her for the first time. as she goes upstairs, arthur montmorency--that's his name--holds both hands to his heart and says, 'she and she only shall be my bride.' the conclusion of this highly fascinatin' and absorbin' romance will be found in the next number of _the housewife's companion_." "mother," suggested roger, "why don't you subscribe for the papers yourself?" miss mattie dropped her knife and fork and gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. "roger," she said, kindly, "i declare if sometimes you don't remind me of my people more'n your pa's. i never thought of that myself and i dunno how you come to. i'll do it the very first time i go down to the store. the postmaster's wife can get the addresses without tearin' off the covers, and after i get 'em read she can borrow mine, and not be always makin' the people at the ridge so mad that she's runnin' the risk of losin' her job. if you ain't the beatenest!" basking in the unaccustomed warmth of his mother's approval, roger finished his supper in peace. afterward, while she was clearing up, he even dared to take up the much-criticised book and lose himself once more in his father's beloved emerson. * * * * * [sidenote: childish memories] all his childish memories of his father had been blurred into one by the mists of the intervening years. as though it were yesterday, he could see the library upstairs, which was still the same, and the grave, silent, kindly man who sat dreaming over his books. when the child entered, half afraid because the room was so quiet, the man had risen and caught him in his arms with such hungry passion that he had almost cried out. "oh, my son," came in the deep, rich voice, vibrant with tenderness; "my dear little son!" [sidenote: the priceless legacy] that was all, save a few old photographs and the priceless legacy of the books. the library was not a large one, but it had been chosen by a man of discriminating, yet catholic, taste. the books had been used and were not, as so often happens, merely ornaments. page after page had been interlined and there was scarcely a volume which was not rich in marginal notes, sometimes questioning in character, but indicating always understanding and appreciation. as soon as he learned to read, roger began to spend his leisure hours in this library. when he could not understand a book, he put it aside and took up another. always there were pictures and sometimes many of them, for in his later years laurence austin had contracted the baneful habit of extra-illustration. never maternal, save in the limited physical sense, miss mattie had been glad to have the child out of her way. day by day, the young mind grew and expanded in its own way. year by year, roger came to an affectionate knowledge of his father, through the medium of the marginal notes. he wondered, sometimes, that a pencil mark should so long outlive the fine, strong body of the man who made it. it seemed pitiful, in a way, and yet he knew that books and letters are the things that endure, in a world of transition and decay. the underlined passages and the marginal comments gave evidence of an extraordinary love of beauty, in whatever shape or form. and yet--the parlour, which was opened only on sunday--was hideous with a gaudy carpet, stuffed chairs, family portraits done in crayon and inflicted upon the house by itinerant vendors of tea and coffee, and there was a basket of wax flowers, protected by glass, on the marble-topped "centre-table." the pride of miss mattie's heart was a chair, which, with incredible industry, she had made from an empty flour barrel. she had spoiled a good barrel to make a bad chair, but her thrifty soul rejoiced in her achievement. roger never went near it, so miss mattie herself sat in it on sunday afternoons, nodding, and crooning hymns to herself. [sidenote: an awful chasm] "how did father stand it?" thought roger, intending no disrespect. he loved his mother and appreciated her good qualities, but he saw the awful chasm between those two souls, which no ceremony of marriage could ever span. [sidenote: roger austin] in appearance, roger was like his father. he had the same clear, dark skin, with regular features and kind, dark eyes, the same abundant, wavy hair, strong, square chin, and incongruous, beauty-loving mouth. he had, too, the lovable boyishness, which never quite leaves some fortunate men. he was studying law in the judge's office, and hoped by another year to be ready to take his examinations. after working hard all day, he found refreshment for mind and body in an hour or so at night spent with the treasures of his father's library. "let us buy our entrance to this guild with a long probation," read roger. "why should we desecrate noble and beautiful souls by intruding upon them? why insist upon rash personal relations with your friend? why go to his house, and know his mother and brother and sisters? why be visited by him at your own? are these things material to our covenant? leave this touching and clawing. let him be to me----" "i've spoke twice," complained miss mattie, "and you don't hear me no more'n your pa did." "i beg your pardon, mother. i did not hear you come in. what is it?" "i was just a-sayin' that maybe those papers would be too expensive. maybe i ought not to have 'em." "i'm sure they're not, mother. anyhow, you get them, and we'll make it up in some other way if we have to." dimly, in the future, roger saw long, quiet evenings in which his disturbing influence should be rendered null and void by the charms of _lovely lulu, or the doctor's darling_. [sidenote: a morning call] "barbara north sent her pa over here this morning to ask for some book. i disremember now what it was, but it was after you was gone." roger's expressive face changed instantly. "why didn't you tell me sooner, mother?" he spoke with evident effort. "it's too late now for me to go over there." "there's no call for you to go over. they can send again. miss miriam can come after it any time. they ain't got no business to let a blind old man like ambrose north run around by himself the way they do." "he takes very good care of himself. he knew this place before he was blind, and i don't think there is any danger." "just the same, he ought not to go around alone, and that's what i told him this morning. 'a blind old man like you,' says i, 'ain't got no business chasin' around alone. first thing you know, you'll fall down and break a leg or arm or something.'" roger shrank as if from a physical hurt. "mother!" he cried. "how can you say such things!" "why not?" she queried, imperturbably. "he knows he's blind, i guess, and he certainly can't think he's young, so what harm does it do to speak of it? anyway," she added, piously, "i always say just what i think." roger got up, put his hands in his pockets, and paced back and forth restlessly. "people who always say what they think, mother," he answered, not unkindly, "assume that their opinions are of great importance to people who probably do not care for them at all. unless directly asked, it is better to say only the kind things and keep the rest to ourselves." "i was kind," objected miss mattie. "i was tellin' him he ought not to take the risk of hurtin' himself by runnin' around alone. i don't know what ails you, roger. every day you get more and more like your pa." [sidenote: dangerous rocks] "how long had you and father known each other before you were married?" asked roger, steering quickly away from the dangerous rocks that will loom up in the best-regulated of conversations. "'bout three months. why?" "oh, i just wanted to know." "i used to be a pretty girl, roger, though you mightn't think it now." her voice was softened, and, taking off her spectacles, she gazed far into space; seemingly to that distant girlhood when radiant youth lent to the grey old world some of its own immortal joy. "i don't doubt it," said roger, politely. "your pa and me used to go to church together. he sang in the choir and i had a white dress and a bonnet trimmed with lutestring ribbon. i can smell the clover now and hear the bees hummin' when the windows was open in summer. a bee come in once while the minister was prayin' and lighted on deacon emory's bald head. seems a'most as if 't was yesterday. [sidenote: great notions] "your pa had great notions," she went on, after a pause. "just before we was married, he said he was goin' to educate me, but he never did." iii the tower of cologne roger sat in ambrose north's easy chair, watching barbara while she sewed. "i am sorry," he said, "that i wasn't at home when your father came over after the book. mother was unable to find it. i'm afraid i'm not very orderly." "it doesn't matter," returned barbara, threading her needle again. "i steal too much time from my work as it is." roger sighed and turned restlessly in his chair. "i wish i could come over every day and read to you, but you know how it is. days, i'm in the office with the musty old law books, and in the evenings, your father wants you and my mother wants me." "i know, but father usually goes to bed by nine, and i'm sure your mother doesn't sit up much later, for i usually see her light by that time. i always work until eleven or half past, so why shouldn't you come over then?" [sidenote: a happy thought] "happy thought!" exclaimed roger. "still, you might not always want me. how shall i know?" "i'll put a candle in the front window," suggested barbara, "and if you can come, all right. if not, i'll understand." both laughed delightedly at the idea, for they were young enough to find a certain pleasure in clandestine ways and means. miss mattie had so far determinedly set her face against her son's association with the young of the other sex, and even barbara, who had been born lame and had never walked farther than her own garden, came under the ban. ambrose north, with the keen and unconscious selfishness of age, begrudged others even an hour of barbara's society. he felt a third person always as an intruder, though he tried his best to appear hospitable when anyone came. miriam might sometimes have read to barbara, while he was out upon his long, lonely walks, but it had never occurred to either of them. [sidenote: world-wide fellowship] through laurence austin's library, as transported back and forth by roger, one volume at a time, barbara had come into the world-wide fellowship of those who love books. she was closely housed and constantly at work, but her mind soared free. when the poverty and ugliness of her surroundings oppressed her beauty-loving soul; when her fingers ached and the stitches blurred into mist before her eyes, some little brown book, much worn, had often given her the key to the house of content. "shall you always have to sew?" asked roger. "is there no way out?" [sidenote: glad of work] "not unless some fairy prince comes prancing up on a white charger," laughed barbara, "and takes us all away with him to his palace. don't pity me," she went on, her lips quivering a little, "for every day i'm glad i can do it and keep father from knowing we are poor. "besides, i'm of use in the world, and i wouldn't want to live if i couldn't work. aunt miriam works, too. she does all the housework, takes care of me when i can't help myself, does the mending, many things for father, and makes the quilts, preserves, candied orange peel, and the other little things we sell. people are so kind to us. last summer the women at the hotel bought everything we had and left orders enough to keep me busy until long after christmas." "don't call people kind because they buy what they want." "don't be so cynical. you wouldn't have them buy things they didn't want, would you?" "sometimes they do." "where?" "well, at church fairs, for instance. they spend more than they can afford for things they do not want, in order to please people whom they do not like and help heathen who are much happier than they are." "i'm glad i'm not running a church fair," laughed barbara. "and who told you that heathen are happier than we are? are you a heathen?" "i don't know. most of us are, i suppose, in one way or another. but how nice it would be if we could paint ourselves instead of wearing clothes, and go under a tree when it rained, and pick cocoanuts or bananas when we were hungry. it would save so much trouble and expense." "paint is sticky," observed barbara, "and the rain would come around the tree when the wind was blowing from all ways at once, as it does sometimes, and i do not like either cocoanuts or bananas. i'd rather sew. what went wrong to-day?" she asked, with a whimsical smile. "everything?" "almost," admitted roger. "how did you know?" [sidenote: unfailing barometer] "because you want to be a heathen instead of the foremost lawyer of your time. your ambition is an unfailing barometer." he laughed lightly. this sort of banter was very pleasing to him after a day with the law books and an hour or more with his mother. he had known barbara since they were children and their comradeship dated back to the mud-pie days. "i don't know but what you're right," he said. "whether i go to congress or the fiji islands may depend, eventually, upon judge bascom's liver." "don't let it depend upon him," cautioned barbara. "make your own destiny. it was napoleon, wasn't it, who prided himself upon making his own circumstances? what would you do--or be--if you could have your choice?" [sidenote: aspirations] "the best lawyer in the state," he answered, promptly. "i'd never oppose the innocent nor defend the guilty. and i'd have money enough to be comfortable and to make those i love comfortable." "would you marry?" she asked, thoughtfully. "why--i suppose so. it would seem queer, though." "roger," she said, abruptly, "you were born a year and more before i was, and yet you're fully ten or fifteen years younger." "don't take me back too far, barbara, for i hate milk. please don't deprive me of my solid food. what would you do, if you could choose?" "i'd write a book." "what kind? dictionary?" "no, just a little book. the sort that people who love each other would choose for a gift. something that would be given to one who was going on a long or difficult journey. the one book a woman would take with her when she was tired and went away to rest. a book with laughter and tears in it and so much fine courage that it would be given to those who are in deep trouble. i'd soften the hard hearts, rest the weary ones, and give the despairing ones new strength to go on. just a little book, but so brave and true and sweet and tender that it would bring the sun to every shady place." "would you marry?" [sidenote: the right man] "of course, if the right man came. otherwise not." "i wonder," mused roger, "how a person could know the right one?" "foolish child," she answered, "that's it--the knowing. when you don't know, it isn't it." "my dear miss north," remarked roger, "the heads of your argument are somewhat involved, but i think i grasp your meaning. when you know it is, then it is, but when you don't know that it is, then it isn't. is that right?" "exactly. wonderfully intelligent for one so young." barbara's blue eyes danced merrily and her red lips parted in a mocking smile. a long heavy braid of hair, "the colour of ripe corn," hung over either shoulder and into her lap. she was almost twenty-two, but she still clung to the childish fashion of dressing her hair, because the heavy braids and the hairpins made her head ache. all her gowns were white, either of wool or cotton, and were made to be washed. on sundays, she sometimes wore blue ribbons on her braids. [sidenote: simply barbara] to roger, she was very fair. he never thought of her crutches because she had always been lame. she was simply barbara, and barbara needed crutches. it had never occurred to him that she might in any way be different, for he was not one of those restless souls who are forever making people over to fit their own patterns. "why doesn't your father like to have me come here?" asked roger, irrelevantly. "why doesn't your mother like to have you come?" queried barbara, quickly on the defensive. "no, but tell me. please!" "father always goes to bed early." "but not at eight o'clock. it was a quarter of eight when i came, and by eight he was gone." "it isn't you, roger," she said, unwillingly; "it's anyone. i'm all he has, and if i talk much to other people he feels as if i were being taken away from him--that's all. it's natural, i suppose. you mustn't mind him." "but i wouldn't hurt him," returned roger, softly; "you know that." "i know." "i wish you could make him understand that i come to see every one of you." [sidenote: hard work] "it's the hardest work in the world," sighed barbara, "to make people understand things." "somebody said once that all the wars had been caused by one set of people trying to force their opinions upon another set, who did not desire to have their minds changed." "very true. i wonder, sometimes, if we have done right with father." "i'm sure you have," said roger, gently. "you couldn't do anything wrong if you tried." "we haven't meant to," she answered, her sweet face growing grave. "of course it was all begun long before i was old enough to understand. he thinks the city house, which we lost so long ago that i cannot even remember our having it, was sold for so high a price that it would have been foolish not to sell it, and that we live here because we prefer the country. just think, roger, before i was born, this was father's and mother's summer home, and now it's all we have." "it's a roof and four walls--that's all any house is, without the spirit that makes it home." "he thinks it's beautifully furnished. of course we have the old mahogany and some of the pictures, but we've had to sell nearly everything. i've used some of mother's real laces in the sewing and sold practically all the rest. whatever anyone would buy has been disposed of. even the broken furniture in the attic has gone to people who had a fancy for 'antiques.'" "you have made him very happy, barbara." "i know, but is it right?" "i'm not orthodox, my dear girl, but, speaking as a lawyer, if it harms no one and makes a blind old man happy, it can't be wrong." "i hope you're right, but sometimes my conscience bothers me." [sidenote: a saint's conscience] "imagine a saint's conscience being troublesome." "don't laugh at me--you know i'm not a saint." "how should i know?" "ask aunt miriam. she has no illusions about me." "thanks, but i don't know her well enough. we haven't been on good terms since she drove me out of the melon patch--do you remember?" "yes, i remember. we wanted the blossoms, didn't we, to make golden bells in the tower of cologne?" "i believe so. we never got the tower finished, did we?" "no. i wasn't allowed to play with you for a long time, because you were such a bad boy." "next summer, i think we should rebuild it. let's renew our youth sometime by making the tower of cologne in your back yard." "there are no golden bells." "i'll get some from somewhere. we owe it to ourselves to do it." barbara's blue eyes were sparkling now, and her sweet lips smiled. "when it's done?" she asked. [sidenote: like fairy tales] "we'll move into it and be happy ever afterward, like the people in the fairy tales." "i said a little while ago that you were fifteen years younger than i am, but, upon my word, i believe it's nearer twenty." "that makes me an enticing infant of three or four, flourishing like the green bay tree on a diet of bread and milk with an occasional soft-boiled egg. i should have been in bed by six o'clock, and now it's--gracious, barbara, it's after eleven. what do you mean by keeping the young up so late?" as he spoke, he hurriedly found his hat, and, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, drew out a book. "that's the one you wanted, isn't it?" "yes, thank you." "i didn't give it to you before because i wanted to talk, but we'll read, sometimes, when we can. don't forget to put the light in the window when it's all right for me to come. if i don't, you'll understand. and please don't work so hard." barbara smiled. "i have to earn a living for three healthy people," she said, "and everybody is trying, by moral suasion, to prevent me from doing it. do you want us all piled up in the front yard in a nice little heap of bones before the tower of cologne is rebuilt?" roger took both her hands and attempted to speak, but his face suddenly crimsoned, and he floundered out into the darkness like an awkward school-boy instead of a self-possessed young man of almost twenty-four. it had occurred to him that it might be very nice to kiss barbara. [sidenote: back to childhood] but barbara, magically taken back to childhood, did not notice his confusion. the tower of cologne had been a fancy of hers ever since she could remember, though it had been temporarily eclipsed by the hard work which circumstances had thrust upon her. as she grew from childhood to womanhood, it had changed very little--the dream, always, was practically the same. [sidenote: a day dream] the tower itself was made of cologne bottles neatly piled together, and the brightly-tinted labels gave it a bizarre but beautiful effect. it was square in shape and very high, with a splendid cupola of clear glass arches--the labels probably would not show, up so high. it stood in an enchanted land with the sea behind it--nobody had ever thought of taking barbara down to the sea, though it was so near. the sea was always blue, of course, like the sky, or the larkspur--she was never quite sure of the colour. the air all around the tower smelled sweet, just like cologne. there was a flight of steps, also made of cologne bottles, but they did not break when you walked on them, and the door was always ajar. inside was a great, winding staircase which led to the cupola. you could climb and climb and climb, and when you were tired, you could stop to rest in any of the rooms that were on the different floors. strangely enough, in the tower of cologne, barbara was never lame. she always left her crutches leaning up against the steps outside. she could walk and run like anyone else and never even think of crutches. there were many charming people in the tower and none of them ever said, pityingly, "it's too bad you're lame." all the dear people of the books lived in the tower of cologne, besides many more, whom barbara did not know. maggie tulliver, little nell, dora, agnes, mr. pickwick, king arthur, the lady of shalott, and unnumbered others dwelt happily there. they all knew barbara and were always glad to see her. wonderful tapestries were hung along the stairs, there were beautiful pictures in every room, and whatever you wanted to eat was instantly placed before you. each room smelled of a different kind of cologne and no two rooms were furnished alike. her friends in the tower were of all ages and of many different stations in life, but there was one whose face she had never seen. he was always just as old as barbara, and was closer to her than the rest. [sidenote: the boy] when she lost herself in the queer winding passages, the boy, whose face she was unable to picture, was always at her side to show her the way out. they both wanted to get up into the cupola and ring all the golden bells at once, but there seemed to be some law against it, for when they were almost there, something always happened. either the tower itself vanished beyond recall, or aunt miriam called her, or an imperative voice summoned the boy downstairs--and barbara would not think of going to the cupola without him. when she and roger had begun to make mud pies together, she had told him about the tower and got him interested in it, too--all but the boy whose face she was unable to see and whose name she did not know. in the tower, she addressed him simply as "boy." barbara kept him to herself for some occult reason. roger liked the tower very much, but thought the construction might possibly be improved. barbara never allowed him to make any changes. he could build another tower for himself, if he chose, and have it just as he wanted it, but this was her very own. it all seemed as if it were yesterday. "and," mused barbara, "it was almost sixteen years ago, when i was six and roger 'seven-going-on-eight,' as he always said." the dear tower still stoodin her memory, but far off and veiled, like a mirage seen in the clouds. the boy who helped her over the difficult places was a grown man now, tall and straight and strong, but she could not see his face. "it's queer," thought barbara, as she put out the light. "i wonder if i ever shall." [sidenote: an enchanted land] that night she dreamed of the tower of cologne, in the old, enchanted land, where a blue sky bent down to meet a bluer sea. she and the boy were in the cupola, making music with the golden bells. their laughter chimed in with the sweet sound of the ringing, but still, she could not see his face. iv the seventh of june barbara sat by the old chest which held her completed work, frowning prettily over a note-book in her lap. she was very methodical, and, in some inscrutable way, things had become mixed. she kept track of every yard of lace and linen and every spool of thread, for, it was evident, she must know the exact cost of the material and the amount of time spent on a garment before it could be accurately priced. [sidenote: finishing touches] aunt miriam had carefully pressed the lingerie after it was made and laid it away in the chest with lavender to keep it from turning yellow. there remained only the last finishing touches. aunt miriam could have put in the ribbons as well as she could, but barbara chose to do it herself. [sidenote: ways and means] three prices were put on each tag in barbara's private cipher, understood only by aunt miriam. the highest was the one hoped for, the next the probable one, and the lowest one was to be taken only at the end of the season. already four or five early arrivals were reported at the hotel. by the end of next week, it would be proper for aunt miriam to go down with a few of the garments packed in a box with tissue paper, and see what she could do. barbara had used nearly all of her material and had sent for more, but, in the meantime, she was using the scraps for handkerchiefs, pin-cushion covers, and heart-shaped corsage pads, delicately scented and trimmed with lace and ribbon. once, aunt miriam had gone to the city for material and patterns, and had priced hand-made lingerie in the shops. when she came back with an itemised report, barbara had clapped her hands in glee, for she saw the wealth of croesus looming up ahead. she had soon learned, however, that she must keep far below the city prices if she would tempt the horde of summer visitors who came, yearly, to the hotel. at times, she thought that aunt miriam must have been dreadfully mistaken. barbara put down the highest price of every separate article in the small, neat hand that aunt miriam had taught her to write--for she had never been to school. if she should sell everything, why, there would be more than a year of comfort for them all, and new clothes for father, who was beginning to look shabby. "but they won't," barbara said to herself, sadly. "i can't expect them to buy it all when i'm asking so much." down in the living-room, ambrose north was inquiring restlessly for barbara. "yes," he said, somewhat impatiently, "i know she's upstairs, for you've told me so twice. what i want to know is, why doesn't she come down?" "she's busy at something, probably," returned miriam, with forced carelessness, "but i think she'll soon be through." "barbara is always busy," he answered, with a sigh. "i can't understand it. anyone might think she had to work for a living. by the way, miriam, do you need more money?" "we still have some," she replied, in a low voice. "how much?" he demanded. "less than a hundred dollars." she did not dare to say how much less. "that is not enough. if you will get my check-book, i will write another check." [sidenote: the old check-book] miriam's face was grimly set and her eyes burned strangely beneath her dark brows. she went to the mahogany desk and took an old check-book out of the drawer. "now," he said, as she gave him the pen and ink, "please show me the line. 'pay to the order of'----" she guided his hand with her own, trying to keep her cold fingers from trembling. "miriam leonard," he spelled out, in uneven characters, "five--hundred--dollars. signed--ambrose--north. there. when you have no money, i wish you would speak of it. i am fully able to provide for my family, and i want to do it." "thank you." miriam's voice was almost inaudible as she took the check. "the date," he said; "i forgot to date it. what day of the month is it?" she moistened her parched lips, but did not speak. this was what she had been dreading. "the date, miriam," he called. "will you please tell me what day of the month it is?" "the seventh," she answered, with difficulty. "the seventh? the seventh of june?" "yes." there was a long pause. "twenty-one years," he said, in a shrill whisper. "twenty-one years ago to-day." [sidenote: a dreadful anniversary] miriam sat down quietly on the other side of the room. her eyes were glittering and she was moving her hands nervously. this dreadful anniversary had, for her, its own particular significance. upstairs, barbara, light-hearted and hopeful, was singing to herself while she pinned on the last of the price tags and built her air-castle. the song came down lightly, yet discordantly. it was as though a waltz should be played at an open grave. "miriam," cried ambrose north, passionately, "why did she kill herself? in god's name, tell me why!" "i do not know," murmured miriam. he had asked her more than fifty times, and she always gave the same answer. "but you must know--someone must know! a woman does not die by her own hand without having a reason! she was well and strong, loved, taken care of and petted, she had all that the world could give her, and hosts of friends. i was blind and barbara was lame, but she loved us none the less. if i only knew why!" he cried, miserably; "oh, if i only knew why!" miriam, unable to bear more, went out of the room. she pressed her cold hands to her throbbing temples. "i shall go mad," she muttered. "how long, o lord, how long!" [sidenote: constance north] twenty-one years ago to-day, constance north had, intentionally, taken an overdose of laudanum. she had left a note to her husband begging him to forgive her, and thanking him for all his kindness to her during the three years they had lived together. she had also written a note to miriam, asking her to look after the blind man and to be a mother to barbara. enclosed were two other letters, sealed with wax. one was addressed "to my daughter, barbara. to be opened on her twenty-second birthday." miriam had both the letters safely put away. it was not time for barbara to have hers and she had never delivered the other to the person to whom it was addressed--so often does the arrogant power of the living deny the holiest wishes of the dead. the whole scene came vividly back to miriam--the late afternoon sun streaming in glory from the far hills into constance north's dainty sitting-room, upstairs; the golden-haired woman, in the full splendour of her youth and beauty, lying upon the couch asleep, with a smile of heavenly peace upon her lips; the blind man's hands straying over her as she lay there, with his tears falling upon her face, and blue-eyed barbara, cooing and laughing in her own little bed in the next room. [sidenote: years of torture] miriam had found the notes on the dressing-table, and had lied. she had said there were but two when, in reality, there were four. two had been read and destroyed; the other two, with unbroken seals, were waiting to be read. she was keeping the one for barbara; the other had tortured her through all of the twenty years. the time had passed when she could have delivered it, for the man to whom it was addressed was dead. but he had survived constance by nearly five years, and, at any time during those five years, miriam might have given it to him, unseen and safely. she justified herself by dwelling upon her care of barbara and the blind man, and the fact that she would give barbara her letter upon the appointed day. sternly she said to herself: "i will fulfil one trust. i will keep faith with constance in this one way, bitterly though she has wronged me." [sidenote: haunting dreams] yet the fulfilment of one trust seemed not to be enough, for her sleep was haunted by the pleading eyes of constance, asking mutely for some boon. until the man died, constance had come often, with her hands outstretched, craving that which was so little and yet so much. after his death, constance still continued to come, but less often and reproachfully; she seemed to ask for nothing now. miriam had grown old, but constance, though sad, was always young. one of death's surpassing gifts is eternal youth to those whom he claims too soon. in her old husband's grieving heart, constance had assumed immortal beauty as well as immortal youth. she was now no older than barbara, who still sang heedlessly upstairs. every night of the twenty-one years, miriam had closed her eyes in dread. when she dreamed it was always of constance--constance laughing or singing, constance bringing "the light that never was on sea or land" to the fine, grave face of ambrose north; constance hugging little lame barbara to her breast with passionate, infinitely pitying love. and, above all, constance in her grave-clothes, dumb, reproachful, her sad eyes fixed on miriam in pleading that was almost prayer. "miriam! oh, miriam!" the blind man in the next room was calling her. fearfully, she went back. "sit down," said ambrose north. "sit down near me, where i can touch your hand. how cold your fingers are! i want to thank you for all you have done for us--for my little girl and for me. you have been so faithful, so watchful, so obedient to her every wish." miriam shrank from him, for the kindly words stung like a lash on flesh already quivering. [sidenote: miriam and ambrose] "we have always been such good friends," he said, reminiscently. "do you remember how much we were together all that year, until constance came home from school?" "i have not forgotten," said miriam, in a choking whisper. a surge of passionate hate swept over her even now, against the dead woman whose pretty face had swerved ambrose north from his old allegiance. "and i shall not forget," he answered, kindly. "i am on the westward slope, miriam, and have been, for a long time. but a few more years--or months--or days--as god wills, and i shall join her again, past the sunset, where she waits for me. "i have made things right for you and barbara. roger austin has my will, dividing everything i have between you. i should like your share to go to barbara, eventually, if you can see your way clear to do it." "don't!" cried miriam, sharply. the strain was insupportable. "i do not wish to pain you, sister," answered the old man, with gentle dignity, "but sometimes it is necessary that these things be said. i shall not speak of it again. will you give me back the check, please, and show me where to date it? i shall date it to-morrow--i cannot bear to write down this day." * * * * * when barbara came down, her father was sitting at the old square piano, quite alone, improvising music that was both beautiful and sad. he seldom touched the instrument, but, when he did, wayfarers in the street paused to listen. "are you making a song, father?" she asked, softly, when the last deep chord died away. [sidenote: too sad for songs] "no," he sighed; "i cannot make songs to-day." "there is always a song, daddy," she reminded him. "you told me so yourself." "yes, i know, but not to-day. do you know what to-day is, my dear?" "the seventh--the seventh of june." "twenty-one years ago to-day," he said, with an effort, "your dear mother took her own life." the last words were almost inaudible. barbara went to him and put her soft arms around his neck. "daddy!" she whispered, with infinite sympathy, "daddy!" he patted her arm gently, unable to speak. she said no more, but the voice and the touch brought healing to his pain. bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, the daughter of the dead constance was thrilled unspeakably with a tenderness that the other had never given him. "sit down, my dear," said ambrose north, slowly releasing her. "i want to talk to you--of her. did i hear aunt miriam go out?" "yes, just a few minutes ago." "you are almost twenty-two, are you not, barbara?" "yes, daddy." "then you are a woman grown. your dear mother was twenty-two, when--" he choked on the words. "when she died," whispered barbara, her eyes luminous with tears. [sidenote: a torturing doubt] [sidenote: a change] "yes, when she--died. i have never known why, barbara, unless it was because i was blind and you were lame. but all these years there has been a torturing doubt in my heart. before you were born, and after my blindness, i fancied that a change came over her. she was still tender and loving, but it was not quite in the same way. sometimes i felt that she had ceased to love me. do you think my blindness could--?" "never, father, never." barbara's voice rang out strong and clear. "that would only have made her love you more." "thank you, my dear. someway it comforts me to have you say it. but, after you came, i felt the change even more keenly. you have read in the books, doubtless, many times, that a child unites those who bring it into the world, but i have seen, quite as often, that it divides them by a gulf that is never bridged again." "daddy!" cried barbara, in pain. "didn't you want me?" "want you?" he repeated, in a tone that made the words a caress. "i wanted you always, and every day i want you more. i am only trying to say that her love seemed to lessen, instead of growing, as time went on. if i could know that she died loving me, i would not ask why. if i could know that she died loving me--if i were sure she loved me still--" "she did, daddy--i know she did." "if i might only be so sure! but the ways of the everlasting are not our ways, and life is made up of waiting." insensibly relieved by speech, his pain gradually merged into quiet acceptance, if not resignation. "shall you marry some day, barbara?" he asked, at last. "if the right man comes--otherwise not." "much is written of it in the books, and i know you read a great deal, but some things in the books are not true, and many things that are true are not written. they say that a man of fifty should not marry a girl of twenty and expect to be happy. miriam was fifteen years older than constance and at first i thought of her, but when your mother came from school, with her blue eyes and golden hair and her pretty, laughing ways, there was but one face in all the world for me. "we were so happy, barbara! the first year seemed less than a month, it passed so quickly. the books will tell you that the first joy dies. perhaps it does, but i do not know, because our marriage lasted only three years. it may be that, after many years, the heart does not beat faster at the sound of the beloved's step; that the touch of the loving hand brings no answering clasp. [sidenote: gift of marriage] "but the divinest gift of marriage is this--the daily, unconscious growing of two souls into one. aspirations and ambitions merge, each with the other, and love grows fast to love. unselfishness answers to unselfishness, tenderness responds to tenderness, and the highest joy of each is the well-being of the other. the words of church and state are only the seal of a predestined compact. day by day and year by year the bond becomes closer and dearer, until at last the two are one, and even death is no division. [sidenote: if----] "a grave has lain between us for more than twenty years, but i am still her husband--there has been no change. and, if she died loving me, she is still mine. if she died loving me--if--she--died--loving me----" his voice broke at the end, and he went out, murmuring the words to himself. barbara watched him from the window as he opened the gate. her face was wet with tears. flaming banners of sunset streamed from the hills beyond him, but his soul could see no golden city to-night. he went up the road that led to another hillside, where, in the long, dreamy shadows, the dwellers in god's acre lay at peace. barbara guessed where he was going and her heart ached for him--kneeling in prayer and vigil beside a sunken grave, to ask of earth a question to which the answer was lost, in heaven--or in hell. v eloise [sidenote: a summer hotel] the hotel was a long, low, rambling structure, with creaky floors and old-fashioned furniture. but the wide verandas commanded a glorious view of the sea, no canned vegetables were served at the table, and there was no orchestra. naturally, it was crowded from june to october with people who earnestly desired quiet and were willing to go far to get it. the inevitable row of rocking-chairs swayed back and forth on the seaward side. most of them were empty, save, perhaps, for the ghosts of long-dead gossips who had sat and rocked and talked and rocked from one meal to the next. the paint on the veranda was worn in a long series of parallel lines, slightly curved, but nobody cared. no phonograph broke upon the evening stillness with an ear-splitting din, no unholy piccolo sounded above the other tortured instruments, no violin wailed pitifully at its inhuman treatment, and the piano was locked. at seasonable hours the key might be had at the office by those who could prove themselves worthy of the trust, but otherwise quiet reigned. [sidenote: eloise wynne] miss eloise wynne came downstairs, with a book under her arm. she was fresh as the morning itself and as full of exuberant vitality. she was tall and straight and strong; her copper-coloured hair shone as though it had been burnished, and her tanned cheeks had a tint of rose. when she entered the dining-room, with a cheery "good-morning" that included everybody, she produced precisely the effect of a cool breeze from the sea. she was thirty, and cheerfully admitted it on occasion. "if i don't look it," she said, smiling, "people will be surprised, and if i do, there would be no use in denying it. anyhow, i'm old enough to go about alone." it was her wont to settle herself for summer or winter in any place she chose, with no chaperon in sight. for a week she had been at riverdale-by-the-sea, and liked it on account of the lack of entertainment. people who lived there called it simply "riverdale," but the manager of the hotel, perhaps to atone for the missing orchestra and canned vegetables, added "by-the-sea" to the name in his modest advertisements. miss wynne, fortunately, had enough money to enable her to live the much-talked-of "simple life," which is wildly impossible to the poor. as it was not necessary for her to concern herself with the sordid and material, she could occupy herself with the finer things of the soul. just now, however, she was deeply interested in the material foundation of the finest thing in the world--a home. [sidenote: a passion for lists] she had taken the bizarre paper slip which protected the even more striking cover of a recent popular novel, and adjusted it to a bulky volume of very different character. in her chatelaine bag she had a pencil and a note-book, for miss eloise was sorely afflicted with the note-book habit, and had a passion for reducing everything to lists. she had lists of things she wanted and lists of things she didn't want, which circumstances or well-meaning santa clauses had forced upon her; little books of addresses and telephone numbers, jewels and other personal belongings, and, finally, a catalogue of her library alphabetically arranged by author and title. immediately after breakfast, she went off with a long, swinging stride which filled her small audience with envy and admiration. disjointed remarks, such as "skirt a little too short, but good tailor," and "terrible amount of energy," and "wonder where she's going," followed her. these comments were audible, had she been listening, but she had the gift of keeping solitude in a crowd. far along the beach she went, hatless, her blood singing with the joy of life. a june morning, the sea, youth, and the consciousness of being loved--for what more could one ask? the diamond on the third finger of her left hand sparkled wonderfully in the sunlight. it was the only ring she wore. [sidenote: the cook book] presently, she found a warm, soft place behind a sand dune. she reared upon the dune a dark green parasol with a white border, and patted sand around the curved handle until it was, as she thought, firmly placed. then she settled her skirts comfortably and opened her book, for the first time. "it looks bad," she mused. "wonder what a carbohydrate is. and proteids--where do you buy 'em? albuminoids--i've been from maine to florida and have never seen any. they must be germs. "however," she continued, to herself, "i have a trained mind, and 'keeping everlastingly at it brings success.' it would be strange if three hours of hard study every day, on the book the man in the store said was the best ever, didn't produce some sort of definite result. but, oh, how allan would laugh at me!" the book fell on the sand, unheeded. the brown eyes looked out past the blue surges to some far castle in spain. her thoughts refused to phrase themselves in words, but her pulses leaped with the old, immortal joy. the sun had risen high in the shining east before she returned to her book. "this isn't work," she sighed to herself; "away with the dreams." before long, she got out her note-book. "a fresh fish," she wrote, "does not smell fishy and its eyes are bright and its gills red. a tender chicken or turkey has a springy breast bone. if you push it down with your finger, it springs back. a leg of lamb has to have the tough, outer parchment-like skin taken off with a sharp knife. some of the oil of the wool is in it and makes it taste muttony and bad. a lobster should always be bought when he is alive and green and boiled at home. then you know he is fresh. save everything for soup." [sidenote: the air of knowing] "i will go out into the kitchen," mused eloise, "and i will have the air of knowing all about everything. i will say: 'mary ann, i have ordered a lobster for you to boil. we will have a salad for lunch. and i trust you have saved everything that was left last night for to-night's soup.' mary ann will be afraid of me, and allan will be _so_ proud." "'i thought i told you,' continued eloise, to herself, 'to save all the crumbs. doctor conrad does not like to have everything salt and he prefers to make the salad dressing himself. do not cook any cereal the mornings we have oranges or grape-fruit--the starch and acid are likely to make a disturbance inside. four people are coming to dinner this evening. i have ordered some pink roses and we will use the pink candle-shades. or, wait--i had forgotten that my hair is red. use the green candle-shades and i will change the roses to white.'" [sidenote: a frolicsome wind] a frolicsome little wind, which had long been ruffling the waves of eloise's copper-coloured hair, took the note-book out of her lap and laid it open on the sand some little distance away. then, after making merry with the green parasol, it lifted it bodily by its roots out of the sand dune and went gaily down the beach with it. eloise started in pursuit, but the wind and the parasol out-distanced her easily. rounding the corner of another dune, she saw the parasol, with all sails set, jauntily embarked toward europe. turning away, disconsolate, she collided with a big blonde giant who took her into his arms, saying, "never mind--i'll get you another." when the first raptures had somewhat subsided, eloise led him back to the place where the parasol had started from. "when and where from and how did you come?" she asked, hurriedly picking up her books. "this morning, from yonder palatial hotel, on foot," he answered. "i thought you'd be out here somewhere. i didn't ask for you--i wanted to hunt you up myself." "but i might have been upstairs," she said, reproachfully. "on a morning like this? not unless you've changed in the last ten days, and you haven't, except to grow lovelier." "but why did you come?" she asked. "nobody told you that you could." "sweet," said allan, softly, possessing himself of her hand, "did you think i could stay away from you two whole weeks? ten days is the limit--a badly strained limit at that." the colour surged into her face. she was radiant, as though with some inner light. the atmosphere around her was fairly electric with life and youth and joy. [sidenote: dr. conrad] doctor allan conrad was very good to look at. he had tawny hair and kind brown eyes, a straight nose, and a good firm chin. he wore eye-glasses, and his face might have seemed severe had it not been discredited by his mouth. he was smooth-shaven, and knew enough to wear brown clothes instead of grey. eloise looked at him approvingly. every detail of his attire satisfied her fastidious sense. if he had worn a diamond ring or a conspicuous tie, he might not have occupied his present proud position. his unfailing good taste was a great comfort to her. "how long can you stay?" she inquired. "nice question," he laughed, "to ask an eager lover who has just come. sounds a good deal like 'here's-your-hat-what's-your-hurry?' before i knew you, i used to go to see a girl sometimes who always said, at ten o'clock: 'i'm so glad you came. when can you come again?' the first time she did it i told her i couldn't come again until i had gone away this time." "and afterward?" [sidenote: forgetting the clock] "i kept going away earlier and earlier, and finally it was so much earlier that i went before i had come. if i can't make a girl forget the clock, i have no call to waste my valuable time on her, have i?" assuming a frown with difficulty, miss wynne consulted her watch. "why, it's only half-past eleven," she exclaimed; "i thought it was much later." "you darling," said the man, irrelevantly. "what are you reading?" before she could stop him, he had picked up the book and nearly choked in a burst of unseemly merriment. "upon my word," he said, when he could speak. "a cook book! a classmate of mine used to indulge himself in floral catalogues when he wanted to rest his mind with light literature, but i never heard of a cook book as among the 'books for summer reading' that the booksellers advertise." "why not?" retorted eloise, quickly. "no real reason. lots of worse things are printed and sold by thousands, but, someway, i can't seem to reconcile you--and your glorious voice--with a cook-book." "allan conrad," said miss wynne, with affected sternness, "if you hadn't studied medicine, would you be practising it now?" "no," admitted allan; "not with the laws as they are in this state." "if i had no voice and had never studied music, would i be singing at concerts?" "not twice." "if a girl had never seen a typewriter and didn't know the first thing about shorthand, would she apply for a position as a stenographer?" "they do," said allan, gloomily. [sidenote: preparation] "don't dissemble, please. my point is simply this: if every other occupation in the world demands some previous preparation, why shouldn't a girl know something about housekeeping and homemaking before she undertakes it?" "but, my dear, you're not going to cook." "i am if i want to," announced eloise, with authority. "and, anyhow, i'm going to know. do you think i'm going to let some peripatetic, untrained immigrant manage my house for me? i guess not." "but cooking isn't theory," he ventured, picking up the note-book; "it's practice. what good is all this going to do you when you have no stove?" "don't you remember the famous painter who told inquiring visitors that he mixed his paints with brains? i am now cooking with my mind. after my mind learns to cook, my hands will find it simple enough. and some time, when you come in at midnight and have had no dinner, and the immigrant has long since gone to sleep, you may be glad to be presented with panned oysters, piping hot, instead of a can of salmon and a can-opener." "bless your heart," answered allan, fondly. "it's dear of you, and i hope it'll work. i'm starving this minute--kiss me." "'longing is divine compared with satiety,'" she reminded him, as she yielded. "how could you get away? was nobody ill?" "nobody would have the heart to be ill on a saturday in june, when a doctor's best girl was only fifty miles away. monday, i'll go back and put some cholera or typhoid germs in the water supply, and get nice and busy. who's up yonder?" indicating the hotel. "nobody we know, but very few of the guests have come, so far." [sidenote: "guests"] "in all our varied speech," commented allan, "i know of nothing so exquisitely ironical as alluding to the people who stop at a hotel as 'guests.' in mexico, they call them 'passengers,' which is more in keeping with the facts. fancy the feelings of a real guest upon receiving a bill of the usual proportions. i should consider it a violation of hospitality if a man at my house had to pay three prices for his dinner and a tip besides." "you always had queer notions," remarked eloise, with a sidelong glance which set his heart to pounding. "we'll call them inmates if you like it better. as yet, there are only eight inmates besides ourselves, though more are coming next week. two old couples, one widow, one _divorcée_, and two spinsters with life-works." "no galloping cherubs?" "school isn't out yet." [sidenote: life-works] "i see. it wouldn't be the real thing unless there were little ones to gallop through the corridors at six in the morning and weep at the dinner table. what are the life-works?" "one is writing a book, i understand, on _the equality of the sexes_. the other--oh, allan, it's too funny." "spring it," he demanded. "she's trying to have cornet-playing introduced into the public schools. she says that tuberculosis and pneumonia are caused by insufficient lung development, and that cornet-playing will develop the lungs of the rising generation. fancy going by a school during the cornet hour." "i don't know why they shouldn't put cornet-playing into the schools," he observed, after a moment of profound thought. "everything else is there now. why shouldn't they teach crime, and even make a fine art of it?" "if you let her know you're a doctor," cautioned eloise, "she'll corner you, and i shall never see you again. she says that she 'hopes, incidentally, to enlist the sympathies of the medical profession.'" "she's beginning at the wrong end. cornet manufacturers and the people who keep sanitariums and private asylums are the co-workers she wants. i couldn't live through the coming winter were it not for pneumonia. it means coal, and repairs for the automobile, and furs for my wife--when i get one." "come," said eloise, springing to her feet; "let's go up and get ready for luncheon." "have you told me all?" asked allan, "or is there some gay young troubadour who serenades you in the evening and whose existence you conceal from me for reasons of your own?" [sidenote: a pathetic little woman] "nary a troubadour," she replied. "i haven't seen another soul except a pathetic little woman who came up to the hotel yesterday afternoon to sell the most exquisite things you ever saw. think of offering hand-made lingerie, of sheer, embroidered lawn and batiste and linen, to _that_ crowd! the old ladies weren't interested, the spinsters sniffed, the widow wept, and only the _divorcée_ took any notice of it. the prices were so ridiculous that i wouldn't let her unpack the box. i'd be ashamed to pay her the price she asked. it's made by a little lame girl up the main road. i'm to go up there sometime next week." "fairy godmother?" asked allan, good-naturedly. he had known eloise for many years. "perhaps," she answered, somewhat shamefaced. "what's the use of having money if you don't spend it?" [sidenote: a human interest] they went into the hotel together, utterly oblivious of the eight pairs of curious eyes that were fastened upon them in a frank, open stare. the rocking-chairs scraped on the veranda as they instinctively drew closer together. a strong human interest, imperatively demanding immediate discussion, had come to riverdale-by-the-sea. vi a letter [sidenote: discouraging prospects] miriam had come home disappointed and secretly afraid to hope for any tangible results from miss wynne's promised visit. nevertheless, she told barbara. "wouldn't any of them even look at it, aunty?" "one of them would have looked at it and rumpled it so that i'd have had to iron it again, but she wouldn't have bought anything. this young lady said she was busy just then, and she wanted to come up and look over all the things at her leisure. she won't pay much, though, even if she buys anything. she said the price was 'ridiculous.'" "perhaps she meant it was too low," suggested barbara. "possibly," answered miriam. her tone indicated that it was equally possible for canary birds to play the piano, or for ducks to sing. "how does she look?" queried barbara. "well enough." enthusiasm was not one of miriam's attractions. "what did she have on?" "white. linen, i think." "then she knows good material. was her gown tailor-made?" "might have been. why?" "because if her white linen gowns are tailored she has money and is used to spending it for clothes. i'm sure she meant the price was too low. did she say when she was coming?" "next week. she didn't say what day." [sidenote: waiting] "then," sighed barbara, "all we can do is to wait." "we'll wait until she comes, or has had time to. in the meantime, i'm going to show my quilts to those old ladies and take down a jar or two of preserves. i wish you'd write to the people who left orders last year, and ask if they want preserves or jam or jelly, or pickles, or quilts, or anything. it would be nice to get some orders in before we buy the fruit." barbara put down her book, asked for the pen and ink, and went cheerfully to work, with the aid of aunt miriam's small memorandum book which contained a list of addresses. "what colour is her hair, aunty?" she asked, as she blotted and turned her first neat page. "a good deal the colour of that old copper tea-kettle that a woman paid six dollars for once, do you remember? i've always thought she was crazy, for she wouldn't even let me clean it." "and her eyes?" "brown and big, with long lashes. she looks well enough, and her voice is pleasant, and i must say she has nice ways. she didn't make me feel like a peddler, as so many of them do. p'raps she'll come," admitted miriam, grudgingly. "oh, i hope so. i'd love to see her and her pretty clothes, even if she didn't buy anything." barbara threw back a golden braid impatiently, wishing it were copper-coloured and had smooth, shiny waves in it, instead of fluffing out like an undeserved halo. while barbara was writing, her father came in and sat down near her. "more sewing, dear?" he asked, wistfully. [sidenote: writing letters] "no, daddy, not this time. i'm just writing letters." "i didn't know you ever got any letters--do you?" "oh, yes--sometimes. the people at the hotel come up to call once in a while, you know, and after they go away, aunt miriam and i occasionally exchange letters with them. it's nice to get letters." the old man's face changed. "are you lonely, dear?" "lonely?" repeated barbara, laughing; "why i don't even know what the word means. i have you and my books and my sewing and these letters to write, and i can sit in the window and nod to people who go by--how could i be lonely, daddy?" "i want you to be happy, dear." "so i am," returned the girl, trying hard to make her voice even. "with you, and everything a girl could want, why shouldn't i be happy?" miriam went out, closing the door quietly, and the blind man drew his chair very near to barbara. [sidenote: dreaming] "i dream," he said, "and i keep on dreaming that you can walk and i can see. what do you suppose it means? i never dreamed it before." "we all have dreams, daddy. i've had the same one very often ever since i was a little child. it's about a tower made of cologne bottles, with a cupola of lovely glass arches, built on the white sand by the blue sea. inside is a winding stairway hung with tapestries, leading to the cupola where the golden bells are. there are lovely rooms on every floor, and you can stop wherever you please." "it sounds like a song," he mused. "perhaps it is. can't you make one of it?" "no--we each have to make our own. i made one this morning." "tell me, please." [sidenote: love never lost] "it is about love. when god made the world, he put love in, and none of it has ever been lost. it is simply transferred from one person to another. sometimes it takes a different form, and becomes a deed, which, at first, may not look as if it were made of love, but, in reality, is. "love blossoms in flowers, sings in moving waters, fills the forest with birds, and makes all the wonderful music of spring. it puts the colour upon the robin's breast, scents the orchard with far-reaching drifts of bloom, and scatters the pink and white petals over the grass beneath. through love the flower changes to fruit, and the birds sing lullabies at twilight instead of mating songs. "it is at the root of everything good in all the world, and where things are wrong, it is only because sometime, somewhere, there has not been enough love. the balance has been uneven and some have had too much while others were starving for it. as the lack of food stunts the body, so the denial of love warps the soul. "but god has made it so that love given must unfailingly come back an hundred-fold; the more we give, the richer we are. and heaven is only a place where the things that have gone wrong here will at last come right. is it not so, barbara?" "surely, daddy." "then," he continued, anxiously, "all my loving must come back to me sometime, somewhere. i think it will be right, for god himself is love." the blind man's sensitive fingers lovingly sought barbara's face. his touch was a caress. "i am sure you are like your dear mother," he said, softly. "if i could know that she died loving me, and if i could see her face again, just for an instant, why, all the years of loving, with no answer, would be fully repaid." "she loved you, daddy--i know she did." [sidenote: the old doubt] "i know, too, but not always. sometimes the old, tormenting doubt comes back to me." "it shouldn't--mother would never have meant you to doubt her." "barbara," cried the old man, with sudden passion, "if you ever love a man, never let him doubt you--always let him be sure. there is so much in a man's world that a woman knows nothing of. when he comes home at night, tired beyond words, and sick to death of the world and its ways, make him sure. when he thinks himself defeated, make him sure. when you see him tempted to swerve even the least from the straight path, make him sure. when the last parting comes, if he is leaving you, give him the certainty to take with him into his narrow house, and make his last sleep sweet. and if you are the one to go first, and leave him, old and desolate and stricken, oh, barbara, make him sure then--make him very sure." [sidenote: a string of pearls] the girl's hand closed tightly upon his. he leaned over to pat her cheek and stroke the heavy braids of silken hair. then he felt the strand of beads around her neck. "you have on your mother's pearls," he said. his fine old face illumined as he touched the tawdry trinket. barbara swallowed the hard lump in her throat. "yes, daddy." they had lived for years upon that single strand of large, perfectly matched pearls which ambrose north had clasped around his young wife's neck upon their wedding day. "would you like more pearls, dear? a bracelet, or a ring?" "no--these are all i want." "i want to give you a diamond ring some day, barbara. your mother's was buried with her. it was her engagement ring." "perhaps somebody will give me an engagement ring," she suggested. "i shouldn't wonder. i don't want to be selfish, dear. you are all i have, but, if you loved a man, i wouldn't try to keep you away from him." "prince charming hasn't come yet, daddy, so cheer up. i'll tell you when he does." thus she turned the talk into a happier vein. they were laughing together like two children when miriam came in to say that supper was ready. [sidenote: alone] afterward, he sat at the piano, improvising low, sweet chords that echoed back plaintively from the dingy walls. the music was full of questioning, of pleading, of longing so deep that it was almost prayer. barbara finished her letters by the light of the lamp, while miriam sat in the dining-room alone, asking herself the old, torturing questions, facing her temptation, and bearing the old, terrible hunger of the heart that hurt her like physical pain. a little before nine o'clock, the blind man came to kiss barbara good-night. then he went upstairs. miriam came in and talked a few minutes of quilts, pickles, and lingerie, then she, too, went up to begin her usual restless night. left alone, barbara discovered that she did not care to read. it was too late to begin work upon the new stock of linen, lawn, and batiste which had come the day before, and she lacked the impulse, in the face of such discouraging prospects as aunt miriam had encountered at the hotel. barbara steadily refused to admit, even to herself, that she was discouraged, but she found no pleasure in the thought of her work. [sidenote: a light in the window] she unfastened the front door, lighted a candle, and set it upon the sill of the front window. within twenty minutes roger had come, entering the house so quietly that barbara did not hear his step and was frightened when she saw him. "don't scream," he said, as he closed the door leading into the hall. "i'm not a burglar--only a struggling young law student with no prospects and even less hope." "i infer," said barbara, "that the bascom liver is out of repair." "correct. it seems absurd, doesn't it, to be affected by another man's liver while you are supremely unconscious of your own?" "there are more things in other people's digestions than our philosophy can account for," she replied, with a wicked perversion of classic phrase. "what was the primary cause of the explosion?" "it was all his own fault," explained roger. "i like dogs almost as well as i do people, but it doesn't follow that dogs should mix so constantly with people as they usually are allowed to. i was never in favour of judge bascom's bull pup keeping regular office hours with us, but he has, ever since the day he waddled in behind the judge with a small chain as the connecting link. i got so accustomed to his howling in the corner of the office where he was chained up that i couldn't do my work properly when he was asleep. so all went well until the judge decided to remove the chain and give the pup more room to develop himself in. [sidenote: "pethood"] "i tried to dissuade him, but it was no use. i told him he would run away, and he said, with great dignity, that he did not desire for a pet anything which had to be tied up in order to be retained. he observed that the restraining influence worked against the pethood so strongly as practically to obscure it." "new word?" laughed barbara. "i don't know why it isn't a good word," returned roger, in defence. "if 'manhood' and 'womanhood' and 'brotherhood' and all the other 'hoods' are good english, i see no reason why 'pethood' shouldn't be used in the same sense. the english language needs a lot of words added to it before it can be called complete." "one wouldn't think so, judging by the size of the dictionary. however, we'll let it pass. go on with the story." "things have been lively for a week or more. the pup has romped around a good deal and has playfully bitten a client or two, but the judge has been highly edified until to-day. fido got an important legal document which the judge had just drafted, and literally chewed it to pulp. then he swallowed it, apparently with great relish. i was told to make another, and my not knowing about it, and taking the liberty of asking a few necessary questions, produced the fireworks. it wasn't fido's fault, but mine." "how is fido?" queried barbara, with affected anxiety. "he was well at last accounts, but the document was long enough and complicated enough to make him very ill. i hope he'll die of it to-morrow." "perhaps he's going to study law, too," remarked barbara, "and believes, with macaulay, that 'a page digested is better than a book hurriedly read.'" "i think that will do, miss north. i'll read to you now, if you don't mind. i would fain improve myself instead of listening to such childish chatter." "perhaps, if you read to me enough, i'll improve so that even you will enjoy talking to me," she returned, with a mischievous smile. "what did you bring over?" [sidenote: a new book] "a new book--that is, one that we've never seen before. there is a large box of father's books behind some trunks in the attic, and i never found them until sunday, when i was rummaging around up there. i haven't read them--i thought i'd make a list of them first, and you can choose those you'd like to have me read to you. i brought this little one because i was sure you'd like it, after reading _endymion_ and _the eve of st. agnes_." "what is it?" "keats's letters to fanny brawne." the little brown book was old and its corners were dog-eared, but the yellowed pages, with their record of a deathless passion, were still warmly human and alive. roger had a deep, pleasant voice, and he read well. quite apart from the beauty of the letters, it gave barbara pleasure to sit in the firelight and watch his face. [sidenote: a folded paper] he read steadily, pausing now and then for comment, until he was half-way through the volume; then, as he turned a page, a folded paper fell out. he picked it up curiously. "why, barbara," he said, in astonishment. "it's my father's writing." "what is it--notes?" "no, he seems to have been trying to write a letter like those in the book. it is all in pencil, with changes and erasures here and there. listen: [sidenote: the letter] "'you are right, as you always are, and we must never see each other again. we must live near each other for the rest of our lives, with that consciousness between us. we must pass each other on the street and not speak unless others are with us; then we must bow, pleasantly, for the sake of appearances. "'i hope you do not blame me because i went mad. i ask your pardon, and yet i cannot say i am sorry. that one hour of confession is worth a lifetime of waiting--it is worth all the husks that we are to have henceforward while we starve for more. "'through all the years to come, we shall be separated by less than a mile, yet the world lies between us and divides us as by a glittering sword. you will not be unfaithful to your pledge, nor i to mine. nothing is changed there. it is only that two people chose to live in the starlight and bound themselves to it eternally, then had one blinding glimpse of god's great sun. "'but, constance, the stars are the same as always, and we must try to forget that we have seen the sun. the little lights of the temple must be the more faithfully tended if the great light goes out. when the white splendour fades, we must be content with the misty gold of night, and not mind the shadows nor the great desolate spaces where not even starlight comes. your star and mine met for an instant, then were sundered as widely as the poles, but the light of each must be kept steadfast and clear, because of the other. "'i do not know that i shall have the courage to send this letter. everything was said when i told you that i love you, for that one word holds it all and there is nothing more. as you can take your heart in the hollow of your hand and hold it, it is so small a thing; so the one word 'love' holds everything that can be said, or given, or hungered for, or prayed for and denied. "'and if, sometimes, in the starlight, we dream of the sun, we must remember that both sun and stars are god's. past the unutterable leagues that divide us now, one day we shall meet again, purged, mayhap, of earthly longing for earthly love. "'but heaven, for me, would be the hour i held you close again. i should ask nothing more than to tell you once more, face to face and heart to heart, the words i write now: i love you--i love you--i love you.'" [sidenote: a discovery] roger put down the book and stared fixedly at the fire. barbara's face was very pale and the light had gone from her eyes. "roger," she said, in a strange tone, "constance was my mother's name. do you think----" he was startled, for his thought had not gone so far as her intuition. "i--do--not--know," he said. "they knew each other," barbara went on, swiftly, "for the two families have always lived here, in these same two houses where you and i were born. it was only a step across the road, and they----" [sidenote: a barrier] she choked back a sob. something new and terrible seemed to have sprung up suddenly between her and roger. the blood beat hard in his ears and his own words sounded dull and far away. "it is dated june third," he said. "my mother died on the seventh," said barbara, slowly, "by--her--own--hand." they sat in silence for a long time. then, speaking of indifferent things, they tried to get back upon the old friendly footing again, but failed miserably. there was a consciousness as of guilt, on either side. roger tried not to think of it. later, when he was alone, he would go over it all and try to reason it out--try to discover if it were true. barbara did not need to do this, for, with a woman's quick insight, she knew. secretly, too, both were ashamed, having come unawares upon knowledge that was not meant for them. presently, roger went home, and was glad to be alone in the free outer air; but, long after he was gone, barbara sat in the dark, her heart aching with the burden of her father's doubt and her dead mother's secret. vii an afternoon call the rap at the norths' front door was of the sort which would impel the dead to rise and answer it. before the echo of the imperative summons had died away, miriam had opened it and admitted miss mattie. [sidenote: bein' neighbourly] "i was sewin' over to my house," announced the visitor, settling herself comfortably, "and i surmised as how you might be sewin' over here, so i thought we might as well set together for a spell. i believe in bein' neighbourly." barbara smiled a welcome and miriam brought in a quilt which she was binding by hand. as she worked, she studied miss mattie furtively, and with an air of detachment. "i come over on the trail roger has wore in the grass," continued miss mattie, biting off her thread with a snap. "he's organised himself into sort of a travellin' library, i take it, what with transportin' books at all hours back and forth. after i go to bed, roger lets himself out and sneaks over here, carryin' readin' matter both ways. but land's sake," she chuckled, "i ain't carin' what he does after i get sleepy. i was never one to stay up after nine o'clock for the sake of entertainment. if there's sickness, or anythin' like that, of course it's a different matter. "roger's pa was always a great one for readin', and we've both inherited it from him. roger sits with his books and i sit with my paper, and we both read, never sayin' a word to each other, till almost nine o'clock. we're what you might call a literary family. [sidenote: "jewel of a girl"] "i'm just readin' a perfectly beautiful story called _margaret merriman, or the maiden's mad marriage_. margaret must have been worth lookin' at, for she had golden hair and eyes like sapphires and ruby lips and pearly teeth. i was readin' the description of her to roger, and he said she seemed to be what some people would call 'a jewel of a girl.' "margaret merriman's mother died when she was an infant in arms, just like your ma, barbara, and left her to her pa. her pa didn't marry again, though several was settin' their caps for him on account of him bein' young and handsome and havin' a lot of money. i suppose bein' a widower had somethin' to do with it, too. it does beat all how women will run after a widower. i suppose they want a man who's already been trained, but, speakin' for myself, i've always felt as if i'd rather have somethin' fresh and do my own trainin'--women's notions differ so about husbands. [sidenote: training husbands] "just think what it would be to marry a man, thinkin' he was all trained, and to find out that it had been done wrong. you'd have to begin all over again, and it'd be harder than startin' in with absolute ignorance. the man would get restless, too. when he thought he was graduated and was about ready to begin on a post-graduate course, he'd find himself in the kindergarten, studyin' with beads and singin' about little raindrops. "gettin' an idea into a man's head is like furnishin' a room. if you can once get a piece of furniture where you want it, it can stay there until it's worn out or busted, except for occasional dustin' and repairin'. you can add from time to time as you have to, but if you attempt to refurnish a room that's all furnished, and do it all at once, you're bound to make more disturbance than housecleanin'. "it has to be done slow and careful, unless you have a likin' for rows, and if you're one of those kind of women that's forever changin' their minds about furniture and their husband's ideas, you're bound to have a terrible restless marriage. "roger's pa was fresh when i took him, but, unbeknownst to me, he'd done his own furnishin', and the pieces was dreadful set and hard to move. some of 'em i slid out gently and others took some manouverin', but steady work tells on anythin'. he was thinkin' as i wanted him to about most things, though, when he died, and that's sayin' a good deal, for he didn't die until after we'd been married seven years and three months and eighteen days. if he wasn't really thinkin' right, he was pretendin' to, and that's enough to satisfy any reasonable woman. [sidenote: the will] "margaret merriman's pa died when she was at the tender age of ten, and he left all his money to a distant relation in trust for margaret, the relative bein' supposed to spend the income on her. if margaret died before she was of age, the relative was to keep it, and if she should marry before she was of age, the relative was to keep it, too. but, livin' to eighteen' and marryin' afterwards, it was all to be margaret's, and the relative wasn't to have as much as a two-cent stamp with the mucilage licked off. "this relative was a sweet-faced lady with a large mole on her right cheek. margaret used to call her 'moley,' when she was mad at her, which was right frequent. her name was magdalene mather and she'd been married three times. she was dreadful careless with her husbands and had mislaid 'em all. not bein' able to find 'em again, she just reckoned on their bein' dead and was thinkin' of marryin' some more. [sidenote: keeping margaret young] "seems to me it's a mistake for anybody to marry more'n once. in one of roger's books it says somethin' about a second marriage bein' the triumph of hope over experience. magdalene mather was dreadful hopeful and kept thinkin' that maybe she could get somebody who would stay with her without bein' chained up. meanwhile it was to her interest to keep little margaret as young as possible. "margaret thought she was ten when she went to live with magdalene, but she soon learned that it was a mistake and she got to be only seven in less'n half an hour. magdalene put shorter dresses on her and kept her in white and gave her shoes without any heels, and these little short socks that show a foot or so of bare leg and which is indecent, if fashionable. "margaret's birthdays kept gettin' farther and farther apart, and as soon as the neighbours begun to notice that margaret wasn't agin' like everybody else, why, magdalene would just pack up and go to a new place. "she didn't go to school, but had private teachers, because it was in the will that she was to be educated like a real lady. any teacher who thought margaret was too far advanced for her age got fired the minute it was spoke of, and pretty soon margaret got onto it herself. she used to tell teachers she liked to say that she was very backward in her studies, and tell those she didn't like that aunty magdalene would be dreadful pleased to hear that she was improvin' in her readin' and 'rithmetic and grammar. "meanwhile nature was workin' in margaret's interest and she was growin' taller and taller every day. the short socks had to be took off because people laughed so, and magdalene had to let her braid her hair instead of havin' it cut dutch and tied with a ribbon. when she was eighteen, she thought she was thirteen, and she was wearin' dresses that come to her shoe tops, and her hair in one braid down her back, and dreadful young hats and no jewels, though her pa had left her a small trunk full of rubies and diamonds and pearls. magdalene was wearin' the jewels herself. they were movin' around pretty rapid about this time, and goin' from city to city in order to find better teachers for 'the dear child' as magdalene used to call her. [sidenote: the conductor] "one day, soon after they'd gone to a new city, margaret was goin' down town to take her music lesson. she went alone because magdalene was laid up with a headache and wanted the house quiet. when the conductor come along for the fare, margaret was lookin' out of the window, and, absent-minded like, she give him a penny instead of a nickel. "the conductor give it back to her, and asked her if she was so young she could go for half fare, and margaret says, right sharp, when she give him the nickel, 'it's not so long since i was travellin' on half-fare.' "the conductor says: 'i'd hate to have been hangin' up by the thumbs since you was,' says he. of course this made margaret good and mad, and she says to the conductor, 'how old do you think i am?' "the conductor says: 'i ain't paid to think durin' union hours, but i imagine that you ain't old enough to lie about your age.' [sidenote: ronald macdonald] "just then an old woman with a green parrot in a big cage fell off the car while she was gettin' off backwards as usual, and margaret didn't have no more chance to fight with the conductor. she saw, however, that he was terrible good lookin'--like the dummy in the tailor's window. it says in the story that 'ronald macdonald'--that was his name--was as handsome as a young greek god and, though lowly in station, he would have adorned a title had it been his.' "margaret got to doin' some thinkin' about herself, and wonderin' why it was she didn't seem to age none. and whenever she happened to get onto ronald macdonald's car, she noticed that he was awful polite and chivalrous to women. he waited patiently when any two of 'em was decidin' who was to pay the fare and findin' their purses, and sayin', 'you must let me pay next time,' and he would tickle a cryin' baby under the chin and make it bill and coo like a bird. "did you ever see a baby bill? i never did neither, but that's what it said in the paper. i suppose it has some reference to the expense of their comin' and their keep through the whoopin' cough stage and the measles, and so on. there don't neither of you know nothin' about it 'cause you ain't married, but when roger come, his pa was obliged to mortgage the house, and the mortgage didn't get took off until roger was out of dresses and goin' to school and beginnin' to write with ink. [sidenote: fine manners] "let me see--what was i talkin' about? oh, yes--ronald macdonald's fine manners. when a woman give him five pennies instead of a nickel, he was always just as polite to her as he was to anybody, and would help her off the car and carry her bundles to the corner for her, and everything like that. of course margaret couldn't help noticin' this and likin' him for it though she was still mad at him for what he said about her age. "one morning margaret give him a quarter so's he'd have to make change, and while he was doin' it, she says to him, 'how nice it must be to ride all day without payin' for it.' "'i'm under age,' says ronald macdonald, with a smile that showed all his beautiful teeth and his ruby lips under his black waxed mustache. "'get out,' says margaret, surprised. "'i am, though,' says ronald, confidentially. 'i'm just nineteen. how old are you?' "'thirteen,' says margaret, softly. "'don't renig,' says ronald. 'i think we're pretty near of an age.' "when margaret got home, she looked up 'renig' in the dictionary, but it wasn't there. she was too smart to ask magdalene, but she kept on thinkin'. [sidenote: chance acquaintances] "one day, while she was goin' down in the car, two men came in and sat by her. they was chance acquaintances, it seemed, havin' just met at the hotel. 'your face is terrible familiar to me,' one of the men said. 'i've seen you before, or your picture, or something, somewhere. upon my soul, i believe your picture is hung up in my last wife's boudoir.' "'good god,' says the other man, turnin' as pale as death, 'did you marry magdalene mather, too?' "'i did,' says the first man. "'then, brother,' says the second man, 'let us get off at the next corner and go and drown our mutual sorrow in drink.' "after they got off, margaret went out to ronald, and she says to him: 'there goes two of my aunt's husbands. she's had three, and there's two of 'em, right there.' "'well,' says ronald, 'if aunty ain't got a death certificate and two or three divorces put away somewhere, she stands right in line to get canned for a few years for bigamy. you don't look like you had an aunt that was a trigamist,' says he. "margaret didn't understand much of this, but she still kept thinkin'. one day while magdalene was at an afternoon reception, wearin' all of margaret's jewels, margaret looked all through her private belongings to see if she could find any divorces, and she come on a family bible with the date of her birth in it, and her father's will. [sidenote: facts of the case] "soon, she understands the whole game, and by doin' a small sum in subtraction, she sees that she is goin' on nineteen now. she's afraid to leave the proofs in the house over night, so she wraps 'em up in a newspaper, and flies with 'em to her only friend ronald macdonald, and asks him to keep 'em for her until she comes after 'em. he says he will guard them with his life. "when margaret goes back after them, havin' decided to face her aunt and demand her inheritance, ronald has already read 'em, but of course he don't let on that he has. he convinces her that she ought to get married before she faces her aunt, so that a husband's strong arm will be at hand to defend her through the terrible ordeal. "margaret thinks she sees a way out, for she has been studyin' up on law in the meantime, and she remembers how ronald has told her he is under age, and she knows the marriage won't be legal, but will serve to deceive her aunt. [sidenote: the climax] "so she flies with him and they are married, and then when they confront magdalene with the will, and the family bible and their marriage certificate, and tell her she is a trigamist, and they will make trouble for her if she don't do right by 'em, magdalene sobs out, 'oh, heaven, i am lost!' and falls in a dead faint from which she don't come out for six weeks. "in the meantime, margaret has thanked ronald macdonald for his great kindness, and says he can go now, as the marriage ain't legal, he bein' under age and not havin' his parents' consent. ronald gives a long, loud laugh and then he digs up his family bible and shows margaret how he is almost twenty-five and old enough to be married, and that women have no patent on lyin' about their ages, and that he is not going away. "margaret swoons, and when she comes to, she finds that ronald has resigned his job as a street-car conductor, and has bought some fine clothes on her credit, and is prepared to live happy ever afterward. he bids eternal farewell to work in a long and impassioned speech that's so full of fine language that it would do credit to a minister, and there margaret is, in a trap of her own makin', with a husband to take care of her money instead of an aunt. next week, i'll know more about how it turns out, but that's as far as i've got now. ain't it a perfectly beautiful story?" miriam muttered some sort of answer, but barbara smiled. "it is very interesting," she said, kindly. "i've never read anything like it." [sidenote: going the rounds] "it's a lot better'n the books you and roger waste your time over," returned the guest, much gratified; "but i can't lend you the papers, cause there's five waitin' after the postmaster's wife, and goodness knows how many of them has promised others. i don't mind runnin' over once in a while, though, and tellin' you about 'em while i sew. "it keeps 'em fresh in my memory," she added, happily, "and roger is so busy with his law books he don't have time to listen to 'em except at supper. he reads law every evening now, and he didn't used to. guess he ain't wasting so much time as he was. been down to the hotel yet?" she asked, inclining her head toward miriam. "once," answered miriam, reluctantly. [sidenote: gossip] "there ain't many come yet," the postmaster's wife tells me. "there's a young lady at the hotel named miss eloise wynne, and every day but saturday she gets a letter from the city, addressed in a man's writin'. and every afternoon, when the boy brings the hotel mail down to go out on the night train, there's a big white square envelope in a woman's writin' addressed to doctor allan conrad, some place in the city. the envelope smells sweet, but the writin' is dreadful big and sploshy-lookin'. know anything about her?" miss mattie gazed sharply at miriam over her spectacles. "no," returned miriam, decisively. "thought maybe you would. anyhow, you don't need to be so sharp about it, cause there's no harm in askin' a civil question. my mother always taught me that a civil question called for a civil answer. i should think, from the letters and all, that he was her steady company, shouldn't you?" "it's possible," assented barbara, seeing that miriam did not intend to reply. "there's some talk at the sewin' circle of gettin' you one of them hand sewin' machines," continued miss mattie, "so's you could sew more and better." barbara flushed painfully. "thank you," she answered, "but i couldn't use it. i much prefer to do all my work by hand." "all right," assented miss mattie, good-humouredly. "it ain't our idea to force a sewin' machine onto anybody that don't want it. we can use some of the money in gettin' a door-mat for the front door of the church. and, if i was you, i wouldn't let my pa run around so much by himself. if he wants to borrow a dog to go with him, roger would be willin' to lend him judge bascom's fido. if the judge wasn't willin', roger would try to persuade him. lendin' fido would make law easier for roger and be a great help to your pa. "i must go, now, and get supper. good-bye. i've enjoyed my visit ever so much. come over sometime, miriam--you ain't very sociable. good-bye." the two women watched miss mattie scudding blithely over the trail which, as she said, roger had worn in the grass. miriam looked after her gloomily, but barbara was laughing. "don't look so cross, aunty," chided barbara. "no one ever came here who was so easy to entertain." "humph," grunted miriam, and went out. [sidenote: relief] but even barbara sighed in relief when she was left alone. she understood some of roger's difficulties of which he never spoke, and realised that the much-maligned "bascom liver" could not be held responsible for all his discontent. she wondered what roger's father had been like, and did not wonder that he was unhappy, if his nature was in any way akin to his son's. but her mother? how could she have failed to appreciate the beautiful old father whom barbara loved with all the passion and strength of her young heart! [sidenote: the secret] "he mustn't know," said barbara to herself, for the hundredth time. "father must never know." viii a fairy godmother [sidenote: the postponed visit] as cool and fresh as the june morning of which she seemed a veritable part, miss eloise wynne, immaculately clad in white linen, opened the little grey gate. it was a week later than she had promised to come, but she had not been idle, and considered herself justified for the delay. miriam opened the door for her and introduced barbara. eloise smiled radiantly as she offered a smooth, well-kept hand. "i know i'm late," she said, "but i think you'll forgive me for it a little later on. i want to see all the lingerie--every piece you have to sell." "would you mind coming upstairs?" asked barbara. "no, indeed." the two went up, barbara slowly leading the way. miriam remained downstairs to make sure that the blind man did not come in unexpectedly and overhear things which he would be much happier not to know. "what a lot of it," eloise was saying. "and what a wonderful old chest." [sidenote: dainty wares] trembling with excitement, barbara spread forth her dainty wares. eloise was watching her narrowly, and, with womanly intuition, saw the dire need and the courageous spirit struggling against it. "just a minute, please," said barbara; "i'd better tell you now. my father is blind and he does not know we are poor, nor that i make these things to sell. he thinks that they are for myself and that i am very vain. so, if he should come home while you are here, please do not spoil our little deceit." barbara lifted her luminous blue eyes to eloise and smiled. it was a brave little smile without a hint of self-pity, and it went straight to the older woman's heart. "i'll be careful," said eloise. "i think it's dear of you." "now," said barbara, stooping to peer into the corners of the deep chest, "i think that's all." she began, hurriedly, to price everything as she passed it to eloise, giving the highest price each time. when she had finished, she was amazed at miss wynne's face--it was so full of resentment. "do you mean to tell me," asked eloise, in a queer voice, "that you are asking _that_ for _these_?" the blue eyes threatened to overflow, but barbara straightened herself proudly. "it is all hand work," she said, with quiet dignity, "and the material is the very best. i could not possibly afford to sell it for less." "you goose," laughed eloise, "you have misunderstood me. there is not a thing here that is not worth at least a third more than you are asking for it. give me a pencil and paper and some pins." [sidenote: higher prices] barbara obeyed, wondering what this beautiful visitor would do next. eloise took up every garment and examined it critically. then she made a new price tag and pinned it over the old one. she advanced even the plainest garments at least a third, the more elaborate ones were doubled, and some of the embroidered things were even tripled in price. when she came to the shirtwaist patterns, exquisitely embroidered upon sheerest handkerchief linen, she shamelessly multiplied the price by four and pinned the new tag on. "oh," gasped barbara; "nobody will ever pay that much for things to wear." "somebody is going to right now," announced eloise, with decision. "i'll take this, and this, and this," she went on, rapidly choosing, "and these, and these, and this. i'll take those four for a friend of mine who is going to be married next week--this solves the eternal problem of wedding-presents--and all of these for next santa claus time. "i can use all the handkerchiefs, and every pin-cushion cover and corsage-pad you've made. please don't sell anything else until i've heard from some more of my friends to whom i have already written. and you're not to offer one of these exquisite things to those unappreciative people at the hotel, for i have a letter from a friend who is on the board of directors of the woman's exchange, and got a chance for you to sell there. how long have you been doing this?" [sidenote: in a whirl of confusion] "seven or eight years," murmured barbara. her senses were so confused that the room seemed to be whirling and her face was almost as white as the lingerie. "and those women at the hotel would really buy these things at such ridiculous prices?" "not often," answered barbara, trying to smile. "they would not pay so much. sometimes we had to sell for very little more than the cost of the material. one woman said we ought not to expect so much for things that were not made with a sewing-machine, but of course, aunt miriam had been to the city and she knew that hand work was worth more." "i wish i'd been there," remarked eloise. there was a look around her mouth which would have boded no good to anybody if she had. "when i see what brutes women can be, sometimes i am ashamed because i am a woman." "and," returned barbara, softly, "when i see what good angels women can be, it makes me proud to be a woman." "where do you get your material?" asked eloise, quickly. barbara named the large department store where aunt miriam bought linen, lawn, batiste, lace, patterns, and incidentally managed to absorb ideas. "i see i'm needed in riverdale-by-the-sea," observed miss wynne. "i can arrange for you to buy all you want at the lowest wholesale price." "would it save anything?" asked barbara, doubtfully. [sidenote: practical help] "would it?" repeated eloise, smiling. "just wait and see. after i've written about that and had some samples sent to you, we'll talk over half a dozen or more complete sets of lingerie for me, and some more shirtwaists. is there a pen downstairs? i want to write a check for you." when they went into the living-room, barbara's cheeks were burning with excitement and her eyes shone like stars. when she took the check, which eloise wrote with an accustomed air, she could scarcely speak, but managed to stammer out, "thank you." "you needn't," said eloise, coolly, "for i'm only buying what i want at a price i consider very reasonable and fair. if you'll get some samples of your work ready, i'll send up for them, and hurry them on to my friend who is to put them into the woman's exchange. and please don't sell anything more just now. i've just thought of a friend whose daughter is going to be married soon, and she may want me to select some things for her." "you're a fairy godmother," said barbara. "this morning we were poor and discouraged. you came in and waved your wand, and now we are rich. i have heart for anything now." [sidenote: always rich] "you are always rich while you have courage, and without it croesus himself would be poor. it's not the circumstance, remember--it's the way you meet it." "i know," said barbara, but her eyes filled with tears of gratitude, nevertheless. ambrose north came in from the street, and immediately felt the presence of a stranger in the room. "who is here?" he asked. "this is miss wynne, father. she is stopping at the hotel and came up to call." the old man bowed in courtly fashion over the young woman's hand. "we are glad to see you," he said, gently. "i am blind, but i can see with my soul." "that is the true sight," returned eloise. her big brown eyes were soft with pity. "have many of the guests come?" he inquired. "i have a friend," laughed eloise, "who says it is wrong to call people 'guests' when they are stopping at a hotel. he insists that 'inmates' is a much better word." "he is not far from right," said the old man, smiling. "is he there now?" "no, he comes down saturday mornings and stays until monday morning. that is all the vacation he allows himself. you are fortunate to live here," she added, kindly. "i do not know of a more beautiful place." [sidenote: invited to luncheon] "nor i. to us--to me, especially--it is hallowed by memories. we--you will stay to luncheon, will you not, miss wynne?" eloise glanced quickly at barbara. "if you only would," she said. "if you really want me," said eloise, "i'd love to." she took off her hat--a white one trimmed with lilacs--and smoothed the waves in her copper-coloured hair. barbara took her crutches and went out, very quietly, to help aunt miriam prepare for the guest. when the kitchen door was safely closed, barbara's joy bubbled into speech. "oh, aunt miriam," she cried; "she's bought nearly every thing i had and paid almost double price for it. she's already arranged for me to sell at the woman's exchange in the city, and she is going to write to some of her friends about the things i have left. she's going to arrange for me to get all my material at the lowest wholesale price, and she's ordered six complete sets of lingerie for herself. she wants some more shirtwaists, too. oh, aunt miriam, do you think the world is coming to an end?" "has she paid you?" queried miriam, gravely. "indeed she has." "then it probably is." miriam was not a woman easily to be affected by joy, but the hard lines of her face softened perceptibly. "show her the quilts," she suggested. "oh, aunt miriam, i'd be ashamed to, to-day, when she's bought so much. she'll be coming up again before long--she said so. and father's asked her to luncheon." "just like him," commented miriam, with a sigh. "he always suffered from hospitality. i'll have to go to the store." [sidenote: the best we have] "no, you won't, aunty--she's not that sort. we'll give her the best we have, with a welcome thrown in." if eloise thought it strange for one end of the table to be set with solid silver, heavy damask, and fine china, while the other end, where she and the two women of the house sat, was painfully different, she gave no sign of it in look or speech. the humble fare might have been the finest banquet so far as she was concerned. she fitted herself to their ways without apparent effort; there was no awkwardness nor feeling of strangeness. she might have been a life-long friend of the family, instead of a passing acquaintance who had come to buy lingerie. [sidenote: friendly conversation] as she ate, she talked. it was not aimless chatter, but the rare gift of conversation. she drew them all out and made them talk, too. even miriam relaxed and said something more than "yes" and "no." "what delicious preserves," said eloise. "may i have some more, please? where do you get them?" "i make them," answered miriam, the dull red rising in her cheeks. she had not been entirely disinterested when she climbed up on a chair and took down some of her choicest fruit from the highest shelf of the store-room. "do you--" a look from barbara stopped the unlucky speech. "do you find it difficult?" asked eloise, instantly mistress of the situation. "i should so love to make some for myself." "miriam will be glad to teach you," put in ambrose north. "she likes to do it because she can do it so well." the red grew deeper in miriam's lined face, for every word of praise from him was food to her hungry soul. she would gladly have laid down her life for him, even though she hated herself for feeling as she did. [sidenote: an hour of song] afterward, while miriam was clearing off the table, eloise went to the piano without being asked, and sang to them for more than an hour. she chose folk-songs and tender melodies--little songs made of tears and laughter, and the simple ballads that never grow old. she had a deep, vibrant contralto voice of splendid range and volume; she sang with rare sympathy, and every word could be clearly understood. "don't stop," pleaded barbara, when she paused and ran her fingers lightly over the keys. "i don't want to impose upon your good-nature," she returned, "but i love to sing." "and we love to have you," said north. "i think, barbara, we must get a new piano." "i wouldn't," answered eloise, before barbara could speak. "the years improve wine and violins and friendship, so why not a piano?" without waiting for his reply, she began to sing, with exquisite tenderness: "sometimes between long shadows on the grass the little truant waves of sunlight pass; mine eyes grow dim with tenderness the while, thinking i see thee, thinking i see thee smile. "and sometimes in the twilight gloom apart the tall trees whisper, whisper heart to heart; from my fond lips the eager answers fall, thinking i hear thee, thinking i hear thee call." "yes," said ambrose north, unsteadily, as the last chord died away, "i know. you can call and call, but nothing ever comes back to you." the tears streamed over his blind face as he rose and went out of the room. "what have i done?" asked eloise. "oh, what have i done?" "nothing," sighed barbara. "my mother has been dead for twenty-one years, but my father never forgets. she was only a girl when she died--like me." "i'm so sorry. why didn't you tell me before, so i could have chosen jolly, happy things?" "that wouldn't keep him from grieving--nothing can, so don't be troubled about it." eloise turned back to the piano and sang two or three rollicking, laughing melodies that set barbara's one foot to tapping on the floor, but the old man did not come back. "i never meant to stay so long," said eloise, rising and putting on her hat. "it isn't long," returned barbara, with evident sincerity. "i wish you wouldn't go." "but i must, my dear. if i don't go, i can never come again. i have lots of letters to write, and mail will be waiting for me, and i have some studying to do, so i must go." [sidenote: adieus] barbara went to the door with her. "good-bye, fairy godmother," she said, wistfully. "good-bye, fairy godchild," answered eloise, carelessly. then something in the girl's face impelled her to put a strong arm around barbara, and kiss her, very tenderly. the blue eyes filled with tears. "thank you for that," breathed barbara, "more than for anything else." * * * * * eloise went away humming to herself, but she stopped as soon as she was out of sight of the house. "the little thing," she thought; "the dear, brave little thing! a face like an angel, and that cross old woman, and that beautiful old man who sees with his soul. and all that exquisite work and the prices those brutal women paid her for it. blind and lame, and nothing to be done." then another thought made her brown eyes very bright. "but i'm not so sure of that--we'll see." [sidenote: a request] she wrote many letters that afternoon, and all were for barbara. the last and longest was to doctor conrad, begging him to come at the first possible moment and go with her to see a poor broken child who might be made well and strong and beautiful. "and," the letter went on, "perhaps you could give her father back his eyesight. she calls me her fairy godmother, and i rely upon you to keep my proud position for me. any way, allan, dear, please come, won't you?" [sidenote: awaiting results] she closed it with a few words which would have made him start for the klondike that night, had there been a train, and she asked it of him; posted it, and hopefully awaited results. ix taking the chance [sidenote: dr. conrad comes] "well, i'm here," remarked doctor conrad, as he sat on the beach with eloise. "i have left all my patients in the care of an inferior, though reputable physician, who has such winning ways that he may have annexed my entire practice by the time i get back. "if you'll tell me just where these protégées of yours are, i'll go up there right away. i'll ring the bell, and when they open the door i'll say: 'i've come from miss wynne, and i'm to amputate this morning and remove a couple of cataracts this afternoon. kindly have the patients get ready at once.'" "don't joke, allan," pleaded eloise. her brown eyes were misty and her mood of exalted tenderness made her in love with all the world. "if you could see that brave little thing, with her beautiful face and her divine unselfishness, hobbling around on crutches and sewing for a living, meanwhile keeping her blind old father from knowing they are poor, you'd feel just as i do." [sidenote: discussing the case] "it is very improbable," returned allan, seriously, "that anything can be done. if they were well-to-do, they undoubtedly made every effort and saw everybody worth seeing." "but in twenty years," suggested eloise, hopefully. "think of all the progress that has been made in twenty years." "i know," said allan, doubtfully. "all we can do is to see. and if anything can be done for them, why, of course we'll do it." "then we'll go for a little drive," she said, "and on our way back, we can stop there and get the things i bought the other day. they have no one to send with them, and it's too much for one person to carry, anyway." "i suppose she has sold everything she had," mused allan impersonally. "not quite," answered eloise, flushing. "i left her some samples for the woman's exchange." "very kind," he observed, with the same air of detachment. "i can see my finish. my wife will have so much charity work for me to do that there will be no time for anything else, and, in a little while, she will have given away all the money we both have. then when we're sitting together in the sun on the front steps of the poorhouse, we can fittingly lament the end of our usefulness." [sidenote: policy of segregation] "they won't let us sit together," she retorted. "don't you know that even in the old people's homes they keep the men and women apart--husbands and wives included?" "for the love of mike, what for?" he asked, in surprise. "because it makes the place too gay and frivolous. old ladies of eighty were courted by awkward swains of ninety and more, and there was so much checker-playing in the evening and so many lights burning, and so many requests for new clothes, that the management couldn't stand it. there were heart-burnings and jealousies, too, so they had to adopt a policy of segregation." "'hope springs eternal in the human breast,'" quoted allan. "and love," she said. "i've thought sometimes i'd like to play fairy godmother to some of those poor, desolate old people who love each other, and give them a pretty wedding. wouldn't it be dear to see two old people married and settled in a little home of their own?" "or, more likely, with us," he returned. "i've been thinking about a nice little house with a guest room or two, but i've changed my mind. my vote is for a very small apartment. you're not the sort to be trusted with a guest room." [sidenote: starting off] eloise laughed and sprang to her feet. "on to the errand of mercy," she said. "we're wasting valuable time. get a horse and buggy and i'll see if i can borrow an extra suit-case or two for my purchases." when she came down, allan was waiting for her in the buggy. a bell-boy, in her wake, brought three suit-cases and piled them under the seat. half a dozen rocking-chairs, on the veranda, held highly interested observers. the paraphernalia suggested an elopement. "tell those women on the veranda," said eloise, to the boy, "that i'm not taking any trunks and will soon be back." "what for?" queried allan, as they drove away. "reasons of my own," she answered, crisply. "men are as blind as bats." "i'm wearing glasses," he returned, with due humility. "if you think i'm fit to hear why you left that cryptic message, i'd be pleased to." "you're far from fit. here, turn into this road." spread like a tawny ribbon upon the green of the hills, the road wound lazily through open sunny spaces and shaded aisles sweet with that cool fragrance found only in the woods. the horse did not hurry, but wandered comfortably from side to side of the road, browsing where he chose. he seemed to know that lovers were driving him. [sidenote: horses versus autos] "he's a one-armed horse, isn't he?" laughed eloise. "i like him lots better than an automobile, don't you?" "out here, i do. but an automobile has certain advantages." "what are they?" she demanded. "i'd rather feed a horse than to buy a tire, any day." "so would i--unless he tired of his feed. but if you want to get anywhere very quickly and the thing happens not to break, the machine is better." "but it never happens. i believe the average automobile is possessed of an intuition little short of devilish. a horse seems more friendly. if you were thinking of getting me a little electric runabout for my birthday, please change it to a horse." "all right," returned allan, serenely. "we can keep him in the living-room of our six-room apartment and have his dinner sent in from the nearest _table d'oat_. for breakfast, he can come out into the _salle à manger_ and eat cereals with us." "you're absolutely incorrigible," she sighed. "this is the river road. follow it until i tell you where to turn." within half an hour, the horse came to a full stop of his own accord in front of the grey, weather-worn house where barbara lived. he was cropping at a particularly enticing clump of grass when eloise alighted. "going to push?" queried allan, lazily. "no, this is the place. come on. you bring two of the suit-cases and i'll take the other." [sidenote: observations] the blind man was not there at the moment, but came in while miriam was upstairs packing miss wynne's recent additions to her wardrobe. doctor conrad had been observing barbara keenly as they talked of indifferent things. outwardly, he was calm and professional, but within, a warmly human impulse answered her evident need. he was young and had not yet been at his work long enough to determine his ultimate nature. later on, his profession would do to him one of two things. it would transform him into a mere machine, brutalised and calloused, with only one or two emotions aside from selfishness left to thrive in his dwarfed soul, or it would humanise him to godlike unselfishness, attune him to a divine sympathy, and mellow his heart in tenderness beyond words. in one instance he would be feared; in the other, only loved, by those who came to him. as barbara went across the room to another chair, his eyes followed her with intense interest. eloise shrank from him a little--she had never seen him like this before. yet she knew, from the expression of his face, that he had found hope, and was glad. "barbara?" it was miriam, calling from upstairs. "in just a minute, aunty. excuse me, please--i'll come right back." she was scarcely out of the room before eloise leaned over to allan, her face alight with eager questioning. "you think--?" [sidenote: willing to try] "i don't know," he returned, in a low tone. "it depends on the hardness of the muscles and several other local conditions. of course it's impossible to tell definitely without a thorough examination, but i've done it successfully in two adult cases, and have seen it done more than a dozen times. i'd be very willing to try." "oh, allan," whispered eloise. "i'm so glad." barbara's padded crutches sounded softly on the stairs as she came down. eloise went to the window and studied the horse attentively, though he was not of the restless sort that needs to be tied. while she was watching, ambrose north came around the base of the hill, crossed the road, and opened the gate. he had been to his old solitude at the top of the hill, where, as nowhere else, he found peace. while he was talking with the visitors, miriam went out, taking the neatly-packed suit-cases, one at a time, and put them into the buggy. "mr. north," said doctor conrad, "while these girls are chattering, will you go for a little drive with me?" the blind man's fine old face illumined with pleasure. "i should like it very much," he said. "it is a long time since i had have a drive." "it's more like a walk," laughed allan, as they went out, "with this horse." "we sold our horses many years ago," the old man explained, as he climbed in. "miriam is afraid of horses and barbara said she did not care to go. i thought the open air and the slight exercise would be good for her, but she insisted upon my selling them." [sidenote: about barbara] "it is about barbara that i wished to speak," said allan. "with your consent, i should like to make a thorough examination and see whether an operation would not do away with her crutches entirely." "it is no use," sighed north, wearily. "we went everywhere and did everything, long ago. there is nothing that can be done." "but there may be," insisted allan. "we have learned much, in my profession, in the last twenty years. may i try?" "you're asking me if you can hurt my baby?" "not to hurt her more than is necessary to heal. understand me, i do not know but what you are right, but i hope, and believe, that there may be a chance." "i have dreamed sometimes," said the old man, very slowly, "that my baby could walk and i could see." [sidenote: if possible] "the dream shall come true, if it is possible. let me see your eyes." he stopped the horse on the brow of the hill, where the sun shone clear and strong, stood up, and turned the blind face to the light. then, sitting down once more, he asked innumerable questions. when he finally was silent, ambrose north turned to him, indifferently. "well?" the tone was simply polite inquiry. the matter seemed to be one which concerned nobody. "again i do not know," returned allan. "this is altogether out of my line, but, if you'll go to the city with me, i'll take you to a friend of mine who is a great specialist. if anything can be done, he is the man who can do it. will you come?" there was a long pause. "if barbara is willing," he answered simply. "ask her." * * * * * [sidenote: the plunge] meanwhile, eloise was talking to barbara. first, she told her of the letters she had written in her behalf and to which the answers might come any day now. then she asked if she might order preserves from aunt miriam, and discussed patterns and material for the lingerie she had previously spoken of. finding, at length, that the best way to approach a difficult subject was the straightest one, she took the plunge. "have you always been lame?" she asked. she did not look at barbara, but tried to speak carelessly, as she gazed out of the window. "yes," came the answer, so low that she could scarcely hear it. "wouldn't you like to walk like the rest of us?" continued eloise. barbara writhed under the torturing question. "my mind can walk," she said, with difficulty; "my soul isn't lame." the tone made eloise turn quickly--and hate herself bitterly for her awkwardness. she saw that an apology would only make a bad matter worse, so she went straight on. "doctor conrad is very skilful," she continued. "in the city, he is one of the few really great surgeons. he told me that he would like to make an examination and see if an operation would not do away with the crutches. he thinks there may be a good chance. if there is, will you take it?" "thank you," said barbara, almost inaudibly. her voice had sunk to a whisper and she was very pale. "i do not mean to seem ungrateful, but it is impossible." "impossible!" repeated eloise. "why?" "because of father," explained barbara. her colour was coming back slowly now. "i am all he has, my work supplies his needs, and i dare not take the risk." "is that the only reason?" barbara nodded. "you're not afraid?" barbara's blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. "why should i be afraid?" she asked. "do you take me for a coward?" eloise knelt beside barbara's low chair and put her strong arms around the slender, white-clad figure. "listen, dear," she said. her face was shining as though with some great inner light. "my own dear father died when i was a child. my mother died when i was born. i have never had anything but money. i have never had anyone to take care of, no one to make sacrifices for, no one to make me strong because i was needed. if the worst should happen, would you trust your father to me? could you trust me?" "yes," said barbara slowly; "i could." [sidenote: a compact] "then i promise you solemnly that your father shall never want for anything while he lives. and now, if there is a chance, will you take it--for me?" barbara looked long into the sweet face, glorified by the inner light. then she leaned forward and put her soft arms around the older woman, hiding her face in the masses of copper-coloured hair. "for you? a thousand times, yes," she sobbed. "oh, anything for you!" * * * * * late in the afternoon, when ambrose north and barbara were alone again, he came over to her chair and stroked her shining hair with a loving hand. "did they tell you, dear?" he asked. "yes," whispered barbara. "i have dreamed so often that my baby could walk and i could see. he said that the dream should come true if he could make it so." "did he say anything about your eyes?" asked barbara, in astonishment. [sidenote: hopeful] "yes. he thinks there may be a chance there, too. if you are willing, i am to go to the city with him sometime and see a friend of his who is a great specialist." "oh, daddy," cried barbara. "i'm afraid--for you." he drew a chair up near hers and sat down. the old hand, in which the pulses moved so slowly, clasped the younger one, warm with life. "barbara," he said; "i have never seen my baby." "i know, daddy." "i want to see you, dear." "and i want you to." "then, will you let me go?" "perhaps, but it must be--afterward, you know." "why?" "because, when you see me, i want to be strong and well. i want to be able to walk. you mustn't see the crutches, daddy--they are ugly things." "nothing could be ugly that belongs to you. i made a little song this afternoon, while you and miriam were talking and i was out alone." "tell me." [sidenote: in a beautiful garden] "once there was a man who had a garden. when he was a child he had played in it, in his youth and early manhood he had worked in it and found pleasure in seeing things grow, but he did not really know what a beautiful garden it was until another walked in it with him and found it fair. "together they watched it from springtime to harvest, finding new beauty in it every day. one night at twilight she whispered to him that some day a perfect flower of their very own was to bloom in the garden. they watched and waited and prayed for it together, but, before it blossomed, the man went blind. "in the darkness, he could not see the garden, but she was still there, bringing divine consolation with her touch, and whispering to him always of the perfect flower so soon to be their own. "when it blossomed, the man could not see it, but the one who walked beside him told him that it was as pure and fair as they had prayed it might be. they enjoyed it together for a year, and he saw it through her eyes. "then she went to god's garden, and he was left desolate and alone. he cared for nothing and for a time even forgot the flower that she had left. weeds grew among the flowers, nettles and thistles took possession of the walks, and strange vines choked with their tendrils everything that dared to bloom. [sidenote: a perfect flower] "one day, he went out into the intolerable loneliness and desolation, and, groping blindly, he found among the nettles and thistles and weeds the one perfect white blossom. it was cool and soft to his hot hand, it was exquisitely fragrant, and, more than all, it was part of her. gradually, it eased his pain. he took out the weeds and thistles as best he could, but there was little he could do, for he had left it too long. "the years went by, but the flower did not fade. seeking, he always found it; weary, it always refreshed him; starving, it fed his soul. blind, it gave him sight; weak, it gave him courage; hurt, it brought him balm. at last he lived only because of it, for, in some mysterious way, it seemed to need him, too, and sometimes it even seemed divinely to restore the lost. "flower of the dusk," he said, leaning to barbara; "what should i have been without you? how could i have borne it all?" [sidenote: strength for the burden] "god suits the burden to the bearer, i think," she answered, softly. "if you have much to bear, it is because you are strong enough to do it nobly and well. only the weak are allowed to shirk, and shift their load to the shoulders of the strong." "i know, but, barbara--suppose----" "there is nothing to suppose, daddy. whatever happened would be the best that could happen. i'm not afraid." her voice rang clear and strong. insensibly, he caught some of her own fine courage and his soul rallied greatly to meet hers. from her height she had summoned him as with a bugle-call, and he had answered. "the ways of the everlasting are not our ways," he said, "but i will not be afraid. no, i will not let myself be afraid." x in the garden [sidenote: a summer evening] the subtle, far-reaching fragrance of a summer night came through the open window. a cool wind from the hills had set the maple branches to murmuring and hushed the incoming tide as it swept up to the waiting shore. out in the illimitable darkness of the east, grey surges throbbed like the beating of a troubled heart, but the shore knew only the drowsy croon of a sea that has gone to sleep. golden lilies swung their censers softly, and the exquisite incense perfumed the dusk. fairy lamp-bearers starred the night with glimmering radiance, faintly seen afar. a cricket chirped just outside the window and a ghostly white moth circled around the evening lamp. roger sat by the table, with keats's letters to his beloved fanny open before him. the letter to constance, so strangely brought back after all the intervening years, lay beside the book. the ink was faded and the paper was yellow, but his father's love, for a woman not his mother, stared the son full in the face and was not to be denied. was this all, or--? his thought refused to go further. constance north had died, by her own hand, four days after the letter was written. what might not have happened in four days? in one day, columbus found a world. in another, electricity was discovered. in one day, one hour, even, some immeasurable force moving according to unseen law might sway the sun and set all the stars to reeling madly through the unutterable midnights of the universe. and in four days? ah, what had happened in those four days? [sidenote: a recurring question] the question had haunted him since the night he read the letter, when he was reading to barbara and had unwittingly come upon it. constance was dead and laurence austin was dead, but their love lived on. the grave was closed against it, and in neither heaven nor hell could it find an abiding-place. ghostly and forbidding, it had sent constance to haunt miriam's troubled sleep, it had filled ambrose north's soul with cruel doubt and foreboding, and had now come back to roger and barbara, to ask eternal questions of the one, and stir the heart of the other to new depths of pain. he had not seen barbara since that night and she had sent no message. no beacon light in the window across the way said "come." the sword that had lain, keen-edged and cruel, between constance and her lover, had, by a single swift stroke, changed everything between her daughter and his son. not that barbara herself was less beautiful or less dear. roger had missed her more than he realised. when her lovely, changing face had come between his eyes and the musty pages of his law books, while the disturbing bascom pup cavorted merrily around the office, unheard and unheeded, roger had ascribed it to the letter that had forced them apart. * * * * * the woollen slippers muffled miss mattie's step so that roger did not hear her enter the room. preoccupied and absorbed, he was staring vacantly out of the window, when a strong, capable hand swooped down beside him, gathering up the book and the letter. [sidenote: tremendous power] "i don't know what it is about your readin', roger," complained his mother, "that makes you blind and deaf and dumb and practically paralysed. your pa was the same way. reckon i'll read a piece myself and see what it is that's so affectin'. it ain't a very big book, but it seems to have tremendous power." she sat down and began to read aloud, in a curiously unsympathetic voice which grated abominably upon her unwilling listener: "'ask yourself, my love, whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. will you confess this in the letter you must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it--make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me--write the softest words and kiss them, that i may at least touch my lips where yours have been. for myself, i know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form; i want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. i almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days--three such days with you i could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.' "ain't that wonderful, roger? wants to get drunk on poppies and kiss the writin' and thinks after that he'll be made into a butterfly. your pa couldn't have been far from bein' a butterfly when he bought this book. there ain't no sense in it. and this--why, it's your pa's writin', roger! i ain't seen it for years." miss mattie leaned forward in her chair and brought the letter to constance close to the light. she read it through, calmly, without haste or excitement. roger's hands gripped the arms of his chair and his face turned ashen. his whole body was tense. [sidenote: a moment's pain] then, as swiftly as it had come, the moment passed. miss mattie took off her spectacles and leaned back in her chair with great weariness evident in every line of her figure. [sidenote: crazy as a loon] "roger," she said, sadly, "there's no use in tryin' to conceal it from you any longer. your pa was crazy--as crazy as a loon. what with buyin' books so steady and readin' of 'em so continual, his mind got unhinged. i've always suspected it, and now i know. "your pa gets this book, and reads all this stuff that's been written about 'fanny,' and he don't see no reason why he shouldn't duplicate it and maybe get it printed. i knew he set great store by books, but it comes to me as a shock that he was allowin' to write 'em. some of the time he sees he's crazy himself. didn't you see, there where he says, 'i hope you do not blame me because i went mad'? 'mad' is the refined word for crazy. "then he goes on about eatin' husks and bein' starved. that's what i told him when he insisted on havin' oatmeal cooked for his breakfast every mornin'. i told him humans couldn't expect to live on horse-feed, but, la sakes! he never paid no attention to me. i could set and talk by the hour just as i'm talkin' to you and he wasn't listenin' any more'n you be." "i am listening, mother," he assured her, in a forced voice. he could not say with what joyful relief. "maybe," she went on, "i'd 'a' been more gentle with your pa if i'd realised just what condition his mind was in. there's a book in the attic full of just such writin' as this. i found it once when i was cleaning, but i never paid no more attention to it. i surmised it was somethin' he was copyin' out of another book that he'd borrowed from the minister, but i see now. the lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. if i'd 'a' knowed what it was then, maybe i couldn't have bore it as i can now." seizing his opportunity, roger put the book and the letter aside. miss mattie slipped out of its wrapper the paper which roger had brought to her from the post-office that same night, and began to read. roger sat back in his chair with his eyes closed, meditating upon the theory of chance, and wondering if, after all, there was a single controlling purpose behind the extraordinary things that happened. [sidenote: inner turmoil] miss mattie wiped her spectacles twice and changed her position three times. then she got another chair and moved the lamp closer. at last she clucked sharply with her false teeth--always the outward evidence of inner turmoil or displeasure. "what's the matter, mother?" "i can't see with these glasses," she said, fretfully. "i can see a lot better without 'em than i can with 'em." "have you wiped them?" "yes, i've wiped 'em till it's a wonder the polish ain't all wore off the glass." "put them up close to your eyes instead of wearing them so far down on your nose." "i've tried that, but the closer they get to my eyes, the more i can't see. the further away they are, the better 't is. when i have 'em off, i can see pretty good." "then why don't you take them off?" "that sounds just like your pa. do you suppose, after payin' seven dollars and ninety cents for these glasses, and more'n twice as much for my gold-bowed ones, that i ain't goin' to use 'em and get the benefit of 'em? your pa never had no notion of economy. they're just as good as they ever was, and i reckon i'll wear 'em out, if i live." "but, mother, your eyes may have changed. they probably have." [sidenote: miss mattie's eyes] miss mattie went to the kitchen and brought back a small, cracked mirror. she studied the offending orbs by the light, very carefully, both with and without her spectacles. "no, they ain't," she announced, finally. "they're the same size and shape and colour that they've always been, and the specs are the same. your pa bought 'em for me soon after you commenced readin' out of a reader, and they're just as good as they ever was. it must be the oil. i've noticed that it gets poorer every time the price goes up." she pushed the paper aside with a sigh. "i was readin' such a nice story, too." "shan't i read it to you, mother?" "why, i don't know. do you want to?" "surely, if you want me to." "then you'd better begin a new story, because i'm more'n half-way through this one." "i'll begin right where you left off, mother. it doesn't make a particle of difference to me." "but you won't get the sense of it. i'd like for you to enjoy it while you're readin'." "don't worry about my enjoying it--you know i've always been fond of books. if there's anything i don't understand, i can ask you." "all right. begin right here in _true gold, or pretty crystal's love_. this is the place: 'with a terrible scream, crystal sprang toward the fire escape, carrying her mother and her little sister in her arms.'" [sidenote: two sighs] for nearly two hours, roger read, in a deep, mellow voice, of the adventures of poor, persecuted crystal, who was only sixteen, and engaged to a floor-walker in 'one of the great city's finest emporiums of trade.' he and his mother both sighed when he came to the end of the installment, but for vastly different reasons. "ain't it lovely, roger?" "it's what you might call 'different,'" he temporised, with a smile. "just think of that poor little thing havin' her house set afire by a rival suitor just after she had paid off the mortgage by savin' out of her week's wages! do you suppose he will ever win her?" "i shouldn't think it likely." "no, you wouldn't, but the endin' of those stories is always what you wouldn't expect. it's what makes 'em so interestin' and, as you say, 'different.'" roger did not answer. he merely yawned and tapped impatiently on the table with his fingers. [sidenote: nine o'clock] "what time is it?" she asked, adjusting her spectacles carefully upon the ever-useful and unfailing wart. "a little after nine." "sakes alive! it's time i was abed. i've got to get up early in the mornin' and set my bread. good-night." "good-night, mother." "don't set up long. oil is terrible high." "all right, mother." miss mattie went upstairs and closed her door with a resounding bang. roger heard her strike a match on a bit of sandpaper tacked on the wall near the match-safe, and close the green blinds that served the purpose of the more modern window-shades. soon, a deep, regular sound suggestive of comfortable slumber echoed and re-echoed overhead. then, and then only, he dared to go out. [sidenote: a light in the window] he sat on the narrow front porch for a few minutes, deeply breathing the cool air and enjoying the beauty of the night. across the way, the little grey house seemed lonely and forlorn. the upper windows were dark, but downstairs barbara's lamp still shone. "sewing, probably," mused roger. "poor little thing." as he watched, the lamp was put out. then a white shadow moved painfully toward the window, bent, and struck a match. star-like, barbara's signal-light flamed out into the gloom, with its eager message. "she wants me," he said to himself. the joy was inextricably mingled with pain. "she wants me," he thought, "and i must not go." "why?" asked his heart, and his conscience replied, miserably, "because." for ten or fifteen minutes he argued with himself, vainly. every objection that came forward was reasoned down by a trained mind, versed in the intricacies of the law. the deprivations of the fathers need not always descend unto the children. at last he went over, wondering whether his father had not more than once, and at the same hour, taken the same path. [sidenote: two hours of life] barbara was out in the garden, dreaming. for the first time in years, when she had work to do, she had laid it aside before eleven o'clock. but, in two hours, she could have made little progress with her embroidery, and she chose to take for herself two hours of life, out of what might prove to be the last night she had to live. when roger opened the gate, barbara took her crutches and rose out of her low chair. "don't," he said. "i'm coming to you." she had brought out another chair, with great difficulty, in anticipation of his coming. her own was near the moonflower that climbed over the tiny veranda and was now in full bloom. the white, half-open trumpets, delicately fragrant, had more than once reminded him of barbara herself. "what a brute i'd be," thought roger, with a pang, "if i had disappointed her." "i'm so glad," said barbara, giving him a cool, soft little hand. "i began to be afraid you couldn't come." "i couldn't, just at first, but afterward it was all right. how are you?" "i'm well, thank you, but i'm going to be made better to-morrow. that's why i wanted to see you to-night--it may be for the last time." her words struck him with chill foreboding. "what do you mean?" "to-morrow, some doctors are coming down from the city, with two nurses and a few other things. they're going to see if i can't do without these." she indicated the crutches with an inclination of her golden head. "barbara," he gasped. "you mustn't. it's impossible." "nothing is impossible any more," she returned, serenely. "that isn't what i meant. you mustn't be hurt." [sidenote: a wonderful world] "i'm not going to be hurt--much. it's all to be done while i'm asleep. miss wynne, a lady from the hotel, brought doctor conrad to see me. afterward, he came again by himself, and he says he is very sure that it will come out all right. and when i'm straight and strong and can walk, he's going to try to have father made to see. a fairy godmother came in and waved her wand," went on barbara, lightly, "and the poor became rich at once. now the lame are to walk and the blind to see. is it not a wonderful world?" "barbara!" cried roger; "i can't bear it. i don't want you changed--i want you just as you are." "such impediments as are placed in the path of progress!" she returned. her eyes were laughing, but her voice had in it a little note of tenderness. "will you do something for me?" "anything--everything." "it's only this," said barbara, gently. "if it should turn out the other way, will you keep father from being lonely? miss wynne has promised that he shall never want for anything, and, at the most, it couldn't be long until he was with me again, but, in the meantime, would you, roger? would you try to take my place?" "nobody in the world could ever take your place, but i'd try--god knows i'd try. barbara, i couldn't bear it, if----" "hush. there isn't any 'if.' it's all coming right to-morrow." [sidenote: beauty of a saint] the full moon had swung slowly up out of the sea, and the misty, silvery light touched barbara lovingly. her slender hands, crossed in her lap, seemed like those of a little child. her deep blue eyes were lovelier than ever in the enchanted light--they had the calmness of deep waters at dawn, untroubled by wind or tide. around her face her golden hair shimmered and shone like a halo. she had the unearthly beauty of a saint. "afterward?" he asked, with a little choke in his voice. "i'll be in plaster for a long time, and, after that, i'll have to learn to walk." "and then?" "work," she said, joyously. "think of having all the rest of your life to work in, with no crutches! and if daddy can see me--" she stopped, but he caught the wistfulness in her tone. "the first thing," she continued, "i'm going down to the sea. i have a fancy to go alone." "have you never been?" "i've never been outside this house and garden but once or twice. have you forgotten?" all the things he might have done came to roger, remorsefully, and too late. he might have taken barbara out for a drive almost any time during the last eight years. she could have been lifted into a low carriage easily enough and she had never even been to the sea. a swift, pitying tenderness made his heart ache. "nobody ever thought of it," said barbara, soothingly, as though she had read his thought, "and, besides, i've been too busy, except sundays. but sometimes, when i've heard the shore singing as the tide came in, and seen the gulls fly past my window, and smelled the salt mist--oh, i've wanted it so." "i'd have taken you, if i hadn't been such a brute as to forget." [sidenote: more than the sea] "you've brought me more than the sea, roger. think of all the books you've carried back and forth so patiently all these years. you've done more for me than anybody in the world, in some ways. you've given me the magic carpet of the _arabian nights_, only it was a book, instead of a rug. through your kindness, i've travelled over most of the world, i've met many of the really great people face to face, i've lived in all ages and all countries, and i've learned to know the world as it is now. what more could one person do for another than you have done for me?" "barbara?" it was miriam's voice, calling softly from an upper window. "you mustn't stay up late. remember to-morrow." "all right, aunty." her answer carried with it no hint of impatience. "i forgot that we weren't in the house," she added, to roger, in a low tone. "must i go?" to-night, for some reason, he could not bear even the thought of leaving her. "not just yet. i've been thinking," she continued, in a swift whisper, "about my mother and--your father. of course we can't understand--we only know that they cared. and, in a way, it makes you and me something like brother and sister, doesn't it?" "perhaps it does. i hadn't thought of that." [sidenote: the barrier broken] all at once, the barrier that seemed to have been between them crashed down and was forgotten. mysteriously, roger was very sure that those four days had held no wrong--no betrayal of another's trust. his father would not have done anything which was not absolutely right. the thought made him straighten himself proudly. and the mother of the girl who leaned toward him, with her beautiful soul shining in her deep eyes, could have been nothing less than an angel. "to-morrow"--began roger. [sidenote: "to-morrow is mine"] "to-morrow was made for me. god is giving me a day to be made straight in. to-morrow is mine, but--will you come and stay with father? keep him away from the house and with you, until--afterward?" "i will, gladly." barbara rose and roger picked up her crutches. "you'll never have to do that for me again," she said, as she took them, "but there'll be lots of other things. will you take in the chairs, please?" a lump was in his throat and he could not speak. when he came out, after having made a brief but valiant effort to recover his self-control, barbara was standing at the foot of the steps, leaning on her crutches, with the moon shining full upon her face. roger went to her. "barbara," he said, huskily, "my father loved your mother. for the sake of that, and for to-morrow, will you kiss me to-night?" smiling, barbara lifted her face and gave him her lips as simply and sweetly as a child. "good-night," she said, softly, but he could not answer, for, at the touch, the white fire burned in his blood and the white magic of life's maytime went, singing, through his soul. xi barbara's "to-morrow" the shimmering white silence of noon lay upon the land. bees hummed in the clover, gorgeous butterflies floated drowsily over the meadows, and far in the blue distance a meadow-lark scattered his golden notes like rain upon the fields. [sidenote: a cold shadow] the world teemed with life, and yet a cold shadow, as of approaching death, darkened the souls of two who walked together in the dusty road that led from the hills to the sea. the old man leaned heavily upon the arm of the younger, and his footsteps faltered. the young man's face was white and he saw dimly, as through a mist, but he tried to keep his voice even. from the open windows of the little grey house came the deadly sweet smell of anæsthetics, heavy with prescience and pain. it dominated, instantly, all the blended summer fragrances and brought terror to them both. "i cannot bear it," said ambrose north, miserably. "i cannot bear to have my baby hurt." "she isn't being hurt now," answered roger, with dry lips. "she's asleep." "it may be the sleep that knows no waking. if you loved barbara, you would understand." the boy's senses, exquisitely alive and quivering, merged suddenly into one unspeakable hurt. if he loved barbara! ah, did he not love her? what of last night, when he walked up and down in that selfsame road until dawn, alone with the wonder and fear and joy of it, and unutterably dreading the to-morrow that had so swiftly become to-day. "i was a fool," muttered ambrose north. "i was a fool to give my consent." "it was her choice," the boy reminded him, "and when she walks----" "when she walks, it may be in the city not made with hands. if i had said 'no,' we should not be out here now, while she--" the tears streamed over his wrinkled cheeks and his bowed shoulders shook. [sidenote: all for the best] "don't," pleaded roger. "it's all for the best--it must be all for the best." neither of them saw eloise approaching as she came up the road from the hotel. she was in white, as usual, bareheaded, and she carried a white linen parasol. she went to them, calling out brightly, "good morning!" "who is it?" asked the old man. "it must be miss wynne, i think." "what is it?" inquired eloise, when she joined them. "what is the matter?" the blind man could not speak, but he pointed toward the house with a shaking hand. "it's barbara, you know," said roger. "they're in there--cutting her." the last words were almost a whisper. [sidenote: allan is there] "but you mustn't worry," cried eloise. "nothing can go wrong. why, allan is there." insensibly her confidence in allan and the clear ring of her voice relieved the unbearable tension. surely, barbara could not die if allan were there. "it's hard, i know," eloise went on, in her cool, even tones, "but there is no doubt about the ending. allan is one of the few really great surgeons--he has done wonderful things. he has done things that everyone else said were impossible. barbara will walk and be as straight and strong as any of us. think what it will mean to her after twenty years of helplessness. how fine it will be to see her without the crutches." "i have never minded the crutches," said roger. "i do not want her changed." "i cannot see her," sighed ambrose north. "i have never seen my baby." "but you're going to," eloise assured him, "for allan says so, and whatever allan says is true." at length, she managed to lead them farther away, though not out of sight of the house, and they all sat down on the grass. she talked continually and cheerfully, but the atmosphere was tense with waiting. ambrose north bowed his grey head in his hands, and roger, still pale, did not once take his eyes from the door of the little grey house. after what seemed an eternity, someone came out. it was one of allan's assistants. a nurse followed, and put a black bag into the buggy which was waiting outside. roger was on his feet instantly, watching. "sit down," commanded eloise, coolly. "allan can see us from here, and he will come and tell us." ambrose north lifted his grey head. "have they--finished--with her?" "i don't know," returned eloise. "be patient just a little longer, please do." [sidenote: all right] outwardly she was calm, but, none the less, a great sob of relief almost choked her when doctor conrad came across the road to them, swinging his black bag, and called out, in a voice high with hope, "all right!" * * * * * the sky was a wonderful blue, but the colour of the sea was deeper still. the vast reaches of sand were as white as the blown snow, and the tower of cologne had never been so fair as it was to-day. the sun shone brightly on the clear glass arches that made the cupola, and the golden bells swayed back and forth silently. [sidenote: the changed tower] barbara was trying to climb up to the cupola, but her feet were weary and she paused often to rest. the rooms that opened off from the various landings of the winding stairway were lovelier than ever. the furnishings had been changed since she was last there, and each room was made to represent a different flower. there was a rose room, all in pink and green, a pond-lily room in green and white, a violet room in green and lavender, and a gorgeous suite of rooms which someway seemed like a great bouquet of nasturtiums. but, strangely, there was no fragrance of cologne in the tower. the bottles were all on the mantels, as usual, but barbara could not open any of them. instead, there was a heavy, sweet, sickening smell from which she could not escape, though she went continually from room to room. it followed her like some evil thing that threatened to overpower her. the boy who had always been beside her, and whose face she could not see, was still in the tower, but he was far away, with his back toward her. he seemed to be suffering and barbara tried to get to him to comfort him, but some unforeseen obstacle inevitably loomed up in her path. [sidenote: people in the tower] there were many people in the tower, and most of them were old friends, but there were some new faces. her father was there, of course, and all the brave knights and lovely ladies of whom she had read in her books. miss wynne was there and she had never been in the tower before, but barbara smiled at her and was glad, though she wished they might have had cologne instead of the sickening smell which grew more deadly every minute. a grave, silent young man whose demeanour was oddly at variance with his red hair was there also. he had just come and it seemed that he was a doctor. barbara had heard his name but could not remember it. there were also two young women in blue and white striped uniforms which were very neat and becoming. they wore white caps and smiled at barbara. she had heard their names, too, but she had forgotten. none of them seemed to mind the heavy odour which oppressed her so. she opened the windows in the tower and the cool air came in from the blue sea, but it changed nothing. "come, boy," she called across the intervening mist. "let's go up to the cupola and ring all the golden bells." he did not seem to hear, so she called again, and again, but there was no response. it was the first time he had failed to answer her, and it made her angry. "then," cried barbara, shrilly, "if you don't want to come, you needn't, so there. but i'm going. do you hear? i'm going. i'm going up to ring those bells if i have to go alone." still, the boy did not answer, and barbara, her heart warm with resentment, began to climb the winding stairs. she did not hurry, for pictures of castles, towers, and beautiful ladies were woven in the tapestry that lined the walls. she came, at last, to the highest landing. there was only one short flight between her and the cupola. the clear glass arches were dazzling in the sun and the golden bells swayed temptingly. but a blinding, overwhelming fog drifted in from the sea, and she was afraid to move by so much as a step. she turned to go back, and fell, down--down--down--into what seemed eternity. [sidenote: the clouds lift] before long, the cloud began to lift. she could see a vague suggestion of blue and white through it now. the man with the red hair was talking, loudly and unconcernedly, to a tall man beside him whose face was obscured by the mist. the voices beat upon barbara's ears with physical pain. she tried to speak, to ask them to stop, but the words would not come. then she raised her hand, weakly, and silence came upon the room. out of the fog rose doctor allan conrad. he was tired and there was a strained look about his eyes, but he smiled encouragingly. he leaned over her and she smiled, very faintly, back at him. "brave little girl," he said. "it's all right now. all we ever hoped for is coming very soon." then he went out, and she closed her eyes. when she was again conscious of her surroundings, it was the next day, but she thought she had been asleep only a few minutes. at first there was numbness of mind and body. then, with every heart-beat and throb by throb, came unbearable agony. a trembling old hand strayed across her face and her father's voice, deep with love and longing, whispered: "barbara, my darling! does it hurt you now?" "just a little, daddy, but it won't last long. i'll be better very soon." one of the blue and white nurses came to her and said, gently, "is it very bad, miss north?" [sidenote: intense pain] "pretty bad," she gasped. then she tried to smile, but her white lips quivered piteously. the woman with the kind, calm face came back with a shining bit of silver in her hand. there was a sharp stab in barbara's arm, and then, with incredible quickness, peace. "what was it?" she asked, wondering. "poppies," answered the nurse. "they bring forgetfulness." "barbara," said the old man, sadly, "i wish i could help you bear it----" "so you can, daddy." "but how?" "don't be afraid for me--it's coming out all right. and make me a little song." "i couldn't--to-day." "there is always a song," she reminded him. "think how many times you have said to me, 'always make a song, barbara, no matter what comes.'" the old man stirred uneasily in his chair. "what about, dear?" "about the sea." [sidenote: song of the sea] "the sea is so vast that it reaches around the world," he began, hesitatingly. "it sings upon the shore of every land, from the regions of perpetual ice and snow to the far tropic islands, where the sun forever shines. as it lies under the palms, all blue and silver, crooning so softly that you can scarcely hear it, you would not think it was the same sea that yesterday was raging upon an ice-bound shore. "if you listen to its ever-changing music you can hear almost anything you please, for the sea goes everywhere. ask, and the sea shall sing to you of the frozen north where half the year is darkness and the impassable waste of waters sweeps across the pole. ask, and you shall hear of the distant islands, where there has never been snow, and the tide may even bring to you a bough of olive or a leaf of palm. [sidenote: song of the sea] "ask, and the sea will give you red and white coral, queer shells, mystically filled with its own weird music, and treasures of fairy-like lace-work and bloom. it will sing to you of cool, green caves where the waves creep sleepily up to the rocks and drift out drowsily with the ebb of the tide. "it will sing of grey waves changing to foam in the path of the wind, and bring you the cry of the white gulls that speed ahead of the storm. it will sing to you of mermen and mermaids, chanting their own melodies to the accompaniment of harps with golden strings. listen, and you shall hear the songs of many lands, merged into one by the sea that unites them all. "it bears upon its breast the great white ships that carry messages from one land to another. silks and spices and pearls are taken from place to place along the vast highways of the sea. and if, sometimes, in a blinding tumult of terror and despair, the men and ships go down, the sea, remorsefully, brings back the broken spars, and, at last, gives up the dead. [sidenote: the dominant chord] "yet it is always beautiful, whether you see it grey or blue; whether it is mad with rage or moaning with pain, or only crooning a lullaby as the world goes to sleep. and in all the wonderful music there is one dominant chord, for the song of the sea, as of the world, is love. "long ago, barbara--so long ago that it is written in only the very oldest books, love was born in the foam of the sea and came to dwell upon the shore. and so the sea, singing forever of love, creeps around the world upon an unending quest. when the tide sweeps in with the cold grey waves, foam-crested, or in shining sapphire surges that break into pearls, it is only the sea searching eagerly for the lost. so the loneliness and the beauty, the longing and the pain, belong to love as to the sea." "oh, daddy," breathed barbara, "i want it so." "what, dear? the sea?" "yes. the music and the colour and the vastness of it. i can hardly wait until i can go." there was a long silence. "why didn't you tell me?" asked the old man. "there would have been some way, if i had only known." "i don't know, daddy. i think i've been waiting for this way, for it's the best way, after all. when i can walk and you can see, we'll go down together, shall we?" "yes, dear, surely." "you must help me be patient, daddy. it will be so hard for me to lie here, doing nothing." "i wish i could read to you." "you can talk to me, and that's better. roger will come over some day and read to me, when he has time." "he was with me yesterday, while----" "i know," she answered, softly. "i asked him. i thought it would make it easier for you." [sidenote: father and daughter] "my baby! you thought of your old father even then?" "i'm always thinking of you, daddy, because you and i are all each other has got. that sounds queer, but you know what i mean." the calm, strong young woman in blue and white came back into the room. "she mustn't talk," she said, to the blind man. "to-morrow, perhaps. come away now." "don't take him away from me," pleaded barbara. "we'll be very good and not say a single word, won't we?" "not a word," he answered, "if it isn't best." [sidenote: peaceful sleep] the afternoon wore away to sunset, the shadows grew long, and barbara lay quietly, with her little hand in his. long lines of light came over the hills and brought into the room some subtle suggestion of colour. gradually, the pain came back, so keenly that it was not to be borne, and the kind woman with the bit of silver in her hand leaned over the bed once more. quickly, the poppies brought their divine gift of peace again. and so, barbara slept. then ambrose north gently loosened the still fingers that were interlaced with his, bent over, and, so gently as not to waken her, took her boy-lover's kiss from her lips. xii miriam miriam moved about the house, silently, as always. she had assumed the extra burden of barbara's helplessness as she assumed everything--without comment, and with outward calm. [sidenote: joy and duty] only her dark eyes, that burned and glittered so strangely, gave hint of the restlessness within. she served ambrose north with steadfast and unfailing devotion; she waited upon barbara mechanically, but readily. an observer could not have detected any real difference in her bearing toward the two, yet the service of one was a joy, the other a duty. after the first week the nurse who had remained with barbara had gone back to the city. in this short time, miriam had learned much from her. she knew how to change a sheet without disturbing the patient very much; she could give barbara both food and drink as she lay flat upon her back, and ease her aching body a little in spite of the plaster cast. ambrose north restlessly haunted the house and refused to leave barbara's bedside unless she was asleep. often she feigned slumber to give him opportunity to go outdoors for the exercise he was accustomed to taking. and so the life of the household moved along in its usual channels. [sidenote: a living image] as she lay helpless, with her pretty colour gone and the great braids of golden hair hanging down on either side, barbara looked more like her dead mother than ever. suffering had brought maturity to her face and sometimes even miriam was startled by the resemblance. one day barbara had asked, thoughtfully, "aunty, do i look like my mother?" and miriam had answered, harshly, "you're the living image of her, if you want to know." miriam repeatedly told herself that constance had wronged her--that ambrose north had belonged to her until the younger girl came from school with her pretty, laughing ways. he had never had eyes for miriam after he had once seen constance, and, in an incredibly short time, they had been married. miriam had been forced to stand by and see it; she had made dainty garments for constance's trousseau, and had even been obliged to serve as maid of honour at the wedding. she had seen, day by day, the man's love increase and the girl's fancy wane, and, after his blindness came upon him, constance would often have been cruelly thoughtless had not miriam sternly held her to her own ideal of wifely duty. now, when she had taken a mother's place to barbara, and worked for the blind man as his wife would never have dreamed of doing, she saw the faithless one worshipped almost as a household god. the power to disillusionise north lay in her hands--of that she was very sure. what if she should come to him some day with the letter constance had left for another man and which she had never delivered? what if she should open it, at his bidding, and read him the burning sentences constance had written to another during her last hour on earth? knowing, beyond doubt, that constance was faithless, would he at last turn to the woman he had deserted for the sake of a pretty face? the question racked miriam by night and by day. [sidenote: miriam's jealousy] and, as always, the dead constance, mute, accusing, bitterly reproachful, haunted her dreams. her fear of it became an obsession. as barbara grew daily more to resemble her mother, miriam's position became increasingly difficult and complex. sometimes she waited outside the door until she could summon courage to go in to barbara, who lay, helpless, in the very room where her mother had died. miriam never entered without seeing upon the dressing table those two envelopes, one addressed to ambrose north and one to herself. her own envelope was bulky, since it contained two letters beside the short note which might have been read to anybody. these two, with seals unbroken, were safely put away in miriam's room. one was addressed to laurence austin. miriam continually told herself that it was impossible for her to deliver it--that the person to whom it was addressed was dead. she tried persistently to forget the five years that had intervened between constance's death and his. for five years, he had lived almost directly across the street and miriam saw him daily. yet she had not given him the letter, though the vision of constance, dumbly pleading for some boon, had distressed her almost every night until laurence austin died. after that, there had been peace--but only for a little while. constance still came, though intermittently, and reproached miriam for betraying her trust. [sidenote: the one betrayal] as barbara's twenty-second birthday approached, miriam sometimes wondered whether constance would not cease to haunt her after the other letter was delivered. she had been faithful in all things but one--surely she might be forgiven the one betrayal. the envelope was addressed, in a clear, unfaltering hand: "to my daughter barbara. to be opened upon her twenty-second birthday." in her brief note to miriam, constance had asked her to destroy it unopened if barbara should not live until the appointed day. she had said nothing, however, about the other letter--had not even alluded to its existence. yet there it was, apparently written upon a single sheet of paper and enclosed in an envelope firmly sealed with wax. the monogram, made of the interlaced initials "c.n.," still lingered upon the seal. for twenty years and more the letter had waited, unread, and the hands that once would eagerly have torn it open were long since made one with the all-hiding, all-absolving dust. * * * * * [sidenote: at supper] at supper, ambrose north still had his fine linen and his satsuma cup. miriam sat at the other end, where the coarse cloth and the heavy dishes were. she used the fine china for barbara, also, washing it carefully six times every day. the blind man ate little, for he was lonely without the consciousness that barbara sat, smiling, across the table from him. "is she asleep?" he asked, of miriam. "yes." "she hasn't had her supper yet, has she?" "no." "when she wakes, will you let me take it up to her?" "yes, if you want to." "miriam, tell me--does barbara look like her mother?" his voice was full of love and longing. "there may be a slight resemblance," miriam admitted. "but how much?" [sidenote: the same old question] a curious, tigerish impulse possessed miriam. he had asked her this same question many times and she had always eluded him with a vague generalisation. "how much does she resemble her mother?" he insisted. "you told me once that they were 'something alike.'" "that was a long time ago," answered miriam. she was breathing hard and her eyes glittered. "barbara has changed lately." "don't hide the truth for fear of hurting me," he pleaded. "once for all i ask you--does barbara resemble her mother?" for a moment miriam paused, then all her hatred of the dead woman rose up within her. "no," she said, coldly. "their hair and eyes are nearly the same colour, but they are not in the least alike. why? what difference does it make?" "none," sighed the blind man. "but i am glad to have the truth at last, and i thank you. sometimes i have fancied, when barbara spoke, that it was constance talking to me. it would have been a great satisfaction to me to have had my baby the living image of her mother, since i am to see again, but it is all right as it is." since he was to see! miriam had not counted upon that possibility, and she clenched her hands in swift remorse. if he should discover that she had lied to him, he would never forgive her, and she would lose what little regard he had for her. he had a puritan insistence upon the literal truth. "how beautiful constance was," he sighed. an inarticulate murmur escaped from miriam, which he took for full assent. "did you ever see anyone half so beautiful, miriam?" her throat was parched, but miriam forced herself to whisper, "no." this much was truth. [sidenote: a beautiful bride] "how sweet she was and what pretty ways she had," he went on. "do you remember how lovely she was in her wedding gown?" again miriam forced herself to answer, "yes." "do you remember how people said we were mismated--that a man of fifty could never hope to keep the love of a girl of twenty, who knew nothing of the world?" "i remember," muttered miriam. "and it was false, wasn't it?" he asked, hungering for assurance. "constance loved me--do you remember how dearly she loved me?" [sidenote: beloved constance] a thousand words struggled for utterance, but miriam could not speak just then. she longed, as never before, to tear open the envelope addressed to laurence austin and read to north the words his beloved constance had written to another man before she took her own life. she longed to tell him how, for months previous, she had followed constance when she left the house, and discovered that she had a trysting-place down on the shore. he wanted the truth, did he? very well, he should have it--the truth without mercy. "constance," she began, huskily, "constance loved----" "i know," interrupted ambrose north. "i know how dearly she loved me up to the very last. even barbara, baby that she was, felt it. she remembers it still." barbara's bell tinkled upstairs while he said the last words. "she wants us," he said, his face illumined with love. "if you will prepare her supper, miriam, i will take it up." the room swayed before miriam's eyes and her senses were confused. she had drawn her dagger to strike and it had been forced back into its sheath by some unseen hand. "but i will," she repeated to herself again and again as her trembling hands prepared barbara's tray. "he shall know the truth--and from me." * * * * * "barbara," said the old man, as he entered the room, "your daddy has brought up your supper." "i'm glad," she responded, brightly. "i'm very hungry." "we have been talking downstairs of your mother," he went on, as he set down the tray. "miriam has been telling me how beautiful she was, what winning ways she had, and how dearly she loved us. she says you do not look at all like her, barbara, and we both have been thinking that you did." [sidenote: disappointed] barbara was startled. only a few days ago, aunt miriam had assured her that she was the living image of her mother. she was perplexed and disappointed. then she reflected that when she had asked the question she had been very ill and aunt miriam was trying to answer in a way that pleased her. she generously forgave the deceit for the sake of the kindly motive behind it. "dear aunt miriam," said barbara, softly. "how good she has been to us, daddy." "yes," he replied; "i do not know what we should have done without her. i want to do something for her, dear. shall we buy her a diamond ring, or some pearls?" "we'll see, daddy. when i can walk, and you can see, we shall do many things together that we cannot do now." the old man bent down very near her. "flower of the dusk," he whispered, "when may i go?" "go where, daddy?" "to the city, you know, with doctor conrad. i want to begin to see." barbara patted his hand. "when i am strong enough to spare you," she said, "i will let you go. when you see me, i want to be well and able to go to meet you without crutches. will you wait until then?" "i want to see my baby. i do not care about the crutches, now that you are to get well. i want to see you, dear, so very, very much." "some day, daddy," she promised him. "wait until i'm almost well, won't you?" "just as you say, dear, but it seems so long." "i couldn't spare you now, daddy. i want you with me every day." * * * * * [sidenote: miriam's prayer] though long unused to prayer, miriam prayed that night, very earnestly, that ambrose north might not recover his sight; that he might never see the daughter who lived and spoke in the likeness of her dead mother. it was long past midnight when she fell asleep. the house had been quiet for several hours. as she slept, she dreamed. the door opened quietly, yet with a certain authority, and constance, in her grave-clothes, came into her room. the white gown trailed behind her as she walked, and the two golden braids, so like barbara's, hung down over either shoulder and far below her waist. she fixed her deep, sad eyes upon miriam, reproachfully, as always, but her red lips were curled in a mocking smile. "do your worst," she seemed to say. "you cannot harm me now." [sidenote: the vision] the vision sat down in a low chair and rocked back and forth, slowly, as though meditating. occasionally, she looked at miriam doubtfully, but the mocking smile was still there. at last constance rose, having come, apparently, to some definite plan. she went to the dresser, opened the lower drawer, and reached under the pile of neatly-folded clothing. cold as ice, miriam sprang to her feet. she was wide awake now, but the room was empty. the door was open, half-way, and she could not remember whether she had left it so when she went to bed. she had always kept her bedroom door closed and locked, but since barbara's illness had left it at least ajar, that she might be able to hear a call in the night. shaken like an aspen in a storm, miriam lighted her candle and stared into the shadows. nothing was there. the clock ticked steadily--almost maddeningly. it was just four o'clock. she, too, opened the lower drawer of the dresser and thrust her hand under the clothing. the letters were still there. she drew them out, her hands trembling, and read the superscriptions with difficulty, for the words danced, and made themselves almost illegible. constance was coming back for the letters, then? that was out of miriam's power to prevent, but she would keep the knowledge of their contents--at least of one. she thrust aside contemptuously the letter to barbara--she cared nothing for that. [sidenote: the seal broken] taking the one addressed to "mr. laurence austin; kindness of miss leonard," she went back to bed, taking her candle to the small table that stood at the head of the bed. with forced calmness, she broke the seal which the dead fingers had made so long ago, opened it shamelessly, and read it. "you who have loved me since the beginning of time," the letter began, "will understand and forgive me for what i do to-day. i do it because i am not strong enough to go on and do my duty by those who need me. "if there should be meeting past the grave, some day you and i shall come together again with no barrier between us. i take with me the knowledge of your love, which has sheltered and strengthened and sustained me since the day we first met, and which must make even a grave warm and sweet. "and, remember this--dead though i am, i love you still; you and my little lame baby who needs me so and whom i must leave because i am not strong enough to stay. "through life and in death and eternally, "yours, "constance." in the letter was enclosed a long, silken tress of golden hair. it curled around miriam's fingers as though it were alive, and she thrust it from her. it was cold and smooth and sinuous, like a snake. she folded up the letter, put it back in the envelope with the lock of hair, then returned it to its old hiding-place, with barbara's. "so, constance," she said to herself, "you came for the letters? come and take them when you like--i do not fear you now." [sidenote: the evidence] all of her suspicions were crystallised into certainty by this one page of proof. constance might not have violated the letter of her marriage vow--very probably had not even dreamed of it--but in spirit, she had been false. "come, constance," said miriam, aloud; "come and take your letters. when the hour comes, i shall tell him, and you cannot keep me from it." [sidenote: triumph] she was curiously at peace, now, and no longer afraid. her dark eyes blazed with triumph as she lay there in the candle light. the tension within her had snapped when suspicion gave way to absolute knowledge. thwarted and denied and pushed aside all her life by constance and her memory, at last she had come to her own. xiii "woman suffrage" there was a shuffling step on the stairway, accompanied by spasmodic shrieks and an occasional "ouch." roger looked up from his book in surprise as miss mattie made her painful way into the room. "why, mother. what's the matter?" [sidenote: miss mattie's back] miss mattie sat down in the chair she had made out of a flour barrel and screamed as she did so. "what is it?" he demanded. "are you ill?" "roger," she replied, "my back is either busted, or the hinge in it is rusty from overwork. i stooped over to open the lower drawer in my bureau, and when i come to rise up, i couldn't. i've been over half an hour comin' downstairs. i called you twice, but you didn't hear me, and i knowed you was readin', so i thought i might better save my voice to yell with." "i'm sorry," he said. "what can i do for you?" "about the first thing to do, i take it, is to put down that book. now, if you'll put on your hat, you can go and get that new-fangled doctor from the city. the postmaster's wife told me yesterday that he'd sent barbara one of them souverine postal cards and said on it he'd be down last night. as you go, you might stop and tell the norths that he's comin', for they don't go after their mail much and most likely it's still there in the box. tell barbara that the card has a picture of a terrible high buildin' on it and the street is full of carriages, both horsed and unhorsed. if he can make the lame walk and the blind see, i reckon he can fix my back. i'll set here." "shan't i get someone to stay with you while i'm gone, mother? i don't like to leave you here alone. miss miriam would----" "miss miriam," interrupted his mother, "ain't fit company for a horse or cow, let alone a sufferin' woman. she just sets and stares and never says nothin'. i have to do all the talkin' and i'm in no condition to talk. you run along and let me set here in peace. it don't hurt so much when i set still." [sidenote: roger's errand] roger obediently started on his errand, but met doctor conrad half-way. the two had never been formally introduced, but roger knew him, and the doctor remembered roger as "the nice boy" who was with ambrose north and eloise when he went over to tell them that barbara was all right. "why, yes," said allan. "if it's an emergency case, i'll come there first. after i see what's the matter, i'll go over to north's and then come back. i seem to be getting quite a practice in riverdale." when they went in, roger introduced doctor conrad to the patient. "you'll excuse my not gettin' up," said miss mattie, "for it's about the gettin' up that i wanted to see you. roger, you run away. it ain't proper for boys to be standin' around listenin' when woman suffrage is bein' discussed by the only people havin' any right to talk of it--women and doctors." roger coloured to his temples as he took his hat and hurried out. with an effort doctor conrad kept his face straight, but his eyes were laughing. [sidenote: what's wrong?] "now, what's wrong?" asked allan, briefly, as roger closed the door. "it's my back," explained the patient. "it's busted. it busted all of a sudden." "was it when you were stooping over, perhaps to pick up something?" miss mattie stared at him in astonishment. "are you a mind-reader, or did roger tell you?" "neither," smiled allan. "did a sharp pain come in the lumbar region when you attempted to straighten up?" "'twan't the lumber room. i ain't been in the attic for weeks, though i expect it needs straightenin'. it was in my bedroom. i was stoopin' over to open a bureau drawer, and when i riz up, i found my back was busted." [sidenote: the prescription] "i see," said allan. he was already writing a prescription. "if your son will go down and get this filled, you will have no more trouble. take two every four hours." miss mattie took the bit of paper anxiously. "no surgical operation?" she asked. "no," laughed allan. "no mortar piled up on me and left to set? no striped nurses?" "no plaster cast," allan assured her, "and no striped nurses." "i reckon it ain't none of my business," remarked miss mattie, "but why didn't you do somethin' like this for barbara instead of cuttin' her up? i'm worse off than she ever was, because she could walk right spry with crutches, and crutches wouldn't have helped me none when i was risin' up from the bureau drawer." "barbara's case is different. she had a congenital dislocation of the femur." miss mattie's jaw dropped, but she quickly recovered herself. "and what have i got?" "lumbago." "my disease is shorter," she commented, after a moment of reflection, "but i'll bet it feels worse." "i'll ask your son to come in if i see him," said doctor conrad, reaching for his hat, "and if you don't get well immediately, let me know. good-bye." roger was nowhere in sight, but he was watching the two houses, and as soon as he saw doctor conrad go into north's, he went back to his mother. [sidenote: miss mattie's "disease"] "barbara's disease has three words in it, roger," she explained, "and mine has only one, but it's more painful. you're to go immediately with this piece of paper and get it full of the medicine he's written on it. i've been lookin' at it, but i don't get no sense out of it. he said to take two every four hours--two what?" "pills, probably, or capsules." "pills? now, roger, you know that no pill small enough to swallow could cure a big pain like this in my back. the postmaster's wife had the rheumatiz last winter, and she took over five quarts of old doctor jameson's pain killer, and it never did her a mite of good. what do you think a paper that size, full of pills, can do for a person that ain't able to stand up without screechin'?" "well, we'll try it anyway, mother. just sit still until i come back with the medicine." he went out and returned, presently, with a red box containing forty or fifty capsules. miss mattie took it from him and studied it carefully. "this box ain't more'n a tenth as big as the pain," she observed critically. roger brought a glass of water and took out two of the capsules. "take these," he said, "and at half past two, take two more. let's give doctor conrad a fair trial. it's probably a more powerful medicine than it seems to be." [sidenote: a difficulty] miss mattie had some difficulty at first, as she insisted on taking both capsules at once, but when she was persuaded to swallow one after the other, all went well. "i suppose," she remarked, "that these long narrow pills have to be took endways. if a person went to swallow 'em crossways, they'd choke to death. i was careful how i took 'em, but other people might not be, and i think, myself, that round pills are safer." "i went to the office," said roger, "and told the judge i wouldn't be down to-day. i have some work i can do at home, and i'd rather not leave you." "it's just come to my mind now," mused miss mattie, ignoring his thoughtfulness, "about the minister's sermon sunday. he said that everything that came to us might teach us something if we only looked for it. i've been thinkin' as i set here, what a heap i've learned about my back this mornin'. i never sensed, until now, that it was used in walkin'. i reckoned that my back was just kind of a finish to me and was to keep the dust out of my vital organs more'n anything else. this mornin' i see that the back is entirely used in walkin'. what gets me is that barbara north had to have crutches when her back was all right. nothin' was out of kilter but her legs, and only one of 'em at that." "here's your paper, mother." roger pulled _the metropolitan weekly_ out of his pocket. "lay it down on the table, please. it oughtn't to have come until to-morrow. i ain't got time for it now." "why, mother? don't you want to read?" [sidenote: proper care] the knot of hair on the back of miss mattie's head seemed to rise, and her protruding wire hairpins bristled. "i should think you'd know," she said, indignantly, "when you've been takin' time from the law to read your pa's books to barbara north, that no sick person has got the strength to read. even if my disease is only in one word when hers is in three, i reckon i'm goin' to take proper care of myself." "but you're sitting up and she can't," explained roger, kindly. "sittin' up or not sittin' up ain't got nothin' to do with it. if my back was set in mortar as it ought to have been, i wouldn't be settin' up either. i can't get up without screamin', and as long as i've knowed barbara she's never been that bad. that new-fangled doctor hasn't come out of north's yet, either. how much do you reckon he charges for a visit?" "two or three dollars, i suppose." miss mattie clucked sharply with her false teeth. "'cordin' to that," she calculated, "he was here about twenty cents' worth. but i'm willin' to give him a quarter--that's a nickel extra for the time he was writin' out the recipe for them long narrow pills that would choke anybody but a horse if they happened to go down crossways. there he comes, now. if he don't come here of his own accord, you go out and get him, roger. i want he should finish his visit." [sidenote: the doctor's visit] but it was not necessary for roger to go. "of his own accord," doctor conrad came across the street and opened the creaky white gate. when he came in, he brought with him the atmosphere of vitality and good cheer. he had, too, that gentle sympathy which is the inestimable gift of the physician, and which requires no words to make itself felt. his quick eye noted the box of capsules upon the table, as he sat down and took miss mattie's rough, work-worn hand in his. "how is it?" he asked. "better?" "mebbe," she answered, grudgingly. "no more'n a mite, though." "that's all we can expect so soon. by to-morrow morning, though, you should be all right." his manner unconsciously indicated that it would be the one joy of a hitherto desolate existence if miss mattie should be perfectly well again in the morning. "how's my fellow sufferer?" she inquired, somewhat mollified. "barbara? she's doing very well. she's a brave little thing." "which is the sickest--her or me?" "as regards actual pain," replied doctor conrad, tactfully, "you are probably suffering more than she is at the present moment." "i knowed it," cried miss mattie triumphantly. "do you hear that, roger?" but roger had slipped out, remembering that "woman suffrage" was not a proper subject for discussion in his hearing. [sidenote: wanderin' fits] "i reckon he's gone over to north's," grumbled miss mattie. "when my eye ain't on him, he scoots off. his pa was the same way. he was forever chasin' over there and roger's inherited it from him. whenever i've wanted either of 'em, they've always been took with wanderin' fits." "you sent him out before," allan reminded her. "so i did, but i ain't sent him out now and he's gone just the same. that's the trouble. after you once get an idea into a man's head, it stays put. you can't never get it out again. and ideas that other people puts in is just the same." "women change their minds more easily, don't they?" asked allan. he was enjoying himself very much. "of course. there's nothin' set about a woman unless she's got a busted back. she ain't carin' to move around much then. the postmaster's wife was tellin' me about one of the women at the hotel--the one that's writin' the book. do you know her?" "i've probably seen her." [sidenote: all a mistake] "the postmaster's wife's bunion was a hurtin' her awful one day when this woman come in after stamps, and she told her to go and help herself and put the money in the drawer. so she did, and while she was doin' it she told the postmaster's wife that she didn't have no bunion and no pain--that it was all a mistake." "'you wouldn't think so,' says the postmaster's wife, 'if it was your foot that had the mistake on it.' she was awful mad at first, but, after she got calmed down, the book-woman told her what she meant." "'there ain't no pain nor disease in the world,' she says. 'it's all imagination.' "'well,' says the postmaster's wife, 'when the swellin' is so bad, how'm i to undeceive myself?' "the book-woman says: 'just deny it, and affirm the existence of good. you just set down and say to yourself: "i can't have no bunion cause there ain't no such thing, and it can't hurt me because there is no such thing as pain. my foot is perfectly well and strong. i will get right up and walk."' "as soon as the woman was gone out with her stamps, the postmaster's wife tried it and like to have fainted dead away. she said she might have been able to convince her mind that there wasn't no bunion on her foot, but she couldn't convince her foot. she said there wasn't no such thing as pain, and the bunion made it its first business to do a little denyin' on its own account. you have to be awful careful not to offend a bunion. [sidenote: a test] "this mornin', while roger was gone after them long, narrow pills that has to be swallowed endways unless you want to choke to death, i reckoned i'd try it on my back. so i says, right out loud: 'my back don't hurt me. it is all imagination. i can't have no pain because there ain't no such thing.' then i stood up right quick, and--lord!" miss mattie shook her head sadly at the recollection. "do you know," she went on, thoughtfully, "i wish that woman at the hotel had lumbago?" doctor conrad's nice brown eyes twinkled, and his mouth twitched, ever so slightly. "i'm afraid i do, too," he said. "if she did, and wanted some of them long narrow pills, would you give 'em to her?" "probably, but i'd be strongly tempted not to." [sidenote: surprise] when he took his leave, miss mattie, from force of habit, rose from her chair. "ouch!" she said, as she slowly straightened up. "why, i do believe it's better. it don't hurt nothin' like so much as it did." "your surprise isn't very flattering, mrs. austin, but i'll forgive you. the next time i come up, i'll take another look at you. good-bye." miss mattie made her way slowly over to the table where the box of capsules lay, and returned, with some effort, to her chair. she studied both the box and its contents faithfully, once with her spectacles, and once without. "you'd never think," she mused, "that a pill of that size and shape could have any effect on a big pain that's nowheres near your stomach. he must be a dreadful clever young man, for it sure is a searchin' medicine." xiv barbara's birthday "fairy godmother," said barbara, "i should like a drink." [sidenote: fairy godchild] "fairy godchild," answered eloise, "you shall have one. what do you want--rose-dew, lilac-honey, or a golden lily full of clear, cool water?" "i'll take the water, please," laughed barbara, "but i want more than a lily full." eloise brought a glass of water and managed to give it to barbara without spilling more than a third of it upon her. "what a pretty neck and what glorious shoulders you have," she commented, as she wiped up the water with her handkerchief. "how lovely you'd look in an evening gown." "don't try to divert me," said barbara, with affected sternness. "i'm wet, and i'm likely to take cold and die." "i'm not afraid of your dying after you've lived through what you have. allan says you're the bravest little thing he has ever seen." the deep colour dyed barbara's pale face. "i'm not brave," she whispered; "i was horribly afraid, but i thought that, even if i were, i could keep people from knowing it." "if that isn't real courage," eloise assured her, "it's so good an imitation that it would take an expert to tell the difference." "i'm afraid now," continued barbara. her colour was almost gone and she did not look at eloise. "i'm afraid that, after all, i can never walk." she indicated the crutches at the foot of her bed by a barely perceptible nod. "i have aunt miriam keep them there so that i won't forget." "nonsense," cried eloise. "allan says that you have every possible chance, so don't be foolish. you're going to walk--you must walk. why, you mustn't even think of anything else." "it would seem strange," sighed barbara, "after almost twenty-two years, why--what day of the month is to-day?" "the sixteenth." [sidenote: twenty-two] "then it is twenty-two. this is my birthday--i'm twenty-two years old to-day." "fairy godchild, why didn't you tell me?" "because i'd forgotten it myself." "you're too young to begin to forget your birthdays. i'm past thirty, but i still 'keep tab' on mine." "if you're thirty, i must be at least forty, for i'm really much older than you are. and roger is an infant in arms compared with me." "wise lady, how did you grow so old in so short a time?" "by working and reading, and thinking--and suffering, i suppose." "when you're well, dear, i'm going to try to give you some of the girlhood you've never had. you're entitled to pretty gowns and parties and beaux, and all the other things that belong to the teens and twenties. you're coming to town with me, i hope--that's why i'm staying." barbara's blue eyes filled and threatened to overflow. "oh, fairy godmother, how lovely it would be. but i can't go. i must stay here and sew and try to make up for lost time. besides, father would miss me so." [sidenote: wait and see] eloise only smiled, for she had plans of her own for father. "we won't argue," she said, lightly, "we'll wait and see. it's a great mistake to try to live to-morrow, or even yesterday, to-day." when eloise went back to the hotel, her generous heart full of plans for her protégé, miriam did not hear her go out, and so it happened that barbara was alone for some time. ambrose north had gone for one of his long walks over the hills and along the shore, expecting to return before eloise left barbara. for some vague reason which he himself could not have put into words, he did not like to leave her alone with miriam. when miriam came upstairs, she paused at the door to listen. hearing no voices, she peeped within. barbara lay quietly, looking out of the window, and dreaming of the day when she could walk freely and joyously, as did the people who passed and repassed. miriam went stealthily to her own room, and took out the letter to barbara. she had no curiosity as to its contents. if she had, it would be an easy matter to open it, and put it into another envelope, without the address, and explain that it had been merely enclosed with instructions as to its delivery. [sidenote: miriam delivers the letter] taking it, she went into the room where barbara lay--the same room where the dead constance had lain so long before. "barbara," she said, without emotion, "when your mother died she left this letter for you, in my care." she put it into the girl's eager, outstretched hand and left the room, closing the door after her. with trembling fingers, barbara broke the seal, and took out the closely written sheet. all four pages were covered. the ink had faded and the paper was yellow, but the words were still warm with love and life. [sidenote: the letter] "barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," the letter began. "if you live to receive this letter, your mother will have been dead for many years and, perhaps, forgotten. i have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this because i am twenty-two now, and, when you are the same age, you will, perhaps, be better fitted to understand than at any other time. "i trust you have not married, because, if you have, my warning may come too late. never marry a man whom you do not know, absolutely, that you love, and when this knowledge comes to you, if there are no barriers in the way, do not let anything on god's earth keep you apart. "i have made the mistake which many girls make. i came from school, young, inexperienced, unbalanced, and eager for admiration. your father, a brilliant man of more than twice my age, easily appealed to my fancy. he was handsome, courteous, distinguished, wealthy, of fine character and unassailable position. i did not know, then, that a woman could love love, rather than the man who gave it to her. "there is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. he has failed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. on the contrary, it is i who have disappointed him, even though i love him dearly and always have. i have never loved him more than to-day, when i leave you both forever. "my feeling for him is unchanged. it is only that at last i have come face to face with the one man of all the world--the one god made for me, back in the beginning. i have known it for a long, long time, but i did not know that he also loved me until a few days ago. "since then, my world has been chaos, illumined by this unutterable light. i have been a true wife, and when i can be true no longer, it is time to take the one way out. i cannot live here and run the risk of seeing him constantly, yet trust myself not to speak; i cannot bear to know that the little space lying between us is, in reality, the whole world. "he is bound, too. he has a wife and a son only a little older than you are. if i stay, i shall be false to your father, to you, to him, and even to myself, because, in my relation to each of you, i shall be living a lie. [sidenote: the message] "tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to me, that i appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the beautiful love he has given me. tell him i am sorry i have failed him, that i have not been a better wife, but god knows i have done the best i could. tell him i have loved him, that i love him still, and have never loved him more than i do to-day. but oh, my baby, do not tell him that the full-orbed sun has risen before one who knew only twilight before. "and, if you can, love your mother a little, as she lies asleep in her far-away grave. your father, if he has not forgotten me, will have dealt gently with my memory--of that i am sure. but i do not quite trust miriam, and i do not know what she may have said. she loved your father and i took him away from her. she has never forgiven me for that and she never will. [sidenote: a burden] "if i have done wrong, it has been in thought only and not in deed. i do not believe we can control thought or feeling, though action and speech can be kept within bounds. forgive me, barbara, darling, and love me if you can. "your "mother." the last words danced through the blurring mist and barbara sobbed aloud as she put the letter down. blind though he was, her father had felt the lack--the change. the pity of it all overwhelmed her. her thought flew swiftly to roger, but--no, he must not know. this letter was written to the living and not to the dead. aunt miriam would ask no questions--she was sure of that--but the message to her father lay heavily upon her soul. how could she make him believe in the love he so hungered for even now? as the hours passed, barbara became calm. when miriam came in to see if she wanted anything, she asked for pencil and paper, and for a book to be propped up on a pillow in front of her, so that she might write. miriam obeyed silently, taking an occasional swift, keen look at barbara, but the calm, impassive face and the deep eyes were inscrutable. [sidenote: the meaning changed] as soon as she was alone again, she began to write, with difficulty, from her mother's letter, altering it as little as possible, and yet changing the meaning of it all. she could trust herself to read from her own sheet, but not from the other. it took a long time, but at last she was satisfied. it was almost dusk when ambrose north returned, and barbara asked for a candle to be placed on the small table at the head of her bed. she also sent away the book and pencil and the paper she had not used. miriam's curiosity was faintly aroused, but, as she told herself, she could wait. she had already waited long. "daddy," said, barbara, softly, when they were alone, "do you know what day it is?" "no," he answered; "why?" "it's my birthday--i'm twenty-two to-day." "are you? your dear mother was twenty-two when she--i wish you were like your mother, barbara." "mother left a letter with aunt miriam," said barbara, gently. "she gave it to me to-day." the old man sprang to his feet. "a letter!" he cried, reaching out a trembling hand. "for me?" [sidenote: barbara reads to her father] barbara laughed--a little sadly. "no, daddy--for me. but there is something for you in it. sit down, and i'll read it to you." "read it all," he cried. "read every word." "barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," read the girl, her voice shaking, "if you live to read this letter, your mother will have been dead for many years, and possibly forgotten." "no," breathed ambrose north--"never forgotten." "i have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this, because i am twenty-two now, and when you are the same age, it will be as if we were sisters, rather than mother and daughter." "dear constance," whispered the old man. "when i came from school, i met your father. he was a brilliant man, handsome, courteous, distinguished, of fine character and unassailable position." barbara glanced up quickly. the dull red had crept into his wrinkled cheeks, but his lips were parted in a smile. "there is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. he has failed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. i have disappointed him, i fear, even though i love him dearly and always have. i have never loved him more than i do to-day, when i leave you both forever. "tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to me, that i appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the beautiful love he has given me. tell him i am sorry i have failed him----" "oh, dear god!" he cried. "_she_ fail?" "that i have not been a better wife," barbara went on, brokenly. "tell him i have loved him, that i love him still, and have never loved him more than i do to-day. "forgive me, both of you, and love me if you can. your mother." in the tense silence, barbara folded up both sheets and put them back into the envelope. still, she did not dare to look at her father. when, at last, she turned to him, sorely perplexed and afraid, he was still sitting at her bedside. he had not moved a muscle, but he had changed. if molten light had suddenly been poured over him from above, while the rest of the room lay in shadow, he could not have changed more. [sidenote: as by magic] the sorrowful years had slipped from him, and, as though by magic, youth had come back. his shoulders were still stooped, his face and hands wrinkled, and his hair was still as white as the blown snow, but his soul was young, as never before. "barbara," he breathed, in ecstasy. "she died loving me." the slender white hand stole out to his, half fearfully. "yes, daddy, i've always told you so, don't you know?" her senses whirled, but she kept her voice even. "she died loving me," he whispered. the clock ticked steadily, a door closed below, and a little bird outside chirped softly. there was no other sound save the wild beating of barbara's heart, which she alone heard. still transfigured, he sat beside the bed, holding her hand in his. [sidenote: far-away voices] far-away voices sounded faintly in his ears, for, like a garment, the years had fallen from him and taken with them the questioning and the fear. into his doubting heart constance had come once more, radiant with new beauty, thrilling his soul to new worship and new belief. "she died loving me," he said, as though he could scarcely believe his own words. "barbara, i know it is much to ask, for it must be very precious to you, but--would you let me hold the letter? would you let me feel the words i cannot see?" choking back a sob, barbara took both sheets out of the envelope and gave them to him. "show me," he whispered, "show me the line where she wrote, 'tell him i love him still, and have never loved him more than i do to-day.'" when barbara put his finger upon the words, he bent and kissed them. "what does it say here?" he pointed to the paragraph beginning, "i have made the mistake which many girls make." "it says," answered barbara, "'there is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good.'" he bent and kissed that, too. "and here?" his finger pointed to the line, "i did not know that a woman could love love, rather than the man who gave it to her." "that is where it says again, 'tell him i have loved him, that i love him still, and have never loved him more than i do to-day.'" "dear, blessed constance," he said, crushing the lie to his lips. "dear wife, true wife; truest of all the world." barbara could bear no more. "let me have the letter again, daddy." [sidenote: after years of waiting] "no, dear, no. after all these years of waiting, let me keep it for a little while. just for a little while, barbara. please." his voice broke at the end. "for a little while, then, daddy," she said, slowly; "only a little while." [sidenote: his illumined face] he went out, with the precious letter in his hand. miriam was in the hall, but he was unconscious of the fact. she shrank back against the wall as he passed her, with his fine old face illumined as from some light within. in his own room, he sat down, after closing the door, and spread the two sheets on the table before him. he moved his hands caressingly over the lines constance had written in ink and barbara in pencil. "she died loving me," he said to himself, "and i was wrong. she did not change when i was blind and barbara was lame. all these years i have been doubting her while her own assurance was in the house. "she thought she failed me--the dear saint thought she failed. it must take me all eternity to atone to her for that. but she died loving me." his thought lingered fondly upon the words, then the tears streamed suddenly over his blind face. "oh, constance, constance," he cried aloud, forgetting that the dead cannot hear. "you never failed me! forgive me if you can." xv the song of the pines upon the couch in the sitting-room, though it was not yet noon, miss mattie slept peacefully. she had the repose, not merely of one dead, but of one who had been dead long and was very weary at the time of dying. as doctor conrad had expected, her back was entirely well the morning following his visit, and when she awoke, free from pain, she had dinned his praises into roger's ears until that long-suffering young man was well-nigh fatigued. the subject was not exhausted, however, even though roger was. [sidenote: a wonder-worker] "i'll tell you what it is, roger," miss mattie had said, drawing a long breath, and taking a fresh start; "a young man that can cure a pain like mine, with pills that size, has got a great future ahead of him as well as a brilliant past behind. he's a wonder-worker, that's what he is, not to mention bein' a mind-reader as well." she had taken but a half dozen of the capsules the first day, having fallen asleep after taking the third dose. when roger went to the office, very weary of doctor conrad's amazing skill, miss mattie had resumed her capsules and, shortly thereafter, fallen asleep. she had slept for the better part of three days, caring little for food and not in the least for domestic tasks. at the fourth day, roger became alarmed, but doctor conrad had gone back to the city, and there was no one within his reach in whom he had confidence. [sidenote: the sleeping woman] at last it seemed that it was time for him to act, and he shook the sleeping woman vigorously. "what's the matter, roger?" she asked, drowsily; "is it time for my medicine?" "no, it isn't time for medicine, but it's time to get up. your back doesn't hurt you, does it?" "no," murmured miss mattie, "my back is as good as it ever was. what time is it?" "almost four o'clock and you've been asleep ever since ten this morning. wake up." "eight--ten--twelve--two--four," breathed miss mattie, counting on her fingers. then, to his astonishment, she sat up straight and rubbed her eyes. "if it's four, it's time for my medicine." she went over to the cupboard in which the precious box of capsules was kept, took two more, and returned to the couch. she still had the box in her hand. "mother," gasped roger, horrified. "what are you taking that medicine for?" "for my back," she responded, sleepily. "i thought your back was well." "so 'tis." "then what in thunder do you keep on taking dope for?" miss mattie sat up. she was very weary and greatly desired her sleep, but it was evident that roger must be soothed first. [sidenote: getting her money's worth] "you don't seem to understand me," she sighed, with a yawn. "after payin' a dollar and twenty cents for that medicine, do you reckon i'm goin' to let it go to waste? i'm goin' to keep right on takin' it, every four hours, as he said, until it's used up." "mother!" "don't you worry none, roger," said miss mattie, kindly, with a drowsy smile. "your mother is bein' took care of by a wonderful doctor. he makes the lame walk and the blind see and cures large pains with small pills. i am goin' to stick to my medicine. he didn't say to stop takin' it." "but, mother, you mustn't take it when there is no need for it. he never meant for you to take it after you were cured. besides, you might have the same trouble again when we couldn't get hold of him." "how'm i to have it again?" demanded miss mattie, pricking up her ears, "when i'm cured? if i take all the medicine, i'll stay cured, won't i? you ain't got no logic, roger, no more'n your pa had." "i wish you wouldn't, mother," pleaded the boy, genuinely distressed. "it's the medicine that makes you sleep so." "i reckon," responded miss mattie, settling herself comfortably back among the pillows, "that he wanted me to have some sleep. in all my life i ain't never had such sleep as i'm havin' now. you go away, roger, and study law. you ain't cut out for medicine." the last words died away in an incoherent whisper. miss mattie slept again, with the box tightly clutched in her hand. as her fingers gradually loosened their hold, roger managed to gain possession of it without waking her. he did not dare dispose of it, for he well knew that the maternal resentment would make the remainder of his life a burden. besides, she might have another attack, when the ministering mind-reader was not accessible. if it were possible to give her some harmless substitute, and at the same time keep the "searching medicine" for a time of need. [sidenote: a bright idea] a bright idea came to roger, which he hastened to put into execution. he went to the druggist and secured a number of empty capsules of the same size. at home, he laboriously filled them with flour and replaced those in the box with an equal number of them. he put the "searching medicine" safely away in his desk at the office, and went to work, his heart warmed by the pleasant consciousness that he had done a good deed. when he went home at night, miss mattie was partially awake and inclined to be fretful. "the strength is gone out of my medicine," she grumbled, "and it ain't time to take more. i've got to set here and be deprived of my sleep until eight o'clock." roger prepared his own supper and induced his mother to eat a little. when the clock began to strike eight, she took two of the flour-filled capsules, confidently climbed upstairs, and--such is the power of suggestion--was shortly asleep. [sidenote: favourable opportunity] having an unusually favourable opportunity, roger went over to see barbara. he had not seen her since the night before the operation, but doctor conrad had told him that in a few days he might be allowed to talk to her or read to her for a little while at a time. miriam opened the door for him, and, he thought, looked at him with unusual sharpness. "i guess you can see her," she said, shortly. "i'll ask her." in the pathetically dingy room, out of which barbara had tried so hard to make a home, he waited until miriam returned. "they said to come up," she said, and disappeared. roger climbed the creaking stairs and made his way through the dark, narrow hall to the open door from whence a faint light came. "come in," called barbara, as he paused. ambrose north sat by her bedside holding her hand, but she laughingly offered the other to roger. "bad boy," she said; "why haven't you come before? i've lain here in the window and watched you go back and forth for days." "i didn't dare," returned roger. "i was afraid i might do you harm by coming and so i stayed away." "everybody has been so kind," barbara went on. "people i never saw nor heard of have come to inquire and to give me things. you're absolutely the last one to come." [sidenote: last but not least] "last--and least?" "not quite," she said, with a smile. "but i haven't been lonely. father has been right beside me all the time except when i've been asleep, haven't you, daddy?" "i've wanted to be," smiled the old man, "but sometimes they made me go away." "tell me about the judge's liver," suggested barbara, "and fido. i've been thinking a good deal about fido. did his legal document hurt him?" [sidenote: fido] "not in the least. on the contrary, he thrived on it. he liked it so well that he's eaten others as opportunity offered. the judge is used to it now, and doesn't mind. i've been thinking that it might save time and trouble if, when i copied papers, i took an extra carbon copy for fido. that pup literally eats everything. he's cut some of his teeth on a pair of rubbers that a client left in the office, and this noon he ate nearly half a box of matches." "i suppose," remarked barbara, "that he was hungry and wanted a light lunch." "that'll be about all from you just now," laughed roger. "you're going to get well all right--i can see that." "of course i'm going to get well. who dared to say i wasn't?" "nobody that i know of. do you want me to bring fido to see you?" "some day," said barbara, thoughtfully, "i would like to have you lead fido up and down in front of the house, but i do not believe i would care to have him come inside." so they talked for half an hour or more. the blind man sat silently, holding barbara's hand, too happy to feel neglected or in any way slighted. from time to time her fingers tightened upon his in a reassuring clasp that took the place of words. acutely self-conscious, roger's memory harked back continually to the last evening he and barbara had spent together. in a way, he was grateful for north's presence. it measurably lessened his constraint, and the subtle antagonism that he had hitherto felt in the house seemed wholly to have vanished. at last the blind man rose, still holding barbara's hand. "it is late for old folks to be sitting up," he said. "don't go, daddy. make a song first, won't you? a little song for roger and me?" he sat down again, smiling. "what about?" he asked. "about the pines," suggested barbara--"the tallest pines on the hills." there was a long pause, then, clearing his throat, the old man began. [sidenote: small beginnings] "even the tall and stately pines," he said, "were once the tiniest of seeds like everything else, for everything in the world, either good or evil, has a very small beginning. "they grow slowly, and in summer, when you look at the dark, bending boughs, you can see the year's growth in paler green at the tips. no one pays much attention to them, for they are very dark and quiet compared with the other trees. but the air is balmy around them, they scatter a thick, fragrant carpet underneath, and there is no music in the world, i think, like a sea-wind blowing through the pines. "when the brown cones fall, the seeds drop out from between the smooth, satin-like scales, and so, in the years to come, a dreaming mother pine broods over a whole forest of smaller trees. a pine is lonely and desolate, if there are no smaller trees around it. a single one, towering against the sky, always means loneliness, but where you see a little clump of evergreens huddled together, braving the sleet and snow, it warms your heart. "in summer they give fragrant shade, and in winter a shelter from the coldest blast. the birds sleep among the thick branches, finding seeds for food in the cones, and, on some trees, blue, waxen berries. [sidenote: a love story] "before the darkness came to me, i saw a love story in a forest of pines. one tree was very straight and tall, and close beside it was another, not quite so high. the taller tree leaned protectingly over the other, as if listening to the music the wind made on its way from the hills to the sea. as time went on, their branches became so thickly interlaced that you could scarcely tell one from the other. "around them sprang up half a dozen or more smaller trees, sheltered, brooded over, and faithfully watched by these two with the interlaced branches. the young trees grew straight and tall, but when they were not quite half grown, a man came and cut them all down for christmas trees. "when he took them away, the forest was strangely desolate to these two, who now stood alone. when the daughters of dawn opened wide the gates of darkness, and the lord of light fared forth upon the sea, they saw it not. when it was high noon, and there were no shadows, even upon the hill, it seemed that they might lift up their heads, but they only twined their branches more closely together. when all the flaming tapestry of heaven was spread in the west, they leaned nearer to each other, and sighed. [sidenote: bereft] "when the night wind stirred their boughs to faint music, it was like the moan of a heart that refuses to be comforted. when spring danced through the forest, leaving flowers upon her way, while all the silences were filled with life and joy, these two knew it not, for they were bereft. "mating calls echoed through the woods, and silver sounds dripped like rain from the maples, but there was no love-song in the boughs of the pines. the birds went by, on hushed wings, and built their nests far away. "when the maples put on the splendid robes of autumn, the pines, more gaunt and desolate than ever, covered the ground with a dense fabric of needles, lacking in fragrance. when the winds grew cool, and the little people of the forest pattered swiftly through the dead and scurrying leaves, there was no sound from the pines. they only waited for the end. "when storm swept through the forest and the other trees bowed their heads in fear, these two straightened themselves to meet it, for they were not afraid. frightened birds took refuge there, and the little people, with wild-beating hearts, crept under the spreading boughs to be sheltered. "vast, reverberating thunders sounded from hill to hill, and the sea answered with crashing surges that leaped high upon the shore. suddenly, from the utter darkness, a javelin of lightning flashed through the pines, but they only trembled and leaned closer still. "one by one, with the softness of falling snow, the leaves dropped upon the brown carpet beneath, but there was no more fragrance, since the sap had ceased to move through the secret channels and breathe balm into the forest. snow lay heavily upon the lower boughs and they broke, instead of bending. when spring danced through the world again, piping her plaintive music upon the farthest hills, the pines were almost bare. [sidenote: as one] "all through the sweet summer the needles kept dropping. every frolicsome breeze of june carried some of them a little farther down the road; every full moon shone more clearly through the barrier of the pines. and at last, when the chill winds of autumn chanted a requiem through the forest, it was seen that the pines had long been dead, but they so leaned together and their branches were so interlaced, that, even in death, they stood as one. "they had passed their lives together, they had borne the same burdens, faced the same storms, and rejoiced in the same warmth of summer sun. one was not left, stricken, long after the other was dead; their last grief was borne together and was lessened because it was shared. i stand there sometimes now, where the two dead trees are leaning close together, and as the wind sighs through the bare boughs, it chants no dirge to me, but only a hymn of farewell. [sidenote: together with love] "there is nothing in all the world, barbara, that means so much as that one word, 'together,' and when you add 'love' to it, you have heaven, for god himself can give no more joy than to bring together two who love, never to part again." "thank you," said barbara, gently, after a pause. "i thank you too," said roger. ambrose north rose and offered his hand to roger. "good-night," he said. "i am glad you came. your father was my friend." then he bent to kiss barbara. "good-night, my dear." "friend," repeated roger to himself, as the old man went out. "yes, friend who never betrayed you or yours." the boy thrilled with passionate pride at the thought. before the memory of his father his young soul stood at salute. barbara's eyes followed her father fondly as he went out and down the hall to his own room. when his door closed, roger came to the other chair, sat down, and took her hand. "it's not really necessary," explained barbara, with a faint pink upon her cheeks. "i shall probably recover, even if my hand isn't held all the time." "but i want to," returned roger, and she did not take her hand away. her cheeks took on a deeper colour and she smiled, but there was something in her deep eyes that roger had never seen there before. "i've missed you so," he went on. "and i have missed you." she did not dare to say how much. "how long must you lie here?" "not much longer, i hope. somebody is coming down next week to take off the plaster; then, after i've stayed in bed a little longer, they'll see whether i can walk or not." [sidenote: the crutches] she sighed wistfully and a strange expression settled on her face as she looked at the crutches which still leaned against the foot of her bed. "why do you have those there?" asked roger, quickly. "to remind me always that i mustn't hope too much. it's just a chance, you know." "if you don't need them again, may i have them?" "why?" she asked, startled. "because they are yours--they've seemed a part of you ever since i've known you. i couldn't bear to have thrown away anything that was part of you, even if you've outgrown it." "certainly," answered barbara, in a high, uncertain voice. "you're very welcome and i hope you can have them." "barbara!" roger knelt beside the bed, still keeping her hand in his. "what did i say that was wrong?" "nothing," she answered, with difficulty. "but, after bearing all this, it seems hard to think that you don't want me to be--to be separated from my crutches. because they have belonged to me always--you think they always must." "barbara! when you've always understood me, must i begin explaining to you now? i've never had anything that belonged to you, and i thought you wouldn't mind, if it was something you didn't need any more--i wouldn't care what it was--if----" "i see," she interrupted. a blinding flash of insight had, indeed, made many things wonderfully clear. "here--wouldn't you rather have this?" [sidenote: a knot of blue ribbon] she slipped a knot of pale blue ribbon from the end of one of her long, golden braids, and gave it to him. "yes," he said. then he added, anxiously, "are you sure you don't need it? if you do----" "if i do," she answered, smiling, "i'll either get another, or tie my braid with a string." outwardly, they were back upon the old terms again, but, for the first time since the mud-pie days, barbara was self-conscious. her heart beat strangely, heavy with the prescience of new knowledge. when roger rose from his chair with a bit of blue ribbon protruding from his coat pocket, she laughed hysterically. but roger did not laugh. he bent over her, with all his boyish soul in his eyes. she crimsoned as she turned away from him. [sidenote: please?] "please?" he asked, very tenderly. "you did once." "no," she cried, shrilly. roger straightened himself instantly. "then i won't," he said, softly. "i won't do anything you don't want me to--ever." xvi betrayal the long weeks dragged by and, at last, the end of barbara's imprisonment drew near. the red-haired young man who had previously assisted doctor conrad came down with one of the nurses and removed the heavy plaster cast. the nurse taught miriam how to massage barbara with oils and exercise the muscles that had never been used. "doctor conrad told me," said the red-haired young man, "to take your father back with me to-morrow, if you were ready to have him go. the sooner the better, he thought." [sidenote: love and terror] barbara turned away, with love and terror clutching coldly at her heart. "perhaps," she said, finally. "i'll talk with father to-night." her own forgotten agony surged back into her remembrance, magnified an hundred fold. fear she had never had for herself strongly asserted itself now, for him. "if it should come out wrong," she thought, "i could never forgive myself--never in the wide world." when the doctor and nurse had gone to the hotel and miriam was busy getting supper, ambrose north came quietly into barbara's room. "how are you, dear?" he asked, anxiously. "i'm all right, daddy, except that i feel very queer. it's all different, some way. like the old woman in _mother goose_, i wonder if this can be i." there was a long pause. "are they going back to-morrow," he asked, "the doctor and nurse who came down to-day?" "yes," answered barbara, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. the old man took her hand in his and leaned over her. "dear," he pleaded, "may i go, too?" barbara was startled. "have they said anything to you?" [sidenote: long waiting] "no, i was just thinking that i could go with them as well as with doctor conrad. it is so long to wait," he sighed. "i cannot bear to have you hurt," answered barbara, with a choking sob. "i know," he said, "but i bore it for you. have you forgotten?" there was no response in words, but she breathed hard, every shrill respiration fraught with dread. "flower of the dusk," he pleaded, "may i go?" "yes," she sobbed. "i have no right to say no." "dear, don't cry." the old man's voice was as tender as though she had been the merest child. "the dream is coming true at last--that you can walk and i can see. think what it will mean to us both. and oh, barbara, think what it will be to me to see the words your dear mother wrote to you--to know, from her own hand, that she died loving me." [sidenote: systematic lying] barbara suddenly turned cold. the hand that seemingly had clutched her heart was tearing unmercifully at the tender fibre now. he would read her mother's letter and know that his beloved constance was in love with another; that she took her own life because she could bear it no more. he would know that they were poor, that the house was shabby, that the pearls and laces and tapestries had all been sold. he would know, inevitably, that barbara's needle had earned their living for many years; he would see, in the dining-room, the pitiful subterfuge of the bit of damask, one knife and fork of solid silver, one fine plate and cup. above all, he would know that barbara herself had systematically lied to him ever since she could talk at all. and he had a horror of a lie. "don't," she cried, weakly. "don't go." "you promised barbara," he said, gently. then he added, proudly: "the norths never go back on their spoken or written word. it is in the blood to be true and you have promised. i shall go to-morrow." barbara cringed and shrank from him. "don't, dear," he said. "your hands are cold. let me warm them in mine. i fear that to-day has been too much for you." "i think it has," she answered. the words were almost a whisper. [sidenote: if the dream comes true] "then, don't try to talk, barbara. i will talk to you. i know how you feel about my going, but it is not necessary, for i do not fear in the least for myself. i am sure that the dream is coming true, but, if it should not--why, we can bear it together, dear, as we have borne everything. the ways of the everlasting are not our ways, but my faith is very strong. [sidenote: if the dream comes true] "if the dream comes true, as i hope and believe it will, you and i will go away, dear, and see the world. we shall go to europe and egypt and japan and india, and to the southern islands, to greece and constantinople--i have planned it all. aunt miriam can stay here, or we will take her with us, just as you choose. when you can walk, barbara, and i can see, i shall draw a large check, and we will start at the first possible moment. the greatest blessing of money, i think, is the opportunity it gives for travel. i have been glad, too, so many times, that we are able to afford all these doctors and nurses. think of the poor people who must suffer always because they cannot command services which are necessarily high-priced." barbara's senses reeled and the cold, steel fingers clutched more closely at the aching fibre of her heart. until this moment, she had not thought of the financial aspects of her situation--it had not occurred to her that doctor conrad and the blue and white nurses and even the red-haired young man would expect to be paid. and when her father went to the hospital--"i shall have to sew night and day all the rest of my life," she thought, "and, even then, die in debt." [sidenote: the lie] but over and above and beyond it all stood the lie, that had lived in her house for twenty years and more and was now to be cast out, if--barbara's heart stood still in horror because, for the merest fraction of an instant, she had dared to hope that her father might never see again. "i could not have gone alone," the old man was saying, "and even if i could, i should never have left you, but now, i think, the time is coming. i have dreamed all my life of the strange countries beyond the sea, and longed to go. your dear mother and i were going, in a little while, but--" his lips quivered and he stopped abruptly. [sidenote: three things] "what would you see, daddy, if you had your choice? tell me the three things in the world that you most want to see." with supreme effort, barbara put self aside and endeavoured to lead him back to happier things. "three things?" he repeated. "let me think. if god should give me back my sight for the space of half an hour before i died, i should choose to see, first, your dear mother's letter in which she says that she died loving me; next, your mother herself as she was just before she died, and then, dear, my flower of the dusk--my baby whom i never have seen. perhaps," he added, thoughtfully, "perhaps i should rather see you than constance, for, in a very little while, i should meet her past the sunset, where she has waited so long for me. but the letter would come first, barbara--can you understand?" "yes," she breathed, "i understand." the hope in her heart died. she could not ask for the letter. he took it from his pocket as though it were a jewel of great price. "put my finger on the words that say, 'i love him still.'" blinded with tears and choked by sobs, barbara pointed out the line. that, at least, was true. the old man raised it to his lips as a monk might raise his crucifix when kneeling in penitential prayer. "i keep it always near me," he said, softly. "i shall keep it until i can see." * * * * * long after he had gone to bed, barbara lay trembling. the problem that had risen up before her without warning seemed to have no possible solution. if he recovered his sight, she could not keep him from knowing their poverty. one swift glance would show him all--and destroy his faith in her. that was unavoidable. but--need he know that the dead had deceived him too? the innate sex-loyalty, which is strong in all women who are really fine, asserted itself in full power now. it was not only the desire to save her father pain that made barbara resolve, at any cost, to keep the betraying letter from him. it was also the secret loyalty, not of a child to an unknown mother, but of woman to woman--of sex to sex. [sidenote: to-day and to-morrow] the house was very still. outside, a belated cricket kept up his cheery fiddling as he fared to his hidden home. sometimes a leaf fell and rustled down the road ahead of a vagrant wind. the clock ticked monotonously. second by second and minute by minute, to-morrow advanced upon barbara; that to-morrow which must be made surely right by the deeds of to-day. "if i could go," murmured barbara. she was free of the plaster and she could move about in bed easily. ironically enough, her crutches leaned against the farther wall, in sight but as completely out of reach as though they were in the next room. barbara sat up in bed and, cautiously, placed her two tiny bare feet on the floor. with great effort, she stood up, sustained by a boundless hope. she discovered that she could stand, even though she ached miserably, but when she attempted to move, she fell back upon the bed. she could not walk a step. [sidenote: vanishing hopes] faint with fear and pain, she got back into bed. she knew, now, all that the red-haired young man had refused to tell her. he was too kind to say that she was not to walk, after all. he was leaving it for doctor conrad--or eloise. objects in the room danced before her mockingly. her crutches were veiled by a mist--those friendly crutches which had served her so well and were now out of her reach. but barbara had no time for self-pity. the dominant need of the hour was pressing heavily upon her. with icy, shaking fingers, barbara rang her bell. presently miriam came in, attired in a flannel dressing-gown which was hopelessly unbecoming. barbara was moved to hysterical laughter, but she bit her lips. "aunt miriam," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "father has a letter of mine in his coat pocket which i should like to read again to-night. will you bring me his coat, please?" miriam turned away without a word. her face was inscrutable. "don't wake him," called barbara, in a shrill whisper. "if he is not asleep, wait until he is. i would not have him wakened, but i must have the coat to-night." from his closed door came the sound of deep, regular breathing. miriam turned the knob noiselessly, opened the door, and slipped in. when her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found the coat easily. it had not taken long. even barbara might well be surprised at her quickness. perhaps the letter was not in his coat--it might be somewhere else. at any rate, it would do no harm to make sure before going in to barbara. miriam went into her own room and calmly lighted a candle. [sidenote: the letter recovered] yes, the letter was there--two sheets: one in ink, in constance's hand, the other, in pencil, written by barbara. why should barbara write to one who was blind? with her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, miriam hastily read both letters, then put them back. her lips were curled in a sneer when she took the coat into barbara's room and gave it to her without speaking. the girl thrust an eager hand into the inner pocket and, with almost a sob of relief, took out her mother's letter and her own version of it. "thank you, aunty," breathed barbara. "i am sorry--to--to--disturb you, but there was no--other way." [sidenote: the letter destroyed] miriam went out, as quietly as she had come, carrying the coat and leaving barbara's door ajar. when she was certain that she was alone, barbara tore the letter into shreds. so much, at least, was sure. her father should never see them, whatever he might think of her. miriam was standing outside the blind man's door. she fancied she heard him stir. it did not matter--there was plenty of time before morning to return the coat. she took it back into her own room and sat down to think. her mirror reflected her face and the unbecoming dressing-gown. the candlelight, however, was kind. it touched gently upon the grey in her hair, hid the dark hollows under her eyes, and softened the lines in her face. it lent a touch of grace to her work-worn hands, moving nervously in her lap. after twenty-one years, this was what constance had to say to barbara--that she loved another man, that ambrose north was not to know it, and that she did not quite trust miriam. also that miriam had loved ambrose north and had never quite forgiven constance for taking him away from her. out of the shadow of the grave, miriam's secret stared her in the face. she had not dreamed, until she read the letter, that constance knew. barbara knew now, too. miriam was glad that barbara had the letter, for she knew that, in all probability, she would destroy it. [sidenote: a crumbling structure] the elaborate structure of deceit which they had so carefully reared around the blind man was crumbling, even now. if he recovered his sight, it must inevitably fall. he would know, in an instant of revelation, that miriam was old and ugly and not beautiful, as she had foolishly led him to believe, years ago, when he asked how much time had changed her. she looked pitifully at her hands, rough and knotted and red through untiring slavery for him and his. she and barbara would be sacrificed--no, for he would forgive barbara anything. she was the only one who would lose through his restored vision, unless constance might, in some way, be revealed to him as she was. _"i do not quite trust miriam. she loved your father and i took him away from her."_ the cruel sentences moved crazily before her as in letters of fire. the letter was gone. ambrose north would never see the evidence of constance's distrust of her, nor come, without warning, upon miriam's pitiful secret which, with a woman's pride, she would hide from him at all costs. none the less, constance had stabbed her again. a ghostly hand clutching a dagger had suddenly come up from the grave, and the thrust of the cold, keen steel had been very sure. [sidenote: scheming miriam] for twenty years and more, she had been tempted to read to the blind man the letter constance had written to laurence austin just before she died. for that length of time, her desire to blacken constance, in the hope that the grief-stricken heart might once more turn to her, had warred with her love and her woman's fear of hurting the one she loved. to-night, even in the face of the letter to barbara, she knew that she should never have courage to read it to him, nor even to give it to him with her own hands. in case he recovered his sight, she might leave it where he would find it. she was glad, now, that the envelope was torn, for he would not be apt to open a letter addressed to another, even though constance had penned the superscription and the man to whom it was addressed was dead. his fine sense of honour would, undoubtedly, lead him to burn it. but, if the letter were in a plain envelope, sealed, and she should leave it on his dresser, he would be very sure to open it, if he saw it lying there, and then---- miriam smiled. constance would be paid at last for her theft of another woman's suitor, for her faithlessness and her cowardly desertion. there was a heavy score against constance, who had so belied the meaning of her name, and the twenty years had added compound interest. north might not--probably would not--turn again to miriam after all these years; she saw that plainly to-night for the first time, but he would, at any rate, see that he had given up the gold for the dross. miriam got her work-box and began to mend the coat lining. she had not known that it was torn. she wondered how he would feel when he discovered that the precious letter was lost. would he blame barbara--or her? it would be too bad to have him lose the comfort those two sheets of paper had given him. miriam had seen him as he sat alone for hours in his own room, with the door ajar, caressing the written pages as though they were alive and answered him with love for love. she knew it was constance's letter to barbara, but she had lacked curiosity as to its contents until to-night. [sidenote: the plot] the letter to laurence austin was written on paper of the same size. there was still some of it, in constance's desk, in the living-room downstairs. suppose she should replace one letter with the other, and, if he ever read it, let him have it all out with barbara, who was trying to save him from knowledge that he should have had long ago. the coat slipped to the floor as miriam considered the plan. perhaps one of them would ask her what it was. in that case she would say, carelessly: "oh, a letter constance left for laurence austin. i did not think it best to deliver it, as it could do no good and might do a great deal of harm." she would have the courage for that, surely, but, if she failed at the critical moment, she could say, simply: "i do not know." she crept downstairs and returned with a sheet of constance's note-paper. neither she nor barbara had ever been obliged to use it, and it was far back in a corner of a deep drawer, together with north's check-book, which had been useless for so many years. as she had expected, it exactly matched the other sheet. she folded the two together, with the letter to laurence austin inside. north would not be disappointed, now, when he reached into his pocket and found no fond letter from his dead but still beloved constance. barbara could not change this, by rewriting into anything save a cry of passionate love. [sidenote: subtle revenge] miriam's whole being glowed with satisfaction. she thrilled with the pleasure of this subtle revenge upon constance, who was fully repaid, now, for writing as she had. _"i do not quite trust miriam. she loved your father and i took him away from her."_ she repeated the words in a whisper, and smiled to think of the deeply loving, passionate page to another man that had filled the place. let the fates do their worst now, for when he should read it---- [sidenote: the irony of fate] some way, miriam was very sure that his sight was to be restored to him. she perceived, now, the irony of his caressing the letter constance had written to barbara. how much more ironical it would be to see him, with that unearthly light upon his face, moving his hand across the page constance had written to laurence austin just before she died. miriam well knew that the other letters had come first and that constance's last word had been to the man she loved. the hours passed on, slowly. the mist that hung over the sea was faintly touched with dawn before miriam arose, and, taking the coat, went back to ambrose north's room. she paused outside the door, but all was still. she entered, quietly, and laid the coat on a chair. she started back to the door, but, before she touched the knob, the blind man stirred in his sleep. "constance," he said, drowsily, "is that you? have you come back, beloved? it has seemed so long." [sidenote: surging hatred] miriam set her lips grimly against the surging hatred for the dead that welled up within her. she went out hastily, and noiselessly closed the door. xvii "never again" barbara did not mind lying in bed, now that the heavy plaster cast was gone and she could move about with comparative freedom. every day, aunt miriam massaged her with fragrant oils, and she faithfully took the slight exercises she was bidden to take, even though she knew it was of no use. she was glad, now, that she had kept the crutches in sight, for they had steadily reminded her not to hope too much. [sidenote: bitterly disappointed] still, she was bitterly disappointed, though she thought she had not allowed herself to hope--that she had done it only because eloise wanted her to. perhaps the red-haired young man knew, and perhaps not--she was not so sure, now, that he had refrained from telling her through motives of kindness. but doctor conrad would know, instantly, and he and eloise would be very sorry. barbara wiped away her tears and compressed her lips tightly together. "i won't cry," she said to herself. "i won't, i won't, i won't." her father had gone to the city with the red-haired young man and the nurse. he had been gone more than a week, and barbara had received no news of him save a brief note from doctor conrad. he said that her father had been to a specialist of whom he had spoken to her, and that an operation had been decided upon. he would tell her all about it, he added, when he saw her. day by day, barbara lived over the last evening she and her father had spent together--all the fear and foreboding. she did not for a moment regret that she had taken his precious letter from him and destroyed it. she would face whatever she must, and as bravely as she might, but he should not be hurt in that manner--she had taken the one sure way to spare him that. [sidenote: a long farewell] when he came back, and realised to the full how steadily she had deceived him, he could love her no more. when he said good-bye to her the morning he went away, it had been good-bye in more ways than one. it was a long farewell to the love and confidence that had bound him to her; an eternal separation, in spirit, from the child he had loved. the tears came when she remembered how he had said good-bye to her. aunt miriam and the red-haired young man and the nurse had left them alone together for what might be the last time on earth, and was most surely the last time as regarded the old, sweet relation so soon to be severed--unless he came back blind, as he had gone. the old man had leaned over her and kissed her twice. "flower of the dusk," he had said, with surpassing tenderness, "when i come back, the dusk will change to dawn. if the darkness lifts i shall see you first, and so, for a little while, good-bye." he had gone downstairs quickly and lightly, as one who is glad to go. when she last saw him, he was walking ahead of the young doctor and the nurse, straight and eager and almost young again, sustained by the same boundless hope that had given barbara strength for her ordeal. [sidenote: dr. conrad comes again] it was almost two weeks before doctor conrad came down. he had been obliged, lately, to miss several sundays with eloise. when aunt miriam came and told barbara that he was downstairs, she felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment, not for herself, but for him. he had tried so hard and done so much, and to know that he had failed-- even in the face of her own bitter outlook, she could be sorry for him. but, when he came in, he did not seem to need anyone's sympathy. he was so magnificently young and strong, so full of splendid vitality. barbara's failing courage rose in answer to him and she smiled as she offered a frail little hand. "well, little girl," said doctor allan, sitting down on the bed beside her, "how goes it?" "tell me about father," begged barbara, ignoring the question. [sidenote: the main trouble] "father is doing very well," allan assured her. "he has recovered nicely from the operation and we have strong hope for the sight of one eye if not for both. i can almost promise you partial restoration, but, of course, it is impossible to tell definitely until later. his heart is very weak--that seems to be the main trouble now." barbara lay very still, with her eyes closed. "aren't you glad?" asked doctor allan, in surprise. "yes," answered barbara, with difficulty. "indeed, yes. i was just thinking." "a penny for your thoughts," he smiled. "are they going to take off the bandages there at the hospital?" "why, yes--of course." "they mustn't!" cried barbara, sitting up in bed. "or, if they have to, i must go there. doctor conrad, i must see my father before he regains his sight." "why?" asked allan. "don't cry, little girl--tell me." his voice was very soothing, and, as he spoke, he took hold of her fluttering hands. the strong clasp was friendly and reassuring. "because i've lied to him," sobbed barbara. "i've made him think we were rich instead of poor. he doesn't know that i've earned our living all these years by sewing, and that we've had to sell everything that anybody would buy--the pearls and laces and everything. he hates a lie and he'll despise me. it will break his heart. i'd rather tell him myself than to have him find it out." "little girl," said allan, in his deep, tender voice; "dear little girl. nobody on earth could blame you for doing that, least of all your father. if he's half the man i think he is, he'll only love you the more for doing it." barbara looked up at him, her deep blue eyes brimming with tears. "do you think," she asked, chokingly, "that he ever can forgive me?" [sidenote: a promise] allan laughed. "in a minute," he assured her. "of course he'll forgive you. but i'll promise you that you shall see him first. as far as that is concerned, i can take the bandages off myself, after he comes home." "can you really? and will you?" "surely. now don't fret about it any more. let's see how you're getting on." in an instant the man was pushed into the background and the great surgeon took his place. he went at his work with the precision and power of a perfect machine, guided by that unspoken sympathy which was his inestimable gift. he tested muscles and bones and turned the joint in its socket. barbara watched his face anxiously. his forehead was set in a frown and his eyes were keen, but the rest of his face was impassive. "sit up," he said. "now, turn this way. that's right--now stand up." barbara obeyed him, trembling. in a minute more he would know. "stand on this side only. now, can you walk?" "no," answered barbara, in a sad little whisper, "i can't." she reached for her faithful crutches, which leaned against the foot of the bed, but doctor allan snatched them away from her. "no," he said, with his face illumined. "never again." [sidenote: new hopes] barbara gasped. "what do you mean?" she asked, terror and joy strangely mingling in her voice. "never again," doctor allan repeated. "you're never to have your crutches again." barbara gazed at him in astonishment. she stood there in her little white night-gown, which was not long enough to cover her bare pink feet, with a great golden braid hanging over either shoulder and far below her waist. her blue eyes were very wide and dark. "am i going to walk?" she asked, in a queer little whisper. "certainly, except when you're riding, or sitting down, or asleep." "i can't believe it," she answered, with quivering lips. then she threw her arms around doctor allan's neck and kissed him with the sweet impulsiveness of a child. "thank you," he said, softly. "now we'll walk." [sidenote: walking again] he put his arm around her and barbara took a few stumbling steps. aunt miriam opened the door and came in. "look," cried barbara. "i'm walking." "so i see," replied miriam. "i heard the noise and came up to see what was the matter. i thought perhaps you wanted something." she retreated as swiftly as she had come. allan stared after her and seemed to be on the verge of saying something very much to the point, but fortunately held his peace. "you'll have to learn," he said, to barbara, with a new gentleness in his tone. "your balance is entirely different and these muscles and joints will have to learn to work. keep up the exercise and the massage. you can have a cane, if you like, but no crutches. is there someone who would help you for an hour or so every day?" "roger would," she said, "or aunt miriam." "better get roger--he'll be stronger. and also more willing," he thought, but he did not say so. "don't tire yourself, but walk a little every day, as you feel like it." when he went, he took the crutches with him. "you might be tempted," he explained, "if they were here, and your father's cane is all you really need. be a good girl and i'll come up again soon." * * * * * [sidenote: a great success] eloise was watching from the piazza of the hotel, and, when he came in sight, she went up the road to meet him. "oh, allan," she cried, breathlessly, as she saw the crutches. "is she----?" "she's all right. it's one of the most successful operations ever done in that line, even if i do say it as shouldn't." "of course," smiled eloise, looking up at him fondly. "i know _that_." they walked together down to the shore, followed by the deep and open interest of the rocking-chair brigade, marshalled twenty strong, on the hotel veranda. it was october and the children had all been taken back to school. the exquisite peace of the place was a thing to dream about and be spoken of only in reverent whispers. the tide was going out. allan hurled one of the crutches far out to sea. "they've worked faithfully and long," he said, "and they deserve a little jaunt to europe. here goes." he was about to throw the other, but eloise took it from him. "let me," she suggested. "i'd love to throw a crutch over to europe." she tried it, with the customary feminine awkwardness. it did not go beyond the shallow water, and speared itself, sharp end downward, in the soft sand. allan laughed uproariously and eloise coloured with shame. "never mind," she said, with affected carelessness, "you couldn't have made it stick up in the sand like that, and i think it'll get to europe just as soon as yours does, so there." they sat down on the beach, sheltered from prying eyes by a sand dune, and directly opposite the crutch, which wobbled with every wave that struck it. "think what it means," said eloise, "and think what it might mean. it might be part of a shipwreck, or someone who needed it very much might have dropped it accidentally out of a boat, or the one who had it might have died, after long suffering." "or," continued allan, "someone might have outgrown the need of it and thrown it away, as the tiny dwellers in the sea cast off their shells." [sidenote: thanks] eloise turned to him, with her deep eyes soft with luminous mist. "i haven't thanked you," she said, "for all you have done for my little girl." she lifted her sweet face to his. "if you're going to thank me like that," said allan, huskily, "i'll cut up the whole township and not even bother to save the pieces." "you needn't," laughed eloise, "but it was dear of you. you've never done anything half so lovely in all your life." "it was you who did it, dear. i was but the humble instrument in your hands." "was barbara glad?" "i think so. she kissed me, too, but not like that." "did she, really? the sweet, shy little thing. bless her heart." "i infer, miss wynne," remarked allan, in a judicial tone, "that you're not jealous." "jealous? i should say not. anybody who can get you away from me," she added, as an afterthought, "can have you with my blessing and a few hints as to your management." [sidenote: really glad] "safe offer," he commented. "are you really glad i've done what i have for barbara?" "oh, my dear! so glad!" "then," suggested allan, hopefully, "don't you think i should be thanked again?" * * * * * "i forgot to ask you about that dear old man," said eloise, after a little. "is he going to be all right, too?" "pretty much so, i think. we're very sure that he can see a little--he will not be totally blind. he will probably need glasses, but there will be plenty of time for that. his heart is the main trouble now. any sudden excitement or shock might easily prove fatal." "of course he won't have that." [sidenote: will it last?] "we'll hope not, but life itself is more or less exciting and you can never tell what's going to break loose next. i have long since ceased to be surprised at anything, except the fact that you love me. i can't get used to that." "you will, though," said eloise, a little sadly. "you'll get so used to it that you won't even look up when i come into the room--you'll keep right on reading your paper." "impossible." "that's what they all say, but it's so." "have all your previous husbands changed so quickly that you're afraid to try me?" "i've seen it so much," sighed eloise. a great light broke in upon allan. "is that why?" he demanded, putting his arm around her. "no, you needn't try to get away, for you can't. is that why i'm sentenced to all this infernal waiting?" eloise bit her lips and did not answer. "is it?" he asked, authoritatively. "a little," she whispered. "this is so sweet, and sometimes i'm afraid----" "darling! darling!" he said, drawing her closer. "you make me ashamed of my fellowmen when you say that. but do you want the year to stand still always at june?" "no," she answered. "i'm willing to grow with love, from all the promise of spring into the harvest and even into winter, as long as the sweetness is there. don't you understand, allan? who would wish for june when indian summer fills all the silences with shimmering amethystine haze? and who would give up a keen, crisp winter day, when the air sets the blood to tingling, for apple blossoms or even roses? it's not that--i only want the sweetness to stay." "please god, it shall," returned allan, solemnly. he was profoundly moved. [sidenote: bank of life] "it shouldn't be so hard to keep it," went on eloise, thoughtfully. "i've been thinking about it a good deal, lately. life will give us back whatever we put into it. in a way, it's just like a bank. put joy into the world and it will come back to you with compound interest, but you can't check out either money or happiness when you have made no deposits." "very true," he responded. "i never thought of it in just that way before." "if you put joy in, and love, unselfishness, and a little laughter, and perfect faith--i think they'll all come back, some day." a scarlet leaf from a maple danced along the beach, blown from some distant bough where the frost had set a flaming signal in the still september night. a yellow leaf from an elm swiftly caught it, and together they floated out to sea. [sidenote: when?] "sweetheart," said allan, "do you see? the leaves are beginning to fall and in a little while the trees will be bare. how long are you going to keep me waiting for wife and home?" "i--don't--know." "dear, can't you trust me?" "yes, always," she answered, quickly. "you know that." "then when?" "when all the colour is gone," she said, after a pause. "when the forest is desolate and the wind sighs through bare branches--when winter chills our hearts--then i will come to you, and for a little while bring back the spring." "truly, sweetheart?" "truly." "you'll never be sorry, dear." he took her into his arms and sealed her promise upon her lips. xviii the passing of fido [sidenote: alone in the office] fido had been in the office alone for almost three hours. the old man, who he knew was his master, and the young man, who was inclined to be impatient with him when he felt playful, had both gone out. the door was locked and there was nobody on the other side of it to answer a vigorous scratch or even a pleading whine. when people knocked, they went away again, almost immediately. the window-sills were too high for a little dog to reach, and there was no chair near. he walked restlessly around the office, stopping at intervals to sit down and thoughtfully contemplate his feet, which were much too large for the rest of him. he chased a fly that tickled his ear, but it eluded him, and now buzzed temptingly on a window-pane, out of his reach. it seemed that something serious must have happened, for fido had never been left alone so long before. if he had known that the old man was conversing pleasantly with some fellow-citizens at the grocery store, and that the young one had his arm around a laughing girl in white, trying to teach her to walk, he would have been very indignant indeed. several times, lately, fido had noticed, the young man had gone out shortly after the old one went to the post-office. it would be, usually, half a day later when his master returned with a letter or two, or often with none. the young man took pains to get back before the old one did, which was well, for there should always be someone in a lawyer's office to receive clients and keep dogs from being lonely. [sidenote: pangs of hunger] the pangs of a devastating hunger assailed fido, which was not strange, for it was long past the hour when the old man usually took a bulky parcel out of his desk, spread a newspaper upon the floor, and bade fido eat of cold potatoes, meat, and bread. there was, nearly always, a nice, juicy bone to beguile the tedium of the afternoon. fido and the old man seldom went home to supper before half past five, and fido would have been famished were it not for the comfort of the bone. he sniffed around the larger of the two desks. a tempting odour came from a drawer far above. he stood on his hind legs and reached up as far as he could, but the drawer was closed. so was every other drawer in the office, except one, and that was in the young man's desk. probably there was nothing in it for a hungry dog--there never had been. [sidenote: the little red box] still, it might be well to investigate. fido laboriously climbed up on the chair and put his paws upon the edge of the open drawer. there was nothing in it but papers and a small, square, red box with a rubber band around it. fido took the box in his mouth and jumped down. he pushed it with paws and nose over to his own particular corner, sniffing appreciatively meanwhile. it took much vigorous chewing to get the rubber band off and to make a hole in one corner of the box, out of which rolled a great number of small, cylindrical objects. they were not like anything fido had ever eaten before, but hungry little dogs must take what they can find. so he gulped them all down but one. this one refused to be swallowed and fido quickly repented of his rashness, for it was distinctly not good. he ate the rubber band and all but a little piece of the red box before the taste was quite gone out of his mouth. even then, a drink of fresh, cool water would have been very acceptable, but there was nobody to care whether a little dog died of thirst or not. the bluebottle fly buzzed loudly upon the window-pane, but fido no longer aspired to him. a vast weariness took the place of his former restlessness. he sat and blinked at his ill-assorted feet for some time, then dragged himself lazily toward his cushion in the corner. before he reached it, he was so very sleepy that he lay down upon the floor. in less than five minutes, he was off to the canine dreamland, one paw still caressingly laid over the fragments of the little red box. * * * * * [sidenote: the judge returns] when the judge came in, an hour later, he was much surprised to find the office locked and the cards of three valued clients on the floor under the door. there had been four, but fido had eaten the first one. two of them were marked with the hour of the call. it indicated, plainly, to a logical mind, that roger had left the office soon after he did, and had not returned. it was very strange. fido slumbered on, though hitherto the sound of his master's step would awaken him to noisy and affectionate demonstrations. the judge turned fido over with a friendly foot, but there was no answer save a wide yawn. he brought the parcel of bread and meat and opened it, leaving it on the floor close by. then he took a chicken bone and held it to the sleeper's nose, but fido turned away as though from an annoying fly. as the dog had never before failed to take immediate interest in a chicken bone, the judge was alarmed. he picked up the fragments of the little red box and wondered if anyone could have poisoned his pet. he brought fresh water, but fido, hitherto possessed of an unquenchable thirst, failed to respond. when roger came in, belated and breathless, he found his explanations coldly received. whether or not barbara north ever walked was evidently a matter of no particular concern to the judge. it was also of no immediate importance that clients had come and found the office empty, even though one of them, presumably, had intended to settle an account of long standing. the vital question was simply this: what was the matter with fido? roger did not know. though fido's disdain of food and drink might be abnormal, his position on the floor and his deep breathing were quite natural. [sidenote: an inquiry] then the fragments of the little red box were presented to roger, and inquiry made as to the contents. also, had roger tried to poison the judge's pet? roger had not. the box had contained a prescription for lumbago which doctor conrad had given his mother. it was in the drawer in his desk. he might possibly have left the drawer open--probably had, as the box was gone. the judge was deeply desirous of knowing why mrs. austin's lumbago cure should be kept in the office, within reach of unwary pets. after considerable hesitation, roger explained. the owner of fido was highly incensed. first, he condemned the entire procedure as "criminal carelessness," setting forth his argument in unparliamentary language. then, remembering that roger had not really loved fido, he brought forth an unworthy motive, and accused the hapless young man of murderous intent. [sidenote: the judge commands] roger would kindly borrow the miniature express waggon which was the prized possession of the postmaster's small son, place the cushion in it, with its precious burden, and convey fido, with all possible tenderness, to his other and larger cushion in the judge's own bedroom. he would take the cold chicken, too, please, for if fido ever wanted anything again in this world, it would probably be chicken. the judge would follow as soon as he had written to his clients and expressed his regret that his clerk's numerous social duties did not permit of his giving much time to his business. and, the judge added, as an afterthought, if fido should die, it would not be necessary for roger to return to the office. he wanted someone who could be trusted not to poison his dog while he was out. roger was too much disturbed to be conscious of the ludicrous aspect he presented to the public eye as he went down the main thoroughfare of riverdale, dragging the small cart which contained the slumbering fido and his cushion. he did not even hear the pointed comments made by the young of both sexes whom he encountered on his interminable walk, and forgot to thank the postmaster for the loan of the cart when he returned it, empty save for a fragment of cold chicken and a faint, doggy smell. [sidenote: on the beach] for obvious reasons, he could not go to the office and he did not like to take his disturbing mood to barbara. besides, his mother, who now had long wakeful periods in the daytime, might see him and ask unpleasant questions. he went down to the beach, yearning for solitude, and settled himself in the shelter of a sand dune to meditate upon the unhappy events of the day. he did not realise that the sand dune belonged to eloise, and that she was wont to sit there with doctor conrad, out of the wind, and safely screened from the argus-eyed rocking-chairs on the veranda. he was so preoccupied that he did not even hear the sound of their voices as they approached. turning the corner quickly, they almost stumbled over him. "upon my word," cried eloise. "sir knight of the dolorous countenance, what has gone wrong?" "nothing," answered roger, miserably. "anybody dead?" queried allan, lazily stretching himself upon the sand. "not yet, but somebody is dying." "who?" demanded eloise. "barbara, or your mother? who is it?" "fido," said roger hopelessly, staring out to sea. allan laughed, but eloise returned, kindly: "i didn't know you had a dog. i'm sorry." "he isn't mine," explained roger; "i only wish he were. if he had been," he added, viciously, "he'd have died a violent death long ago." [sidenote: miss wynne's plans] little by little, the whole story came out. allan kept his face straight with difficulty, but eloise was genuinely distressed. "don't worry," she said, sympathetically. "if fido dies and the judge won't take you back, i can probably find an opening for you in town. your office work will pay your expenses, so you can go to law school in the evenings and be ready for your examinations in the spring." "oh, miss wynne," cried roger. "how good you are! i don't wonder barbara calls you her fairy godmother." "barbara is coming to town to spend the winter with me," eloise went on, happily. "she's never had a good time and i'm going to give her one. as soon as she's strong enough, and can walk well, i'm going to take her, bag and baggage. it's all i'm waiting here for." in a twinkling, roger's despair was changed to something entirely different. "oh," he cried, "i do hope fido will die. do you think there is any chance?" he asked, eagerly, of allan. "i should think, from what you tell me," remarked allan, judicially, "that fido was nearly through with his earthly troubles. a dose of that size might easily keep any of us from worrying any longer about the price of meat and next month's rent." "mother won't like it," said roger, soberly. "she may not be willing for me to go." "she should be," returned allan, "as you've saved her life at the expense of fido's. when i go up to see barbara this afternoon, i'll stop in and tell her." [sidenote: unexpected call] miss mattie was awake, but yawning, when he knocked at her door. "there wasn't no call for you to come," she said, inhospitably; "the medicine ain't used up yet." "let me see the box, please." she shuffled off to the kitchen cupboard and brought it to him. there were half a dozen flour-filled capsules in it. allan observed that the druggist, in writing the directions on the cover, had failed to add the last two words. "idiot," he said, under his breath. "i wrote, 'take two every four hours until relieved.'" "i was relieved," explained miss mattie, "and i've had fine sleep ever since. it's wore off considerable in the last three days, though." allan then told her, in vivid and powerful language, how the druggist's error might have had very serious results, had it not been for roger's presence of mind in substituting the flour-filled capsules for the "searching medicine." he was surprised to find that miss mattie was ungrateful, and that she violently resented the imposition. [sidenote: notion of economy] "roger's just like his pa," she said, with the dull red rising in her cheeks. "he never had no notion of economy. when i'm takin' a dollar and twenty cents' worth of medicine, to keep it from bein' wasted, roger goes and puts flour into the covers of it, and feeds the expensive medicine to judge bascom's fido. he thinks more of that dog than he does of his sick mother." "my dear mrs. austin," said allan, solemnly, "have you not heard the news?" "what news?" she demanded, bristling. "little fido is dying. he took all the medicine and has been asleep ever since. by morning, he will be dead." miss mattie's jaw dropped. "would you mind tellin' me," she asked, suspiciously, "why you took it on yourself to give me medicine that would pizen a dog? i might have took it all at once, to save it. once i was minded to." "roger saved your life," said allan, endeavouring to make his tone serious. "and because of it, he is about to lose his position. the judge is so disturbed over fido's approaching dissolution that he has told roger never to come back any more. unless we can find him a place in town, he has sacrificed his whole future to save his mother's life." "where is roger?" "i left him down on the beach, with miss wynne. i suppose he is still there." "when you see him," commanded miss mattie, with some asperity, "will you kindly send him home? it's no time for him to be gallivantin' around with girls, when his mother's been so near death." "i will," allan assured her, reaching for his hat. "i hope you appreciate what he has done for you." [sidenote: the doctor laughs] when he went down the road, his shoulders were shaking suspiciously. miss mattie was watching him through the lace curtains that glorified the parlour windows. "seems as if he had st. vitus's dance," she mused. "wonder why he doesn't mix up some dog-pizen, and cure himself?" when he was sure that he was out of sight, allan sat down on a convenient boulder at the side of the road, and gave himself up to unrestrained mirth. the medicine which was about to prove fatal to fido would have caused only prolonged sleep if taken in small doses, at proper intervals, by an adult. "it's a wonder she didn't take 'em all at once," he thought. "and if she had--" he speculated, idly, upon the probable effect. his conscience pricked him slightly on account of the exaggeration in which he had mischievously indulged, but he told himself that roger would be far better off in the city and his mother's consent would make his going much less difficult. he also realised that if roger were there to amuse barbara, eloise might have more spare time than she would otherwise. he stopped long enough to give the druggist a bad quarter of an hour, and then went back to the beach. eloise and roger were where he had left them, and the boy's gloom was entirely gone. "your mother wants you," he said, as he sat down on the other side of eloise. "all right--i'll go right up. how did she take it?" "very well. just remember that you've saved her life, and you'll have no trouble." [sidenote: light-hearted] when roger went up the street, he was whistling, from sheer light-heartedness. eloise had made so many plans for his future that he saw fame and fortune already within his reach. when he knocked, never having been allowed the freedom of a latch key, he noted that all the blinds in the house were closed and wondered whether his mother had gone to sleep again. after a suitable interval, she opened the door, clad in her best black silk, and portentously solemn. "why, mother, what's the matter?" "come in," she whispered. "doctor conrad has just been tellin' me how near i come to death. oh, my son," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck, "you have saved my life." [sidenote: two greetings] it seemed to roger like a paragraph torn from _the metropolitan weekly_, but he patted her back soothingly as she clung to him. maternal outbursts of this sort were extremely rare. he remembered only one other greeting like this--the day he had been swimming in the river with three other small boys and had been brought home in a blanket, half drowned. "i suppose i shouldn't regret takin' dog-pizen, if it cured my back and give me the sleep i needed, but it was a dreadful narrow escape. and your takin' the medicine away from me and feedin' it to fido was certainly clever, roger. every day you remind me more and more of your pa." "thank you," answered roger. he was struggling with various emotions and found speech almost impossible. "it's no more'n right," she resumed, "that, after having pizened fido and lost you your place, that doctor conrad should stir himself around and get you a better place in the city, but i do hate to have you go, roger. it'll be dreadful lonesome for me." "cheer up, mother; i haven't gone yet. the dog may get well." miss mattie shook her head sadly. "no, he won't," she sighed. "i took enough of that medicine to know how powerful it is, and fido ain't got no chance. to-morrow i'll look over your things." an atmosphere of solemnity pervaded the house, and the evening was spent very quietly. miss mattie read her bible, as on sunday evenings when she did not go to church, and sternly refused to open _the housewife's companion_, which lay temptingly near her. [sidenote: nightmare] she went to bed early, and roger soon followed her, having strangely lost his desire to read, and not daring to go to see barbara more than once a day. his night was made hideous by visions of himself drawing the cart containing the slumbering fido into the church where eloise and doctor conrad were being married, while judge bascom at the house, was conducting miss mattie's funeral. in the morning, after breakfast, roger seriously debated whether or not he should go down to the office. at last he tossed up a coin and muttered a faint imprecation as he picked it up. with his hat firmly on and his hands in his pockets, roger fared forth, whistling determinedly. he did not want to go to the office, and he dreaded, exceedingly, his next meeting with the irascible judge. as it happened, it was not necessary for him to go, for, at the corner of the street which led to the judge's house, he met the postmaster's small son, laboriously dragging the fateful cart of yesterday. in it were all of roger's books and other belongings, including an umbrella which he had loaned to the judge on a rainy night and expected never to see again. [sidenote: a brief message] the message was brief and very much to the point. fido had died painlessly at four o'clock that morning. xix the dreams come true [sidenote: gaining strength] the hours roger had taken from his work in the office had brought nothing but good to barbara. she gained strength rapidly after she began to walk, and was soon able to dispense with the cane, though she could not walk easily, nor far. she tired quickly and was forced to rest often, but she went about the house slowly and even up and down the stairs. aunt miriam made no comment of any sort. she did not say she was glad barbara was well after twenty-two years of helplessness, even though she had taken entire care of her, and must have felt greatly relieved when the burden was lifted. she went about her work as quietly as ever, and fulfilled all her household duties with mechanical precision. spicy odours were wafted through the rooms, for eloise had ordered enough jelly, sweet pickles, and preserves to supply a large family for two or three years. she had also bought quilts and rag rugs for all of her old-lady friends and taken the entire stock of candied orange peel for the afternoon teas which she expected to give during the winter. barbara was hard at work upon the dainty lingerie eloise had planned, and found, by a curious anomaly, that when she did not work so hard, she was able to accomplish more. the needle flew more swiftly when her fingers did not ache and the stitches blur indistinguishably with the fibre of the fabric. when roger was not there to help her, she divided her day, by the clock, into hours of work and quarter-hours of exercise and rest. she had been out of the gate twice, with roger, and had walked up and down the road in front of the house, but, as yet, she had not gone beyond the little garden alone. [sidenote: one dark cloud] upon the fair horizon of the future was one dark cloud of dread which even doctor conrad's positive assurance had mitigated only for a little time. barbara knew her father and his stern, uncompromising righteousness. when the bandages were taken off and he saw the faded walls and dingy furniture, the worn rugs, and the pitiful remnant of damask at his place at the table; when he realised that his daughter had deceived him ever since she could talk at all, he must inevitably despise her, even though he tried to hide it. dimly, barbara began to perceive the intangible price that is attached to the things of the spirit as well as to the material necessities of daily life. she was forced to surrender his love for her as the compensation for his sight, yet she was firmly resolved to keep, for him, the love that refused to reckon with the barrier of a grave, but triumphantly went past it to clasp the dead beloved closer still. [sidenote: a vague dream] of late, she had been thinking much of her mother. until roger had found his father's letter, and she had received her own, upon her twenty-second birthday, she had felt no sense of loss. constance had been a vague dream to her and little more, in spite of her father's grieving and her instinctive sympathy. with the letters, however, had come a change. barbara felt a certain shadowy relationship and an indefinite bereavement. she wondered how her mother had looked, what she had worn, and even how she had dressed her hair. since her father had gone to the hospital, she had wondered more than ever, but got no satisfaction when she had once asked aunt miriam. she finished the garment upon which she was working, threaded the narrow white ribbon into it, folded it in tissue paper and put it into the chest. it was the last of the second set and eloise had ordered six. "four more to do," thought barbara. "i wonder whether she wants them all alike." the afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen, and it was saturday. it was hardly worth while to begin a new piece of work before monday morning, especially since she wanted to ask eloise about a new pattern. doctor conrad was coming down for the weekend, and probably both of them would be there late in the afternoon, or on sunday. "how glad he'll be," said barbara, to herself. "he'll be surprised when he sees how well i can walk. and father--oh, if father could only come too." she was eager, in spite of her dread. [sidenote: in the attic] simply for the sake of exercise, barbara climbed the attic stairs and came down again. after she had rested, she tried it once more, but was so faint when she reached the top that she went into the attic and sat down in an old broken rocker. it was the only place in the house where she had not been since she could walk, and she rather enjoyed the novelty of it. a decrepit sofa, with the springs hanging from under it, was against the wall at one side, far back under the eaves. it was of solid mahogany and had not been bought by the searchers for antiques because its rehabilitation would be so expensive. that and the rocker in which barbara sat were the only pieces of furniture remaining. there were several trunks, old-fashioned but little worn. one was aunt miriam's, one was her father's, and the others must have belonged to her dead mother. for the first time in her life, barbara was curious about the trunks. [sidenote: the old trunk] when she was quite rested, she went over to a small one which stood near the window, and opened it. a faint, musty odour greeted her, but there was no disconcerting flight of moths. every woollen garment in the house had long ago been used by aunt miriam for rugs and braided mats. she had taken constance's underwear for her own use when misfortune overtook them, and there was little else left. barbara lifted from the trunk a gown of heavy white brocade, figured with violets in lavender and palest green. it was yellow and faded and the silver thread that ran through the pattern was tarnished so that it was almost black. the skirt had a long train and around the low-cut bodice was a deep fall of heavy duchess lace, yellowed to the exquisite tint of old ivory. the short sleeves were trimmed with lace of the same pattern, but only half as wide. "oh," said barbara, aloud, "how lovely!" there was a petticoat of rustling silk, and a pair of dainty white slippers, yellowed, too, by the slow passage of the years. their silver buckles were tarnished, but their high heels were as coquettish as ever. "what a little foot," thought barbara. "i believe it was smaller than mine." she took off her low shoe, and, like cinderella, tried on the slipper. she was much surprised to find that it fitted, though the high heels felt queer. her own shoe was more comfortable, and so she changed again, though she had quite made up her mind to wear the slippers sometime. [sidenote: treasured finery] in the trunk, too, she found a white bonnet that she tried on, but without satisfaction, as there was no mirror in the attic. this one trunk evidently contained the finery for which miriam had not been able to find use. one by one, barbara took out the garments, which were all of silk or linen--there was nothing there for the moths. the long bridal veil of rose point, that barbara had sternly refused to sell, was yellow, too, but none the less lovely. there was a gold scent-bottle set with discoloured pearls, an amethyst brooch which no one would buy because it had three small gold tassels hanging from it, and a lace fan with tortoise-shell sticks, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. a thrifty woman at the hotel had once offered two dollars for the fan, but barbara had kept it, as she was sure it was worth more. down in the bottom of the trunk was an inlaid box that she did not remember having seen before. she slid back the cover and found a lace handkerchief, a broken cuff-button, a gold locket enamelled with black, a long fan-chain of gold, set with amethysts, a small gold-framed mirror evidently meant to be carried in a purse or hand-bag, a high shell comb inlaid with gold and set with amethysts, and ten of the dozen large, heavy gold hairpins which ambrose north, in an extravagant mood, had ordered made for the shining golden braids of his girl-wife. [sidenote: a photograph] on the bottom of the box, face down, was a photograph. barbara took it out, wonderingly, and started in amazement as her own face looked back at her. on the back was written, in the same clear hand as the letter: "for my son, or daughter. constance north." below was the date--just a month before barbara was born. the heavy hair, in the picture, was braided and wound around the shapely head. the high comb, the same that barbara had just taken out of the box, added a finishing touch. around the slender neck and fair, smooth shoulders fell the duchess lace that trimmed the brocade gown. the amethyst brooch, with two of the three tassels plainly showing, was pinned into the lace on the left side, half-way to the shoulder. but it was the face that interested barbara most, as it was the counterpart of her own. there was the same broad, low forehead, the large, deep eyes with long lashes, the straight little nose, and the tender, girlish mouth with its short upper lip, and the same firm, round, dimpled chin. even the expression was almost the same, but in constance's deep eyes was a certain wistfulness that the faint smile of her mouth could not wholly deny. the woman who looked back at her daughter seemed strangely youthful. barbara felt, in a way, as though she were the mother and constance the child, for she was older, now, than her mother had been when she died. the years of helplessness and struggle had aged barbara, too. [sidenote: a sweet face] the slanting sunbeams of late afternoon came into the attic, but barbara still studied the sweet face of the picture. constance was made for love, and love had come when it was too late. what tenderness she was capable of; what toilsome journeys she would undertake without fear, if her heart bade her go! and what courage must have nerved her dimpled hands when she opened the grey, mysterious door of the unknown! there was no hint of weakness in the face, but constance had died rather than to take the chance of betraying the man who held her pledge. barbara's young soul answered in passionate loyalty to the wistfulness, the hunger, and the unspoken appeal. "he shall never know, mother, dear," she said aloud. "i promise you that he shall never know." [sidenote: like her mother] the shadows grew longer, and, at length, barbara put the picture down. if she had on the gown, and twisted her braids around her head, she would look like her mother even more than now. she had a fancy to try it--to go downstairs and see what aunt miriam would say when she came in. her eyes sparkled with delight when she drew on the long white stockings of finest silk and put on the white slippers with the tarnished silver buckles. the gown was too long and a little too loose, but barbara rejoiced in the faded brocade and in the rustle of the silk petticoat that cracked in several places when she put it on, the fabric was so frail. the ivory-tinted lace set off her shoulders beautifully, but she could only guess at the effect from the brief glimpses the tiny mirror gave her. she put on the amethyst brooch, hung the fan upon its chain and put it around her neck. then she wound her braids around her head and fastened them securely with the gold hairpins. with the aid of the small-gold mirror, she put the comb in place, and loosened the soft hair on either side, so that it covered the tops of her ears. she walked back and forth a few times, the full length of the attic, looking back to admire the sweep of her train. then she sat down upon the decrepit sofa, trying to fancy herself a stately lady of long ago. the room was very still, and, without knowing it, barbara had wearied herself with her unaccustomed exertion. her white woollen gown and soft low shoes lay in a little heap on the floor near the window. she must not forget to take them when she went down to look in the mirror. presently, she stretched herself out upon the sofa, wondering, drowsily, whether her mother would have lain down to rest in that splendid brocade. she did not intend to sleep, but only to rest a little before going downstairs to surprise aunt miriam. nevertheless, in a few minutes she was fast asleep and dreaming. * * * * * [sidenote: the home-coming] eloise went down to the three o'clock train to meet allan, and was much surprised when ambrose north came, too. his eyes were bandaged, but otherwise he seemed as well as ever. they offered to go home with him, but he refused, saying that he could go alone as well as he ever had. they strolled after him, however, keeping at a respectful distance, until they saw him enter the grey, weather-worn gate; then they turned back. "is he all right, allan?" asked eloise, anxiously. "i hope so--indeed, i'm very sure he is. the operation turned out to be an extremely simple one, though it wasn't even dreamed of twenty years ago. barbara's case was simple too,--it's all in the knowing how. she has made one of the quickest recoveries on record, owing to the fact that her body is almost that of a child. when you come down to the root of the matter, surgery is merely the job of a skilled mechanic." "but you'd be angry if anyone else said that." "of course." "when do the bandages come off?" [sidenote: a case of conscience] "i'm going up to-morrow. they'd have been off over a week ago, but barbara insisted that she must see him first and ask him to forgive her for deceiving him. she thinks she's a criminal." "dear little saint," said eloise, softly. "i wish none of us ever did anything more wicked than that." "so do i, but there is an active remnant of a new-england conscience somewhere in barbara. i'm not sure that the old man hasn't it, too." "do you suppose, for a moment, that he won't forgive her?" "if he doesn't," returned allan, concisely, "i'll break his ungrateful old neck. i hope she won't stir him up very much, though--he's got a bad heart." [sidenote: miriam's welcome] still, the old man showed no sign of weakness as he went briskly up the walk and knocked at his own door. when miriam opened it, astonishment made her welcome almost inarticulate, for she had not expected him home so soon. he gave her the small black satchel that he carried, his coat and hat. "how is barbara?" he asked, eagerly. "how is my little girl?" "well enough," answered miriam. "is she asleep?" miriam went to the stairs and called out: "barbara! oh, barbara!" there was no answer. she started upstairs, but he called her back. "don't wake her," he said. "perhaps i can take her supper up to her." "suit yourself," responded miriam, shortly. she did not see fit to tell him that barbara was up and could walk. doctor conrad could have told him, if he had wanted to--at any rate, it was not miriam's affair. she bitterly resented the fact that he had not even shaken hands with her when he came home, after his long absence. she hung up his coat and hat, lighted the fire, as the room was cool, went out into the kitchen, and closed the door. the familiar atmosphere and the comfortable chair in which he sat brought him that peculiar peace of home which is one of the greatest gifts travel can bestow. even the ticking of the clock came to his senses gratefully. home at last, after all the pain, the dreary nights and days of acute loneliness, and only one more day to wait--perhaps. "to see again," he thought. "i am glad i came home first. to-morrow, if god is good to me, i shall see my baby--and the letter. i have dreamed so often that she could walk and i could see!" he took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and spread them out upon his knee. he moved his hands lovingly across the pages--the one written upon, the other blank. "she died loving me," he said to himself. "to-morrow i shall see it, in her own hand." [sidenote: why not to-day] sunset flamed behind the hills and brought into the little room faint threads of gold and amethyst that wove a luminous tapestry with the dusk. the clock ticked steadily, and with every cheery tick brought nearer that dear to-morrow of which he had dreamed so long. he speculated upon the difference made by the slow passage of a few hours. to-morrow, at this time, his bandages would be off--then why not to-day? the letter fell to the floor and he picked it up, one sheet at a time, fretfully. the bandage around his temples and the gauze and cotton held firmly against his eyes all at once grew intolerable. it was the last few miles to the weary traveller, the last hour that lay between the lover and his beloved, the darkness before the dawn. he had been very patient, but at last had come to the end. [sidenote: he opens his eyes] if only the bandages were off! "if they were," he thought, "i need not open my eyes--i could keep them closed until to-morrow." he raised his hands and worked carefully at the surgical knots until the outer strip was loosened. he wound it slowly off, then cautiously removed the layers of cotton and gauze. he breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned back in his chair, with his eyes closed, determined to keep faith with the physicians, and, above all, with doctor conrad, who had been so very kind. there was no pain at all--only weakness. if the room were absolutely dark, perhaps he might open his eyes for a moment or two. why should to-morrow be so different from to-day? the letter was in his hands--that dear letter which said, "i have loved him, i love him still, and have never loved him more than i do to-day." the temptation worked subtly in his mind as strong wine might in his blood. perhaps, after all, he could not see--the doctors had not given him a positive promise. the fear made him faint, then surging hope and infinite longing merged into perfect belief--and trust. unable to endure the strain of waiting longer, he opened his eyes, and as swiftly closed them again. "i can see," he whispered, shrilly. "oh, i can see!" the blood beat hard in his pulses. he waited, wisely, until he was calm, then opened his eyes once more. the room was not dark, but was filled with the soft, golden glow of sunset--a light that illumined and, strangely, brought no pain. objects long unfamiliar save by touch loomed large and dark before him. remembered colours came back, mellowed by the half-light. distances readjusted themselves and perspectives appeared in the transparent mist that seemed to veil everything. he closed his eyes, and said, aloud: "i can see! oh, i can see!" [sidenote: reading the letter] little by little the mist disappeared and objects became clear. the velvety softness of the last light lay kindly upon the dingy room. when he tried to read the letter the words danced on the page. trembling, he rose and took it over to the window, where the light was stronger. as he stood there, with his back to the door, miriam, unheard, came into the room. the bandages on the floor, the eagerness in every line of his body as he stood at the window, and the letter in his hand, gave her, in a single instant, all the information she needed. her heart beat high with wild hope--the hour of her vengeance had come at last. she feared he would not be able to read it. then she remembered the yellowed page on which the writing stood out as clearly as though it had been large print. if he could see at all, he could see that. little by little, sustained and supported by his immeasurable longing, the man at the window spelled out the words, in an eager whisper: "you who have loved me since the beginning of time--will understand and forgive me--for what i do to-day. i do it because i am not strong enough--to go on--and do my duty--by those who need me." miriam nodded with satisfaction. at last he knew why constance had taken her own life. "if there should be--meeting--past the grave--some day you and i--shall come together again--with no barrier between us." he put his hand to his forehead as though he did not quite understand, but hurried on to the next sentence, for his eyes were failing under the strain. "i take with me--the knowledge of your love--which has strengthened--and sustained me--since the day--we first met--and must make--even a grave--warm and sweet." [sidenote: radiance of soul] the light in the room seemed to miriam to be not wholly of the golden sunset. some radiance of soul must have made that clear soft light which veiled but did not hide. it was sunset, and yet the light was that of a summer afternoon. "and remember this--dead though i am--i love you still--you--and my little lame baby--who needs me so--and whom--i must leave--because i am not strong--enough to stay. through life--and in death--and eternally yours--constance." there was a tense, unbearable silence. miriam moistened her parched lips and chafed her cold hands. "at last," she thought. "at last." [sidenote: the assurance] "she died loving me," said ambrose north, in a shrill whisper. his eyes were closed again, for the strain had hurt--terribly. dimly, he remembered the other letter. this was not the same, but the other had been to barbara, and not to him. he did not stop to wonder how it came to be in his pocket. it sufficed that some angel of god, working through devious ways and long years, had given him at last, face to face, the assurance he had hungered for since the day constance died. in a blinding instant, miriam remembered that no names had been mentioned in the letter. he had made a mistake--but she could set him right. constance should not triumph again, even in an hour like this. ambrose north turned back into the shadow, fearing to face the window. the woman cowering in the corner advanced steadily to meet him. he saw her, vaguely, when his eyes became accustomed to the change of lights. "miriam!" he cried, transfigured by joy. "she died loving me! i have it here. it was only because she was not strong--she was ill, and she never let us know." he held forth the letter with a shaking hand. "she--" began miriam. "she died loving me!" he cried. "oh, miriam, can you not see? i have it here." his voice rang through the house like some far silver bugle chanting triumph over a field of the slain. "she died loving me!" * * * * * [sidenote: triumphant cry] barbara had already wakened and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. the attic was almost dark. she went downstairs hurriedly, forgetting her borrowed finery until her long train caught on a projecting splinter and had to be loosened. when she reached her own door she started toward her mirror, anxious to see how she looked, but that triumphant cry from the room below made her heart stand still. white as death and strangely fearful, she went down and into the living-room, where the last light deepened the shadows and lay lovingly upon her father's illumined face. barbara smiled and went toward him, with her hands outstretched in welcome. miriam shrank back into the farthest shadows, shaking as though she had seen a ghost. there was an instant's tense silence. all the forces of life and love seemed suddenly to have concentrated into the space of a single heart-beat. then the old man spoke. "constance," he said, unsteadily, "have you come back, beloved? it has been so long!" radiant with beauty no woman had ever worn before, barbara went to him, still smiling, and the old man's arms closed hungrily about her. "i dreamed you were dead," he sobbed, "but i knew you died loving me. where is our baby, constance? where is my flower of the dusk?" [sidenote: burden of joy] even as he spoke, the overburdened heart failed beneath its burden of joy. he staggered and would have fallen, had not miriam caught him in her strong arms. together, they helped him to the couch, where he lay down, breathing with great difficulty. "constance, darling," he gasped, feebly, "where is our baby? i want barbara." for the sake of the dead and the living, barbara supremely put self aside. "i do not know," she whispered, "just where barbara is. am i not enough?" "enough for earth," he breathed in answer, "and--for--heaven--too. kiss me--constance--just once--dear--before----" [sidenote: the passing] barbara bent down. he lifted his shaking hands caressingly to the splendid crown of golden hair, the smooth, fair cheeks, the perfect neck and shoulders, and died, enraptured, with her kiss upon his lips. xx pardon [sidenote: the burial service] crushed and almost broken-hearted, barbara sat in the dining-room. the air was heavy with the overpowering scent of tuberoses. from the room beyond came the solemn words of the burial service: "i am the resurrection and the life. he that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." the words beat unbearably upon her ears. the walls of the room moved as though they were of fabric, stirred by winds of hell. the floor undulated beneath her feet and black mists blinded her. her hands were so cold that she scarcely felt the friendly, human touch on either side of her chair. roger held one of her cold little hands in both his own, yearning to share her grief, to divide it in some way; even to bear it for her. on the other side was doctor conrad, profoundly moved. his science had not yet obliterated his human instincts and he was neither ashamed of the mist in his eyes nor of the painful throbbing of his heart. his fingers were upon barbara's pulse, where the lifetide moved so slowly that he could barely feel it. on the other side of the room, alien and apart, as always, sat miriam. she wore her best black gown, but her face was inscrutable. perhaps the lines were more sharply cut, perhaps the rough, red hands moved more nervously than usual, and perhaps the deep-set black eyes burned more fiercely, but no one noticed--or cared. [sidenote: the minister] the deep voice in the room beyond was vibrant with tenderness. the man who stood near ambrose north as he lay in his last sleep had been summoned from town by eloise. he did not make the occasion an excuse for presenting his own particular doctrine, bolstered up by argument, nor did he bid his hearers rejoice and be glad. he admitted, at the beginning, that sorrow lay heavily upon the hearts of those who loved ambrose north and did not say that god was chastening them for their own good. he spoke of life as the rainbow that brilliantly spans two mysterious silences, one of which is dawn and the other sunset. this flaming arc must end, as it begins, in pain, but, past the silence, and, perhaps, in even greater mystery, the circle must somewhere become complete and round back to a new birth. could not the god who ordained the beginning be safely trusted with the end? forgetting the grey mists of dawn in which the rainbow began, should we deny the inevitable night when the arc bends down at the other end of the world? having seen so much of the perfect curve, could we not believe in the circle? and should we not remember that the rainbow itself was a signal and a promise that there should be no more sea? even so, was not this mortal life of ours, tempered as it is by sorrow and tears, a further promise that, when the circle was completed, there should be no more death? [sidenote: god's love] the deep voice went on, even more tenderly, to speak of god; not of his power, but of his purpose, not of his justice, but his forgiveness, not of his vengeance, but of his love. a love so vast and far-reaching that there is no place where it is not; it enfolds not only our little world, poised in infinite space like a mote in a sunbeam, but all the shining, rolling worlds beyond. every star that rises within our sight and all the million stars beyond, in misty distances so great as to be incomprehensible, are guided and surrounded by this same love. it is impossible to conceive of a place where it is not--even in the midst of pain, poverty, suffering, and death, god's love is there also. the minister pleaded with those who listened to him to lean wholly upon this all-sustaining, all-forgiving love; to believe that it sheltered both the living and the dead, and to trust, simply, as a little child. [sidenote: at the close of the service] in the stillness that followed, eloise went to the piano. the worn strings answered softly as her fingers touched the keys. in her full, low contralto she sang, to an exquisite melody: "when i am dead, my dearest, sing no sad songs for me; plant thou no roses at my head, nor shady cypress tree; be the green grass above me with showers and dewdrops wet; and if thou wilt, remember, and if thou wilt, forget. "i shall not see the shadows, i shall not feel the rain; i shall not hear the nightingale sing on, as if in pain: and dreaming through the twilight that doth not rise nor set, haply i may remember, and haply may forget." the deep, manly voice followed with a benediction, then the little group of neighbours and friends went out with hushed and reverent step, into the golden autumn afternoon. miriam came in, to all outward appearance wholly unmoved. she stood by him for a moment, then turned away. eloise closed the door and roger and allan brought barbara in. she bent down to her father, who lay so quietly, with a smile of heavenly peace upon his lips, and her tears rained upon his face. "good-bye, dear daddy," she sobbed. "it is barbara who kisses you now." * * * * * when ambrose north went out of his door for the last time, on his way to rest beside his beloved constance until god should summon them both, roger stayed behind, with barbara. doctor conrad had said, positively, that she must not go, and, as always, she obeyed. the boy's heart was too full for words. he still kept her cold little hand in his. "there isn't anything i can say or do, is there, barbara, dear?" [sidenote: the pity of it] "no," she sobbed. "that is the pity of it. there is never anything to be said or done." "i wish i could take it from you and bear it for you," he said, simply. "some way, we seem to belong together, you and i." they sat in silence until the others came back. eloise came straight to barbara and put her strong young arms around the frail, bent little figure. "will you come with me, dear?" she asked. "we can get a carriage easily and i'd love to have you with me. will you come?" for a moment, barbara hesitated. "no," she said, "i must stay here. i've got to live right on here, and i might as well begin to-night." allan took from his pocket several small, round white tablets, and gave them to barbara. "two just before going to bed," he said. "and if you're the same brave girl that you've been ever since i've known you, you'll have your bearings again in a short time." [sidenote: by the open fire] roger stayed to supper, but none of them made more than a pretence of eating. the odour of tuberoses still pervaded the house and brought, inevitably, the thought of death. afterward, barbara sat by the open fire with one hand lying listlessly in roger's warm, understanding clasp. in the kitchen, miriam vigorously washed the few dishes. she had put away the fine china, the solid silver knife and fork, the remnant of table damask, and the satsuma cup. "shall i read to you, barbara?" asked roger. "no," she answered, wearily. "i couldn't listen to-night." the hours dragged on. miriam sat in the dining-room alone, by the light of one candle, remorsefully, after many years, face to face with herself. she wondered what constance would do to her now, when she went to bed and fearfully closed her eyes. she determined to cheat constance by sitting up all night, and then realised that by doing so she would only postpone the inevitable reckoning. miriam felt that a reckoning was due somewhere, on earth, or in heaven, or in hell. mysterious balances must be made before things were right, and her endeavours to get what she had conceived to be her own just due had all failed. she wondered why. constance had wronged her and she was entitled to pay constance back in her own coin. but the opportunity had been taken out of her hands, every time. even at the last, her subtle revenge had been transmuted into further glory for constance. why? the answer flashed upon her like words of fire--"_vengeance is mine; i will repay._" then, suddenly, from some unknown source, the need of confession came pitilessly upon her soul. her lined face blanched in the candle-light and her worn, nervous hands clutched fearfully at the arm of her chair. [sidenote: the still small voice] "confess," she repeated to herself scornfully as though in answer to some imperative summons. "to whom?" there was no answer, but, in her heart, miriam knew. only one of the blood was left and to that one, if possible, payment must be made. and if anything was due her, either from the dead or the living, it must come to her through barbara. miriam laughed shrilly and then bit her lips, thinking the others might hear. roger heard--and wondered--but said nothing. after he went home, barbara still sat by the fire, in that surcease which comes when one is unable to sustain grief longer and it steps aside, to wait a little, before taking a fresh hold. she could wonder now about the letter, in her mother's writing, that she had picked up from the floor, and which her father had found, and very possibly read. she hesitated to ask miriam anything concerning either her father or her mother. [sidenote: miriam's confession] but, while she sat there, miriam came into the room, urged by goading impulses without number and one insupportable need. she stood near barbara for several minutes without speaking; then she began, huskily, "barbara----" the girl turned, wearily. "yes?" "i've got something to say and i don't know but what to-night is as good a time as any. neither of us are likely to sleep much." barbara did not answer. "i hated your mother," said miriam, passionately. "i always hated her." "i guessed that," answered barbara, with a sigh. "your father was in love with me when she came from school, with her doll-face and pretty ways. she took him away from me. he never looked at me after he saw her. i had to stand by and see it, help her with her pretty clothes, and even be maid of honour at the wedding. it was hard, but i did it. "she loved him, in a way, but it wasn't much of a way. she liked the fine clothes and the trinkets he gave her, but, after he went blind, she could hardly tolerate him. lots of times, she would have been downright cruel to him if i hadn't made her do differently. "the first time they came here for the summer, she met laurence austin, roger's father, and it was love at first sight on both sides. they used to see each other every day either here or out somewhere. after you were born, the first place she went was down to the shore to meet him. i know, for i followed. "when your father asked where she was, i lied to him, not only then, but many times. i wasn't screening her--i was shielding him. it went on for over a year, then she took the laudanum. she left four notes--one to me, one to your father, one to you, and one to laurence austin. i never delivered that, even though she haunted me almost every night for five years. after he died, she still haunted me, but it was less often, and different. "when you sent me into your father's room after that letter he had in his pocket, i took time to read it. she said, there, that she didn't trust me, and that i had always loved your father. it was true enough, but i didn't know she knew it. "after you took the letter out, i put in the one to laurence austin. i'd opened it and read it some little time back. i thought it was time he knew her as she was, and i never thought about no name being mentioned in it. "when he tore off the bandages, he read that letter, and never knew that it wasn't meant for him. then, when you came in in that old dress of your mother's, he thought it was her come back to him, and never knew any different." there was a long pause. "well?" said barbara, wearily. it did not seem as if anything mattered. "i just want you to know that i've hated your mother all my life, ever since she came home from school. i've hated you because you look like her. i've hated your father because he talked so of her all the time, and hated myself for loving him. i've hated everybody, but i've done my duty, as far as i know. i've scrubbed and slaved and taken care of you and your father, and done the best i could. "when i put that letter into his pocket, i intended for him to know that constance was in love with another man. i'd have read it to him long ago if i'd had any idea he'd believe me. when he thought it was for him, i was just on the verge of telling him different when you came in and stopped me. you looked so much like your mother i thought constance had taken to walking down here daytimes instead of back and forth in my room at night. "i suppose," miriam went on, in a strange tone, "that i've killed him--that there's murder on my hands as well as hate in my heart. i suppose you'll want to make some different arrangements now--you won't want to go on living with me after i've killed your father." [sidenote: a wonderful joy] "aunt miriam," said barbara, calmly, "i've known for a long time almost everything you've told me, but i didn't know how father got the letter. i thought he must have found it somewhere in the desk or in his own room, or even in the attic. you didn't kill him any more than i did, by coming into the room in mother's gown. what he really died of was a great, wonderful joy that suddenly broke a heart too weak to hold it. and, even though i've wanted my father to see me, all my life long, i'd rather have had it as it was, and he would, too. i'm sure of that. "he told me once the three things he most wanted to see in the world were mother's letter, saying that she loved him, then mother herself, and, last of all, me. and for a long time his dearest dream has been that i could walk and he could see. so when, in the space of five or ten minutes, all the dreams came true, his heart failed." "but," miriam persisted, "i meant to do him harm." her burning eyes were keenly fixed upon barbara's face. "sometimes," answered the girl, gently, "i think that right must come from trying to do wrong, to make up for the countless times wrong comes from trying to do right. father could not have had greater joy, even in heaven, than you and i gave him at the last, neither of us meaning to do it." [sidenote: human sympathy and love] the stern barrier that had reared itself between miriam and her kind suddenly crumbled and fell. warm tides of human sympathy and love came into her numb heart and ice-bound soul. the lines in her face relaxed, her hands ceased to tremble, and her burning eyes softened with the mist of tears. her mouth quivered as she said words she had not even dreamed of saying for more than a quarter of a century: "will you--can you--forgive me?" all that she needed from the dead and all they could have given her came generously from barbara. she sprang to her feet and threw her arms around miriam's neck. "oh, aunty! aunty!" she cried, "indeed i do, not only for myself, but for father and mother, too. we don't forgive enough, we don't love enough, we're not kind enough, and that's all that's wrong with the world. there isn't time enough for bitterness--the end comes too soon." [sidenote: at peace] miriam went upstairs, strangely uplifted, strangely at peace. she was no longer alien and apart, but one with the world. she had a sense of universal kinship--almost of brotherhood. that night she slept, for the first time in more than twenty years, without the fear of constance. and constance, who was more sinned against than sinning, and whose faithful old husband had that day lain down, in joy and triumph, to rest beside her in the churchyard, came no more. xxi the perils of the city "roger," remarked miss mattie, laying aside her paper, "i don't know as i'm in favour of havin' you go to the city. can't you get the judge another dog?" "why not, mother?" asked roger, ignoring her question. "because it seems to me, from all i've been readin' and hearin' lately, that the city ain't a proper place for a young person. take that minister, now, that those folks brought down for ambrose north's funeral. i never heard anything like it in all my life. you was there and you heard what he said, so there ain't no need of dwellin' on it, but it wasn't what i'm accustomed to in the way of funerals." miss mattie's militant hairpins bristled as she spoke. "i thought it was all right, mother. what was wrong with it?" [sidenote: everything wrong] "wrong!" repeated miss mattie, in astonishment. "everything was wrong with it! ambrose north wasn't a church-member and he never went more'n once or twice that i know of, even after the lord chastened him with blindness for not goin'. there was no power to the sermon and no cryin' except barbara and that miss wynne that sang that outlandish piece instead of a hymn. "why, roger, i was to a funeral once over to the ridge where the corpse was an unbaptized infant, and you ought to have heard that preacher describin' the abode of the lost! the child's mother fainted dead away and had to be carried out of the church, it was that powerful and movin'. that was somethin' like!" it was in roger's mind to say he was glad that the minister had not made barbara faint, but he wisely kept silent. [sidenote: life in the city] "that's only one thing," miss mattie went on. "what with religion bein' in that condition in the city, and the life folks live there, i don't think it's any fit place for a person that ain't strong in the faith, and you know you ain't, roger. you take after your pa. "i was readin' in _the metropolitan weekly_ only last week a story about a lovely young orphan that was caught one night by a rejected suitor and tied to the railroad track. just as the train was goin' to run over her, the man she wanted to marry come along on the dead run with a knife and cut her bonds. she got off the track just as the night express come around the curve, goin' ninety-five miles an hour. [sidenote: miss mattie's fears] "this man says to her, 'genevieve, will you come to me now, and let me put you out of this dread villain's power forever?' then he opened his arms and the beautiful genevieve fled to them as to some ark of safety and laid her pale and weary face upon his lovin' and forgivin' heart. that's the exact endin' of it, and i must say it's written beautiful, but when i wake up in the night and think about it, i get scared to have you go. "you ain't so bad lookin', roger, and you're gettin' to the age where you might be expected to take notice, and what if some designing female should tie you to the railroad track? i declare, it makes me nervous to think of it." roger did not like to shake his mother's faith in _the metropolitan weekly_, but he longed to set her fears at rest. "those things aren't true, mother," he said, kindly. "they not only haven't happened, but they couldn't happen--it's impossible." "roger, what do you mean by sayin' such things. of course it's true, or it wouldn't be in the paper. ain't it right there in print, as plain as the nose on your face? you can see for yourself. i hope studyin' law ain't goin' to make an infidel of you." "i don't think it will," temporised roger. "i'll keep a close watch for designing females, and will avoid railroad tracks at night." miss mattie shook her head doubtfully. "that ain't a goin' to do no good, roger, if they once get set after you. i've noticed that the villain always triumphs." "but only for a little while, mother. surely you must have seen that?" [sidenote: the villain foiled] she settled her steel-bowed spectacles firmly on the wart and gazed at him. "i believe you're right," she said, after a few moments of reflection. "i can't recall no story now where the villain was not foiled at last. let me see--there was _lovely lulu, or the doctor's darling_, and _margaret merriman, or the maiden's mad marriage_, and _true gold, or pretty crystal's love_, and _the american countess, or hearts aflame_, and this one i was just speakin' of, _genevieve carleton, or the brakeman's bride_. in every one of 'em, the villain got his just deserts, though sometimes they was disjointed owin' to the story bein' broke off at the most interestin' point and continued the followin' week." "well, if the villain is always foiled, you're surely not afraid, are you?" "i don't know's i'm afraid in the long run, but i don't like to have you go through such things and be exposed to the temptations of a great city." "why don't you come with me, mother, and keep house for me? we can find a little flat somewhere, and----" "what on earth is that?" [sidenote: apartments and flats] "i've never been in one myself, but miss wynne said that, if you wanted to come, she would find us a flat, or an apartment." "what's the difference between a flat and an apartment?" "that's what i asked her. she said it was just the rent. you pay more for an apartment than you do for a flat." "i wouldn't want anything i had to pay more for," observed miss mattie, stroking her chin thoughtfully. "you ain't told me what a flat is." "a few rooms all on one floor, like a cottage. it's like several cottages, all under one roof." "what do they want to cover the cottages with a roof for? don't they want light and air?" "you don't understand, mother. suppose that our house here was an apartment house. the stairs would be shut off from these rooms and the hall would be accessible from the street. instead of having three rooms upstairs, there might be six--one of them a kitchen and the others living-rooms and bedrooms. don't you see?" "you mean a kitchen on the same floor with the bedrooms?" "yes, all the rooms on one floor." "just as if an earthquake was to jolt off the top of the house and shake all the bedrooms down here?" "something like that." "well, then," said miss mattie, firmly, "all i've got to say is that it ain't decent. think of people sleepin' just off kitchens and washin' their faces and hands in the sink." "i think some of them must be very nice, mother. miss wynne expects to live in an apartment after she is married and she has a little one of her own now. if you'll come with me we'll find some place that you'll like. i don't want to leave you alone here." [sidenote: under one roof] "no," she answered, after due deliberation, "i reckon i'll stay here. you can't transplant an old tree and you can't take a woman who has lived all her life in a house and put her in a place where there are several cottages all under one roof with bedrooms off of kitchens and folks washin' in the sinks. miss wynne can do it if she likes, but i was brought up different." "i'm afraid you'll be lonesome." "i don't know why i should be any more lonesome than i always have been. all i see of you is at meals and while you're readin' nights. you're just like your pa. if i propped up a book by the lamp, it would be just as sociable as it is to have you settin' here. readin' is a good thing in its place and i enjoy it myself, but sometimes it's pleasant to hear the human voice sayin' somethin' besides 'what?' and 'yes' and 'all right' and 'is supper ready?' [sidenote: the blue hair ribbon] "i've been lookin' over your things to-day and gettin' 'em ready. the moths has ate your winter flannels and you'll have to get more. i've mended your coat linin's and sewed on buttons, and darned and patched, and i've took barbara north's blue hair ribbon back to her--the one you found some place and had in your pocket. you mustn't be careless about those things, roger--she might think you meant to steal it." "what did barbara say?" he stammered. the high colour had mounted to his temples. "she didn't know what to say at first, but she recognised it as her hair ribbon. i told her you hadn't meant to steal it--that you'd just found it somewheres and had forgot to give it to her, and it was all right. she laughed some, but it was a funny laugh. you must be careful, roger--you won't always have your mother to get you out of scrapes." roger wondered if the knot of blue ribbon that had so strangely gone back to barbara had, by any chance, carried to her its intangible freight of dreams and kisses, with a boyish tear or two, of which he had the grace not to be ashamed. "your pa was in the habit of annexin' female belongin's, though the lord knows where he ever got 'em. i suppose he picked 'em up on the street--he was so dreadful absent-minded. he was systematic about 'em in a way, though. after he died, i found 'em all put away most careful in a box--a handkerchief and one kid glove, and a piece of ribbon about like the one i took back to barbara. he was flighty sometimes: constant devotion to readin' had unsettled his mind. "that brings me to what i wanted to say when i first started out. i don't want you should load up your trunk with your pa's books to the exclusion of your clothes, and i don't want you to spend your evenin's readin'." "i'm not apt to read very much, mother, if i work in an office in the daytime and go to law school at night." [sidenote: ten books only] "that's so, too, but there's sundays. you can take any ten of your pa's books that you like, but no more. i'll keep the rest here against the time the train is blocked and the mails don't come through. i may get a taste for your pa's books myself." roger did not think it likely, but he was too wise to say so. "and i didn't tell you this before, but i've made it my business to go and see the judge and tell him how you saved my life at the expense of fido's. i don't know when i've seen a man so mad. i was goin' to suggest that we get him another dog from some place, and land sakes! he clean drove it out of my mind. "i don't know how you've stood it, bein' there in the office with him, and i told him so. he's got a red-headed boy from the ridge in there now, and i think maybe the judge will get what's comin' to him before he gets through. i've learned not to trifle with anybody what has red hair, but seemin'ly the judge ain't. it takes some folks a long time to learn. "barbara's goin' to the city, too, to spend the winter with that miss wynne in the cottage that's under the same roof with other cottages and the bedrooms off the kitchen. i don't know how barbara'll take to washin' in the sink, when she's always had that rose-sprigged bowl and pitcher of her ma's, but it's her business, not mine, and if she wants to go, she can. [sidenote: "me and miriam"] "me and miriam'll set together evenings and keep each other from bein' lonesome. she ain't much more company than a cow, as far as talkin' goes, but there's a feelin,' some way, about another person bein' in the house, when the wind gets to howlin' down the chimney. we may arrange to have supper together, once in a while, and in case of severe weather, put the two fires goin' in one house, which ever's the warmest. "i don't know what we shall do, for we ain't talked it over much yet, but with church twice on sunday and prayer-meetin' wednesday evenings, and the sewin' circle on friday, and two new york papers every week, and miriam, and all your pa's books to prop up against the lamp, i don't reckon i'll get so dreadful lonesome. i've thought some of gettin' myself a cat. there's somethin' mighty comfortable and heartenin' about a cup of hot tea and the sound of purrin' close by. and on the spring excursion to the city, i reckon i'll come up and see you, if i don't have no more pain in my back." [sidenote: dr. conrad's automobile] "i'd love to have you come, mother, and i'd do all i could to give you a good time. i know the others would, too. doctor conrad has an automobile and----" miss mattie became deeply concerned. "is he treatin' himself for it?" she demanded. "i don't think so," answered roger, choking back a laugh. "it beats all," mused miss mattie. "they say the shoemaker's children never have shoes, and it seems that doctors have diseases just like other folks. i disremember of havin' heard of this, but i know from my own experience that a disease with only one word to it can be dreadful painful. is it catchin'?" "not with full speed on," replied roger. "an automobile is very hard to catch." "well, see that you don't take it," cautioned miss mattie. the first part of his answer was obscure, but she was not one to pause over an uninteresting detail. "you've warned me about almost everything now, mother," he said, smiling. "is there anything else?" "nothing but matrimony, and that's included under the head of designing females. i shouldn't want you to get married." "why not?" [sidenote: welded souls] "i don't know as i could tell you just why, only it seems to me that a person is just as well off without it. i've been thinking of it a good deal since i've had these new york papers and read so much about two souls bein' welded into one. my soul wasn't never welded with your pa's, nor his with mine, as i know of. "marriage wasn't so dreadful different from livin' at home. it reminded me of the summer ma took a boarder, your pa required so much waitin' on. and when you came, i had a baby to take care of besides. if i was welded i never noticed it--i was too busy." roger's heart softened into unspeakable pity. in missing the "welding," miss mattie had missed the best that life has to give. somewhere, doubtless, the man existed who could have stirred the woman's soul beneath the surface shallows and set the sordid tasks of daily living in tune with the music that sways the world. [sidenote: "un-marriage"] "there's a good deal in the papers about un-marriage, too," resumed miss mattie, "and i can't understand it. when you've stood before the altar and said 'till death do us part,' i don't see how another man, who ain't even a minister, can undo it and let you have another chance at it. maybe you do, bein' as you're up in law, but i don't. "it looks to me as if the laws were wrong or else the marriage ceremony ought to be written different. if a man said, 'i take thee to be my wedded wife, to love and to cherish until i see somebody else i like better,' i could understand the un-marriage, but i can't now. when you get to be a power in the law, roger, i think you should try to get that fixed. i never was welded, but after i'd given my word, i stuck to it, even though your pa was dreadful aggravatin' sometimes. he didn't mean to be, but he was. i guess it's the nature of men folks." deeply moved, roger went over and kissed her smooth cheek. "have i been aggravating, mother?" miss mattie's eyes grew misty. she took off her spectacles and wiped them briskly on one corner of the table-cover. "no more'n was natural, i guess," she answered. "you've been a good boy, roger, and i want you should be a good man. when you get away from home, where your mother can't look after you, just remember that she expects you to be good, like your pa. he might have been aggravatin', but he wasn't wicked." [sidenote: remember] all the best part of the boy's nature rose in answer, and the mist came into his eyes, too. "i'll remember, mother, and you shall never be disappointed in me--i promise you that." xxii autumn leaves [sidenote: autumn glory] summer had gone long ago, but the sweetness of her passing yet lay upon the land and sea. the hills were glorious with a pageantry of scarlet and gold where, in the midnight silences, the soul of the woods had flamed in answer to the far, mysterious bugles of the frost. bloom was on the grapes in the vineyard, and fairy lace, of cobweb fineness, had been hung by the secret spinners from stem to stem of the purple clusters and across bits of stubble in the field. from the blue sea, now and then, came the breath of winter, though autumn lingered on the shore. many of the people at the hotel had gone back to town, feeling the imperious call of the city with the first keen wind. eloise, with a few others, waited. she expected to stay until barbara was strong enough to go with her. but barbara's strength was coming very slowly now. she grieved for her father, and the grieving kept her back. allan came down once a fortnight to spend sunday with eloise and to look after barbara, though he realised that barbara was, in a way, beyond his reach. [sidenote: what we need] "she doesn't need medicine," he said, to eloise. "she is perfectly well, physically, though of course her strength is limited and will be for some time to come. what she needs is happiness." "that is what we all need," answered eloise. allan flashed a quick glance at her. "even i," he said, in a different tone, "but i must wait for mine." "we all wait for things," she laughed, but the lovely colour had mounted to the roots of her hair that waved so softly back from her low forehead. "when, dear?" insisted allan, possessing himself of her hand. "i promised once," she answered. "when the colour is all gone from the hills and the last leaves have fallen, then i'll come." "you're not counting the oaks?" he asked, half fearfully. "sometimes the oak leaves stay on all winter, you know. and evergreens are ruled out, aren't they?" "certainly. we won't count the oaks or the christmas trees. long before santa claus comes, i'll be a sedate matron instead of a flyaway, frivolous spinster." "for the first time since i grew up," remarked allan, with evident sincerity, "i wish christmas came earlier. upon what day, fair lady, do you think the leaves will be gone?" "in november, i suppose," she answered, with an affected indifference that did not deceive him. "the day after thanksgiving, perhaps." "that's friday, and i positively refuse to be married on a friday." [sidenote: the best day of all] "then the day before--that's wednesday. you know the old rhyme says: 'wednesday the best day of all.'" so it was settled. allan laughingly put down in his little red leather pocket diary, under the date of wednesday, november twenty-fifth, "miss wynne's wedding." "where is it to be?" he asked. "i wouldn't miss it for worlds." "i've been thinking about that," said eloise, slowly, after a pause. "i suppose we'll have to be conventional." "why?" "because everybody is." "the very reason why we shouldn't be. this is our wedding, and we'll have it to please ourselves. it's probably our last." "in spite of the advanced civilisation in which we live," she returned, "i hope and believe that it is the one and only wedding in which either of us will ever take a leading part." "haven't you ever had day-dreams, dear, about your wedding?" "many a time," she laughed. "i'd be the rankest kind of polygamist if i had all the kinds i've planned for." "but the best kind?" he persisted. "which is in the ascendant now?" [sidenote: an ideal wedding] "if i could choose," she replied, thoughtfully, "i'd have it in some quiet little country church, on a brilliant, sunshiny day--the kind that makes your blood tingle and fills you with the joy of living. i'd like it to be indian summer, with gold and crimson leaves falling all through the woods. i'd like to have little brown birds chirping, and squirrels and chipmunks pattering through the leaves. i'd like to have the church almost in the heart of the woods, and have the sun stream into every nook and corner of it while we were being married. i'd like two taper lights at the altar, and the episcopal service, but no music." "any crowd?" her sweet face grew very tender. "no," she said. "nobody but our two selves." "we'll have to have a minister," he reminded her, practically, "and two witnesses. otherwise it isn't legal. whom would you choose for witnesses?" "i think i'd like to have barbara and roger. i don't know why, for i have so many other friends who mean more to me. yet it seems, some way, as if they two belonged in the picture." [sidenote: right now] a bright idea came to allan. "dearest," he said, "you couldn't have the falling leaves and the squirrels if we waited until thanksgiving time, but it's all here, right now. don't you remember that little church in the woods that we passed the other day--the little white church with maples all around it and the autumn leaves dropping silently through the still, warm air? why not here--and now?" "oh, i couldn't," cried eloise. "why not?" "oh, you're so stupid! clothes and things! i've got a million things to do before i can be married decently." he laughed at her woman's reason as he put his arms around her. "i want a wife, and not a parisian wardrobe. you're lovelier to me right now in your white linen gown than you've ever been before. don't wear yourself out with dressmakers and shopping. you'll have all the rest of your life for that." "won't i have all the rest of my life to get married in?" she queried, demurely. "you have if you insist upon taking it, darling, but i feel very strongly to get married to-day." "not to-day," she demurred. "why not? it's only half past one and the ceremony doesn't last over twenty minutes. i suppose it can be cut down to fifteen or eighteen if you insist upon having it condensed. you don't even need to wash your face. get your hat and come on." his tone was tender, even pleading, but some far survival of primitive woman, whose marriage was by capture, stirred faintly in eloise. "our friends won't like it," she said, as a last excuse. [sidenote: the two concerned] he noted, with joy, that she said "won't," instead of "wouldn't," but she did not realise that she had betrayed herself. "we don't care, do we?" he asked. "it's our wedding and nobody's else. when we can't please everybody, we might as well please ourselves. matrimony is the one thing in the world that concerns nobody but the two who enter into it--and it's the thing that everybody has the most to say about. while you're putting on your hat, i'll get the license and see about a carriage." "i thought i'd wait until barbara could go to town with me," she said. "there's nothing to hinder your coming back for her, if you want to and she isn't willing to come with roger. i insist upon having my honeymoon alone." "all alone? if i were very good, wouldn't you let me come along?" allan coloured. "you know what i mean," he said, softly. "i've waited so long, darling, and i think i've been patient. isn't it time i was rewarded?" they were on the beach, behind the friendly sand-dune that had been their trysting place all summer. thoroughly humble in her surrender, yet wholly womanly, eloise put her soft arms around his neck. "i will," she said. "kiss me for the last time before----" "before what?" demanded allan, as, laughing, she extricated herself from his close embrace. "before you exchange your sweetheart for a wife." [sidenote: more secure] "i'm not making any exchange. i'm only making my possession more secure. look, dear." he took from his pocket a shining golden circlet which exactly fitted the third finger of her left hand. their initials were engraved inside. only the date was lacking. "i've had it for a long, long time," he said, in reply to her surprised question. "i hoped that some day i might find you in a yielding mood." when she went up to her room, her heart was beating wildly. this sudden plunge into the unknown was blinding, even though she longed to make it. having come to the edge of the precipice she feared the leap, in spite of the conviction that life-long happiness lay beyond. in the fond sight of her lover, eloise was very lovely when she went down in her white gown and hat, her eyes shining with the world-old joy that makes the old world new for those to whom it comes, be it soon or late. [sidenote: beautifully unconventional] "it's beautifully unconventional," she said, as he assisted her into the surrey. "no bridesmaids, no wedding presents, and no dreary round of entertainments. i believe i like it." "i know i do," he responded, fervently. "you're the loveliest thing i've ever seen, sweetheart. is that a new gown?" "i've worn it all summer," she laughed "and it's been washed over a dozen times. you have lots to learn about gowns." "i'm a willing pupil," he announced. "shouldn't you have a veil? i believe the bride's veil is usually 'of tulle, caught with a diamond star, the gift of the groom.'" "you've been reading the society column. give me the star, and i'll get the veil." "you shall have it the first minute we get to town. i'd rob the milky way for you, if i could. i'd give you a handful of stars to play with and let you roll the sun and moon over the golf links." "i may take the moon," she replied. "i've always liked the looks of it, but i'm afraid the sun would burn my fingers. somebody once got into trouble, i believe, for trying to drive the chariot of the sun for a day. give me the moon and just one star." "which star do you want?" [sidenote: the love-star] "the love-star," she answered, very softly. "will you keep it shining for me, in spite of clouds and darkness?" "indeed i will." the horses stopped at barbara's door. allan went across the street to call for roger and eloise went in to invite barbara to go for a drive. "how lovely you look," cried barbara, in admiration. "you look like a bride." "make yourself look bridal also," suggested eloise, flushing, "by putting on your best white gown. roger is coming, too." barbara missed the point entirely. it did not take her long to get ready, and she sang happily to herself while she was dressing. she put a white lace scarf of her mother's over her golden hair, which was now piled high on her shapely head, and started out, for the first time in all her twenty-two years, for a journey beyond the limits of her own domain. allan and roger helped her in. she was very awkward about it, and was sufficiently impressed with her awkwardness to offer a laughing apology. "i've never been in a carriage before," she said, "nor seen a train, nor even a church. all i've had is pictures and books--and roger," she added, as an afterthought, when he took his place beside her on the back seat. "you're going to see lots of things to-day that you never saw before," observed allan, starting the horses toward the hill road. "we'll begin by showing you a church, and then a wedding." "a wedding!" cried barbara. "who is going to be married?" "we," he replied, concisely. "don't you think it's time?" "isn't it sudden?" asked roger. "i thought you weren't going to be married until almost christmas." "i've been serving time now for two years," explained allan, "and she's given me two months off for good behaviour. just remember, young man, when your turn comes, that nothing is sudden when you've been waiting for it all your life." [sidenote: the little white church] the door of the little white church was open and the sun that streamed through the door and the stained glass windows carried the glory and the radiance of autumn into every nook and corner of it. at the altar burned two tall taper lights, and the young minister, in white vestments, was waiting. the joking mood was still upon allan and eloise, but she requested in all seriousness that the word "obey" be omitted from the ceremony. "why?" asked the minister, gravely. "because i don't want to promise anything i don't intend to do." "put it in for me," suggested allan, cheerfully. "i might as well promise, for i'll have to do it anyway." gradually, the hush and solemnity of the church banished the light mood. a new joy, deeper, and more lasting, took the place of laughter as they sat in the front pew, reading over the service. barbara and roger sat together, half way down to the door. neither had spoken since they entered the church. a shaft of golden light lay full upon eloise's face. in that moment, before they went to the altar, allan was afraid of her, she seemed so angelic, so unreal. but the minister was waiting, with his open book. "come," said allan, in a whisper, and she rose, smiling, to follow him, not only then, but always. [sidenote: the ceremony] "dearly beloved," began the minister, "we are gathered here together in the sight of god and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony." he went on through the beautiful service, while the light streamed in, bearing its fairy freight of colour and gold, and the swift patter of the little people of the forest rustled through the drifting leaves. it was all as eloise had chosen, even to the two who sat far back, with their hands clasped, as wide-eyed as children before this sacred merging of two souls into one. a little brown bird perched on the threshold, chirped a few questioning notes, then flew away to his own nest. acorns fell from the oaks across the road, and the musical hum and whir of autumn came faintly from the fields. the taper lights burned in the sunshine like yellow stars. "that ye may so live together in this life," the minister was saying, "that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. amen." [sidenote: after the ordeal] it was over in an incredibly brief space of time. when they came down the aisle, allan had the satisfied air of a man who has just emerged, triumphantly, through his own skill, from a very difficult and dangerous ordeal. eloise was radiant, for her heart was singing within her a splendid strophe of joy. when barbara and roger went to meet them, the strange, new shyness that had settled down upon them both effectually hindered conversation. roger began an awkward little speech of congratulation, which immediately became inarticulate and ended in silent embarrassment. but allan wrung roger's hand in a mighty grip that made him wince, and eloise smiled, for she saw more than either of them had yet guessed. "you're kids," she said, fondly; "just dear, foolish kids." impulsively, she kissed them both, then they all went out into the sunshine again. the minister's eyes followed them with a certain wistfulness, for he was young, and, as yet, the great miracle had not come to him. he sighed when he put out the tapers and closed the door that divided him from the music of autumn and one great, overwhelming joy. [sidenote: on the way home] on the way home, neither barbara nor roger spoke. they had nothing to say and the others were silent because they had so much. they left the two at barbara's gate, then allan turned the horses back to the hill road. they were to have two glorious, golden hours alone before taking the afternoon train. barbara and roger watched them as they went slowly up the tawny road that trailed like a ribbon over the pageantry of the hill. when they came to the crossroads, where one road led to the church and the other into the boundless world beyond, eloise leaned far out to wave a fluttering bit of white in farewell. "and on her lover's arm she leant, and round her waist she felt it fold, and far across the hills they went in that new world which is the old," quoted barbara, softly. [sidenote: o'er the hills] "and o'er the hills, and far away, beyond their utmost purple rim, beyond the night, across the day, through all the world she followed him," added roger. the carriage was now only a black speck on the brow of the hill. presently it descended into the autumn sunset and vanished altogether. "i'm glad they asked us," said roger. "wasn't it dear of them!" cried barbara, with her face aglow. "oh, roger, if i ever have a wedding, i want it to be just like that!" xxiii letters to constance [sidenote: faith in results] roger was in the library, trying to choose, from an embarrassment of riches, the ten of his father's books which he was to be permitted to take to the city with him. with characteristic thoughtfulness, eloise had busied herself in his behalf immediately upon her return to town. she had found a good opportunity for him, and the letter appointing the time for a personal interview was even then in his pocket. neither he nor his mother had the slightest doubt as to the result. miss mattie was certain that any lawyer with sense enough to practise law would be only too glad to have roger in his office. she scornfully dismissed the grieving owner of fido from her consideration, for it was obvious that anyone with even passable mental equipment would not have been disturbed by the accidental and painless removal of a bull pup. roger's ambition and eagerness made him very sure of the outcome of his forthcoming venture. all he asked for was the chance to work, and eloise was giving him that. how good she had been and how much she had done for barbara! roger's heart fairly overflowed with gratitude and he registered a boyish vow not to disappoint those who believed in him. it seemed strange to think of eloise as "mrs. conrad." she had signed her brief note to roger, "very cordially, eloise wynne conrad." down in the corner she had written "mrs. allan conrad." roger smiled as he noted the space between the "wynne" and the "conrad" in her signature--the surest betrayal of a bride. "if i should marry," roger thought, "my wife's name would be 'mrs. roger austin.'" he wrote it out on a scrap of paper to see how it would look. it was certainly very attractive. "and if it were barbara, for instance, she would sign her letters 'barbara north austin.'" he wrote that out, too, and, in the lamplight, appreciatively studied the effect from many different angles. it was really a very beautiful name. [sidenote: lost in reverie] he lost himself in reverie, and it was nearly an hour afterward when he returned to the difficult task of choosing his ten books. shakespeare, of course--fortunately there was a one-volume edition that came within the letter of the law if not the spirit of it. to this he added browning. as it happened, there was a complete one-volume edition of this, too. emerson came next--the essays in two volumes. that made four. he added _vanity fair_, _david copperfield_, a translation of the _�neid_, and his beloved keats. he hesitated a long time over the last two, but finally took down boswell's _life of johnson_ and the _essays of elia_, neither of which he had read. [sidenote: a little old book] behind these two books, which had stood side by side, there was a small, thin book that had either fallen down or been hidden there. roger took it out and carefully wiped off the dust. it was a blank book in which his father had written on all but the last few pages. he took it over to the table, drew the lamp closer, and sat down. the gay cover had softened with the years, the pages were yellow, and some of them were blurred by blistering spots. the ink had faded, but the writing was still legible. at the top of the first page was the date, "_evening, june the seventh_." "i have lived long," was written on the next line below, "but a thousand years of living have been centred remorselessly into to-day. i cannot go over, though in this house and in the one across the road it will seem very strange. i knew the clouds of darkness must eternally hide us each from the other, that we must see each other no more save at a great distance, but the thunder and the riving lightning have put heaven between us as well as earth. "i cannot eat, for food is dust and ashes in my mouth. i cannot drink enough water to moisten my dry, parched throat. i cannot answer when anyone speaks to me, for i do not hear what is said. it does not seem that i shall ever sleep again. yet god, pitiless and unforgiving, lets me live on." the remainder of the page was blank. the next entry was dated: "_june tenth. night._" [sidenote: no other way] "i had to go. there was no other way. i had to sit and listen. i saw the blind man in the room beyond, sitting beside the dark woman with the hard face. she had the little lame baby in her arms--the baby who is a year or so younger than my own son. i smelled the tuberoses and the great clusters of white lilacs. and i saw her, dead, with her golden braids on either side of her, smiling, in her white casket. when no one was looking, i touched her hand. i called softly, 'constance.' she did not answer, so i knew she was dead. "i had to go to the churchyard, with the others. i was compelled to look at the grave and to see the white casket lowered in. i heard that awful fall of earth upon her and a voice saying those terrible words, 'dust to dust, earth to earth, ashes to ashes.' the blind man sobbed aloud when the earth fell. the dark woman with the hard face did not seem to care. i could have strangled her, but i had to keep my hands still. "they said that she had not been sleeping and that she took too much laudanum by mistake. it was not a mistake, for she was not of that sort. she did it purposely. she did it because of that one mad hour of full confession. i have killed her. after three years of self-control, it failed me, and i went mad. it was my fault, for if i had not failed, she would not have gone mad, too. i have killed her." "_june fifteenth. midnight._ "i am calmer now. i can think more clearly. i have been alone in the woods all day and every day since--. i have been thinking, thinking, thinking, and going over everything. she left no word for me; she was so sure i would understand. i do not understand yet, but i shall. [sidenote: estranged] "there was no wrong between us, there never would have been. we were divided by the whole earth, denied by all the leagues of sundering sea. now we are estranged by all the angels of heaven and all the hosts of hell. "my arms ache for her--my lips hunger for hers. in that mysterious darkness, does she want me, too? did her heart cry out for me as mine for her, until the blood of the poppies mingled with hers and brought the white sleep? "it would have been something to know that we breathed the same air, trod the same highways, listened together to the thrush and robin, and all the winged wayfarers of forest and field. it would have been comfort to know the same sun shone on us both, that the same moon lighted the midnight silences with misty silver, that the same stars burned taper-lights in the vaulted darkness for her and for me. [sidenote: one hour] "but i have not even that. i have nothing, though i have done no wrong beyond holding her in my arms for one little hour. out of all the time that was before our beginning, out of all the time that shall be after our ending, and in all the unpitying years of our mortal life, we have had one hour." "_june nineteenth._ "i have been to her grave. i have tried to realise that the little mound of earth upon the distant hill, over which the sun and stars sweep endlessly, still shelters her; that, in some way, she is there. but i cannot. "the mystery agonises me, for i have never had the belief that comforts so many. why is one belief any better than another when we come face to face with the grey, impenetrable veil that never parts save for a passage? freed from the bonds of earth, does she still live, somewhere, in perfect peace with no thought of me? sentient, but invisible, is she here beside me now? or is she asleep, dreamlessly, abiding in the earth until some archangel shall sound the trumpet bidding all the myriad dead arise? oh, god, god! only tell me where she is, that i may go, too!" "_june twenty-first._ [sidenote: the hand stayed] "it is true that the path she took is open to me also. i have thought of it many times. i am not afraid to follow where she has led, even into the depths of hell. i have had for several days a vial of the crushed poppies, and the bitter odour, even now, fills my room. only one thought stays my hand--my little son. "should i follow, he must inevitably come to believe that his father was a coward--that he was afraid of life, which is the most craven fear of all. he will see that i have given to him something that i could not bear myself, and will despise me, as people despise a man who shirks his burden and shifts it to the shoulders of one weaker than he. "when temptation assails him, he will remember that his father yielded. when life looms dark before him and among the fearful shadows there is no hint of light, he will recall that his father was too much of a coward to go into those same shadows, carrying his own light. "and if his heart is ever filled with an awful agony that requires all his strength to meet it, he will remember that his father failed. i could not rest in my grave if my son, living, should despise me, even though my narrow house was in the same darkness that hides her." "_july tenth. dawn._ [sidenote: punishment] "this, then, is my punishment. because for one hour my self-control deserted me, when my man's blood had been crying out for three years for the touch of her--because for one little hour my hungry arms held her close to my aching heart, there is no peace. nowhere in earth nor in heaven nor in hell is there one moment's forgetfulness. nowhere in all god's illimitable universe is there pardon and surcease of pain. "the blind man comes to me and talks of her. he asks me piteously, 'why?' he calls me his friend. he says that she often spoke of me; that they were glad to have me in their house. he asks me if she ever said one word that would give a reason. was she unhappy? was it because he was blind and the little yellow-haired baby with her mother's blue eyes was born lame? i can only say 'no,' and beg him not to talk of it--not even to think of it." "_july twentieth. night._ "the beauty of the world at midsummer only makes my loneliness more keen. the butterflies flit through the meadows like wandering souls of last year's flowers that died and were buried by the snow. the harvest moon, red-gold and wonderful, will rise slowly up out of the sea. the path of light will lie on the still waters and widen into a vast arc at the line of the shore. cobwebs will come among the stubble when the harvest is gathered in and on them will lie dewdrops that the moon will make into pearls. [sidenote: cycle of the seasons] "the gorgeous colouring of autumn will transfigure the hills with glory, and fill the far silences with misty amethyst and gold. the year-long sleep will come with the first snow, and the stars burn blue and cold in the frosty night. april bugles will wake the violets and anemones, the dead leaves of autumn will be starred with springtime bloom, may will dance through the world with lilacs and apple blossoms, and i shall be alone. "i can go to her grave again and see the violets all around it, their exquisite odour made of her dust. i can carry to her the first roses of june, as i used to do, but she cannot take them in her still hands. i can only lay them on that impassable mound, and let the warm rains, as soft as woman's tears, drip down and down and down until the fragrance and my love come to her in the mist. "but will she care? is that last sleep so deep that the quiet heart is never stirred by love? when my whole soul goes out to her in an agony of love and pain, is it possible that there is no answer? if there is a god in heaven, it cannot be!" "_october fifth. night._ "it is said that time heals everything. i have been waiting to see if it were so. day by day my loss is greater; day by day my grief becomes more difficult to bear. i read all the time, or pretend to. i sit for hours with the open book before me and never see a line that is printed there. oh, love, if i could dream to-night, in the earth with you!" "_october seventh._ "just four months ago to-day! i was numb, then, with the shock and horror. i could not feel as i do now. when the tide of my heart came in, with agony in every pulse-beat, it rose steadily to the full, without pause, without rest. i think it has reached its flood now, for i cannot endure more. will there ever be recession?" "_november tenth._ [sidenote: death of passion] "i am coming, gradually, to have some sort of faith. i do not know why, for i have never had it before. i can see that all things made of earth must perish as the leaves. passion dies because it is of the earth, but does not love live? [sidenote: a gift] "if only the finer things of the spirit could be bequeathed, like material possessions! all i have to leave my son is a very small income and a few books. i cannot give him endurance, self-control, or the power to withstand temptation. i cannot give him joy. if i could, i should leave him one priceless gift--my love for constance, to which, for one hour, hers answered fully--i should give him that love with no barrier to divide it from its desire. "i wonder if constance would have left hers to her little yellow-haired girl? i wonder if sometimes the joys of the fathers are not visited upon their children as well as their sins?" "_november nineteenth. night._ "i have come to believe that love never dies for god is love, and he is immortal. my love for constance has not died and cannot. why should hers have died? it does not seem that it has, since to-day, for the first time, i have found surcease. "constance is dead, but she has left her love to sustain and strengthen me. it streams out from the quiet hillside to-night as never before, and gives me the peace of a benediction. i understand, now, the blinding pain of the last five months. the immortal spirit of love, which can neither die nor grow old, was extricating itself from the earth that clung to it. "_december third._ "at last i have come to perfect peace. i no longer hunger so terribly for the touch of her, for my aching arms to clasp her close, for her lips to quiver beneath mine. the tide has ebbed--there is no more pain. "i have come, strangely, into kinship with the universe. i have a feeling to-night of brotherhood. i can see that death is no division when a heart is deep enough to hold a grave. the grey angel cannot separate her from me, though she took the white poppies from his hands, and gave none to me. "_december eighteenth._ [sidenote: day by day] "constance, beloved, i feel you near to-night. the wild snows of winter have blown across your grave, but your love is warm and sweet around my heart. the sorrow is all gone and in its place has come a peace as deep and calm as the sea. i can wait, day by day, until the grey angel summons me to join you; until the poppies that stilled your heartbeats, shall, in another way, quiet mine, too. "i can have faith. i can believe that somewhere beyond the star-filled spaces, when this arc of mortal life merges into the perfect circle of eternity, there will be no barrier between you and me, because, if god is love, love must be god, and he has no limitations. "i can take up my burden and go on until the road divides, and the grey angel leads me down your path. i can be kind. i can try, each day, to put joy into the world that so sorely needs it, and to take nothing away from whatever it holds of happiness now. i can be strong because i have known you, i can have courage because you were brave, i can be true because you were true, i can be tender because i love you. "at last i understand. it is passion that cries out for continual assurance, for fresh sacrifices, for new proof. love needs nothing but itself; it asks for nothing but to give itself; it denies nothing, neither barriers nor the grave. love can wait until life comes to its end, and trust to eternity, because it is of god." * * * * * [sidenote: a man's heart] roger put the little book down and wiped his eyes. he had come upon a man's heart laid bare and was thrilled to the depths by the revelation. he was as one who stands in a holy place, with uncovered head, in the hush that follows prayer. in the midst of his tenderness for his dead father welled up a passionate loyalty toward the woman who slept in the room adjoining the library, whose soul had "never been welded." she had known life no more than a prattling brook in a meadow may know the sea. bound in shallows, she knew nothing of the unutterable vastness in which deep answered unto deep; tide and tempest and blue surges were fraught with no meaning for her. the clock struck twelve and roger still sat there, with his head resting upon his hand. he read once more his father's wish to bequeath to him his love, "with no barrier to divide it from its desire." hedged in by earth and hopelessly put asunder, could it at last come to fulfilment through daughter and son? at the thought his heart swelled with a pure passion all its own--the eager pulse-beats owed nothing to the dead. [sidenote: out into the night] he found a sheet of paper and reverently wrapped up the little brown book. an hour later, he slipped under the string a letter of his own, sealed and addressed, and quietly, though afraid that the beating of his heart sounded in the stillness, went out into the night. xxiv the bells in the tower the sea was very blue behind the tower of cologne, though it was not yet dawn. the velvet darkness, in that enchanted land, seemed to have a magical quality--it veiled but did not hide. barbara went up the glass steps, made of cologne bottles, and opened the door. [sidenote: the tower unchanged] she had not been there for a long time, but nothing was changed. the winding stairway hung with tapestries and the round windows at the landings, through which one looked to the sea, were all the same. king arthur, sir lancelot and guinevere were all in the tower, as usual. the lady of shalott was there, with mr. pickwick, dora, and little nell. all the dear people of the books moved through the lovely rooms, sniffing at cologne, or talking and laughing with each other, just as they pleased. the red-haired young man and the two blue and white nurses were still there, but they seemed to be on the point of going out. doctor conrad and eloise were in every room she went into. eloise was all in white, like a bride, and the doctor was very, very happy. ambrose north was there, no longer blind or dead, but well and strong and able to see. he took barbara in his arms when she went in, kissed her, and called her "constance." a sharp pang went through her heart because he did not know her. "i'm barbara, daddy," she cried out; "don't you know me?" but he only murmured, "constance, my beloved," and kissed her again--not with a father's kiss, but with a yearning tenderness that seemed very strange. she finally gave up trying to make him understand that her name was barbara--that she was not constance at all. at last she said, "it doesn't matter by what name you call me, as long as you love me," and went on upstairs. [sidenote: an unfinished tapestry] one of the tapestries that hung on the wall along the winding stairway was new--at least she did not remember having seen it before. it was in the soft rose and gold and brown and blue of the other tapestries, and appeared old, as though it had been hanging there for some time. she fingered it curiously. it felt and looked like the others, but it must be new, for it was not quite finished. in the picture, a man in white vestments stood at an altar with his hands outstretched in blessing. before him knelt a girl and a man. the girl was in white and the taper-lights at the altar shone on her two long yellow braids that hung down over her white gown, so that they looked like burnished gold. the face was turned away so that she could not see who it was, but the man who knelt beside her was looking straight at her, or would have been, if the tapestry-maker had not put down her needle at a critical point. the man's face had not been touched, though everything else was done. barbara sighed. she hoped that the next time she came to the tower the tapestry would be finished. [sidenote: in the violet room] she went into the violet room, for a little while, and sat down on a green chair with a purple cushion in it. she took a great bunch of violets out of a bowl and buried her face in the sweetness. then she went to the mantel, where the bottles were, and drenched her handkerchief with violet water. she had tried all the different kinds of cologne that were in the tower, but she liked the violet water best, and nearly always went into the violet room for a little while on her way upstairs. as she turned to go out, the boy joined her. he was a young man now, taller than barbara, but his face, as always, was hidden from her as by a mist. his voice was very kind and tender as he took both her hands in his. "how do you do, barbara, dear?" he asked. "you have not been in the tower for a long time." "i have been ill," she answered. "see?" she tried to show him her crutches, but they were not there. "i used to have crutches," she explained. "did you?" he asked, in surprise. "you never had them in the tower." "that's so," she answered. "i had forgotten." she remembered now that when she went into the tower she had always left her crutches leaning up against the glass steps. "let's go upstairs," suggested the boy, "and ring the golden bells in the cupola." barbara wanted to go very much, but was afraid to try it, because she had never been able to reach the cupola. "if you get tired," the boy went on, as though he had read her thought, "i'll put my arm around you and help you walk. come, let's go." [sidenote: up the winding stairs] they went out of the violet room and up the winding stairway. barbara was not tired at all, but she let him put his arm around her, and leaned her cheek against his shoulder as they climbed. some way, she felt that this time they were really going to reach the cupola. it was very sweet to be taken care of in this way and to hear the boy's deep, tender voice telling her about the lady of shalott and all the other dear people who lived in the tower. sometimes he would make her sit down on the stairs to rest. he sat beside her so that he might keep his arm around her, and barbara wished, as never before, that she might see his face. [sidenote: the angel with the flaming sword] finally, they came to the last landing. they had been up as high as this once before, but it was long ago. the cupola was hidden in a cloud as before, but it seemed to be the cloud of a summer day, and not a dark mist. they went into the cloud, and an angel with a flaming sword appeared before them and stopped them. the angel was all in white and very tall and stately, with a divinely tender face--barbara's own face, exalted and transfigured into beauty beyond all words. "please," said barbara, softly, though she was not at all afraid, "may we go up into the cupola and ring the golden bells? we have tried so many times." there was no answer, but barbara saw the angel looking at her with infinite longing and love. all at once, she knew that the angel was her mother. "please, mother dear," said barbara, "let us go in and ring the bells." the angel smiled and stepped aside, pointing to the right with the flaming sword that made a rainbow in the cloud. in the light of it, they went through the mist, that seemed to be lifting now. "we're really in the cupola," cried the boy, in delight. "see, here are the bells." he took the two heavy golden chains in his hands and gave one to barbara. "ring!" she cried out. "oh, ring all the bells at once! now!" [sidenote: ringing the bells] they pulled the two chains with all their strength, and from far above them rang out the most wonderful golden chimes that anyone had ever dreamed of--strong and sweet and thrilling, yet curiously soft and low. with the first sound, the mist lifted and the angel with the flaming sword came into the cupola and stood near them, smiling. far out was the blue sky that bent down to meet a bluer sea, the sand on the shore was as white as the blown snow, and the sea-birds that circled around the cupola in the crystalline, fragrant air were singing. the melody blended strangely with the sound of the surf on the shining shore below. the angel with the flaming sword touched barbara gently on the arm, and smiled. barbara looked up, first at the angel, and then at the boy who stood beside her. the mist that had always been around him had lifted, too, and she saw that it was roger, whom she had known all her life. barbara woke with a start. the sound of the golden bells was still chiming in her ears. "roger," she said, dreamily, "we rang them all together, didn't we?" but roger did not answer, for she was in her own little room, now, and not in the tower of cologne. she slipped out of bed and her little bare, pink feet pattered over to the window. she pushed the curtains back and looked out. it was a keen, cool, autumn morning, and still dark, but in the east was the deep, wonderful purple that presages daybreak. oh, to see the sun rise over the sea! barbara's heart ached with longing. she had wanted to go for so many years and nobody had ever thought of taking her. now, though roger had suggested it more than once, she had said, each time, that when she went she wanted to go alone. [sidenote: "i'll try it"] "i'll try it," she thought. "if i get tired, i can sit down and rest, and if i think it is going to be too much for me, i can come back. it can't be very far--just down this road." she dressed hurriedly, putting on her warm, white wool gown and her little low soft shoes. she did not stop to brush out her hair and braid it again, for it was very early and no one would see. she put over her head the white lace scarf she had worn to the wedding, took her white knitted shawl, and went downstairs so quietly that aunt miriam did not hear her. she unbolted the door noiselessly and went out, closing it carefully after her. on the top step was a very small package, tied with string, and a letter addressed, simply, "to barbara." she recognised it as a book and a note from roger--he had done such things before. she did not want to go back, so she tucked it under her arm and went on. it seemed so strange to be going out of her gate alone and in the dark! barbara was thrilled with a sense of adventure and romance which was quite new to her. this journeying into unknown lands in pursuit of unknown waters had all the fascination of discovery. [sidenote: an autumn dawn] she went down the road faster than she had ever walked before. she was not at all tired and was eager for the sea. the autumn dawn with its keen, cool air stirred her senses to new and abounding life. she went on and on and on, pausing now and then to lean against somebody's fence, or to rest on a friendly boulder when it appeared along the way. faint suggestions of colour appeared in the illimitable distances beyond. barbara saw only a vast, grey expanse, but the surf murmured softly on the shadowy shore. crossing the sand, and stumbling as she went, she stooped and dipped her hand into it, then put her rosy forefinger into her mouth to see if it were really salt, as everyone said. she sat down in the soft, cool sand, drew her white knitted shawl and lace scarf more closely about her, and settled herself to wait. [sidenote: sunrise on the sea] the deep purple softened with rose. tints of gold came far down on the horizon line. barbara drew a long breath of wonder and joy. out in the vastness dark surges sang and crooned, breaking slowly into white foam as they approached the shore. rose and purple melted into amethyst and azure, and, out beyond the breakers, the grey sea changed to opal and pearl. mist rose from the far waters and the long shafts of leaping light divided it by rainbows as it lifted. prismatic fires burned on the boundless curve where the sky met the sea. wet-winged gulls, crying hoarsely, came from the night that still lay upon the islands near shore, and circled out across the breakers to meet the dawn. spires of splendid colour flamed to the zenith, the whole east burned with crimson and glowed with gold, and from that far, mystical arc of heaven and earth, a javelin of molten light leaped to the farthest hill. the pearl and opal changed to softest green, mellowed by turquoise and gold, the slow blue surges chimed softly on the singing shore, and barbara's heart beat high with rapture, for it was daybreak in earth and heaven and morning in her soul. she sat there for over an hour, asking for nothing but the sky and sea, and the warm, sweet sun that made the air as clear as crystal and touched the autumn hills with living flame. she drew long breaths of the wind that swept, like shafts of sunrise, half-way across the world. [sidenote: the boy in the tower] at last she turned to the package that lay beside her, and untied the string, idly wondering what book roger had sent. how strange that the boy in the tower should be roger, and yet, was it so strange, after all, when she had known him all her life? before looking at the book, she tore open the letter and read it--with wide, wondering eyes and wild-beating heart. [sidenote: roger's letter] "barbara, my darling," it began. "i found this book to-night and so i send it to you, for it is yours as much as mine. "i think my father's wish has been granted and his love has been bequeathed to me. i have known for a long time how much i care for you, and i have often tried to tell you, but fear has kept me silent. "it has been so sweet to live near you, to read to you when you were sewing or while you were ill, and sweeter than all else besides to help you walk, and to feel that you leaned on me, depending on me for strength and guidance. "sometimes i have thought you cared, too, and then i was not sure, so i have kept the words back, fearing to lose what i have. but to-night, after having read his letters, i feel that i must throw the dice for eternal winning or eternal loss. you can never know, if i should spend the rest of my life in telling you, just how much you have meant to me in a thousand different ways. "looking back, i see that you have given me my ideals, since the time we made mud pies together and built the tower of cologne, for which, alas, we never got the golden bells. i have loved you always and it has not changed since the beginning, save to grow deeper and sweeter with every day that passed. "as much as i have of courage, or tenderness, or truth, or honour, i owe to you, who set my standard high for me at the beginning, and oh, my dearest, my love has kept me clean. if i have nothing else to give you, i can offer you a clean heart and clean hands, for there is nothing in my life that can make me ashamed to look straight into the eyes of the woman i love. "ever since we went to that wedding the other day, i have been wishing it were our own--that you and i might stand together before god's high altar in that little church with the sun streaming in, and be joined, each to the other, until death do us part. "sweetheart, can you trust me? can you believe that it is for always and not just for a little while? has your mother left her love to you as my father left me his? "let me have the sweetness of your leaning on me always, let me take care of you, comfort you when you are tired, laugh with you when you are glad, and love you until death and even after, as he loved her. "tell me you care, barbara, even if it is only a little. tell me you care, and i can wait, a long, long time. "roger." barbara's heart sang with the joy of the morning. she opened the little worn book, with its yellow, tear-stained pages, and read it all, up to the very last line. "oh!" she cried aloud, in pity. "oh! oh!" fully understanding, she put it aside, closing the faded cover reverently on its love and pain. then she turned to roger's letter, and read it again. [sidenote: first flush of rapture] dreaming over it, in the first flush of that mystical rapture which makes the world new for those to whom it comes, as light is recreated with every dawn, she took no heed of the passing hours. she did not know that it was very late, nor that aunt miriam, much worried, had asked roger to go in search of her. she knew only that love and morning and the sea were all hers. the tide was coming in. each wave broke a little higher upon the thirsting shore. far out on the water was a tiny dark object that moved slowly shoreward on the crests of the waves. barbara stood up, shading her eyes with her hand, and waited, counting the rhythmic pulse-beats that brought it nearer. she could not make out what it was, for it advanced and then receded, or paused in a circling eddy made by two retreating waves. at last a high wave brought it in and left it, stranded, at her feet. [sidenote: a fragment] barbara laughed aloud, for, broken by the wind and wave and worn by tide, a fragment of one of her crutches had come back to her. the bit of flannel with which she had padded the sharp end, so that the sound would not distress her father, still clung to it. she wondered how it came there, never guessing that it was but the natural result of eloise's attempt to throw it as far as allan had thrown the other, the day he took them away from her. a great sob of thankfulness almost choked her. here she stood firmly on her own two feet, after twenty-two years of helplessness, reminded of it only by a fragment of a crutch that the sea had given back as it gives up its dead. she had outgrown her need of crutches as the tiny creatures of the sea outgrow their shells. "build thee more stately mansions, o my soul, as the swift seasons roll! leave thy low-vaulted past! let each new temple, nobler than the last, shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, till thou at length art free, leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!" the beautiful words chanted themselves over and over in her consciousness. the past, with all its pain and grieving, fell from her like a garment. she was one with the sun and the morning; uplifted by all the world's joy. [sidenote: the true lover] her blood sang within her and it seemed that her heart had wings. all of life lay before her--that life which is made sweet by love. she felt again the ecstasy that claimed her in the tower of cologne, when she and the boy, after a lifetime of waiting, had rung all the golden bells at once. and the boy was roger--always had been roger--only she did not know. into barbara's heart came something new and sweet that she had never known before--the deep sense of conviction and the everlasting peace which the true lover, and he alone, has power to bestow. it was part of the wonder of the morning that when she turned, startled a little by a muffled footstep, she should see roger with his hands outstretched in pleading and all his soul in his eyes. barbara's face took on the unearthly beauty of dawn. her blue eyes deepened to violet, her sweet lips smiled. she was radiant, from her feet to the heavy braids that hung over her shoulders and the shimmering halo of soft hair, that blew, like golden mist, about her face. roger caught her mood unerringly--it was like him always to understand. he was no longer afraid, and the trembling of his boyish mouth was lost in a smile. she was more beautiful than the morning of which she seemed a veritable part--and she was his. [sidenote: flower of the dawn] "flower of the dawn," he cried, his voice ringing with love and triumph, "do you care? are you mine?" she went to him, smiling, with the colour of the fiery dawning on her cheeks and lips. "yes," she whispered. "didn't you know?" then the sun and the morning and the world itself vanished all at once beyond his ken, for barbara had put her soft little hand upon his shoulder, and lifted her love-lit face to his. the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , "instrusted" changed to "intrusted" (china intrusted) page , "checks" changed to "cheeks" (fair cheeks) page , "venegeance" changed to "vengeance" (not of his vengeance) page , "anenomes" changed to "anemones" (and anemones) page , "assunder" changed to "asunder" (hopelessly put asunder) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) transcriber's note: a table of contents was added for the reader's convenience. heart of gold by ruth alberta brown author of "at the little brown house," "the lilac lady," "tabitha at ivy hall," "tabitha's vacation," "tabitha's glory," etc. [illustration: "peace, peace! come down. you'll fall! you'll fall!"] the saalfield publishing company chicago akron, ohio new york made in u. s. a. copyright, mcmxv by the saalfield publishing company contents chapter i. the girl who took a dare chapter ii. the scrap-book brigade chapter iii. gussie's new play chapter iv. peace learns the bitter truth chapter v. the lilac lady's message chapter vi. the parsonage twins chapter vii. an endless chain of letters chapter viii. allee's album chapter ix. peace interviews the bishop chapter x. the new pastor of south avenue church chapter xi. doctor dick chapter xii. miss wayne chapter xiii. the little author lady chapter xiv. keturah and billy bolee chapter xv. the ring that built a hospital chapter xvi. peace discovers some secrets chapter xvii. a hospital wedding chapter xviii. the seven mcgees chapter xix. wonderful tidings heart of gold chapter i the girl who took a dare "attention, children! close copy books and pass them to the right. monitors, collect." tired miss phelps laid down her crayon, with one sweep of her arm erased the letter exercises she had so laboriously traced on the blackboard for her fifty pupils to copy, wiped the clinging chalk from her dry, chapped hands, and sank wearily into her chair beside the littered desk, as she issued her commands in sharp, almost impatient tones. her head ached fiercely, her brain seemed on fire, the subdued scratching of scores of pens in unskilled fingers set her nerves on edge, and she was ready to collapse with the strain of the day. yet another hour remained before the afternoon session would draw to a close. how was she ever to hear the stupid geography recitation, or listen to the halting, singsong voices stumble through pages of a reader too old for their understanding? again she glanced at the clock. a full hour of torture, and she was simply longing for bed! a sudden determination seized her. she would read to her scholars instead of listening to the lessons they had prepared to recite! so, selecting a book from the row on her desk, she waited until the blotted, inky copy books had been gleefully whisked shut by their owners, passed across the aisle and gathered in neat piles by the monitors, who creaked solemnly up to the corner table and laid them beside the day's written exercises for the teacher's inspection later. then they clattered back to their seats and waited with expectant eyes fixed upon miss phelps for the next command. "take rest position!" there was a brisk scraping of feet, a rustling of dresses, and fifty active bodies sat stiffly erect with hands clasped on the desk-tops in front of them. no,--not fifty. one child, a brown-eyed girl with short, riotous curls tumbling about her round, animated face, sat heedless of her surroundings, staring out of the window near her into the bright spring sunshine, and from her rapt expression it was evident that her thoughts were far away from school and lessons. miss phelps waited an instant, but the child was lost in her dreams and did not feel the unusual silence of the room. following the gaze of the intent brown eyes, the teacher glanced out of the window and saw a flock of pigeons disporting themselves on the barn roof across the road; and as they fluttered and strutted, scolded and cooed, the little watcher at her desk unconsciously imitated their movements, thrusting out her chest, cocking her head pertly on one side and nodding and pecking at imaginary birds, just as her pretty feathered friends were doing as they basked in the warm sunshine. involuntarily the woman smiled. then, as the girl continued to mimic the doves, she tapped her foot impatiently on the floor and repeated emphatically, "children, take rest position!" stealthily the other pupils let their eyes rove about the room in search of the guilty member, for it was very plain from the teacher's manner that someone was out of order. instantly a pencil rapped sharply on the desk, and forty-nine pair of inquisitive eyes jerked quickly to the front again. but the fiftieth pair continued to stare out of the window, until in exasperation the woman's voice rasped out, "peace greenfield, will you please give me your undivided attention?" with a start of horrified surprise the culprit awoke from her daydreams, to discover that she was flapping her outstretched arms in either aisle like some exultant cockerel just ready to crow. abashed and dismayed at having been caught napping, she thrust her hands hastily into her desk, seized her geography, and scrambling to her feet, started for the front of the room, remembering that her class was the next to recite. the children tittered, and peace, much amazed to find that no one followed, paused uncertainly, searched her brain desperately to recall the teacher's command, and then glibly recited, "brazil is bounded on the north by--" the scholars burst into a howl of derision, and poor peace slumped into her seat, covered with confusion. even the tired teacher smiled at the child's discomfort, but immediately rapped for order, and said sternly, "rest position, please! the geography and reading classes will not recite this afternoon. i shall read to you from our book of mythology, and when i have finished, i shall expect you to repeat the story. what was the last we read about?" "the wooden horse in the siege of troy," shouted a score of voices. "correct," smiled the teacher faintly. "and today i shall tell you about ganymede and how he was connected with the other characters we have been studying. ganymede--repeat the name after me." "ganymede," roared the obedient scholars. "ganymede," whispered peace to herself. "ganymede--what a funny name! i wonder if he was any relation to those folks hope was talking about last night. they were medes and--and persians. i d'clare, i 'most forgot that word. hist'ry like hope's must be int'resting. i'll be glad when i get big enough to study about the goffs and salts and--and sandals and the rest of that bunch." she meant goths and celts and vandals, but somehow words had a bad habit of getting sadly mixed up in that active brain which tried to absorb all it heard; and she was always making outrageous speeches in consequence. "i don't like mythology. what do we care about herc'les and his sore heel, or helen or hector?--i wonder if that's the man hec abbott was named after? i'd rather--my! what a lovely day it is for march! no wonder the doves are talking. wouldn't i like to be up on that barn roof in the sun! bet i'd do some talking too. s'posing i was a really dove. what fun it would be to fly away, away up in the blue sky. i wonder if they ever bump into the clouds. there goes a white cloud skimming right over the sun. now it's gone and we're in the shine once more. queer how it can shine in spots and be cloudy in spots at the same time. that's like laughing with one eye and bawling with the other. i don't b'lieve a body could ever do that. wish i could, just to see what it would feel like. "'twon't take many days like this 'fore the grass begins to grow and the leaves to come. the trees are budded big now. i am crazy wild for the cowslips and vi'lets to get here. hicks promised to help us plant some flowers on our lilac lady's grave. it looks so bare and lonely now with the snow all gone, and only that tall white stone to tell where she is. i know where the loveliest yellow vi'lets grow." "peace greenfield!" again peace came to the earth with an abruptness that left her breathless and quaking. "yes, ma'am," she responded meekly. "you weren't paying attention, were you?" demanded the long-suffering teacher. peace pondered. she could scarcely say "yes" truthfully, and yet her intentions were good. she had not meant to lose herself again, nor did realize how very little she had heard of the story which the teacher had been reading. "were you?" repeated miss phelps relentlessly. "partly," peace responded haughtily. the woman gasped; then as the scholars giggled, she said sternly, "tell us what the story was about." peace opened her mouth. "gan--" she began and halted. what _had_ the story been about? rapidly she searched through her memory. it was such a funny word. how could she have forgotten it? the children sniggered audibly. "gan--what?" urged the weary teacher sarcastically. o, yes, now she remembered it! "gandermeats and pigeons," triumphantly finished peace, with a saucy toss of her head. there was a moment of dead silence in the room; then a jeering shout rose from forty-nine throats. but it was instantly quelled by a sharp rap on the desk, and when order was restored, miss phelps said encouragingly, "ganymede and what, peace? surely not _pigeon_! you didn't mean that, now did you?" but peace had come to the end of her resources. if it wasn't pigeons, what was it? "tell her, children," prompted miss phelps, as peace floundered helplessly. "an eagle," yelled the chorus of eager voices. an _eagle_! queer, but she had heard no mention made of an eagle; and she trembled in her shoes for fear the teacher would ask still more embarrassing questions. fortunately, however, miss phelps turned to the lad across the aisle, and said, "johnny, you may tell us the story of ganymede." johnny was nearly bursting his jacket in his eagerness to publish his knowledge; so to peace's immense gratification and relief, he gabbled off his version of ganymede's experience with jupiter's eagle. and peace breathed more freely when he sat down puffing with pride at the teacher's, "well told, johnny." "mercy! i'm glad she didn't ask me any more about the old fellow," peace sighed. "i--i guess i didn't hear much she said, but that horrid mythology is so dry. i don't see why she keeps reading the stuff to us. i'd a sight rather study about physiology and _cardrack_ valves and _oil-factory_ nerves in the nose like cherry does; though i don't see how she ever remembers those long words and what part of the body they b'long to. i'd--yes, i'd rather have mental 'rithmetic every day of the week than mythology about old gods that never lived, and did only mean things to everybody when they b'lieved they lived." "peace greenfield!" sounded an exasperated voice in her ear. "if you would rather watch those pigeons across the street than to pay attention to your lessons, we will just excuse you and let you stand by the window until--" "i wasn't watching a single pigeon that time," peace broke in hotly. "i was only thinking about those hateful gods folks used to b'lieve in, and wondering why the school board makes us study about them when they were just clear fakes--every one of 'em--'nstead of learning things that really did happen at some time. there's enough true, int'resting things going on around us to keep us busy without studying fakes, seems to me." now it happened that the mythological tales with which miss phelps regaled her small charges from time to time were not a part of the regular course of study laid out for her grade, and at this pupil's blunt criticism, the teacher's face became scarlet; but she quickly regained her poise, and turning to the school, asked, "how many of you enjoy listening to these myths which i have been reading?" a dozen wavering, uncertain hands went up. the rest remained clasped on their desks. the woman was astounded. "what kind of stories _do_ you like best?" she faltered. "those in the new readers," responded the pupils as with one voice. mechanically miss phelps reached for one of the volumes, and opening it at random, read the new england tale of the pine-tree shillings to her delighted audience. peace tried to center her thoughts upon what was being read, but the lure of the spring sunshine and blue sky was too great to be resisted; and before the story was ended, she was again wandering in realms of her own. down by the river where the pussy willows grew, out in the marshland where the cowslips soon would blow, up the gently sloping hillside, far up where the tall shaft of marble stood sentinel over the grave of her beloved lilac lady, she wandered, planning, planning what she would do when the warm spring sunshine had chased away the frost king for another year. the book closed with a sudden snap, and the teacher demanded crisply, "all who think they can tell the story as well as johnny told us about ganymede, raise your hands." vaguely aware that miss phelps had told them to raise their hands, peace quickly shot one plump arm into the air and waved it frantically. "very well, peace, you may begin." peace bounced to her feet. what was expected of her? why had she raised her hand? "aw, tell her about the pine-tree shillings," prompted boastful johnny in a whisper, and peace plunged boldly into the half-heard story, wondering within herself how she was going to end it respectably when she did not know the true ending because her mind had been wool-gathering. "once there was a man--a man--a man--" blundered the girl, trying in vain to remember whether or not he had a name. "yes, a man," repeated the teacher impatiently. "go on. where did he live and what did he do?" "he lived in olden times," replied peace, grasping eagerly at the suggestion. "well, but in what country? asia or africa?" "neither. he lived in the new england,"--the new england chanced to be martindale's largest furniture store,--"and he was very rich and had a buckskin maiden." "a _what_?" gasped the astonished woman, dropping her book to the floor with a bang. "a--a buckskin maiden," repeated the child slowly, realizing that she had made some mistake, but not knowing where. "buxom," whispered johnny frantically. "a--a bucksin maiden," corrected peace. "buxom!" snapped the teacher irritably. "bucksome," repeated peace, with the picture of a bucking billy goat uppermost in her mind, and wondering how a maiden could be _bucksome_. "go on," sharply. "well, this bucksome maiden wanted awful bad to get married, like all other women do, and so her father found a man for her, but she had to have a dairy--" "dowry," corrected the teacher. "what is a dowry, peace?" "a place where they keep cows," responded the child, sure of herself this time; but to her amazement, the rest of the scholars hooted derisively, and miss phelps said wearily, "peace was evidently asleep when i explained the meaning of that word. alfred, you may tell her what a dowry is." "a dowry is the money and jew'ls and things a girl gets from her father to keep for her very own when she marries." "oh," breathed peace, suddenly enlightened. "well, her father stood her in a pair of scales and weighed her with shingles--" "with--?" miss phelps fortunately had not caught the word. "pine-tree shillings," prompted johnny under his breath. "he had a chest full of 'em." "pine-tree shingles," answered peace dutifully. "he had a chest made of them." "peace greenfield!" miss phelps' patience had come to an end. sometimes it seemed to her as if this solemn-eyed child purposely misunderstood, and mocked at her attempts to lead unwilling feet along the path of learning, and she was at a loss to know how to deal with the sprightly elf who danced and flitted about like an elusive will-o'-wisp. the fact that she was the university president's granddaughter was the only thing that had saved her thus far from utter disfavor in the eyes of her teacher; but now even that fact was lost sight of in face of the child's repeated misdemeanors and flagrant inattention. she should be punished. it was the only way out. drawing her thin lips into a straight, grim line to express her disapproval, miss phelps repeated, "peace greenfield, you may remain after school." the gong rang at that instant, the notes of the piano echoed through the building, and surprised, dismayed peace, after one searching look at her teacher's face and a longing glance out into the bright sunlight, sank into her seat and watched her comrades march gleefully down the hall and scatter along the street. it was too bad to be kept in on such a beautiful day! o, dear, what a queer world it was and how many queer people in it! there was miss phelps for one. she was so strict and stern and sarcastic,--almost as sharp and harsh as miss peyton, who had made life so miserable for poor peace in chestnut school the year before. but miss peyton did begin to understand at last, while miss phelps-- "peace, come here." peace roused from her bitter revery with a start. she had not observed the teacher's noiseless return to the room after conducting her pupils down the hall, and was astonished to find the stiff figure sitting in its accustomed place behind the desk which had once more been whisked into spick and span order for another day. peace scuttled spryly down the aisle, casting one final wistful glance over her shoulder at the doves across the street. how delightful it must be to be a bird! the teacher saw the glance, and putting on her severest expression, demanded sternly, "what is the matter with you, child? have you lost your wits entirely, or--" "o, teacher," the eager voice burst forth, as peace pointed rapturously out of the window, "isn't this the elegantest day? seems 's if winter had stayed twice as long this year as it ought to, and it's been an awful trial to everyone, with its blizzards and drifts. i like winter, too. it's such fun coasting and skating and sleighing and snow-balling. but i've got enough for once. i'm _glad_ spring is here at last." her voice sent a responding joyous thrill through the woman's cold heart in spite of herself. "the ice in the river is 'most all gone, the pussy willows by the boathouse are peeking out their queer little jackets, and the robins are beginning to build their nests in the trees. grandpa says when the birds commence to build, spring is here to stay; and i'm _so_ glad. i've just been aching to go hunting vi'lets and cowslips and 'nemones. we are going to plant a heap of wild flowers on her grave--" "whose grave?" the amazed teacher heard herself asking. "my lilac lady's. it's so bare now. the grass was all dead when she fell asleep last fall, and only the ugly ground shows now--just the size of the bed they laid her in. we're going to cover it with the flowers she liked best, first the wild ones from the woods, and then the garden blossoms--pansies and forget-me-nots and english daisies. i know where the prettiest vi'lets grow,--just scads and oodles of 'em--down by the stone bridge over bartlett's creek in parker; and hicks is going to help us transplant them. only it's too early yet. they aren't even up through the ground now. but it won't take long, with days like this. it's hard to study with spring smelling so d'licious right under your nose. doesn't it make you want to get out and jump rope and play marbles and leap-frog, and--and just jump and skip and _yell_? i can pretty near fly with gladness!" peace turned a radiant face toward the silent woman, and was dismayed to find tears glistening in the cold gray eyes. "oh!" she exclaimed in deep contrition, "what is the matter? did i--what have i said now to make you squall?" "nothing, dear," smiled the teacher, wiping away the telltale drops with a hasty whisk of her handkerchief. "i--i just saw in my mind a picture of the little old cottage where i used to live, and it made me homesick, i think. my head aches, too,--" "then you mustn't let me keep you here," cried the child, forgetting that she had been bidden to remain after school as a punishment for inattention. "you better go right home, drink a cup of good, hot tea, and go to bed. that'll make you feel all right by morning, i know, 'cause that's the way we fix grandpa up when his head bothers. here's your hat and coat. just breathe in lots of air, too. it's pretty muddy under foot to walk very far, but the fresh air will do you good." before the woman could realize how it happened, peace had coaxed her into her wraps, slipped on her own, and hand in hand with the astounded teacher was walking demurely down the muddy street, still chattering gayly. at the corner, faithful allee awaited the coming of her unfortunate sister, and peace, seeing the yellow curls bobbing under the blue stocking cap, gave the teacher's hand a parting squeeze, waved a smiling good-bye, and skipped off beside the younger child as if there were no such a thing as being kept in after school. "o, allee," miss phelps heard her say as they pelted down the avenue, "do you s'pose grandma'll let us go over to evelyn's to play? it's dry enough, i'm sure." "cherry's gone on ahead to find out," allee panted. "they are going to play anti-over,--ted and johnny and all the rest." "goody! i just know grandma won't put her foot down. it's such a lovely day! hear that robin say, 'spring is here, spring is here!' s'posin' we were robins, allee, and had to hunt up horse-hair and hay to build our nests of--" "peace! allee! hurry up. we are already to play," screamed evelyn smiley, leaning over her gate and beckoning wildly to the racing girls. "your grandmother says you can stay till five o'clock. ted's 'it' this time. johnny has a dandy ball, and we are going to play over the house." "oh!" cried peace incredulously, "that's so high!" "all the more fun," answered ted, joining them at the gate. "but we might break some windows." "fiddlesticks! our ball is big and soft couldn't break anything with it. 'tain't like fred's hard rubber one. come on. this is my side of the house. you take the other." the rest of the dozen children gathered on the front lawn scuttled away to the place designated, and the game was on. such laughing and shouting, such running and dodging! once edith smiley, evelyn's aunt, beloved of all the children, came to the window and watched the boisterous, exhilarating frolic with an anxious pucker between her brows. "i am afraid someone will get hurt, mother," she said in answer to the white-haired grandmother's questioning glance. "how can they? seems to me they are playing a very harmless game." "but the house is too high for 'anti-over.' they should have taken the garage." "nonsense! they are developing muscle. watch that peace fling the ball. she can throw almost as well as a boy." "the lawn is so slippery--" "they are nimble on their feet, and the ground is soft." edith retired to her piano practise and the mother resumed her knitting with her usual tranquillity. suddenly above the soft strains of music that filled the house, rose a yell of dismay from a dozen throats outside. "what's happened?" edith glanced apprehensively toward the door. "their ball is caught on the roof," answered her mother, still smiling placidly. "guess their game is over for tonight. well, it is time. the clock is just ready to strike five." edith turned back to the piano, but before her hands had touched the ivory keys, there was a wild, excited, protesting shout from outside that brought her to her feet and sent her flying for the door. "peace, peace! come down. you'll fall! you'll fall!" "johnny gates, take that back! she's not a coward! she couldn't keep the ball from catching in that corner." "oh, peace, never mind the ball. it's johnny who's the coward." "hush! you will confuse her!" edith's voice was low but vibrant, and the screams from the terrified watchers below abruptly ceased. peace had reached the ball wedged in a hollow by the chimney, and with accurate aim, sent it spinning down to its white-faced, tearful owner; but as she turned to crawl back the way she had come, her foot slipped, she wavered uncertainly, and fell with a crash to the roof, rolling over and over in a vain endeavor to stop her mad career, till, with the horrified eyes of the stricken audience glued upon her, she slid over the coping and landed in a crumpled heap on the sodden turf below. then pandemonium broke loose. evelyn burst into uncontrollable sobs, fanny toppled over in blissful unconsciousness, cherry, beside herself with grief, tore down the street to break the direful news to those at home; and the boys danced and pranced in their terror, as they screamed, "she's dead, she's dead! peace greenfield's dead!" for a brief instant, which seemed like eternity to edith smiley, she stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by the very horror of it all. then loyal allee's frenzied scream brought her to her senses, and she saw the golden head bending over the disheveled form in the mud, as the child repeated again and again, "she's _not_ dead! she _can't_ be dead! i won't _let_ her be dead!" swiftly edith knelt beside the pair and sought to lift the older child to carry her into the house. but at her first touch, the brown eyes unclosed, and a roguish smile broke over the white face, as peace looked up at the frightened figures above her and giggled hysterically, "i've often wondered what it would feel like to fly. do you s'pose it makes the birds sick and dizzy every time they make a swoop?" "peace!" gasped edith, "are you hurt?" "no, only things look kind of tipsy 'round here, and my breath has got st. vitas dance." slowly she stretched out her arms and legs that they might see that none of her limbs were broken; but when she attempted to sit up, her lips went white and she fell back on the trampled grass with a stifled groan. "you _are_ hurt, peace greenfield," declared anxious allee, hovering over her like a mother bird over her young. "there's a place in my back," whispered the injured girl faintly. "i guess maybe one of my ribs is cracked." at this moment the distracted president and wild-eyed gail pushed through the knot of children huddled about the fallen heroine, and demanded huskily, "how is she? not dead? thank god! any bones broken?" "nope, grandpa," smiled peace cheerfully. "i just got a _cricket_ in my back, so it hurts a little when i wiggle; but i got johnny's ball, too, didn't i?" "i'm afraid there is something wrong," whispered edith smiley, with a worried look in her eyes, as she made way for the president. "she can't move without groaning." the stalwart man stooped over the outstretched figure and gathered it in his arms, but as he lifted her from the ground she screamed in agony and fainted quite away. thus they bore her home--the president with the still form on his bosom, gail bearing the muddy red stocking cap, cherry and allee bringing up the rear, while a hushed, scared-faced throng of playmates followed at some distance. the next morning the corner seat by the window in miss phelps' room was vacant for the first time that year, and the teacher looked up in surprise when no familiar voice answered, "present," when she called peace greenfield's name. "she fell off the roof of smiley's house," volunteered one scholar. "and broke her back," supplemented another. "what!" shrieked the horrified teacher, with a strange, sickening fear clutching at her heart. the door opened, and the school principal entered the room, looking worn and distraught. "miss lisk," cried the teacher, turning eagerly to her superior, "the children tell me that peace greenfield has fallen from some roof and broken her back." "o, it's not as bad as that," responded the older woman promptly. "she has had a nasty fall and is--hurt. how badly, the doctor is unable yet to say, but we hope she will soon be with us again." lowering her voice so none but the teacher could hear, she added, "the physician is afraid that her spine is injured." "oh!" cried miss phelps, too shocked for further words. "it is too bad such a thing should happen to her," continued miss lisk sadly. "she is such a lovable child, the life of her home." had anyone paid such a tribute to the lively peace on the previous day, her teacher would merely have raised her eyebrows doubtfully; but with the memory of that flushed, joyous face still so vividly before her, and with the sound of the eager, childish prattle still ringing in her ears, she nodded her head in assent, and turned back to the day's duties with a heaviness of heart that was overwhelming. with that restless, active figure gone from its accustomed corner, the sun seemed to have set in mid-day and left the whole world in darkness. chapter ii the scrap-book brigade when peace awoke to her surroundings again, she was lying in the gorgeously draped bed of the flag room with old dr. coates bending over her, and she startled the worthy gentleman by asking in sprightly tones, "well, doctor, how are you? it's been a long time since you've been to call on me, isn't it? do you think i have cracked a rib?" "no, little girl," he answered soberly, but his wrinkled old face brightened visibly at the sound of her cheery voice. "i _think_ you have put a kink in your back." "will it be all right soon?" "we hope so, curly pate." "by tomorrow?" "o, dear, no! not for--days." he could not bring himself to tell her that it might be weeks before he could even determine how badly the little back was hurt. "mercy!" she wailed in consternation, for bed held no charms for that active body. "and must i stay in bed all that while?" "my dear child," he answered gravely, "do you realize that you are the luckiest girl in seven counties tonight?" "how?" she asked curiously, forgetting her lament in her wonder at his words. "it's a miracle that you were not killed outright." "well, johnny dared me." "and you couldn't pass up a dare?" she shook her head. "well, now my girlie must take her medicine." peace looked startled. "i didn't 'xpect to fall," she murmured, and two tears glistened in her big brown eyes. the doctor relented. "there, there, little one," he comforted, "don't feel badly. we'll soon have you up and about--_perhaps_," he added under his breath. so he left her smiling and cheerful, but his own heart was heavy as he descended the stairs after the long examination was ended, a pall of anxiety hung over the whole household when the door closed behind his broad back. peace crippled perhaps for life, perhaps never to walk without crutches again! it was too dreadful to be true. peace,--their gay little butterfly! peace, whose feet seemed like wings! they never walked, but danced along with the lightness of a fairy, tripping, flitting, never still. what a calamity! "but dr. coates says it is too soon to know for certain yet," hope reminded them, trying to find a ray of encouragement to cheer the anxious household, and they seized upon that straw with desperation, gradually taking heart once more, and trying to shake off the dreadful fear that peace would never romp or dance about the house again. and it really seemed as if the white-haired physician's fears were groundless; for after the first few days when the slightest touch made the little sufferer whimper with pain, she seemed to get better. the soreness wore away, the drawn lines around the mouth smoothed themselves out, the rosy color came back to the round cheeks and the sound of the well-known laughter floated from room to room. peace was undoubtedly better, and even dr. coates forgot to look grave as he came and went on his professional calls. "she is doing nicely?" the worried president asked him anxiously two weeks after the accident. "splendidly!" the doctor answered with his bluff heartiness. "far better than i had dared hope. if she continues to improve as rapidly as she has been doing, we will have her on her feet again in a month or two." "a month or two!" gasped peace, when allee, who had chanced to overhear the old physician's words, repeated them to the restless invalid. "why, i 'xpected he'd let me up next week _anyway_!" "the back is a very delicate organism," quoted cherry grandly, always ready to display her small store of knowledge, though she really meant to bring comfort to this dismayed sister. "when it is once injured, it requires a long time to grow strong again. wouldn't you rather spend two or three months in bed than to hobble about on crutches all the rest of your life?" "yes, of course, but--" "well, doctor thought at first that you would never be able to walk without 'em." now that peace seemed well on the road to recovery, the secret fear which had haunted the household ever since the night of the accident took shape in words, and for the first time the invalid learned what a fate had been prophesied for her. "_without crutches?_" she half whispered. "yes." peace lay silent for a long moment while the awfulness of those words burned themselves into her brain. then with a shudder she said aloud, "that's a mighty big thankful, ain't it?--to think i don't have to limp along with crutches! but, oh dear, two months in bed is _such_ a long time to wait! whatever will i do with myself? my feet are just _itching_ to wiggle. i've been here two weeks now, and it seems two years. two months means _eight whole weeks_!" the voice rose to a tragic wail, and grandma campbell, hearing the commotion, hurried across the hall to discover the cause. she glanced reprovingly at the two culprits when the tale of woe had been poured into her ears with fresh laments from the small victims; but instead of scolding, as remorseful cherry and allee expected her to do, she smiled sympathetically, even cheerfully at the tragic face on the pillow, and asked, "supposing you were a little tenement-house girl, cooped up in a tiny, stifling kitchen, with the steamy smell of hot soapsuds always in the air, and you had to lie all day, week in and week out, with not a book nor a toy to help while away the long hours. with not even a glimpse of the world outside to make you forget for a time the cruelly aching back--" "o, grandma, not _really_?" interrupted peace, for something in the sound of the gentle voice told her that this was no imaginary picture which was being drawn. "is there such a little girl?" the white head nodded soberly. "isn't there even any _sunshine_ there?" the brown eyes glanced wistfully out of the window, beside which the swan bed had been drawn, and gloated in the beautiful april sunlight which was already coaxing the grass into its brilliant green dress. "not a gleam," answered the woman sadly. "the buildings are jammed so closely together, and the windows are so small that not a ray of sunlight can penetrate a quarter part of the musty, dingy little rooms." "is that _here_--in martindale?" inquired cherry in shocked tones. "yes, on the north side." "what is the little girl's name?" asked allee, awed into whispers by this sad recital. "sadie wenzell." "how old is she?" was the next question. "just the age of peace." "o, a little girl!" exclaimed cherry. "will she ever get well again?" the sweet-faced woman hesitated an instant. how could she tell the eager listeners that long neglect had made poor sadie's case well-nigh hopeless? then she answered slowly, "we are giving her every possible chance now, dearies. the aid society found her by accident, and got her into the children's ward of the city hospital. she cried with happiness because the bed was so soft and white and clean; and when the nurse carries up her breakfast or dinner, it is hard to persuade the little thing to eat,--she is so charmed with the dainty appearance of the tray." "oh-h!" whispered the three voices in awed chorus. "didn't she have anything to eat in her own house?" ventured allee. "nothing but dry bread and greasy soup all the five years she has laid there--" "five years!" repeated peace in horrified accents. "without any sunshine and green grass and flowers! o, i sh'd think she'd have _died_ before this! didn't she ever go to school and play with other children?" "before she fell from the fire-escape--" "was she hurt in a fire?" interrupted cherry with interest. "no, there was no fire, but the fire-escape was her only playground, for her mother would not let her run the streets with the other ragamuffins of the tenements; and one day she fell and crushed her hip. but before that, she had attended a free kindergarten around the corner and learned her alphabet. her mother has a little education, and she has managed to find time to teach sadie how to read, but that is all the child knows of school." "o," sighed peace, with a sudden yearning for the rambling old school-house, the high-ceilinged rooms, her low seat by the window, and even stern miss phelps, "what a lot she has missed! here i'm feeling bad 'cause school will be out 'fore i am up again, if i have to stay in bed two months longer, and i'll be way behind my classes. but sadie has never had a chance to go to school at all." "yes, dearie, you see how much you have to be thankful for, even if it is two months before you can get out of doors again by yourself. until now, sadie never knew what flowers looked like growing in the ground. i sent her a pot of your hyacinths when the aid made their monthly visit to the hospital, and mrs. cheever was just telling me that the child could not believe they were really alive. it is so sad to find one cheated out of so much in life." "isn't there something else i can send her of mine?" peace anxiously inquired. "i've got so much and she hasn't anything. these puzzles are so stale i don't want to see 'em again and those books--" "suppose you make some scrapbooks to amuse her with at first," suggested mrs. campbell hastily, for when the missionary spirit seized this restless, active body, it never ceased working until she had given away not only all her own treasures, but all those belonging to her sisters which chanced to fall into her hands. "scrapbooks!" cried peace scornfully. "no one but babies cares for them. why, even allee hasn't been int'rested in such things for ages." mrs. campbell smiled inwardly at peace's contempt, but gently persisted, "sadie is too weak to hold heavy books yet, dearie. the puzzles _might_ amuse her, but she tires so easily that i know some small cambric scrapbooks would prove a boon to her just now. i agree with you that she would soon grow weary of looking at mere pictures; but i found some very unique and helpful little books in the attic the other day which might give you some ideas. ned meadows made them one summer for his own amusement while he was confined to his bed with a broken leg. he cut up a lot of old magazines and pasted the articles which interested him into some ancient notebooks grandpa campbell had lying around the house. he was always on the lookout for items concerning electricity, and one book was filled from cover to cover with bits of such news. another contained nothing but jokes which had helped him laugh away a good many minutes; and still another was used for anecdotes of famous men, with perhaps a photograph or caricature to illustrate the little stories. he spent hours cutting and pasting just for his own pleasure and amusement; but without realizing it, he also stored away much useful knowledge in his brain while he was waiting impatiently for the leg to mend. don't you think that would make an interesting play for you?" "ye--s," replied peace dutifully but doubtfully. she was not as fond of reading as were her sisters, and though her grandmother's plan _sounded_ interesting when it concerned someone else, she had her misgivings as to its success when applied to herself. "then let's begin at once," cried mrs. campbell, trying to look intensely eager, as she noted the lack of enthusiasm in the round, cherubic face on the pillow. "we will make our books of cambric, because that will be of lighter weight than paper, and i have stacks of old magazines filled with short stories and bright sayings. cherry, will you please bring me my scissors from the work-basket and that roll of colored cambric on the top shelf in the hall closet? allee, wouldn't you like to run down to the barn and ask jud to bring us those old 'companions' from the loft? here comes hope. just in time, dearie, to fetch us the paste from the library and the pinking iron which gussie was using last evening. we probably won't get as far as pasting anything today, as it is so nearly night now, but we will have everything ready for the time we shall need it." mrs. campbell bustled briskly about, settling the invalid in a more comfortable position, arranging the light bed table where it would be most convenient for peace to reach, and collecting the other necessary material for the "scrapbook brigade," as she laughingly called it, when cherry, hope, allee and jud came marching upstairs again, each bringing a contribution to aid in the good cause. all looked so eagerly enthusiastic and anxious to lend a hand that in spite of herself, peace began to feel a thrill of interest tingle through her veins, and promptly began snipping up the pages which jud dumped on a chair beside her bed. mrs. campbell cut the colored cloth into neat squares, allee pinked the edges, and cherry stitched them into tiny books with card-board covers to protect the pictures and stories so soon to be pasted on their pages. everyone had a task of her own, and the dinner-bell rang before anyone had tired of this new play. indeed, it was with actual reluctance that peace surrendered her shears and saw her cluttered table cleared away for the night. "if it would only last!" sighed mrs. campbell, as she related the day's events to the little family gathered around the table for the evening meal. "but she is not contented with anything long, and will soon weary of this as she has of everything else." "then we must get our heads together and be ready with something new just as soon as we see her interest is flagging. gail, you are the oldest. we will let you have the honor of first turn." "all right, grandpa," smiled gail. "i will do my best." but it was really gussie who accidentally found the next diversion after an unexpected and tragic ending of the scrapbook brigade. cutting, sorting, arranging and pasting proved an amusing occupation for several days, owing to the contagious enthusiasm of the other members of the household, who were constantly bringing in some bright little story, quaint anecdote or interesting bit of information to add to peace's rapidly growing collection. at one time mrs. campbell would suddenly appear on the threshold with her hands filled with colored plates from some magazine article relating to birds or bees, plants or other nature study. again faith would bring in a bundle of laughable incidents gleaned from the "funny" pages of popular magazines; or allee would lay a carefully trimmed bunch of short poems gathered from children's publications upon the white counterpane of peace's bed. and once hope triumphantly displayed a thick package of beautiful illustrations for articles already clipped out for pasting. "where did you get them?" peace demanded. "miss page gave them to me when i happened to mention what you were doing," answered hope, her face glowing with animation as she tenderly turned the pictures one by one for peace to see. "how did she happen to have so many?" "she used them in her english classes when they were studying about lowell and hawthorne and longfellow. see, here is one that illustrates 'the children's hour,' and here is another of 'snow bound.' this is a beautiful picture of hawthorne's birthplace, and here is 'old ironsides.' you don't know much about some of the men yet because you haven't had their poems in school; but you've got stories about everyone of them for your scrapbooks, and if the pictures don't fit, we will hunt up some other articles that will go with them." peace sighed, opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it again; but a rebellious look crept into the brown eyes; and had hope been less enthusiastic over her latest contribution to the scrapbook fund, she might have noticed the determined set of the expressive mouth, and suspected that something unusual was brewing under the brown curls. as it was, no one but peace was prepared for the host of children that marched up the president's front door steps the following afternoon, armed with paste-pots, brushes and scissors, and wearing big pinafores over their school dresses. each demanded to see the invalid, and when ushered into the flag room was promptly set to work sticking pictures onto cambric pages. "this can hardly be a coincidence," thought mrs. campbell, assailed by a sudden suspicion when patient marie had shown the tenth visitor up the winding stairs. "here come three in one bunch. yes, they are turning in at the gate. peace--" the brown eyes glanced up from under their long lashes, and reading in the gentle, old face the unspoken question, peace calmly announced, "grandma, these are the gleaners and their friends. they've come to help me stick scrapbooks. you 'member you said they might have their next meeting at our house?" "but--but that's more than a week off yet," stammered the amazed lady. "the _reg'lar_ meeting day is," peace agreed, "but i was just swamped under with work, so i coaxed miss edith to call a special meeting just a-purpose to stick. they've all brung their own glue and stuff. all we need now is more tables. i was awfully afraid there wouldn't be many come, and i'm so deathly tired of hacking and reading and sorting and pasting all by my lonesome, that for two cents i'd dump the whole business right into the river, sadie wenzell or no sadie wenzell." "why, peace!" murmured the surprised woman in shocked tones. "well, i would," the small rebel persisted. "just as soon as i get one bunch of papers snipped up, in comes jud with a bigger pile, or the girls lug up a lot of truck. i've read till i'm dizzy and cross-eyed, and my wits are worn out trying to 'member all they've seen and heard. i've learned so much _inflammation_ that it will be _months_ before there's any space for any more to sink in. what do you s'pose sadie's going to do with it all? there are a dozen scrapbooks all made and enough stuff cut to fill a dozen more. there goes the bell again. that must be miss edith. i know her ring." abashed at this unlooked-for outbreak, and musing over the abrupt ending of her cherished plans, mrs. campbell hastily withdrew and went to meet the superintendent, whose voice could be heard in cheery greeting from the hall below. just fifteen girls put in appearance at the president's house that afternoon, and for two hours they worked like beavers under the direction of the small tyrant in bed. then peace abruptly commanded, "lay down your brushes now and clear up. it's most dinner time and this room must look all right when grandpa gets here. grandma, will you please bring in the prize?" "the prize?" echoed mrs. campbell in bewilderment. "why, yes. it's that box of bonbons on your shelf. i asked grandpa to get it for me two days ago." "did--did he know what you wanted it for?" she queried. "i don't s'pose he did ezackly," the child confessed. "but i was so afraid no one would want to paste pictures bad enough to come out today, that i promised 'freshments for all and a prize for the one who made the best book and evelyn's got it. evelyn, you better open up the box and treat the rest of us. a choc'lit drop would taste pretty good after working so hard. gussie'll be up d'reckly with the 'reshments. i told her to make a whale of a batch of cookies and gallons of lemonade. we need something after finishing that job. but we've got most of the stuff stuck in somewhere and the books are plumb full. i'm so glad!" and indeed peace was right. scarcely a scrap remained of the huge pile of pictures and clippings which had littered table, dresser and bed a few moments before the scrapbook brigade began to congregate; but more than twenty neatly pasted scrapbooks stood stacked in the corner to dry, and peace was content. chapter iii gussie's new play the day following this unexpected meeting of the gleaners, the invalid spent in slumber, so exhausted was she by her efforts to get the obnoxious books completed and out of the way; but the second day she was herself again and restlessly eager for some new diversion; and here it was that gussie came to the rescue. it had been a hard day for them all. outside the rain poured down in torrents, driven by a cold, fitful wind which seemed more like the blast of winter than the herald of returning spring; and inside even the cheerful glow of the open fires could not dispel the gloom and dampness of the storm without. it is just such a day as makes well folks cross and disgusted, and the poor, unwilling prisoner in the flag room upstairs felt forlorn indeed as she gazed down the deserted, flooded streets and across the soaked, sodden lawns which only yesterday had whispered of the coming of summer. she was tired of reading,--the mere thought of it made her sick--the geographical puzzles which allee and cherry had laboriously cut out for her amusement quacked of school and duty; she could not play games all by herself and grandma was too busy; dolls long since had lost their charm; it was too stormy for callers; and altogether world seemed a dull and cheerless place. even when the girls returned from school the atmosphere did not clear. peace was plainly out of sorts, and it was with a sigh of thanksgiving that the household saw the dismal day draw to a close. the dinner-bell pealed out its summons, and half-heartedly allee pulled out the invalid's little table, covered it with a snowy cloth and sat down beside the bed. it was her turn to eat dinner in the flag room that night. such occasions were usually regarded as a great privilege by this golden-haired fairy, who was a willing slave to every caprice of the brown-haired sister; but tonight she did not care much. peace was so sulky,--not at all her sprightly, cheerful self,--and allee felt out of sorts in sympathy. marie did not at once put in appearance with the usual covered tray, and peace had just reached out an impatient hand to ring the bell when there was a sound of light steps on the stairs, and gussie's smiling face bobbed around the corner. "good evening," she laughed, courtesying so low that the tray she bore tripped threateningly. "what's happened to marie?" demanded peace, ungraciously. then catching sight of the quaint garb the new waitress was wearing, her face lighted expectantly, and she cried in delight, "o, gussie, how'd you come to think of that? ain't that swede dress pretty, allee? 'tis swede, isn't it?" "yes," laughed gussie, perfectly satisfied with the reception of her little surprise. "this is the way women dress in sweden where i was born." "and i'll bet you've got something nice under that napkin, too," peace hazarded, her eyes dancing with their old roguish gleam. "i shouldn't wonder a bit," gussie retorted, setting down the tray before the eager duet and carefully lifting off the white towel which covered it. the girls looked mystified,--a trifle disappointed, it seemed to the watchful cook,--and she hastily explained, "i've brought you a swedish supper." "a--what?" gasped peace, still studying the queer dishes on the tray. "a supper like the boys and girls in sweden eat." "oh-h!" cried both girls in unison. "what fun!" "do they have this every night?" asked allee, privately thinking that if they did she was glad she was an american. "oh, no, not always. this is just a--a sample supper. we have different dishes in sweden just as you do here or in france or england." "then make us another swede supper tomorrow night,--and every night until we've et up all your swede dishes. will you, gussie?" wheedled peace. the older girl hesitated, frowned and said thoughtfully, "you would get tired of them very soon, girlie. lots you would not touch at all. for instance, sour milk and sugar." "no, i shouldn't like that," peace confessed, with an expressive shrug of her shoulders, "but--" "i'll tell you what i'll do," the obliging gussie interrupted. "tomorrow night we will have a french dinner, and you must tell everything you know about france." "oh, how splendid!" both children clapped their hands gleefully. "and next night we'll have a german dinner, and then an italian and a spanish and a denmarkish and a swiss, and a--a--" peace paused to think of some other countries, while gussie stood appalled at the result of her suggestion. but a glance at the glowing face on the pillow was ample reward, and suddenly realizing that she had given the weary prisoner a new and profitable play to occupy the long hours while the girls were away at school, she recklessly promised, "dinners for every country in the world, if we can find out what each nation eats. but mind, you must learn all you can about the people and their land." "it'll be fun to do that," peace answered readily. "i wonder why they don't teach g'ography that way in school. it would be a heap more interesting." thus the long weeks rolled by, and unknown to peace herself, she was not only keeping abreast of her classes in school, but forging ahead in her studies as she had never done before. "it's so int'resting to learn that way," sighed the little prisoner blissfully, after a particularly impressive lesson supper one night. "the only thing is, we're going to run out of countries pretty soon, and then what _will_ we do? already we've reached asia. i ate china last night and india tonight. tomorrow 'twill be japan, and then there is only africa and south america left before we get around the world. they have all been such fun! some countries know how to cook lots better than others. now, i really dreaded getting to china, 'cause the books say chinamen eat roasted rats, and i couldn't bear to think of gussie's dishing up such horrible things as that; but the _slop chewey_ and rice she cooked were simply deelicious. i've always heard a lot about the india folks eating curry, too, and i thought it meant the hair they scratched off their horses with a curry-comb; so i was much surprised when gussie made some for my dinner tonight. it's only soup with some stuff in it that makes it 'most too hot to eat. "i can't imagine what she will give me in africa, 'cause we ain't cannibals, and she never will even hint what's coming next, but i guess she will get around it some way. why, in some countries the people eat horrible things! in west indies they bake snakes and fry palm worms! think of it! ugh, it makes me shiver! the folks in brazil eat ants, and in new caledonia it's spiders. the mexicans cook parrots and eat dynamite. do you s'pose they ever 'xplode? and in france where marie was born they just _love_ snails--raw! i'd as soon eat angleworms myself. my! i'm glad i'm a civilised _huming_ being. course gussie hasn't fed me any of that junk, and it's been lots of fun traveling this way. i wish the world wasn't round, but just stretched away and away. then there'd be room for more countries." "maybe gussie will take you around the world again," suggested allee comfortingly. "you'd better take a trip through the united states next," said cherry, who privately thought peace was having the most wonderful experiences that ever befell mortal man, and rather envied the invalid her easy lot,--for such it really seemed to her. "why, i never thought of that," cried peace, enchanted with the idea. "but how could i, so's it would be as interesting as eating in other countries? we are all americans here and cook the same things." "o, there's lots of difference between our own states," cherry stoutly maintained. "in florida they raise oranges mostly, and cotton in louisiana--" "a person can't eat cotton," peace broke in scornfully. "i didn't say they could," replied cherry as indignantly. "but they grow other things, too. maine has the best apples in the country, grandpa says; and michigan the best peaches. georgia grows sweet potatoes--" "and peanuts," peace interrupted, aglow with animation. "yes, and peanuts," cherry repeated. "california is noted for its grapes, and--oh, every state has _something_ it raises 'specially. it would be as interesting traveling in the united states as in europe, _i_ think." "so do i,--now," peace conceded. "and gussie does make such a splendid teacher! that's what she ought to be all right, 'stead of a cook, though she does know how to cook wonderful things. but i'm glad she has got 'most enough money saved up to take her through normal college. she can poke more real education into a fellow's head in a minute than miss phelps can in a day." so the unique lessons continued, and peace almost forgot at times that she was a prisoner unable to romp and play in the sunshiny out-of-doors which she loved so well. she even whistled occasionally when the play was most interesting; and the members of the household, watching so anxiously over their idol, rejoiced that the color still bloomed in the round cheeks, and the merry sparkle so often danced in the big brown eyes. chapter iv peace learns the bitter truth the school year came to a close, the days grew hotter, the nights brought no relief, and dr. coates, still a daily visitor at the big house, began to look grave again. "what is it?" asked the president, feeling intuitively that something was wrong. "she is not doing as well?" "no." the old doctor shook his head. "the heat?" "possibly,--possibly. but she had stopped mending before the hot wave struck us." "then you think--" "i'm afraid it means that operation i mentioned when she was first hurt." the president turned on his heel and strode over to the window where he stood looking out into the warm, breathless evening twilight. when he wheeled about again, the doctor saw that the strong face was set and white, and great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. "i--i trust you will not be offended, doctor," he said with a catch in his voice, "but i should like the opinion of other physicians--specialists-- before taking that step. you say--it is--a very delicate operation?" "yes," the doctor admitted. "but i am afraid now that it is her only chance. however, it is perfectly agreeable to me if you wish to consult other authorities. i myself would be glad to hear the opinions of specialists." so it happened that a few days later a strange doctor bent over the white bed in the flag room, and when he had punched and poked to his heart's content and peace's abject misery, another physician took his place. "dr. coates said i hadn't cracked a rib," moaned the unhappy victim tearfully, as she saw the second unfamiliar face above her, "but i'll bet that man who just went out has cracked the whole bunch for me. is that your business, too?" "no, my dear," tenderly answered the big, burly specialist, beginning his examination with such a gentle, practised touch that peace scarcely winced throughout the long ordeal. "my business is to mend cracked ribs--also cracked backs. does yours feel very badly cracked?" "all splintered up sometimes," the child promptly admitted. "it gets so bad in the night when there's no one here to rub it that i can't help crying once in a while. i tried to rub it myself the other night, but it took all my breath away and i could hardly get it back again. the bed is so hot! dr. coates said ages ago that i could get up in two months, but it's more'n that now and he shakes his head every time i ask him." "are you then so anxious to get out of this dear little crib?" peace stared hard at the kindly face so near her own, and then ejaculated, "'cause it's a dear little crib doesn't make it any cooler nor any easier to stay tucked in when you are just crazy to be dancing about. why, it's _june_ now! they told me i'd be well so's i could plant the pansies on my lilac lady's grave, seeing as allee had to set out all the vi'lets without any of my help. and now hicks has had to transplant the pansies 'cause they will soon be too big." "tell me all about it," urged the specialist, as if every minute of his time was not worth dollars to him; and peace poured her heart full of woe into his sympathetic ears. when she had finished he abruptly asked, "supposing dr. coates told you that an operation would be necessary before you could get well, would you let him perform it?" "what's a _noperation_?" asked peace inquisitively. "there is something out of place in your back, caused by your fall. it is pressing against the spine and must be lifted up where it belongs before--you can ever--get well." "and can dr. coates lift it up where it b'longs?" peace was breathlessly interested. "yes,--we think so,--we hope so," stammered the doctor, startled by the eager tone of her voice and the quick light in her big eyes. "all right then, we'll have the _noperation_. i'd most begun to think i was going to be like my lilac lady. my legs don't feel any more, and she said hers didn't." "god forbid," muttered the man, who had already lost his heart to the little invalid, and was deeply touched by the pathos of the case; and gathering up his glittering instruments, he hurried from the room. that night a cooling rain washed the fever from the air and the world awoke refreshed from its bath. the hot wave had broken, but to poor peace the cool atmosphere brought little relief. the injured back hurt her cruelly and she could not keep the tears from her eyes. "i knew that first doctor would crack a rib," she sobbed wildly, as the distracted president strove in vain to ease her pain. "why doesn't dr. coates come and _noperate_? o, it does hurt me so bad, grandpa!" laying the child back among her pillows, the stalwart man hastily fled down the stairway, and when he came back dr. coates and a sweet-faced, white-capped nurse were with him. the room across the hall was stripped of its furnishings and scrubbed with some evil-smelling stuff until the whole house reeked with it. then the walls were draped with spotless sheets, and the next morning peace was borne away to the improvised operating room, where only dr. coates, the kindly-faced stranger physician, their young assistant and the nurse were allowed to remain. peace looked about her curiously, murmured drowsily "i can't say i admire your dec'rations," and fell asleep under the gentle fumes of the ether. it seemed hours later when she awakened to consciousness and saw about her the white, drawn, anxious faces of her loved ones. "then i'm not dead yet," she exclaimed with satisfaction. "that's good. did you get my back patched up, dr. coates?" the horrible strain was broken. with stifled, hysterical sobs, the family hurriedly withdrew, and the nurse bent over the bed with her finger on her lips as she gently commanded, "hush, childie, you mustn't talk now. we want you to get some sleep so the little back will have a chance to heal." "can i talk when i wake up?" peace demanded weakly. "yes, if you are very good." "all right. you can go now. i don't like folks to stare at me when i'm asleep. it d'sturbs my slumber." closing her eyes once more, she fell into a dreamless sleep, and the doctors departed, much pleased with the result of their operation. the days of convalescence were busy ones in the campbell household, for it required the combined efforts of family, nurse, doctor and friends to keep the restless patient's attention occupied. st. john and elizabeth came often to the big house, bringing glen or guiseppe or lottie to amuse the prisoner; miss edith laughingly declared that she was more frequently found in the flag room than in her own home; ted and evelyn vied with each other to see which could run the most errands, read the most stories, or propose the most new plays during the long vacation hours; and even busy aunt pen found opportunity occasionally to steal away for a brief visit with the brown-haired sprite who had brought so much joy into her own heart and life. for a time the operation seemed a decided success, the back appeared to be stronger, the pain almost disappeared, and the nurse was no longer needed in the sick room. one day a wheel-chair was substituted for the bed where peace had lain so many weeks; and for the first time since the accident, she was carried out under her beloved trees, where she could watch the flowers bud and blossom, smell their perfume on each passing breeze, and listen to the nesting birds in the branches overhead. but the crutches she had so fondly dreamed of, which were to teach her to walk again, were not forthcoming, and with alarm she saw the summer slip rapidly by while she lay among the pillows in the garden. when she spoke of it to the older sisters, they answered cheerily, "be patient, girlie, it takes a long time for such a hurt to heal," and turned their heads away lest she should read the growing conviction in their eyes. "it's _so_ hard to be patient," she protested mournfully. "you bet i'll never climb another roof." "no," they sighed sadly to themselves, "i am afraid you never will." but the cruel truth of the matter was broken to poor peace at a most unexpected moment. she was resting under her favorite oak, close to the library window, one warm afternoon, planning as usual for the day when she could walk again; and lulled by the drowsy hum of the bees and the soft swish of the leaves above her, she drifted off to slumberland. a slanting beam of the setting sun waked her as it fell across her face, and she sat up abruptly, hardly realizing what had roused her. then she became aware of voices issuing from the library beyond, and allee's agonized voice cried out, "o, grandpa, you don't mean that she will _never_, _never_ walk again? must she lie there all the rest of her life like the lilac lady and sadie wenzell until the angels come and get her? grandpa, must she _die_ like they did?" with a startled gasp, peace leaned forward in her chair, then sank back among the pillows with a dreadful, sickening sensation gripping at her heart. they were talking about her! she strained her ears to catch the president's reply, but could hear only an indistinct rumble of voices mingled with allee's sharp sobs. so the angels had carried sadie wenzell to her home beyond the gates! idly she wondered when it had happened and why she had not been told. it had been one of her dearest plans to visit sadie some day and see for herself how she enjoyed the scrapbooks which had cost peace so much labor and lament. now sadie was gone. "grandpa, grandpa, why couldn't _i_ have been the one to fall and hurt my back?" wailed the shrill voice from the open window. "'twouldn't have made so much difference then, but peace!--o, grandpa, i can't _bear_ to think of her lying there all the long years--" again the voice trailed away into silence, and peace lay stunned by the significance of the words. all her life chained to a chair! all her life a helpless invalid like the lilac lady! the black night of despair descended about her and swallowed her up. they thought her asleep when they came to wheel her into the house before the dew should fall; and as she did not stir when they laid her in the white swan bed, they stole softly away and left her in the grip of the demon despair. so this was what the lilac lady had meant when she had said so bitterly, "you will turn your face to the wall, say good-bye to those who you thought were your friends, build a high fence around you and hide--_hide_ from the world and everything!" the words came back to her with a startling distinctness and a great sob rose in her throat. "what is it, darling?" asked a gentle voice from the darkness, and peace, clutching wildly for some human support in her hour of anguish, threw her arms about the figure kneeling at her bedside, and cried in terror, "o, grandma, i _can't_, i _can't_!" "can't what?" asked the sweet voice, thinking the child was a victim of some bad dream, for she never suspected that peace could know the dreadful truth. "i _can't_ stay here all the rest of my life! i wasn't made for the bed. my feet _won't_ keep still. i _must_ run and shout. o, grandma, tell me it isn't true!" but the gentle voice was silent, and the woman's tears mingling with those of the grief-stricken child told the story. clasping the quivering little body more tightly in her arms, the silvery-haired grandmother sobbed without restraint until the child's grief was spent, and from sheer exhaustion peace fell asleep. then, loosing the grip of the slender hands, now grown so thin and white, she laid her burden back on the bed, and as she kissed the wet cheeks and left the weary slumberer to her troubled dreams, she whispered sadly, "good-night, little peace,--and good-bye. we have lost our merry little sprite. it will be a different peace who wakens with the morrow." chapter v the lilac lady's message mercifully, peace slept long the next morning, and it was not until the sun was high in the sky that she opened her eyes to her surroundings. then it was with a heavy sense of something wrong, and she stared uneasily about her, trying to remember what was the trouble. "i feel as if i'd done something bad," she said half aloud, "but i can't think of a thing." the sound of allee's footsteps creeping softly along the hall and a glimpse of an awed, tear-stained face peering at her from the doorway suddenly recalled to her mind the scene of yesterday, and the bitter truth rushed over her with agonizing keenness. she could never walk again! all her days must be spent in a wheel-chair, a helpless prisoner! the lilac lady was right,--she wanted to turn her face to the wall, to say good-bye to her friends and hide,--hide from the world and everything! "peace," whispered a timid voice from the doorway, where allee had paused, uncertain whether to stay or to depart. the invalid stiffened. "peace, are you awake?" persisted the pleading voice, for the brown eyes stared unblinkingly straight ahead of her, and not a muscle of her tense body moved. "may i come in and sit beside you?" "no!" screamed peace in sudden frenzy, almost paralyzing the little petitioner on the threshold. "_go away!_ you can walk and run and jump, and i never can again. you've got two whole legs to amuse yourself with and mine are no good. get out of here! i don't want to see anyone with legs today--or tomorrow--or ever again!" jerking the pillow slip over her eyes she sobbed convulsively, and allee, with one terrified look at the quivering heap under the bed-clothes, rushed pellmell from the room, blinded by scalding tears. peace had sent her away! peace did not want her,--would not have her any more! it was the greatest catastrophe of her short life to be banished by peace; and stumbling with unseeing eyes down the hall, she ran headlong into the arms of someone just coming up the stairs. "why--" began a husky, rumbling voice, and allee, thinking it was the president on his way to the sick-room, sobbed out, "o, grandpa, she sent me away! she says she never wants to see a pair of good legs again. you better--" "it's not grandpa, little one," interrupted the other voice. "it's i,--st. john. do you think she will let me in? because i have come especially to see her." but a sharp, imperative voice from the flag room answered them. "come back, allee, i'm sorry i don't like the looks of legs today, but i want you just the same,--legs and all." for an instant allee looked unbelievingly up into mr. strong's eyes, as if doubtful that she had heard aright; then as the minister gave her a gentle push toward the door, she bounded lightly away, and when the hill street pastor reached the threshold the two sisters were locked fast in each other's arms. all at once, through the tangle of allee's curls, the brown eyes spied the form of her beloved friend hesitating in the doorway; but instead of looking surprised at his presence, peace pushed the little sister from her and demanded fiercely, as if his being there were the most natural thing in the world, "make faces at me, st. john,--the very worst you know how." "why, my dear--" stammered the young minister, as much amazed at his reception as he could have been had she dashed a cup of water in his face. "why, peace, i don't believe--" "of course you know how to make faces!" she interrupted scornfully. "do you s'pose i've forgotten that day in parker down by the barn? make some now,--the most _hijious_ ones you can think of." there was nothing to do but to comply with her strange whim; so, rumpling up his thick, shining black hair, he proceeded to distort his comely features into the most surprising contortions imaginable. but with the heavy ache in his heart and a growing lump in his throat at the pitifulness of her plight, he was not real successful in diverting her unhappy thoughts, and with a mournful wail of woe she burst into tears. "my child!" he cried contritely, and in an instant his strong arms closed about the huddled figure, and he held her fast, crooning softly in her ear as a mother might over her babe, until at length the convulsive gasps eased, grew less frequent, and finally ceased. there was a long-drawn, quivering sigh, a last gulp or two and peace hiccoughed, "it's no use, st. john. i can't coax up a ghost of a smile from anywhere. i've _thunk_ of all the funniest things that ever happened to me or anyone else; i've scratched my brains to 'member the funny stories i s'lected for sadie wenzell's bunch of scrapbooks; i've even pretended the funniest things i could imagine, but it won't work. i knew if there was a sign of a laugh left inside of me, your horrible faces would bring it out. it did in parker, when i thought i never could smile again. but this time--get your legs out of sight,--under the bed,--anywhere so's i can't see them. i don't like their looks!" had the situation been less tragic, he could not have refrained from laughing at the ludicrous way she bristled up and snapped out her command; but mindful only of the great trouble which had suddenly overshadowed the young life, he hastily tucked his long limbs out of sight under the edge of the bed, slumped as far down in his chair as he possibly could, and fell to energetically stroking the brown curls tumbled about the hot, flushed face, as he vainly tried to think of some comforting words with which to soothe the rebellious, sorrowful child. from below came the sound of a voice singing softly, and though the words were indistinguishable, the three occupants of the flag room caught snatches of the tune peace loved so well, the gleaners' motto song. recalling the days when the brown-eyed child had made the little hill street parsonage ring with this very melody, the preacher unconsciously began to chant, "'when the days are gloomy, sing some happy song, meet the world's repining with a courage strong; go with faith undaunted through the ills of life, scatter smiles and sunshine o'er its toil and strife.'" "well, don't it beat all?" exclaimed peace wearily. "doesn't what beat all?" mildly inquired the pastor, as she made no effort to explain her words. "how some folks will wear a tune to a frazzle," was the disconcerting reply. "there's faith, now, she hasn't played anything for days 'xcept '_carve-a-leery-rusty-canner_!' and when it ain't that it's '_nose-arts snorter_,' or those wretched _archipelagoes_. i'm so sick of 'em all that i could shout when she touches the piano. as for that song you were just droning,--why, everyone in this house seems to think it's the only thing going. there is nothing left of it now but tatters." the preacher had abruptly ceased his humming, and as allee crept quietly from the room to hush the singer below, he suddenly remembered a commission given him by his wife; and fumbling in his pocket, he drew out a small book, daintily bound in white and gold. "elspeth sent you this booklet, dear," he ventured, somewhat timidly, for after two such rebuffs as he had received in his endeavor to cheer the sufferer, he was at a loss to know what to say or do next. "she could not come today herself, but she thought this little story might please you." "thanks," replied peace, dropping the volume on the pillow without a spark of interest in face or voice. "i'd rather have seen her. she has got some sense. books haven't. i've been stuffed so full of stories, i am ready to bu'st." then, as if fearing that she had been rude to this dearest of friends, she added hastily, "but i s'pose there is room for one more. it must be good or elspeth wouldn't have sent it. what is it about?" "it's the story of a little girl named gwen, who fell from--" peace stopped him with a peremptory wave of her hand. "that will do for the present," she said coldly, in such exact imitation of miss phelps that no one who had ever met the teacher could possibly mistake her tone. "i don't like the name. it sounds like 'grin'." the minister rubbed his head in perplexity. never in all his acquaintance with peace had he seen her in such a mood. was this child among the pillows really peace, the sunbeam of this home, the sunbeam of every home she chanced to enter? poor little girl! what a pity such a terrible misfortune should have befallen her! she stirred uneasily, and he hurriedly asked, "would you rather i should go away and leave you alone?" "no! o, no!" she clutched one big hand closer with both of hers, and a look of alarm leaped into her eyes, so heavy with weeping. "it's easier--the pain here," laying one thin hand over her heart, "it's easier with you here. i wish you had brought elspeth." "she will come some other day," he answered gently, glad to see a more natural expression creep over the white face, though his heart ached at the sorrowful tone of her voice. "what would you like to have me do? talk?" "yes, if you've anything int'resting to say," she murmured drowsily. "and if not?" for he saw that it would be only a matter of minutes before she would be in the land of nod again. "then just hold me. i'm tired," she answered wearily. so he sat and held her on her pillows until her regular breathing told him that she was fast asleep, when, laying her back upon the bed, he left her with a heavy heart. "i never dreamed that a child so young could take it so hard," he confided to his wife in troubled tones when he had told her the whole sad story. "she seems to have grown old in a night." "poor little birdie," elizabeth tenderly murmured, stroking the dark hair from her sleeping son's forehead as she laid him in his crib for his nap. "why did they tell her so soon? the family themselves haven't grown accustomed to the meaning of it yet." "no one knows how she learned it, elspeth. she was asleep under the trees when the president came home with the sad news. he had been to consult that famous specialist about the child's condition when the surgeon told him that the case was hopeless, so far as her walking again is concerned. he was so unmanned by the verdict that he blurted it out to mrs. campbell immediately upon his return home, and the girls overheard it. but peace was out-of-doors all the while. she didn't waken for dinner; but when everyone was in bed, mrs. campbell heard her crying, and went to discover what was the matter. they are terribly broken up about the whole affair. it seems wicked to say so, but had the accident happened to any other of the sisters, it would not have seemed so dreadful. what is _peace_ ever going to do without those nimble, dancing feet?" "our peace will surprise us yet," prophesied the little wife hopefully. "this experience won't down her, hard as it seems now, if she is made of the stuff i think she is." but as the days rolled by in that afflicted household, it really seemed as if they had lost their engaging, winsome little peace for all time, so changed did the invalid grow. nothing suited her, everything annoyed. the girls talked too much or were too silent; the servants were too noisy or too obviously quiet; the president's shoes clumped and his slippers squeaked; mrs. campbell always pulled the curtains too low or not low enough. the dogs' barking fretted her, the singing of the canary made her peevish, even the cat's purring brought forth a protest; but as soon as the unreasonable patient discovered that all the pets had been banished on her account, she demanded them back. however, the long-suffering members of the family could not find it in their hearts to chide, and they redoubled their efforts to make their little favorite forget. those were gloomy days in the campbell household, for they sadly missed the merry laughter, the gay whistle, the unexpected pranks and frank speeches of this child of the sunshine and out-of-doors. at first they had tried to be cheerful and full of fun in the sick-room, hoping to win back the merry smile to the white lips; but peace resented this attitude, and straightway they ceased their songs and laughter, only to have her demand them again. unhappy, capricious peace! "why don't you play on the piano any more?" she inquired of faith one afternoon, when it was that sister's turn to amuse the invalid for an hour or two. "do you want me to?" cried faith eagerly, for her fingers were just itching to glide over the ivory keys. "of course,--s'posing you play something pretty." so faith took her place at her beloved instrument and dashed into a brilliant, rattling jig which had always been a favorite of the brown-haired sister. but she had played scarcely a dozen measures when a shrill, imperious voice from above shrieked, "don't play that! o, stop, stop! can't you see it's got _legs_?" "legs?" wondered faith, her hands poised in mid air, so abruptly had she ceased her playing. "there's a million pair of legs to that tune and every one of 'em can dance. play something without legs." the utter ridiculousness of the complaint did not occur to faith, but with an unusual display of patience, she tried air after air, hoping to find something which might satisfy the childish whim of the lame sister, only to be rewarded at last by a peevish call, "you may as well give it up, faith. they've _all_ got legs." the entire family was at their wits' end. no one had a sane suggestion to offer, and their hosts of friends were in the same predicament. when it seemed as if something must surely give way under the strain, peace suddenly subsided into a state of utter indifference to her surroundings, more alarming to her loved ones than had been her peevish, unreasonable demands. nothing interested her, books she loathed, conversation bored her, neighborly calls from her dearest friends wearied her, she no longer yearned for the sunshine and flowers of the garden; indeed, she showed no desire to be out-of-doors at all, but lay day after day in the wheel-chair by the balcony window, staring with somber, unseeing eyes out over the river. nothing family or friends could do roused her from her apathy, and despair descended upon the household. must this little life which they loved so dearly fade away before their eyes, and they helpless to prevent? "o, donald," sobbed mrs. campbell, clinging desperately to her husband's strong arm, "i cannot bear it, i cannot bear it! she takes it so hard! it is torture to watch her suffer so. our precious peace!" "if only her st. elizabeth could come to her!" sighed the baffled president. but it was not her beloved saint of the parsonage who saved the day. it was her lilac lady, now sleeping under the sod of the wind-kissed hillside, and aunt pen was her messenger. it was a breathless, sultry afternoon in late summer when the sweet-faced matron of oak knoll turned in at the president's gate and sought out the invalid lying motionless under the oak trees where the fierce heat had driven her. the little face among the pillows was no longer rosy and round; blue veins showed at the temples, the lips were colorless, the eyes hollow; the hands, once so brown and strong, were thin and waxy-white; the whole body lay inert,--lifeless, it seemed; and a pang of fear gripped the gentle heart brooding so tenderly over the poor wrecked life. "are you asleep, darling?" she whispered softly, touching with light fingers the clustering rings of dark brown which covered the shapely head. the mournful eyes opened dully, and peace murmured parrot fashion, "good afternoon, aunt pen. i hope you keep well these hot days. you must take care of yourself, you know." secretly amazed, the woman merely stooped and kissed the white face, as she settled herself comfortably in a nearby chair and cheerily answered, "yes, i am well, dear, and all the little birdlings are, too. i intended to bring giuseppe and his violin this afternoon, but--" "it's just as well you didn't," interrupted the other voice in lifeless tones. "prob'ly _his_ music has legs, too, and i haven't any use for such things these days." "but he had promised to play for a dear old lady at the home," continued aunt pen, as if she had not noticed the interruption. "so i brought you--" "some more magazines," again broke in peace, perceiving the gay covers in the woman's hand. "that was very kind of you i'm sure, but i have a whole libr'y at my--at my _de_-mand. so you put yourself to a lot of trouble all for nothing." "this is a different kind of magazine from any you have," replied the woman soberly, though sorely tempted to smile at the stilted, unnatural tones of her little favorite. "is it?" just a spark of interest flickered in the somber eyes. "why, i thought i had the whole c'lection already. folks seem to think i don't want to do anything but read, and they keep the house pretty well filled up with magazines, old and new. last week i had allee telephone to the salvation army to come and get them. but it didn't do any good,--we've had as many more brought in since." "this is the one your lilac lady was reading when she--fell asleep," said aunt pen gently, a little catch in her voice as she thought of peace, doomed to spend the rest of her days in a wheel-chair, just as that other girl, the lilac lady, had done. "oh! and you brought it to me! i sh'd think you would want to keep it yourself." "i did, dearie. i laid it away among my treasures, but today i chanced upon it, and in turning the pages, i caught a glimpse of a slip of paper written on, in her handwriting. i had not examined the book since the day i picked it up from the floor beside her chair; but this morning i drew out the scrap she had written and found a little message for you--" "for me?" incredulous surprise animated the white face. "yes, dear. some verses she had written that last hour,--not even complete. i know she intended them for you. perhaps she felt that she would be--asleep--before you came, so she wrote a little message for you, peace, but i never found it until today. would you care to have me read it to you?" "let me read it, please." peace snatched the paper eagerly and with jealous eyes scanned the simple stanzas penned so many months ago for just that very moment. "up the garden pathway, light as the morning air, singing and laughing gayly, a child with face so fair dances with arms outreaching, her eyes ashine with glee, nor pauses until she reaches the chair 'neath the old oak tree, where, chained by mortal weaknesses, i lie from day to day waiting my darling's coming.-- ah! could i keep her alway!-- child of flowers and sunshine, child of laughter and love, peace,--a god-given blessing, straight from the heavens above, bringing the breath of the woodland, the perfume of sun-kissed flowers, the freshness of vagrant breezes, the sweetness of cooling showers; bringing the thrilling music of skylarks and forest birds, heart-healing, soul-cheering measures, wondrous songs without words. peace,--oh, how can i tell it?-- the marvelous peace you have brought, the wonderful lessons of living your generous spirit has taught, easing the burden of sorrow, soothing the sharp sting of pain, bringing fresh aspirations,-- my peace gives me _hope_ again!" once, twice, three times she read the lines. then turning puzzled, wondering eyes upon aunt pen, she whispered eagerly, "what does it all mean, please? did she really feel that way, aunt pen? did i scatter sunshine after all? was she happier when i was with her? o, did i--make her--forget?" "more than you will ever know," answered the woman warmly, squeezing the thin fingers lying across her knee. "you brought back the sunshine she thought had gone out of her life forever. you gave her something to live for, something to do, made life seem worth while. o, my little peace, it is just as the poem tells you,--you gave her _hope_!" for a long time the child lay lost in thought, and only the faint rustling of the leaves overhead broke the stillness. then she said sadly, glancing down at the useless feet in their gay slippers, "but i had my legs _then_." "you have your smile now. a happy heart is worth more than a dozen pair of legs, dear. it was your merry voice, your gay laughter, your joyous nature that cheered your lilac lady. surely you didn't lose all those when you lost the use of your feet!" peace smiled ruefully. "you'd have thought so if you had lived with me since i got hurt," she confessed. "i don't believe it," aunt pen vigorously contradicted. "our real peace, our little sunbeam has just been hiding under a dark cloud all this while. she is coming back to us her own gay self some day,--soon, we hope." "do you b'lieve that?" peace eagerly demanded. "i know it," the woman answered with conviction. "but s'posing i have really forgotten how to laugh and--and whistle, and be nice?" "pshaw! as if you could have forgotten all that, dear! but even then, it is never too late to learn, you know." "that's so. and maybe after a bit it would be easier. i--guess i'll--try to learn--again, aunt pen. may i keep this little poem so's i won't forget any more? it's really mine, for she wrote it for me, didn't she?" "yes, indeed, darling. that's your message. you helped your lilac lady, and now she is going to help you." chapter vi the parsonage twins "peace, peace, guess what's happened!" allee tore across the smooth, green lawn as if racing for her life; and cherry, following hard upon her heels, panted protestingly, "i'm going to tell her. it's my right. i heard what he said first." "i don't care if you did," retorted allee. "i reached her chair first. so now!" it was just a week since aunt pen's visit to the president's house, but already a remarkable change had come over the little invalid in her wheel-chair prison. the dull indifference had disappeared from the thin face, the hopeless look from the somber eyes; and though there was still a sadly pathetic droop to the once merry mouth, she seemed to have shaken off the deadly apathy which had gripped her for so long, and to have taken a fresh hold upon life again. true, it was hard work to smile and look happy with the dreadful knowledge tugging at one's heart that one must be a helpless cripple for the rest of her days, but the first smile had made it easier for the second to come, and gradually the old merry disposition came creeping back. aunt pen was right,--her real self had only been in hiding, and with the lifting of the cloud the sunshine of that gay spirit burst forth again. she was tired of being idle, and with characteristic energy that very morning had surprised and delighted the whole household by demanding something to do,--some real work with which to fill the long hours. and miss smiley had promptly suggested indian baskets, spending many precious minutes of a busy forenoon teaching the weak fingers how to weave. peace was a-tingle with pride over her accomplishment, especially when she was told of its possibilities and scope; and straightway began planning to send her first finished product to the state fair which was to open its gates soon. so as she wrestled with the damp raffia sad willow sticks after miss edith had left her, she so far forgot her trouble that the old, familiar laugh bubbled up to her lips, and once she paused in her work to answer a trilling bird in the branches overhead. she was all alone on the wide, shady lawn, and so engrossed in her own thoughts that she never heard the chug-chug of a motor-car gliding up the river road, nor saw the black-frocked figure leap nimbly from the machine and scurry up the walk to the kitchen door, as if in too big a hurry to enter the house in the proper manner. but she did hear the boisterous shouts of cherry and allee a few moments later, as they burst through the screen door and raced through the short, sweet clover toward her, each clamoring to tell her the news which stuck out all over them. "i reached her first!" allee repeated, waving the older sister off. "pig!" returned cherry. "you always--" "tut, tut," interrupted a voice from behind, in tones of mock severity. "are you girls _quarreling_? i'm ashamed of you. peace, what is it all about?" mr. strong, light of step and radiant of face, appeared on the scene by another path; and peace, flinging down the raffia basket which her busy fingers were weaving, stretched out eager arms in welcome. "it's something they both wanted to tell me, st. john, but they stopped to scrap about it, and i hain't heard what it is yet." "bet you meant to steal my thunder, didn't you?" he turned merry, accusing eyes upon the pair of culprits, and they flushed guiltily. "but you just aren't going to do it this time. _i_ shall tell her myself. it is my news, you know." both heads bobbed solemnly, and peace, excited and not understanding, cried imperiously, "tell me quick. i'm half dead with curiosity. has old tortoise-shell got some more kittens or--say, you haven't put glen in _pants_ yet?" "no," he laughed delightedly and the two sisters giggled in glee. "guess again. it happened last night." "somebody sent you a present?" "the most wonderful gift!" "two of 'em," put in impatient allee, but the minister held up a warning finger, and she quickly subsided. "two!" repeated peace, much mystified. "what _can_ they be? oh, i know--monkeys!" for ever since the day that peace had brought the sick, half-dead monkey home to the parsonage, it had been glen's fondest dream to own one himself. "no!" mr. strong and the other two girls exploded in a gale of laughter. "give it up then," peace promptly retorted. "i mightn't guess in a hundred years and i'm fairly bu'sting to know." "well, girlie, the angels brought us two little babies last night for our very own. two! think of it!" "twins!" gurgled allee, ecstatically hopping from one foot to the other. "both girls!" added cherry, hugging herself from sheer joy at being part bearer of the glad tidings. "truly, st. john?" asked peace, almost too amazed for words. "truly, my lady." "well, what do you think of that! i bet you were s'prised. now weren't you? what do they look like? are they pretty?" "i can't say they are very beautiful to look at yet," admitted the fond father. "they resemble scraps of wrinkled red flannel more than anything else just now. but they will improve. glen did, and he was a caution to took at when he was a day old." "are they big or little?" "neither is very large, but one is tinier than the other,--weighs only four pounds. she isn't such a brilliant scarlet as her sister, and we _think_ she will have dark eyes and black hair. the reddest one has blue eyes now, is bald-headed, and possesses a most excellent pair of lungs. the tiniest one has cried only once so far, but its twin makes up for it." "what are their names?" the three girls hung breathlessly on his answer. "that's one reason i am here now," the minister replied gravely. "elspeth and i couldn't discover any suitable names for the twinnies, so she sent me down here to consult with peace--" "o--ee!" squealed the girls. "mercy!" whispered peace in awed amazement. "does she really want _me_ to name her babies?" "shouldn't you like to?" "o, so much! but most mothers would thank other folks to let them do their own naming. or, if the mothers didn't mind, prob'ly the children themselves would kick when they grew up. there was our family, for one. grandpa greenfield named the most of us, and see what a job he made of it. he went to the bible for us, too." the minister's lips twitched, but peace was so very serious that he dared not laugh; so, after an apologetic cough behind his hand, he suggested politely, "then suppose we arrange it this way,--if the first names you select don't suit, we will tell you so, and you can pick out some others." "o, don't i have to think them up today? i s'posed you would want 'em right away. grandpa named us the first time he looked at us, gail says." "well, we needn't be in such a big hurry as that, girlie. it took us a month to decide what we should call our boy, and if you want that long a time, take it." "i don't think i shall," she replied, viewing her unusual and unexpected privilege with serious eyes. "not being a mother or a father, i don't expect it will take me more'n a few days to find very pretty names." then, as if struck by an important thought, she asked, "but how will you _christian_ them, s'posing i don't hit on some likely names before a month is up?" "christian them!" "yes. like they did tommy finnegan's baby brother. he was only seven days old, but he had to have a name before the priest could christian him." "oh!" mr. strong was enlightened. "there is no set time in our church for christening babies, dear. we call it baptizing in our church, and sometimes parents don't have their children baptized until they are old enough to understand for themselves what it means." "then you won't be having the twins chris--baptizzened for some time yet!" "no, probably not until children's day--" "why, that's already gone by! there won't be another until next summer!" "next june. but that is usually the time we perform that ceremony in our church, although any other time is just as good." "well, i'll have your children named by that time,--don't you fret. allee, won't you bring me 'hill's evangel' from the library? i 'member that has strings of names in it." "'hill's manual,'" corrected the preacher, picking up his hat and preparing to depart. "is it? st. john says it is 'hill's emanuel,'" she called after the fleeing sister. "it's a big dirty-red book and you will find it in the furthest corner of the bookcase on the next to the lowest shelf. why, st. john, must you hustle away so soon? you've hardly got here yet. perhaps i could have some names ready for you to take home with you if you'd wait a while longer." "thanks, peace," he bowed courteously. "but i must hurry home and mind the kiddies. there is no one there to look after them and elspeth except the nurse and aunt pen. i told them i shouldn't be gone but a few minutes, and here it is almost an hour. good-bye, peace. good-bye, cherry. i'll come again soon." "good-bye, st. john, and next time bring the twins with you." "o, peace," gasped allee, who was just returning with the heavy book in her short arms, and overheard the sister's parting admonition; "they're too fresh yet. grandma says it will prob'ly be several weeks 'fore they get taken anywhere." the preacher, convulsed with laughter, glanced back over his shoulder and seeing the look of disappointment in the brown eyes, rashly promised, "this shall be the first place they visit, girlies, and we'll bring them just as soon as they are old enough." so he swung out of sight down the driveway, and peace turned to her delightful task of finding suitable names for the little strangers at the parsonage. "they ought to begin with the same letter," suggested cherry, wishing it had fallen to her lot to name a pair of twins, "like hazel and helen bean." "or else rhyme with each other," put in excited allee, thinking it a most wonderful privilege which had been granted peace, "like pearl and beryl whittaker." "or they might suggest the same thing," ventured hope, who had heard the good news and had come out to see what progress the favored sister was making. "for instance, opal and garnet ordway. the opal and the garnet are precious stones, you know." "_these_ twins are precious babies," interrupted peace in decided accents, "and we shan't call them such heathenish names as stones. this book, now, has a long line of names,--here it is,--and there ought to be some pretty ones amongst them, though i can't say the _a's_ sound very nice. there is only one decent one in the bunch and that's abigail." hope, leaning over the back of her chair, scanned the list beginning with _a's_ and thoughtfully read aloud, "abigail, achsa, ada, adaline, addie, adela, adelaide, adora, agatha, agnes, alethea, alexandra, alice, almeda, amanda, amarilla, amy, angeline, anna, annabel, antoinette, augusta, aurelia, aurora, avis,--that last one isn't so bad--" "it isn't so good, either," peace retorted. "it sounds like the thing you fall into when you tumble off a steep mountain. i wouldn't want a baby of mine called that." "abyss, you mean," suggested hope, when the other sisters looked mystified. "no one else would ever think of such a thing." "no one else needs to. i'd do thinking enough for all if i tacked such a name on a little baby that couldn't help itself." it was very evident that peace had taken a deep dislike to the name, so hope said no more, and they turned their attention to the next letter with no better success. peace was too critical to be easily satisfied, and when the whole list had been thoroughly considered several times, she sighed, "there is only one nice name on the page." "and that is--?" hope ventured. "elizabeth." "but that is mrs. strong's name!" all three chorused. "don't i know it? and can't a baby be named for its mother? gail was. the only trouble is there is no other pretty name to go with it. nothing rhymes with it, and none of the other _e's_ are nice enough." "hasn't mrs. strong a sister named esther?" asked cherry, consulting the list again. "ye--s, but since i knew esther kern, i've lost my liking for that name. i can't bear to think of one of those lovely twins growing up into such a pug-nosed, freckle-faced sauce-box." "well, here is 'evelyn,'--that is pretty enough, i'm sure." "and evelyn smiley would say the baby was named for her. i'd sooner call it peace, and be done with it." "then how about edith, for miss smiley?" "it's too short. elizabeth has four pieces to it, and it wouldn't be fair to give less than four to the other one." so the search for a name went on, and each succeeding day found peace no nearer her goal. whenever the busy pastor appeared for a brief chat, she had to own defeat, and beg for a little more time. one day a brilliant thought occurred to her, and the next time the preacher's shining black head appeared at the gate he was greeted with the excited yell, "what is elspeth's middle name? it isn't right to call one baby after its mother and the other after nobody." "elspeth has no middle name--" "neither have i," sighed peace. "when i marry, my middle name will be greenfield, but until then i haven't got any." "that's the way with elizabeth." "i was afraid it would be, but i hoped she would be more fortunate than me." another idea buzzed through her brain. "what's _your_ middle name? maybe we could make something out of that." "i am afraid not," he smiled. "i was named john solomon, after my two doting grandfathers." "solomon!" she echoed in great disappointment. "mercy! i wouldn't name a cat that!" "neither would i," he agreed quite cheerfully, and peace returned to the much thumbed 'hill's manual' once more to consider the list of _e's_. "i've a notion to call the tiniest one evangeline," she mused. "it's exactly as long and almost as pretty. only it sounds so much like these preachers that get up and rage and dance all over the pulpit while they are trying to think of what they meant to say. i should hate to think of either twin growing up to be a woman preacher, 'specially the tiniest one. i always wanted to call _her_ elizabeth, 'cause she is so much gooder than the tiny one, but st. john says she has dark eyes. elspeth's are blue, so it ought to be the blue-eyed baby that's named for her, i s'pose, even if it does cry more. mercy, in another two days the month will be up, and i _must_ have those names by then. it's hard work always to say the tiny one and the tiniest one." again she fell into a brown study, but two days later found her as undecided as ever, and she concluded to ask for just one more week in which to make up her mind. however, when mr. strong appeared for his brief visit that morning, his face looked so sadly grave as he bent over the crippled child to give her his usual kiss of greeting that she cried apprehensively, "what's the matter, st. john! has anything happened to the twins?" "one of them--the tiniest one--flew away with the angels last night," he answered simply, turning his face away that she might not witness his grief. for a moment his reply dazed her; then she threw both arms about his neck, and burst into tears, sobbing as if her heart would break, while he dumbly sought to soothe her sorrow, by cuddling her head on his shoulder and rubbing his quivering cheek against hers, for he could not trust his voice to speak. the first outburst of grief over, peace shook the tears from her eyes, loosened her strangling grasp about his neck and gulped, "well, that makes the naming of them easier, doesn't it, st. john! i was so fussed up to find something nice enough to go with elizabeth, but now we'll just call the tiniest one 'angel baby' and be glad that god didn't lug off both twins. but oh, i do wish he had waited a little while longer until i could have seen the two live twins." so they comforted each other, and when the grave-eyed minister left her a few moments later, she was smiling ever so faintly, while the heaviness of his heart had lifted a bit, and he felt better for the child's sympathy. sitting alone in her chair under the trees after the tall, black-frocked figure had disappeared down the avenue, peace suddenly heard the voice of mrs. campbell through the library window saying in troubled tones, "i really ought to go up to the parsonage myself and see mrs. strong in person. she would appreciate it more than anything else, but it is utterly impossible to go today, with that board meeting to attend to. i suppose i might write a little note of condolence now and make my call tomorrow, but such things are so stiff at best--" abruptly peace remembered that she had sent no message by st. john to her sorrowing elspeth, and with feverish eagerness she caught at her grandmother's suggestion of a note, turning to the table beside her chair where lay the dirty-red book which she had consulted so often during the past few weeks. "i'll write her, too," she decided. "there are some lovely _corndolences_ in this 'manual,' and i wouldn't for the world have her think i didn't care terribly bad because one of her babies has died." with impatient fingers she turned the worn and ragged pages until she found the section she was seeking. then pulling out pen and paper, she laboriously copied one of the stilted, old-fashioned epistles printed under the title of "letters of sympathy," and despatched it, hidden under a beautiful spray of white daisies and fern, to the little parsonage on the hill. elizabeth herself received the badly blotted missive, and with startled, mystified eyes, read the incongruous words penned by that childish hand. "my dear friend,--i realize that this letter will find you berried in the deepest sorrow at the loss of your darling little angle baby, and that words of mine will be intirely inacqueduct to assawsage your overwhelming grief; yet i feel that i must write a few words to insure you that i am thinking of you and praying for you. if there can be a coppersating thought, it is that your darling returned to the god who gave it pure and unspotted by the world's temptations. the white rose and bud i send (jud says there haint any in blossom, so i'll have to take daisies) i trust you will permit to rest upon your darling's pillow. with feelings of deepest symparthy, i remain, dear friend, yours very sincerely, peace greenfield." on the other side of the inky sheet were scrawled a few almost illegible lines, "my darlingest st. elspeth, i have neerly squalled my heyes out because st. john says your angle baby has flewn back to heaven and i wanted it to stay. but i am glad you have got another twin so the little crib st. john told us about won't be all empty and you will still have one reel live baby to rock to sleep besides glen. this note of corndolence on the other page is the best i could find. all the others were too old. this one fits pretty well, but i had to change it a little, and even now it is stiff like grandma says all notes of corndolence are. but i guess you will know i am as sorry as can be, for i love you and want you to be happy. your peace." and elizabeth, looking with tear-dimmed eyes from the bungling little note to the lovely, snow-white daisies in the box, was strangely comforted. chapter vii an endless chain of letters peace closed the magazine with a reluctant sigh. "that," she said with decided emphasis on the pronoun, "is a good story. if all _orthers_ wrote like that, 'twould make int'resting reading." "what was it about?" asked allee, looking up from a gorgeous splash of water-colors which she was pleased to call a painting. "about a girl named angelica regina, who started an endless chain of letters to help the ladies' aid of her uncle's church c'lect scraps for silk quilts." "did the ladies ask her to?" "mercy, no! they didn't have an idea that she'd done such a thing, and they kept wondering where in the world all those scraps were coming from. fin'ly it got so bad that the post office man was real mad and the husbands of the ladies' aid got mad, and the ladies themselves got mad and wouldn't take any more bundles that came through the mail. 'twasn't till then that anyone knew 'bout the endless chain of letters. but at last one lady s'spected angelica regina had done the whole thing, and she made her own up to it." "what is an endless chain of letters? i can't see how she worked it." "why, don't you 'member the letter hope got last christmas asking her to write five more just like it and send them to friends of hers?" "well, but that's only five letters." "yes, 'twould be if it stopped there, but each of those five people had to write five letters more and give them to _their_ friends. five times five is twenty-five, and then those twenty-five would write five letters. don't you see how it would keep growing till there would be hundreds and hundreds of letters written?" allee nodded solemnly, and peace fell into a brown study. presently she announced decidedly, "i b'lieve i'll do it. i like the scheme." "do what? what scheme?" inquired allee, somewhat absently, as she critically surveyed her brilliant splotch of color, and wondered if she had added enough red to her sunset. "i'll start an endless chain myself." "what do _you_ want silk scraps for?" allee's brush fell unheeded from her hand, and the blue eyes shot an amazed glance up at the figure in the wheel-chair. "i don't want any silk scraps, but i can ask for something else, can't i?" "what shall you choose?" allee was now alive with curiosity. "well,--i don't really know--just yet," peace was obliged to confess. "it wouldn't be right to ask 'em each for a dime, like hope's letter did, to _endower_ a hospital bed, 'cause i haven't got the bed, and anyway i don't need money. grandpa's got enough for us all. now if we'd just known of this plan in parker, p'raps we could have paid off our mortgage without any trouble." "but then grandpa wouldn't have found us, and we prob'ly would still be living in the little brown house on that farm," responded allee, with a frown. "that's so. i hadn't thought of that. well, it can't be money that i'll ask for, and i don't want silk scraps. just now i can't think of a thing i want real bad which grandpa can't get for me,--'nless it is buttons." "buttons!" repeated allee, wondering if peace had lost her senses altogether. "what do you want buttons for? what kind of buttons? ain't your clothes got enough buttons on 'em now? grandma--" "sh!" peace cautioned, for in her surprise allee had unconsciously raised her voice almost to a yell. "i don't mean that kind of buttons. i mean fancy ones just for a c'lection." "but what good will a c'lection of _buttons_ be?" demanded allee, more puzzled than before. "what can you use 'em for?" "what can you use any c'lection for?" sarcastically retorted peace, exasperated at the little sister's stupidity. "what does henderson meadows use his c'lection of stamps for? just to brag about and see how many more kinds he can get than the other boys." "but--i never heard of such a thing as a c'lection of _buttons_," persisted allee, privately worried for fear peace was going crazy. "no one that i know has got one." "they will have as soon as i get mine started," the other girl stoutly maintained. "you wait and see." allee shook her head doubtfully and slowly reached out her hand for her gorgeous sunset which strongly resembled a rainbow in convulsions. "you don't seem to like the plan," suggested peace, more than ever determined to make the venture, just to prove to this skeptical creature that she knew what she was talking about. "i--don't think--it will work," replied truthful allee. "well, i'll show you. miss edith said when she was a girl it was a fad one winter to see who could get the biggest and prettiest string of buttons, and when i was telling grandma she laughed and said they had the same thing a-going when she was a girl." "but i don't see any sense to it," protested the younger sister, still unconvinced. "i never saw a c'lection yet that had any _sense_ to it, when it comes to that," peace reluctantly admitted. "what _sense_ is there in saving up a lot of dead bugs like cherry's been doing all summer, or a bunch of horrid, nasty, dirty old pipes, like len abbott was so proud of; or even all those _queeriosities_ that judge abbott kept in his library and said was worth so much money! i ain't a-going to do it for the _sense_ there is in it, but it'll be awful lonesome for me when you girls go back to school this fall, 'specially as the doctor says i mustn't have a teacher of my own yet, and i can't do any real studying all by myself." privately, peace was much pleased with this verdict, but she thought it unnecessary to say so. "that's why i thought it would be a good plan to get something like this started which would help fill up the time while you and cherry were shut up in school, and grandma was too busy to pay attention to me." allee's antagonism and skepticism vanished as if by magic. she had opposed this beautiful plan which would mean so much to her crippled sister! in deepest contrition she enthusiastically proposed, "let's write the letter now and send it off so's your answers will begin coming in as soon as they can. i guess i didn't 'xactly see what you meant at first. i think it'll be a nice plan." "all right," peace replied, quick to take advantage of favorable circumstances. "you get the paper and ink. i've used mine all up out here. and say, s'posing we keep this endless chain plan a secret among our two selves. you can have half the buttons that come in; but if cherry should know, she would prob'ly want a share, too." "maybe 'twould be better," allee agreed, as she ran away to the house for writing materials. then began the task of composing a letter which should cover their wants; but so many obstacles presented themselves to the inexperienced writers, that the afternoon had waned before a satisfactory epistle had resulted. "there," sighed peace at length, "i guess that will do. it is short enough so's it won't take anyone long to make five copies, and it's long enough so's no one can be mistaken about what we mean. i wish i knew whether hope kept the one she got. maybe we could have gone by that and made a better letter of ours. this one in the magazine didn't help very much 'cause it talks about the ladies' aid, and we couldn't use that, for everybody would know a ladies' aid would want something besides buttons in their work. do you think ours will do?" "yes, it's perfectly elegant," the younger child replied, lovingly fingering the inky page of tipsy letters which she had just finished. "now who are you going to send them to?" "i've been thinking of that all the while we were writing, and i've already got a list of more'n five." "who?" "well, there's lorene meadows for a starter. she lives in chicago and is acquainted with slews of kids which we don't know. then there's mrs. grinnell in parker, and hec abbott and tessie and effie and jessie and miss dunbar and annette fisher and mrs. bainbridge and mrs. hartman and oh--all the parker folks." "then s'posing we write more'n five to begin with." "i hadn't thought of that. there's no reason why we shouldn't. let's make it ten,--that's all the stamps i've got." "all right." both girls set to work laboriously scribbling the ten copies of their chain letter, then sealed and addressed them, and allee dropped them into the mail box on the corner just as the dinner bell pealed out its summons to the dining-room. school began the next monday. the following day the first link in the endless chain was received from lorene, who enclosed twelve handsome buttons and asked full particulars about the button collection, as she desired to start one for herself, and could peace send her twelve buttons in exchange for hers? this was an unforeseen development, but peace was so delighted with this first dozen that she set allee to hunting up stray buttons about the house with which to satisfy the demands of any other youthful collectors. on wednesday two more answers were received, one from mrs. grinnell, containing forty of the oddest looking buttons the girls had ever seen; and one from a stranger in chicago, probably a friend of lorene's, for she, too, asked for buttons in return. peace sighed, divided the contents of the two packages with an impartial hand, and remarked, "it's lucky mrs. grinnell don't want forty in exchange. we had only thirty-six to begin with, and lorene's twelve and this girl's eight leaves us only sixteen, s'posing we get many more answers asking for some." fortunately for her peace of mind, however, only one other letter made such a request, but a new dilemma arose. packages began to arrive with insufficient postage, and the crippled girl's pocket money vanished with alarming rapidity. the letter carrier always delivered the daily budget of mail to the little maid under the trees when the weather permitted of her being at her post, and it chanced that for a fortnight after the answers to her endless chain began pouring in, she received her own mail, so no one but allee knew her secret, and there was no one but allee to help her out with her heavy postage bills. "i never s'posed anyone would send out packages without enough stamps on 'em," she complained to her loyal supporter one night, after an unusually heavy mail and a correspondingly heavy drain on her pocketbook. "and the trouble is, the letters that have the most money to pay on them hold the ugliest buttons. i spent twelve cents for stamps today. that's the worst yet. yesterday it was ten, and seven the day before. there won't be much of my monthly dollar left if it keeps on this way. the postman got sassy this morning and asked me if i'd started a--a correspondence school, or if i was having a birthday shower every day. i'm tired of the sight of buttons!" "already?" cried allee. "why, i think they are fine. if your dollar is all spent before the month is up, you can use mine. i ought to pay half the stampage anyway, as long as i get half the buttons. all the girls at school are wild to know where we get so many, but i won't tell. there's eight hundred on your string and seven hundred and fifty on mine." "but i divided 'em even--" "i know you did, but you see, i traded some, and dolly thomas cried 'cause she had only twenty buttons on her string, so i gave her a few of mine." "well, i wish we had some way to make the chain end," sighed peace disconsolately. "i've got as big a c'lection as i want now and still they keep a-coming. that's just the way those silk scraps did to the ladies' aid in the story. o, dear, don't i get into the worst messes! i wouldn't mind if they'd pay their own stamps, but i want my money for christmas, and if this keeps up i'll have to break into my bank. i thought it would be such fun to get mail every day, but the very sight of the postman now makes me sick." "we might tell grandpa. he'd know what to do," suggested allee, seeing that peace was really heartily tired of this deluge of buttons. "i--i hate to do that. he'd think we were little sillies and i guess we are." "'twas your plan," allee briefly informed her, for she did not care to be called a "silly" by anyone. "of course it was," peace hastily acknowledged. "and i'm tired of it. maybe--don't you think miss edith could tell us what to do?" "i b'lieve she could. ask her tomorrow. she'll be sure to pass, even if she doesn't have time to stop awhile. o, see who's coming!" "elspeth!" cried peace, almost bouncing out of her chair in her eagerness to greet the dear friend whose face she had not seen for many weeks. "my little girlies!" the woman's sweet face bent over the eager one among the pillows and lingered there. it was the first time she had seen the crippled child since the doctors had pronounced her case hopeless, and she had feared that her presence might recall to peace's mind the great misfortune, and bring on a deluge of tears. but peace was thinking of other things than wheel-chairs. this was the first time she had seen her elspeth since the angel baby had slipped away to its maker, and she glanced apprehensively into the tender blue eyes above her, expecting to find them dim with tears of grief for the little one she had lost. instead, they were smiling serenely. she had locked her sorrow deep down in her heart, and only god and her good st. john knew what a heavy ache throbbed in her breast. so the brown eyes smiled bravely back, and after a moment the eager voice asked reproachfully, "didn't you bring the b--the children? i haven't seen baby elspeth yet, and she is--" "two months old tomorrow," proudly answered the mother. "yes, we brought her. we call her bessie to avoid confusion of names. st. john has her now, but he happened to meet our postman on the street back there and stopped to tell him about some mail that he doesn't want delivered any longer." "what kind of mail?" peace breathlessly demanded, suddenly remembering her endless chain of letters. "o, some cheap magazines that keep coming. he wrote the publishers two or three times to discontinue them, but it didn't do any good, so now he is telling the postman not to bring them any more." "is that all you have to do?" the brown eyes were glowing with eagerness. "yes. refuse to accept them when the postman brings them and they will soon stop coming." "will it work with packages?" "with anything, i guess." "what happens to the things you refuse?" "o, some of them are returned to the sender, some go to the dead-letter office, and others are just destroyed, i guess." "oh!" peace had received all the information she needed, and as st. john now appeared at the gate with glen in tow and baby bessie in his arms, she turned her attention to her guests, who, as a special surprise for the invalid, had been invited to stay for dinner. the next day, however, when the postman made his appearance with his arms bulging with packages, and a grin of amusement stretching his mouth from ear to ear, he was astounded to hear the little lady in the wheel-chair say crisply, "take 'em all back. i won't receive another one you bring me. i s'pose there is postage to pay on most of 'em, too, ain't there?" "fifteen cents," he acknowledged. "well, this is the time you don't get your fifteen cents," she announced calmly but with decision. "but i can't deliver these packages until that is paid." "goody! i'm tired of the sight of them. the very looks of you coming up the walk gives me a pain. don't bring me another single package. take them back to the--the letter undertaker--" "the what?" his eyes were twinkling, and he had hard work to keep his twitching lips from breaking into an audible chuckle. "the place you send mail when it ain't wanted by the person it's supposed to go to. i've had all i care to do with chain letters. i really didn't think they were _endless_ or i never would have started mine. we've got buttons enough to start a department store already." the light of understanding broke over the postman's rugged features. "so it was a chain letter, was it?" "yes." "and you don't want any more packages?" "i won't _accept_ any more." she bobbed her head emphatically and set all the short curls to dancing. "all right, miss peace. i'll see that you aren't bothered with any more packages." peace heaved a great sigh of relief, and turned energetically back to her basket weaving, which had been sadly neglected of late. the parcels actually did cease coming, and the two conspirators hugged themselves with delight that it had not been necessary to tell their secret so no one knew what sillies they were. by common consent they barred chain letters as a topic of conversation, and had almost forgotten the hateful packages when one morning peace received a letter from miss truman, still a teacher in the parker school, saying that she had just mailed a large box addressed to the little invalid, and hoped that peace would enjoy its contents. the girl was wild with anticipation, but the parcel did not put in appearance that afternoon, nor the next day, nor the next. "i am afraid it has gone astray," said grandpa campbell when the third morning passed without it coming. "and won't i ever get it?" asked peace disconsolately. "such things sometimes happen, though parker is such a short distance from here that it seems almost impossible for it to have been lost. i will call at the post office and inquire. perhaps for some reason it is stalled there." that afternoon he appeared with the coveted parcel in his hand and a mystified look in his eyes. "you got it?" shrieked peace in ecstasy. "yes, i got it, but if the postmaster had not been a very good friend of mine, you would never have seen it." "why not?" peace was genuinely amazed. "what right had the postmaster to my package? did he want to keep it?" "he tells me that you issued orders two weeks or more ago not to deliver any more packages to your address." "he--oh, that was buttons! i didn't mean this kind of packages." "buttons!" the president looked even more puzzled. "o, dear," sighed peace unhappily. "now i've got to tell what a silly-pate i've been." so she poured out the tale of the endless chain to the astonished man, ending with the characteristic remark, "and i told the letter-carrier to send all the rest of the button packages to the letter graveyard at washington, but i s'posed of course he'd bring me packages like this." "he has no way of distinguishing between them, my dear," the president gravely informed her, trying hard to keep his face straight. "you ordered _all_ parcels addressed to you stopped. you refused to accept them, and there will be no more delivered to you." "_never?_" gasped peace. "well,--not for months and months and months. i don't know exactly how we can get the matter fixed up now." "and will they keep all my _christmas_ packages, too?" "if they come addressed to you." "where's my pencil and postcards?" she began a wild, scrambling search, through the drawers of the table which always stood beside her chair. "what do you want of them?" the man inquired with considerable curiosity. "why, i've got to write everyone i know and tell 'em if they want to send me anything for christmas or my birthday, or any other time, to address it on the outside to allee," she retorted, scribbling away energetically. chapter viii allee's album "you are late, allee." peace had watched the little figure ever since it had turned the corner a block further down the street, and noted with increasing anxiety that the usually swift feet tonight were lagging and slow. indeed, so abstracted was the belated scholar that she almost forgot to turn in at her own gate, and in peace's mind this could mean only one thing,--allee had fallen below grade in her arithmetic that afternoon and had been kept after school to make it up. as a further indication that this was the case, she was intently studying the front page of a scratch-tablet, and when peace called to her, she hastily hid the paper under her apron, while her rosy cheeks grew rosier still, and a look of guilty alarm flew into her blue eyes. "am i?" she tried to speak naturally, but suspicious peace detected the strained note in her voice, and demanded, "were you kept after school?" "yes,--no,--not really school." "what do you mean by that? cherry's been home for more'n half an hour." "that long?" allee's amazement was too genuine to doubt. "yes, and you said you'd come home the minute school was out so's we could finish that puzzle and send it off." "i didn't mean to stay so long. it seemed only a minute, peace, truly." allee was deeply penitent. "where have you been? to see miss edith?" "no--o--" "and what's that you are hiding under your apron? allee greenfield, you've got a secret from me!" cried peace, much aggrieved. poor allee's face flushed crimson, the frank eyes wavered and fell, and a meek voice stammered, "i--i--'tisn't really a secret, peace." "what is it then?" "i was afraid you would laugh at me--" "why? what is there to laugh at?" "my--my rhymes." "rhymes?" "yes. you know hope has to write 'em in high school, and even cherry's teacher took a notion to make her scholars try thinking up poetry." "has your teacher?" "o, no, but at recess we play school and one of our games is making up rhymes. the leader says anything she wants to, and we have to answer so it will make a jingle. it's like spelling down. if we miss we have to go to the foot of the class." "mercy me! the whole house will be talking poetry next," ejaculated peace. "gail's just written one that the--the--what is the name of that paper?--has printed with her name at the bottom of it, and cherry came home tonight with her head so big that she can hardly lug it, 'cause her verses were the best in her room. but i didn't think it would hit _you_. why, there's getting to be a reg'lar _emetic_ of poetry 'round here." allee looked crestfallen. "it's fun when you know how," she ventured, apologetically. "gussie showed me, and helps me get the feet straight." "feet! gussie! is she at it, too?" "gussie writes perfectly elegant rhymes," allee defended. "you haven't forgotten those dishes she cooked for you and rhymed over, have you?" "i guess not! they were so funny. i pasted 'em into my 'glimmers of gladness.'" "and i stuck mine into my album," confessed allee. "your album? what album?" "a little book gussie gave me to write my jingles in. the name on the cover is 'album,' so that's what i call it." "would--would you let me see it?" allee hesitated. "you won't laugh?" "not a single snicker." "well, then,--i don't mind." she darted away to the house, returning almost immediately with a small, thick note-book in her hand, partly filled with round, even writing, which peace instantly recognized as gussie's. "that ain't--" she began, but allee forestalled her. "gussie copies 'em all for me, 'cause my letters are so dreadfully big the pages won't hold all i want to write," she explained. "why don't you get a bigger book and write your own poems in it? the pages are too small in this. i'll tell you,--grandma gave me a big, fat book a long time ago to keep a _dairy_ in."--peace never could remember the proper place for the words 'dairy' and 'diary.'--"but i wrote only one day. it wasn't at all int'resting to scribble all by myself, but if you'll use my book we'll both write. how'd you like that?" allee's eyes were shining happily. "i think it would be fine. i--i really wanted your book, 'cause it is so nice and wide, but i thought likely you would find some use for it yourself some day." "well, i have. we'll use it for a scrap album." "a scrap album?" "yes. i mean, we can each of us write in it whenever we feel poetry, but we needn't _have_ to do it at any time." "and i can paste my 'lustrations in it between leaves, can't i?" "what kind of 'lustrations?" "why, like hope's note-book. she _has_ to draw pictures of plants and flowers in her botany, and just for fun she makes _skitches_ to picture out the stories they study in some of her other classes." "but her _skitches_ are nice," peace remarked skeptically. "why, grandpa thinks some day she will make a good 'lustrator for magazines and books." "my pictures are nice, too," allee contended. "here is a sunset i painted a long time ago--" "it looks like a prairie fire," murmured the older sister, gravely eyeing the highly-colored sheet upside down. "it just matches a lullaby i made up yesterday," continued allee, unmindful of peace's criticism. rapidly her fingers turned the pages until she had found the lines she wanted, and with a heart filled with pride, she passed the book to her companion, who read, "the sun is sinking in the west, 'tis time my baby dear should rest,-- sleep, baby, sleep." "you haven't got any baby," the reader interrupted. "it don't need babies to write lullabies," allee scornfully retorted. "a real poet can write about _anything_." "well, anyway, i like this one better." peace's eyes had travelled rapidly through the lines, and lingered over some stanzas on the opposite page: "i wonder why the fairies hide? i'm sure i'd like to see them dance, but though my very best i've tried, i never yet have had a chance. i wonder why, don't you? i wonder why the birdies fly, while i alone can cry and talk; but though i often try and try, i cannot do a thing but walk. i wonder why, don't you?" "yes, gussie liked that, too," said allee, much pleased. "did you write it all yourself?" peace was incredulous. "well, gussie showed me how to fix it up so it didn't limp, but it's almost like i wrote it." "i don't see how you can think of the things to say." "they think themselves, i guess," replied allee after a moment's study. "teacher last year used to read us stories and make us tell them ourselves, just as pretty as we could; and you and i 'magine so many things about the moon lady and the mountain elves and water sprites. it's easy to _tell_ them like stories, so i just tried writing them out. that ain't so easy, 'cause i can't always spell the words, but it's fun now that i'm used to it. then gussie showed me how rhymes were made into real poetry, so i tried that, too. it's just fitting words into a tune like you used to do, only you don't need a tune either. the poems in our readers are what i go by." peace was very much interested. in her "glimmers of gladness" she had essayed a poem or two, as she was pleased to call them; but allee's were far superior to any of her attempts, and allee was two years younger. "bring me all the old readers in the library," she abruptly commanded, "and while you are copying your poems in my book, i'll write a few of my own." allee ran to do her bidding, and soon the two embryo poets were so busy with pen and pencil that they were amazed when jud appeared to carry the invalid into the house. "it's surely not dinner time yet!" allee protested. "why, i've got only one poem and half of a story copied." "that's better'n me," peace dolefully sighed, closing the first reader with reluctant hands and laying it aside. "i haven't done a line yet. i haven't even found a poem to pattern after, though i guess i'll take 'long time ago' for my first one. that's easy, and when i get onto the hang of it, i'll try something harder. if it's dinner time already the days must be getting lots shorter again." "you are right, they are," jud agreed. "soon it will be too cold out here for you--" "i shan't mind," peace interrupted. "i'm going to write a good deal this winter. gussie'll teach me to be a poet, and i always could write better inside the house. there's too much to look at out-of-doors." jud heaved a gusty sigh. "you all think a heap of gussie, don't you?" he asked with a jealous pang, for he found it almost impossible to get a quiet word with that busy and important member of the household, and now that winter was coming on, it would be harder than ever, for even the little after-dinner chats in the garden would have to be discontinued. "i sh'd say we do!" both girls chorused. "she is worth thinking a lot of--" "that's where you are right again," the man agreed heartily. "she can do _anything_" said peace, who was never tired of singing gussie's praises. "even to making poets," he teased. "yes, sir, even to making poets, and some day you will see for yourself." "i hope i may," he sighed again, and the little group slowly trundled up the walk into the house. jud's prophecy of cold weather came true sooner than he had expected, and as if to make up for the long, lovely autumn of the year before, wintry winds descended early upon martindale. heavy frosts wrought havoc in the gardens, the yellow and crimson leaves fell in showers, september died in a blaze of glory, and october found the trees naked and vines shivering in the keen, sharp air. it was too cold to spend the hours out-of-doors any longer, and the campbells dreaded the long days of confinement that stretched out in such an appalling array before the crippled child. so they were amazed and agreeably surprised to hear no word of lament from the small maid herself, who was suddenly seized with such a studious fit that she found hardly time to eat her meals. "i'm learning to be a poet," she told them by way of explanation. "gussie's teaching me, and some day maybe you can read our poems,--allee's and mine." "god bless gussie," they smiled tenderly, and went their way content, leaving the young student to toil with inky fingers over pages of impossible rhymes, for they knew that when this new play should have lost its attraction, they must have something else to hold the patient's interest. perhaps it was gussie's teaching, perhaps allee's unflagging enthusiasm which kept restless peace pouring over the ancient readers unearthed from obscure corners of the president's great library; but however that may be, more ink was used in the big house during those early fall days than had ever been used before, and the fat notebook was filled at an alarming rate with contributions from its two owners, and an occasional skit, by way of encouragement, from gussie, the cook. as neither peace nor allee ever offered to share their secrets with their elders, the sisters soon lost interest in the new amusement; but one night when both scribes were fast asleep in their beds, hope chanced to find the precious volume on the couch by the fireplace where allee had carelessly dropped it when the dinner hour had been announced. picking it up, she opened it idly, before she recognized what book she had in her hand. then, just as she was about to lay it aside, one of allee's contributions caught her eye, and with amazement she read the little story, retouched and polished up by gussie, but breathing the small sister's winsomeness in every word. "why, the little mouse!" she exclaimed in her astonishment. "if that isn't just like her!" "where's the mouse?" demanded cherry, curling her feet up under her and searching wildly about the floor with eyes full of fear and loathing. "in bed," promptly answered hope. "i've got her stories here in my hand. grandma, do you know what the youngsters have been doing all this while?" mrs. campbell glanced at the book on hope's knee, and smilingly answered, "learning to be poets under gussie's instruction." "but allee really does write splendidly," hope insisted very seriously. "i can hardly believe she wrote all this; yet it sounds just like her. she always did have such a beautiful way of saying things." then she burst out laughing. "what is it?" demanded the sisters, scenting something unusual, and laying aside their lessons to listen. "a poem by peace," gasped hope. "o, it's too funny!" wiping her eyes, she dramatically read: "'in the yard the little chicklets ran to and fro, digging up the worms and buglets squirming down below. came a hawk and grabbed a chicklet, right by the toe, and the little chicklet hollered, "o, let me go." but the hawklet hugged him tighter, wouldn't turn him loose, cause he thought he'd make good dinner when there was no goose. so the hawklet went a-flying up in the sky, with the chicklet still a-crying, "i don't want to die."'" by the time she had finished reading the queer stanzas, five heads were clustered about hers, for even the president cast aside his paper to listen; and five pair of eager eyes were striving to read the uneven scrawls with which the pages were filled. "well, i declare!" ejaculated the learned doctor of laws, rubbing his spectacles vigorously, and bending over the ink-blotted book again. "i had no idea that allee was far enough advanced in school to write compositions and--and--rhymes.' "she is nearly up with peace," said gail proudly. "i predict that she will be a poet yet." "wouldn't be at all surprised," replied the doctor. "her grandfather might have shone in literature if he had chosen that field instead of the ministry." "i like peace's contributions almost the best," murmured the grandmother apologetically, brushing a tear from her cheek as she finished reading some incomplete lines penned by the brown-eyed maid:-- "shut up here with no trees nor plants, i can't tear my close on a barb wire fence. with my feet on a pillow where i can't use 'em there's nothing on earth can ever bruise 'em. but oh, how i hate to lie here all day, when i want to be out in the garden at play. i want to get up and run and shout, i want to see what's happening about. there'll be no more climbing up roofs so high, i must live in a wheel-chair until i die." hope's eyes, too, had seen the pathetic lines, and closing the book, she softly said, "let's all write something in it as a surprise,--something of our own, i mean." "and you make little margin pictures like mrs. strong did in peace's brownie book," suggested cherry. "you mean her 'glimmers of gladness,'" faith corrected, smiling a little in remembrance of the brown and gold volume which had helped while away the rainy days at the parsonage more than a year before. "and paint the name in fancy letters on the front cover," gail added. "what shall you call it?" asked the grandmother, already searching for pen and paper that she might make a first draft of some lines running through her mind. "the same title they have given it," gail answered. "'allee's album.'" "and god bless 'allee's album,'" reverently whispered the deeply-touched president, blowing his nose like a trumpet to relieve his feelings. chapter ix peace interviews the bishop "well," sighed the president, laying down the evening paper and leaning wearily back among the cushions of his great morris chair, "it really looks as if south avenue church is to have dr. henry shumway for its pastor this year." mrs. campbell glanced up hastily from her sewing with consternation in her eyes and asked, "has the bishop really confirmed the report?" "no, but he won't deny it, either. according to an article in this paper, our beloved dr. glaves is to be transferred to the iowa conference, and dr. shumway takes his place." "i sh'd think you'd be glad enough to see dr. glaves go," remarked an abstracted voice from the corner of the room where peace and allee were absorbed in the task of sorting and stringing bright-colored beads. "he reminds me of tombstones and _seminaries_,--not only his name, but the _pomperous_ way he has of crawling up the aisle. he walks like a stone _yimage_." "porpoise, you mean," gently suggested allee. "pompous," corrected the president, smiling a little at their blunders. "i can't say i am exactly sorry to see the reverend philander n. glaves transferred,"--his tone was mildly sarcastic,--"for he was a misfit in south avenue church. we didn't want him in the first place, but we tried to be decent to him during his year's sojourn with us. however, that's neither here nor there. when three times in succession we are given a man we don't want, i think it is time to kick. we have quietly accepted the other two men when we wanted dr. atkinson, but now--" "you oughtn't to kick the preacher," mused peace, studying the effect of some green and purple beads together. "he has to go where he is sent, doesn't he?" "ye--s," reluctantly conceded the president. "then 'tisn't his fault if he gets stuck in a good-for-nothing church which he doesn't want--" "south avenue church is considered one of the choicest pastorates our conference affords," hastily interrupted dr. campbell, while his wife quickly buried her face in her sewing again, to hide the smile dancing in her eyes. "is it?" peace looked genuinely surprised. "it's always scrapping. _i'd_ hate to be its preacher. papa had a _nawful_ time in his last church 'cause they picked on him to scrap about. he got sent where he didn't want to go, and in the end he had to quit,--just plumb worn out by being jumped on. he was a good man, too." the president looked uncomfortable. "but peace," he argued, "you are too young to understand such matters. i haven't the slightest doubt that dr. shumway is a good man and an excellent preacher. in fact, he comes most highly recommended. we aren't objecting to him personally. it's the principle of the thing--" "well, if the pendennis church people had kicked the principle instead of papa, maybe he'd be a live preacher yet and not an angel." dr. campbell lapsed into silence. what was the use of arguing with a child? he was tired from a strenuous day's work at the university and disgusted with the bishop's pig-headed perversity. it was early in the evening yet, but perhaps bed was the best place for him in his state of mind; so excusing himself and bidding the trio good-night, he stalked off upstairs. peace had forgotten all about the bishop and dr. shumway when she awoke the next morning, and might have paid no more attention to the south avenue church discussions, had she not chanced to overhear a conversation not intended for her ears. it was after luncheon, cherry and allee had returned to school, the older sisters were not expected for hours yet, and peace was just composing herself for a nap, having nothing else to fill in the long afternoon until school should close for the day, when the telephone bell rang, and mrs. campbell herself answered it. thinking it might be a message from her st. elspeth or aunt pen, who never were too busy to remember the little prisoner at the other end of the city, peace popped her head up to listen, and heard her grandmother say slowly and with evident regret, "i'm so sorry, mrs. york, but i don't see how i can.--o, yes, indeed, i had planned on it, but circumstances, you know.--she's doing nicely, but i can't very well leave her alone all the afternoon.--no, but the two smaller girls are in school until half-past three, gail and faith have recitations up through the sixth hour at the university, and hope went with her class to view that collection of antiquities at the public library.--well, you see, this is gussie's afternoon out, and--no, never with marie.--i had counted upon hope's being here to keep her company.--i am sorry to disappoint you, but i assure you i am very much more disappointed on my own account--" "grandma!" "good-bye. i suppose i shall see you sunday!" "grandma!" "all right. good-bye." "grandma! can't you hear me?" "yes, dearie, but i was at the telephone." "i know it, and i wanted you to tell mrs. york that you'd come." "but, childie, i can't leave you here all alone. you and marie--" "fight. yes, i know. but you might take me along. couldn't you?" mrs. campbell was startled. this was the first time since the accident that peace had showed any desire to go beyond the boundaries of the garden; and the woman glanced suspiciously at the eager face, thinking that the suggestion meant a sacrifice of the child's own wishes. but the eyes were shining with their old-time enthusiasm, and mrs. campbell said hesitatingly, "it's a missionary conference, dear." "i always did like missionary meetings," peace reminded her. "but this will be different,--mostly statistics, reports and discussions. i am afraid you would find it very dull." "women can be awfully dull sometimes," peace admitted cheerfully. "but you want to go, i haven't anything to do, and i might just as well be watching the crowds there as taking a nap here at home. then both of us would be amused, while here, you would be thinking of what you'd missed, and i'd be just itching for something to do." "but supposing the proceedings don't amuse you?" smiled the woman. "then i'll go to sleep like deacon skinner always did in parker. or i might take along something to read, s'posing things get too awfully dry." "would you really like to go?" mrs. campbell was still a little doubtful, though from her manner of glancing at the clock, and then down the street, it was evident that she herself very much desired to attend that afternoon's session of the conference. "sure," peace answered promptly, and mrs. campbell allowed herself to be persuaded. so half an hour later the brown-eyed maid found herself trundling down the familiar streets in her wheel-chair. it was a clear, cold day, and the crisp air smelled of fallen leaves and bonfires; and both woman and child sniffed hungrily at the delicious odors of autumn. peace was almost reluctant to enter the big church when they reached it, for the lure of the open air was great, the blue sky charming, and even the leafless trees and frost-blackened shrubs were enticing. once inside the building, however, she forgot all else in watching the crowd of enthusiastic ladies trotting to and fro and mingling with the throng of black-frocked ministers gathered for the closing sessions of the annual conference. even when the meeting was called to order and the afternoon's business begun, peace did not lose her interest, though she understood very little of what was going on, and wondered how her grandmother or any other sensible soul could be interested in the long lists of stupid figures that were read from time to time. "sounds 's if they were learning their multiplication tables," she giggled, "and when they all get to gabbling at once,--that's the chinese of it." "what's the chinese of it, if i may ask?" inquired a deep voice in her ear; and thinking it was her beloved st. john, she whirled about to find a friendly-eyed stranger just sitting down in the pew behind her chair. she had forgotten her surroundings, and had spoken her thoughts aloud. "mercy!" she gasped. "i thought i had this corner all to myself. i never s'pected anyone was near enough to hear what i said. once before i did that same thing, and a minister caught me at it that time, too. your voice sounds like his,--deep and bull-froggy. i 'most called you st. john before i saw it was someone else. are you a missionary?" "o, no. just a--" "plain preacher?" finished peace, as he hesitated a moment with his sentence incomplete. "yes, just a plain preacher," he laughed. "well, i thought you had a missionaryish look about you. that's why i asked. i've been trying all the afternoon to sort out the gang--" "do what?" he was frankly amazed. "now i s'pose i've shocked you," she cried penitently. "grandma doesn't like me to use such words, but i keep forgetting. i meant i'd been trying to pick out the missionaries and ministers, and the bishop. i 'specially wanted a look at the bishop, but i haven't seen a wink of him yet." "and why are you so anxious to see the bishop, my girl?" asked her newly found acquaintance, smiling in amusement. "he surely ought to be flattered--" "i want to see if he looks beery." "beery!" the broad face of her companion looked like an enlarged exclamation point. "yes,--he's got such a beery name. fancy a man called malthouse being a minister, and a bishop at that! i couldn't help wondering if his face fitted his job any better than his name." "well--as to that--i'm not--prepared to say," stammered the big man beside her. "don't you know him?" "o, yes, quite well." "is he good-looking?" "well, you know folks differ in their ideas of what good-looking means," he hedged, seeming somewhat embarrassed. "i took that _extinguished_ looking man over there in the corner for the bishop--" "extinguished?" "yes, the one with the extra long tails on his coat and bushy white hair; but he's been opening and shutting windows all day long, and i expect they'd give the bishop something better than that to do." the puzzled divine glanced curiously in the direction the child's thin forefinger was pointing, and chuckled outright as he beheld the aged figure of the new janitor moving slowly down the aisle with the long window-stick in his hand. "so you think he looks like a bishop?" he managed to articulate soberly. "yes, i do. he's the best-looking man in the bunch. he's so tall and straight, too, and so--so bishop-y in the set of his clothes. they fit him. but he doesn't jabber as much as the rest. i s'pose 'twould be just like the things that happen to me to find out that that giant bean-pole which keeps teetering around the room is the bishop." she indicated a very tall, very slender man, who at that moment chanced to pass their retreat. "no," her companion answered promptly, "that is not the bishop. his name is shumway,--dr. shumway--" "dr. shumway!" echoed the child. "the man the bishop is going to send to our church? well, i don't wonder the people mean to kick! ain't he the homeliest ever?" "who told you that?" gravely asked the stranger preacher, all the smile gone from his kindly eyes. "that he's homely? no one. i can see it for myself." "i mean who told you that the people intend to kick?" "oh! grandpa was talking to grandma last evening. the paper said dr. shumway was to take the place of dr. glaves. it's a pity they can't divide up, ain't it? dr. glaves would look less like an elephant if he didn't have so much meat on him and dr. shumway needs a lot more'n he's got." "who is your grandfather?" interrupted the man beside her, ignoring the candid criticisms of his entertainer. "dr. campbell, president of the state university," she answered proudly. "oh!" he was silent a moment; then as if musing aloud, he murmured, "so they mean to kick, do they?" "well, wouldn't you? this is the third time south avenue church has asked for one partic'lar man and got a different fellow. it's time they kicked, seems to me. i guess the bishop likes to lord it over the churches and have his own way in things." "perhaps he thinks he knows best what kind of a man is needed in his different charges." "p'r'aps he does, but he made an awful bungle when he sent dr. glaves down here,--that's sure." "possibly that was a mistake," replied her companion in a queer, strained voice. "but no one is sorrier than the bishop himself when he blunders." "then i sh'd think he would be more careful about giving us another misfit. we are tired of 'em." "dr. shumway is a man whom everyone loves," said the ministerial-looking gentleman warmly. "i'm glad of that, then; but i am sorry he is coming to south avenue church just the same. he doesn't look as if he could stand being kicked any more'n papa could. has he got any children?" "yes, five, i believe." "any my size?" "i think his family is pretty well grown up, my girl." "that's lucky, for if the church _should_ happen to wear him out like they did papa, why, his children could take care of themselves when he died and not have to dig like we did, and fin'ly be adopted or else sent to the poor farm." the big man fidgeted in his pew and looked quite uncomfortable as the relentless voice continued, "i sh'd hate to be a bishop and have such things blamed onto me; but if the bishop hadn't _insisted_ on sending papa to that pendennis church when they had asked for someone else, maybe he might be living with his family yet, instead of with the angels." "who was your papa?" the gruff voice gently asked. "peter greenfield." "oh!" "did you know him?" "yes. yes, indeed. he was one of my--i am the--i knew him well. he was a good preacher and a splendid man. the church suffered a great loss in his death." "his family suffered a worser one, 'cause mamma got sick and then we had two angels behind the gates, and no one here to tell us what to do, and gail not eighteen." "tell me about it." the missionary meeting had long since dissolved into several committee meetings, and the hum of voices in the great auditorium drowned the conversation in the dim recess at the rear of the room; but peace had entirely forgotten her surroundings, and without restraint she poured out the simple story of her father's sacrifices in her concise, forceful way, laying bare family secrets and relating with telling effect the pathetic struggle of the six sisters left alone to face the battle with the world. "and then we came to live with grandpa and grandma campbell," she finished. "they are just like truly relations to us, but they can never make up for our own father and mother, any more than we can really take the place of their own little girls which died. why, has the conference quit? everybody's bustling all around the room now. i wonder where grandma went? is it time to go home?" "in a moment or two," replied the man, thoughtfully stroking his smoothly-shaven chin. "some of the committees are evidently still in session." "and i never looked at allee's album all the while i was here! i had to come, else grandma couldn't, 'cause the girls are all in school 'xcept hope, and she has gone to see the _iniquities_ at the library. so i brought this along to keep myself awake with, 'cause i thought it would likely be a stupid, sleepy meeting today. they always are when a lot of fat old ladies get to talking _ecstatics_,"--she meant statistics--"but i've had a very nice time listening and watching those funny preachers; and i'm glad you came along to talk to me--" "bishop malthouse!" someone from the rostrum shouted. the dignified gentleman rose hastily, stooped and kissed the white cheek of the child, and departed after a hurried, "sounds as if i was wanted." at that moment mrs. campbell rustled up to the little recess where the wheel-chair stood, glanced apprehensively at the figure reclining among the cushions, and briskly asked, "tired, dearie?" "no, grandma. i've had a lovely time. but who is that minister just going up the aisle?" mrs. campbell glanced over her shoulder. "bishop malthouse, dear." "bishop--!" words failed her. "yes, the man who appoints the ministers of this conference." "o, grandma! and i told him some dreadful things about himself. we've been talking most of the afternoon." mrs. campbell's heart smote her. "what did you say to him, girlie?" peace briefly recounted their conversation as she remembered it, and sighed tragically, "i talk too much. faith says i tell all i know to everyone i meet." "that little tongue of yours does run away with itself sometimes," replied the woman, dismayed at peace's revelations; but perceiving how distressed the child felt over her blunder, she forbore to chide her; and in silence they wound their way homeward. the president was late for dinner that night, but when he did arrive, the whole family knew from his very step that he was the bearer of good news. "grandpa's glad," sang peace, as he hurried into the room and took his place at the table. "did--have you been--?" began mrs. campbell, hesitatingly. "to the official board meeting?" he finished. "yes, that is why i am so late." "the meeting was in regard to the new preacher?" "yes, and the bishop was there in person." "oh!" seven pair of eyes regarded him expectantly. "he very frankly stated his reasons for not wishing to send us dr. atkinson, and why he thought dr. shumway was the man for the place. then he left us to decide which minister we would have." "and you chose--?" "dr. shumway--unanimously." involuntarily mrs. campbell glanced across the table toward peace; and that young lady, busy buttering a hot roll, paused long enough to remark complacently, "i guess the bishop ain't as lordy as he looks, after all, is he?" chapter x the new pastor of south avenue church "marie, if that is anyone to see grandma, show them in here, and tell 'em she will be back in a few minutes. well, that's what she said to do when she went out." for marie had paused uncertainly on her way to answer the doorbell, and eyed peace skeptically. "o, very well," retorted the maid crossly. "but mind your manners and be a lady." before peace could think of a suitable reply to that studied insult, the girl had flung open the door and ushered in a very tall, angular person, who at first sight seemed all arms and legs. but when one caught a glimpse of his face, one straightway forgot all other characteristics, for in rugged homeliness it would have been hard to surpass him, and yet there was a striking kindliness of feature, a certain gentleness of eye that instantly drew people to him, so that instinctively they knew him to be their friend. up into this face sulky peace found herself staring, as the tall figure crossed the parlor threshold, and came to meet her with hand outstretched in greeting. "how do you do?" a rich voice rumbled. "are you the mistress of the house today?" "you're as homely as abraham lincoln," she gasped, scarcely aware that she had spoken aloud. "in fact, you look very much like his pictures,--as much as a gray, bald-headed, whiskerless man could look like a black-bearded one." "thanks," he laughed genially. "that is the greatest compliment anyone could pay me. i only wish i were as noble a man." "we grow to be like our highest ideas," peace answered primly, recalling a little lecture she had received that morning. "you are dr. shumway, ain't you? pastor of south avenue church?" "yes, mademoiselle; and you are one of dr. campbell's granddaughters?" "by adoption. my name is peace greenfield, and my father and real grandfather were ministers in their time. that's why i am so much interested in preachers. have you any children?" she asked. "five," he answered, amused at the grown-up air she had assumed. "how many are there of you?" "six. four older'n me and just allee younger. the bishop said he thought all of yours were grown up. are they?" "we--ll, none of them are very small now. pansy is the youngest, and she is nearly fourteen." "pansy! of all names! i s'pose she is as big as an elephant, ain't she?" "she _is_ rather large for her age," acknowledged the surprised minister, hardly knowing how to receive these candid remarks of his youthful hostess. "all the pansies i ever knew were," sighed peace. "i don't see why people will name their biggest children pansy." "but how is one to tell how fat a child will be when it grows up?" argued the puzzled man. "it's never safe to name a baby pansy. it's sure to be a whale. besides, pansy isn't a pretty name for a _person_. it is all right for a flower, but for a real live thing--well, ministers do have awfully queer notions about pretty names, anyway. are all your children girls?" "no, only four. keturah, caroline, penelope and pansy." "mercy! what outrageous names! it is very plain that _you_ didn't go to the bible for your children, but you couldn't have done any worse if you had." "why, child, what do you mean?" gasped the thoroughly uncomfortable pastor, mentally deciding that this was the rudest specimen of humanity that he had ever met in his life. "well, you see after my sister gail was born and named after mamma, grandpa came to stay with us and while he lived he took the job of naming the rest of us,--all but allee. he died before she came. but he hunted out words from the bible to call us, and they are all misfits but hope." "hope is a very pretty name," murmured the minister, somewhat hesitatingly. "yes, and hope is a very pretty girl, too. the name and the girl go together all right in that case. but look at faith and cherry--her real name is charity--and me. look at my name. there ain't a thing peaceful about me. i seem bound to make a stir wherever i go, no matter how hard i try to be good. it just ain't _in_ me to be quiet and keep my mouth shut. now, if grandpa had waited till i grew up, he never would have called me 'peace.' still, i'm glad he didn't call me 'catarrh.' that's outlandish. i thought that was something which ailed folks." "catarrh is," agreed dr. shumway, amusement supplanting the indignation which he had felt welling up within him. "my girl's name is keturah. we call her kitty--" "yes, i s'pose so. the girls named kitty are always big and homely, too." "well, our kitty is neither big nor homely--" "o, doesn't she look like you?" he smiled grimly. "no," he answered. "she resembles her angel mother." "have you got an angel in your family, too?" peace's brown eyes were softly tender, and the busy minister suddenly loved the talkative little sprite who was so very frank in her observations. "yes, two. the mother of my five children, and my only grandson, keturah's child." "a baby?" "yes." his eyes sought the live embers in the great fireplace, and he sat apparently lost in thought. peace sighed and was thoughtfully silent a moment; then as the pause grew oppressive to her, she observed, "so keturah's married." the minister looked up startled, then smiled in amusement. "yes, and caroline also, but carrie has no children." "who keeps house for you if your wife is an angel and your biggest children are married? do they live with you still?" "o, no. both girls have homes of their own in other towns. my sister anne stays with us, and with the help of penelope and pansy manages the house very well." "what did you do with your boy? you haven't said a word about him yet." "dickson? o, he doesn't live at home any more, either. he is a doctor at danbury hospital in fairview. he is getting to be quite a remarkable surgeon and we are all proud of him, i can tell you." "how nice!" exclaimed peace, glancing involuntarily at the slippered feet resting on the cushioned stool of dr. campbell's great morris chair. "i wish we had a good doctor in our family. then p'r'aps _he_ could make me walk again." "walk again!" amazement, consternation showed in the minister's face, and his eyes also sought the useless little feet on their cushion. "why, child," he whispered, all the pity and sympathy of his great heart throbbing in his voice, "are _you_ lame?" it seemed incredible, and yet he recalled now that all the while he had sat there listening to her chatter, those gay slippers had not once moved. "yes," peace answered simply, surprised at his question. "didn't you know that before?" he shook his head. "i'll have to live in chairs all my life," she explained. "they _said_ maybe after a time i could have crutches, but it's my back that's hurt and crutches won't be much good to me, i guess. i _clum_ a roof and fell--oh, months and months ago." briefly she recounted the unlucky adventure and the sad, weary days that had followed, while the preacher listened spell-bound,--shocked at the sorrowful tale. when she had finished, his quivering lips whispered tenderly, "poor little girl!" and two great tears stole down his rugged cheeks. peace was deeply touched at this unusual display of sympathy, and laying her thin little hand on his knee, she said softly, "i love you." there was a pause. then before dr. shumway could think of any appropriate words in which to voice his turbulent thoughts, the crippled girl abruptly exclaimed, "why, do you know, you've got eyes like my cat!" the reverend gentleman fairly bounced from his chair in his astonishment. "eyes like your c--cat!" he stuttered. "yes," peace calmly answered. "one brown and one blue. i've been watching you ever since you came in, trying to make out why you looked so queer, and now i know,--it's your eyes. does it feel any different having two colors instead of one?" "n--o," he managed to reply, still staring with fascinated eyes at the child in the chair opposite. "well, i should think it would," she began, but at that moment there was a brisk step on the wide veranda, the front door opened and mrs. campbell entered. dr. shumway rose to meet her, and peace's interview with the new pastor of south avenue church was at an end. but the face of the small cripple haunted the minister, her pathetic story lingered in his mind, and he found himself constantly thinking of the long, weary years of helpless waiting stretching out before her. "o, it can't be," he protested over and over again. "she was never meant for a life like that! activity is written all over her. she is right when she says she can't keep quiet. what wonderful good such energy could accomplish if trained in the right direction! i wonder if dickson--i believe i will write him. no, it would be better for him to see her first without having heard anything about the case. how can we bring it to pass?" straightway he began to plan how he might carry out a certain scheme which was gradually taking shape in his brain, until at length a practicable idea at last presented itself and he broached the subject to the other members of his household. they were seated at the dinner table one night when he casually observed to his two youngest daughters, "girls, what do you think of a christmas party at the parsonage this year? can we manage one?" "a christmas party!" gasped both girls in dismay. even his sister anne stared at him aghast. "well, why not?" he inquired, when no one ventured an explanation of the family's evident consternation. "i don't know how to entertain," wailed pansy. "i'm too clumsy." "we are hardly settled here," ventured sister anne deprecatingly. "keturah is coming home for christmas," whispered penelope. "so are dick and carrie," said the preacher briskly. "we all will be together once again and i want my whole family to meet the young folks of my new flock. what if we aren't in apple-pie order? we'll be less so by the time the party is over, i'll wager. as for kitty,--i think we better plan for our christmas party." "that settles it," whispered pansy to the youngest sister, as her father began to discuss some household problem with his sister. "but i'll bet he's got some pet scheme up his sleeve. his party isn't just to introduce us,--you see." penelope was shrewd in her observations and knew her father like a book, but she did not guess his secret, nor was she particularly curious this time. she did not want a christmas party at the parsonage. it meant so much work and clutter. besides, it was so much nicer to have just a little family gathering, such as they were accustomed to each year. there would be kitty and ed, carrie and phil, and dick.--dickson was still unmarried.--that would make five extra in the little family, and five people were a plenty to plan for, without having a party. but then, what was the use of objecting? her father had said party, and a party there would be. the only thing to do was to make the best of it and plan the most unique program the brains of the whole household could devise. so aunt anne, penelope and pansy set to work. true to his convictions, dr. shumway wrote nothing of his plans to his son, nor did he once mention his hopes to the distracted campbell family, although he had skilfully managed that his son's professional reputation should reach the ears of them all. to be doubly sure that his pet scheme should not fail, he gave peace a personal invitation to attend his christmas party, and made several visits to the campbell home apparently to discuss his plans with members of that household, while in reality his object was to rouse the invalid's curiosity and interest so she would be sure to join the merrymakers at the parsonage on that night of nights. then dickson could not fail to meet her and their acquaintance would come about naturally. he could not feel that dr. coates and the specialists had really found the seat of the trouble yet, but dickson would know if there was any hope for the little sufferer. dickson,--stalwart, genial, gentle dickson,--his boy,--his boy would know. so it was with great eagerness that he looked forward to the christmas party, for peace had solemnly promised to be there in her wheel-chair, and it was hard to refrain from telling the whole story to his boy before the time was ripe. but when at last the night arrived, peace was not among the guests who thronged the gayly decorated parsonage. the old-time pain had come back, and she lay white and spent upon her bed in the flag room, watching with anguish in her heart while the other sisters made ready for the festivities. they had demurred at leaving her. it seemed so selfish to go and enjoy themselves when she must stay behind and suffer, but she had insisted. "because i can't go to the _pastorage_ myself isn't any reason why you should stick at home, too," she told them. "besides, i want to know all about it, and it takes the whole family to see _everything_." "what in the world do you mean?" they chorused. and she explained, "well, gail remembers the speeches and what folks say just to each other. faith hears only the music. hope sees the pretty things folks wear. cherry tells what they had to eat, and allee fills up the chinks." they laughed merrily at the small invalid's powers of discernment, and were finally persuaded to attend the party which was barred to her. so they donned their daintiest dresses, robbed the greenhouse for their adornment, kissed the little sister fondly and hurried away into the night. peace listened to the sound of their footsteps crunching through the hard-packed snow, until the last echo died away. then turning her face to the wall, she gave way to a flood of bitter tears. "why, darling," cried the watchful mrs. campbell, kneeling beside the sobbing child and striving to soothe and comfort her, "what is the matter? did you want to go so badly?" "no, no, it ain't that," poor peace hiccoughed, burying her head on the grandmotherly shoulder. "but i thought i was 'most well, and now the hurt has begun again. i ain't crying 'cause the girls have gone, truly. it's just that dreadful ache in my back. o, grandma, am i going to be like my lilac lady after all? she had well days when she could read and sew; and then there were times when the pain was so bad that she couldn't bear to see folks at all. i don't want to die, but oh, grandma, how can i stand that awful ache?" "o god," prayed the woman's heart, torn with agony at the sight of her darling's suffering, "help us to make it easier for her." and as if in answer to her petition, there was a step on the stair, and a big, stalwart, fur-coated figure stood unannounced in the doorway. mrs. campbell rose hurriedly to her feet and confronted the stranger. what right had he in her house? how came he there? he smiled reassuringly at her look of alarm, and something in his boyish face made peace exclaim, "you look like pansy shumway, though you're not so fat and homely." at that, he laughed outright. "it's because i am her brother, i expect," he answered simply. "o, are you dr. dick?" she cried eagerly. "yes," he replied. "they told me you could not come to our party, so i have brought the party to you,--a bit of it, at least." fishing into the depths of his great pockets, he brought forth a marvelous array of cakes, candies, nuts and pop-corn, finally producing what looked to be a scarlet carnation in a tiny plantpot of rich loam, but upon investigation peace found that her little nosegay was merely a flower thrust into a mound of chocolate ice-cream; and her delight made her forget her pain for a moment. "you're a reg'lar santy claus," she giggled. "did you come down the chimbley? i never heard the door bell." "o, i met prexy on the steps and he told me where to find you, so i came right up without further invitation." he did not add that for more than an hour he had been closeted with dr. campbell in the parsonage study, where the anxious president had sought him to learn if there could be any hope for their little peace. "i s'pose the door is a safer way of getting into houses than falling down chimbleys would be," said the girl, pleased with her own fancies. "but it would have seemed a little realer if you had tumbled out of the fireplace. where is your pack, and what have you brought for me?" "what would you like best?" he parried, studying the drawn face among the pillows. "o, let me see--a new back, i guess," she sighed ruefully, as a sharp twinge of pain recalled her to her surroundings and caused her to writhe in agony, "and a pair of legs to match. you are a sure-enough doctor, ain't you? can't you mend me up again? the other doctors' job didn't last very long." "perhaps if you will let me rub the little back--" "o, i can't bear to have a doctor touch it!" she shuddered. "they always make it hurt worse." "i'll be very careful," he promised, "and if it hurts, i'll stop right away." still she hesitated. "'f i could just go to sleep," she sighed. "i'm so tired." "you will go to sleep if you will let me rub the back a little." she looked incredulous, but another stinging pain brought the tears to her eyes, and she cried pitifully, "yes, oh, yes,--just rub me now. it does hurt so bad i can't help crying, and you don't look as if you liked to poke people to pieces." "it is my business to put people together again," he said gravely, turning the pain-racked little body with deft hands, all the while keeping up a lively chatter to amuse the small sufferer. so light was his touch, so sympathetic his personality, that very soon the tense muscles began to relax, the drawn lines in the childish face gradually smoothed themselves away, and the brown eyes grew heavy with sleep. realizing that the santa claus stranger had kept his promise, peace murmured drowsily, as she felt herself drifting away to slumberland, "you are a good doctor, dr. dick. i'll hire you the next time i fall off a roof. i b'lieve you could have mended me up if you'd had first chance." "please god, it may not be too late now," he muttered under his breath, and stole softly from the room to report his convictions to dr. campbell, who was waiting in the hall below. chapter xi doctor dick it was christmas day, but the campbell house was very still. all sounds of revelry and mirth were hushed, for peace, worn out by her long struggle with pain, had wakened only long enough to view the many gifts heaped about her cot, and then sleep had claimed her again. so the two younger girls had been despatched to the hill street parsonage, where st. john and elspeth were having a christmas tree for glen and tiny bessie; and the three older sisters settled down to a quiet day at home, refusing all invitations from their many friends, because of a nameless fear that tugged at each breast, a feeling that perhaps they might be needed before the day was done. it had been such a strange day, so un-christmas-like, so uncanny. all the long hours through, they had scarcely caught a glimpse of dr. or mrs. campbell. dr. coates had made repeated trips to the house, the minister's son had spent several hours in the president's study, the minister himself had been there a time or two, but through it all no one had come to tell them what it was about, and peace had slept wearily on. then as the winter twilight gathered over the city, gussie appeared to summon them to the library below, but she could not answer their eager questions, for she knew no more than they; and each girl looked at the others with apprehensive eyes, as each heart whispered, "it can't be that we have lost her,--that she is dead instead of sleeping." so with quaking limbs they hurried to the dimly-lighted study where the haggard president and his wife awaited them. "what do you think about another operation for peace?" dr. campbell began, with distraught abruptness. three hearts beat wildly with relief. she was still alive! "is there no other hope?" gail implored. he shook his head. "will a second operation give her a chance?" hope eagerly questioned. "a fighting chance, we think." "and without the operation--will she die?" asked faith. "she will suffer as her lilac lady suffered and go as she went. perhaps in five years, perhaps in ten. perhaps--one will tell the story." a deep silence fell upon them. mrs. campbell sat with her head buried in her arms, and from the occasional convulsive shiver of her shoulders, they knew that she was crying. was the situation then so desperate? "who will operate?" hope's low-voiced question sounded like the notes of a trumpet through the stillness of the room. "dr. shumway--" "the minister's son?" "yes." "but he is so young!" "he has made a marvelous name for himself already as a children's surgeon. he seldom loses a case." "but--but he is a physician in fairview, is he not?" asked gail in worried tones. "yes, that is where the rub comes. i thought perhaps if we offered him enough money he might operate here in martindale and be with her through the worst of it at least, before returning to his work in fairview, but he can't see his way clear. he wants to take her back with him--" "o, that would be dreadful," the girls broke in. "supposing she should--_die_--there all alone!" "she wouldn't be alone," the president explained. "mother and i would go, too." "but the university--doesn't it take _months_ for a patient to get well after such an operation?" protested faith. "yes, but we would not stay until she had entirely recovered; only long enough to be sure all was well, and then--" "i would go," said gail simply. "wouldn't i do?" asked hope. "this is gail's last year at the university, and she can't graduate if she loses a whole term." "peace is worth dozens of terms," gail answered softly. "besides, i am the oldest, and mother left her in my care. it is my place to go." "but we haven't decided yet whether or not peace herself is going to fairview," faith reminded them. "that's so," agreed dr. campbell. "what is your wish in the matter?" "it seems to me we _have_ decided," suggested gail. "we want to do everything we can for her, and if you think there is a--a chance--" "does she know?" interrupted faith. "not yet." "then why not leave the decision with her?" the president shook his head. "she is too young to know what is best for her, and we cannot raise false hopes in her heart. she has suffered too much already to be disappointed again--should the operation fail to accomplish the desired results." "but how are you going to get her to fairview without her knowing?" hope frowned in bewilderment. "o, she will have to know about the operation, but not what we hope will result. hark! don't i hear her calling?" just then the library door opened behind them, and marie announced young dr. shumway. "right on time," said the president, consulting his watch, "and your patient is just now awake. will you tell her, doctor? we have decided to take the chance, but think you will make a better job of breaking the news to her." "very well," replied the doctor promptly, not pausing to meet the other members of the family. "i'll go right on up." so he mounted the stairs to the flag room, wondering how he should broach the subject to the small maid soon to become his patient, but she gave him no chance for speech, for the instant she saw him bending over her, she exclaimed, "i dreamed about you last night,--the queerest dream!" "you did! well now, isn't that strange! i dreamed about you, too." "o, tell me your dream," she commanded, delighted at his words. "you first, my girl. then you shall hear mine." "well, i thought i was on a hard, hard bed in the middle of a great, big room, and all around the room were rows and rows of shelves, just like the pickle closet in our parker cellar. they were empty at first, but just as i was beginning to wonder what they were all for, i noticed a funny little hump-backed man sitting in one corner, dangling his legs over the edge of the shelf, and when i asked him who he was, he said he was one of my naughties. i didn't know what he meant, so he 'xplained that he was the bad spirit inside of me, which painted mr. hardman's barn once when i got mad at him. then all of a sudden, i saw that the shelves were full,--just plumb full of people. some were little and ugly, like the hump-back, and some were big and beautiful. the big ones were the goodies i had done. there was the time i sang for the hand-organ man, and the time i gave my circus money to the miss'nary, and the time i took the sick monkey home, and the time i carried pansies to my lilac lady, and--oh, crowds of 'em. but i 'most believe there were more naughties than goodies like faith's state fair cake which i spoiled, and the faces i made at old skinflint when he wouldn't let us pick raspberries and all the times i bothered grandpa by giving away my own and other folks's junk. o, i could see them all piled up on those shelves, and i began to cry about it, when who should come into the room but you and what do you s'pose you did, dr. dick?" "i haven't the faintest idea," he confessed. "tell me quickly." "you fished a pair of wooden legs out of your pocket and laid them on the bed, and when i asked you what they were for, you said you had brought them for me, so i could get up and chase the naughties away, to leave more room for the goodies." "and did you do it?" the doctor gravely inquired as the story-teller ceased abruptly. "i don't know," she answered wistfully. "i woke up just then. that's always the way,--you never find out anything from a dream." "well, i think i must have finished up your dream for you," said the doctor musingly, "for in my dream i was back at my old job in the hospital and i found the head nurse making up a bed in one of the little rooms one day. the _head_ nurse, mind you, who has altogether too many things to attend to without making up beds. so i asked her what she thought she was doing, and she said there was a little girl in the office downstairs, who wanted a new pair of legs, and she was getting the room ready so we could mend this child right away. so i went off to see if i could find some nice, strong legs for the little girl, and when i came back she was lying in the bed, and i was surprised to discover that i knew her. who do you suppose it was?" "i s'pose you _dreamed_ it was me," said peace, not much impressed by the narrative, which sounded quite flat and tame to her. "yes," said the doctor, somewhat disconcerted by her lack of interest. "i dreamed it was you. how do you think you would like to make the dream come true?" "how?" she asked, a little startled at the suggestion. "by going to the hospital and having another operation--" "o, i'm tired of being cut up," she interrupted wearily. "i had one operation already, and the pain came back just the same, even if we did hire some old doctors which had been in the business for ages and ages." "well, i am not a graybeard," dr. shumway assented, "but i think i could help the little back some, anyway." "would _you_ do the operating?" the big brown eyes opened wide in surprise. "sure. why not?" "yon don't look as if you knew enough." the doctor gasped. "well, i mean you haven't got any white hair and wrinkles," peace explained, perceiving that she had said something amiss. "you look as if you hadn't been a man for a very long time. but p'r'aps you know more than folks would think. have you talked to grandpa about it?" "yes, and he is willing to take the chance if you are." "well, that's something,--from him. it was ever so long before he would let dr. coates operate. you must know your business or he'd never have said yes. when will it happen?" she asked. "in a couple of days or so--" "_that_ soon?" "the sooner the better. well leave here tomorrow for fairview--" "o, do i have to go away for it?" the great eyes looked startled and half fearful. "yes, to danbury hospital in fairview, and--" "o, then i'll go, sure!" she clapped her thin hands gleefully. "i always did want to see the insides of a hospital. i've often visited one, but never had to live there a day, for they operated on me at home before. mercy, i'm having a lot of 'xperiences, ain't i? here comes grandpa now, and the rest of the bunch. hello, folkses! guess what's going to happen! i'm going to fairview hospital tomorrow in danbury, and be cut to pieces again. dr. dick is to do the operation. i b'lieve he knows enough, even if he ain't a _gray-back_; and _he_ thinks he can stop the hurting, so it won't come back any more. that's worth trying for, ain't it?" "but tomorrow--" gasped the girls. "is it to be that soon?" "we ought to leave here tomorrow," explained dr. shumway. "the operation will take place as soon after that as we can get her rested up for it." "then it is all settled!" sighed the president in relief, and a great burden seemed lifted from his shoulders. somehow, the strong, earnest face of the young doctor inspired confidence and courage in the hearts of others, and they could not but feel that all would go well with their little invalid. so they departed the next day for fairview,--the president and his wife, dr. shumway and his patient,--and a few days later peace found herself lying on the operating table in a great, white room of the hospital, with white-capped nurses flitting noiselessly about, and white-gowned doctors passing to and fro. "it's like my dream," she whispered. "only there aren't any shelves filled with goods and bads.--well, dr. dick, if you aren't a fright! i never should have known you if you hadn't spoken. you look like the pictures in our sunday school lessons of how they used to bury folks in the bible, with that nightgown on and all that white stuff over your head. it's rather 'propriate, though, for this room looks like a _car-slop-egus_. isn't that what you call the graves they used to put people in?" "sarcophagus," suggested the doctor, only the twinkle of his deep blue eyes betraying his amusement. "that is a casket of stone. is that what you mean?" "yes, i guess so, though i thought it was a room hacked out of the side of a hill where they stuck folks when they died, instead of putting them in graves like we do. where is the man which is going to give me the _antiseptic_?" "right here, my girl," chuckled a deep voice on the other side of her, and she looked up into the eyes of a second white-swathed figure, already beginning to adjust the anaesthetizer over her head. "now don't be afraid. just take a deep, deep breath--" "i know all about it," she interrupted. "i've been through this same performance once before. that stuff hasn't changed its smell a bit, either. are you all ready? well, then, good-night. if dr. dick don't know his business, i 'xpect i'm a goner." the bright eyes drooped shut, the childish voice trailed off into silence, and the little patient slept while the skillful surgeons mended the bruised back and useless limbs. chapter xii miss wayne peace awoke to find herself lying in a narrow iron bed, drawn close beside a window, through which she could see clouds of great, feathery snow-flakes swirling lazily, softly downwards; and not remembering where she was or how she came to be there, she murmured half aloud, "the angels seem to be shedding their feathers pretty lively today, don't they?" "what did you say?" asked a strange voice from somewhere in the background, and a sweet face framed in glossy black hair bent over her. "maybe it's heaven after all," mused peace to herself, "though i should think they would have dec'rations on the walls of heaven, 'nstead of leaving 'em naked." then she spoke aloud, surprised at the effort it cost her, "are you a dead nurse?" "do i look very dead?" questioned the strange voice again, and the face above her broke into a rare smile. "well, then, how did you get to heaven?" "this isn't heaven, dear. you are in danbury hospital. have you forgotten?" "o, that's so. i remember now. it's nice to know you ain't an angel." the nurse laughed outright. "yes, i'm glad, too, for i want to live a long time. the world is full of so many things i want to see." "that's me, too, but i thought i was dead sure this time." "no, dear, you are very much alive and are going to get well." "that's good, but what's the matter? i can't get my breath." "it's the ether, childie. you will be all right soon, but you must not talk now. just rest. sleep if you can, so you can visit with grandfather and grandmother campbell. they are anxious to see you." meanwhile, downstairs in the office of the great hospital, the president and his wife had sat like statues through all those interminable minutes which were to tell the story of whether the little life was to be spared or sacrificed. vaguely they heard the bustle of busy nurses, vaguely they saw the doctors hurrying in and out about their duties; but not once did either man or woman move from the great chairs in which they sat. sometimes it seemed to the matron and head-nurse, who occasionally passed that way, as if both had been turned to stone, so fixed was their gaze, so rigid their bodies. but in reality neither had ever been more keenly alive. each heart was reviewing with painful accuracy the two short years that had gone since the little band of orphans had come to live with them. how much had happened in that time, and how dearly they had come to love each one of the sisters! "i could not care more for them if they were my own," whispered mrs. campbell to herself. "they are like my own flesh and blood," thought the president. "i know a mother is not supposed to have favorites among her children," mused mrs. campbell, half guiltily, "but there is something about peace which makes her seem just a little the dearest to me." "they are all such lovable girls," the president told himself, "but somehow i can't help liking peace a little the best. everyone does. i wonder why." so they sat there side by side in the great hospital and pondered, waiting for the verdict from the white room above them. suddenly dr. shumway stood before them. "it is all over," he began, smiling cheerfully. "she will--" "all over," whispered mrs. campbell, and fainted quite away. when she opened her eyes again, the young doctor was bending over her, chafing her hands, and she heard his remorseful voice saying, "my dear mrs. campbell, you misunderstood me. the operation was successful. the little one will live." "ah, yes, i know," sighed the woman. "but it was such a relief to know the ordeal was ended that i couldn't bear the joy of the news. i am all right now. when can we see our girl?" quickly the good news was flashed over the wires to the anxious hearts in martindale, "operation successful. peace will walk again." and great was the rejoicing everywhere. only peace herself seemed undisturbed, taking everything as a matter of course, obeying the nurse's orders, and asking no questions concerning her own welfare, though she asked enough about other people's affairs to make up, and soon became a source of unending amusement to the hospital attendants, who made every excuse imaginable to talk with this dear little, queer little patient in her room. peace was in her element. nothing suited her quite so well as to make new friends, and she was delighted at the interest the busy nurses and doctors displayed in her case. "why, miss wayne," she sighed ecstatically one day when she had been in the hospital for a month, "i know the name of every nurse and doctor in this building, and pretty near all the patients. the only trouble with them is they change so often i really can't get much acquainted before they go home. i'm just wild to get into that wheel-chair which dr. dick has promised me as soon as i get strong enough; for then i can go visiting the other sick folks, can't i? dr. dick says i can, and i'm crazy to see what they look like. i can't tell very well from what the nurses say about their patients just what they look like. i try to 'magine while i'm lying here all day, but you know how 'tis,--the ones who have the prettiest names are as homely as sin usually; and the pretty ones have the homely names. "there's the little lady down the hall who keeps sending me jelly and things she can't eat. the head nurse, miss gee,--ain't that an awful funny name? i call her skew gee, because her first name is sue. well, she told me that this lady has been in the hospital four years. _four years!_ think of it! and that she never says a cross word to anyone, but when the pain gets bad she sings until it's better. no wonder that man loved her and wanted to marry her even if she will always be an invalid." "what do you know about love and marriage?" teased the nurse, laying out fresh linen and testing the water in a huge bowl by the bed. "i know i'd have married her, too, if i'd been in his shoes. she must be a darling. i'm very anxious to see if she is pretty. miss gee says she is. she says that typhoid girl is pretty, too. the one who has been here ten weeks now and is still so sick. i don't s'pose they'd let me see her yet. she calls one of her legs isaiah and the other jeremiah, 'cause one of 'em doesn't bother her and the other does. isaiah in the bible told about the good things that were going to happen, and jeremiah was always growling about the bad things that had happened. she must be a funny girl to figure all that out, don't you think? then there are those two little girls in the children's ward,--the one with the hip disease that's been here two whole years, and the other that's got _pugnacious_ aenemia. i'd like awful well to see them, 'cause neither one has a mother. and there's the weenty, weenty woman with nervous _prospertation_, but i'm most p'ticularly interested in billy bolee. "nurse redfern brought him in to see me a few minutes ago, while you were eating your breakfast. isn't he the prettiest little fellow you ever saw, and hasn't he got the worst name? i don't see what his mother could be thinking about to call him that." "but that isn't his real name, dear," answered the nurse, busy at making her talkative little patient comfortable for the day. "then why do they call him that?" "because we don't know his real name. his mother died here in the hospital weeks ago without telling us who she was or anything about her history. the baby talked nothing but dutch, and though dr. kruger, of the hospital staff, is dutch, he could not make out from the child's baby-talk what his name is." "and so they picked out that horrid billy-bolee name," exclaimed peace disgustedly. "that was because he kept saying something which sounded like billy bolee. we didn't know what he meant, but began to refer to him in that manner, and the name stuck." "does he talk american now?" "a little, but of course it is like learning to talk again, and we often have to get dr. kruger to interpret his wants even yet. i'll never forget one of the first nights he was here. he cried and cried until the whole staff of nurses was nearly frantic, because we could find nothing to soothe him. he kept repeating some strange words, as if he was trying to tell us what he wanted, but none of us understood. at that time we didn't even know his nationality, but while he was still howling lustily, dr. kruger came upstairs on his evening round of calls, and he stopped to see what was the trouble with miss redfern's charge. then how he laughed! poor billy bolee was begging to be put in bed, and here we'd been trying for an hour to find out what was the matter." peace laughed heartily. "that was a good joke on the nurses, wasn't it?" she remarked, when her merriment had subsided. "but why do you keep him here now if his mother is dead?" "the doctors are endeavoring to cure his little foot so he can walk all right again. he was hurt in the same railroad accident which killed his mother, and the injury has made one leg shorter than the other." "o," cried peace in horror. "and he hasn't any relations to take care of him after he gets well?" "not that we know of." "then what will you do with him? he can't live here always, can he?" "no. some day he will have to be sent to a children's home or some such institution where homeless waifs are cared for, until some kind heart adopts him." "but no one wants _lame_ children to adopt," peace protested. "do you s'pose billy bolee will ever get adopted?" "we _hope_ so." peace was silent a moment, then thoughtfully remarked, "there was a fat old hen in our church--there! i didn't mean to say fat, 'cause i wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world,--but mrs. burns was fat, and she used to come over to our house after i got hurt and tell me how thankful i ought to be. it made me awful mad at first, but i b'lieve i know now what she meant. now there's my lilac lady,--she had heaps of money, and a great, splendid house to live in, and aunt pen to take care of her; so even if she never could walk again, 'twasn't as bad as it would have been s'posing she was poor and didn't have anything of her own. then there's me. if i had fallen off a roof in parker and cracked my back, 'twould have been perfectly awful, 'cause there would have been no money for doctors and such like, and i guess it costs heaps to get operated on. but as it is now, i've got grandpa and grandma campbell to take care of me, and there ain't any danger of my being sent to a children's home or the poor farm. there are a pile of thankfuls in this world, ain't there?" "yes indeed," answered the nurse warmly. "this world is a pretty good old world, and no matter what happens, there is always something left for every one to be thankful about. isn't that so?" "uh-huh. that's what papa used to tell us, and before every thanksgiving dinner we had to think up some p'tic'lar big thankful that had happened to us that year. even after he and mamma had gone to heaven, gail made us do the same thing, and you'd be s'prised to see the things we dug up to be thankful about even if we were _orphants_, and poorer than mice. one year i managed to kill a turkey that b'longed to another man; so we had some meat for dinner when we hadn't really expected any. 'twasn't often we got _turkey_, either,--not even when papa was alive. but we always have it at grandpa's on thanksgiving and christmas. i'm very fond of turkey, ain't you?" "yes, i am quite partial to mr. gobbler, too," smiled miss wayne reminiscently, "but we nurses don't always get a taste of it on thanksgiving day, either." "can't the hospital afford turkeys _once_ a year?" asked peace in shocked surprise. "but a nurse doesn't live at the hospital always, you know. after she graduates, most of her cases are in private homes, and it all depends upon where she is on the holidays as to what she gets to eat or how she amuses herself. now, christmas day this year i spent with my married brother on his farm near st. cloud, but it is the first time i have been with any of my own people for a holiday during the last four years. on thanksgiving i was taking care of a little girl who had diphtheria, and we were shut off upstairs all by ourselves, seeing no one but the doctor from one day's end to the next. poor zella was too sick to know what day it was, and i was too anxious about her to care, so neither of us got any turkey. "one year i was miles out in the country, nursing a worn-out mother, who had seven children, all younger than you. she was a farmer's wife, and they were huddled in the dirtiest bit of a hovel that i ever saw. the hogs and chickens used to come into the kitchen whenever the door was opened, and no one ever thought of driving them out. they didn't know what it meant to be clean, and were shocked almost to death when i tried to give the latest baby a bath. there wasn't a broom in the house and no one knew what i wanted when i asked for a mop. we had literally to _shovel_ the dirt off those floors. "the children had never been taught to pray, they knew absolutely nothing about the bible, had never even heard the name of jesus except in swearing. christmas day was unheard of, and thanksgiving a riddle; and when i asked the father if we might not have a hen for dinner on that occasion, he said there were none to spare for such nonsensical purposes." "but you got one anyway, didn't you?" peace eagerly asked, for she had learned to love miss wayne dearly, and seemed to think that the earnest, whole-hearted, sympathizing woman was capable of anything. "no, not from him," the nurse replied, knitting her brows as if the thought still made her angry. "but his answer got my dander up, and the children were so disappointed, for i had told them all about our thanksgiving day, that i determined to cook them a sure-enough thanksgiving dinner if i could manage it. there was one girl in the family,--little five-year-old essie,--and i gave her a half dollar and sent her over to their nearest neighbor to see if he would sell us a small turkey. he had already disposed of his turkeys, however, and had no hens for sale either; but he gave essie a big duck and a handful of silver in exchange for the money she had given him, and she came back as proud as a peacock to display her wares. i saw at once when she passed me the change that he had not charged her a cent for the duck, so i put the money back into her little hand and told her that she was to keep it. at first she was reluctant, though her big, eager eyes showed how much she really wanted it; and after a while i made her understand that i actually meant to give it to her for her very own. but when she took it to her mother, the little woman called me to the bed and explained that it would do the child no good in that form, because the lazy, shiftless, good-for-nothing father would take it to buy tobacco. 'the children can't save a penny,' she said sadly. 'when once he gets his hands on it, they never see it again. but if you really want essie to have the money, won't you take it and buy her a doll? she has never had one of her own, and it would please her more than anything you could do.' "so i put the money back into my purse and promised essie a doll instead, which should open and shut its eyes and have real hair. christmas was near at hand, and i made up my mind that i would dress the doll as daintily as possible and send it to her in time for christmas eve, so the mother could put it in her little stocking, for all the children had expressed a determination to hang up their stockings that year like the children in the stories i had told them. so, when about a week before christmas, i was able to leave the dirty little hovel, i searched the stores through for the kind of a doll essie wanted, and made it a beautiful set of lace-trimmed clothes which really buttoned up. my mother and sisters were greatly interested in the story of this neglected family, and they decided that we must pack a box for all the children, so none of the little stockings would be empty on christmas morn. accordingly, we picked up some old clothing, whole and serviceable--" "just like the ladies do each year for the missionaries on the frontier," peace interrupted with breathless interest. "very much, only on a smaller scale. we didn't try to outfit the whole family, but included something for each member,--except the father,--and filled up the corners with candy and nuts. poor mrs. martin had been so interested in the bible stories which she had heard me telling the children that i got her a nicely bound bible, marking the passages which she had liked the best; and she really seemed delighted to get it. she could write a little, and she sent me a very grateful little letter of thanks when the box arrived, telling me how much the children had enjoyed their share of the good things, and particularly how pleased essie was with her doll. "when i first went to care for mrs. martin on the worthless little farm, there was only one stove in the ramshackle house and that was in the kitchen. it was positively necessary to have her bed-room warm and comfortable, so i made mr. martin get another stove for that purpose. there was no chimney in that part of the house, however, and he cut a hole through the ceiling and stuck the stove-pipe through that into a big chamber above, where, by some means or other, he connected it up with the kitchen chimney. it was very unsafe, of course, and i protested against it, but he would not listen to me; so all the while i was under that roof, i watched the stove every minute, for fear it would set the house afire. but it didn't, and he laughed at my worry, but not long after i had left there while it was still very cold weather, the old place did burn down one night. the family was rescued by their neighbors, but they lost everything they had. mrs. martin wrote me about the disaster, telling how sorry she was to lose her bible, and how terribly grieved essie was over the loss of her treasure. naturally i was sorry, too, and when christmas came again, i dressed another doll for essie, bought another bible for mrs. martin, and packed another box for the whole family. again the mother wrote me a letter of thanks, but it didn't sound sincere to me this time, and when in closing she said that jerry, her husband, thought i might at least have included a plug of tobacco for him, i made up my mind that all they wanted was what they could get out of me." "so you didn't send them any more dolls and bibles," peace soliloquized, when the nurse paused in her narrative. "they didn't appreciate them," miss wayne answered wistfully. "one doesn't enjoy being liked for one's money. i want folks to like _me_." the little invalid lay with intent eyes fixed upon the ceiling while she reviewed the story she had just heard; then she said gravely, "i think it was jerry who wrote for the plug of tobacco." "jerry!" "well, mr. martin, i mean." "but mrs. martin wrote the letter." "i'll bet he was peeking over her shoulder and made her put in about that plug of tobacco, just the same," peace persisted. "i b'lieve essie and her mother really cared. 'twas him that wanted just your money. some women get married to some awful mean men." "yes," sighed the nurse, more to herself than for peace's benefit. "that is very true, and jerry was one of them." "there are lots of nice men, though," peace hastened to add, for miss wayne's face looked so unusually grave and sad. "there's grandpa and st. john, and--and dr. dick. _he_ isn't married yet, either. neither is dr. race, is he? when i was in the sun parlor yesterday afternoon, i heard one of the nurses tell that new special that miss swift had set her _trap_ for dr. race. what did she mean? it sounded like they thought he was a mouse--" "hush! o, peace! you misunderstood. you mustn't repeat such things. it--i--oh, dear, what can i say?" "well, i 'xpect they meant that miss swift is trying to marry dr. race, and i s'pose the rest are jealous. frances sherrar is going to be married to one of the professors at the university, and i heard gail telling grandma how jealous some of the girls are. i s'pose it's the same with the nurses. only i sh'd hate to see dr. race marry miss swift 'cause i don't like her. she's too snippy. why didn't you ever get married? you're so nice and--and--" miss wayne's face had flushed a brilliant crimson, and hastily gathering up soap and towels, she made ready for a hurried flight, but found her way blocked by a stalwart figure in the doorway, whose twinkling eyes and smiling lips betrayed the fact that he had overheard at least part of their conversation. embarrassed, the nurse set down the bowl of water poised perilously on one arm, and stammered, "i--i beg your pardon, dr. shumway. you are rather late this morning, or am i early? i mean, you--i--we--" "there, there. miss wayne, don't get excited," a laughing voice said teasingly. "take heart. remember, 'the race is not always to the swift.'" "o, dr. dick!" peace interrupted from the little cot by the window. "is that you at last? i've been watching _hours_ for you to come. i've got the splendidest news to tell. _gail_ is here,--my sister gail. i know you will like her." then, as her eyes fell upon the great wicker chair which the doctor was dragging behind him, she straightway forgot all else, and shrieked ecstatically, "_dr. dick_, what have you got there? is it for me? a wheel-chair? oh, oh, oh! put me in it right away. _now_ i can go and see some of the other sick folks, can't i?" chapter xiii the little author lady "well, peace, my dear little peace, i am afraid the time has come for me to leave you." miss wayne had entered the sick room noiselessly, and, pausing beside the wheel-chair, stood looking with tenderly wistful eyes down at the face of her small charge, who, propped up among her pillows, was animatedly watching the traffic in the street below. "o, miss wayne," peace, so engrossed with what she had seen that she did not catch the significance of the nurse's remark, lifted her bright shining eyes to the face above her and giggled, "why didn't you come sooner? you missed the biggest sight of your life. it was _so_ funny! there was a runaway, and the horse chased across our lawn just as dr. canfield came up the walk. he had his med'cine case in one hand and an umbrella in the other, and he let out a big yell and began to wave them both around his head while he danced up and down in front of the horse. i guess he was trying to keep it out of a garden in the middle of the yard, but the old beast didn't shoo worth a cent, and the doctor had to do some lively dodging to get out of its way. he is so short and fat and pudgy that he did look too funny for anything, hopping around like a rubber ball and squealing like a pig. he kept a-hollering, 'o, my cannons, oh, my cannons!' but the horse went straight through the garden just the same, and now the doctor's down on his knees in the mud digging up some onions and looking 'em all over carefully." miss wayne's merry laugh joined in with that of her patient, and following peace's example, she pressed her face against the window pane and looked down at the panting, puffing figure on the muddy, trampled turf below. "it's his cannas," she explained. "he always has an immense bed of red canna lilies in the center of the lawn every summer. they are the pride of his heart, and i can imagine what he felt like to have a team plough through his precious garden. fortunately, it is so early in the spring that the bulbs have not yet sprouted, so i guess there is not much damage done. 'canfield's cannas' is a hospital joke. i wish i could have seen his encounter with that runaway." wiping the mirthful tears from her eyes, she turned to the tiny closet in the corner of the room, dragged forth a suitcase, and began to take down some garments from the hooks, preparatory to packing. "why, miss wayne," cried peace, her attention attracted by the sound of the valise on the floor. "whatever are you doing?" "gathering up my scattered belongings ready for departure--" "departure!" echoed the child in great dismay. "why, where are you going?" "i have another case, my dear, which needs my attention." "but you can't go now! you've got me to look after." "my dear child!" cried the woman in shocked surprise. "do you mean to say that no one has told you that i must go?" "i hain't heard a word about it before," declared the distressed peace. "_why_ do you have to go?" "you don't need me any longer--" "but i _want_ you. _please_ don't go!" "i must, childie. it is no longer necessary for you to have a special nurse. your sister is here almost all the daytime, and you are getting around splendidly in your wheel-chair." "but can't folks have special nurses when they don't _need_ them, but just _want_ them?" "o, yes, if they have plenty of money so they can afford it, but it is a needless expense, and as you will have to stay here for many weeks yet, you surely don't want to make your grandfather pay extra for a special nurse whose work is done, do you?" "n--o," peace reluctantly replied. "but i like you. i--i don't want you to go--yet." "i am very glad you feel that way, girlie, but you see how it is, don't you? of course, dr. campbell won't listen to my going if you insist upon my staying, but you don't mean to be selfish, i know." "i don't b'lieve you care," pouted peace. "ah, my child, you can never know how much!" answered the woman with unexpected warmth; and peace, convinced, cried contritely, "i didn't mean that, miss wayne, truly. but, oh, how i hate to have you go! it'll be so lonesome!" "o, no. you are progressing famously in the handling of your chair, and now you can carry a little sunshine into the other sick rooms. lots of patients will be delighted to see our little canary,--you know that is what the little lady down the hall has called you ever since she heard you whistling so merrily the other day." the thin face brightened. "yes, it will be lovely to get acquainted with all these sick folks," she acknowledged, "but that won't make up for losing you." miss wayne smiled her appreciation of the compliment, as she replied, "you won't lose me entirely yet. my new case is to be here in the hospital, too. the ambulance will bring him in this afternoon; so perhaps you will see quite a little of me for some weeks--days to come." "o, goody! that will be nice, if i _must_ give you up, to have you still in the hospital. who is your new patient?" "an old, old gentleman who fell on the pavement yesterday and fractured his hip." "does dr. dick take care of him?" "no, he is dr. race's patient." "o, dear! s'posing dr. race won't let you come and see me sometimes?" "then you come and see me." "that's so. i can go in my chair, can't i? how nice it is to be able to get about by yourself again, when it's been so you couldn't for such a long time!" and peace rolled the light chair across the floor to watch the brief process of packing, while she laid eager plans for seeing her beloved nurse each day. but she did miss the dear woman very much at first. being cared for by general nurses, who must be summoned by bell every time they are needed, is vastly different from having one special nurse constantly within call; and peace felt this difference keenly in spite of gail's daily presence. but as miss wayne had predicted, she found her wheel-chair a great diversion and a source of much amusement. it was such fun to be able to propel one's self along the wide corridors and peace's natural curiosity and investigative habit were never so well satisfied as when she was poking about to see for herself what was happening around her. her reputation had preceded her all over the great building, and as soon as the other invalids learned that she had graduated to a wheel-chair, they were one and all eager to make her acquaintance; so peace spent many happy hours forming friendships among the inmates of danbury hospital. her sunny disposition seemed contagious, and the nurses welcomed the sight of her bright face, knowing that she would bring cheer into their domains if anyone could; for, in spite of her amazing frankness, there was something quaintly attractive in her speech and manner that was irresistible, and every heart felt better for having known her. one day, as she was gliding noiselessly down the deserted corridor, the elevator stopped at that floor and another wheel-chair patient rolled out into view. "now why didn't i think of that before," exclaimed peace to herself. "the wards are on the third floor and i've never seen them yet. i'm going up." to think was to act, and when next the lift stood still at the second floor, peace rolled her chair into the iron cage and said in matter-of-fact tones, "three." the operator glared at her suspiciously, but she seemed so cheerfully unconcerned that he decided she must have permission to visit the wards; so he closed the iron gate with a clang, and the elevator rose slowly to the floor above. as the wheel-chair glided out into the upper corridor, peace glanced curiously about her, marvelling to see so many doors closed. then, as her sharp eyes spied one door standing open far down the hall, she started in that direction, but halted at the sound of a stifled sob, seemingly almost beside her. peering into a dim recess by the elevator shaft, which had at one time evidently been used for a store-room, peace discovered a figure huddled forlornly in the corner, weeping disconsolately. "why, what's the matter?" cried the brown-eyed girl, her mind flying back to school days and punishments. "have you been bad and got stood in a corner?" the weeper started violently, dropped her bandaged hands and stared in frightened wonder at the child before her, but she made no reply, and again peace demanded, "what seems to be the trouble?" "sh!" hissed the stranger. "don't yell like that. come inside if you are bound to stop. i've run away from my nurse." "can _you_ run?" "well, walked, then. she left me in the sun-parlor, b--but i can't s--stay there with everyone staring and asking q--questions." and again the tears began to fall. "shall i call your nurse?" peace inquired, uneasy and alarmed at the vehemence of the older girl's grief. "no! no! for goodness' sake, no! she won't let me cry, and i've _got_ to, or--or--" "bu'st," suggested peace, nodding her head sympathetically. "yes, i know how 'tis. the nurse i had the first time after i was hurt wouldn't let me cry, either. but this time miss wayne never said 'boo,' when i couldn't hold in any longer. she'd let me have it all out by myself and then she'd come and tell me a funny story. _she_ had sense." "i wish miss pierson had some. she's always preaching sunshine and smiles. it's no wonder that girl downstairs can whistle and laugh. _she's_ got folks to look after her all her life, and money to buy anything she wants." "what girl?" asked peace, with a curious sinking of heart. "they call her peace--" "that's me, i thought 'twas. the d'scription seemed to fit so well." the stranger drew back aghast, then said bitterly, "i might have known it." "don't you like me?" pleaded the child, feeling that her companion had grown suddenly antagonistic. "i--i hate you!" "but--but--why?" stammered peace, thunder-struck by this uncompromising declaration. "because you have everything i need, and i can't have anything." "you have good legs," peace wistfully whispered. "and you have good hands," her companion shot forth. "hands!" peace all at once became aware of the bandages which hid that other pair of hands from sight. "wh--hat's the matter with yours? did you hurt them? have you got _any_?" "apologies!" her voice was harsh with intense bitterness, her eyes were dull with despair. "apologies?" peace failed to understand. "they are useless. i burned them," explained the other hopelessly. "but won't they _ever_ be any good?" peace persisted, her eyes wide with horror. "no, i can never write again." "write?" "i write stories for a living. it's all i can do when i have to stay at home with mother and benny. and now--god! what is there left for me to do?" "you swore." "i did not." "then maybe you prayed. was it a prayer?" "i can't pray. it's useless to pray. those two hands brought in my bread and butter,--the bread and butter for us three. and now they are hopelessly crippled. what can i pray for?" "your bread and butter." "pshaw!" the girl laughed derisively, then broke off abruptly. "you don't understand," she said in lifeless tones. "no," peace agreed, "p'r'aps i don't. 'twas _my_ feet. how did you come to burn your hands?" "benny upset a lamp, and--i had to put out the fire. he can't run, either. he is a cripple." "oh!" the voice was sharp with distress, and in spite of herself, the older girl's face softened. "you--you care?" she whispered. "of course i care," cried peace warmly. "poor little benny! he is little, ain't he? he sounds little. can't you have him cured?" "perhaps, if there was any money to pay the bills. but so far, it has taken every cent i could earn to keep us in food and clothes. i had hoped my book would be successful and that the royalties would be enough to take care of us, so the short story money could pay for an operation. but now i can never finish the book." "can't you get a typewriter? you could use one of those, couldn't you? grandpa has one for his work at home, and he thumps it with only one finger on each hand." "do you know how much a typewriter costs?" she asked. "no. very much?" "more than i could ever spend for one." "and there's no one else to help?" "no one. my father is dead. benny's mother,--my sister,--is dead. her husband is a drunken sot. we turned him out long ago. it was he who crippled benny. poor little benny! he's only three, and he will never have a chance with the other boys and girls." "i've got five dollars," peace shyly confided. "it's all my own to do as i please with. i want you to take it. will it buy a typewriter?" "o, my, no! they cost heaps of money,--a hundred dollars for a brand new one of the kind i want. but--but it's real dear of you to offer me your money. i can't take it, child. i'm not a beggar." "we weren't beggars in parker, either; but it came in mighty handy sometimes to have folks give us things. course we always tried to _earn_ them if we could, and if you want to _earn_ this money, you might write me five dollars' worth of stories. oh, i forgot!" she glanced hastily at the crippled hands, then averted her eyes. "truly i did. but you needn't be snippy about my money. i know what 'tis to be poor." "you! why, your grandfather is president of the state university, miss pierson says." "that's my make-believe grandfather. my truly real one has been dead for ages. then papa died, and fin'ly mother, which left us to dig for ourselves. we were worse off than you, 'cause there were six of us and not one knew how to write stories for money. i guess we'd all have starved to death or gone to the poor farm if grandpa hadn't come along just about that time." before peace was aware of it, she had poured out the whole history of the little brown house in parker, while the other crippled girl listened spellbound. "what a plot for a book!" she sighed ecstatically when the narrator had finished. "and what a picture for one of the characters!" she fell to studying peace with a new interest in her heart. "o, do you mean to write us up in a book?" cried peace, fascinated with the idea. "that's what gail has always threatened to do, but i don't expect she ever really will. wouldn't it be splendid to have a story written all about ourselves? what shall you call it? will you let me know when it is done so i can read it and see what kind of stuff you write?" but a shadow had fallen across her companion's face, so bright and animated a moment before, and again she glanced involuntarily at the bandaged hands which both in their eagerness had forgotten. but before either could speak, there was a rustling sound of stiffly starched skirts behind them, and miss keith, from the floor below, stepped around the corner. "why, peace greenfield!" she exclaimed at sight of them. "what a start you gave us! don't you know you must never leave your own floor without permission? if the elevator boy hadn't put us wise, we probably would be phoning to the police by this time. come downstairs now. your sister is waiting for you in your room." so peace departed, but not until she trundled through the doorway of her room did she remember that the stranger had not told her name. "o, dear," she greeted gail. "i do show the least sense of anyone i know." "what seems to be the matter?" asked the big sister, amused at the look of disgust on the small, thin face. "i've just been gabbing with a real author lady, who has burned her hands 'most off, so she can't write any more, and i forgot to ask her name." "why, what are you talking about?" inquired gail, amazed at the unexpected answer. "the author lady i just found crying in a corner upstairs because she can't write stories any more. that's the way she's been earning the bread and butter for her family, and she don't know what will happen to them now. i thought maybe a typewriter would do the work, but she says it costs a hundred dollars to buy the kind she wants, and she wouldn't take my five. there's a baby boy, too, who can never walk unless there is an operation and of course it takes slathers of money for that." "whose baby boy are you interested in now?" asked a deep bass voice from the doorway, and peace whirled about to confront young dr. shumway just entering the room. "his name is benny, and he b'longs to the little author lady upstairs who got burned 'most to death trying to put out the lamp which he tipped over. his mother is dead, and the little author lady has to take care of him and her own mother. i plumb forgot to ask what her name is, but i 'member now that she called her nurse miss piercing." "oh!" dr. shumway seemed more enlightened with that scrap of information than with all the rest of the story, and he stood stroking his chin thoughtfully, as he gazed absently at gail seated by the window. "do you know her?" asked the small patient when he made no further comment. "i know whom you mean," he answered slowly. "but she is not my patient. dr. rosencrans has that case. where did _you_ find out about her?" peace again recounted the history of her recent adventure, and the story lost nothing in its telling, for the child was profoundly impressed, and she had the knack of making her listeners feel with her. "i recall now," he said, turning to gail when the tale was ended, "there was some talk of amputating the hands at first,--they were so dreadfully burned,--but the little lady would not permit it. she has suffered tortures with them, but i understand that they are healing nicely now, though they will probably always be crippled, and many months must elapse before she can use them again. she is a game little woman, but very close-mouthed,--almost morose. she seemed simply overwhelmed by her catastrophe and none of the staff could get anything out of her." he glanced significantly down at peace, but she was apparently unconscious of what she had accomplished, and the conversation turned to other channels. there was a very homesick little girl in one of the rooms across the hallway, who had done nothing but cry since the ambulance had brought her to the hospital, and the doctor wanted peace to make her a little visit. so for the next few days the brown-haired elf was so absorbed in this new task of cheering unhappy gertrude that she had little time to think of the author lady on the floor above; and gail was not prepared for the tragic face that greeted her when she made her usual call at peace's room one day about a week later. "why, what has happened?" demanded the older sister, glancing about her in alarm. "miss wayne's gone away without ever saying good-bye to me," gulped the child in grieved accents. "her patient with the _fractious_ hip died and she had a case somewhere in the country which she had to go to, but she never told me a word about it. i didn't think she was that kind. i liked her so much, and now--" "but, peace," interrupted gail tenderly, "she came to say good-bye last evening and you were asleep. i had gone home and there was no time to write a note as she had planned to do, so she told dick--er, i mean dr. shumway. but he forgot to deliver the message this morning when he came in to see you, and just now met me with the request that i tell you, with his apologies. miss wayne will be back here at the hospital before you go home undoubtedly, for she is a very popular nurse, not only with her patients, but with the doctors who send their cases here for treatment. so you mustn't fret. she did not forget,--she never can,--for i am sure she loves you dearly, and if you had been awake she would have said good-bye in person." "well, i'm glad of that," said peace, much mollified at the explanation. "but anyway, my author lady is gone, and i don't even know her name." "yes," answered gail brightly, "the little author lady has gone home, but benny is here." "benny?" "the crippled baby she told you about. surely you remember." "course i remember. but how did he get here when there wasn't any money?" "dic--dr. shumway investigated the case, and found it was even more pitiful than the little author lady had pictured it; so he persuaded them to let him operate on the baby for nothing, and he _thinks_ benny's little crooked back can be made entirely well. he left some medicine for the poor, patient invalid mother, and she is going to get better, too. isn't it all lovely?" peace's brown eyes were shining like stars, but all she said was, "what did he do with the author lady?" "o, that came out beautifully, too. dick--er, dr. shumway told dr. rosencrans her story in the office downstairs, and it happened there was a real rich author lady there waiting for her automobile to come and take her home. her name is mrs. selwyn, and she has been very sick, too, and must not try to write any more for a long time yet. but she became so interested in this poor little miss garland, that she insisted upon having her taken to her big, beautiful house for a few weeks. mrs. selwyn employs a secretary to do much of her typewriting, and this secretary is now to help miss garland get her book finished, so it can go to the publishers as soon as possible." "is miss garland _my_ author lady?" "yes, dear." "then she won't need a typewriter herself now." "o, yes, for this arrangement is only for a little while,--until mrs. selwyn is well again. so some of us,--dr. rosencrans, dr. race, dr. shumway, dr. crandall, miss pierson, miss wayne, and oh, a whole bunch of nurses and friends, got up a collection and bought her a splendid new machine like she wanted, and when she goes home she will find it waiting for her." "doesn't she know?" "not a whisper. it's always to be a secret who gave it to her. we feared that she might feel as if we thought she had been begging, if she knew the names of the senders,--she is so extremely sensitive. so we just tied a card to the case, and wrote on it, 'from your loving friends.'" "that's reg'lar splendid, and i want my five dollars to help pay for it, too." "but, peace,--" gail began. "there ain't any 'but' to it," declared the small sister with determination. "i was the one who found her, and i mean to help." "very well," sighed gail, studying the stubborn little chin and knowing that peace would gain her point in some way, even if denied the privilege of contributing her one gold piece. "you surely did set the ball rolling, for mrs. selwyn says your little author lady will make her mark in the world before many years." "yes, i guess she will make a mark on the world, too," peace agreed complacently, "for now benny's going to be like other children, and the mother won't be so sick any more. doesn't _everything_ end just splendid?" "yes, my darling," whispered gail to herself, "when you are around." chapter xiv keturah and billy bolee "well, kitty, i am awful sorry, but it can't be helped now. it won't take me more than half an hour or so in all probability, but will you care to wait for me?" peace, dozing in her wheel-chair in a little, sheltered niche at the end of the corridor, awoke with a start. was that dr. dick speaking, or had those words been part of a dream? another voice, unfamiliar to her, and sounding weary, indifferent and pathetically mournful, answered, "tomorrow will be the same." "yes," dr. shumway laughed apologetically, "i suppose it will. physicians can hardly claim a minute of their time for themselves." "then i might as well wait for you now." "very well. shall i send you down to the library in the auto,--or to one of the stores? or will you stay here? i'm afraid you won't find much to amuse yourself with in this place." "nevertheless i'll stay," answered the world-weary voice again. "but please hurry. i don't like the smell of lysol and ether." "i'll be back as soon as i can, kit. you'll find a pretty view from that bay window if you care to look at our scenery." the busy doctor was gone, and the black-clad figure, left to her own devices for the next thirty minutes, turned with a heavy sigh toward the window her companion had indicated, but paused at sight of a bright, alert little face, peeping around the back of an invalid's chair which she had not noticed before. the rosy lips parted in a smile, and before the startled woman could regain her composure, the child spoke. "so this is _catarrhar_, is it?" "my name is mrs. wood," answered the woman, dumbfounded by her salutation. "but your first name?" persisted the brown-eyed sprite. "what does it matter?" the woman's voice was cold and crisp. "aren't you dr. dick's sister?" "dr. dickson shumway is my brother, if that is what you mean." "i thought so. well, he's got better manners than you have." the woman gasped. who in the world was this frank, friendly creature? no one had ever dared to speak like that to her before. flushed with anger, she turned to seek another retreat, but peace forestalled her. "your father said you weren't as homely as he is, and that's so. you'd be real _pretty_ if you just looked a little more human." "human!" the exclamation burst from her involuntarily, as the woman sank limply into the nearest chair and stared in utter surprise at her tormentor. "yes. you look so scowly and--and--oh, so frosty. i like warm faces that smile and look happy, like dr. dick's, you know. your sister penelope has the smile but not the good looks. pansy has neither, but i don't blame her. having such a name and being so fat is enough to make anyone cross. her waist tapers in the wrong direction. i've never seen carrie, so i don't know what she is like. but you--" "who--who are you?" the black-clad figure found voice to stammer. "me? i'm peace--" "seems to me that name doesn't fit very well, either," said the other sarcastically, for peace's candid criticisms had wounded her pride. "it's perfectly awful, ain't it?" peace serenely admitted. "but though i can't help my name, i i can help being ugly about it. there's nothing at all peaceful about me, i know. grandma says she thinks i must be strung on wires, for i _can't_ keep still. there's always a commotion when i'm around. i've tried and tried to be sweet and quiet like gail and hope and allee, but it's no use. so now i just try to be happy and cheerful. that doesn't _always_ work, either. sometimes i get in an awful stew about having to sit in a chair day after day, but then i 'member what my lilac lady wrote, and i try to be good again." "your lilac lady?" "she was lame like me," the child explained, and promptly regaled her visitor with the history of the dear friend who had slipped out from her prison house of pain not two years before, while the icy mrs. wood sat listening with real interest in her heart. when the tale was ended, the woman whispered, "and now you--" "yes," interrupted the child calmly. "i thought for a while i'd be like her, but dr. dick says before many more weeks he thinks i may be strong enough to try crutches. you see, my legs didn't use to have any life in 'em. i could stick 'em with pins and never feel it, but i can't do that now. they feel just like they did before i was hurt, but they are too weak yet to hold me up. i tried it one day just after miss wayne left, and i slumped right flat on the floor. i was scared for fear i'd have to call miss keith to help me onto the couch, and then she would scold; but after i rested a bit, i lifted myself _easy_." "what would the doctor say if he knew you did that?" "o, he knows. i told him. _he_ never scolds. he just said that i mustn't do it again until he let me himself, and i haven't. he's an awful nice doctor. he's always playing jokes, ain't he? when i first woke up from the _antiseptic_, i wanted a drink awfully bad, but miss wayne wouldn't let me have a drop of cold water; so when he came in to see me, i asked him for just a swallow, and what do you s'pose he did?" "i don't know," murmured her companion, still interested in the small patient's prattle in spite of herself. "well, he wrote in big letters on a card, 'when you want a drink, remember there is a spring in your bed.' and then he hitched it to the foot-rail where i couldn't help seeing it every time i looked that way. wasn't that hateful? of course it made me laugh, and it _did_ help me think of something else when i was so thirsty that it seemed as if i'd dry up if they didn't give me a teenty drink. _he_ knows how to make sick folks well." "he couldn't make my baby well," the woman blurted out with such bitterness that peace recoiled, shocked. "i'll bet he could have, if anyone could," she declared staunchly after her first start of surprise. "yes, i suppose so. that is what ed said," answered the bereft mother more quietly. "is ed your husband?" "yes." "i thought he was dead!" "ed? why, no! what put that idea into your head?" "you are all rigged out in black--" "my baby is dead." "so is elspeth's, but she never wears black. st. john likes to see her in blue, so she wears that color lots. it just matches her eyes. st. john is a perfectly good husband--" "so is ed," interrupted mrs. wood, with a passion that surprised her. "no one can say one word against ed. he is as good as gold." "does he like black on you?" "why--er--i don't know." "i never saw a man yet that did," peace commented sagely. "grandpa has fits when grandma gets into an all-black rig. he says it looks too gloomy. that's what st. john and elspeth think, too, so she never wears it." "who are they?" asked mrs. wood, for want of anything else to say, because the child's criticism of her attire had sharply reminded her of her own husband's frank disapproval. "st. john was our minister in parker, but now he has the hill street church in martindale, where i live. elspeth is his wife. they let me name their twins, but the tiniest one died before i could find a pretty enough name for it." "ah! she still has something to live for. no wonder she can dress in blue. she didn't lose her only child." "'twouldn't have made any difference if she had lost her whole family," peace replied, unconsciously pushing the sharp arrow deeper and deeper into her unwilling visitor's heart. "she'd have gone to work and adopted some to raise. that's what grandpa and grandma did." "i thought you said your grandfather was president of the state university." "i did. but he ain't our real grandfather. his only two children died when they were little, and 'cause my own grandpa had adopted him when they were boys, grandpa campbell adopted the whole kit of us when he found out who we were and that we were _orphants_. there are six of us, but he said he'd have taken the whole bunch if there'd been a dozen. that's the kind of a fellow he is, and elspeth is just like him. why don't you adopt a baby?" "why--why--why--" "would ed kick?" "no, ed never kicks. he lets me do anything i please." mrs. wood, with a curious, baffled feeling in her heart, wondered why she sat there listening to a spoiled child's silly chatter when every word stung her to the quick, and yet she made no effort to change her position. "well, if my husband would let me adopt a baby, i tell you it wouldn't take me long to find one." "your husband?" "yes, s'posing i had one." "you are but a child. you don't know what you are talking about. you cannot understand. an adopted baby never can fill the place of one's own lost one." "how do you know? you never did it, either. babies are such cunning things. no one can help loving them if they've got any kind of a heart. there is poor little billy bolee. he is just as pretty as he can be, but he's lame. dr. dick says one leg will always be shorter than the other, and he hasn't anyone to take care of him now, nor any home to go to. his mother was killed in a railroad accident. they are going to ship him off to the _orphant_ asylum next week, miss keith says. if he was only a girl, aunt pen would take him to raise, but they've decided not to have any boys at oak knoll. guiseppe and rivers were the only ones ever there, and now rivers' mother can take him again, and aunt pen has sent guiseppe across the ocean to study music. 'f i was bigger i'd adopt billy myself. i just love babies. when i grow up i'm going to be mother of forty girls, like aunt pen is." amused, shocked, scandalized, the young woman in black listened to the strange prattle of the child, who spoke as she thought; but when the busy tongue momentarily ceased its chatter, and peace sat gazing thoughtfully out across the green fields where already the grain grew thick and tall, mrs. wood timidly ventured the question, "how old is billy bolee?" "o, he's a little fellow. dr. dick says he prob'ly wasn't more'n two years old when he first came to the hospital, but he has been here as much as six months now. he couldn't talk american at first, and dr. kruger had to tell the nurses what he said. but even dr. kruger couldn't understand what his name was, so they took to calling him billy bolee. he's dutch, you know. they let him run all around the place now, and he is the dearest little fellow!" "where is he now?" "o, i expect he's in the office. miss murch tries to keep him there as much as she can, so's they will know where he is, i guess. sometimes he gets pretty noisy and the sick folks don't like to have him running up and down the halls." "by the way, i meant to have spoken to miss murch about some supplies our aid society wants to purchase for the hospital. i think i'll just slip downstairs now and attend to it while i am waiting for dickson. if he comes before i get back, tell him that i am in the office." almost before peace realized it, she was gone, and the invalid was left to her own devices once more. when the busy doctor, detained longer than he had expected to be, returned for his sister, she was nowhere in sight, and peace lay fast asleep in her wheel-chair by the window. "guess kit got tired of waiting for me and went home," he mused. so he hurried down the stairway and was about to step out of the great front doors, when a familiar, ringing laugh from the office close by made him pause and open his eyes in wonder, as he ejaculated under his breath, "if that isn't kit, i'll eat my hat!" before he could retrace his steps, however, a flushed, radiant figure flashed into the hallway, and keturah--a rejuvenated kit with a crimson carnation in her belt and another tucked in the coils of her glossy hair--exclaimed, "o, dick, come see what this little rogue has done!" then he noticed what had escaped his attention before,--she was leading little lame billy bolee by the hand. puzzled, yet strangely relieved at the vision, the doctor followed her into the office, where she pointed at scores of little red and green patches plastered hit or miss on the smooth walls. "why, what--?" he began. "see what they are?" asked the amused sister. he looked more closely at the haphazard decorations, then exclaimed, "postage stamps, i'll be bound!" "yes. five dollars' worth," laughed keturah infectiously. "and the worst of it is, most of them will have to be soaked off with water. billy bolee did his job well. do you suppose the mucilage will make him sick? by the way, dickson, i am going to take billy home with me. it won't be too cool in the auto for him without any wraps, will it? he has nothing but a heavy winter coat, and he will _roast_ in that." slowly the doctor turned and looked searchingly at his sister. she flushed under his gaze, but did not flinch. "i have been talking to dr. kruger," she said, as if in answer to his unspoken question, "and he thinks there will be no difficulty about our securing adoption papers,--if we decide to keep him." "but, kit," stammered the mystified man, "how--why--what?" "o," she laughed a little sheepishly, "that rude, out-spoken creature in the wheel-chair by the window where you left me told me that i ought to adopt him, and i'm not sure but that she is right." "she is not rude," the doctor suddenly contradicted, a vision of the brown-eyed idol of the hospital flashing up before him. "she merely believes in voicing her thoughts; but she is the essence of compassion and love. she would not want to wound another's feelings for anything in the world." "well, anyway, she certainly can wake folks up," the woman insisted. "thank god for that," said the man under his breath, and leaving the nurses to rescue what of the luckless postage stamps they could, he conducted keturah and happy little billy bolee to his car, waiting at the curb. chapter xv the ring that built a hospital it was a hot june night. not a breath of air was stirring, and in the great danbury hospital every window was opened its widest. yet the patients lay panting and sweltering on their cots. peace, in her room, tossed and turned restlessly, dozed a few minutes, then wakened, changed her position, trying to find a cooler spot, and finally in desperation, raised her hand and jerked the bell-cord dangling at the head of her bed. she could hear the answering whir in the hall outside, but no one came to minister to her wants, and after an impatient wait of a few seconds, she repeated the summons. still no one came. "what in creation can be the matter with miss hays, i wonder," she muttered, and savagely pulled the cord for the third time. there was a faint patter of rapid steps through the corridor, and the night nurse, flushed and perspiring, flew into the room. "what is it?" she asked crisply, mopping her warm face after a hasty survey of the small patient. "o," exclaimed peace in relief. "it's you at last! i thought you were never coming. is it hot outside tonight, or is it just me that's hot?" poor, hurried, steaming miss hays glared down at the tumbled figure on the bed, and snapped, "it's _me_ that's hot! did you chase me clear down two flights of stairs just to ask that question?" "you _do_ look warm," said peace in conciliatory tones, not quite understanding the cause of miss hays' evident wrath. "i _am_ warm,--decidedly warm under the collar!" suddenly the funny side of the situation burst upon her, and she laughed hysterically. it was utterly ridiculous to think of the haste she had made to answer the frantic summons of that bell! then, with an effort she controlled her merriment, and asked soberly, "was there anything you wanted?" "no--that is--hark! what is that noise? it sounds like a little baby crying. that's the third time tonight i've heard it squall." miss hays obediently strained her ears to listen. "it does sound like a child, doesn't it?" she admitted, as the plaintive wail was repeated. "who can it be?" "seems as if it came from the other part of the building," said peace, peering across the moonlit court toward the windows of the opposite wing. "but there are no babies over there," the nurse objected. "nearly all the patients in that section are old men, and the nurses' rooms are on the top floor." "well, that's where the crying comes from anyway," peace insisted, as another low, persistent wail rose on the midnight air. "are you _sure_ there ain't _any_ babies over there?" "none that i know of. i'll go investigate. it's queer that miss gee did not mention it to me if any new patients were brought in there today." puzzled miss hays turned to go when peace stopped her with an imperative, "wait! there's a nightcap sticking out of a topfloor window. i guess it's going to holler." "nightcap? where?" demanded the nurse, again staring out over the court toward the other wing of the hospital. "it looked like one, but it's gone in out of sight. o, i know i saw it. there! what did i tell you!" peace was right. from an open window in the nurses' quarters a white-capped head slowly protruded, followed by a huge pitcher. there was a sound of splashing water, a startled caterwaul from the lawn below, some excited spitting and scratching, and two black shapes streaked across the court to the street. the wailing ceased. silence reigned. "cats!" exclaimed miss hays in disgust. "making that crying noise?" demanded incredulous peace. "yes." "not babies at all?" "no." "well, i'll--say, that water splashed in through the window of the room below. listen to that man--swear! he's saying dreadful things! can't you hear him?" "i must go," the nurse ejaculated, when a swift survey of the windows opposite had proved that the child's observations were correct; but even as she darted through the doorway, the buzzer in the hall whirred viciously, and peace heard her mutter, "my sakes! but the old gentleman is mad!" once more quiet descended over the great building, and for a long time peace lay chuckling over the night's unusual adventure. then in spite of the heat she at length fell asleep. nor did she waken until the sun was high in the sky and the bustle of the busy city floated up through the open window. the first thing she was conscious of was the sound of dr. shumway's voice sharp with bitter disappointment, and by craning her neck almost to breaking point, she could catch a glimpse of his coat-tails through the open door, as he said to some invisible audience, "no, we can hope for absolutely nothing from that source now, and we do need that addition so badly. why, man alive it would mean a chance for hundreds of helpless babies. we simply haven't the room to accept charity cases now. every bed in the institution filled this morning! what a record! but we have had to turn away ten cases this past month because we were too crowded to take charity patients." "what did the old codger have to say to the committee?" asked another voice, which peace recognized as that of dr. race, though she could not see him. "he wasn't even _decent_ about it. said if his father had seen fit to spend half his fortune erecting this hospital, it was no sign that he intended to follow his example. what is more, he declared that we never would see another red cent of danbury money if he could help it. called his father an old fool and every other uncomplimentary name he could think of." "did you remind him that his father had intended to build this addition that we are so anxious for?" "yes, and got laughed at for my pains. if only old john danbury could have lived to see his building completed! he used to say he cared for no other monument than danbury hospital." "do you know," said a new voice thoughtfully, "i think he recognized the worthlessness of his profligate son, and planned to sink his whole fortune in this institution? money has been the curse of robson danbury's life, and his father knew that the only hope of making anything like a man out of him was the cutting him off without a cent, but the death angel claimed him before he had finished his plans." "well, that doesn't help us out of our predicament," said dr. race in his crisp, curt tones. "how are we to get our addition built?" "go to the church for it,--that's our only course now," suggested dr. shumway resignedly. "the church! good gracious, man! the church is bled to death now with its collections for this and subscriptions for that," declared dr. rosencrans impatiently. "they won't listen to our cry for help. i'm sorry this hospital is a denominational institution. it is a serious handicap." "it ought not to be," said dr. shumway stoutly. "our people should be proud of the chance to give to such a cause." "but the fact still remains that they raise a howl or have a fit every time they are asked for a copper," returned dr. rosencrans pessimistically. "well, what are you going to do about it?" demanded dr. race briskly. "got anything tangible to work upon?" "i happen to know that the bishop will give us his heartiest co-operation," dr. shumway answered. "we must confer with him and plan a state-wide campaign. we've simply _got_ to have that addition." "then it's to be the same old song and dance?" inquired dr. rosencrans in deep disgust. "we'll send out a professional beggar to the different churches of the state, and then sit back and wait for the money to roll in?" "what is your plan?" quietly asked dr. shumway, but in such a tone that peace, straining to catch every word, fairly jumped from her cot, and wondered whether there was to be a fight. "i have none," was the sulky reply, "but i'm tired of this lemon-squeezing farce. we can never raise a thousand dollars, let alone seventy-five thousand." "i suggest that we take twenty-four hours to think on this thing before we make any decisions," suggested dr. race in soothing tones. "it is too important a question to settle without considerable thought." "good idea," seconded another voice, and after a brief parley as to their next meeting, the group of physicians just outside peace's door dispersed about their various duties. but they had left the brown-eyed maid much food for thought. some of their conversation had puzzled her, but she gathered from their remarks that an addition to the hospital had become necessary, and for some reason seemed unobtainable, except by appealing to the churches for the money to build, which the doctors seemed loath to do. "i'll ask gail, she'll know," peace promised herself, when she found that she could not untangle the puzzling questions without further explanation. so when gail entered the white room that afternoon, the small sister was ready with an avalanche of queries. "why ain't the hospital big enough as 'tis? what do they need an _edition_ for? why won't robinson danbury give them any money, and why do they think he ought to? what's the matter with the churches and how do they bleed to death?" gail stopped short in her tracks. "why, girlie!" she cried apprehensively, noting the scarlet flush on the thin cheeks, "what do you mean? what is the matter? have you been dreaming? what are you talking about?" so peace told her of the conference held that morning just outside her door, and gail listened attentively, surprised that the small maid should display such interest in a question supposed to concern only her elders. "what's all the fuss about?" peace asked a second time before gail could decide whether or not it would be advisable to try to explain. "well," she said at length, "it happens that this is the only hospital in the state which belongs to our church,--that is, to our denomination, you understand. a man by the name of john danbury planned and built it with his own money, and gave it to the church with the understanding that it was to be supported by our people. his plan was to have the hospital take only poor patients, but even with the church's help they couldn't anywhere nearly pay their way when they did that, and they have had to accept pay patients almost entirely. so rather than give up this pet idea of his, mr. danbury decided to build an addition just for charity cases. but he died without a will,--that is, without anything to show how he wanted his money spent, and his son, robson, got it all. the son was hurt in a railroad accident about a month ago, and was brought here to be treated. up to that time, he had absolutely refused to give the hospital board a dollar toward carrying out his father's wishes, although he himself knew what the plans had been. but while he was here, he sort of changed his mind. i suppose he had never before realized how many people a hospital reaches; and he hinted that perhaps after all he might do a _little_ to help the board build its addition. the committee was to visit him this morning and get his definite answer, but last night some cats got to squalling in the court under his window, and--" "i know," peace interrupted. "it sounded, like a baby. i started miss hays off to find out who it was." "well, it bothered the nurses who were off duty, too, and finally miss gee could stand it no longer, so she deluged the cats with a pitcher of water,--" "yes, and some of it landed on the sill just under her window, and spattered a sick man inside. mercy! how he swore!" "and that sick man was robson danbury." "goodness gracious!" gasped peace. "no wonder he won't build any more hospital." "it is such a pity to act so childish about it." "i s'pose it does seem so to everyone else, but just s'posing _you_ had got settled comfortable on a _boiling_ hot night, and someone spilled water all over you. how would you like it?" "but it was purely an accident, peace." "accidents don't always make a fellow feel nice," the child asserted. "and the committee oughtn't to have visited him just after he got half drowned. they might have known he'd be ugly." "they knew nothing whatever of the accident until he told them. it seems that even miss gee herself did not realize that anything but the cats had been soaked, he was so angry that he refused to stay here any longer, and as soon as he could get his clothes on, the ambulance took him home. it is such a shame, for the hospital does need more room so badly, and now--" "'f i was the hospital, i'd just show him that i could build all the rooms i wanted to without any of his old money." "o, they intend to try to raise seventy-five thousand dollars by subscriptions from the churches. that was decided today. but it will be a hard job." "who's going to do it?" "do what?" "why, the work, of course. you said it would be a hard job." "o, they mean to open the campaign next sunday in martindale, and the bishop is to preach the first sermon. after that, rev. mr. murdock will do most of the preaching. he is secretary of the hospital association, you know." "is the bishop to preach in _our_ church?" "yes." "and take up a collection?" "a subscription one." "and i won't be there! why couldn't they wait till i got home?" "they must begin at once, dear, if they hope to raise such a great sum before conference." "what's the difference between a collection and a _perscription_?" "_sub_scription, child. well--er--we take up collections every sunday in our regular services, but a subscription gives the people a longer time to pay what they have promised." the conversation turned to other subjects, but had gail only known it, the busy brain under the curly brown thatch was puzzling over ways and means of taking part in that important subscription when she was miles away and absolutely bankrupt. she had given her last mite to help purchase a typewriter for her little author lady. but while the nurse was making her ready for the night, a sudden thought came to her, and holding up the slender finger on which gleamed her birthday ring, one of her most prized possessions, she asked, "how much do rings cost, miss keith?" "rings like yours?" "yes." "well, i'm not much of a judge of jewelry, but i should say that was worth maybe ten or fifteen dollars. that stone looks like a real ruby." "'tis a real ruby, though 'tain't very big." "i never owned but one ring in my life, and that was a plain band. i don't know anything about precious stones, but no doubt your ring cost a pretty penny." when she had gone on to her next charge, peace sat warily up in bed, snatched paper and pencil from the stand close by and scribbled a brief and hurried note, which read: "deer bishup,--i can't be at church sunday when you take up a subscription to build some more danbury hospittle, cause i am in the hospittle myself, and i have spent all my money. nurse says my ruby ring which grandpa gave me on my last birthday cost as much as or dolars; so i am sending my ring for your collection. you can sell it to some honest jueler and give the money to the hospittle. it has been worn only a little while for my birthday was new years, and i've been in the hospittle ever since, so the ring is reely as good as new. i would sell it myself if i could get out but i can't. yours truly, peace greenfield." when the bishop rose to face the select and fashionable audience in the south avenue church the following sabbath day, his heart misgave him. what message could he bring to this people which would open their hearts and pocketbooks to help in the lord's great work? he had prepared a most careful and elaborate sermon for the occasion, but as he stood looking down into that sea of critical faces before him, he realized that here was a people who needed a soul's awakening, and with a sudden determination he cast aside his scholarly efforts, and drawing from his pocket a hastily scrawled letter and a small, ruby ring, he told their simple story so beautifully and so well that purse-strings, as well as heart-strings, responded instantly, and the following day a telegram reached danbury hospital which read, "fifteen thousand dollars subscribed at south avenue church. thank god for our 'peace which passeth understanding.'" the hospital staff was at a loss to explain these strange words until a visit from the bishop himself made everything clear. then great was the rejoicing, for instinctively each heart knew that the simple little ring had won the fight. the story of its giving was an "open sesame" wherever it was told, and the much needed addition to danbury hospital was made possible through the sacrifice of one childish heart's dearest treasure. verily, "a little child shall lead them." chapter xvi peace discovers some secrets peace was on crutches! and her delight knew no bounds. "why, i didn't s'pose i'd ever really come to use them!" she exclaimed in breathless wonder while the doctor was adjusting the pads to her arms and showing her how to manage them. "didn't i tell you that some fine day you would be walking again?" he demanded. "o, yes, but i thought that was just so i'd keep on hoping for something which never could happen." the doctor glanced in surprise over the brown head at the big sister gail, who was watching proceedings with interest, and his lips formed the question, "doesn't she know the whole truth?" "no, i think not," gail whispered back. "then let's not tell her. she will enjoy it more if she finds it out herself." gail nodded brightly; and as the little sister hopped nimbly out into the hallway, anxious to display her new accomplishment to other patients and nurses, the two grown-ups fell into a confidential chat, and peace was for the moment forgotten. that just suited the small maid, eager to try her wings by herself, and finding that neither doctor nor sister followed her, she tapped her way down the corridor to the broad stairway leading to the first floor, and began a laborious descent, fearful every moment lest someone should hear and prevent her from carrying out her daring plan. but no one came to stop her, and with much resting and readjusting of the awkward crutches, peace managed to reach the bottom of the flight without serious mishap. "mercy! but that's hard work!" she panted, pausing to get her breath before resuming her journey. "now where, i wonder? o, there's the office. i'll go call on miss murch first. she hasn't been up to see me for days. i guess she must be sick herself." softly, slowly, she tapped across the hallway to the office door, but stopped on the threshold. the room was empty. that is, miss murch was not there; but at the sound of her crutches, a coarsely clad, uncouth giant rose from the dimmest corner and shuffled toward her, twirling a greasy felt hat in his ham-like hands, and looking decidedly ill at ease. for once peace was at a loss for a word of greeting, but stood with mouth open surveying him much as if he had been an ogre, until finally he growled out, "well, d'you b'long to this shebang?" "y--yes." "well, where the deuce is the head mogul? i've been waiting here 'most an hour and not a soul has hove in sight. i came to see about essie martin." "essie martin!" peace was awake at once. that was the name of the little girl whom miss wayne had told her about long ago. "where is essie martin?" "here." "in this building?" "yep." "when did she come?" "a fortnight ago." "what's the matter with her?" "darned nonsense. the doctor calls it appendiceetis." "are you her father?" "yep." he had turned so the light from a nearby window fell full upon his face, and peace deliberately surveyed him from head to heels; then calmly, as if speaking to herself, she remarked, "well, miss wayne was right. you _do_ look like a hog, don't you? only the hogs i know are some cleaner." the man glared angrily at her, but being too thick-skinned to take in the full meaning of the child's words, he caught only the familiar name she had spoken. "miss wayne?" he bellowed. "a nurse? is she here?" "no, but she was once. she took care of me. has essie still got her doll?" "doll!" snarled the father savagely. "she can't think of nothing else. the lazy jade!" "i knew it, i knew it!" cried peace, clapping her hands triumphantly. "i told miss wayne that essie and her mother were all right. 'twas just you that wanted that plug of tobacco. why didn't essie's mother come, too?" "she's dead." "o!" peace was staggered by his blunt, indifferent reply, but before she could frame another question, miss murch appeared from an inner office, at the same moment that miss keith stepped through the doorway from behind them in search of her truant patient; and peace suffered herself to be led docilely away. so absorbed was she in her new discovery that even her pleasure in her ability to walk again was forgotten. dr. shumway and gail had disappeared when she reached her room, and the nurse reported that they had gone motoring; but the fact that they had neglected to invite her to accompany them failed to bother her much. her busy brain was seething with new schemes. she must find essie martin and talk with her. where was the head nurse? _she_ would know all about the case. there, miss keith had gone to answer someone's bell. peace clapped her hands in silent glee, and making sure that the eagle-eyed nurse was actually out of range, she hurriedly set out to find miss gee, knowing full well that that kindly woman would be able to tell her what she wanted most to learn. the next day when gail appeared, prepared for a storm of passionate reproaches, peace pounced upon her with the exclamation, "o, sister, i've got the most questions to ask and the most things to tell! it's been ages since i've seen you. i hardly know where to begin,--whether to tell about essie first, or--" "who is essie?" laughed gail, settling herself composedly for the torrent of prattle that was sure to follow. "why, essie martin, the little girl which miss wayne told me about,--the one she sent two dolls to. one got burned up, you 'member." "o, yes. well, what is the news about her?" "she is here in the hospital. i met her father yesterday. her mother died three months ago, and essie has been dreadful sick with _appendage-itis_. it's cut out now, and she is going to get well, but her father don't want her any more. she is only a girl and it will be years before she's big enough to keep house. so he means to put her in an _orphant_ asylum,--_just give her away_, gail, for someone to adopt! isn't it perfectly heathenish?" "but maybe she will be better off, dear, than she is now," gail answered gravely, recalling some of the sad incidents connected with unfortunate essie's brief history. "that's what miss keith said when i was telling her about it, but it seems dreadful for an own father to give away his only little girl. i couldn't bear to think of her in a 'sylum, gail, for she is an awful sweet little thing. i've been in to see her, and she looks lots like our allee. so i asked miss gee if she didn't s'pose aunt pen could make room for her at oak knoll, and we've written to find out. how i'd like to see miss wayne again and tell her that essie does love her doll and that her mother didn't want that tobacco. essie don't want to go there--to the 'sylum, i mean,--but she doesn't want to go home, either. don't you think oak knoll would be a nice place for her?" "yes, indeed, and i am sure she would like it there, too. if aunt pen can possibly find room for her, she will certainly do so. i am glad miss gee has written already." "so'm i. it will be nice to have essie in martindale where i can go to see her sometimes. she is so nice. i know allee will like her, too. she brought her christmas doll along when she came to the hospital, and is wild to see miss wayne. the doll is dressed ever so cute, and is just as clean as when she got it, in spite of her father being such a hoggy-looking man. she must have had hard work to keep it like that if the rest of the family are as dirty as he is. miss wayne thought all the martins wanted of her was what presents they could get, but you see essie really loves her doll. she has named it helen, after miss wayne. why, there she is, now. i've a good notion to holler to her." peace, having glanced casually down into the street below, suddenly started up from her chair with a gleeful shout. "who?" demanded gail, startled at the exclamation. "miss wayne, of course. she is sitting in dr. race's auto, and isn't in her uniform today, either. i wonder why. that is the third time i have seen her riding with the doctor when she didn't have on her white clothes. she can't have very many cases these days, i guess. aren't there any sick folks to take care of?" "why--er--i think she is going to take care of the doctor after this," laughed gail, a conscious blush flooding her pretty face. "what doctor?" "dr. race." "is _he_ sick?" "no. o, no. but miss wayne is soon to become his wife, my dear." "his wife! mercy sakes! ain't that just my luck? o, dear!" wailed the small sister in distress. "why, what in the world is the matter?" cried gail in great surprise. "i am sure that is a delightful sequel to a beautiful romance. dr. race is such a good man as well as a wonderfully successful physician, and miss wayne will make an ideal wife for him. think how happy they will be in a little home of their very own." "that may all be so," peace reluctantly admitted, "but what am i going to do now for a pattern? she was an old maid--she said so herself--and i'd made up my mind to be just like her; and here she's going to be married after all. that's the way it happens every time with me. i thought miss swift wanted dr. race for a husband. the nurses used to joke about it all the time, and if miss wayne was going to get married at all, i don't see why she didn't pick out dr. dick. i like him best of all. o, i forgot to tell you,--he broke his leg last night." "who?" gail flew out of her chair like a ball from a cannon's mouth. "dr. dick." "peace greenfield, what do you mean?" shrieked the older girl, seizing the small sister by the shoulder with a grip that hurt. "ouch! leggo! don't you ever pinch me like that again! his automobile ran into a telegraph pole when he tried to turn out so's he wouldn't hit a baby playing in the street, and he fell out and broke his leg. it's a wonder that he wasn't hurt _eternally_. they brought him here and dr. kruger set it. my, but he's ugly! i've been in to see him already this morning. i just _had_ to get even with him for the trick he played on me when i first came here, so i told him that when he wanted to walk to remember he would find four legs under his bed. but he never thought it a bit funny. doctors and nurses do make the meanest patients when they are sick of anyone i know," concluded peace sagely. gail had stood like one petrified as peace chattered volubly on, but now she found her voice and excitedly interrupted, "but dick--dr. shumway--where is he now? why didn't anyone tell me before?" "he's in room , down the hall,--though i don't see why _you_ should be told any sooner than--" but gail had vanished; and peace, after one long, amazed look after the fleeing form, grabbed her crutches and started in pursuit, muttering as she hobbled along, "_i'm_ going to see what's the matter." at the threshold of the doctor's room, however, she paused, transfixed at the sight of gail bending over the prostrate figure on the narrow bed, kissing--yes, actually kissing--a pair of mustached lips. "mercy!" she gasped, backing out precipitately. but the lovers neither heard nor heeded. "i thought you would _never_ come!" the doctor was saying fervently, while he held gail fast in his arms. "kruger promised that he would 'phone you last night." "i never knew a word about it until peace told me a minute ago," gail protested. "what would we do without our peace?" he murmured. then discovering the shocked face in the doorway, he exclaimed, "why, here she is herself! hello, chicken!" "you--you kissed her," peace exploded. "_i saw you!_" "yes," he answered brazenly, "and i am going to do it again." "are you--have you gone and got married,--you two?" "not yet," he laughed boyishly. "but we are going to do just that very thing as soon as i can coax her to set the day. you don't mean to say that you object?" "no--o, no. if she's got to have a husband, i don't know of a better one than you, except st. john, and he is already married once. but--i--am--surprised! isn't she--er--rather young?" and she could not understand why they laughed. chapter xvii a hospital wedding peace, with writing pad and pencil in hand, climbed laboriously up into the deep window recess overlooking the wide lawns of danbury hospital, and propped her crutches against the sash, so that by no chance they could fall to the floor out of her reach while she was composing her weekly letter to st. elspeth. "i've got _so_ much to write her," she sighed, chewing her pencil abstractedly. "i wish i could work a typewriter. 'twould be so much easier to 'tend to all my letters then. it's tiresome writing things by hand. if it wasn't elspeth, i wouldn't try today. it's so lovely and cool just to sit here and watch folks pass along the street. i 'most wish now that i had gone with gail and dr. dick in their auto.--there, that's the first thing i must tell elspeth. she'll be awful glad to know gail is going to have such a nice husband. and the ring he gave her is too pretty for anything. everyone has diamonds for their 'gagement rings, but it takes someone with brains to think up a ring out of sapphires and topazes, 'cause his birthday is in september and hers in november. when i get married, that's the kind of a ring i want, only i hope my husband's birthday stone is a ruby, 'cause i like them best of all." peace paused in her soliloquy long enough to write the date at the top of the page; then again thrust the pencil point into her mouth as she gazed reflectively out of the open window. "well," said a voice with startling abruptness almost at her elbow, "i shouldn't want to be in her shoes. no matter which place she chooses someone is going to feel hurt." "that's what she gets for being so popular," laughed another voice, which peace recognized as that of miss keith. "you should say 'they,' instead of 'she,' for dr. race is as popular as miss wayne," interposed a third speaker; and the pair of startled brown eyes peering around the corner of the window seat beheld a quartette of white-capped nurses seated at a long table in the hallway, busy with heaps of snowy cotton and great squares of surgeon's gauze. "i wonder what miss wayne has done now?" thought peace, when, as if in echo of her thoughts, the fourth member of the little group asked hesitatingly, "what is all the fuss about? you see, i am so new here that i don't understand." "well, miss kellogg, neither do some of us older ones," retorted miss swift with an unpleasant laugh. "it seems to me that it is 'much ado about nothing.' whose business is it if a doctor and a nurse decide to get married? why don't they go to the justice of the peace or some parsonage and have it over with, instead of making such a stew--" "you see, miss kellogg," interrupted miss keith mischievously, "our friend swift had her eye on the doctor--" "now, girls," suggested the quiet voice of the first speaker, gentle miss gerald, "don't enter into personalities, please. they always breed ill feeling. you have met helen wayne, have you not, miss kellogg?" "yes, indeed. i think she is lovely." "so does dr. race and all the rest of us," put in miss keith, unable to resist another wicked glance at her neighbor. "well, they are to be married very soon, and neither of them has any relatives living here in fairview, so--" "all their friends began to interfere," said miss swift. "o!" but miss kellogg still looked mystified. "now don't pretend that it was as bad as all that," protested miss gerald. "it seems that dr. shumway was a classmate of dr. race, and they have always been great friends; so mrs. wood, dr. shumway's sister, asked them to be married at her house. but dr. kruger's wife and helen graduated from the same school, and the krugers urged them to have the ceremony performed at their place." "and then dr. canfield bobs up with the assurance that he will feel most dreadfully hurt if they don't honor him by coming there," interrupted miss keith. "miss wayne nursed her first case under him, and he thinks her popularity is due solely to the recommendation he gave her,--the dear old fogy!" "also the fairview club, to which dr. race belongs, wants them to be married at the club-house. o, it's great to be popular!" "why don't they simplify matters by having a church wedding?" asked miss kellogg, much interested. "ha--ha--ha!" laughed her three companions. "that's where the joke comes. they belong to different churches, and are both intimate friends of their pastors' families." "well, that does complicate matters, doesn't it?" said the newcomer musingly. "she is surely in a dilemma, isn't she?" "don't you agree with me that she would better patronize a justice of the peace?" asked miss swift. "_i_ don't," replied a decided voice just behind them, and the quartette jumped nervously at the unexpected sound, for not one of them was aware of the hidden listener. "you don't what?" they gasped, as the curly brown head came into view from the deep recess. "i don't think she ought to patternize the justice of the p'lice," replied peace, limping over to the long table where they were all at work, "i'd just be married here at the hospital and fool 'em all." "at the hospital!" echoed miss keith. "what utter nonsense!" flashed miss swift. "i think it is a novel idea," put in the new nurse decidedly. "and why not?" asked miss gerald, after her first gasp of surprise. "who would have a better right? helen wayne graduated from this institution, and harvey race was house doctor for a long time." "but whoever heard of a _wedding_ in a _hospital_?" exclaimed miss swift sarcastically. "it is utterly ridiculous." "the ceremony could take place in that bay window at the end of the hall," planned miss kellogg, ignoring the attitude of her sister nurse. "it would make a lovely archway." "and the roses are just at their best now," added miss gerald. "that is her favorite flower." "miss foster is a musician, isn't she?" asked miss keith, entering into their plans with spirit. "we could get her to play the wedding march." "on what?" inquired the dissenting member of the party. "our lovely little baby organ which has an incurable case of asthma? or the grand piano which we don't possess?" "the grand piano, by all means," replied miss keith, nettled by her companion's words. "perhaps the hospital's fairy godmother will turn up with a piano for the occasion," suggested the gentle little peacemaker nurse. "we certainly need a decent instrument badly enough." "maybe we could hire one for just that night," peace excitedly proposed. "we did that in parker. our school didn't own a piano, so we hired one when we needed it." "you make me laugh," jeered miss swift. "you talk as if it were all settled. do you suppose for one moment that the hospital board would listen to such a thing?" "they meet today,--we'll ask them," quietly answered miss gerald. "and supposing they _should_ consent to such a preposterous scheme, do you think the doctors would allow their patients to be excited and disturbed over having such an event in this building?" "it would be the best kind of a tonic for every soul under this roof. 'all the world loves a lover,' you know." an audible sniff was the only reply their disgruntled comrade made; but at that moment dr. race himself entered the corridor and beckoned to miss gerald. so the quartette dispersed to take up other duties. peace, her desire for letter writing forgotten, wandered forlornly away to her room to await gail's return, mentally chiding herself that she had allowed the big sister to go motoring without her. "i could have gone as well as not; but they prob'ly wouldn't have driven very far if i had; while as 'tis, they'll likely stay till dark." she curled up in a comfortable bunch on the couch, propped her head against the window sash and fell to daydreaming, until the big eyes grew heavy with sleep, and she drifted away to the land of nod, where she dreamed that her beloved miss wayne was married to the man of her choice by a blue-coated policeman, on the flat roof of the martindale fire-house, while all the doctors and nurses and sick folks from danbury hospital marched around and around in procession, vainly seeking some means of mounting to the room also. then suddenly the small sleeper was aroused by feeling a pair of strong arms encircling her and lifting her into somebody's capacious lap. "you precious child!" she heard a familiar voice saying, and a warm kiss was pressed upon her forehead. her eyes flew quickly open, as she cried, "o, i know who you are--miss wayne! are--are you married yet?" "no, goosie. did you suppose i could get married without having _you_ there, too? you're _almost_ as important as the bridegroom." "well, i dreamed you were, but i'm glad to hear it isn't so. have you decided who you're going to hurt yet?" "whom i am going to hurt?" echoed miss wayne in surprise. "i _hope_ i'm not going to hurt anyone. that isn't my business." "miss gerald said so many folks wanted you to be married at their house that you were bound to hurt someone's feelings no matter what you did." "o, but you fixed that for me beautifully, peace greenfield!" and she kissed the white forehead again. "me! how?" "i'm going to be married here at the hospital. the board invited me to! what do you think of that? surely everyone ought to be satisfied with that arrangement." "o, goody!" peace clapped her hands gleefully. "i was afraid the doctors wouldn't let you. miss swift said they wouldn't." "miss swift--oh, you mustn't remember anything she says,--poor girl." "well, i won't, but i guess she wanted your doctor herself--" "hush, childie. don't say such things. i couldn't help it. i didn't _try_ to make him love me." "i'm glad he had some sense. _i_ had picked out dr. dick for you, but my own sister gail got him; so it's all right. i like dr. race next best. when are you going to be married?" "next week wednesday." "so soon? why, i thought it took heaps of time to get ready for a marriage,--making clothes, and baking the cake and--and all such things as that." "i have taken heaps of time," smiled the woman whimsically. "why, i didn't know that. when did you get time? you have always been busy nursing since i knew you." "years and years ago, when i was a little child, my father made me a beautiful cedar chest, and on every birthday mother laid away some pillow slips or linen sheets, or a piece of silverware. when i grew older, i made some quilts and hemmed towels and napkins by the dozen, embroidered sofa-cushions and doilies, and even fashioned some window draperies for the 'den' of my house to be. only my own clothes remained undone when we decided to go hand in hand the rest of the way through life; and much of that work a dressmaker has done, because i have had neither time nor talent." "did she make your wedding dress?" asked peace eagerly. "what is it like? and are you going to have a veil?" miss wayne hesitated. "well, i had thought some of being married in my uniform--" "uniform!" peace interrupted in keen disappointment. "just your old white dress and cap and apron? why?" "because i am to be married here at the hospital." "but--but--that won't be pretty. what will the doctor do for a uniform,--so's folks will know he is a doctor, i mean? will he wear his automobile gloves and lug his medicine v'lise?" peace inquired. miss wayne drew her breath in sharply, unable to decide whether the child in her lap was sarcastic or in earnest. but before she could make reply, peace continued, "everyone knows what you look like in your nurse's uniform, but we've none of us seen you in a sure-enough wedding dress. you'd look lovely in one, i know, even if you are fat--i mean plump. i don't see why you are so stuck on being married in a white cap and apron." "well, as to that, i only thought it might be more appropriate. some of the nurses hinted--" "o, yes, that sounds like that swift person's plan; but _i_ don't think it is at all nice. how does dr. race like it?" "o, i haven't told him yet. in fact, i really haven't fully decided. i have mother's wedding dress. sister lucy and my cousin dell were married in it, and perhaps i--" "o, do!" shrieked peace enraptured. "those long-ago wedding dresses are always so homely and cute. i just love 'em. grandma still has hers, and she said she hoped some of us would want to wear it when we marry, but i guess she didn't 'xpect any of us would be ready for it quite so soon. she was awfully 'stonished when dr. dick wrote that he wanted gail. i wish she was going to be married when you are. then we could have a double wedding. i've always wanted to see one of those things." miss wayne smiled at the child's ingenious plans, but said seriously, "well, if i am to be married in a satin gown and lace veil, we must do things up properly all around. i'll have gail for one of my bridesmaids, and you must be my flower girl." "o," gasped peace, breathless with delight. "wouldn't that be grand! but i can't, miss wayne. a limpy flower girl would be dreadful. let essie martin be flower girl, and i'll whistle for you to march up by. how will that do?" she looked up eagerly at the face above her, but miss wayne had not heard her question. "essie martin!" said the woman in grave wonder. "what do you know about essie martin?" "she is here--" "where?" "upstairs in miss blake's ward." "since when? how did she get here? is she very sick? how did you know her and why didn't you tell me before?" "i hain't seen you myself since i found out that essie was here." peace suddenly remembered her grievance against her beloved friend. "you haven't been up once for _weeks_. i've seen you only from my window when you were riding with dr. race. essie has got appendicitis, but it's cut out now and she is almost well enough to go home,--that is, to aunt pen, for her father is going to give her away. she still has her doll, and it is named 'helen' after you, and her mother is dead, and she would be awfully pleased to be flower girl at your wedding, 'cause she likes you. _she_ didn't want that plug of tobacco, nor neither did her mother. and her father looks like the hog you said he did, only he is dirtier." with quick intuition, miss wayne listened to this amazing jumble; then gently slid peace back onto her couch as she said with abrupt decision, "i must see essie. anyway, here comes gail. you will want to talk to her for a while, and it will soon be time for tea. good-bye, little heart o' gold." she was gone, and peace was left alone with the big sister to tell all the marvelous things that had happened that one afternoon. so it was decided that gail was to be bridesmaid with miss keith, miss gerald, and miss crane; essie martin was to be flower girl, and billy bolee the little page. miss foster was to play the piano, borrowed for the occasion, with peace to whistle the accompaniment. o, it took hours of the most delightful planning! then nurses and doctors got busy. miss wayne was banished from the building entirely, and dr. race was bidden to go his rounds with his eyes shut. there was much rustling and bustling as the host of eager friends decorated the wide, white corridor for the occasion. no sound of hammer must disturb the patients housed within those walls, but it was marvelous what miracles a few thumb tacks and bits of string accomplished. long ropes of smilax and syringa, intertwined with pink tulle, swung from the high ceiling. the great chandelier and lesser lights were festooned with the same delicate greenery. the elevator shaft was completely hidden by woodland vines which gail and keturah wood had gathered, and huge jardinieres filled with waxy snowballs occupied every available corner. the big window where the bride and groom were to stand was hung with fishnet, twined and intertwined with ferns from the forest and sweet wild roses with the dew sparkling on their rosy petals, for the wedding was to take place in early morning. at last everything was in readiness, everyone was dressed in his best, the nurses and convalescent patients were assembled in one end of the corridor, the outside guests in the other end, and it lacked only the presence of the bridal party to make the beautiful scene complete. peace, resplendent in filmy white, had stolen from her place behind the piano for one last glimpse of the festive decorations, while she waited impatiently for the chimes of the distant court-house to strike the hour. "o, but it's lovely," she breathed in ecstasy, as her eyes wandered from floor to ceiling. "how everyone loves miss wayne!" "do you know why?" asked a voice at her elbow, and she looked up into the grave face of the kindly matron. "no," she managed to stammer. "why?" "because she has a heart of gold." miss wayne's parting words of yesterday flashed through the active brain, and peace asked with breathless eagerness, "o, tell me how to get a heart of gold, then." "the good lord gives us each one when we come into the world," answered the gray-haired woman earnestly. "but many of us are content enough with the glitter of the fool's gold which is found a-plenty in every life; and we don't delve for the real gold. we slip along in a don't-care way, neglecting the opportunities that come to us to better humanity; seeking the easiest tasks, satisfied with that kind of existence. the miner who digs in the bowels of the earth for his gold has to work and struggle and strive. so we, too, if we make the most of god's gifts to us, must work and struggle and strive." a little perplexed, for poor peace could not understand many of the long words which the matron had used, she seemed to grasp the "tiny text" of the little sermon, and said thoughtfully as she turned away, "then i'll work and stumble and thrive, for i want a heart of gold like miss wayne's." then slowly the silvery toned chimes began to ring, there was a rustling sound on the stairway, and peace had just time to slip into her place again when the strains of the piano began the measured notes of stately lohengrin. from somewhere dr. race and the minister appeared and took their places beneath the canopy of wild roses, but peace paid scant attention to them. her eyes were glued upon the other end of the corridor where the bridal procession was already approaching, with essie martin in the lead, and--could it be?--yes, it was golden-haired, radiant allee marching beside her, both scattering rose petals from dainty baskets hung from their arms. how had allee gotten there? peace almost forgot her part when her amazed eyes fell upon that familiar form. but close behind the little flower girls came the four bridesmaids, gowned in delicate and garlanded with wild roses; and the sight of the older sister's sweet face restored the young musician's composure, so that after only one or two quavering notes, she whistled more blithely than ever. this certainly was a day of delightful happenings! following the pretty bridesmaids toddled wee billy bolee, clad in white from head to toe, and bearing in his chubby little hands a tiny white velvet pillow upon which rested the simple gold wedding ring. the bride was almost too lovely to describe, dressed as she was in the heavy brocaded satin gown which had been her mother's forty years before, and half hidden by the clinging, filmy veil, which floated like a fleecy cloud about her. peace never could remember what happened after that. she saw the bride take her place beside dr. race, and she saw the black-frocked minister stand up in front of them. then someone gave a signal and a shower of rose petals fell from the bell above their heads and covered doctor and nurse with sweet fragrance. immediately the guests began to file past to greet the happy couple, and a subdued murmur of voices filled the long corridor. "but when is the wedding to be?" demanded peace in surprise. "seems to me folks are in an awful hurry. why don't they wait till the wedding is over?" "the wedding is already over," answered miss foster, laughing at the child's dismay. "they aren't married _yet_?" protested peace in great astonishment. "yes, they are, and the wedding breakfast will be served directly at dr. kruger's house." "but--but--doesn't it take longer to get married than that?" "no." "i--i thought it would." "why, childie?" "well, it took so long to put the dec'rations up, and for everyone to dress, it seems 's if the minister might have talked a little longer. they'd hardly stood up together before it was all over." again miss foster laughed merrily. "just you wait, little girl, till it comes _your_ turn to stand up while the minister talks, and you will think it is plenty long enough," she warned, rising to join the bridal party moving slowly down the corridor toward the waiting autos in the street below. at last the wonderful event was over, the happy doctor and his smiling bride had departed on their honeymoon amid a shower of fragrant rose petals; and peace, clinging fast to allee, was again in her room with gail. "o, but it was beau-ti-ful!" she sighed blissfully. "i hope my wedding will be as nice. didn't the music sound lovely? i 'most forgot to whistle when i saw allee coming along with essie martin,--i was so 'stonished! nobody had hinted a word that she was going to be here. i didn't even 'spect miss wayne knew her. my! but the day has been full of s'prises! there was the wedding first,--i'd no idea it _could_ be so pretty,--and then there was allee's coming when i thought she was at home in martindale. and then dr. dick told me while we were at breakfast that i could go home in two weeks more, and right after that along came mrs. wood and said you and allee and me were to be her guests for the last week we were here. and now essie martin has just been in to tell the best news of all,--miss wayne, i mean mrs. race--is going to adopt her, and she won't have to go to oak knoll after all. o, gail i do feel 's if i could flap my wings and crow,--i'm so happy!" tenderly gail drew the small sisters closely to her side, and smiled radiantly down at the two up-turned faces, as she said simply, "and i, too." chapter xviii the seven mcgees the last week at danbury hospital rolled by almost too quickly to suit even peace, busy saying good-bye to the hosts of friends which that great roof sheltered; for now that the time had come for her to go, she found herself strangely loath to leave the little white room where she had spent so many months. "i knew, of course, that i loved all the doctors and nurses," she explained in apologetic, troubled tones to the sympathizing sister, gail, "but i never s'posed i'd _hate_ to go home so bad when it came time. i--i really _want_ to go home, too, but somehow--i'm going to miss the hospital dreadfully, gail." "certainly you will, dear," the older girl answered with an understanding heart. "you have been here such a long time and had such a delightful experience for the most part,--" "and made so many really, truly friends," peace chimed in eagerly. "yes, and made so many friends, that it is no wonder you rather hate to leave it all, even if you are going home. but you wouldn't want to stay here always--" "o, mercy, no!" peace shivered. "there are too many sick folks here. they ache and yell and cry, because they can't help themselves. now i didn't hurt real much this time, though it's taken a long time to finish the job, but i could have 'most anything to eat and could get around in my wheel-chair or with my crutches for weeks and weeks; while most folks are so awfully sick that they have to live on _mottled_ milk and beef juice, and they get so skinny and white and weak that they don't know what to do with themselves. that must be dreadful hard and i'll really be glad to get away where i can't see so many sick people. yes, it is awfully nice to have such a lovely home to go to, and it'll be so much fun to get around again, even if 'tis on crutches. there are lots of games i can play no matter if i can't run, and allee and me are going to plan out lots more while we are visiting mrs. wood. i 'xpect maybe she will be able to help us some, too, 'cause billy bolee won't ever be able to run about like other boys, and he'll want to know some nice, int'resting games that can be played sitting still." "yes, i think that will be a good scheme," gail agreed, wondering why peace never seemed to suspect the secret of those awkward crutches. "but now you better rest awhile, for dick--er dr. shumway will soon be here with his auto ready to take us out to his sister's house, and you want to be bright and fresh for dinner tonight." so with much laughter and many regrets, the hospital staff and all the patients watched peace depart from its portals,--laughter, because she was to be strong and well once more; regrets because of the void she left behind her. and peace, surprised that they cared so much, went her way almost content. it was such a joy to be out-of-doors again; so wonderful to get close to the heart of nature once more; and she improved every moment of the week that followed in getting acquainted with every being, beast and bird on the place, from grave-eyed mr. wood who was at home only in the evenings, down to twitter, the yellow-coated, golden-throated canary, which sang all day in his cage. she romped with billy bolee, made pies with kate, the cook, played checkers with their kindly host, and tried to master the art of embroidery under mrs. wood's instruction; but her favorite occupation was stumping about the grassy yard with her crutches, and it surprised and delighted her to find how little they really hampered her. when she tired of her explorations, there was a great elm by the fence where she loved to rest, and it was here that she sat playing with billy bolee one hot afternoon when she was startled to hear a strange voice demand, "are you truly lame?" glancing up in surprise, she beheld a fat, dirty face, crowned by a shock of tumbled red hair, pressed against the lattice-work, while a pair of alert, gray eyes peered at her through the narrow opening. so unexpected was the query,--for peace had not been aware of another's presence,--that she could think of nothing to say, and merely grunted, "huh?" the stranger outside the gate obediently repeated, "are you truly lame?" "yes. why?" "'cause ma says she guesses this must be a lame house," piped up another voice close by, and peace discovered a second dirty-faced, red-headed youngster peering between the slats. "a lame _house_?" echoed peace in bewilderment. "how can a _house_ be lame?" "aw, antonio don't mean the house, nor neither does ma. they just mean that every one what lives in it is lame." "i don't see how you make that out," peace began, still puzzled. "well, you're lame, ain't you?" "yes." "and that little baby is lame." "y--e--s." "and the doctor man is lame--" "but not for keeps," peace eagerly interrupted. "he just broke his leg and some day it will be all well again, and he won't even limp or need a cane." "oh!" the first speaker seemed relieved. "and will the baby some day walk all right?" asked the second tousled figure. "no--o, i don't s'pose his short leg will ever catch up with the other one now," peace reluctantly admitted. "but he's not very lame anyway. he don't limp _much_." "neither do you," persisted the boy called antonio, "but you use crutches. you're worser off than the rest of the bunch." "but i don't live here," she flashed triumphantly, bound to uphold the honor of that household at any cost. "i'm just visiting for this week." "oh!" this time the exclamation expressed such regret that peace asked solicitously, "what's the matter? did you like to think of a whole bunch of lame folks living in one house?" "no," the older boy declared, "but we was in hopes you lived here, for then we could come over sometimes and play with you maybe." peace surveyed her two uninvited guests dubiously and then glanced at her own spotless frock and at billy's spandy new rompers. "who--who--are you?" she finally stammered, unable to keep her pert little nose from showing some of the disgust she felt. "my name is tobias mcgee," he answered pompously, as if proud of the fact. "i'm ten years old. tony--he's one of the twins--he's eight." "i am antonio," the second boy interrupted, bristling belligerently. "how many times has ma told you to quit calling me tony?" "she's told you to leave off calling me toby, too," retorted tobias scathingly, "but you hain't did it. gus is the other twin--" "augustus," corrected the offended antonio. "see here," blustered tobias threateningly, "are you telling this, or me?" peace, watching with fascinated eyes the pending scrap, became suddenly aware that her guests had increased in number, and, glancing over her shoulder, she found five other dirty, ragged, red-headed, unattractive looking children lined up outside the fence, peeping at her through the slats. "are--are there any more of you?" she demanded, taking a rapid inventory of the new arrivals. the largest of the visitors, a girl of perhaps twelve years, swept her eyes down the line and answered briefly, "nope." "well, how'd you get here, feely?" asked tobias, forgetting his battle with the twin in his surprise at his sister's presence. "'twas your turn to go with the milk today." "the carters and moodys quit taking," she answered indifferently. "there was only the bowmans to d'liver." "the carters and moodys quit?" echoed tobias and antonio in dismay. "that's what i said," she answered sharply. "but what for?" "i dunno." she gathered up the smallest of her kin, a fretful, whining child of about two years, and set it upon the fence-rail so its dirty, bare legs dangled on the inside of the enclosure. "does ma know?" "she ain't to home yet." "y' know she said it would mean another washing if any more of the milk customers quit us." the oldest girl nodded her head dully. "who do you s'pose she will get?" persisted tobias. "how d' you s'pose i know?" snapped the girl. "p'r'aps mrs. wood might let her do her clothes again," suggested antonio, in wheedling tones. "mrs. wood?" asked peace, rousing suddenly to speech. "my mrs. wood?" seven dirty, frowsy heads nodded solemnly. "is your mother her washwoman?" "she used to be," the whole line chorused. "why ain't she now?" "'cause mrs. wood quit her." "but what for?" there was an embarrassing pause while the tribe of mcgee glanced inquiringly from one to the other. at last antonio timidly ventured the explanation, "she said ma's tubs got iron rust all over her clo'es." "ain't that reason enough for mrs. wood to quit?" demanded peace, cocking her head judiciously. "ma was awful careful," the girl called feely defended. "but her tubs are awful old," half whispered a smaller girl, who up to this moment had stood silently sucking her thumb. "shut up, vinie, she ain't talking to you," commanded tobias, raising a threatening hand. vinie stuffed her thumb hastily into her mouth again and shrank back against the fence, the picture of fear; but peace forestalled the blow by crying, "let her be, tobias mcgee. she can talk if she wants to." the boy flushed angrily and muttered, "she's always butting in. she's a reg'lar tattle-tale." "well, you're a reg'lar coward," peace sputtered. "she's lots littler than you." "i wouldn't have hit her." "you would, too," vinie removed her thumb long enough to say. "if you're going to fight, you can go straight home," peace interposed. "mrs. wood wants billy to grow up a gentleman." "we ain't fighting," they chorused indignantly. "you looked like it all right. you're always jawing each other, and i don't like scrappers." "we won't jaw any more," they meekly promised, "if you will let us come over and play." "i--i'll have to ask mrs. wood," she stammered, for, while the newcomers interested her, their slovenly appearance made her recoil from any closer contact. "then we can't come," wailed antonio despairingly. "why not?" "'cause mrs. wood don't like us." "how do you know?" "she won't let us play with billy." "p'r'aps you are too rough." "we wouldn't hurt him the least speck." "maybe it's 'cause you are so dirty." a chorus of indignant denial arose, but at that moment mrs. wood herself appeared at an open window and called for billy bolee. immediately the mcgees scattered like startled pheasants, and peace wonderingly turned her steps toward the house, surprising her hostess as she entered the cool room by the blunt question, "don't you like the mcgee family?" "why--er--i can get along nicely without their company," mrs. wood answered evasively. "but what's the matter with them?" peace insisted. "nothing, i guess, except they are never clean," laughed the woman, and gail looked up from a letter she was writing long enough to ask, "who are the mcgees, peace? your latest acquaintances?" "mrs. mcgee is a widow who takes in washing," explained their hostess, without giving peace a chance to make reply. "she and her seven children live in that three-room shack across the field. when her husband died she took plain sewing to do for a time, but couldn't earn enough at it to keep her family from want, so she turned to the washtubs. she does her work well or did at first, but of late she has attempted more than she can handle satisfactorily, and has grown so careless that several of us have had to take our washings elsewhere." "'twasn't careless," peace interrupted earnestly. "it's her tubs. they are so old and rusty now." "then she should get new ones if she expects people to hire her. i can't afford to send my clothes to the wash and have them come back all spotted up with iron-rust. it is almost impossible to get it out." "i guess maybe she hasn't money enough to buy more tubs," peace hazarded. "all her milk customers are quitting her." "i can't say that i blame them," keturah wood shrugged her shapely shoulders. "did _you_ quit her?" "no, i never took milk from there." "ain't it good milk?" "it ought to be. their cow is a holstein and gives lots of milk. but someway i can't stomach the children." "can't stomach the children?" echoed peace wonderingly. "they are so dirty," mrs. wood explained in apologetic tones. "mrs. mcgee used to keep them as neat as pins when i first came here to live, and her kitchen was simply spotless. but she has too much to attend to now, and the children run wild." "would you get your milk there if they were clean?" "possibly. my milkman isn't real dependable. sometimes there will be three or four days in a month when i can't get all i need, and if i ever want any extra, i always have to tell him two or three days before. the mcgees seem to be able to supply a body at any time with any amount. but no one enjoys having such inexcusably dirty children bring their milk even if they _know_ the milk itself is absolutely clean. somehow it takes away one's appetite." "why don't that big girl keep the others clean? she's old enough, ain't she?" "she's too lazy. they all are. they fight all day sometimes over whose turn it is to carry the milk or bring in the wood. mrs. mcgee never has trained them to help her a bit, and though ophelia is past twelve years old, she is as useless as the baby when it comes to doing the housework." "ophelia--ain't that a funny name!" "ridiculous!" laughed mrs. wood. "but so are all the rest. having no fortune to endow his children with, old pat mcgee gave his offspring as 'high-toned and iligent names as iver belonged to rich folks.' they are ophelia and tobias, antonio and augustus, lavinia and humphrey, and the poor little babe nadene. commonly they are known as feely, toby, tony, gus, vinie, humpy and deanie. their real names are just for dress-up occasions." "it takes me back to parker days," said gail reminiscently. "only the mcgees are worse off than the greenfields were, for there are seven of them and all so small. what would happen if the mother should slip away as our mother did?" "o, the orphan asylum would open its doors, of course. but even at that they might stand a better chance than they do now. they never will amount to anything, growing up as they are, like weeds. she can't give them the attention they ought to have, and she is not teaching them to be independent or helpful in any way. toby and the twins are almost beyond her control now. some of us neighbors have tried to get her to send part of the tribe at least to a children's home. such an institution would certainly give them the training that she can't--" "o, but think of having to eat oatmeal every morning without milk or sugar," interrupted peace in horrified accents, "and your bread and potatoes without any butter, and never having any pie or cake, and meat only once a week, and hardly any fruit, and--ugh! i'd starve!" "peace, oh, peace," called allee's voice from outside the window, "come see what i've found." and the crippled sister, hastily adjusting her crutches, went to discover what was wanted. the next day while she was sitting alone under the great tree in the back yard, she heard a stealthy rustling in the grass beyond the fence, and glancing up from the book she had been trying to interest herself in, she again saw the dirty face of tobias mcgee peering at her through the lattice work. then antonio appeared, followed one by one by the rest of the tousled mcgees. she surveyed them critically from head to heels and then scathingly remarked, "i sh'd think you would be ashamed to go so dirty." "we--we ain't none of us got such pretty clo'es as you," stammered tobias, much confused by this unlooked-for reception, and he thrust both grimy hands behind his back as if that would hide all his filth. "you don't have to have pretty clothes to have 'em clean," peace retorted. "ma ain't got time to keep us washed up," explained tobias, apologetically. "why don't you do it yourselves then?" "but--we--can't," they gasped in chorus. "i don't see why." "we ain't big enough." "you are, too. feely's as old as hope was when we were in parker, and hope kept after us till we were glad to wash our faces and hands and brush our hair. of course she helped, but there were cherry and allee and me all younger'n her. and we helped gail, too. i churned the butter once, and we helped houseclean and--and pick chickens, and run errands and bring in the wood--" "huh, us boys do that," broke in gus scornfully. "girls ain't s'posed to fetch wood and water." "all our boys were girls," replied peace loftily, "and some of us _had_ to bring in the wood or else how would it have got there?" "did you wash dishes?" asked ophelia, with a slight display of curiosity. "cherry washed and i wiped." "how old was cherry?" demanded antonio. "o, about ten, when we lived in parker, i guess." "feely's twelve and she don't wash the dishes yet," tattled vinie, and was promptly rewarded with a smart slap from the older sister. "shame on you!" cried peace indignantly. "you are the meanest family i ever knew. mrs. wood said you are always fighting, and that's all you've done every time you've been over here." "i don't care, vinie had no business to say that," muttered ophelia, scowling sullenly. "she can't never keep her mouth shut. i just _hate_ to wash dishes." "so do i," peace cheerfully agreed. "but i don't go around slapping folks' faces 'cause of it. besides, gail had all she could 'tend to without bothering about the dishes. we _had_ to do them or go hungry. who does them at your house?" "ma," volunteered vinie once more, edging warily out of range of the big sister's hand. "after she's washed all day?" asked peace in horrified accents. ophelia was scowling threateningly; vinie drew a little further away and nodded silently. "don't _any_ of you do _anything_ to help her?" "i mind the kids," said ophelia defiantly. "i should think you would keep 'em scrubbed up a little cleaner, then," observed peace critically. "they--you are all so dirty you--you--smell. i don't wonder folks won't buy milk from you." "ma takes care of the milk herself and washes the buckets and covers 'em all up careful before she gives 'em to us to tote," cried tobias, much insulted by peace's frank words. "i don't care," retorted that young lady with dignity. "mrs. wood herself says she can't swallow you children, you are so dirty; and she would take milk from you if you were clean, 'cause i asked her." silence reigned while each young mcgee dug his bare toes into the soft earth and chewed his finger or thumb. then tobias growled, "mrs. wood is too p'tic'lar. ma says so." "i'll bet mrs. moody and mrs. carter are just as p'tic'lar," peace declared hotly. "if you'd ask them why they quit taking milk of you, and just _made_ 'em tell you the truth, i'll bet they would say that you kids were always so dirty it made 'em sick to look at you." vinie withdrew her thumb from her mouth, stopped shuffling her dirty little feet in the grass, stared thoughtfully at the candid young hostess on the other side of the fence, and quietly disappeared, followed by solemn-eyed humphrey. no one noticed her going, no one missed her from her place in the rank, but while belligerent tobias was still arguing the question with stubborn peace, vinie returned with humpy still at her heels. she had hurried, and her breath came quick and fast, but before she had reached her place in the line-up again, she called excitedly, "that pretty girl is right. we're all too dirty to suit mrs. moody and mrs. carter." "wh--at?" shrieked the brothers and sisters, wheeling about in consternation to face their new accuser,--one of their own kin. "well, i asked 'em honest true, just like she said to do, and after a bit they owned up that it wasn't the milk they didn't like, but the looks of us was too much." ophelia stared dully at the small sister for a long moment, then suddenly slumped down in the tall grass and wept. tobias, antonio and augustus all followed suit, and even baby nadene lifted her voice in lament, though she did not know what she was crying about. surprised, awed and troubled, peace drew near to the fence and pressed her face against the lattice work to watch this unusual performance; but vinie, after one contemptuous glance at the snivelling group, turned energetically away toward the little green shack across the field, still holding fast to humpy's grimy fist. "where you going?" demanded antonio, peeping at her from under his arm as he lay sprawled in the clover. "i ain't got time to bawl," she flung back over her shoulder. "i promised to go home and clean up humpy and me. then mrs. carter's going to give me two cents to go to the store for her." peace watched the two little figures trudging off across the meadow, and then she said thoughtfully, "she's right, and i b'lieve you could get back all your milk customers if you'd everyone clean up once and _stay_ clean. why don't you try?" antonio lifted his head, looked at his twin and began slowly to struggle to his feet. augustus joined him, then tobias, and finally ophelia. she looked timidly toward peace, and asked meekly, "don't you s'pose ma would scold?" "what for? washing your faces? no, i don't. she's a funny mother if she does. it's easier work to sell milk than to do washings, and i should think you'd try to help her all you can so she won't get sick and die and all of you have to go to an _orphant_ asylum." the round-eyed children gazed at her in affright, then swiftly made off through the tall grass in vinie's wake. they did not return that day or the next; and peace had concluded that they were angry with her; but the third morning bright and early they appeared at the gate, unlatched it, and marched in solemn file up the path to the house. mrs. wood herself, with peace close behind, answered their timid knock, and ophelia, clad in a clean, neatly patched gingham dress, with her hair hanging in two smooth plaits down her back, faltered, "ma wants to know would you like to get milk of us? the little heifer has just come in fresh and we've got plently to sell." "ma'd 'a' come herself," piped up vinie from the rear, "but she's sick today." "it's just a headache," hastily explained tobias, beginning to scowl at the family chatterbox, and then heroically smiling instead. "she's lost another customer," confided vinie, "a wash customer, 'cause her tubs are so rusty, and it made her cry." "but we're going to get her some new tubs," interrupted antonio excitedly, "and then we can come for your clo'es if you want us to." "we've got seventy cents in our banks," said augustus shyly. "and if you need any wood chopped or piled, or carpets beat up, or errands run, we'll be glad to do it for you--cheap," recited tobias, in a curious singsong voice, as if he had learned the words by rote. "but what about the milk?" reminded vinie, when the sudden pause which followed had grown too oppressive. "o!" mrs. wood roused to a realization that seven eager bodies were listening for her answer. what should she say? once more her eyes travelled the length of the line. what a transformation had taken place! each face was polished till it fairly glistened in the sun, each pair of bare, brown legs was clean and spotless, each fiery red head had been brushed till not a hair was out of place, and each small figure was clad in stiffly starched garments which looked as if they had just come from the ironing board. as if reading the unspoken question which burned on mrs. wood's lips, tobias informed her, "we've cleaned up for keeps." "ma's going to give us each a penny every week that we stay clean so's not to need more'n one waist or dress in that time," eagerly explained antonio. "'cause, you see," tattled vinie, "we ain't none of us got more'n two, and we've got to stay clean so folks will buy our milk." "that girl," lisped humpy, pointing a stubby forefinger at peace in the doorway, "thaid we wuth too dirty." "oh!" mrs. wood was enlightened, and her memory flew back to a certain day a few weeks before when peace had told her some unpleasant truths which had nevertheless changed the course of events in her life. she had called the child "rude" at that time, but perhaps it was not rudeness after all. it was certainly effective anyway, and she smiled amusedly at the neat line of mcgees. encouraged by the smile, vinie said coaxingly, "she said you'd take milk of us if we wuz clean all the time." "and you will, won't you?" asked peace, finding her tongue for the first time since the queer little procession had marched up to the door. recalling the usual appearance of the young mcgees, mrs. wood could not help shivering, but she must be game. it shamed her to think that already this brown-eyed child on crutches had more of the true missionary spirit within her than she, a woman grown, had ever possessed; so she forced a smile to her lips and a sound of heartiness to her voice, as she answered, "yes, i will take a quart every morning." "and about the wash," vinie reminded her, when the elated brothers and sisters were about to retreat. "come for it mondays as usual," answered mrs. wood meekly, wondering all the while what had taken possession of her that she should give in so easily. "thank you." vinie bowed profoundly, and to the amazement of the woman on the steps, the whole line of mcgees stopped abruptly, touched their hands to their heads in a truly military style, and thundered as one man, "thank you!" mrs. wood beat a hasty retreat with her hand over her mouth, but peace stood thoughtfully leaning on her crutches in the doorway as she watched their morning callers scatter through the wet grass when the gate had clicked behind the last one of them. so absorbed was she that gail, who had been a silent spectator from behind a curtained window, gently asked, "what is the matter, girlie? is anything troubling you?" "no--o," she slowly answered. "i was only wishing that the mcgees lived in martindale, so's our gleaners could make 'em some clothes, like we did for fern and rivers dillon. think of having only two dresses apiece! mercy! i don't see how folks can expect 'em to keep clean." "why, our ladies' aid does work of that kind," gasped mrs. wood, her laughter forgotten. "why didn't i think of that before? we have lots of good material on hand now to make over, and i know the ladies will be glad to do it for mrs. mcgee. i will call up mrs. jules right away. she is our president, and the society meets next week thursday." "o, dear," sighed peace. "we go home in two days more. i wish i could stay and help. but then i'm glad the kids are going to have some decent clothes anyway." chapter xix wonderful tidings "well," sighed peace blissfully, while mrs. campbell was helping her dress for sunday school the first sunday after her return from fairview, "this has been a busy week. there hasn't been a minute to spare, yet it doesn't seem like this could be sunday already. where has the time gone to?" "i sh'd think you would know," grunted allee from her seat on the rug where she was laboriously lacing her shoes. "you have walked your legs off, pretty near,--haven't you?" "mercy, no! i haven't done half the tramping i could have done if these old crutches didn't make walking so slow." behind her back, the white-haired grandmother smiled her amusement, for since peace's home-coming five days before, the child had not been still a minute. from garret to cellar, from garden to river, and from one end of the street to the other she had hopped, renewing old acquaintanceships, relating her experiences, and thoroughly enjoying herself. after her long absence from martindale and the weary months of imprisonment, it was such a wonderful privilege to be able to get about again, even if it must be with the aid of those two awkward crutches. there were so many things to tell and so many people to tell them to. so the grandmother smiled behind peace's back, for it seemed to her that no one person in perfect trim could have accomplished more in those five days than had the brown-eyed maid on crutches. "i can't see as they make much difference," allee persisted. "you have gone everywhere you wanted to, haven't you?" "o, yes, except to st. john's and of course his whole family's been away on their vacation, so i couldn't see them. i 'xpect they are home now, though, 'cause he is to preach at his own church today. grandpa said we'd take the horses this afternoon if it doesn't rain and drive up there. it don't look much like rain now, does it, though it did when we first got up. i do hope it won't,--not until we've got started too far to turn back anyway. i want to see aunt pen, too. my! i can hardly wait for afternoon to get here. it has been such a long time since i've seen them all. bessie is 'most a year old now, ain't she? she won't know me, and i s'pose likely even glen has forgotten. i telephoned three times yesterday in hopes they would be home, but no one answered, so i guess they didn't get back till night." "have you 'phoned them yet this morning?" asked allee, whisking into the counterpart of peace's freshly starched dress, and backing up to mrs. campbell to be buttoned. "no, i haven't had time. we didn't get up real early, and breakfast was so late, and gussie had such a heap of dishes to wash, 'cause marie didn't do 'em last night, like she said she would, and jud was fairly purple 'cause his necktie would not tie right, and grandpa couldn't find some papers he needed for sunday school, and dr. dick came to take gail to church, and then i had to get ready myself." "and it is time we were going now if we get there before the morning service is out," suggested mrs. campbell, settling a white, rose-wreathed hat on allee's golden curls, and reaching for her own turban, which lay on the dresser close by. "then come on. i'm ready," responded peace, hopping nimbly down the stairway. "doesn't it seem funny to see _me_ going to sunday school again? what do you s'pose folks will say when i hobble in all by myself? won't it be great to see the s'prise on miss gordon's face when i go into my old class with the rest of the girls? i made gail and faith and everyone else promise not to tell her i would be there today. i want to s'prise her. just smell the roses! they ain't all gone yet. and someone's been mowing grass! isn't it perfectly lovely out-of-doors today? why, there's the church! i'd no idea we were so near. it hasn't changed a bit, has it? but it seems as if it was _years_ since i was there last." so peace chattered blithely on, and mrs. campbell, watching her, felt a great lump rise in her throat. peace, their own laughing, sunshiny, irrepressible peace had come back to them once more. it was a song of thanksgiving that her heart was singing, yet her eyes were filled with tears. "there is myrtie musgrove!" mrs. campbell's meditations were interrupted by the girl's enthusiastic exclamation, and with a start of surprise she saw the great stone edifice looming up directly in front of them, with scores of spick and spandy boys and girls assembled on the lawn, waiting for the church service to come to a close. "and there's gertrude miller and dorothy bartow," said allee. "everyone is out today." "no wonder," returned peace. "it's such a lovely day. i don't see how anyone could stay at home. hello, myrtie and nina and fannie and julia and rosalie, and oh, _everyone_!" a chorus of delighted cries greeted her, and immediately the two sisters were swallowed up by a group of excited, clamoring schoolmates, while mrs. campbell, from the background, watched the pretty tableau. suddenly the strains of the doxology rolled out on the summer air through the open church windows, followed by a brief silence, and then the great doors swung open and the motley congregation thronged out into the sunshine. "church is over," said peace, as she saw the people hurrying past. "let's go inside." "o, peace," cried an eager voice at her elbow, as she climbed the stone steps to the vestibule, "miss gordon told me to give this to you--" "how'd she know i would be here?" demanded peace aggressively. "why, dr. shumway told us--" "i might have known someone would squeal," was the irritated reply. "men folks are worse than women about gabbling. they _never_ can keep their mouths shut. i wanted to s'prise the people myself." miss gordon's message-bearer drew back somewhat disconcerted by her reception. but the cloud on the small face, growing rosy and round once more, abruptly lifted, and peace, with a gleam of mischief in her eyes, inquired, "did he tell you _his_ secret, too?" "what secret? no, you tell us about it," they clamored. the aisle was almost blocked at that point by the tall form of dickson shumway, leaning on his cane, for his injured limb was none too strong yet, and peace purposely waited till she was directly behind him, when she said in a shrill, high voice, which made everyone look and listen, "why, dr. shumway is going to marry my sister gail as soon as ever he can get her to settle the day. _now_ will you give away any more of my secrets, dr. dick?" for at the sound of her voice the young giant had turned a startled face toward the delighted crowd at the door, but a burst of tempestuous applause drowned whatever he might have replied; and peace, triumphant, slipped past him to her seat, while the congregation showered him with congratulations. not until she had taken her place among her classmates did peace find time to glance at the scrap of paper which miss gordon's messenger had thrust into her hand, and this is what she read: "'the handwriting on the wall.' dan. : - . mene, mene, tekel, upharsin. thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting." turning to the girl who had given her the bit of writing, she snarled, "you're trying to april fool me. miss gordon never gave you that." "she did, too. it was our golden text a few weeks ago. today is review sunday, and when the superintendent calls on our class you are to read what is on that piece of paper." "but i can't read it," peace protested. "why not? it's perfectly plain writing." "well, what does it mean, agnes? i never saw such words before. how do you pronounce them?" agnes rattled off the text without a glance at the paper, and peace lapsed into indignant silence. as if anyone would suppose that she could believe such an outrageous thing as that! agnes saw the look of unbelief in the brown eyes, and said haughtily, "if you think i'm lying, ask someone else." "i'm going to," was the frank retort. "where is miss gordon? ain't she going to be here today?" "yes, but she will be late. she had to go back home for something she forgot, and she thought maybe our class might be called on 'fore she got here again. ours is the third lesson." peace glanced about her. already the orchestra had begun to play, and she would attract too much attention if she left her seat, but she _must_ ask someone else what those queer words meant. o, there was faith coming down the aisle. she probably would be cross about it, but she would know. peace leaned over the arm of the pew and seized her sister's dress as she passed. faith raised her eyebrows questioningly, but halted long enough to say, "well?" "how do you p'onounce these words?" asked the smaller girl, holding out the wrinkled slip; and faith glibly read under her breath, "'mene, mene, tekel, upharsin. thou art weighed in the balances and art found wanting.'" peace glared at her witheringly, and snatched the paper from her hand. did everyone take her for a fool just because she had been in the hospital six months? her glance fell upon the stately figure of president campbell, just settling himself comfortably in the bible class, a few seats in the rear. "he won't lie to me," she whispered confidently. "nor he won't joke me, either." frantically she beckoned to him, but he did not see her, and as the music had ceased by this time, she caught up her crutches and hobbled back to consult him. it seemed as if every eye in the house was focused upon her, and her face burned hotly as she stumbled down the aisle; but she _must_ know what those words meant before it came her turn to speak, else the whole congregation would laugh at her. the president took the crumpled slip, and, after a hasty survey, whispered slowly, "'mene, mene, tekel, upharsin. thou art weighed in the balances and art found wanting.'" poor, bewildered peace crept back to her seat. "i don't see any sense to it," she pondered, studying the cryptic message with puzzled eyes. "it must be right, or grandpa wouldn't have said so. sounds like 'pickle,' but it's spelled with a 't.' it must be 'tickle,' i guess." a sharp nudge from her nearest neighbor's elbow brought her out of her revery with a start. the superintendent was calling for the golden text of lesson iii. peace leaped to her feet, her crutches forgotten, and her voice rang clearly through the big room. "minnie, minnie, tickle the parson. thou are wanted for the balance that is found waiting." there was a moment of intense hush, then a ripple of amusement swept over the congregation, but before it could break into the threatened roar of laughter, the superintendent with rare tact announced, "let us sing hymn number , 'sweet peace, the gift of god's love'." as the notes of the organ swelled through the house, peace sank into her place, apparently overcome with confusion and mortification. immediately an arm stole gently about her shoulders, and a familiar voice whispered comfortingly in her ear, "never mind, little girl, there is no harm done." miss gordon, flushed and breathless, had slipped into the pew behind her class just in time to hear poor peace's blunder; and knowing how sensitive a child's heart is, she sought to make light of the matter. but peace, scarcely heeding, vaguely asked, "never mind what? o, their laughing? i'm used to that. i don't care." but she looked disturbed, distraught, and it was very evident to her that she neither saw nor heard the rest of the service. even when the benediction had been pronounced and hosts of friends gathered about her to express their delight at her presence with them once more, she seemed abstracted and made her escape as soon as she could get away. this was so unlike harum-scarum peace that her sisters wondered, although they attributed it to chagrin over her blunder, and considerately refrained from asking questions. but when they had reached home once more, and were gathered in the cool library waiting for gussie's summons to dinner, peace abruptly burst forth, "i b'lieve i could walk without those old crutches. i stood up without 'em this morning when i forgot about using them." she glanced defiantly from one face to another, as if expecting a storm of protest; but to her great surprise, mrs. campbell smiled encouragingly as she mildly inquired, "why don't you try it, dear?" the crutches fell to the floor with a crash. peace took several halting steps across the room, as if afraid to trust herself. the blood flew to her pale cheeks, dyeing them crimson, a look of wonder, almost alarm, shone in her eyes, her breath came in startled gasps, and clasping her hands together in rapture, she half whispered, "i can walk, i can walk! i can walk! my legs are all right again!" suddenly she let out a scream of wildest exultation, seized her hat from the library table where she had thrown it, and rushed pell-mell from the door. "peace!" cried mrs. campbell, starting up in alarm. "o, peace!" echoed the sisters, giving chase. "stop, peace!" thundered the president, hurrying after them all. "where are you going?" the whole family demanded. "to tell st. john and--" "but we haven't had dinner yet" protested gail. "it doesn't matter!" peace was out of the house and down the steps by this time. "i must tell st. john!" "but childie, jud hasn't harnessed the horses." "o, grandpa, i _can't_ wait. it will be so long. my feet won't keep still! i can walk! i must tell st. john!" shaking her hat at them as she ran, as if to ward them off, she fled down the quiet sunday street, leaving the family hanging in open-mouthed amazement over the picket fence, staring after her. and the last glimpse they caught of their transported peace as she whisked around the corner was a pair of lithe, brown-clad legs climbing aboard a northbound car. she was on her way to tell st. john and elspeth the wonderful tidings. peace could walk again! transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. dialect spellings, contractions and discrepancies have been retained. the history of sir richard calmady a romance by lucas malet new york dodd, mead & company _copyright_, by dodd, mead & company the caxton press new york. contents book i the clown chap. page i. acquainting the reader with a fair domain and the maker thereof ii. giving the very earliest information obtainable of the hero of this book iii. touching matters clerical and controversial iv. raising problems which it is the purpose of this history to resolve v. in which julius march beholds the vision of the new life vi. accident or destiny, according to your humour vii. mrs. william ormiston sacrifices a wine-glass to fate viii. enter a child of promise ix. in which katherine calmady looks on her son x. the birds of the air take their breakfast book ii the breaking of dreams i. recording some aspects of a small pilgrim's progress ii. in which our hero improves his acquaintance with many things--himself included iii. concerning that which, thank god, happens almost every day iv. which smells very vilely of the stable v. in which dickie is introduced to a little dancer with blush-roses in her hat vi. dealing with a physician of the body and a physician of the soul vii. an attempt to make the best of it viii. telling, incidentally, of a broken-down postboy and a country fair book iii la belle dame sans merci i. in which our hero's world grows sensibly wider ii. telling how dickie's soul was somewhat sick, and how he met fair women on the confines of a wood iii. in which richard confirms one judgment and reverses another iv. julius march bears testimony v. telling how queen mary's crystal ball came to fall on the gallery floor vi. in which dickie tries to ride away from his own shadow, with such success as might have been anticipated vii. wherein the reader is courteously invited to improve his acquaintance with certain persons of quality viii. richard puts his hand to a plough from which there is no turning back ix. which touches incidentally on matters of finance x. mr. ludovic quayle among the prophets xi. containing samples both of earthly and heavenly love book iv a slip betwixt cup and lip i. lady louisa barking traces the finger of providence ii. telling how vanity fair made acquaintance with richard calmady iii. in which katherine tries to nail up the weather-glass to set fair iv. a lesson upon the eleventh commandment--"parents obey your children" v. iphigenia vi. in which honoria st. quentin takes the field vii. recording the astonishing valour displayed by a certain small mouse in a corner viii. a manifestation of the spirit ix. in which dickie shakes hands with the devil book v rake's progress i. in which the reader is courteously entreated to grow older by the space of some four years, and to sail southward ho! away ii. wherein time is discovered to have worked changes iii. helen de vallorbes apprehends vexatious complications iv. "mater admirabilis" v. exit camp vi. in which m. paul destournelle has the bad taste to threaten to upset the apple-cart vii. splendide mendax viii. helen de vallorbes learns her rival's name ix. concerning that daughter of cupid and psyche whom men call voluptas x. the abomination of desolation xi. in which dickie goes to the end of the world and looks over the wall book vi the new heaven and the new earth i. miss st. quentin bears witness to the faith that is in her ii. telling how, once again, katherine calmady looked on her son iii. concerning a spirit in prison iv. dealing with matters of hearsay and matters of sport v. telling how dickie came to untie a certain tag of rusty, black ribbon vi. a litany of the sacred heart vii. wherein two enemies are seen to cry quits viii. concerning the brotherhood founded by richard calmady, and other matters of some interest ix. telling how ludovic quayle and honoria st. quentin watched the trout rise in the long water x. concerning a day of honest warfare and a sunset harbinger not of the night but of the dawn xi. in which richard calmady bids the long-suffering reader farewell the history of sir richard calmady book i the clown chapter i acquainting the reader with a fair domain and the maker thereof in that fortunate hour of english history, when the cruel sights and haunting insecurities of the middle ages had passed away, and while, as yet, the fanatic zeal of puritanism had not cast its blighting shadow over all merry and pleasant things, it seemed good to one denzil calmady, esquire, to build himself a stately red-brick and freestone house upon the southern verge of the great plateau of moorland which ranges northward to the confines of windsor forest and eastward to the surrey hills. and this he did in no vainglorious spirit, with purpose of exalting himself above the county gentlemen, his neighbours, and showing how far better lined his pockets were than theirs. rather did he do it from an honest love of all that is ingenious and comely, and as the natural outgrowth of an inquiring and philosophic mind. for denzil calmady, like so many another son of that happy age, was something more than a mere wealthy country squire, breeder of beef and brewer of ale. he was a courtier and traveler; and, if tradition speaks truly, a poet who could praise his mistress's many charms, or wittily resent her caprices, in well-turned verse. he was a patron of art, having brought back ivories and bronzes from italy, pictures and china from the low countries, and enamels from france. he was a student, and collected the many rare and handsome leather-bound volumes telling of curious arts, obscure speculations, half-fabulous histories, voyages, and adventures, which still constitute the almost unique value of the brockhurst library. he might claim to be a man of science, moreover--of that delectable old-world science which has no narrow-minded quarrel with miracle or prodigy, wherein angel and demon mingle freely, lending a hand unchallenged to complicate the operations both of nature and of grace--a science which, even yet, in perfect good faith, busied itself with the mysteries of the rosy cross, mixed strange ingredients into a possible elixir of life, ran far afield in search for the philosopher's stone, gathered herbs for the confection of simples during auspicious phases of the moon, and beheld in comet and meteor awful forewarnings of public calamity or of divine wrath. from all of which it may be premised that when, like the wise king, of old, in jerusalem, denzil calmady "builded him houses, made him gardens and orchards, and planted trees in them of all kind of fruits"; when he "made him pools of water to water therewith the wood that bringeth forth trees"; when he "gathered silver and gold and the treasure of provinces," and got him singers, and players of musical instruments, and "the delights of the sons of men,"--he did so that, having tried and sifted all these things, he might, by the exercise of a ripe and untrammeled judgment, decide what amongst them is illusory and but as a passing show, and what--be it never so small a remnant--has in it the promise of eternal subsistence, and therefore of vital worth; and that, having so decided and thus gained an even mind, he might prepare serenely to take leave of the life he had dared so largely to live. commencing his labours at brockhurst during the closing years of the reign of queen elizabeth, denzil calmady completed them in with a royal house-warming. for the space of a week, during the autumn of that year,--the last autumn, as it unhappily proved, that graceful and scholarly prince was fated to see,--henry, prince of wales, condescended to be his guest. he was entertained at brockhurst--as contemporary records inform the curious--with "much feastinge and many joyous masques and gallant pastimes," including "a great slayinge of deer and divers beastes and fowl in the woods and coverts thereunto adjacent." it is added, with unconscious irony, that his host, being a "true lover of all wild creatures, had caused a fine bear-pit to be digged beyond the outer garden wall to the west." and that, on the sunday afternoon of the prince's visit, there "was held a most mighty baitinge," to witness which "many noble gentlemen of the neighbourhood did visit brockhurst and lay there two nights." later it is reported of denzil calmady, who was an excellent churchman,--suspected even, notwithstanding his little turn for philosophy, of a greater leaning towards the old mass-book than towards the modern book of common prayer,--that he notably assisted laud, then bishop of st. david's, in respect of certain delicate diplomacies. laud proved not ungrateful to his friend; who, in due time, was honoured with one of king james's newly instituted baronetcies, not to mention some few score seedling scotchfirs, which, taking kindly to the light moorland soil, increased and multiplied exceedingly and sowed themselves broadcast over the face of the surrounding country. and, save for the vigorous upgrowth of those same fir trees, and for the fact that bears and bear-pit had long given place to race-horses and to a great square of stable buildings in the hollow lying back from the main road across the park, brockhurst was substantially the same in the year of grace , when this truthful history actually opens, as it had been when sir denzil's workmen set the last tier of bricks of the last twisted chimney-stack in its place. the grand, simple masses of the house--gothic in its main lines, but with much of renaissance work in its details--still lent themselves to the same broad effects of light and shadow, as it crowned the southern and western sloping hillside amid its red-walled gardens and pepper-pot summer-houses, its gleaming ponds and watercourses, its hawthorn dotted paddocks; its ancient avenues of elm, of lime, and oak. the same panelings and tapestries clothed the walls of its spacious rooms and passages; the same quaint treasures adorned its fine italian cabinets; the same air of large and generous comfort pervaded it. as the child of true lovers is said to bear through life, in a certain glad beauty of person and of nature, witness to the glad hour of its conception, so brockhurst, on through the accumulating years, still bore witness to the fortunate historic hour in which it was planned. yet, since in all things material and mortal there is always a little spot of darkness, a germ of canker, at least the echo of a cry of fear--lest life being too sweet, man should grow proud to the point of forgetting he is, after all, but a pawn upon the board, but the sport and plaything of destiny and the vast purposes of god--all was not quite well with brockhurst. at a given moment of time, the diabolic element had of necessity obtruded itself. and, in the chronicles of this delightful dwelling-place, even as in those of eden itself, the angels are proven not to have had things altogether their own gracious way. the pierced stone parapet, which runs round three sides of the house, and constitutes, architecturally, one of its most noteworthy features, is broken in the centre of the north front by a tall, stepped and sharply pointed gable, flanked on either hand by slender, four-sided pinnacles. from the niche in the said gable, arrayed in sugar-loaf hat, full doublet and trunk hose, his head a trifle bent so that the tip of his pointed beard rests on the pleatings of his marble ruff, a carpenter's rule in his right hand, sir denzil calmady gazes meditatively down. delicate, coral-like tendrils of the virginian creeper, which covers the house walls, and strays over the bay windows of the long gallery below, twine themselves yearly about his ankles and his square-toed shoes. the swallows yearly attempt to fix their gray, mud nests against the flutings of the scallop-shell canopy sheltering his bowed head; and are yearly ejected by cautious gardeners armed with imposing array of ladders and conscious of no little inward reluctance to face the dangers of so aerial a height. and here, it may not be unfitting to make further mention of that same little spot of darkness, germ of canker, echo of the cry of fear, that had come to mar the fair records of brockhurst for very certain it was that among the varying scenes, moving merry or majestic, upon which sir denzil had looked down during the two and a quarter centuries of his sojourn in the lofty niche of the northern gable, there was one his eyes had never yet rested upon--one matter, and that a very vital one, to which had he applied his carpenter's rule the measure of it must have proved persistently and grievously short. along the straight walks, across the smooth lawns, and beside the brilliant flower-borders of the formal gardens, he had seen generations of babies toddle and stagger, with gurglings of delight, as they clutched at glancing bird or butterfly far out of reach. he had seen healthy, clean-limbed, boisterous lads and dainty, little maidens laugh and play, quarrel, kiss, and be friends again. he had seen ardent lovers--in glowing june twilights, while the nightingales shouted from the laurels, or from the coppices in the park below--driven to the most desperate straits, to visions of cold poison, of horse-pistols, of immediate enlistment, or the consoling arms of betty the housemaid, by the coquetries of some young lady captivating in powder and patches, or arrayed in the high-waisted, agreeably-revealing costume which our grandmothers judged it not improper to wear in their youth. he had seen husband and wife, too, wandering hand in hand at first, tenderly hopeful and elate. and then, sometimes, as the years lengthened,--they growing somewhat sated with the ease of their high estate,--he had seen them hand in hand no longer, waxing cold and indifferent, debating even, at moments, reproachfully whether they might not have invested the capital of their affections to better advantage elsewhere. all this and much more sir denzil had seen, and doubtless measured, for all that he appears so immovably calm and apart. but that which he had never yet seen was a man of his name and race, full of years and honours, come slowly forth from the stately house to sun himself, morning or evening, in the comfortable shelter of the high, red-brick, rose-grown garden walls. looking the while, with the pensive resignation of old age, at the goodly, wide-spreading prospect. smiling again over old jokes, warming again over old stories of prowess with horse and hound, or rod and gun. feeling the eyes moisten again at the memory of old loves, and of those far-away first embraces which seemed to open the gates of paradise and create the world anew; at remembrances of old hopes too, which proved still-born, and of old distresses, which often enough proved still-born likewise,--the whole of these simplified now, sanctified, the tumult of them stilled, along with the hot, young blood which went to make them, by the kindly torpor of increasing age and the approaching footsteps of greatly reconciling death. for sir denzil's male descendants, one and all,--so says tradition, so say too the written and printed family records, the fine monuments in the chancel of sandyfield church, and more than one tombstone in the yew-shaded church-yard,--have displayed a disquieting incapacity for living to the permitted "threescore years and ten," let alone fourscore, and dying decently, in ordinary, commonplace fashion, in their beds. mention is made of casualties surprising in number and variety; and not always, it must be owned, to the moral credit of those who suffered them. it is told how sir thomas, grandson of sir denzil, died miserably of gangrene, caused by a tear in the arm from the antler of a wounded buck. how his nephew zachary--who succeeded him--was stabbed during a drunken brawl in an eating-house in the strand. how the brother of the said zachary, a gallant young soldier, was killed at the battle of ramillies in . dueling, lightning during a summer storm, even the blue-brown waters of the brockhurst lake in turn claim a victim. later it is told how a second sir denzil, after hard fighting to save his purse, was shot by highwaymen on bagshot heath, when riding with a couple of servants--not notably distinguished, as it would appear, for personal valour--from brockhurst up to town. lastly comes courtney calmady, who, living in excellent repute until close upon sixty, seemed destined by providence to break the evil chain of the family fate. but he too goes the way of all flesh, suddenly enough, after a long run with the hounds, owing to the opening of a wound, received when he was little more than a lad, at the taking of frenchtown under general proctor, during the second american war. so he too died, and they buried him with much honest mourning, as befitted so kindly and honourable a gentleman; and his son richard--of whom more hereafter--reigned in his stead. chapter ii giving the very earliest information obtainable of the hero of this book it happened in this way, towards the end of august, . in the gray of the summer evening, as the sunset faded and the twilight gathered, spreading itself tenderly over the pastures and corn-fields,--over the purple-green glooms of the fir forest--over the open moors, whose surface is scored for miles by the turf-slane of the cottager and squatter--over the clear brown streams that trickle out of the pink and emerald mosses of the peat-bogs, and gain volume and vigour as they sparkle away by woodside, and green-lane, and village street--and over those secret, bosky places, in the heart of the great common-lands, where the smooth, white stems and glossy foliage of the self-sown hollies spring up between the roots of the beech trees, where plovers cry, and stoat and weazel lurk and scamper, while the old poacher's lean, ill-favoured, rusty-coloured lurcher picks up a shrieking hare, and where wandering bands of gypsies--those lithe, onyx-eyed children of the magic east--still pitch their dirty, little, fungus-like tents around the camp-fire,--as the sunset died and the twilight thus softly widened and deepened, lady calmady found herself, for the first time during all the long summer day, alone. for though no royal personage had graced the occasion with his presence, nor had bears suffered martyrdom to promote questionably amiable mirth, brockhurst, during the past week, had witnessed a series of festivities hardly inferior to those which marked sir denzil's historic house-warming. young sir richard calmady had brought home his bride, and it was but fitting the whole countryside should see her. so all and sundry received generous entertainment according to their degree.--labourers, tenants, school-children. weary old-age from pennygreen poorhouse taking its pleasure of cakes and ale half suspiciously in the broad sunshine. the leading shopkeepers of westchurch and their humbler brethren from farley row. all the country gentry too. lord and lady fallowfeild and a goodly company from whitney park, lord denier and a large contingent from grimshott place, the cathcarts of newlands, and many more persons of undoubted consequence--specially perhaps in their own eyes. not to mention a small army of local clergy--who ever display a touching alacrity in attending festivals, even those of a secular character--with camp-followers, in the form of wives and families, galore. and now, at last, all was over,--balls, sports, theatricals, dinners,--the last in the case of the labourers, with the unlovely adjunct of an ox roasted whole. even the final garden-party, designed to include such persons as it was, socially speaking, a trifle difficult to place--image, owner of the big shotover brewery, for instance, who was shouldering his way so vigorously towards fortune and a seat on the bench of magistrates; the younger members of the firm of goteway & fox, solicitors of westchurch; goodall, the methodist miller from parson's holt, and certain sporting yeoman farmers with their comely womankind--even this final entertainment, with all its small triumphs and heart-burnings, flutterings of youthful inexperience, aspirations, condescensions, had gone, like the rest of the week's junketings, to swell the sum of things accomplished, of all that which is past and done with, and will never come again. fully an hour ago, dr. knott, "under plea of waiting cases, had hitched his ungainly, thick-set figure into his high gig. "plenty of fine folks, eh, timothy?" he said to the ferret-faced groom beside him, as he gathered up the reins; and the brown mare, knowing the hand on her mouth, laid herself out to her work. "handsome young couple as anybody need wish to see. not much business doing there for me, i fancy, unless it lies in the nursery line." "say those brockhurst folks mostly dies airly, though," remarked timothy, with praiseworthy effort at professional encouragement. "eh! so you've heard that story too, have you?"--and john knott drew the lash gently across the hollow of the mare's back. "this 'ere sir richard's the third baronet i've a-seen, and i bean't so very old neither." the doctor looked down at the spare little man with a certain snarling affection, as he said:--"oh no! i'm not kept awake o' nights by the fear of losing you, timothy. your serviceable old carcass'll hang together for a good while yet."--then his rough eyebrows drew into a line and he stared thoughtfully down the long space of the clean gravel road under the meeting branches of the lime trees. the whitney _char à bancs_ had driven off but a few minutes later, to the admiration of all beholders; yet not, it must be admitted, without a measure of inward perturbation on the part of that noble charioteer, lord fallowfeild. her ladyship was constitutionally timid, and he was none too sure of the behaviour of his leaders in face of the string of very miscellaneous vehicles waiting to take up. however, the illustrious party happily got off without any occasion for lady fallowfeild's screaming. then the ardour of departure became universal, and in broken procession the many carriages, phaetons, gigs, traps, pony-chaises streamed away from brockhurst house, north, south, east and west. lady calmady had bidden her guests farewell at the side-door opening on to the terrace, before they passed through the house to the main entrance in the south front. last to go, as he had been first to come, was that worthy person, thomas caryll, the rector of sandyfield. mild, white-haired, deficient in chin, he had a natural leaning towards women in general, and towards those of the upper classes in particular. katherine calmady's radiant youth, her courtesy, her undeniable air of distinction, and a certain gracious gaiety which belonged to her, had, combined with unaccustomed indulgence in claret cup, gone far to turn the good man's head during the afternoon. regardless of the slightly flustered remonstrances of his wife and daughters, he lingered, expending himself in innocently confused compliment, supplemented by prophecies regarding the blessings destined to descend upon brockhurst and the mother parish of sandyfield in virtue of lady calmady's advent. but at length he also was gone. katherine waited, her eyes full of laughter, until mr. caryll's footsteps died away on the stone quarries of the great hall within. then she gently drew the heavy door to, and stepped out on to the centre of the terrace. the grass slopes of the park--dotted with thorn trees and beds of bracken,--the lime avenue running along the ridge of the hill, the ragged edge of the fir forest to the east, and the mass of the house, all these were softened to a vagueness--as the landscape in a dream--by the deepening twilight. an immense repose pervaded the whole scene. it affected katherine to a certain seriousness. her social excitements and responsibilities, the undoubted success that had attended her maiden essay as hostess during the past week, shrank to trivial proportions. another order of emotion arose in her. she became sensible of a necessity to take counsel with herself. she moved slowly along the terrace; paused in the arcaded garden-hall at the end of it--the carven stone benches and tables of which showed somewhat ghostly in the dimness--to put off her bonnet and push back the lace scarf from her shoulders. an increasing solemnity was upon her. there were things to think of, things deep and strange. she must needs place them, make an effort, anyhow, to do so. and, in face of this necessity, came an instinct to rid herself of all small impeding conventionalities, even in the matter of dress. for there was in katherine that inherent desire of harmony with her surroundings, that natural sense of fitness, which--given certain technical aptitudes--goes to make a great dramatic artist. but, since in her case, such technical aptitudes were either non-existent, or wholly in abeyance, it followed that, save in nice questions of private honour, she was quite the least self-conscious and self-critical of human beings. now, as she passed out under the archway on to the square lawn of the troco-ground, bare-headed, in her pale dress, a sweet seriousness filling all her mind, even as the sweet summer twilight filled all the valley and veiled the gleaming surface of the long water far below, she felt wholly in sympathy with the aspect and sentiment of the place. indeed it appeared to her, just then, that the four months of her marriage, the five months of her engagement, even the twenty-two years which made up all the sum of her earthly living, were a prelude merely to the present hour and to that which lay immediately ahead. yet the prelude had, in truth, been a pretty enough piece of music. katharine's experience had but few black patches in it as yet. furnished with a fair and healthy body, with fine breeding, with a character in which the pride and grit of her north country ancestry was tempered by the poetic instincts and quick wit which came to her with her mother's irish blood, katherine ormiston started as well furnished as most to play the great game that all are bound to play, whether they will or no, with fate. mrs. ormiston, still young and beloved, had died in bringing this, her only daughter, into the world; and her husband had looked somewhat coldly upon the poor baby in consequence. there was an almost misanthropic vein in the autocratic land-owner and iron-master. he had three sons already, and therefore found but little use for this woman-child. so, while pluming himself on his clear judgment and unswerving reason, he resented, most unreasonably, her birth, since it took his wife from him. such is the irony of things, forever touching man on the raw, proving his weakness in that he holds his strongest point! in point of fact, however, katherine suffered but slightly from the poor welcome that greeted her advent in the gray, many-towered house upon the yorkshire coast. for her great-aunt, mrs. st. quentin, speedily gathered the small creature into her still beautiful arms, and lavished upon it both tenderness and wealth, along--as it grew to a companionable age--with the wisdom of a mind ripened by wide acquaintance with men and with public affairs. mrs. st. quentin--famous in dublin, london, paris, as a beauty and a wit--had passed her early womanhood amid the tumult of great events. she had witnessed the horrors of the terror, the splendid amazements of the first empire; and could still count among her friends and correspondents, politicians and literary men of no mean standing. a legend obtains that lord byron sighed for her--and in vain. for, as katherine came to know later, this woman had loved once, daringly, finally, yet without scandal--though the name of him whom she loved (and who loved her) was not, it must be owned, st. quentin. and perhaps it was just this, this hidden and somewhat tragic romance, which kept her so young, so fresh; kept her unworldly, though moving so freely in the world; had given her that exquisite sense of relative values and that knowledge of the heart, which leads, as the divine plato has testified, to the highest and most reconciling philosophy. thus, the delicately brilliant old lady and the radiant young lady lived together delightfully enough, spending their winters in paris in a pretty apartment in the rue de rennes--shared with one mademoiselle de mirancourt, whose friendship with mrs. st. quentin dated from their schooldays at the convent of the sacré coeur. spring and autumn found katherine and her great-aunt in london. while, in summer, there was always a long visit to ormiston castle, looking out from the cliff edge upon the restless north sea. lovers came in due course. for over and above its own shapeliness--which surely was reason enough--katherine's hand was well worth winning from the worldly point of view. she would have money; and mrs. st. quentin's influence would count for much in the case of a great-nephew-by-marriage who aspired to a parliamentary or diplomatic career. but the lovers also went, for katherine asked a great deal--not so much of them, perhaps, as of herself. she had taken an idea, somehow, that marriage, to be in the least satisfactory, must be based on love; and that love worth the name is an essentially two-sided business. indirectly the girl had learnt much on this difficult subject from her great-aunt; and with characteristic directness had agreed with herself to wait till her heart was touched, if she waited a lifetime--though of exactly in what either her heart, or the touching of it, consisted she was deliciously innocent as yet. and then, in the summer of , sir richard calmady came to ormiston. he and her brother roger had been at eton together. katherine remembered him, years ago, as a well-bred and courteously contemptuous schoolboy, upon whose superior mind, small female creatures--busy about dolls, and victims of the athletic restrictions imposed by petticoats--made but slight impression. latterly sir richard's name had come to be one to conjure with in racing circles, thanks to the performances of certain horses bred and trained at the brockhurst stables; though some critics, it is true, deplored his tendency to neglect the older and more legitimate sport of flat-racing in favour of steeple-chasing. it was said he aspired to rival the long list of victories achieved by mr. elmore's gaylad and lottery, and the successes of peter simple the famous gray. this much katherine had heard of him from her brother. and having her haughty turns--as what charming woman has not?--set him down as probably a rough sort of person, notwithstanding his wealth and good connections, a kind of gentleman jockey, upon whom it would be easy to take a measure of pretty revenge for his boyish indifference to her existence. but the meeting, and the young man, alike, turned out quite other than she had anticipated. for she found a person as well furnished in all polite and social arts as herself, with no flavour of the stable about him. she had reckoned on one whose scholarship would carry him no further than a few stock quotations from horace, and whose knowledge of art would begin and end with a portrait of himself presented by the members of a local hunt. and it was a little surprising--possibly a little mortifying to her--to hear him talking over obscure passages in spencer's _færie queene_ with mrs. st. quentin, before the end of the dinner, and nicely apprising the relative merits of the water-colour sketches by turner, that hung on either side the drawing-room fireplace. nor did katherine's surprises end here. an unaccountable something was taking place within her, that opened up a whole new range of emotion. she, the least moody of young women, had strange fluctuations of temper, finding herself buoyantly happy one hour, the next pensive, filled with timidity and self-distrust--not to mention the little fits of gusty anger, and purposeless jealousy which took her, hurting her pride shrewdly. she grew anxiously solicitous as to her personal appearance. this dress would not please her nor that. the image of her charming oval face and well-set head ceased to satisfy her. surely a woman's hair should be either positively blond or black, not this indeterminate brown, with warm lights in it? she feared her mouth was not small enough, the lips too full and curved for prettiness. she wished her eyes less given to change, under their dark lashes, from clear gray-blue to a nameless colour like the gloom of the pools of a woodland stream, as her feelings changed from gladness to distress. she feared her complexion was too bright, and then not bright enough. and, all the while, a certain shame possessed her that she should care at all about such trivial matters; for life had grown suddenly larger and more august. books she had read, faces she had watched a hundred times, the vast horizon looking eastward over the unquiet sea, all these gained a new value and meaning which at once enthralled and agitated her thought. sir richard calmady stayed a fortnight at ormiston. and the two ladies crossed to paris earlier, that autumn, than was their custom. katherine was not in her usual good health, and mrs. st. quentin desired change of air and scene on her account. she took mademoiselle de mirancourt into her confidence, hinting at causes for her restlessness and wayward little humours unacknowledged by the girl herself. then the two elder women wrapped katherine about with an atmosphere of--if possible--deeper tenderness than before; mingling sentiment with their gaiety, and gaiety with their sentiment, and the delicate respect which refrains from question with both. one keenly bright october afternoon richard calmady called in the rue de rennes. it appeared he had come to paris with the intention of remaining there for an indefinite period. he called again and yet again, making himself charming--a touch of deference tempering his natural suavity--alike to his hostesses and to such of their guests as he happened to meet. it was the fashion of fifty years ago to conduct affairs, even those of the heart, with a dignified absence of precipitation. the weeks passed, while sir richard became increasingly welcome in some of the very best houses in paris.--and katherine? it must be owned katherine was not without some heartaches, which she proudly tried to deny to herself and conceal from others. but eventually--it was on the morning after the ball at the british embassy--the man spoke and the maid answered, and the old order changed, giving place to new in the daily life of the pretty apartment of the rue de rennes. about five months later the marriage took place in london; and sir richard and lady calmady started forth on a wedding journey of the old-fashioned type. they traveled up the rhine, and posted, all in the delicious, early summer weather, through northern italy, as far as florence. they returned by paris. and there, mrs. st. quentin watching--in almost painful anxiety--to see how it fared with her recovered darling, was wholly satisfied, and gave thanks. for she perceived that, in this case, at least, marriage was no legal, conventional connection leaving the heart emptier than it found it--the bartering of precious freedom for a joyless bondage, an obligation, weary in the present, and hopeless of alleviation in the future, save by the reaching of that far-distant, heavenly country, concerning which it is comfortably assured us "that there they neither marry nor are given in marriage." for the katherine who came back to her was at once the same, and yet another, katherine--one who carried her head more proudly and stepped as though she was mistress of the whole fair earth, but whose merry wit had lost its little edge of sarcasm, whose sympathy was quicker and more instinctive, whose voice had taken fuller and more caressing tones, and in whose sweet eyes sat a steady content good to see. and then, suddenly, mrs. st. quentin began to feel her age as she had never, consciously, felt it before; and to be very willing to fold her hands and recite her _nunc dimittis_. for, in looking on the faces of the bride and bridegroom, she had looked once again on the face of love itself, and had stood within the court of the temple of that uranian venus whose unsullied glory is secure here and hereafter, since to her it is given to discover to her worshippers the innermost secret of existence, thereby fencing them forever against the plagues of change, delusion, and decay. love began gently to loosen the cords of life, and to draw lucia st. quentin home--home to that dear dwelling-place which, as we fondly trust--since god himself is love--is reserved for all true lovers beyond the grave and gates of death. thus one flower falls as another opens; and to-day, however sweet, is only won across the corpse of yesterday. and it was some perception of just this--the ceaseless push of event following on event, the ceaseless push of the yet unborn struggling to force the doors of life--which moved katherine to seriousness, as she stood alone on the smooth expanse of the troco-ground, in the soft, all-covering twilight, at the close of the day's hospitality. on her right the house, and its delicate twisted chimneys, showed dark against the fading rose of the western sky. the air, rich with the fragrance of the red-walled gardens behind her,--with the scent of jasmine, heliotrope and clove carnations, ladies-lilies and mignonette,--was stirred, now and again, by wandering winds, cool from the spaces of the open moors. while, as the last roll of departing wheels died out along the avenues, the voices of the woodland began to reassert themselves. wild-fowl called from the alder-fringed long water. night-hawks churred as they beat on noiseless wings above the beds of bramble and bracken. a cock pheasant made a most admired stir and keckling in seeing his wife and brood to roost on the branches of one of king james's age-old scotch firs. and this sense of nature coming back to claim her own, to make known her eternal supremacy, now that the fret of man's little pleasuring had past, was very grateful to katherine calmady. her soul cried out to be free, for a time, to contemplate, to fully apprehend and measure its own happiness. it needed to stand aside, so that the love given, and all given with that love--even these matters of house and gardens, of men-servants and maid-servants, of broad acres, all the poetry, in short, of great possessions--might be seen in perspective. for katherine had that necessity--in part intellectual, in part practical, and common to all who possess a gift for rule--to resist the confusing importunity of detail, and to grasp intelligently the whole, which alone gives to detail coherence and purpose. her mind was not one--perhaps unhappily--which is contented to merely play with bricks, but demands the plan of the building into which those bricks should grow. and she wanted, just now, to lay hold of the plan of the fair building of her own life. and to this end the solitude, the evening quiet, the restful unrest of the forest and its wild creatures should surely have ministered? she moved forward and sat on the broad stone balustrade which, topping the buttressed masonry that supports it above the long downward grass slope of the park, encloses the troco-ground on the south. the landscape lay drowned in the mystery of the summer night. and katherine, looking out into it, tried to think clearly, tried to range the many new experiences of the last months and to reckon with them. but her brain refused to work obediently to her will. she felt strangely hurried for all the surrounding quiet. one train of thought, which she had been busy enough by day and honestly sleepy enough at night, to keep at arm's length during this time of home-coming and entertaining, now invaded and possessed her mind--filling it at once with a new and overwhelming movement of tenderness, yet for all her high courage with a certain fear. she cried out for a little space of waiting, a little space in which to take breath. she wanted to pause, here in the fulness of her content. but no pause was granted her. she was so happy, she asked nothing more. but something more was forced upon her. and so it happened that, in realising the ceaseless push of event on event, the ceaseless dying of dear to-day in the service of unborn to-morrow, her gentle seriousness touched on regret. how long she remained lost in such pensive reflections lady calmady could not have said. suddenly the terrace door slammed. a moment later a man's footsteps echoed across the flags of the garden-hall. "katherine," richard calmady called, somewhat imperatively, "katherine, are you there?" she turned and stood watching him as he came rapidly across the turf. "yes, i am here," she cried. "do you want me?" "do i want you?" he answered curtly. "don't i always want you?" a little sob rose in her throat--she knew not why--for, hearing the tone of his voice, her sadness was strangely assuaged. "i could not find you," he went on. "and i got into an absurd state of panic--sent roger in one direction, and julius in another, to look for you." "whereupon roger, probably, posted down to the stables, and julius up to the chapel to search. where the heart dwells there the feet follow. meanwhile, you came straight here and found me yourself." "i might have known i should do that." the importunate thought returned upon katherine and with it a touch of her late melancholy. "ah! one knows nothing for certain when one is frightened," she said. she moved closer to him, holding out her hand. "here," she continued, "you are a little too shadowy, too unsubstantial, in this light, dick. i would rather make more sure of your presence." richard calmady laughed very gently. then the two stood silent, looking out over the dim valley, hand in hand. the scent of the gardens was about them. moving lights showed through the many windows of the great house. the waterfowl called sleepily. the churring of the night-hawks was continuous, soothing as the hum of a spinning-wheel. somewhere, away in the warren, a fox barked. in the eastern sky, the young moon began to climb above the ragged edge of the firs. when they spoke again it was very simply, in broken sentences, as children speak. the poetry of their relation to one another and the scene about them were too full of meaning, too lovely, to call for polish of rhetoric, or pointing by epigram. "tell me," katherine said, "were you satisfied? did i entertain your people prettily?" "prettily? you entertained them as they had never been entertained before--like a queen--and they knew it. but why did you stay out here alone?" "to think--and to look at brockhurst." "yes, it's worth looking at now," he said. "it was like a body wanting a soul till you came." "but you loved it?" katherine reasoned. "oh yes! because i believed the soul would come some day. brockhurst, and the horses, and the books, all helped to make the time pass while i was waiting." "waiting for what?" "why for you, of course, you dear, silly sweet. haven't i always been waiting for you--just precisely and wholly you, nothing more or less--all through my life, all through all conceivable and inconceivable lives, since before the world began?" katharine's breath came with a fluttering sigh. she let her head fall back against his shoulder. her eyes closed involuntarily. she loved these fond exaggerations--as what woman does not who has had the good fortune to hear them? they pierced her with a delicious pain; and--perhaps therefore, perhaps not unwisely--she believed them true. "are you tired?" he asked presently. katherine looked up smiling, and shook her head. "not too tired to be up early to-morrow morning and come out with me to see the horses galloped? sultan will give you no trouble. he is well-seasoned and merely looks on at things in general with intelligent interest, goes like a lamb and stands like a rock." while her husband was speaking katherine straightened herself up, and moved a little from him though still holding his hand. her languor passed, and her eyes grew large and black. "i think, perhaps, i had better not go to-morrow, dick," she said slowly. "ah! you are tired, you poor dear. no wonder, after the week's work you have had. another day will do just as well. only i want you to come out sometimes in the first blush of the morning, before the day has had time to grow commonplace, while the gossamers are still hung with dew, and the mists are in hollows, and the horses are heady from the fresh air and the light. you will like it all, kitty. it is rather inspiring. but it will keep. to-morrow i'll let you rest in peace." "oh no! it is not that," katherine said quickly. the importunate thought was upon her again, clamouring, not only to be recognised, but fairly owned to and permitted to pass the doors of speech. and a certain modesty made her shrink from this. to know something in the secret of your own heart, or to tell it, thereby making it a hard concrete fact, outside yourself, over which, in a sense, you cease to have control, are two such very different matters! katherine trembled on the edge of her confession, though that to be confessed was, after all, but the natural crown of her love. "i think i ought not to ride now--for a time, dick." all the blood rushed into her face and throat, and then ebbed, leaving her very white in the growing darkness.--"you have given me a child," she said. chapter iii touching matters clerical and controversial brockhurst had rarely appeared more blessed by spacious sunshine and stately cheerfulness than during the remaining weeks of that summer. a spirit of unclouded serenity possessed the place, both indoors and out. if rain fell, it was only at night. and this, as so much else, julius march noted duly in his diary. for that was the period of elaborate private chronicles, when persons of intelligence and position still took themselves, their doings and their emotions with most admired seriousness. natural science, the great leveler, had hardly stepped in as yet. therefore it was, that already, julius's diary ran into many stout manuscript volumes; each in turn soberly but richly bound, with silver clasp and lock complete, so soon as its final page was written. begun when he first went up to oxford, some thirteen years earlier, it formed an intimate history of the influences of the tractarian movement upon a scholarly mind and delicately spiritual nature. at the commencement of his oxford career he had come into close relations with some of the leaders of the movement. and the conception of an historic church, endowed with mystic powers--conveyed through an unbroken line of priests from the age of the apostles--the orderly round of vigil, fast, and festival, the secret, introspective joys of penance and confession, the fascinations of the strictly religious life, as set before him in eloquent public discourse or persuasive private conversation,--had combined to kindle an imagination very insufficiently satisfied by the lean spiritual meats offered it during an evangelical childhood and youth. julius yielded himself up to his instructors with passionate self-abandon. he took orders, and remained on at oxford--being a fellow of his college--working earnestly for the cause he had so at heart. eventually he became a member of the select band of disciples that dwelt, uncomfortably, supported by visions of reactionary reform at once austere and beneficent, in the range of disused stable buildings at littlemore. of the storm and stress of this religious war, its triumphs, its defeats, its many agitations, julius's diaries told with a deep, if chastened, enthusiasm. his was a singularly pure nature, unmoved by the primitive desires which usually inflame young blood. ideas heated him; while the lust of the eye and the pride of life left him almost scornfully cold. he strove earnestly, of course, to bring the flesh into subjection to the spirit; which was, calmly considered, a slight waste of time, since the said flesh showed the least possible inclination of revolt. the earlier diaries contain pathetic exaggerations of the slightest indiscretion. innocent and virtuous persons have ever been prone to such little manias of self-accusation! later, the flesh did assert itself, though in a hardly licentious manner. oxford fogs and damp, along with plain living and high thinking, acting upon a constitution naturally far from robust, produced a commonplace but most disabling nemesis in the form of colds, coughs, and chronic asthma. julius did not greatly care. he was in that exalted frame of mind in which martyrdom, even by phthisis or bronchial affections, is immeasurably preferable to no martyrdom at all. perhaps fortunately his relations, and even his oxford friends, took a quite other view of the matter, and insisted upon his using all legitimate means to prolong his life. julius left oxford with intense regret. it was the holy city of the tractarian movement; and at this moment the progress of that movement was the one thing worth living for, if live indeed he must. he went forth bewailing his exile and enforced idleness, as a man bewails the loss of the love of his youth. for a time he traveled in italy and in the south of france. on his return to england he went to stay with his friend and cousin, sir richard calmady. brockhurst house had always been extremely congenial to him. its suites of handsome rooms, the inlaid marble chimneypieces of which reach up to the frieze of the heavily moulded ceilings, its wide passages and stairways, their carved balusters and newel-posts, the treasures of its library--now overflowing the capacity of the two rooms originally designed for them, and filling ranges of bookcases between the bay windows of the long gallery running the whole length of the first floor from east to west,--the chapel in the southern wing, its richly furnished altar and the glories of its famous, stained-glass windows, all these were very grateful to his taste. while the light, dry, upland air and near neighbourhood of the fir forest eased the physical discomforts from which, at times, he still suffered shrewdly. he found the atmosphere of the place both soothing and steadying. and of precisely this he stood sorely in need just now. for it must be admitted that a change had come over the spirit of julius march's great ecclesiastical dream. absence from oxford and foreign travel had tended at once to widen and modify his thought. he had seen the tractarian movement from a distance, in due perspective. he had also seen catholicism at close quarters. he had realised that the logical consequence of the teaching of the former could be nothing less than unqualified submission to the latter. on his return to england he learned that more than one of his oxford friends was arriving, reluctantly, at the same conclusion. then there arose within him the fiercest struggle his gentle nature had ever yet known. he was torn by the desire to go forward, risking all, with those whom he reverenced; yet was restrained by a sense of honour. for there was in julius a strain of obstinate, almost fanatic, loyalty. to the anglican church he had pledged himself. through her ministry he had received illumination. to the work of her awakening he had given all his young enthusiasm. how then could he desert her? her rites might be maimed. the scandal of schism might tarnish her fair fame. accusations of sloth and lukewarmness might not unjustly be preferred against her. all this he admitted; and it was very characteristic of the man that, just because he did admit it, he remained within her fold. yet the decision was dislocating to all his thought, even as the struggle had been. it left him bruised. it cruelly shook his self-confidence. for he was not one of those persons upon whom the shipwreck of long-cherished hopes and purposes have a stimulating effect, filling them merely with a buoyant satisfaction at the opportunity afforded them of beginning all over again! julius was oppressed by the sense of a great failure. the diaries of this period are but sorrowful reading. he believed he should go softly all his days; and, from a certain point of view, in this he was right. and it was here that sir richard calmady intervened. he had watched his cousin's struggle, had accepted its reality, sympathising, through friendship rather than through moral or intellectual agreement. for he was one of those fortunate mortals who, while possessing a strong sense of god, have but small necessity to define him. many of julius's keenest agonies appeared to him subjective, a matter of words and phrases. yet he respected them, out of the sincere regard he bore the man who suffered them. he did more. he tried a practical remedy. modestly, as one asking rather than conferring a favour, he invited julius to remain at brockhurst, on a fair stipend, as domestic chaplain and librarian. "in the fulness of your generosity towards me you are creating a costly sinecure," julius had remonstrated. "not in the least. i am selfishly trying to secure myself a most welcome companion, by asking you to undertake a very modest cure of souls and to catalogue my books, when you might be filling some important post and qualifying for a bishopric." julius had shaken his head sadly enough. "the high places of the church are not for me," he said. "neither are her great adventures." thus did julius march, somewhat broken both in health and spirit, become a carpet-priest. the trumpet blasts of controversy reached him as echoes merely, while his days passed in peaceful, if pensive monotony. he read prayers morning and evening to the assembled household in the chapel; reduced the confusion of the library shelves, doing a fair amount of study, both secular and theological, during the process; rode with his cousin on fine afternoons to distant farms, by high-banked lanes in the lowland, or across the open moors; visited the lodges, or the keepers' and gardeners' cottages within the limits of the park, on foot. now and again he took a service, or preached a sermon, for good mr. caryll of sandyfield, in whose amiable mind instinctive admiration of those, even distantly, related to persons of wealth and position jostled an equally instinctive terror of mr. march's "well-known romanising tendencies." and in that there was, surely, a touch of the irony of fate! lastly, julius did his utmost to exercise an influence for good over the twenty and odd boys at the racing stables--an unpromising generation at best, the majority of whom, he feared, accepted his efforts for their moral and spiritual welfare with the same somewhat brutish philosophy with which they accepted tom chifney, the trainer's, rough-and-ready system of discipline, and the thousand and one vagaries of the fine-limbed, queer-tempered horses which were at once the glory and torment of their young lives. things had gone on thus for rather more than a year, when richard calmady married. julius was perhaps inclined, beforehand, to underrate the importance of that event. he was singularly innocent, so far, of the whole question of woman. he had no sisters. at oxford he had lived exclusively among men, while the tractarian movement had offered a sufficient outlet to all his emotion. the severe and exquisite verses of the "lyra apostolica" fitly expressed the passions of his heart. to the church, at once his mother and his mistress, he had wholly given his first love. he had gone so far, indeed, in a rapture of devotion one easter day, during the celebration of the holy eucharist, as to impose upon himself a vow of livelong chastity. this he did--let it be added--without either the sanction or knowledge of his spiritual advisers. the vow, therefore, remained unwitnessed and unratified, but he held it inviolable nevertheless. and it lay but lightly upon him, joyfully almost--rather as a ridding of himself of possible perturbations and obsessions, than as an act of most austere self-renunciation. in his ignorance he merely went forward with an increased freedom of spirit. all of which is set down, not without underlying pathos, in the diary of that date. and that freedom of spirit remained by him, notwithstanding his altered circumstances. it even served--indirectly, since none knew the fact of his self-dedication save himself--as a basis of pleasant intercourse with the women of his own social standing whom he now met. it served him thus in respect of lady calmady, who accepted him as a member of her new household with charming kindliness, treating him with a gentle solicitude born of pity for his far from robust health and for the mental struggles which she understood him to have passed through. many persons, it must be owned, described julius as remarkably ugly. but he did not strike katherine thus. his heavy black hair, beardless face and sallow skin--rendered dull and colourless, his features thickened, though not actually scarred, by smallpox, which he had had as a child,--his sensitive mouth, and the questioning expression of his short-sighted brown eyes, reminded her of a fifteenth-century florentine portrait that had always challenged her attention when she passed it in the vestibule of a certain obscure, yet aristocratic, parisian hotel, on the left bank--well understood--of the seine. the man of the portrait was narrow-chested, clothed in black. so was julius march. he had long-fingered, finely shaped hands. so had julius. he gave her the impression of a person endowed with a capacity of prolonged and silent self-sacrifice. so did julius. she wondered about his story. for julius, at least--little as she or he then suspected it--the deepest places of the story still lay ahead. chapter iv raising problems which it is the purpose of this history to resolve it was not without a movement of inward thanksgiving that, the festivities connected with sir richard and lady calmady's home-coming being over, julius march returned to his labours in the brockhurst library. humanity at first hand, whatever its social standing or its pursuits, was, in truth, always slightly agitating to him. he felt more at home when dealing with conclusions than with the data that go to build up those conclusions, with the thoughts of men printed and bound, than with the urgent raw material from which those thoughts arise. revelation, authority--these were still his watchwords; and in face of them even the harmless spectacle of a country neighbourhood at play, let alone the spectacle of the human comedy generally, is singularly confusing. he sought the soothing companionship of books with even heightened relief one fair morning some three weeks later. for mrs. st. quentin and mademoiselle de mirancourt had arrived at brockhurst the day previously, and julius had been sensible of certain perturbations of mind in meeting these two ladies, one of whom was a devout catholic by inheritance and personal conviction; while the other, though nominally a member of his own communion, was known to temper her religion with a wide, if refined, philosophy. conversation had drifted towards serious subjects in the course of the evening, and mrs. st. quentin had admitted, with a playful deprecation of her dear friend's rigid religious attitude, that no one creed, no one system, offered an adequate solution of the infinite mystery and complexity of life--as she knew it. the serene adherence of one charming and experienced woman to an authority which he had rejected, the almost equally serene indifference on the part of the other to the revelation he held as absolute and final, troubled julius. small wonder then, that early, after a solitary breakfast, he retired upon the society of the odd volumes cluttering the shelves of the long gallery, that he sorted, arranged, catalogued, grateful for that dulling of thought which mechanical labour brings with it. but fate was malicious, and elected to make a sport of julius this morning. unexpectedly importunate human drama obtruded itself, the deep places of the story--such as, in the innocence of his ascetic refinement, he had never dreamed of--began to reveal themselves. he had climbed the wide, carpeted steps of the library ladder and seated himself on the topmost one, at right angles to a topmost shelf the contents of which he proposed to investigate, duster and note-book in hand. the vast perspective of the gallery lengthened out before him, cool, faint-tinted, full of a diffused and silvery light. the self-coloured, unpainted paneling of the walls and bookcases--but one shade warmer in tone than that of the stone mullions and transomes of the lofty windows--gave an indescribable delicacy of effect to the atmosphere of the room. through the many-paned, leaded lights of the eastern bay, the sunshine--misty, full of dancing notes--streamed in obliquely, bringing into quaint prominence of light and shadow a very miscellaneous collection of objects.--a marble buddha, benign of aspect, his right hand raised in blessing, seated, cross-legged upon the many-petalled lotus. a pair of cavalier's jack-boots, standing just below, most truculent and ungainly of foot-gear, wooden, hinged, leather-covered. a trophy of polynesian spears, shields, and canoe paddles. a bronze antinous, seductive of bearing and dainty of limb, but roughened by green rust. a collection of old sporting prints, softly coloured, covering a bare space of wall, beneath a moose skull, from the broad flat antlers of which hung a pair of canadian snow-shoes. along the inside wall of the great room, placed at regular intervals, were consol tables bearing tall oriental jars and huge bowls of fine porcelain, filled with potpourri; so that the scent of dried rose leaves, bay, verbena, and many spices impregnated the air. the place was, in short, a museum. whatever of strange, grotesque, and curious, calmadys of past generations had collected in their wanderings, by land and sea, found lodgment here. it was a home of half-forgotten histories, of valorous deeds grown dim through the lapse of years; a harbour of refuge for derelict gods, derelict weapons, derelict volumes, derelict instruments which had once discoursed sweet enough music, but the fashion of which had now passed away. the somewhat obsolete sentiment of the place harmonised with the thin, silvery light and the thin sweetness of spices and dead roses which pervaded it. it seemed to smile, as with the pitying tolerance of the benign image of buddha, at the heat and flame, the untempered scarlet and purple of the fleeting procession of individual lives, that had ministered to its furnishing. for how much vigorous endeavour, now over and done with, never to be recalled, had indeed gone to supply the furnishing of that room!--and, after all, is not the most any human creature dare hope for the more or less dusty corner of some museum shelf at last? the passion of the heart testified to by some battered trinket, the sweat of the brain by some maggot-eaten manuscript, the agony of death, at best, by some round shot turned up by the ploughshare? and how shall any one dare complain of this, since have not empires before now only been saved from oblivion by a few buried potsherds, and whole races of mankind by childish picture-scratchings on a reindeer bone? _tout lasse, tout passe, tout casse._ the individual--his arts, his possessions, his religion, his civilisation--is always as an envelope, merely, to be torn asunder and cast away. nothing subsists, nothing endures but life itself, endlessly self-renewed, endlessly one, through the endless divergencies of its manifestations. and, as julius march was to find, hide from it, deny it, strive to elude it as we may, the recognition of just that is bound to grip us sooner or later and hold us with a fearful and dominating power from which there is no escape. meanwhile, his occupation was tranquil enough, comfortably remote, as it seemed, from all such profound and disquieting matters. for the top shelf proved not very prolific of interest; and one book after another, examined and rejected as worthless, was dropped--with a reproachful flutter of pages and final thud--into the capacious paper-basket standing on the floor below. then, at the far end of the said shelf, he came unexpectedly upon a collection of those quaint chap-books which commanded so wide a circulation during the eighteenth century. julius, with the true bibliophile's interest in all originals, examined his find carefully. the tattered and dogs-eared, little volumes, coarsely printed and embellished by a number of rough, square woodcuts, had, he knew, a distinct value. he soon perceived that they formed a very representative selection. he glanced at _the famous history of guy of warwick_; at that of _sir bevis of southampton_; at _joaks upon joaks_, a lively work regarding the manners and customs of the aristocracy at the period of the restoration; at the record of the amazing adventures of that lusty serving-wench _long meg of westminster_; and at that refreshing piece of comedy known as _merry tales concerning the sayings and doings of the wise men of gotham_. finally, hidden behind the outstanding frame of the bookcase, he discovered four tiny volumes tied together with a rusty, black ribbon. a heavy coating of dust lay upon them. a large spider, moreover, darted from behind them. dust clung unpleasantly to its hairy and ill-favoured person. it was a matter of principle with julius never to take life; yet instinctively he drew back his hand from the book in disgust. "_araignée du matin, chagrin_," he said, involuntarily, while he watched the insect make good its escape over the top of the bookcase. then he flicked uneasily at the little parcel with his duster, causing a cloud of gray atoms to float up and out into the room. julius was perhaps absurdly open to impressions. it took him some seconds to recover from his sense of repulsion and to untie the rusty ribbon around the little books. they proved all to be ragged and imperfect copies of the same work. the woodcuts in them were splotched with crude colour. the title-page was printed in assorted type--here a line of roman capitals, there one in italics or old english letters. the inscription, consequently, was difficult to decipher, causing him to hold the tattered page very close to his short-sighted eyes. it ran thus-- "setting forth a true and particular account of the dealings of sir thomas calmady with the forester's daughter and the bloody death of her only child. to which is added her prophecy and curse." julius had been standing, so as to reach the length of the shelf. now he sat down on the top step of the ladder again. a whole rush of memories came upon him. he remembered vaguely how, long ago, in his childhood, he had heard legends of this same curse. staying here at brockhurst, as a baby-child with his mother, maids had hinted at it, gossiping over the nursery fire at night; and his mind, irresistibly attracted, even then, by the supernatural, had been filled at once by desperate curiosity and by panic fear. he paused, thinking back, singularly moved, as one on the edge of the satisfaction of long-desired knowledge, yet slightly self-contemptuous, both of his own emotion and of the rather vulgar means by which that knowledge promised to be obtained. the shafts of sunshine fell more obliquely across the eastern end of the gallery. benign buddha had passed into shadow; while a painting by murillo, standing on an easel near by caught the light, starting into arresting reality. it represented a hideous and misshapen dwarf, holding a couple of graceful greyhounds in a leash--an unhappy creature who had made sport for the household of some castilian grandee, and whose gorgeous garments were ingeniously designed to emphasise the physical degradation of his contorted body. this painting, appearing to julius too painful for habitual contemplation, had, at his request, been removed from his study down-stairs to its present station. just now he fancied it looked forth at him queerly insistent. at this distance he could distinguish little more than a flare of scarlet and cloth-of-gold, and the white of the hounds' flanks and bellies under the strong sunlight. but he knew the picture in all its details; and was oppressed by the remembrance of tragic eyes in a brutal face, eyes that protested dumbly against cruelty inflicted by nature and by mankind alike. he, julius, was not, so he feared, quite guiltless in this matter. for had there not been a savour of cruelty in his ejection of the portrait of this unhappy being from his peaceful study? and thinking of this his discomfort augmented. he was assailed by an unreasoning nervousness of something malign, something sinister, about to befall or to become known to him. "_araignée du matin, chagrin_," he repeated involuntarily. he laid the four little chap-books back hastily behind the outstanding woodwork of the bookshelf, descended the steps, walked the length of the gallery, and leaning against one of the stone mullions of the great, eastern bay window looked out of the wide, open casement. the prospect was, indeed, reassuring enough. the softly green square of the troco-ground, the brilliant beds and borders of the brick-walled gardens, the gray flags of the great terrace--its rows of little orange trees, heavy with flower and fruit, set in blue painted tubs--lay below him in a blaze of august sunshine. from the direction of the long water in the valley, richard calmady rode up, between the thorn trees and the beds of bracken, across the turf slopes of the park. it was a joy to see him ride. the rider and horse were one, in vigour and in the repose which comes of vigour--a something classic in the natural beauty and sympathy of rider and of horse. half-way up the slope richard swerved, turned towards the house, sat looking up, hat in hand, while katherine stood at the edge of the terrace looking down, speaking with him. the warm breeze fluttered her full muslin skirts, rose and white, and the white lace of her parasol. the rich tones of her voice and the ring of her laughter came up to julius, as he leant against the stone mullion, along with the droning of innumerable bees, and the cooing of the pink-footed pigeons--that bowed to one another, spreading their tails, drooping their wings amorously, upon the broad, gray string-course running along the house front just beneath. mademoiselle de mirancourt, a small, neat, gray and black figure, was beside katherine, and, now and again, he heard the pretty staccato of her foreign speech. then richard calmady rode onward, turning half round in the saddle, looking up for a moment at the woman he loved. his horse broke into a canter, bearing him swiftly in and out of the shadow of the glistening, domed oaks and ancient, stag-headed, spanish chestnuts which crowned the ascent, and on down the long, softly-shaded vista of the lime avenue. while camp, the bulldog, who had lain panting in the bracken, streaked like a white flash up the hillside in pursuit of his well-beloved master. and julius march moved away from the open window with a sigh. yet what, after all, of malign or sinister was perceptible, conceivable even, in respect of this glorious morning and these happy people--unless, as he reflected, something of pathos is of necessity ever resident in all beauty, all happiness, the world being sinful, and existence so prolific of pain and melancholy happenings? so he went back, climbed the library steps again, and taking the little bundle of chap-books from their dusty resting-place, set himself, in a somewhat penitential spirit, to master their contents. if the occupation was distasteful to him, the more wholesome to pursue it! so, supplying the deficiencies of torn or defaced pages by reference to another of the copies, he arrived by degrees at a clear understanding of the whole matter. the story was set forth in rhyming doggerel. the poet was not blessed with a gift of melody or of style. absence of scansion tortured the ear. coarseness of diction offended the taste. and yet, as he read on, julius reluctantly admitted that the cruel tale gained credibility and moral force from the very homeliness of the language in which it was chronicled. thus julius learned how, during the closing years of the commonwealth, the young royalist gentleman, sir thomas calmady, dwelling in enforced seclusion at brockhurst, relieved the tedium of country life by indulgence in divers amours. he was large-hearted, apparently, and could not see a comely face without attempting intimate acquaintance with the possessor of it. among other damsels distinguished by his attentions was his head forester's handsome daughter, whom, under reiterated promise of marriage, he seduced. in due time she bore him a child, ideally beautiful, according to the poet of the chap-book, blessed with "red-gold hair and eyes of blue," and many charms of infantile healthfulness. and yet, notwithstanding the noble looks of her little son, the forester's daughter still remained unwed. for just now came the restoration, and along with it a notable change in the outlook of sir thomas calmady and many another lusty young gallant, since the event in question not only restored charles the second to the arms of his devoted subjects, but restored such loyal gentlemen to the by no means too strait-laced society of town and court. thence, some few years later, sir thomas--amiably willing in all things to oblige his royal master--brought home a bride, whose rank and wealth, according to the censorious chap-book, were extensively in excess of her youth and virtue. julius lingered a little in contemplation of the quaint wood-cut representing the arrival of this lady at brockhurst. clothed in a bottle-green bodice--very generously _décolletée_, her head adorned by a portentous erection of coronet and feathers, a sanguine dab of colour on her cheek, she craned a skinny neck out of the window of the family coach. apparently she was engaged in directing the movements of persons--presumably footmen--clad in canary-coloured coats and armed with long staves. with these last, they treated a female figure in blue to, as it seemed, sadly rough usage. and the context informed julius, in jingling verse, how that poor hagar, the forester's daughter, inconveniently defiant of custom and of common sense, had stoutly refused to be cast forth into the social wilderness, along with her small ishmael and a few pounds sterling as price of her honour and content, until she had stood face to face with sarah, the safely church-wed, if none too reputable, wife. it informed him, further, how the said small ishmael--whether alarmed by the violence of my lady's men-servants, or wanting merely, childlike, to welcome his returning father--ran to the coach door and clambered on the step; whence, thanks to a vicious thrust--so declares the chap-book--from "the painted jezebel within," he fell, while the horses plunging forward caused the near hind wheel of the heavy, lumbering vehicle to pass over his legs, almost severing them from his body just above the knee. thereupon--and here the homely language of the gutter poet rose to a level of rude eloquence--the outraged mother, holding the mangled and dying child in her arms, cursed the man who had brought this ruin upon her. cursed him and his descendants, to the sixth and seventh generations, good and bad alike. declaring, moreover, that as judgment on his perfidy and lust, no owner of brockhurst should reach the life limit set by the psalmist, and die quiet and christianly in his bed, until a somewhat portentous event should have taken place--namely, until, as the jingling rhyme set forth:-- "--a fatherless babe to the birth shall have come, of brother or sister shall he have none, but red-gold hair and eyes of blue and a foot that will never know stocking or shoe. if he opens his purse to the lamenter's cry, then the woe shall lift and be laid for aye." julius march, his spare, black figure crouched together, sat on the top step of the library ladder musing. his first movement had been one of refined and contemptuous disgust. sensuality and the tragedies engendered by it were so wholly foreign to his nature and mental outlook, that it was difficult to him to reckon with them seriously and admit the very actual and permanent part which they play and always have played in the great drama of human life. it distressed, it, in a sense, annoyed him that the legend of brockhurst, which had caused him elaborate imaginative terrors during his childhood, should belong to this gross and vulgar order of history. yet indubitably--as he reluctantly admitted--each owner of brockhurst had very certainly found death in the midst of life, and that according to some rather brutal and bloody pattern. this might, of course, be judged the result of merest coincidence. had he leisure and opportunity to search them out, he could find, no doubt, plausible explanation of the majority of cases. only that fact of persistent violence, persistent accident, did remain. it stared him in the face, so to speak, defiant of denial. and the deduction, consequent upon it, stared him in the face likewise. he was constrained to confess that the first clause of the deeply wronged mother's prediction had found ample fulfilment.--julius paused, shifted his position uneasily, somewhat fearful of the conclusions of his own reasoning. for how about the second clause of that same prediction? how about the advent of that strange child of promise, who preordained in his own flesh to bear the last and heaviest stroke at the hands of retributive justice, should, rightly bearing it, bring salvation both to himself and to his race? behind the coarse and illiterate presentiment of the chap-book, julius began dimly to apprehend a somewhat majestic moral and spiritual tragedy, a tragedy of vicarious suffering crowned by triumphant emancipation. thus has god, as he reflected with a self-condemnatory emotion of humility, chosen the base things of the world and those which are despised--yea, and the things which are not, to bring to nought the things which are.--his heart, hungry of all martyrdom, all saintly doings, went forth to welcome the idea. but then, he asked himself almost awed, in this sceptical, rationalistic age, are such semi-miraculous moral examples still possible? and answered, with strong exultation--as one finding practical justification of a long, though silently, cherished conviction--yes, that even now, nineteen centuries after the death of that divine saving victim to whose service he had devoted his life and the joys of his manhood, such nobly sad and strange happenings may still be. and even while he thus answered, his eyes were drawn involuntarily to the portrait of the unsightly dwarf, painted by velasquez. the broad shaft of sunlight had crept backward, away from it, leaving the canvas unobtrusive, no longer harshly evident either in violence of colour or grotesqueness of form. it had become part of the great whole, merely modulated to gracious harmony with the divers objects surrounding it, and like them softly overlaid by a diffused and silvery light. chapter v in which julius march beholds the vision of the new life he was aroused from these austere, yet, to him, inspiring reflections by the click of an opening door and the sound of women's voices. mademoiselle de mirancourt paused on the threshold, one hand raised in quick admiration, the other resting on lady calmady's arm. "but this is superb," she cried gaily. "your charming king richard, _coeur d' or_, has given you a veritable palace to inhabit!" "ah yes! king richard has indeed given me a palace to live in. but, better still, he has given me his dear heart of gold in which to hide the life of my heart forever and a day." katherine's words came triumphantly, more as song than as speech. she caught the elder woman's upraised hand gently and kissed it, looking her, meanwhile, full in the face.--"i am happy, very, very happy, best and dearest," she said. "and it is so delicious to be happy." "ah, my child, my beautiful child," mademoiselle de mirancourt cried. there were tears in her pretty, patient eyes. for if youth finds age pathetic with the obvious pathos of spent body and of tired mind which has ceased to greatly hope, how far more deeply pathetic does age, from out its sad and settled wisdom, find poor gallant youth and all its still unbroken trust in the beneficence of destiny, its unbroken faith in the enchantments of earth! meanwhile, julius march--product as he was of an arbitrary system of thought and training, and by so much divorced from the natural instincts of youth and age alike, the confident joy of the one, the mature acquiescence of the other--in overhearing this brief conversation suffered embarrassment amounting almost to shame. for not only katherine's words, but the vital gladness of her voice, the sweet exuberance of her manner as she bent, in all her spotless bravery of white and rose, above the elder woman's hand and kissed it, came to him as a revelation before which he shrank with a certain fearful modesty. julius had read of love in the poets, of course; but, in actual fact, he had never wooed a woman, nor heard from any woman's lips the language of intimate devotion. the cold embraces of the church--a church, as he too often feared, rendered barren by schism and heresy--were the only embraces he had ever suffered. things read of and things seen, moreover, are singularly different in power. and so he trembled now at the mystery of human love, actual and concrete, here close beside him. he was, indeed, moved to the point of losing his habitual suavity of demeanour. he rose hastily and descended the library steps, forgetful of the handful of chap-books, which fell in tattered and dusty confusion upon the floor. katherine looked round. until now she had been unobservant of his presence, innocent of other audience than the old friend, to whom it was fitting enough to confide dear secrets. for an instant she hesitated, embarrassed too, her pride touched to annoyance, at having laid bare the treasures of her heart thus unwittingly. she was tempted to retreat through the still open door, into the library, and leave the review of the long gallery and its many relics to a more convenient season. but it was not katherine's habit to run away, least of all from the consequences of her own actions. and her sense of justice compelled her to admit that, in this case, the indiscretion--if indiscretion indeed there was--lay with her, in not having seen poor julius; rather than with him, in having overheard her little outburst. so she called to him in friendly greeting, and came swiftly towards him down the length of the great room. and julius stood waiting for her, leaning against the frame of the library ladder; a spare, black figure, notably at variance with the broad glory of sunshine and colour reigning out of doors. his usually quick instinct of courtesy was in abeyance, shaken, as he still was, and confused by the revelation that had just come to him. he looked at lady calmady with a new and agitated understanding. she made so fair a picture that he could only gaze dumbly at it. tall in fact, katherine was rendered taller by the manner--careless of passing fashion--in which her hair was dressed. the warm, brown mass of it, rolled up and back from her forehead, showed all the perfect oval of her face. tender, lovely, smiling, her blue-brown eyes soft and lustrous, with a certain wondering serenity in their depths, there was yet something majestic about katherine calmady. no poor or unworthy line marred the nobility of her face or figure. the dark, arched eyebrows, the well-chiselled and slightly aquiline nose, the firm chin and throat, the shapely hands, all denoted harmony and completeness of development, and promised a reserve of strength, ready to encounter and overcome if danger were to be met. years afterwards, the remembrance of katherine as he just then saw her would return upon julius, as prophetic of much. quailing in spirit, still reluctant, in his asceticism, to comprehend and reckon with her personality in the fulness of its present manifestation, he answered her at random, and with none of the pause and playful evasiveness usual to his speech. "i am very glad we have found you," katherine said frankly. "i was afraid, by the fact of your not coming to breakfast, that you were overtired. we talked late last night. did we weary you too much?" "existence in itself is vexatiously wearisome at times--at least to feeble persons, like myself." katherine's smile faded. she looked at him with charming solicitude. "ah! you are not well," she declared. "go out and enjoy the sunshine. leave all those stupid books. go," she repeated, "order one of the horses. go and meet richard. he has gone over to look at the new lodge. you could ride all the way through the east woods in the cool. see, i will put these tidy." and, as she spoke, katherine stooped to pick up the scattered chap-books from the ground. but, in the last few moments, while looking at her, yet further understanding had overtaken julius march. not only the mystery of human love, but the mystery of dawning motherhood had come close to him. and he put lady calmady aside with a determination of authority somewhat surprising. "no, no, pardon me! they are dusty, they will soil your hands. you must not touch those books," he said. katherine straightened herself up. her face was slightly flushed, her expression full of kindly amusement. "dear julius, you are very imperative. surely i may make my hands dirty, once in a way, in a good cause? they will wash, you know, just as well as your own, after all." "a thousand times better. still, i will ask you not to touch those books. i have valid reasons. for one, an evil beast in the form of a spider has dwelt among them. i disturbed it and it fled, looking as though it had grown old in trespasses and sins. it seemed to me a thing of ill omen." he tried to steady himself, to treat the matter lightly. yet his speech struck katherine as hurried and anxious, out of all proportion to the matter in hand. "poor thing--and you killed it? yet it couldn't help being ugly, i suppose," she answered, not without a touch of malice. julius was on his knees, his long, thin fingers gathering up the tattered pages, ranging them into a bundle, tying them together with the tag of rusty, black ribbon aforesaid. for an unreasoning, fierce desire was upon him--very alien to his usual gentle attitude of mind--to shield this beautiful woman from all acquaintance with the foul story set forth in those little books. to shield her, indeed, from more than merely that.--for a vague presentiment possessed him that she might, in some mysterious way, be intimately involved in the final developments of that same story which, though august, were so full of suffering, so profoundly sad. meanwhile, in his excitement, he replied less to her gently mocking question than to the importunities of his own thought. "no," he said, "i let it go. i begin to fear it is useless to attempt to take short-cuts to the extinction of what is evil. it does not cease, but merely changes its form. unwillingly i have learned that. no violent death is possible to things evil." julius rose to his feet. "they must go on," he continued, "till, in the merciful providence of god, their term is reached, till their power is exhausted, till they have worn themselves out." lady calmady turned and moved thoughtfully towards the far end of the room, where the sunshine still slanted in through the open casements of the bay window, and where the delicate, little spinster lady stood awaiting her. amorous pigeons cooed below on the string-course. bees droned sleepily against the glass. "but," she said, in gentle remonstrance, "that is a rather terrible doctrine, julius. surely it is not quite just; for it would seem to leave us almost hopelessly at the mercy of the wrong-doing of others." "yes, but are we not, just that--all of us at the mercy of the wrong-doing of others?--the courageous forever suffering for the cowardly, the wise for the ignorant and brutish, the just for the unjust? is not this, perhaps, the very deepest lesson of our religion?" "oh no, no!" katherine cried incredulously. "there is something at once deeper and more comforting than that. remember, in the beginning, when god created all things and reviewed his handiwork, he pronounced it very good." julius was recovering his suavity. the little packet of chap-books rested safely in the pocket of his coat. "but that was a long time ago," he said, smiling. they reached the bay window. katherine took her old friend's hand once again and laid it caressingly upon her arm. "pardon me for keeping you waiting, dearest," she said. "julius is in fault. he will argue with me about the date of the creation, and that takes time. he declares it was so long ago that everything has had time to grow very old and go very wrong. but, indeed, he is mistaken. agree with me, tell him he is mistaken! the world is deliciously young yet. it was only made a little over twenty-two years ago. i must know, for i came into it then. and i found it all as new as i was myself, and a thousand times prettier--quite adorably gay, adorably fresh." katherine's voice sank, grew fuller in tone. she gazed out over the brilliant garden to the woodland shimmering in the noontide heat. then she looked at julius march, her eyes and lips eloquent with joyous conviction. "indeed, i think, god makes his whole creation over again for each one of us, it is so beautiful. as in the beginning, so now," she said; "behold it is very good--ah yes! who can doubt that--it is very good!" "amen. to you may it ever so continue," julius murmured, bowing his head. that evening there was a dinner party at brockhurst. lord denier brought his handsome second wife. she was a hellard, and took the judge _faute de mieux_, so said the wicked world, rather late in life. the cathcarts of newlands and their daughter mary came; and roger ormiston too, who, being off duty, had run down from london for a few days' partridge shooting, bringing with him his cousin colonel st. quentin--invalided home, to his own immense chagrin, in the midst of the afghan war. on the terrace, after dinner, for the night was warm enough for the whole company to take coffee out of doors, lady calmady--incited thereunto by her brother--had persuaded mary cathcart to sing, accompanying herself on her guitar. the girl's musical gifts were of no extraordinary order; but her young contralto was true and sweet. the charm of the hour and the place, moreover, was calculated to heighten the effect of the jacobite songs and old-world love ditties which she selected. roger ormiston unquestionably found her performance sufficiently moving. but then the girl's frank manner, her warm, gipsy-like colouring, and the way in which she could sit a horse, moved him also; had done so, indeed, ever since he first saw her, as quite a child, some eight or nine years ago, on one of his earliest visits to brockhurst, fighting a half-broken, welsh pony that refused at a grip by the roadside. the little maiden, her face pale, for once, from concentration of purpose, had forced the pony over the grip. then, slipping out of the saddle, she coaxed and kissed the rough, unruly, little beast, with tears of apology for the hard usage to which she had been obliged to subject it. so stout, yet so tender, a heart, struck roger as an excellent thing in woman. and now, listening to the full, rounded notes and thrumming of the guitar strings, in the evening quiet under the stars, he wished, remorsefully, that he had never been guilty of any pleasant sins, that his record was cleaner, his tastes less expensive; that he was a better fellow all round, in short, than he was, because, then, perhaps---- and julius march, too, found the singing somewhat agitating, though to him the personality of the singer was of small account. another personality, and a train of feeling evoked by certain new aspects of it, had pursued him all the day long. katherine, mindful of her somewhat outspoken divergence of opinion from his, in the morning, had been particularly thoughtful of his pleasure and entertainment. at dinner she directed the conversation upon subjects interesting to him, and had thereby made him talk more unreservedly than was his wont. not even the most saintly of human beings is wholly indifferent to social success. julius was conscious of a stirring of the blood, of a subdued excitement. these sensations were pleasurable. but his training had taught him to distrust pleasurable sensations as too often the offspring of very questionable parentage. and, while mary cathcart's voice still breathed upon the fragrant night air, he, standing on the outskirts of the listening company, slipped away unperceived. his study, a long narrow room occupying, with his bedroom, the ground floor of the chapel wing of the house, struck chill as he entered it. above the range of pigeon-holes and little drawers, forming the back of the writing-table, two candles burned on either side of a bronze _pietà_, which julius had brought back with him from rome. on the broad slab of the table below were the many quires of foolscap forming the library catalogue, neatly numbered and lettered; while his diary lay open upon the blotting-pad, ready for the chronicle of the past day. beside it was the packet of chap-books, still tied together with their tag of rusty ribbon. it was julius march's habit to exchange his coat for a cassock in the privacy of his study. he did so now, and knotted a black cord about his waist. let no one underrate the sustaining power of costume, whether it take the form of ballet-skirt or monk's frock. human nature is but a weak thing at best, and needs outward and visible signs, not only to support its faith in its deity, but even its faith in its own poor self! of persons of sensitive temperament and limited experience, such as julius, this is particularly true. putting off his secular garment, as a rule, he could put off secular thoughts as well. beneath the severe and scanty folds of the cassock there was small space for remembrance of the pomp and glory of this perishing world. at least he hoped so. to-night, importuned as he had been by scenes and emotions quite other than ecclesiastical, julius literally sought refuge in his cassock. it represented "port after stormy seas"--home, after travel in lands altogether foreign. he took st. augustine's _de civitate dei_ from its place in the book shelves lining one side of the room. there should be peace in the soul, surely, emancipation from questioning of transitory things in reading of the city of god? but, alas, his attention strayed. that sense of subdued excitement was upon him yet. he thought of the conversation at dinner, of brilliant speeches he might have made, of the encouragement of katherine's smiling eyes and sympathetic speech, of the scene in the gallery that morning, of mary cathcart's old-time love ditties. the city of god was far off. all these were things very near at hand. notwithstanding the scanty folds of the cassock, they importuned him still. pained at his own lack of poise and seriousness, julius returned the volume of st. augustine to its place, and, sitting down at the writing-table prepared to chronicle the day's events. perhaps by putting a statement of them on paper he could rid himself of their all too potent influence. but his thought was tumultuous, words refused to come in proper order and sequence; and julius abhorred that erasures should mar the symmetry of his pages. impatiently he pushed the diary from him. clearly it, like the city of god, was destined to wait. the guests had departed. he had heard the distant calling of voices in friendly farewell, the rumble of departing wheels. the night was very soft and mild. he would go out and walk the gray flags of the terrace, till this unworthy restlessness gave place to reason and calm. passing along the narrow passage, he opened the door on to the garden-hall. and there paused. the hall itself, and the inner side of the carven arches of the arcade were in dense shadow. beyond stretched the terrace bathed in moonlight, which glittered on the polished leaves of the little orange trees, on the leaded panes of the many windows, and strangely transmuted the colours of the range of pot-flowers massed beneath them along the base of the house. it was a fairy world upon which julius looked forth. nor did it need suitable inhabitants. pacing slowly down the centre of the terrace came richard and katherine calmady, hand in hand. tall, graceful, strong in the perfection of their youth and their great devotion, amid that ethereal brightness, they seemed as two heroic figures--immortal, fairy lovers moving through the lovely wonder of that fairy-land. as they drew near, katherine stopped, leant--with a superb abandon--back against her husband, resting her hand on his shoulder, drew his arm around her waist for support, drew his face down to her upturned face until their lips met, while the moonlight played upon the jewels on her bare arms and neck and gleamed softly on the surface of her white, satin dress. to true lovers the longest kiss is all too sadly short--a thing brief almost in proportion to its sweetness. but to julius march, watching from the blackness of the doorway, it seemed a whole eternity before richard calmady raised his head. then julius turned and fled down the passage and back into the chill study, where the candles burned on either side the image of the virgin mother cradling the dead christ upon her knee. gentle persons, breaking from the lines of self-restraint, run to a curious violence in emotion. all day long, shrink from it, ignore it, as he might, a moral storm had been brewing. now it broke. not from those two lovers did julius turn thus in amazement and terror; but from just that from which it is impossible for any one to turn in actual fact--namely from himself. he was appalled by the narrowness of his own past outlook; appalled by the splendour of that heritage which, by his own act, he had forfeited. the cassock ceased, indeed, to be a refuge, the welcome livery of home and rest. it had become a prison-suit, a badge of slavery, against which his whole being rebelled. for the moment--happily violence is short-lived, only for a very little while do even the gentlest persons "see red"--asceticism appeared to him as a blasphemy against the order of nature and of nature's god. his vow of perpetual chastity, made with so passionate an enthusiasm, for the moment appeared to him an act of absolutely monstrous vanity and self-conceit. in his stupid ignorance he had tried to be wiser than his maker, preferring the ordinances of man, to the glad and merciful purposes of god. in so doing had he not, only too possibly, committed the unpardonable sin, the sin against the holy ghost? poor julius, his thought had indeed run almost humorously mad! yet it was characteristic of the man that the breaking of his self-imposed bonds never occurred to him. made in ignorance, unwitnessed though his vow might be, it remained inviolable. he never, even in this most heated hour of his trial, doubted that. stretching out his arms, he clenched his hands in anguish of spirit. the sacerdotal pride, the subjective joys of self-consecration, the mental luxury of feeling himself different from others, singled out, set apart,--all the pharisee, in short, in julius march,--was sick to death. he had supposed he was living to god--and now it appeared to him he had lived only to himself. he had trusted god too little, had come near reckoning the great natural laws--which, after all, must be of god's ordering--common and unclean. katherine was right. the eternal purpose is joy, not sorrow; youth and health, not age and decay; thankful acceptance, not fastidious rejection and fear. katherine--yes, katherine--and there the young man's wild tirade stopped---- he flung himself down in front of the writing-table, leaning his elbows on it, pressing his face upon his folded arms. for in good truth, what did it all amount to? not outraged laws of nature, not sins against the holy ghost; but just simply this, that the common fate had overtaken him. he loved a woman, and in so loving had, at last, found himself. the most vital experiences are beyond language. when julius looked up, his eyes rested upon the bronze _pietà_, age-old witness to the sanctity of motherhood and of suffering alike. his face was wet with tears. he was faint and weak; yet a certain calm had come to him. he no longer quarreled--though his attitude towards them was greatly changed--either with his priestly calling or his rashly made vow. not as sources of pride did he now regard them; but as searching discipline to be borne humbly and faithfully, to the honour--as he prayed--both of earthly and heavenly love. he loved katherine, but he loved her husband and that with the fulness of a loyal and equal friendship. and so no taint was upon his love, of this he felt certain. indeed, he asked nothing better than that things might continue as they were at brockhurst; and that he might continue to warm his hands a little--only a little--in the dear sunshine of richard and katherine calmady's perfect love. as julius rose his knees gave under him. he rested both hands heavily on the table, looked down, saw the unsightly packet of dirty chap-books. again, and almost with a cry, he prayed that things might continue as they were at brockhurst. "give peace in my time, oh lord!" he said. then he wrapped up the little bundle carefully, sealed and labelled it, and locked it away in one of the table-drawers. thus, kneeling before the image of the stricken mother and the dead christ, did julius march behold the vision of the new life. but the page of his diary, on which surely a matter of so great importance should have been duly chronicled, remains to this day a blank. chapter vi accident or destiny, according to your humour on the th of october that year, st. luke's day, a man died, and this was the manner of his passing. there was nothing more to be done. dr. knott had gone out of the red drawing-room on the ground floor into the tapestry-hung dining-room next door, which struck cold as the small hours drew on towards the dawn. and julius march, after reciting the prayer in which the anglican church commends the souls of her departing children to the merciful keeping of the god who gave them, had followed him. the doctor was acutely distressed. he hated to lose a patient. he also hated to feel emotion. it made him angry. moreover, he was intolerant of the presence of the clergy and of their ministrations in sick rooms. he greeted poor julius rather snarlingly. "so your work's through as well as mine," he said. "no disrespect to your cloth, mr. march, but i'm not altogether sorry. i dare say i'm a bit of a heathen; but i can't help fancying the dying know more of death and the way to meet it, than any of us can teach them." a group of men-servants stood about the open door, at the further end of the room, with iles, the steward, and mr. tom chifney, the trainer from the racing stables. the latter advanced a little and, clearing his throat, inquired huskily-- "no hope at all, doctor?" "hope?" he returned impatiently.--the lamp on the great bare dining-table burned low, and john knott's wide mouth, conical skull and thick, ungainly person looked ogreish, almost brutal in the uncertain light.--"there never was a grain of hope from the first, except in sir richard's fine constitution. he is as sound as only a clean-living man of thirty can be.--i wish there were a few more like him, though your beastly diseases do put money into my pocket.--that offered us a bare chance, and we were bound to act on that chance"--his loose lips worked into a bitterly humorous smile--"and torture him. well, i've seen a good many men under the knife before now, and i tell you i never saw one who bore himself better. men and horses alike, it's breeding that tells when it comes to the push. you know that, eh, chifney?" in the red drawing-room, where the drama of this sad night centred, roger ormiston had dropped into a chair by the fireside, his head sunk on his chest and his hands thrust into his pockets. he was very tired, very miserable. a shocking thing had happened, and, in some degree, he held himself responsible for that happening. for was it not he who had been so besotted with the clown, and keen about its training? therefore the young man cursed himself, after the manner of his kind; and cursed his luck, in that, if this thing was to happen, it had not happened to him instead of to richard calmady. mrs. denny, the housekeeper, had retired to a straight-backed chair stationed against the wall. she sat there, waiting till the next call should come for her skilful nursing, upright, her hands folded upon her silk apron, her attitude a model of discreet and self-respecting repose. mrs. denny knew her place, and had a considerable capacity for letting other persons know theirs. she ruled the large household with unruffled calm. but, to-night, even her powers of self-control were heavily taxed; and though she carried her head high, she could not help tears coursing slowly down her cheeks, and falling sadly to the detriment of the goffered frills of her white, lawn cross-over. and richard calmady, meanwhile, lay still and very fairly peaceful upon the narrow camp-bed in the middle of the room. he had lain there, save during one hour,--the memory of which haunted katherine with hideous and sickening persistence,--ever since tom chifney, the head-lad from the stables, and a couple of grooms had carried him in, on a hurdle, from the steeple-chase course four days ago. the crimson-covered chairs and sofas, and other furniture of the large square room, had been pushed back against the walls in a sort of orderly confusion, leaving a broad passageway between the doors at either end, and a wide vacant space round the bed. at the head of this stood a high, double-shelved what-not, bearing medicine bottles, cups, basins, rolled bandages, dressings of rag and lint, a spirit-lamp over which simmered a vessel containing vinegar, and a couple of shaded candles in a tall, branched, silver candlestick. the light from these fell, in intersecting circles, upon the white bed, upon the man's brown, close curled hair, upon his handsome face--drawn and sharpened by suffering--and its rather ghastly three days' growth of beard. it fell, too, upon katherine, as she sat facing her husband, the side of her large easy-chair drawn up parallel to the side of the bed. silently, unlooked for, as a thief in the night, the end of katherine's fair world had come. there had been no time for forethought or preparation. at one step she had been called upon to pass from the triumph to the terror of mortal life. but she was a valiant creature; and her natural courage was reinforced by the greatness of her love. she met the blow standing, her brain clear, her mind strong to help. only once had she faltered--during the hideous hour when she waited, pacing the dining-room in the dusk, four evenings back. for, after consultation with dr. jewsbury and mr. thoms of westchurch, john knott had told her--with a gentleness and delicacy a little surprising in so hard-bitten a man--that, owing to the shattered condition of the bone, amputation of the right leg was imperative. he added that, only too probably, the left would have eventually to go too. they must operate, he said, and operate immediately. katherine had pleaded to be present; but dr. knott was obdurate. "my dear lady, you don't know what you ask," he said. "as you love him, let him be. if you are there it will just double the strain. he'd suffer for you as well as himself. believe me he will be far best alone." it must be remembered that in anæsthetics had not robbed the operating-room of half its horrors. the victim went to execution wide-awake, with no mercy of deadened senses and dulled brain. and so katherine had paced the dining-room, hearing at intervals, through the closed doors, the short peremptory tones of the surgeons, fearing she heard more and worse sounds than those. they were hurting him, sorely, sorely, dismembering and disfiguring the dear, living body which she loved. a tempest of unutterable woe swept over her. breaking fiercely away from her brother and denny--who strove to comfort her--she beat her poor, lovely head against the wall. but that, so far, had been her one moment of weakness. since then she had fought steadily, with a certain lofty cheerfulness, for the life she so desired to save. the horror of the second operation had been spared her; but only because it might but too probably hasten, rather than retard, the approaching footsteps of death. mortification had set in, in the bruised and mangled limb forty-eight hours ago. and now the scent of death was in the air. the awful presence drew very near. yet only when doctor and priest alike rose and went, when her brother moved away, and even the faithful housekeeper stepped back from the bedside, did katherine's mind really grasp the truth. her well-beloved lay dying; and human tenderness, human skill, be they never so great, ceased to avail. she was worn by the long vigil. her face was colourless. yet perhaps katherine's beauty had never been more rare and sweet than as she sat there, leaning a little forward in the eagerness of her watchfulness. the dark circles about her eyes made them look very large and sombre. the corners of her mouth turned down and her under-lip quivered now and then, giving her expression a childlike piteousness of appeal. there was no trace of disorder in her appearance. her white dressing-gown and all its pretty ribbons and laces were spotlessly fresh. her hair was carefully dressed as usual--high at the back, showing the nape of her neck, her little ears, and the noble poise of her head. katherine was not one of those women who appear to imagine that slovenliness is the proper exponent of sorrow. still, for all her high courage, as the truth came home to her, her spirit began to falter for the second time. it is comparatively easy to endure while there is something to be done; but it is almost intolerable, specially to the young when life is strong in them, merely to sit by and wait. katherine's overwrought nerves began to play cruel tricks upon her, carrying her back in imagination to that other hideous hour of waiting, in the dining-room, four evenings ago. again she seemed to hear the short peremptory tones of the surgeons, and those worse things--the stifled groan of one in the extremity of physical anguish, and the grate of a saw. these maddened her with pity, almost with rage. she feared that now, as then, she might lose her self-mastery and do some wild and desperate thing. she tried to keep her attention fixed on the quick irregular rise and fall of the linen sheet expressing the broad, full curve of the young man's chest, as he lay flat on his back, his eyes closed, but whether in sleep or in unconsciousness she did not know. as long as the sheet rose and fell he was alive at all events, still with her. but she was too exhausted for any sustained effort of will; and her glance wandered back to, and followed with agonised comprehension, the formless, motionless elevation and depression of that same sheet towards the foot of the bed. the air of the room seemed to grow more oppressive, the silence to deepen, and with it the terrible tension of her mind increased. suddenly she started to her feet. the logs burning in the grate had fallen together with a crash, sending a rush of ruddy flame and an innumerable army of hurrying sparks up the wide chimney. all the mouldings of the ceiling--all the crossing bars and sinuous lines of the richly-worked pattern, all the depending bosses and roses of it, all the foliations of the deep cornice--sprang into bold relief, outlined, splashed, and stained with living scarlet. and this universal redness of carpet, curtains, furniture, and now of ceiling, even of white-draped bed, suggested to katherine's distracted fancy another thing--unseen, yet known during her other hour of waiting--namely blood. roused by the crash of the falling logs and the rustle of katherine's garments as she sprang up, richard calmady opened his eyes. for a few seconds his glance wavered in vague distress and perplexity. then as fuller consciousness returned of how it all was with him, with a slight lifting of the eyebrows his glance steadied upon katherine and he smiled. "ah! my poor kitty," he whispered, "it takes a long time, doesn't it, this business of dying?" katherine's evil fancies vanished. as soon as the demand for action came she grew calm and sane. the ceiling and sheets were white again and her mind was clear. "are you easy, my dearest?" she asked; "in less pain?" "no," he said, "no, i'm not in pain. but everything seems to sink away from me, and i float right out. it's all dream and mist--except--except just now your face." katherine's lips quivered too much for speech. she moved swiftly across to the what-not at the head of the bed. if he did not suffer, there could be no selfishness, surely, in trying to keep death at bay for a little space yet? but, alas, with what grotesquely paltry and inadequate weapons are all--even the most gallant--reduced to fighting death at the last! here, on the one hand, a half wine-glass of champagne in a china feeding-cup, with a teapot-like spout to it, or a few spoonfuls of jelly, backed by the passion of a woman's heart. and, on the other hand, ranged against this pitiful display of absurdly limited resources,--as the hosts of the philistines against the little army of israel,--resistless laws of nature, incalculably far-reaching forces, physical and spiritual, the interminable progression of cause and effect. denny joined lady calmady at the table. the two women held brief consultation. then the housekeeper went round to the farther side of the bed, and slipping her arm under the pillows gently raised richard's head and shoulders, while katherine kneeling beside him held the spout of the feeding-cup to his lips. "must i? i don't think i can manage it," he said, drawing away slightly and closing his eyes. but katherine persisted. "oh! try to drink it," she pleaded, "never mind how little--only try. help me to keep you here just as long as i can." the young man's glance steadied on to her once again, and his eyes and lips smiled the same faint, wholly gracious smile. "all right, my beloved," he said. "a little higher, denny, please." not without painful effort and a choking contraction of the throat, he swallowed a few drops. but the greater part of the draught spilt out sideways, and would have dribbled down on to the pillows had not katherine held her handkerchief to his mouth. ormiston, who had been standing at the foot of the bed in the hope of rendering some assistance, ground his teeth together with a half-audible imprecation, and went slowly over to the fireplace again. he had supposed himself as miserable as he well could be before. but this incident of the feeding-cup was the climax, somehow. it struck him as an intolerable humiliation and outrage that richard calmady, splendid fellow as he was, gifted, high-bred gentleman, should, of all men, come to this sorry pass! he was filled with impotent fury. and was it this pass, indeed, he asked himself, to which every human creature must needs come one day? would he, roger ormiston, one day, find himself thus weak and broken; his body--now so lively a source of various enjoyment--degraded into a pest-house, a mere dwelling-place of suffering and corruption? the young man gripped the high, narrow mantel-shelf with both hands and pressed his forehead down between them. he really had not the nerve to watch what was going forward over there any longer. it was too painful. it knocked all the manhood out of him. but for very shame, before those two calm, devoted women, he would have broken down and wept. presently richard's voice reached him, feeble yet uncomplaining. "i am so sorry, but you see it's no use, kitty. the machinery won't work. let me lie flat again, denny, please. that's better, thanks." then after a few moments of laboured breathing, he added-- "you mustn't trouble any more, it only disappoints you. we have just got to submit to fact, my beloved, i've taken my last fence." ormiston's shoulders heaved convulsively as he leaned his forehead against the cold, marble edge of the chimneypiece. his brother-in-law's words brought the whole dreadful picture up before him. oh! that cursed slip and fall, that struggling, plunging, frenzied horse! and how the horse had plunged and struggled, good god! it seemed as though chifney, the grooms, all of them, would never get hold of it or draw richard out from beneath the pounding hoofs. and then ormiston went over his own share in the business again, lamenting, blaming himself. yet what more natural, after all, than that he should have set his affections on the clown? chifney believed in the horse too--a five-year-old brother of touchstone, resembling, in his black-brown skin and intelligent, white-reach face, that celebrated horse; and inheriting--less enviable distinction--the high shoulders and withers of his sire camel. if the clown did not make a name, captain ormiston had sworn, by all the gods of sport, he would never judge a horse again. and, heaven help us, was this the ghastly way the clown's name was to be made then? the room grew very quiet again, save for a strange gurgling, rattling sound richard calmady made, at times, in breathing. mrs. denny had retired beyond the circle of firelight. and katherine, having drawn her chair a little further forward, so that the foot of the bed might be out of sight, sat holding her husband's hand, softly caressing his wrist and palm with her finger-tips. soon the slow movement of her fingers ceased, while she felt, in quick fear, for the fluttering, intermittent pulse. richard's breathing had become more difficult. he moved his head restlessly and plucked at the sheet with his right hand. it was a little more than flesh and blood could bear. katherine called to him softly under her breath,--"richard, dick, my darling." "all right, i'm coming." he opened his eyes wide, as in sudden terror. "oh! i say though, what's happened? where am i?" katherine leant down, kissed his hand, caressed it. "here, my dearest," she said, "at home, at brockhurst, with me." "ah yes!" he said, "of course, i remember, i'm dying." he waited a little space, and then, turning his head on the pillow so as to have a better view of her, spoke again:--"i was floating right out--the under-tow had got me--it was sucking me down into the deep sea of mist and dreams. i was so nearly gone--and you brought me back." "but i wanted you so--i wanted you so," katherine cried, smitten with sudden contrition. "i could not help it. do you mind?" "you silly sweet, could i ever mind coming back to you?" he asked wistfully. "don't you suppose i would much rather stay here at brockhurst, at home, with you--than sink away into the unknown?" "ah! my dear," she said, swaying herself to and fro in the misery of tearless grief. "and yet i have no call to complain," he went on. "i have had thirty years of life and health. it is not a small thing to have seen the sun, and to have rejoiced in one's youth. and i have had you"--his face hardened and his breath came short--"you, most enchanting of women." "my dear, my dear!" katherine cried, again bowing her head. "god has been so good to me here that--i hope it is not presumptuous--i can't be much afraid of what is to follow. the best argument for what will be, is what has been. don't you think so?" "but you go and i stay," she said. "if i could only go too, go with you." richard calmady raised himself in the bed, looked hard at her, spoke as a man in the fulness of his strength. "do you mean that? would you come with me if you could--come through the deep sea of mist and dreams, to whatever lies beyond?" for all answer katherine bent lower, her face suddenly radiant, notwithstanding its pallor. sorrow was still so new a companion to her that she would dare the most desperate adventures to rid herself of its hateful presence. her reason and moral sense were in abeyance, only her poor heart spoke. she laid hold of her husband's hands and clasped them about her throat. "let us go together, take me," she prayed. "i love you, i will not be left. closer, dick, closer." "thank god! i am strong enough even yet," he said fiercely, while his jaw set, and his grasp tightened somewhat dangerously upon her throat. katherine looked into his eyes and laughed. the blood was tingling through her veins. "ah! dear love," she panted, "if you knew how delicious it is to be a little hurt!" but her ecstasy was short-lived, as ecstasy usually is. richard calmady unclasped his hands and dropped back against the pillows, putting her away from him with a certain authority. "my beloved one, do not tempt me," he said, "we must remember the child. the devil of jealousy is very great, even when one lies, as i do now, more than half dead." he turned his head away, and his voice shook. "ten years hence, twenty years hence, you will be as beautiful--more so, very likely--than ever. other men will see you, and i----" "you will be just what you were and always have been to me," katherine interrupted. "i love you, and shall love." she answered bravely, taking his hand again and caressing it, while he looked round and smiled at her. but she grew curiously cold. she shivered, and had a difficulty in controling her speech. her new companion, sorrow, refused to be tricked and to leave her, and the breath of sorrow is as sharp as a wind blowing over ice. "you have made me perfectly content," richard calmady said presently. "there is nothing i would have changed. no hour of day--or night--ah, my god! my god!--which i could ask to have otherwise." he paused, fighting a sob which rose in his throat. "still you are quite young----" "so much the worse for me," katherine said. "oh! i don't know about that," he put in quietly. "anyhow, remember that you are free, absolutely and unconditionally free. i hold a man a cur who, in dying, tries to bind the woman he loves." katherine shivered. despair had possession of her. "why reason about it?" she asked. "don't you see that to be bound is the only comfort i shall have left?" "my poor darling," richard calmady almost groaned. his own helplessness to help her cut him to the quick. wealth, and an inherent graciousness of disposition, had always made it so simple to be of service and of comfort to those about him. it was so natural to rule, to decide, to alleviate, to give little trouble to others and take a good deal of trouble on their behalf, that his present and final incapacity in any measure to shield even katherine, the woman he worshipped, amazed him. not pain, not bodily disfigurement,--though he recoiled, as every sane being must, from these,--not death itself, tried his spirit so bitterly as his own uselessness. all the pleasant, kindly activities of common intercourse were over. he was removed alike from good deeds and from bad. he had ceased to have part or lot in the affairs of living men. the desolation of impotence was upon him. for a little time he lay very still, looking up at the firelight playing upon the mouldings of the ceiling, trying to reconcile himself to this. his mind was clear, yet, except when actually speaking, he found it difficult to keep his attention fixed. images, sensations began to chase each other across his mental field of vision; and his thought, though definite as to detail, grew increasingly broken and incoherent, small matters in unseemly fashion jostling great. he wondered concerning those first steps of the disembodied spirit, when it has crossed the threshold of death; and then, incontinently, he passed to certain time-honoured jokes and impertinent follies at eton, over which he, and roger and major st. quentin had laughed a hundred times. they amused him greatly even yet. but he could not linger with them. he was troubled about the attics of the new lodge, now in building at the entrance to the east woods. the windows were too small, and he disliked that blind north gable. there were letters to be answered too. lord fallowfeild wanted to know about something--he could not remember what--fallowfeild's inquiries had a habit of being vague. and through all these things--serious or trivial--a terrible yearning over katherine and her baby--the new, little, human life which was his own life, and which yet he would never know or see. and through all these things also, the perpetual, heavy ache of those severed nerves and muscles, flitting pains in the limb of which, though it was gone, he had not ceased to be aware.--he dozed off, and mortal weakness closed down on him, floating him out and out into vague spaces. and then suddenly, once more, he felt a horse under him and gripped it with his knees. he was riding, riding, whole and vigorous, with the summer wind in his face, across vast, flowering pastures towards a great light on the far horizon, which streamed forth, as he knew, from the throne of almighty god. choking, with the harsh rattle in his throat, he awoke to the actual and immediate--to the familiar square room and its crimson furnishings, to katherine's sweet, pale face and the touch of her caressing fingers, to some one standing beside her, whom he did not immediately recognise. it was roger--roger worn with watching, grown curiously older. but a certain exhilaration, born of that strange ride, remained by richard calmady. both ache of body and distress of mind had abated. he felt a lightness of spirit; an eagerness, as of one setting forth on a promised journey, who--not unlovingly, yet with something of haste--makes his dispositions before he starts. "look here, darling," he said, "you'll let the stables go on just as usual. chifney will take over the whole management of them. you can trust him implicitly. and--that is you, roger, isn't it?--you'll keep an eye on things, won't you, so that kitty shall have no bother? i should like to know nothing was changed at the stables. they've been a great hobby of mine, and if--if the baby is a boy, he may take after me and care for them. make him ride straight, roger. and teach him to care for sport for its own sake, dear old man, as a gentleman should, not for the money that may come out of it." he waited, struggling for breath, then his hand closed on katherine's. "i must go," he said. "you'll call the boy after me, kitty, won't you? i want there to be another richard calmady. my life has been very happy, so, please god, the name will bring luck." a spasm took him, and he tried convulsively to push off the sheet. katherine was down on her knees, her right arm under his head, while with her left hand she stripped the bedclothes away from his chest and bared his throat. "denny, denny!" she cried, "come--tell me--is this death?" and ormiston, impelled by an impulse he could hardly have explained, crossed the room, dragged back the heavy curtains, and flung one of the casements wide open. the soft light of autumn dawn flowed in through the great mullioned window, quenching the redness of fire and candles, spreading, dim and ghostly, over the white dress and bowed head of the woman, over the narrow bed and the form of the maimed and dying man. the freshness of the morning air, laden with the soothing murmur of the fir forest swaying in the breath of a mild westerly breeze, laden too with the moist fragrance of the moorland, of dewy grass, of withered bracken and fallen leaves, flowed in also, cleansing the tainted atmosphere of the room. while, from the springy turf of the green ride--which runs eastward, parallel to the lime avenue--came the thud and suck of hoofs and the voices of the stable boys, as they rode the long string of dancing, snorting race-horses out to the training ground for their morning exercise. richard calmady opened his eyes wide. "ah, it's daylight!" he cried, in accents of joyfulness. "i am glad. kiss me, my beloved, kiss me.--you dear--yes, once more. i have had such a queer night. i dreamt i had been fearfully knocked about somehow, and was crippled, and in pain. it is good to wake, and find you, and know i'm all right after all. god keep you, my dearest, you and the boy. i am longing to see him--but not just now--let denny bring him later. and tell them to send chifney word i shall not be out to see the gallops this morning. i really believe those dreams half frightened me. i feel so absurdly used up. and then--kitty, where are you?--put your arms round me and i'll go to sleep again." he smiled at her quite naturally and stroked her cheek. "my sweet, your face is all wet and cold!" he said. "make richard a good boy. after all that is what matters most--julius will help you---- ah! look at the sunrise--why--why----" an extraordinary change passed over him. to katherine it seemed like the upward leap of a livid flame. then his head fell back and his jaw dropped. chapter vii mrs. william ormiston sacrifices a wine-glass to fate mrs. st. quentin's health became increasingly fragile that autumn; and the weight of the sorrow which had fallen upon brockhurst bowed her to the earth. her desire was to go to lady calmady, wrap her about with tenderness and strengthen her in patience. but, though the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. daily she assured mademoiselle de mirancourt that she was better, that she would be able to start for england in the course of the next week. yet day after day, week after week passed by, and still the two ladies lingered in the pretty apartment of the rue de rennes. day by day, and week by week, moreover, the elder lady grew more feeble, left her bed later in the morning, sought it earlier at night, finally resigned the attempt to leave it at all. the keepers of lucia st. quentin's house of life trembled, desire--even of gentle ministries--began to fail, the sound of the grinding was low. yet neither she, nor her lifelong friend, nor her doctor, nor the few intimate acquaintances who were still privileged to visit her, admitted that she would never go forth on that journey to england at all; but only on that quite other journey,--upon which richard calmady had already set forth in the fulness of his manhood,--and upon which, the manifold uncertainties of human existence notwithstanding, we are, each one of us, so perfectly certain to set forth at last. silently they agreed with her to treat her increasing weakness with delicate stoicism, to speak of it--if at all--merely as a passing indisposition, so allowing no dreary, lamentable element to obtrude itself. sad mrs. st. quentin might be, bitterly sad at heart, perplexed by the rather incomprehensible dealings of god with man. yet, to the end, she would remain charming, gently gay even, both out of consideration for others and a fine self-respect, since she held it the mark of a cowardly and ignoble nature to let anything squalid appear in her attitude towards grief, old age, or death. but brockhurst she would never see again. the way was too great for her. and so it came about that when lady calmady's child was born, towards the end of the following march, no more staid and responsible woman creature of her family was at hand to support her than that lively, young lady, her brother, william ormiston's wife. meanwhile, the parish of sandyfield rejoiced. thomas caryll, the rector, had caused the church bells to be rung immediately on receipt of the good news; while he selected, as text for his sunday morning sermon, those words, usually reserved to another and somewhat greater advent--"for unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given." good mr. caryll was innocent of the remotest intention of profanity. but his outlook was circumscribed, his desire to please abnormally large, and his sense of relative values slight. while that lady calmady should give birth to a son and heir was, after all, a matter of no small moment--locally considered at all events. brockhurst house rejoiced also, yet it did so not without a measure of trembling. for there had been twenty-four hours of acute anxiety regarding katherine calmady. and even now, on the evening of the second day, although dr. knott declared himself satisfied both as to her condition and that of the baby, an air of mystery surrounded the large state-bedroom,--where she lay, white and languid, slowly feeling her way back to the ordinary conditions of existence,--and the nursery next door. mrs. denny, who had taken possession by right divine of long and devoted service, not only did not encourage, but positively repulsed visitors. her ladyship must not be disturbed. she, the nurse, the baby, in turn, were sleeping. according to denny the god of sleep reigned supreme in those stately, white-paneled chambers, looking away, across the valley and the long lines of the elm avenue, to the faint blue of the chalk downs rising against the southern sky. john knott had driven over, for the second time that day, in the windy march sunset. he fell in very readily with mrs. ormiston's suggestion that he should remain to dinner. that young lady's spirits were sensibly on the rise. it is true that she had wept copiously at intervals while her sister-in-law's life appeared to be in danger--keeping at the same time as far from the sick room as the ample limits of brockhurst house allowed, and wishing herself a thousand and one times safe back in paris, where her devoted and obedient husband occupied a subordinate post at the english embassy. but mrs. ormiston's tears were as easily staunched as set flowing. and now, in her capacity of hostess, with three gentlemen--or rather "two and a half, for you can't," as she remarked, "count a brother-in-law for a whole one"--as audience, she felt remarkably cheerful. she had been over to newlands during the afternoon, and insisted on mary cathcart returning with her--mrs. ormiston was a desmolyns. the cathcarts are distantly connected with that family. and, when the girl had protested that this was hardly a suitable moment for a visit to brockhurst, charlotte ormiston had replied, with that hint of a brogue which gave her ready speech its almost rollicking character:-- "but, my dear child, propriety demands it. i depart myself to-morrow. and now that we're recovering our tone i daren't be left with such a houseful of men on my hands any longer. while we were tearing our hair over poor kitty's possible demise, and agonising as to the uncertain sex of the baby, it did not matter. but now even that dear creature, saint julius, is beginning to pick up, and looks less as if his diet was mouldy peas and his favourite plaything a cat-o'-nine-tails. scourge?--yes, of course, but it's all the same in the application of the instrument, you know. and then in your secret soul, mary dear," she added, not unkindly, "there's no denying it's far from obnoxious to you to spend a trifle of time in the society of roger." mrs. ormiston carried her point. it may be stated, in passing, that this sprightly, young matron was brilliantly pretty, though her facial angle might be deemed too acute, leaving somewhat to be desired in the matter of forehead and of chin. she was plump, graceful, and neat waisted. her skin was exquisitely white and fine, and a charming colour flushed her cheeks under excitement. her hair was always untidy, her hairpins displaying abnormal activity in respect of escape and independent action. her eyes were round and very prominent, suggestive of highly-polished, brown agates. she was not the least shy or averse to attracting attention. she laughed much, and practised, as prelude to her laughter, an impudently, coquettish, little stare. and finally, as he sat on her right at dinner, her rattling talk and lightness of calibre generally struck john knott as rather cynically inadequate to the demands made by her present position. not that he underrated her good nature or was insensible to her personal attractions. but the doctor was in search of an able coadjutor just then, blessed with a steady brain and a tongue skilled in tender diplomacies. for there were trying things to be said and done, and he needed a woman of a fine spirit to do and say them aright. "head like an eft," he said to himself, as course followed course, and, while bandying compliments with her, he watched and listened. "as soon set a harlequin to lead a forlorn hope. well it's to be trusted her husband's some use for her--that's more than i have anyhow, so the sooner we see her off the premises the better. suppose i shall have to fall back on ormiston. bit of a rake, i expect, though in looks he is so curiously like that beautiful, innocent, young thing upstairs. wonder how he'll take it? no mistake, it's a facer!" dr. knott settled himself back squarely in his chair and pushed his cheese-plate away from him, while his shaggy eyebrows drew together as he fixed his eyes on the young man at the head of the table. "a facer!" he repeated to himself. "yes, the ancients knew what they were about in these awkward matters. the modern conscience is disastrously anæmic." although it looks on to the terrace, the dining-room at brockhurst is among the least cheerful of the living rooms. the tapestry with which it is hung--representing french hunting scenes, each panel set in a broad border pattern of birds, fruits and leaves, interspersed with classic urns and medallions--is worked in neutral tints of brown, blue, and gray. the chimneypiece, reaching the whole height of the wall, is of liver-coloured marble. at the period in question, it was still the fashion to dine at the modestly early hour of six; and, the spring evenings being long, the curtains had been left undrawn, so that the dying daylight without and the lamplight within contended rather mournfully for mastery, while a wild, southeasterly wind, breaking in gusts against the house front, sobbed at the casements and made a loose pane, here and there, click and rattle. and it was in the midst of a notably heavy gust, when dessert had been served and the servants had left the room, that captain ormiston leaned across the table and addressed his sister-in-law. the young soldier had been somewhat gloomy and silent during dinner. he was vaguely anxious about lady calmady. the news of mrs. st. quentin was critical, and he cherished a very true affection for his great-aunt. had she not been his confidant ever since his first term at eton? had she not, moreover, helped him on several occasions when creditors displayed an incomprehensibly foolish pertinacity regarding payment for goods supplied? he was burdened, too, by a prospective sense of his own uncommon righteousness. for, during the past five months, while he had been on leave at brockhurst, assisting katherine to master the details of the very various business of the estate, ormiston had revised his position and decided on heroic measures of reform. he would rid himself of debt, forswear expensive london habits, and those many pleasant iniquities which every great city offers liberally to such handsome, fine gentlemen as himself. he actually proposed, just so soon as katherine could conveniently spare him, to decline from the splendid inactivity of the guards, upon the hard work of some line regiment under orders for foreign service. ormiston was quite affected by contemplation of his own good resolutions. he appeared to himself in a really pathetic light. he would like to have told mary cathcart all about it and have claimed her sympathy and admiration. but then, she was just precisely the person he could not tell, until the said resolutions had, in a degree at all events, passed into accomplished fact! for--as not infrequently happens--it was not so much a case of being off with the old love before being on with the new; as being off with the intermediate loves, before being on with the old one again. to announce his estimable future, was, by implication at all events, to confess a not wholly estimable past. and so roger ormiston, sitting that night at dinner beside the object of his best and most honest affections, proved but poor company; and roused himself, not without effort, to say to his sister-in-law:-- "it's about time to perform the ceremony of the evening, isn't it, ella, and drink that small boy's health?" "by all manner of means. i'm all for the observance of ancient forms and ceremonies. you can never be sure how much mayn't lie at the bottom of them, and it's best to be on the safe side of the unseen powers. you'll agree to that now, mr. march, won't you?"--she took a grape skin from between her neat teeth and flicked it out on to her plate.--"so, for myself," she went on, "i curtsy nine times to the new moon, though the repeated genuflexion is perniciously likely to give me the backache; touch my hat in passing to the magpies; wish when i behold a piebald; and bless my neighbour devoutly if he sneezes." at the commencement of this harangue she met her brother-in-law's rather depreciative scrutiny with her bold little stare--in his present mood ormiston found her vivacity tedious, though he was usually willing enough to laugh at her extravagancies--then she whipped julius in with a side glance, and concluded with her round eyes set on dr. knott's rough-hewn and weather-beaten countenance. "i'm afraid you are disgracefully superstitious, mrs. ormiston," the latter remarked. she was a feather-headed chatterbox, he reflected; but her chatter served to occupy the time. and the doctor was by no means anxious the time should pass too rapidly. he felt slightly self-contemptuous; but in good truth he would be glad to put away some few glasses of sound port before administering the aforementioned facer to captain ormiston. "superstitious?" she returned. "well i trust my superstition is not chronic, but nicely intermittent like all the rest of my many virtues. charity begins at home, you know, and i would not like to keep any of the poor, dear creatures on guard too long for fear of tiring them out. but i give every one of them a turn, dr. knott, i assure you." "and that's more than most of us do," he said, smiling rather savagely. "the majority of my acquaintance have a handsome power of self-restraint in the practice of virtue." "and i'm the happy exception! well, now that's an altogether pretty speech," mrs. ormiston cried, laughing. "but to return to the matter in hand, to this hero of a baby---- i dote on babies, dr. knott. i've one of my own of six months old, and she's a charming child i assure you." "i don't doubt that for an instant, having the honour of knowing her mother. couldn't be otherwise than charming if she tried," the doctor said, reaching out his hand again to the decanter. mrs. ormiston treated him to her little stare, and then looked round the table, putting up one plump, bare arm as she pushed in a couple of hairpins. "ah! but she's a real jewel of a child," she said audaciously. "she's the comfort of my social existence. for she doesn't resemble me in the least, and therefore my reputation's everlastingly safe, thanks to her. why, before the calumniating thought has had time to arise in your mind, one look in that child's face will dissipate it, she's so entirely the image of her father." there was a momentary silence, but for the sobbing of the gale and rattling of the casements. then captain ormiston broke into a rather loud laugh. even if they sail near the wind, you must stand by the women of your family. "come, that will do, i think, ella," he said. "you won't beat that triumphant bull in a hurry." "but, my dear boy, so she is. even at her present tender age, she's the living picture of your brother william." "oh! poor william," roger said hastily. he turned to mary cathcart. the girl had blushed up to the roots of her crisp, black hair. she did not clearly understand the other woman's speech, nor did she wish to do so. she was admirably pure-minded. but like all truly pure-minded persons, she carried a touchstone that made her recoil, directly and instinctively, from that which was of doubtful quality. the twinkle in dr. knott's gray eyes, as he sipped his port, still more the tone of roger ormiston's laugh, she did understand somehow. and this last jarred upon her cruelly. it opened the flood-gates of doubt which mary--like so many another woman in respect of the man she loves--had striven very valiantly to keep shut. all manner of hints as to his indiscretions, all manner of half-told tales as to his debts, his extravagance, which rumour had conveyed to her unwilling ears, seemed suddenly to gather weight and probability, viewed in the moral light--so to speak--of that laugh. great loves mature and deepen under the action of sorrow and the necessity to forgive; yet it is a shrewdly bitter moment, when the heart of either man or woman first admits that the god of its idolatry has, after all, feet of but very common clay. her head erect, her eyes moist, mary turned to julius march and asked him of the welfare of a certain labourer's family that had lately migrated from newlands to sandyfield. but ormiston's voice broke in upon the inquiries with a determination to claim her attention. "miss cathcart," he said, "forgive my interrupting you. i can tell you more about the spratleys than march can. they're all right. iles has taken the man on as carter at the home-farm, and given the eldest boy a job with the woodmen. i told him to do what he could for them as you said you were interested in them. and now, please, i want you to drink my small nephew's health." the girl pushed forward her wine-glass without speaking; and as he filled it ormiston added in a lower tone:-- "he, at all events, unlike some of his relations, is guiltless of foolish words or foolish actions. i don't pretend to share ella's superstitions, but some people's good wishes are very well worth having." unwillingly mary cathcart raised her eyes. her head was still carried a little high and her cheeks were still glowing. her god might not be of pure gold throughout--such gods rarely are unfortunately--yet she was aware she still found him a very worshipful kind of deity. "very well worth having," he repeated. "and so i should like that poor little chap to have your good wishes, miss cathcart. wish him all manner of nice things, for his mother's sake as well as his own. there's been a pretty bad run of luck here lately, and it's time it changed. wish him better fortune than his forefathers. i'm not superstitious, as i say, but richard calmady's death scared one a little. five minutes beforehand it seemed so utterly improbable. and then one began to wonder if there could be any truth in the old legend. and that was ugly, you know." dr. knott glanced at the speaker sharply.--"oh! that occurred to you, did it?" he said. "bless me! why, it occurred to everybody," ormiston answered impatiently. "some idiot raked the story up, and it was canvassed from one end of the county to the other last autumn till it made me fairly sick." "poor boy!" cried mrs. ormiston, "and what is this wonderful story that so nauseates him, dr. knott?" "i'm afraid i can't tell you," the doctor answered slowly. a nervous movement on the part of julius march had attracted his attention. "i have never managed to get hold of the story as a whole, but i should like to do so uncommonly." julius pushed back his chair, and groped hurriedly for the dinner napkin which had slipped to the ground from his knees. the subject of the conversation agitated him. the untidy, little chap-books, tied together with the tag of rusty ribbon, had lain undisturbed in the drawer of his library table ever since the--to him--very memorable evening, when, kneeling before the image of the stricken mother and the dead christ, he had found the man's heart under the priest's cassock and awakened to newness of life. much had happened since then; and julius had ranged himself, accepting, open-eyed, the sorrows and alleviations of the fate he had created for himself. but to-night he was tired. the mental and emotional strain of the last few days had been considerable. moreover, john knott's presence always affected him. the two men stood, indeed, at opposing poles of thought--the one spiritual and ideal, the other material and realistic. and, though he struggled against the influence, the doctor's rather brutal common sense and large knowledge of physical causes, gained a painful ascendency over his mind at close quarters. knott, it must be owned, was slightly merciless to his clerical acquaintances. he loved to bait them, to impale them on the horns of some moral or theological dilemma. and it was partly with this purpose of harrying and worrying, that he continued now:-- "yes, mrs. ormiston, i should like to hear the story just as much as you would. and--it strikes me, if he pleased, mr. march could tell it to us. suppose you ask him to!" promptly the young lady fell upon julius, regardless of ormiston's hardly concealed displeasure. "oh! you bad man, what are you doing," she cried, "trying to conceal thrilling family legends from the nearest relatives? tell us all about it, if you know, as dr. knott declares you do. i dote on terrifying stories--don't you, mary?--that send the cold shivers all down my back. and if they deal with the history of my nearest and dearest, why, there's an added charm to them. now, mr. march, we're all attention. stand and deliver, and make it all just as bad as you can." "i am afraid i am not an effective _improvisatore_" he replied; "and the subject, if you will pardon my saying so, seems to me too intimate for mirth. a curse is supposed to rest on this place. the owners of brockhurst die young and by violent means." "we know that already, and look to you to tell us something more, mr. march," dr. knott said dryly. julius was slightly nettled at the elder man's tone and manner. he answered with an accentuation of his usual refinement of enunciation and suavity of manner. "there is a term to the curse, a saviour who, according to the old prediction, has the power, should he also have the will, to remove it altogether." "oh, really, is that so! and when does this saviour put in an appearance?" the doctor asked again. "that is not revealed." julius would very gladly have said nothing further. but dr. knott's expression was curiously intent and compelling, as he sat fingering the stem of his wine-glass. all the ideality of julius's nature rose in protest against the half-sneering rationalism he seemed to read in that expression. mrs. ormiston, who had an hereditary racial appreciation of anything approaching a fight, turned her round eyes first on one speaker and then on the other provokingly, inciting them to more declared hostilities, while she bit her lips in her effort to avoid spoiling sport by untimely laughter or speech. "but unhappily," julius proceeded, yielding under protest to these opposing forces, "the saviour comes in so questionable a shape, that i fear, whenever the appointed time may be, his appearance will only be welcomed by the discerning few." "that's a pity," dr. knott said. he paused a minute, passed his hand across his mouth. "still, if we are to believe the bible, and other so-called, sacred histories, it's been the way of saviours from the beginning to try the faith of ordinary mortals by presenting themselves under rather queer disguises." he paused again, drawing in his wide lips, moistening them with his tongue. "but since you evidently know all about it, mr. march, may i make bold to inquire in what special form of fancy dress the saviour in question is reported as likely to present himself?" "he comes as a child of the house," julius answered, with dignity. "a child who in person--if i understand the wording of the prophecy aright--is half angel, half monster." john knott opened his mouth as though to give passage to some very forcible exclamation. thought better of it and brought his jaws together with a kind of grind. his heavy figure seemed to hunch itself up as in the recoil from a blow. "curious," he said quietly. yet julius, looking at him, could have fancied that his weather-beaten face went a trifle pale. but mrs. ormiston, in the interests of a possible fight, had contained herself just as long as was possible. now she clapped her hands, and broke into a little scream of laughter. "that's just the most magnificently romantic thing i ever heard," she cried. "come now, this requires further investigation. what's our baby like, dr. knott? i've seen nothing but an indistinguishable mass of shawls and flannels. have we, by chance, got an angelic monstrosity up-stairs without being aware of it?" "charlotte!" roger ormiston called out sternly. the young man looked positively dangerous. "this conversation has gone quite far enough. i agree with march, it may all be stuff and nonsense, not worth a second thought, still it isn't a thing to joke about." "very well, dear boy, be soothed then," she returned, making a little grimace and putting her head on one side coquettishly. "i'll be as solemn as nine owls. but you must excuse a momentary excitement. it's all news to me, you know. i'd no notion katherine had married into such a remarkable family. i'm bound to learn a little more. do you believe it's possible at all, dr. knott, now tell me?" "the fulfilment of prophecy is rather a wide and burning question to embark on," he said. "with captain ormiston's leave, i think we'd better go back to the point we started from and drink the little gentleman's health. i have my patient to see again, and it is getting rather late." the lady addressed, laughed, held up her glass, and stared round the table with a fine air of bravado, looking remarkably pretty. "fire away, roger, dear fellow," she said. "we're loaded, and ready." thus admonished, ormiston raised his glass too. but his temper was not of the sweetest, just then; he spoke forcedly. "here's to the boy," he said; "good luck, and good health, and," he added hastily, "please god he'll be a comfort to his mother." "amen," julius said softly. dr. knott contemplated the contents of his glass, for a moment, whether critically or absently it would have been difficult to decide. but all the harshness had gone out of his face, and his loose lips worked into a smile pathetic in quality. "to the baby.--and i venture to add a clause to your invocation of that heartless jade, dame fortune. may he never lack good courage and good friends. he will need both." julius march set down his wine untasted. he had received a very disagreeable impression. "come, come, it appears to me, we are paying these honours in a most lugubrious spirit," mrs. ormiston broke in. "i wish the baby a long life and a merry one, in defiance of all prophecies and traditions belonging to his paternal ancestry. go on, mr. march, you're shamefully neglecting your duty. no heel taps." she threw back her head showing the whole of her white throat, drained her glass and then flung it over her shoulder. it fell on the black, polished boards, beyond the edge of the carpet, shivered into a hundred pieces, that lay glittering, like scattered diamonds in the lamplight. for the day had died altogether. fleets of dark, straggling cloud chased each other across spaces of pallid sky, against the earthward edge of which dusky tree-tops strained and writhed in the force of the tearing gale. ella ormiston rose laughing from her place at table. "that's the correct form," she said, "it ensures the fulfilment of the wish. you ought all to have cast away your glasses regardless of expense. come, mary, we will remove ourselves. mind and bid me good-bye before you go, dr. knott, and report on lady calmady. it's probably the last time you'll have the felicity of seeing me. i'm off at cockcrow to-morrow morning." chapter viii enter a child of promise after closing the door behind the two ladies, ormiston paused by the near window and gazed out into the night. the dinner had been, in his opinion, far from a success. he feared his relation to mary cathcart had retrograded rather than progressed. he wished his sister-in-law would be more correct in speech and behaviour. then he held the conversation had been in bad taste. the doctor should have abstained from pressing julius with questions. he assured himself, again, that the story was not worth a moment's serious consideration; yet he resented its discussion. such discussion seemed to him to tread hard on the heels of impertinence to his sister, to her husband's memory, and to this boy, born to so excellent a position and so great wealth. and the worst of it was, that like a fool, he had started the subject himself! "the wind's rising," he remarked at last. "you'll have a rough drive home, knott." "it won't be the first one. and my beauty's of the kind which takes a lot of spoiling." the answer did not please the young man. he sauntered across the room and dropped into his chair, with a slightly insolent demeanour. "all the same, don't let me detain you," he said, "if you prefer seeing lady calmady at once and getting off." "you don't detain me," dr. knott answered. "i'm afraid that it's just the other way about, and that i must detain you, captain ormiston, and that on rather unpleasant business." julius march had risen to his feet. "you--you have no fresh cause for anxiety about lady calmady?" he said hurriedly. the doctor glanced up at the tall, spare, black figure and dark, sensitive face with a half-sneering, half-pitying smile. "oh no, no!" he replied; "lady calmady's going on splendidly. and it is to guard, just as far as we can, against cause for anxiety later, that i want to speak to captain ormiston now. we've got to be prepared for certain contingencies. don't you go, mr. march. you may as well hear what i've to say. it will interest you particularly, i fancy, after one or two things you have told us to-night!" "sit down, julius, please."--ormiston would have liked to maintain that same insolence of demeanour, but it gave before an apprehension of serious issues. he looked hard at the doctor, cudgeling his brains as to what the latter's enigmatic speech might mean--divined, put the idea away as inadmissible, returned to it, then said angrily:--"there's nothing wrong with the child, of course?" dr. knott turned his chair sideways to the table and shaded his face with his thick, square hand. "well, that depends on what you call wrong," he slowly replied. "it's not ill?" ormiston said. "the baby's as well as you or i--better, in fact, than i am, for i am confoundedly touched up with gout. bear that in mind, captain ormiston--that the child is well, i mean, not that i am gouty. i want you to definitely remember that, you and mr. march." "well, then, what on earth is the matter?" ormiston asked sharply. "you don't mean to imply it is injured in any way, deformed?" dr. knott let his hand drop on the table. he nodded his head. ormiston perceived, and it moved him strangely, that the doctor's eyes were wet. "not deformed," he answered. "technically you can hardly call it that, but maimed." "badly?" "well, that's a matter of opinion. you or i should think it bad enough, i fancy, if we found ourselves in the same boat." he settled himself back in his chair.--"you had better understand it quite clearly," he continued, "at least as clearly as i can put it to you. there comes a point where i cannot explain the facts but only state them. you have heard of spontaneous amputation?" across ormiston's mind came the remembrance of a litter of puppies he had seen in the sanctum of the veterinary surgeon of his regiment. a lump rose in his throat. "yes, go on," he said. "it is a thing that does not happen once in most men's experience. i have only seen one case before in all my practice and that was nothing very serious. this is an extraordinary example. i need not remind you of sir richard calmady's accident and the subsequent operation?" "of course not--go on," ormiston repeated. "in both cases the leg is gone from here," the doctor continued, laying the edge of his palm across the thigh immediately above the knee. "the foot is there--that is the amazing part of it--and, as far as i can see, is well formed and of the normal size; but so embedded in the stump that i cannot discover whether the ankle-joint and bones of the lower leg exist in a contracted form or not." ormiston poured himself out a glass of port. his hand shook so that the lip of the decanter chattered against the lip of the glass. he gulped down the wine and, getting up, walked the length of the room and back again. "god in heaven," he murmured, "how horrible! poor kitty, how utterly horrible!--poor kitty." for the baby, in his own fine completeness, he had as yet no feeling but one of repulsion. "can nothing be done, knott?" he asked at last. "obviously nothing." "and it will live?" "oh! bless you, yes! it'll live fast enough if i know a healthy infant when i see one. and i ought to know 'em by now. i've brought them into the world by dozens for my sins." "will it be able to walk?" "umph--well--shuffle," the doctor answered, smiling savagely to keep back the tears. the young man leaned his elbows on the table, and rested his head on his hands. all this shocked him inexpressibly--shocked him almost to the point of physical illness. strong as he was he could have fainted, just then, had he yielded by ever so little. and this was the boy whom they had so longed for then! the child on whom they had set such fond hopes, who was to be the pride of his young mother, and restore the so rudely shaken balance of her life! this was the boy who should go to eton, and into some crack regiment, who should ride straight, who was heir to great possessions! "the saviour has come, you see, mr. march, in as thorough-paced a disguise as ever saviour did yet," john knott said cynically. "he had better never have come at all!" ormiston put in fiercely, from behind his hands. "yes--very likely--i believe i agree," the doctor answered. "only it remains that he has come, is feeding, growing, stretching, and bellowing too, like a young bull-calf, when anything doesn't suit him. he is here, very much here, i tell you. and so we have just got to consider how to make the best of him, both for his own sake and for lady calmady's. and you must understand he is a splendid, little animal, clean skinned and strong, as you would expect, being the child of two such fine young people. he is beautiful,--i am old-fashioned enough, perhaps scientific enough, to put a good deal of faith in that notion,--beautiful as a child only can be who is born of the passion of true lovers." he paused, looking somewhat mockingly at julius. "yes, love is an incalculably great, natural force," he continued. "it comes uncommonly near working miracles at times, unconscious and rather deplorable miracles. in this case it has worked strangely against itself--at once for irreparable injury and for perfection. for the child is perfect, is superb, but for the one thing." "does my sister know?" ormiston asked hoarsely. "not yet; and, as long as we can keep the truth from her, she had better not know. we must get her a little stronger, if we can, first. that woman, mrs. denny, is worth her weight in gold, and her weight's not inconsiderable. she has her wits about her, and has contrived to meet all difficulties so far." ormiston sat in the same dejected attitude. "but my sister is bound to know before long." "of course. when she is a bit better, she'll want to have the baby to play with, dress and undress it and see what the queer little being is made of. it's a way young mothers have, and a very pretty way too. if we keep the child from her she will grow suspicious, and take means to find out for herself, and that won't do. it must not be. i won't be responsible for the consequences. so as soon as she asks a definite question, she must have a definite answer." the young man looked up quickly. "and who is to give the answer?" he said. "well, it rests chiefly with you to decide that. clearly she ought not to hear this thing from a servant. it is too serious. it needs to be well told--the whole kept at a high level, if you understand me. give lady calmady a great part and she will play it nobly. let this come upon her from a mean, wet-nurse, hospital-ward sort of level, and it may break her. what we have to do is to keep up her pluck. remember we are only at the beginning of this business yet. in all probability there are many years ahead. therefore this announcement must come to lady calmady from an educated person, from an equal, from somebody who can see all round it. mrs. ormiston tells me she leaves here to-morrow morning?" "mrs. ormiston is out of the question anyhow," roger exclaimed rather bitterly. here julius march, who had so far been silent, spoke; and in speaking showed what manner of spirit he was of. the doctor agitated him, treated him, moreover, with scant courtesy. but julius put this aside. he could afford to forget himself in his desire for any possible mitigation of the blow which must fall on katherine calmady. and, listening to his talk, he had, in the last quarter of an hour, gained conviction not only of this man's ability, but of his humanity, of his possession of the peculiar gentleness which so often, mercifully, goes along with unusual strength. as the coarse-looking hand could soothe, touching delicately, so the hard intellect and rough tongue could, he believed, modulate themselves to very consoling and inspiring tenderness of thought and speech. "we have you, dr. knott," he said. "no one, i think, could better break this terrible sorrow to lady calmady, than yourself." "thank you--you are generous, mr. march," the other answered cordially; adding to himself,--"got to revise my opinion of the black coat. didn't quite deserve that after the way you've badgered him, eh, john knott?" he shrugged his big shoulders a little shamefacedly. "of course, i'd do my best," he continued. "but you see ten to one i shan't be here at the moment. as it is i have neglected lingering sicknesses and sudden deaths, hysterical girls, croupy children, broken legs, and all the other pretty little amusements of a rather large practice, waiting for me. suppose i happen to be twenty miles away on the far side of westchurch, or seeing after some of lady fallowfeild's numerous progeny engaged in teething or measles? lady calmady might be kept waiting, and we cannot afford to have her kept waiting in this crisis." "i wish to god my aunt, mrs. st. quentin, was here!" ormiston exclaimed. "but she is not, and won't be, alas." "well, then, who remains?" as the doctor spoke he pressed his fingers against the edge of the table, leaned forward, and looked keenly at ormiston. he was extremely ugly just then, ugly as the weather-worn gargoyle on some mediæval church tower; but his eyes were curiously compelling. "good heavens! you don't mean that i've got to tell her!" ormiston cried. he rose hurriedly, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked a little unsteadily across to the window, crunching the shining pieces of mrs. ormiston's sacrificial wine-glass under foot. outside the night was very wild. in the colourless sky stars reeled among the fleets of racing cloud. the wind hissed up the grass slopes and shouted among the great trees crowning the ridge of the hill. the prospect was not calculated to encourage. ormiston turned his back on it. but hardly more encouraging was the sombre, gray-blue-walled room. the vision of all that often returned to him afterwards in very different scenes--the tall lamps, the two men, so strangely dissimilar in appearance and temperament, sitting on either side the dinner-table with its fine linen and silver, wines and fruits, waiting silently for him to speak. "i can't tell her," he said, "i can't. damn it all, i tell you, knott, i daren't. think what it will be to her! think of being told that about your own child!" ormiston lost control of himself. he spoke violently. "i'm so awfully fond of her and proud of her," he went on. "she's behaved so splendidly ever since richard's death, laid hold of all the business, never spared herself, been so able and so just. and now the baby coming, and being a boy, seemed to be a sort of let up, a reward to her for all her goodness. to tell her this horrible thing will be like doing her some hideous wrong. if her heart has to be broken, in common charity don't ask me to break it." there was a pause. he came back to the table and stood behind julius march's chair. "it's asking me to be hangman to my own sister," he said. "yes, i know it is a confoundedly nasty piece of work. and it's rough on you, very rough. only, you see, this hanging has to be put through--there's the nuisance. and it is just a question whether your hand won't be the lightest after all." again silence obtained, but for the rush and sob of the gale against the great house. "what do you say, julius?" ormiston demanded at last. "i suppose our only thought is for katherine--for lady calmady?" he said. "and in that case i agree with dr. knott." roger took another turn to the window, stood there awhile struggling with his natural desire to escape from so painful an embassy. "very well, if you are not here, knott, i undertake to tell her," he said at last. "please god, she mayn't turn against me altogether for bringing her such news. i'll be on hand for the next few days, and--you must explain to denny that i am to be sent for whenever i am wanted. that's all,--i suppose we may as well go now, mayn't we?" julius knelt at the faldstool, without the altar rails of the chapel, till the light showed faintly through the grisaille of the stained-glass windows and outlined the spires and carven canopies of the stalls. at first his prayers were definite, petitions for mercy and grace to be outpoured on the fair, young mother and her, seemingly, so cruelly afflicted child; on himself, too, that he might be permitted to stay here, and serve her through the difficult future. if she had been sacred before, katherine was rendered doubly sacred to him now. he bowed himself, in reverential awe, before the thought of her martyrdom. how would her proud and naturally joyous spirit bear the bitter pains of it? would it make, eventually, for evil or for good? and then--the ascetic within him asserting itself, notwithstanding the widening of outlook produced by the awakening of his heart--he was overtaken by a great horror of that which we call matter; by a revolt against the body, and those torments and shames, mental, moral, and physical, which the body brings along with it. surely the dualists were right? it was unregenerate, a thing, if made by god, yet wholly fallen away from him and given over to evil, this fleshly envelope wherein the human soul is seated, and which, even in the womb, may be infected by disease or rendered hideous by mutilation? then, as the languor of his long vigil overcame him, he passed into an ecstatic contemplation of the state of that same soul after death, clothed with a garment of incorruptible and enduring beauty, dwelling in clear, luminous spaces, worshipping among the ranks of the redeemed, beholding its lord god face to face. john knott, meanwhile, after driving home beneath the reeling stars, through the roar of the forest and shriek of the wind across the open moors, found an urgent summons awaiting him. he spent the remainder of that night, not in dreams of paradise and of spirits redeemed from the thraldom of the flesh, but in increasing the population of this astonishing planet, by assisting to deliver a scrofulous, half-witted shrieking servant-girl of twins--illegitimate--in the fusty atmosphere of a cottage garret, right up under the rat-eaten thatch. chapter ix in which katherine calmady looks on her son more than a week elapsed before ormiston was called upon to redeem his promise. for lady calmady's convalescence was slow. an apathy held her, which was tranquillising rather than tedious. she was glad to lie still and rest. she found it very soothing to be shut away from the many obligations of active life for a while; to watch the sunlight, on fair days, shift from east by south to west, across the warm fragrant room; to see the changing clouds in the delicate spring sky, and the slow-dying crimson and violet of the sunset; to hear the sudden hurry of falling rain, the subdued voices of the women in the adjoining nursery, and, sometimes, the lusty protestations of her baby when--as john knott had put it--"things didn't suit him." she felt a little jealous of the comely, young wet-nurse, a little desirous to be more intimately acquainted with this small, new richard calmady, on whom all her hopes for the future were set. but immediately she was very submissive to the restrictions laid by denny and the doctor upon her intercourse with the child. she only stood on the threshold of motherhood as yet. while the inevitable exhaustion, following on the excitement of her spring and summer of joy, her autumn of bitter sorrow, and her winter of hard work, asserted itself now that she had time and opportunity for rest. the hangings and coverlet of the great, ebony, half-tester bed were lined with rose silk, and worked, with many coloured worsteds on a white ground, in the elaborate persian pattern so popular among industrious ladies of leisure in the reign of good queen anne. it may be questioned whether the parable, wrought out with such patience of innumerable stitches, was closely comprehensible or sympathetic to the said ladies; since a particularly wide interval, both of philosophy and practice, would seem to divide the temper of the early eighteenth century from that of the mystic east. still the parable was there, plain to whoso could read it; and not perhaps, rather pathetically, without its modern application. the powers of evil, in the form of a leopard, pursue the soul of man, symbolised by a hart, through the forest of this life. in the midst of that same forest stands an airy, domed pavilion, in which--if so be it have strength and fleetness to reach it--the panting, hunted creature may, for a time, find security and repose. above this resting-place the trees of the forest interlace their spreading branches, loaded with amazing leaves and fruit; while companies of rainbow-hued birds, standing very upright upon nothing in particular, entertain themselves by holding singularly indigestible looking cherries and mulberries in their yellow beaks. and so, katherine, resting in dreamy quiet within the shade of the embroidered curtains, was even as the hart pasturing in temporary security before the quaint pavilion. the mark of her bereavement was upon her sensibly still--would be so until the end. often in the night, when denny had at last left her, she would wake suddenly and stretch her arms out across the vacant space of the wide bed, calling softly to the beloved one who could give no answer; and then recollecting, would sob herself again to sleep. often too, as ormiston's step sounded through the chapel-room when he came to pay her those short, frequent visits, bringing the clean freshness of the outer air along with him, katherine would look up in a wondering gladness, cheating herself for an instant with unreasoning delight--look up, only to know her sorrow, and feel the knife turn in the wound. nevertheless these days made, in the main, for peace and healing. on more than one occasion she petitioned that julius march should come and read to her, choosing, as the book he should read from, spencer's _faerie queene_. he obeyed, in manner calm, in spirit deeply moved. katherine spoke little. but her charm was great, as she lay, her eyes changeful in colour as a moorland stream, listening to those intricate stanzas, in which the large hope, the pride of honourable deeds, the virtue, the patriotism, the masculine fearlessness, the ideality, the fantastic imagination, of the english renaissance so nobly finds voice. they comforted her mind, set by instinct and training to welcome all splendid adventures of romance, of nature, and of faith. they carried her back, in dear remembrance, to the perplexing and enchanting discoveries which richard calmady's visit to ormiston castle--the many-towered, gray house looking eastward across the unquiet sea--had brought to her. and specially did they recall to her that first evening--even yet she grew hot as she thought of it--when the supposed gentleman-jockey, whom she had purposed treating with gay and reducing indifference, proved not only fine scholar and fine gentleman, but absolute and indisputable master of her heart. dr. knott came to see her, too, almost daily--rough, tender-hearted, humorous, dependable, never losing sight, in his intercourse with her, of the matter in hand, of the thing which immediately is. thus did these three men, each according to his nature and capacity, strive to guard the poor hart, pasturing before the quaint pavilion, set--for its passing refreshment--in the midst of the forest of this life, and to keep, just so long as was possible, the pursuing leopard at bay. nevertheless the leopard gained, despite of their faithful guardianship--which was inevitable, the case standing as it did. for one bright afternoon, about three o'clock, mrs. denny arrived in the gun-room, where ormiston sat smoking, while talking over with julius the turf-cutting claims of certain squatters on spendle flats---arrived, not to summon the latter to further readings of the great elizabethan poet, but to say to the former:-- "will you please come at once, sir? her ladyship is sitting up. she is a little difficult about the baby--only, you know, sir, if i can say it with all respect, in her pretty, teasing way. but i am afraid she must be told." and roger rose and went--sick at heart. he would rather have faced an enemy's battery, vomiting out shot and shell, than gone up the broad, stately staircase, and by the silent, sunny passageways, to that fragrant, white-paneled room. on the stands and tables were bowls full of clear-coloured spring flowers--early primrose, jonquil, and narcissus. a wood-fire burned upon the blue-and-white tiled hearth. and on the sofa, drawn up at right angles to it, katherine sat, wrapped in a gray, silk dressing-gown bordered with soft, white fur. she flushed slightly as her brother came in, and spoke to him with an air of playful apology. "i really don't know why you should have been dragged up here, just now, dear old man," she said. "it is some fancy of denny's. i'm afraid in the excess of her devotion she makes me rather a nuisance to you. and now, not contented with fussing about me, she has taken to being absurdly mysterious about the baby----" she stopped abruptly. something in the young man's expression and bearing impressed her, causing her to stretch out her hands to him in swift fear and entreaty. "oh, roger!" she cried, "roger--what is it?" and he told her, repeating, with but a few omissions, the statement made to him by the doctor ten days ago. he dared not look at her while he spoke, lest seeing her should unnerve him altogether. katherine was very still. she made no outcry. yet her very stillness seemed to him the more ominous, and the horror of the recital grew upon him. his voice sounded to him unnaturally loud and harsh in the surrounding quiet. once her silken draperies gave a shuddering rustle--that was all. at last it was over. at last he dared to look at her. the colour and youthful roundness had gone out of her face. it was gray as her dress, fixed and rigid as a marble mask. ormiston was overcome with a consuming pity for her and with a violence of self-hatred. hangman, and to his own sister--in truth, it seemed to him to have come to that! he knelt down in front of her, laying hold of both her knees. "kitty, can you ever forgive me for telling you this?" he asked hoarsely. even in this extremity katherine's inherent sweetness asserted itself. she would have smiled, but her frozen lips refused. her eyelids quivered a little and closed. "i have nothing to forgive you, dear," she said. "indeed, it is good of you to tell me, since--since so it is." she put her hands upon his shoulders, gripping them fast, and bowed her head. the little flames crackled, dancing among the pine logs and the silk of her dress rustled as her bosom rose and fell. "it won't make you ill again?" roger asked anxiously. katherine shook her head. "oh, no!" she said, "i have no more time for illness. this is a thing to cure, as a cautery cures--to burn away all idleness and self-indulgent, sick room fancies. see, i am strong, i am well." she stood up, her hands slipping down from ormiston's shoulders and steadying themselves on his hands as he too rose. her face was still ashen, but purpose and decision had come into her eyes. "do this for me," she said, almost imperiously. "go to denny, tell her to bring me the baby. she is to leave him with me. and tell her, as she loves both him and me,--as she values her place here at brockhurst,--she is not to speak." as he looked at her ormiston turned cold. she was terrible just then. "katherine," he said quickly, "what on earth are you going to do?" "no harm to my baby in any case--you need not be alarmed. i am quite to be trusted. only i cannot be reasoned with or opposed, still less condoled with or comforted, yet. i want my baby, and i must have him, here, alone, the doors shut--locked if i please." her lips gave, the corners of her mouth dropped. and watching her ormiston swore a little under his breath. "we have something to say to each other, the baby and i," she went on, "which no one else may hear. so do what i ask you, roger. and come back--i may want you--in about an hour, if i do not send for you before." alone with her child, lady calmady moved slowly across and bolted both the nursery and the chapel-room doors. then she drew a low stool up in front of the fire and sat down, laying the infant upon her lap. it was a delicious, dimpled creature, with a quantity of silky golden-brown hair, that curled in a tiny crest along the top of its head. it was but half awake yet, the rounded cheeks pink with the comfort of food and slumber. and as the beautiful, young mother, bending that set, ashen face of hers above it, laid the child upon her knees, it stretched, clenching soft baby fists and rubbing them into its blue eyes. katherine unwrapped the shawls, and took off one small garment after another--delicate gossamer-like things of fine flannel, lawn and lace, such as women's fingers linger over in the making with tender joy. once her resolution failed her. she wrapped the half-dressed child in its white shawls again, rose from her place and walked over to the sunny window, carrying it in the hollow of her arm--it staring up, meanwhile, with the strange wonder of baby eyes, and cooing, as though holding communication with gracious presences haunting the moulded ceiling above. katherine gazed at it for a few seconds. but the little creature's serene content, its absolute unconsciousness of its own evil fortune, pained her too greatly. she went back, sat down on the stool again, and completed the task she had set herself. then, the baby lying stark naked on her lap, she studied the fair, little face, the penciled eyebrows and fringed eyelids,--dark like her own,--the firm, rounded arms, the rosy-palmed hands, their dainty fingers and finger-nails, the well-proportioned and well-nourished body, without smallest mark or blemish upon it, sound, wholesome, and complete. all these she studied long and carefully, while the dancing glow of the firelight played over the child's delicate flesh, and it extended its little arms in the pleasant warmth, holding them up, as in act of adoration, towards those gracious unseen presences, still, apparently, hovering above the flood of instreaming sunshine against the ceiling overhead. lastly she turned her eyes, with almost dreadful courage, upon the mutilated, malformed limbs, upon the feet--set right up where the knee should have been, thus dwarfing the child by a fourth of his height. she observed them, handled, felt them. and as she did so, her mother-love, which, until now, had been but a part and consequence--since the child was his gift, the crown and outcome of their passion, his and hers--of the great love she bore her husband, became distinct from that, an emotion by itself, heretofore unimagined, pervasive of all her being. it had none of the sweet self-abandon, the dear enchantments, the harmonising sense of safety and repose which that earlier passion had. this was altogether different in character, and made quite other demands on mind and heart. for it was fierce, watchful, anxious, violent with primitive instinct; the roots of it planted far back in that unthinkable remoteness of time, when the fertile womb of the great earth mother began to bring forth the first blind, simple forms of those countless generations of living creatures which, slowly differentiating themselves, slowly developing, have peopled this planet from that immeasurable past to the present hour. love between man and woman must be forever young, even as eros, cupid, krishna, are forever youthful gods. but mother-love is of necessity mature, majestic, ancient from the stamp of primal experience which is upon it. and so, at this juncture, realising that which her motherhood meant, her immaturity, her girlhood fell away from katherine calmady. her life and the purpose of it moved forward on another plane. she bent down and solemnly kissed the unlovely, shortened limbs, not once or twice, but many times, yielding herself up with an almost voluptuous intensity to her own emotion. she clasped her hands about her knees, so that the child might be enclosed, overshadowed, embraced on all sides by the living defenses of its mother's love. alone there, with no witnesses, she brooded over it, crooned to it, caressed it with an insatiable hunger of tenderness. "and yet, my poor pretty, if we had both died, you and i, ten days ago," she murmured, "how far better. for what will you say to me when you grow older--to me who have brought you, without any asking or will of yours, into a world in which you must always be at so cruel a disadvantage? how will you bear it all when you come to face it for yourself, and i can no longer shield you and hide you away as i can do now? will you have fortitude to endure, or will you become sour, vindictive, misanthropic, envious? will you curse the hour of your birth?" katherine bowed her proud head still lower. "ah! don't do that, my darling," she prayed in piteous entreaty, "don't do that. for i will share all your trouble, do share it even now, beforehand, foreseeing it, while you still lie smiling unknowing of your own distress. i shall live through it many times, by day and night, while you live through it only once. and so you must be forbearing towards me, my dear one, when you come----" she broke off abruptly, her hands fell at her sides, and she sat rigidly upright, her lips parted, staring blankly at the dancing flames. in repeating dr. knott's statement ormiston had purposely abstained from all mention of richard calmady's accident and its tragic sequel. he could not bring himself to speak to katherine of that. until now, dominated by the rush of her emotion, she had only recognised the bare terrible fact of the baby's crippled condition, without attempting to account for it. but, now, suddenly the truth presented itself to her. she understood that she was herself, in a sense, accountable--that the greatness of her love for the father had maimed the child. as she realised the profound irony of the position, a blackness of misery fell upon katherine. and then, since she was of a strong, undaunted spirit, an immense anger possessed her, a revolt against nature which could work such wanton injury, and against god, who, being all-powerful, could sit by and permit it so to work. all the foundations of faith and reverence were, for the time being, shaken to the very base. she gathered the naked baby up against her bosom, rocking herself to and fro in a paroxysm of rebellious grief. "god is unjust!" she cried aloud. "he takes pleasure in fooling us. god is unjust!" chapter x the birds of the air take their breakfast ormiston's first sensation on reentering his sister's room was one of very sensible relief. for katherine leaned back against the pink brocade cushions in the corner of the sofa, with the baby sleeping peacefully in her arms. her colour was more normal too, her features less mask-like and set. the cloud which had shadowed the young man's mind for nearly a fortnight lifted. she knew; therefore, he argued, the worst must be over. it was an immense gain that this thing was fairly said. yet, as he came nearer and sat down on the sofa beside her, ormiston, who was a keen observer, both of horses and women, became aware of a subtle change in katherine. he was struck--he had never noticed it before--by her likeness to her--and his--father, whose stern, high-bred, clean-shaven face and rather inaccessible bearing and manner impressed his son, even to this day, as somewhat alarming. people were careful not to trifle with old mr. ormiston. his will was absolute in his own house, with his tenants, and in the great iron-works--almost a town in itself--which fed his fine fortune. while from his equals--even from his fellow-members of that not over-reverent or easily impressible body, the house of commons--he required and received a degree of deference such as men yield only to an unusually powerful character. and there was now just such underlying energy in katherine's expression. her eyes were dark, as a clear midnight sky is dark, her beautiful lips compressed, but with concentration of purpose, not with weakness of sorrow. the force of her motherhood had awakened in katherine a latent, titanic element. like "prometheus bound," chained to the rock, torn, her spirit remained unquelled. for good or evil--as the event should prove--she defied the gods. and something of all this--though he would have worded it very differently in the vernacular of passing fashion--ormiston perceived. she was unbroken by that which had occurred, and for this he was thankful. but she was another woman to her who had greeted him in pretty apology an hour ago. yet, even recognising this, her first words produced in him a shock of surprise. "is that horse, the clown, still at the stables?" she asked. ormiston thrust his hands into his pockets; and sitting on the edge of the sofa with his knees apart, stared down at the carpet. the mention of the clown always cut him, and raised in him a remorseful anger. yes she was like his father, going straight to the point, he thought. and, in this case, the point was acutely painful to him personally. ormiston's moral courage had been severely taxed, and he had a fair share of the selfishness common to man. it was all very well, but he wished to goodness she had chosen some other subject than this. yet he must answer. "yes," he said; "willy taylor has been leading the gallops for the two-year-olds on him for the last month."--he paused. "what about the clown?" "only that i should be glad if you would tell chifney he must find some other horse to lead the gallops." ormiston turned his head. "i see--you wish the horse sold," he said, over his shoulder. katherine looked down at the sleeping baby, its round head, crowned by that delicious crest of silky hair, cuddled in against her breast. then she looked in her brother's eyes full and steadily. "no," she answered. "i don't want it sold, i want it shot, by you, here, to-night." "by jove!" the young man exclaimed, rising hastily and standing in front of her. katherine gazed up at him, and held the child a little closer to her breast. "i have been alone with my baby. don't you suppose i see how it has come about?" she asked. "oh, damn it all!" ormiston cried. "i prayed, at least, you might be spared thinking of that." he flung himself down on the sofa again--while the baby clenching its tiny fist, stretched and murmured in its sleep--and bowed himself together, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. "i'm at the bottom of it. it's all my fault," he said. "i am haunted by the thought of that day and night, for if ever one man loved another i loved richard. and yet if i hadn't been so cursedly keen about the horse all this might never have happened. oh! if you only knew how often i've wished myself dead since that ghastly morning. you must hate me, kitty. you've cause enough. yet how the deuce could i foresee what would come about?" for the moment katherine's expression softened. she laid her left hand very gently on his bowed head. "i could never hate you, dear old man," she said. "you are innocent of richard's death. but this last thing is different." her voice became fuller and deeper in tone. "and whether i am equally innocent of his child's disfigurement, god only knows--if there is a god, which perhaps, just now, i had better doubt, lest i should blaspheme too loudly, hoping my bitter words might reach his hearing." yet further disturbed in the completeness of it's comfort, as it would seem, by the seriousness of her voice, the baby's mouth puckered. it began to fret. katherine rose and stood rocking it, soothing it--a queenly young figure in her clinging gray and white draperies, which the instreaming sunshine touched, as she moved, to a delicate warmth of colour. "hush, my pretty lamb," she crooned--and then softly yet fiercely to ormiston, "you understand, i wish it. the clown is to be shot." "very well," he answered. "sleep--what troubles you, my precious," she went on. "i want it done, now, at once.--hush, baby, hush.--the sun shall not go down upon my wrath, because my wrath shall be somewhat appeased before the sunset." katherine swayed with a rhythmic motion, holding the baby a little away from her in her outstretched arms. "tell chifney to bring the horse up to the square lawn, here, right in front of the house.--hush, my kitty sweet.--he is to bring the horse himself. none of the stable boys or helpers are to come. it is not to be an entertainment, but an execution. i wish it done quietly." "very well," ormiston repeated. he hesitated, strong protest rising to his lips, which he could not quite bring himself to utter. katherine, the courage and tragedy of her anger, dominated him as she moved to and fro in the sunshine soothing her child. "you know it's a valuable horse," he remarked, at last, tentatively. "so much the better. you do not suppose i should care to take that which costs me nothing? i am quite willing to pay.--sleep, my pet, so--is that better?--i do not propose to defraud--hush, baby darling, hush--richard's son of any part of his inheritance. tell chifney to name a price for the clown, an outside price. he shall have a cheque to-morrow, which he is to enter with the rest of the stable accounts.--now go, please. we understand each other clearly, and it is growing late.--poor honey love, what vexes you?--you will shoot the clown, here, before sunset. and, roger, it must lie where it falls to-night. let some of the men come early to-morrow, with a float. it is to go to the kennels." ormiston got up, shaking his shoulders as though to rid himself of some encumbering weight. he crossed to the fireplace and kicked the logs together. "i don't half like it," he said. "i tell you i don't. it seems such a cold-blooded butchery. i can't tell if it's wrong or right. it seems merciless. and it is so unlike you, kitty, to be merciless." he turned to her as he spoke, and katherine--her head erect, her eyes full of the sombre fire of her profound alienation and revolt--drew her hand slowly down over the fine lawn and lace of the baby's long white robe, and held it flat against the soles of the child's hidden feet. "look at this," she said. "remember, too, that the delight of my life has gone from me, and that i am young yet. the years will be many--and richard is dead. has much mercy been shown to me, do you think?" and the young man seeing her, knowing the absolute sincerity of her speech, felt a lump rise in his throat. after all, when you have acted hangman to your own sister, as he reasoned, it is but a small matter to act slaughterman to a horse. "very well," he answered, huskily enough. "it shall be as you wish, kitty. only go back to the sofa, and stay there, please. if i think you are watching, i can't be quite sure of myself. something may go wrong, and we don't want a scene which will make talk. this is a business which should be got through as quickly and decently as possible." the sun was but five minutes high, and no longer brightened the southern house front, though it spread a ruddy splendour over the western range of gables, and lingered about the stacks of slender twisted chimneys, and cast long slanting shadows across the lawns and carriage drives, before lady calmady's waiting drew to a close. from the near trees of the elm avenue, and from the wood overhanging the pond below the terraced kitchen gardens, came the singing of blackbirds and thrushes--whether raised as evening hymn in praise of their creator, or as love-song each to his mate, who shall say? possibly as both, since in simple minds--and that assuredly is matter for thankfulness--earthly and heavenly affections are bounded by no harsh dividing line. the chorus of song found its way in at the windows of katherine's room--fresh as the spring flowers which filled it, innocent of hatred and wrong as the face of the now placid baby, his soft cheeks flushed with slumber, as he nestled in against his mother's bosom. indeed a long time had passed. twice denny had looked in and, seeing that quiet reigned, had noiselessly withdrawn. for katherine, still physically weak, drained, moreover, by the greatness of her recent emotion, her senses lulled to rest by the warm contact and even breathing of the child, had sunk away into a dreamless sleep. the questioning neigh of a stallion, a scuffle of horse hoofs, footsteps approaching round the corner of the house, passing across the broad graveled carriage sweep and on to the turf, aroused her. and these sounds were so natural, full of vigorous outdoor life and the wholesome gladness of it, that for a moment she came near repentance of her purpose. but then feeling, as he rested on her arm, her baby's shortened, malformed limbs, and thinking of her well-beloved dying, maimed and spent, in the fulness of his manhood, her face took on that ashen pallor again and all relenting left her. there was a satisfaction of wild justice in the act about to be consummated. and katherine raised herself from the pink brocade cushions, and sat erect, her lips parted in stern excitement, her forehead contracted in the effort to hear, her eyes fixed on the wide, carven, ebony bed and its embroidered hangings. the poor hart had, indeed, ceased to pasture in reposeful security before the quaint pavilion, set--for its passing refreshment--in the midst of the forest of this life. now it fled, desperate, by crooked tangled ways, over rocks, through briars, while care, the leopard, followed hard behind. first roger ormiston's voice reached her in brief direction, and the trainer's in equally brief reply. the horse neighed again--a sound strident and virile, the challenge of a creature of perfect muscle, hot desire, and proud, quick-coursing blood. afterwards, an instant's pause, and chifney's voice again,--"so-ho--my beauty--take it easy--steady there, steady, good lad," and the slap of his open hand on the horse's shoulder straightening it carefully into place. while behind and below all this, in sweet incongruous undertone of uncontrollable joy, arose the carolling of the blackbirds and thrushes praising, according to their humble powers, god, life, and love. finally, as climax of the drama, the sharp report of a pistol, ringing out in shattering disturbance of the peace of the fair spring evening, followed by a dead silence, the birds all scared and dumb--a silence so dead, that katherine calmady held her breath, almost awed by it, while the hissing and crackling of the little flames upon the hearth seemed to obtrude as an indecent clamour. this lasted a few seconds. then the noise of a plunging struggle and the muffled thud of something falling heavily upon the turf.-- dr. knott had been up all night, but his patient, lord denier's second coachman, would pull through right enough; so he started on his homeward journey in a complacent frame of mind. he reckoned it would save him a couple of miles, let alone the long hill from farley row up to spendle flats, if on his way back from grimshott he went by brockhurst house. it is stretching a point, he admitted, to drive under even your neighbour's back windows at five o'clock in the morning. but the doctor being himself in an unusually amiable attitude, was inclined to accredit others with a like share of good temper. moreover, the natural man in him cried increasingly loudly for food and bed. john knott was not given to sentimental rhapsodies over the beauties of nature. like other beauties she had her dirty enough moods, he thought. still, in his own half-snarling fashion, he dearly loved this forest country in which he had been born and bred, while he was too keen a sportsman to be unobservant of any aspect of wind and weather, any movement of bird or beast. with the collar of his long drab driving-coat turned up about his ears, and the stem of a well-coloured meerschaum pipe between his teeth, he sat huddled together in the high, swinging gig, with timothy, the weazel-faced, old groom by his side, while the drama of the opening day unfolded itself before his somewhat critical gaze. he noted that it would be fine, though windy. in the valley, over the long water, spread beds of close, white mist. the blue of the upper sky was crossed by curved windows of flaky, opalescent cloud. in the east, above the dusky rim of the fir woods on the edge of the high-lying tableland, stretched a blinding blaze of rose-saffron, shading through amber into pale primrose colour above. the massive house front, and the walls fencing the three sides of the square enclosure before it, with the sexagonal, pepper-pot summer-houses at either corner, looked pale and unsubstantial in that diffused, unearthly light. at the head of the elm avenue, passing through the high, wrought-iron gates and along the carriage drive which skirts the said enclosure,--the great, square grass plot on the right hand, the red wall of the kitchen gardens on the left,--dr. knott had the reins nearly jerked out of his hand. the mare started and swerved, grazing the off wheel against the brickwork, and stopped, her head in the air, her ears pricked, her nostrils dilated showing the red. "hullo, old girl, what's up? seen a ghost?" he said, drawing the whip quietly across the hollow of her back. but the mare only braced herself more stiffly, refusing to move, while she trembled and broke into a sudden sweat. the doctor was interested and looked about him. he would first find the cause of her queer behaviour, and give her a good dressing down afterwards if she deserved it. the smooth, slightly up-sloping lawn was powdered with innumerable dewdrops. in the centre of it, neck outstretched, the fine legs doubled awkwardly together, the hind quarters and barrel rising, as it lay on its side, in an unshapely lump, gray from the drenching dew, was a dead horse. along the top of the further wall a smart and audacious party of jackdaws had stationed themselves, with much ruffling of gray, neck feathers impudent squeakings and chatter. while a pair of carrion crows hopped slowly and heavily about the carcass, flapping up with a stroke or two of their broad wings in sudden suspicion, then settling down again nearer than before. "go to her head, timothy, and get her by as quietly as you can. i'll be after you in a minute, but i'm bound to see what the dickens they've been up to here." as he spoke dr. knott hitched himself down from off the gig. he was cramped with sitting, and moved forward awkwardly, his footsteps leaving a track of dark irregular patches upon the damp grass. as he approached, the jackdaws flung themselves gleefully upward from the wall, the sun glinting on their glossy plumage as they circled and sailed away across the park. but the crow who had just begun work in earnest, stood his ground, notwithstanding the warning croak of his more timid mate. he grasped the horse's skull with his claws, and tore away greedily at the fine skin about the eye-socket with his strong, black beak. "how's this, my fine gentleman, in too much of a hurry this morning to wait for the flavour to get into your meat?" john knott said, as the bird rose sullenly at last. "got a small hungry family at home, i suppose, crying 'give, give.' well, that's taught better men than you, before now, not to be too nice, but to snatch at pretty well anything they can get." he came close and stood looking meditatively down at the dead race-horse--recognised its long, white-reach face, the colour and make of it, while his loose lips worked with a contemptuous yet pitying smile. "so that's the way my lady's taken it, has she?" he said presently. "on the whole i don't know that i'm sorry. in some cases much benefit unquestionably is derivable from letting blood. this shows she doesn't mean to go under if i know her; and that's a mercy, for that poor little beggar, the baby's sake." he turned and contemplated the stately facade of the house. the ranges of windows, blind with closed shutters and drawn curtains, in the early sunshine gave off their many panes a broad dazzle of white light. "poor little beggar," he repeated, "with his forty thousand a year and all the rest of it. such a race to run and yet so badly handicapped!" he stooped down, examined the horse, found the mark of the bullet. "contradictory beings, though, these dear women," he went on. "so fanciful and delicate, so sensitive you're afraid to lay a finger on them. so unselfish, too, some of them, they seem too good for this old rough and tumble of a world. and yet touch 'em home, and they'll show an unscrupulous savagery of which we coarse brutes of men should be more than half ashamed. god almighty made a little more than he bargained for when he made woman. she must have surprised him pretty shrewdly, one would think, now and then since the days of the apple and the snake." he moved away up the carriage drive, following timothy, the sweating, straining mare, and swinging gig. the carrion crow flapped back, with a croak, and dropped on the horse's skull again. hearing that bodeful sound the doctor paused a moment, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and looking round at the bird at its ugly work, set as foreground to that pure glory of the sunrise, and the vast noble landscape, misty valley, dewy grassland, far ranging hillside crowned with wood. "the old story," he muttered, "always repeating itself. and it strikes one as rather a wasteful, clumsy contrivance, at times. life forever feeding on death--death forever breeding life." thus ended the clown, own brother to touchstone, of merry name and mournful memory, paying the penalty of wholly involuntary transgressions. from which ending another era dated at brockhurst, the most notable events of which it is the purpose of the ensuing pages duly to set forth. book ii the breaking of dreams chapter i recording some aspects of a small pilgrim's progress it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, says the comfortable proverb. which would appear to be but another manner of declaring that the law of compensation works permanently in human affairs. all quantities, material and immaterial alike, are, of necessity, stable; therefore the loss or defect of one participant must--indirectly, no doubt, yet very surely--make for the gain of some other. as of old, so now, the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church. julius march would, how gladly, have been among the martyrs! but the lot fell otherwise. and--always admitting the harshness of the limitations he had imposed on himself--the martyrdom of those he held dearest, did, in fact, work to secure him a measure of content that had otherwise been unattainable. the twelve years following the birth of lady calmady's child were the most fruitful of his life. he filled a post no other person could have filled; one which, while satisfying his religious sense and priestly ideal of detachment, appeased the cravings of his heart and developed the practical man in him. the contemplative and introspective attitude was balanced by an active and objective one. for he continued to live under his dear lady's roof, seeing her daily and serving her in many matters. he watched her, admiring her clear yet charitable judgment and her prudence in business. he bowed in reverence before her perfect singleness of purpose. he was almost appalled, apprehending, now and then, the secret abysses of her womanhood, the immensity of her self-devotion, the swing of her nature from quick, sensitive shrinking to almost impious pride. man is the outcome of the eternal common sense; woman that of some moment of divine folly. meanwhile the ways of true love are many; and julius march, thus watching his dear lady, discovered, as other elect souls have discovered before him, that the way of chastity and silence, notwithstanding its very constant heartache, is by no means among the least sweet. the entries in his diaries of this period are intermittent, concise, and brief--naturally enough, since the central figure of julius's mental picture had ceased, happily for him, to be himself. and not only katherine's sorrows, but the unselfish action of another woman went to make julius march's position at brockhurst tenable. a few days after ormiston's momentous interview with his sister, news came of mrs. st. quentin's death. she had passed hence peacefully in her sleep. knowledge of the facts of poor, little dickie calmady's ill-fortune had been spared her. for it would be more satisfactory--so mademoiselle de mirancourt had remarked, not without a shade of irony--that if lucia st. quentin must learn the sad fact at all, she should do so where _le bon dieu_ himself would be at hand to explain matters, and so, in a degree, set them right. early in april mademoiselle de mirancourt had gathered together her most precious possessions and closed the pretty apartment in the rue de rennes. it had been a happy halting-place on the journey of life. it was haunted by well-beloved ghosts. it cost not a little to bid it, the neighbouring church of the st. germain des près, where she had so long worshipped, and her little _coterie_ of intimate friends, farewell. yet she set forth, taking with her henriette, the hard-featured, old, breton maid, and _monsieur pouf_, the gray, persian cat,--he protesting plaintively from within a large manilla basket,--and thus accompanied, made pilgrimage to brockhurst. and when katherine, all the lost joys of her girlhood assailing her at sight of her lifelong friend, had broken down for once, and, laying her beautiful head on the elder woman's shoulder, had sobbed out a question as to when this visit must end, marie de mirancourt had answered-- "that, most dear one, is precisely as you shall see fit to decide. it need not end till i myself end, if you so please." and when katherine, greatly comforted yet fearing to be over-greedy of comfort, had reasoned with her, reminding her of the difference of climate, the different habits of living in that gay, little paris home and this great english country house; reminding her, further, of her so often and fondly expressed desire to retire from the world while yet in the complete possession of her powers and prepare for the inevitable close within the calm and sacred precincts of the convent--the other replied almost gaily-- "ah, my child! i have still a naughty little spirit of experiment in me which defiles the barbarities of your climate. while as to the convent, it has beckoned so long--let it beckon still! it called first when my _fiancé_ died,--god rest his soul,--worn out by the hardships he endured in the war of la vendée and i put from me forever all thought of marriage. but then my mother, an emigrant here in london, claimed all my care. it called me again when she departed, dear saintly being. but then there were my brother's sons--orphaned by the guillotine--to place. and when i had established them honourably, our beloved lucia turned to me, with her many enchantments and exquisite tragedy of the heart. and, now, in my old age i come to you--whom i receive from her as a welcome legacy--to remain just so long as i am not a burden to you. second childhood and first should understand one another. we will play delightful games together, the dear baby and i. so let the convent beckon. for the convent is perhaps, after all, but an impatient grasping at the rest of paradise, before that rest is fairly earned. i have a good hope that, after all, we give ourselves most acceptably to god in thus giving ourselves to his human creatures." thus did marie de mirancourt, for love's sake, condemn herself to exile, thereby rendering possible--among other things--julius's continued residence at brockhurst. for captain ormiston had held true to his resolve of scorning the delights of idleness, the smiles of ladies more kind than wise, and all those other pleasant iniquities to which idleness inclines the young and full-blooded, of bidding farewell to london and windsor, and proceeding to "live laborious days" in some far country. he had offered to remain indefinitely with katherine if she needed him. but she refused. let him be faithful to the noble profession of arms and make a name for himself therein. "brockhurst has ceased to be a place for a soldier," she said. "leave it to women and priests!" and then, repenting of the bitterness of her speech, she added:--"really there is not more work than i can manage, with julius to help me at times. iles is a good servant if a little tediously pompous, and chifney must see to the stables."--lady calmady paused, and her face grew hard. but for her husband's dying request, she would have sold every horse in the stud, razed the great square of buildings to the ground and made the site of it a dunghill. "work is a drug to deaden thought. so it is a kindness to let me have plenty of it, dear old man. and i fear, even when the labour of each day is done, and dickie is safe asleep,--poor darling,--i shall still have more than enough of time for thought, for asking those questions to which there seems no answer, and for desires, vain as they are persistent, that things were somehow, anyhow, other than they are!" therefore it came about that a singular quiet settled down on brockhurst--a quiet of waiting, of pause, rather than of accomplishment. but julius march, for reasons aforesaid, and mademoiselle de mirancourt, in virtue of her unclouded faith in the teachings of her church,--which assures its members of the beneficent purpose working behind all the sad seeming of this world,--alike rejoiced in that. a change of occupations and of interests came naturally with the change of the seasons, with the time to sow and reap, to plant saplings, to fell timber, to fence, to cut copsing, to build or rebuild, to receive rents or remit them, to listen to many appeals, to readjust differences, to feed game or to shoot it, to bestow charity of meat and fuel, to haul ice in winter to the ice-house from the lake. but beyond all this there was little going or coming at brockhurst. the magnates of the countryside called at decent intervals, and at decent intervals lady calmady returned their civilities. but having ceased to entertain, she refused to receive entertainment. she shut herself away in somewhat jealous seclusion, defiant of possibly curious glances and pitying tongues. before long her neighbours, therefore, came to raise their eyebrows a little in speaking of her, and to utter discreet regrets that lady calmady, though handsome and charming when you saw her, was so very eccentric, adding--"of course every one knows there is something very uncomfortable about the little boy!" then would follow confidences as to the disastrous results of popish influences and romanising tendencies; and an openly expressed conviction--more especially on the part of ladies blessed with daughters of marriageable age--that it would have been so very much better for many people if the late sir richard calmady had looked nearer home for a bride. but these comments did not affect katherine. in point of fact they rarely reached her ears. alone among her neighbours, mary cathcart, of the crisp, black hair and gipsy-like complexion, was still admitted to some intimacy of intercourse. and the girl was far too loyal either to bring in gossip or to carry it out. brockhurst held the romance of her heart. and, notwithstanding the earnest wooing--as the years went on--of more than one very eligible gentleman, brockhurst continued to hold it. meanwhile the somewhat quaint fixed star around which this whole system of planets, large and small, very really revolved, shone forth upon them all with a cheerful enough light. for dickie by no means belied the promise of his babyhood. he was a beautiful and healthy little boy, with a charming brilliance of colouring, warm and solid in tone. he had his mother's changeful eyes, though the blue of them was brighter than hers had now come to be. he had her dark eyebrows and eyelashes too, and her finely curved lips. while he bore likeness to his father in the straight, square-tipped nose and the close-fitting cap of bright, brown hair with golden stains in it, growing low in short curling locks on the broad forehead and the nape of the neck--expressing the shape of the head very definitely, and giving it something of antique nobility and grace. and the little lad's appearance afforded, in these pleasant early days at all events, fair index to his temperament. he was gay-natured, affectionate, intelligent, full of a lively yet courteous curiosity, easily moved to laughter, almost inconveniently fearless and experimental; while his occasional thunderbursts of passion cleared off quickly into sunshine and blue sky again. for as yet the burden of deformity rested upon him very lightly. he associated hardly at all with other children, and had but scant occasion to measure his poor powers of locomotion against their normal ones. lady fallowfeild it is true, in obedience to suggestions on the part of her kindly lord and master, offered tentatively to import a carriage load--little ludovic quayle was just the same age as dickie--from the whitney nurseries to spend the day. "good fellow, calmady. i liked calmady," lord fallowfeild had said to her. his conversation, it may be observed, was nothing if not interjectional. "pretty woman, lady calmady---terrible thing for her being left as she is. always shall regret calmady. very sorry for her. always have been sorry for a pretty woman in trouble. ought to see something of her, my dear. the two estates join, and, as i always have said, it's a duty to support your own class. can't expect the masses to respect you unless you show them you're prepared to stand by your own class. just take some of the children over to see lady calmady. pretty children, do her good to see them. rode uncommonly straight did calmady. terribly upsetting thing his funeral. never shall forget it. always did like calmady--good fellow, calmady. nasty thing his death." but katherine's pen was fertile in excuses to avoid the invasion from whitney. lady fallowfeild's small brains and large domestic complacency were too trying to her. and that noble lady, it must be owned, was secretly not a little glad to have her advances thus firmly, though gently, repulsed. for she was alarmed at lady calmady's reported acquaintance with foreign lands and with books; added to which her simple mind harboured much grisly though vague terror concerning the roman church. picture all her brood of little quayles incontinently converted into little monks and nuns with shaven heads! how such sudden conversion could be accomplished lady fallowfeild did not presume to explain. it sufficed her that "everybody always said papists were so dreadfully clever and unscrupulous you never could tell what they might not do next." once, when dickie was about six years old, colonel st. quentin brought his young wife and two little girls to stay at brockhurst. katherine had a great regard for her cousin, yet the visit was never repeated. on the flat poor dick could manage fairly well, his strangely shod feet traveling laboriously along in effort after rapidity; his hands hastily outstretched now and again to lay hold of door-jamb or table-edge, since his balance was none of the securest. but in that delightfully varied journey from the nursery, by way of his mother's bed-room, the chapel-room next door, the broad stair-head,--with its carven balusters, shiny oak flooring, and fine landscapes by claude and hobbema,--the state drawing-room and libraries, to that america of his childish dreams, that country of magnificent distances and large possibility of discovery, the long gallery, he was speedily distanced by the three-year-old betty, let alone her six-year-old sister honoria, a tall, slim, little maiden, daintily high-bred of face and fleet of foot as a hind. this was bad enough. but the stairways afforded yet more afflicting experiences--the descent of even the widest and shallowest flights presented matter of insuperable difficulty; while the ascent was only to be achieved by recourse to all-fours, against the ignominy of which mode of progression dickie's soul revolted. and so the little boy concluded that he did not care much about little girls; and confided to his devoted play-fellow clara--mrs. denny's niece and sometime second still-room maid, now promoted, on account of her many engaging qualities, to be dickie's special attendant--that:-- "they went so quick, they always left him behind, and it was not nice to be left behind, and it was very rude of them to do it; didn't clara think so?" and clara, as in duty and affection bound, not without additional testimony in a certain dimness of her pretty, honest, brown eyes, did indeed very much think so. it followed, therefore, that dickie saw the st. quentin family drive away, nurses and luggage complete, quite unmoved. and returned with satisfaction and renewed self-confidence to the exclusive society of all those dear grown-up people--gentle and simple--who were never guilty of leaving him behind; to that of camp, the old, white bulldog, and young camp, his son and heir, who, if they so far forgot themselves as to run away, invariably ran back again and apologised, fawning upon him and pushing their broad, ugly, kindly muzzles into his hands; and to that of _monsieur pouf_, the gray persian cat, who, far from going too quickly, displayed such majestic deliberation of movement and admirable dignity of waving fluffed tail, that it required much patient coaxing on dickie's part ever to make him leave his cushion by the fire and go at all. but, with the above-mentioned exception, the little boy's self-content suffered but slight disturbance. he took himself very much for granted. he was very curious of outside things, very much amused. moreover, he was king of a far from contemptible kingdom; and in the blessed ignorance of childhood--that finds pride and honour in things which a wider and sadder knowledge often proves far from glad or glorious--it appeared to him not unnatural that a king should differ, even to the point of some slightly impeding disabilities, from the rank and file of his obedient and devoted subjects. for dickie, happily for him, was as yet given over to that wholly pleasant vanity, the aristocratic idea. the rough justice of democracy, and the harsh breaking of all purely personal and individualistic dreams that comes along with it, for him, was not just yet. and richard's continued and undismayed acquiescence in his physical misfortune was fostered, indirectly, by the captivating poetry of myth and legend with which his mind was fed. he had an insatiable appetite for stories, and mademoiselle de mirancourt was an untiring _raconteuse_. on sunday afternoons upon the terrace, when the park lay bathed in drowsy sunshine and sapphire shadows haunted the under edge of the great woods, the pretty old lady--her eyes shining with gentle laughter, for marie de mirancourt's faith had reached the very perfect stage in which the soul dares play, even as lovers play, with that it holds most sacred--would tell dickie--the fairy tales of her church. would tell him of blessed st. francis and of poverty, his sweet, sad bride; of his sermon to the birds dwelling in the oak groves along tiber valley; of the mystic stigmata, marking as with nail prints his hands and feet, and of that indomitable love towards all creatures, which found alike in the sun in heaven and the heavy-laden ass, brothers and friends. or she would tell him of that man of mighty strength and stature, st. christopher, who, in the stormy darkness,--yielding to its reiterated entreaties,--set forth to bear the little child across the wind-swept ford. how he staggered in midstream, amazed and terrified under the awful weight of that, apparently so light, burden; to learn, on struggling ashore at last, that he had borne upon his shoulder no mortal infant, but the whole world and the eternal maker of it, christ himself. these and many another wonder tale of christian miracle did she tell to dickie--he squatting on a rug beside her, resting his curly head against her knees, while the pink-footed pigeons hurried hither and thither, picking up the handfuls of barley he scattered on the flags, and the peacocks sunned themselves with a certain worldly and disdainful grace on the hand-rails of the gray balustrades, and young camp, after some wild skirmish in search of sport, flung himself down panting, his tongue lolling out of his grinning jaws, by the boy's side. and katherine, putting aside her cares as regent of dickie's kingdom and the sorrow that lay so chill against her heart, would tell him stories too, but of a different order of sentiment and of thought. for katherine was young yet, and her stories were gallant--since her own spirit was very brave--or merry, because it delighted her to hear the boy laugh. and often, as he grew a little older, she would sit with her arm round him, in the keen, winter twilights before the lamps were lit, on the broad cushioned bench of the oriel window in the chapel-room. outside, the stars grew in number and brightness as the dusk deepened. within, the firelight played over the white-paneled walls, revealing fitfully the handsome faces of former calmadys--short-lived, passing hence all unsated with the desperate joys of living--painted by vandyke and sir peter lely, or by romney and sir joshua. then she would tell him not only of aladdin, of cinderella, and time-honoured puss-in-boots, but of merlin the great enchanter, and of king arthur and his company of noble knights. and of the loves of sigurd the niblung and brunhilda the wise and terrible queen, and of their lifelong sorrow, and of the fateful treasure of fairy gold which lies buried beneath the rushing waters of the rhine. or she would tell him of those cold, clear, far-off times in the northern sojourning places of our race--tell him of the cow audhumla, alone in the vast plain at the very beginning of things, licking the stones crusted over with hoar frost and salt, till, on the third day, there sprung from them a warrior named bur, the father of bör, the father of odin, who is the father of all the gods. she would tell him of wicked loki too, the deceiver and cunning plotter against the peace of heaven. and of his three evil children--here dickie would, for what reason he knew not, always feel his mother hold him more closely, while her voice took a deeper tone--fenrir the wolf, who, when thor sought to bind him, bit off the brave god's right hand; and jörmungand the midgard serpent, who, tail in mouth, circles the world; and hela, the pale queen, who reigns in niflheim over the dim kingdoms of the dead. and of baldur the bright shining god, joy of asgard, slain in error by höder his blind twin-brother; for whom all things on earth--save one--weep, and will weep, till in the last days he comes again. and of all-father odin himself, plucking out his right eye and bartering it for a draught of wisdom-giving water from mirmir's magic well. again, she would tell him of the end--which it must be owned frightened dickie a little, so that he would stroke her cheek, and say softly, "but, mummy, you really are sure, aren't you, it won't happen for a good while yet?"--of ragnarök, the twilight of the gods; of the fimbul winter, and cheerless sun and hurrying, blood-red moon, and all the direful signs which must needs go before the last great battle between good and evil. and through all of these stories, of christian and heathen origin alike, richard began dimly, almost unconsciously, to trace, recurrent as a strain of austere music, the idea--very common to ages less soft and fastidious than our own--of payment in self-restraint and labour, or in actual bodily pain, loss, or disablement, for all good gained and knowledge won. he found the same idea again when, under the teaching of julius march, he began reading history, and when his little skill in greek and latin carried him as far as the easier passages of the classic poets. dick was a very apt, if somewhat erratic and inaccurate, scholar. his insatiable curiosity drove him forward. he scurried, in childish fashion by all shortcuts available, to get at the heart of the matter--a habit of mind detestable to pedants, since to them the letter is the main object, not the spirit. happily julius was ceasing to be a pedant, even in matters ecclesiastical. he loved the little boy, the mingled charm and pathos of whose personality held him as with a spell. with untiring patience he answered, to the best of his ability, dickie's endless questions, of how and why. and, perhaps, he learned even more than he taught, under this fire of cross-examination. he had never come intimately in contact with a child's mind before; and dickie's daring speculations and suggestions opened up very surprising vistas at times. the boy was a born adventurer; a gaily audacious sceptic moreover, notwithstanding his large swallow for romance, until his own morsel of reason and sense of dramatic fitness were satisfied. and so, having once apprehended that idea of payment, he searched for justification of it instinctively in all he saw and read. he found it again in the immortal story of the siege of troy, and in the long wanderings and manifold trials of that most experimental of philosophers, the great ulysses. he found it too in more modern and more authentic history--in the lives of galileo and columbus, of sir walter raleigh and many another hero and heroine, of whom, because of some unusual excellence of spirit or attainment, their fellow-men, and, as it would seem, the very gods themselves, have grown jealous, not enduring to witness a beauty rivalling or surpassing their own. the idea was all confused as yet, coloured by childish fancies, instinctive merely, not realised. yet it occupied a very actual place in the little boy's mind. he lingered over it silently, caressing it, returning to it again and again in half-frightened delight. it lent a fascination, somewhat morbid perhaps, to all ill-favoured and unsightly creatures--to blind worms and slow-moving toads; to trapped cats and dusty, disabled, winter flies; to a winged sea-gull, property of bushnell, one of the under-gardeners, that paced, picking up loathsome living in the matter of slugs and snails, about the cabbage beds, all the tragedy of its lost power of flight and of the freedom of the sea in its wild, pale eyes. it further provoked dickie to expend all his not inconsiderable gift of draughtsmanship, in the production of long processions of half-human monsters of a grotesque and essentially uncomfortable character. he scribbled these upon all available pieces of paper, including the fly-leaves of todhunter's arithmetic, and of his latin and greek primers. in an evil hour, for the tidiness of his school-books, he came across the ballad of "aiken-drum," with its rather terrible mixture of humour, realism, and the supernatural. from thenceforth for some weeks--though he adroitly avoided giving any direct account of the origin of these grisly imaginative freaks--many margins were adorned, or rather defaced, by fancy portraits of that "foul and stalwart ghaist" the brownie of badnock. so did dickie dwell, through all his childhood and the early years of youth, in the dear land of dreams, petted, considered, sheltered with perhaps almost cruel kindness, from the keen winds of truth that blow forever across the world. which winds, while causing all to suffer and bringing death to the weak and fearful, to the lovers of lies and the makers of them, go in the end to strengthen the strong who dare face them, and fortify these in the acceptance of the only knowledge really worth having--namely, the knowledge that romance is no exclusive property of the past, or eternal life of the future, but that both these are here immediately and actually for whoso has eyes to see and courage to possess. the fairest dreams are true. yet it is so ordered that to know that we must awake from them. and the awakening is an ugly process enough, too often. when dickie was about thirteen, the awakening began for him. it came in time-honoured forms--those of horses and of a woman. chapter ii in which our hero improves his acquaintance with many things--himself included it came about in this wise. roger ormiston was expected at brockhurst, after an absence of some years. he had served with distinction in the sikh war; and had seen fighting on a grand scale in the battles of sobraon and chillianwallah. later, the restless genius of travel had taken hold on him, leading him far eastward into china, and northward across the himalayan snows. he had dwelt among strange peoples and looked on strange gods. he had hunted strange beasts, moreover, and learnt their polity and their ways. he had seen the bewildering fecundity of nature in the tropic jungle, and her barren and terrible beauty in the out-stretch of the naked desert. and the thought of all this set dickie's imagination on fire. the return of roger ormiston was, to him, as the return of the mighty ulysses himself. for a change was coming over the boy. he began to weary of fable and cry out for fact. he had just entered his fourteenth year. he was growing fast; and, but for that dwarfing deformity, would have been unusually tall, graceful and well-proportioned. but along with this increase of stature had come a listlessness and languor which troubled lady calmady. the boy was sweet-tempered enough, had his hours, indeed, of overflowing fun and high spirits. still he was restless and tired easily of each occupation in turn. he developed a disquieting relish for solitude; and took to camping-out on one of the broad window-seats of the long gallery, in company with volumes of captain cook's and hakluyt's voyages, old-time histories of sport and natural history; not to mention robinson crusoe and the merry but doubtfully decent pages of geoffrey gambado. and his mother noted, not without a sinking of the heart, that the window-seat, which in his solitary moods dickie most frequented, was precisely that one of the eastern bay which commanded--beyond the smooth, green expanse and red walls of the troco-ground--a good view of the grass ride, running parallel with the lime avenue, along which the horses from the racing stables were taken out and back, morning and evening, to the galloping ground. then fears began to assail katherine that the boy's childhood, the content and repose of it, were nearly past. small wonder that her heart should sink! on the day of her brother's return, katherine, after rather anxious search, so found richard. he was standing on the book-strewn window-seat. he had pushed open the tall narrow casement and leaned out. the april afternoon was fitfully bright. a rainbow spanned the landscape, from the long water in the valley to the edge of the forest crowning the table-land. here and there showers of rain fell, showing white against huge masses of purple cloud piled up along the horizon. and as katherine drew near, threading her way carefully between the chinese cabinets, oriental jars, and many quaint treasures furnishing the end of the great room, she saw that, along the grass ride, some twenty race-horses, came streeling homeward in single file--a long line of brown, chestnut, black, and of the raw yellows and scarlets of horse-clothing against the delicate green of springing turf and opening leaves. beside them, clad in pepper-and-salt mixture, breeches and gaiters complete, mr. chifney pricked forward soberly on his handsome gray cob. the boys called to one another now and then, admonished a fretful horse breaking away from the string. one of them whistled shrilly a few bars of that then popular but undistinguished tune, "pop goes the weazel." and richard craned far out, steadying himself against the stone mullion on either side with uplifted hands, heedless alike of his mother's presence and of the heavy drops of rain which splattered in at the open casement. "dickie, dickie," katherine called, in swift anxiety. "be careful. you will fall." she came close, putting her arm round him. "you reckless darling," she went on; "don't you see how dangerous the least slip would be?" the boy straightened himself and looked round at her. his blue eyes were alight. all the fitful brightness, all the wistful charm of the april evening was in his face. "but it's the only place where i can see them, and they're such beauties," he said. "and i want to see them so much. you know we always miss them somehow, mummy, when we go out." katherine was off her guard. three separate strains of feeling influenced her just then. first, her growing recognition of the change in richard, of that passing away of childhood which could not but make for difficulty and, in a sense, for pain. secondly, the natural excitement of her brother's homecoming, disturbing the monotony of her daily life, bringing, along with very actual joy, memories of a past, well-beloved yet gone beyond recall. lastly, the practical and immediate fear that dickie had come uncommonly near tumbling incontinently out of the window. and so, being moved, she held the boy tightly and answered rather at random, thereby provoking fate. "yes, my dearest, i know we always miss them somehow when we go out. it is best so. but do pray be more careful with these high windows." "oh! i'm all right--i'm careful enough." his glance had gone back to where the last of the horses passed out of sight behind the red wall of the gardens. "but why is it best so? ah! they're gone!" he exclaimed. katherine sat down on the window-seat, and richard, clinging on to the window-ledge, while she still held him, lowered himself into a sitting position beside her. "thank you, mummy," he said. and the words cut her. they came so often in each day, and always with the same little touch of civil dignity. the courtesy of richard's recognition of help given, failed to comfort her for the fact that help was so constantly required. lady calmady's sense of rebellion arose and waxed strong whenever she heard those thanks. "mother," he went on, "i want to ask you something. you won't mind?" "do i ever mind you questioning me?" yet she felt a certain tightening about her heart. "ah, but this is different! i've wanted to for a long while, but i did not know if i ought--and yet i did not quite like to ask auntie marie or julius. and, of course, one doesn't speak to the servants about anything of that sort." richard's curly head went up with a fine, little air of pride as he said the last few words. his mother smiled at him. there was no doubt as to her son's breeding. "well, what then?" she said. "i want to know--you're sure you don't mind--why you dislike the horses, and never go to the stables or take me there? if the horses are wrong, why do we keep them? and if they're not wrong, why, mother, don't you see, we may enjoy them, mayn't we?" he flushed, looking up at her, spoke coaxingly, merrily, a trifle embarrassed by his own temerity, yet keen to prove his point and acquire possession of this so coveted joy. katherine hesitated. she was tempted to put aside his question with some playful excuse. and yet, where was the use? the question must inevitably be answered one day; and katherine, as had been said, was moved just now, dumbness of long habit somewhat melted. perhaps this was the appointed time. she drew her arm from around the boy and took both his hands in hers. "my dearest," she said, "our keeping the horses is not wrong. but--one of the horses killed your father." richard's lips parted. his eyes searched hers. "but how?" he asked presently. "he was trying it at a fence, and it came down with him--and trampled him." there was a pause. at last the boy asked rather breathlessly: "was he killed then, mother, at once?" it had been katharine's intention to state the facts simply, gravely, and without emotion. but to speak of these things, after so long silence, proved more trying than she had anticipated. the scene in the red drawing-room, the long agony of waiting and of farewell rose up before her after all these years with a vividness and poignancy that refused to be gain-said. "no," she answered, "he lived four days. he spoke to me of many things he wished to do. and--i have done them all, i think. he spoke to me of you----" katherine closed her eyes. "the boy might care for the stables. the boy must ride straight." for the moment she could not look at richard, knowing that which she must see. the irony of those remembered words appeared too great.--"but he suffered," she went on brokenly, "he suffered--ah! my dear----" "mummy, darling mummy, don't look like that!" dickie cried. he wrenched his hands from her grasp and threw his arms impulsively about her neck. "don't--it hurts me. and--and, after all," he added, reasoningly, consolingly, "it wasn't one of these horses, you know. they've never done anybody any harm. it was an accident. there must always be accidents sometimes, mustn't there? and then, you see, it all happened long, long ago. it must have, for i don't remember anything about it. it must have happened when i was a baby." "alas, no," katherine exclaimed, wrung by the pathos of his innocent egoism; "it happened even before then, my dearest, before you were born." with the unconscious arrogance of childhood, richard had, so far, taken his mother's devotion very much as a matter of course. he had never doubted that he was, and always had been, the inevitable centre of all her interests. so now, her words and her bearing, bringing--in as far as he grasped them--the revelation of aspects of her life quite independent of his all-important, little self, staggered him. for the first time poor dickie realised that even one's own mother, be she never so devoted, is not her child's exclusive and wholly private property, but has a separate existence, joys and sorrows apart. instinctively he took his arms from about her neck and backed away into the angle of the window-seat, regarding her with serious and somewhat startled attention. and, doing so, he for the first time realised consciously something more, namely, the greatness of her beauty. for the years had dealt kindly with katherine calmady. not the great sorrows of life, or its great sacrifices, but fretfulness, ignoble worries, sordid cares, are that which draw lines upon a woman's face and harshen her features. at six and thirty lady calmady's skin was smooth and delicate, her colour, still clear and softly bright. her hair, though somewhat darker than of old, was abundant. still she wore it rolled up and back from her forehead, showing the perfect oval of her face. her eyes, too, were darker; and the expression of them had become profound--the eyes of one who has looked on things which may not be told and has chosen her part. her bosom had become a little fuller; but the long, inward curve of her figure below it to the round and shapely waist, and the poise of her rather small hips, was lithe and free as ever. while there was that enchanting freshness about her which is more than the mere freshness of youth or of physical health--which would seem, indeed, to be the peculiar dowry of those women who, having once known love in all its completeness and its strength, of choice live ever afterwards in perfect chastity of act and thought. and a perception not only of the grace of her person, as she sat sideways on the window-seat in her close-fitting, gray gown, with its frilled lace collar and ruffles at the wrists, came to richard now. he perceived something of this more intimate and subtle charm which belonged to her. he was enthralled by the clear sweetness, as of dewy grass newly turned by the scythe, which always clung about her, and by the whispering of her silken garments when she moved. a sudden reverence for her came upon him, as though, behind her gracious and so familiar figure, he apprehended that which belonged to a region superior, almost divine. and then he was seized--it is too often the fate of worshippers--with jealousy of that past of hers of which he had been, until now, ignorant. and yet another emotion shook him, for, in thus realising and differentiating her personality, he had grown vividly, almost painfully, conscious of his own. he turned away, laying his cheek against the stone window-ledge, while the drops of a passing scud of rain beat in on his hot face. "then--then my father never saw me," he exclaimed vehemently. and, after a moment's pause, added, "i am glad of that--very glad." "ah! but, my dearest," lady calmady cried, bewildered and aghast, "you don't know what you are saying--think." richard kept his face to the splashing rain. "i don't want to say anything wrong; but," he repeated, "i am glad." he turned to her, his lips quivering a little, and a desolate expression in his eyes, which told katherine, with only too bitter assurance, that his childhood and the repose of it were indeed over and gone. she held out her arms to him in silent invitation, and drew the dear curly head on to her bosom. "you're not displeased with me, mummy?" "does this seem as if i was displeased?" she asked. then they sat silent once more, katherine swaying a little as she held him, soothing him almost as in his baby days. "i won't lean out of the window again," he said presently, with a sigh of comfort. "i promise that." "there's a darling. but i am afraid we must go. uncle roger will be here soon." the boy raised his head. "mother," he said quickly, "will you send clara, please, to put away these books? and may i have winter to fetch me? i--i'm tired. if you don't mind? i don't care to walk." yet, since happily at thirteen richard's moods were still as many and changeful as the aspects of that same april day, he enjoyed some royally unclouded hours before he--most unwillingly--retired to bed that night. for on close acquaintance the great ulysses proved a very satisfactory hero. roger ormiston's character had consolidated. it was to some purpose that he had put away the pleasant follies of his youth. he looked out now with a coolness and patience, born of wide experience, upon men and upon affairs. he had ceased to lose either his temper or his head. acquiescing with undismayed and cheerful common sense in the fact that life, as we know it, is but a sorry business, and that rough things must of necessity be done and suffered every day, he had developed an active--though far from morbidly sentimental--compassion for the individual, man and beast alike. not that colonel ormiston formulated all that, still less held forth upon it. he was content, as is so many another englishman, to be a dumb and practical philosopher--for which those who have lived with philosophers of the eloquent sort will unquestionably give thanks, knowing, to their sorrow, how often handsome speech is but a cloak to hide incapacity of honest doing. and so, after dinner, under plea of an imperative need of cigars, ormiston had borne dickie off to the gun-room; and there, in the intervals of questioning him a little about his tastes and occupations, had told him stories many and great. for he wanted to get hold of the boy and judge of what stuff he was made. like all sound and healthy-minded men he had an inherent suspicion of the abnormal. he could not but fear that persons unusually constituted in body must be the victims of some corresponding crookedness of spirit. but as the evening drew on he became easy on this point. whatever richard's physical infirmity, his nature was wholesome enough. therefore when, at close upon ten o'clock, lady calmady arrived in person to insist that dickie must go, there and then, straight to bed, she found a pleasant scene awaiting her. the square room was gay with lamplight and firelight, which brought into strong relief the pictures of famous horses and trophies of old-time weapons--matchlocks, basket-handled swords, and neat silver-hilted rapiers, prettiest of toys with which to pink your man--that decorated its white-paneled walls. ormiston stood with his back to the fire, one heel on the fender, his broad shoulders resting against the high chimneypiece, his head bent forward as he looked down, in steady yet kindly scrutiny, at the boy. his face was tanned by the sun and wind of the long sea voyage--people still came home from india by the cape--till his hair and moustache showed pale against his bronzed skin. and to richard, listening and watching from the deep armchair drawn up at right angles to the hearth, he appeared as a veritable demigod, master of the secrets of life and death--beheld, moreover, through an atmosphere of fragrant tobacco smoke, curiously intoxicating to unaccustomed nostrils. dickie had tucked himself into as small a space as possible, to make room for young camp, who lay outstretched beside him. the bull-dog's great underhung jaw and pendulous, wrinkled cheeks rested on the arm of the chair, as he stared and blinked rather sullenly at the fire--moved and choked a little, slipping off unwillingly to sleep, to wake with a start, to stare and blink once more. the embroidered _couvre-pieds_, which dickie had spread across him, gathering the top edge of it up under the front of his eton jacket, offered luxurious bedding. but camp was a typical conservative, slow-witted, stubborn against the ingress of a new idea. this tall, somewhat masterful stranger must prove himself a good man and true--according to bull-dog understanding of those terms--before he could hope to gain entrance to that faithful, though narrow heart. ormiston meanwhile, finely contemptuous of canine criticism, greeted his sister cheerily. "you're bound to give us a little law to-night, kitty," he said, holding out his hand to her. "we won't break rules and indulge in unbridled license as to late hours again, will we, dick? but, you see, we've both been doing a good deal, one way and another, since we last met, and there were arrears of conversation to make up."--he smiled very charmingly at lady calmady, and his fingers closed firmly on her hand.--"we've been getting on famously, notwithstanding our long separation." he looked down at richard again. "fast friends, already, and mean to remain so, don't we, old chap?" thereupon lady calmady's soul received much comfort. her pride was always on the alert, fiercely sensitive concerning richard. and the joy of this meeting had, till now, an edge of jealous anxiety to it. if roger did not take to the boy, then--deeply though she loved him--roger must go. for the same elements were constant in katherine calmady. not all the discipline of thirteen years had tamed the hot blood in her which made her order out the clown for execution. but as ormiston spoke, her face softened, her eyes grew luminous and smiled back at him with an exquisite gladness. the soft gloom of her black velvet dress emphasised the warm, golden whiteness of her bare shoulders and arms. ormiston seeing her just then, understanding something of the drama of her thought, was moved from his habitual cool indifference of bearing. "katherine," he said, "do you know you take one rather by surprise. upon my word you're more beautiful than ever." and richard's clear voice rang out eagerly from the depths of the big chair-- "yes--yes--isn't she, uncle roger--isn't she--delicious?" the man's smile broadened almost to laughter. "you young monkey," he said very gently; "so you have discovered that fact already, have you? well, so much the better. it's a safe basis to start from; don't you think so, kitty?" but lady calmady drew away her hand. the blood had rushed into her face and neck. her beauty, now, for so long, had seemed a negligible quantity, a thing that had outlasted its need and use--since he who had so rejoiced in it was dead. what is the value of ever so royal a crown when the throne it represents has fallen to ruin? and yet, being very much a woman, those words of praise came altogether sweetly to katherine from the lips of her brother and her son. she moved away, embarrassed, not quite mistress of herself, sat down on the arm of richard's chair, leaned across him and patted the bull-dog--who raised his heavy head with a grunt, and slapped dickie smartly in the stomach with his tail, by way of welcome. "you dear foolish creatures," she said, "pray talk of something more profitable. i am growing old, and, in some ways, i am rather thankful for it. all the same, dickie, darling, you positively must and shall go to bed." but colonel ormiston interrupted her. he spoke with a trace of hesitation, turning to the fireplace and flicking the ash off the end of his cigar. "by the bye, katherine, how's mary cathcart? have you seen her lately?" "yes, last week." "then she's not gone the way of all flesh and married?" "no," lady calmady answered. she bent a little lower, tracing out the lines on the dog's wrinkled forehead with her finger. "several men have asked her to marry. but there is only one man in the world, i fancy, whom mary would ever care to marry--poor camp, did i tickle you?--and he, i believe, has not asked her yet." "ah! there," ormiston exclaimed quickly, "you are mistaken." "am i?" katherine said. "i have great faith in mary. i suppose she was too wise to accept even him, being not wholly convinced of his love." lady calmady raised her eyes. ormiston looked very keenly at her. and richard, watching them, felt his breath come rather short with excitement, for he understood that his mother was speaking in riddles. he observed, moreover, that colonel ormiston's face had grown pale for all its sunburn. "and so," katherine went on, "i think the man in question had better be quite sure of his own heart before he offers it to mary cathcart again." ormiston flung his half-smoked cigar into the fire. he came and stood in front of richard. "look here, old chap," he said, "what do you say to our driving over to newlands to-morrow? you can set me right if i've forgotten any of the turns in the road, you know. and you and miss cathcart are great chums, aren't you?" "mother, may i go?" the boy asked. lady calmady kissed his forehead. "yes, my dearest," she said. "i will trust you and uncle roger to take care of each other for once. you may go." the immediate consequence of all which was, that richard went to bed that night with a brain rather dangerously active and eyes rather dangerously bright. so that when sleep at last visited him, it came burdened with dreams, in which the many impressions and emotions of the day took altogether too lively a part, causing him to turn restlessly to and fro, and throw his arms out wide over the cool linen sheets and pillow. for there was new element in dickie's dreams to-night:--namely, a recurrent distress of helplessness and incapacity of movement, and therefore of escape, in the presence of some on-coming multitudinous terror. he was haunted, moreover, by a certain stanza of the ballad of chevy chase. it had given him a peculiar feeling, sickening yet fascinating, ever since he could remember first to have read it, a feeling which caused him to dread reading it beforehand, yet made him turn back to it again and again. and to-night, sometimes richard was himself, sometimes his personality seemed merged in that of witherington, the crippled fighting-man, of whose maiming and deadly courage that stanza tells. and the battle was long and fierce, as from out a background of steeple-shaped, honey-combed rocks and sparse trees with large golden leaves--like those on the panels of the great, lacquered cabinets in the long gallery--innumerable hordes of fanatic chinamen poured down on him, a hideous bedizenment of vermilion war-devils painted on their blue tunics and banners and shields. and he, richard,--or was it he, witherington?--alone facing them all,--they countless in number, always changing yet always the same. from under their hard, upturned hats, a peacock feather erect in each, the cruel, oblique-eyed, impassive faces stared at him. they pressed him back and back against the base of a seven-storied pagoda, the wind bells of which jangled far above him from the angles of its tiers of fluted roofs. and the sky was black and polished. yet it was broad, glaring daylight, every object fearfully distinct. and he was fixed there, unable to get away because--yes, of course, he was witherington, so there was no need of further explanation of that inability of escape. and still, at the same time, he could see chifney on the handsome gray cob, trotting soberly along the green ride, beside the long string of race-horses coming home from exercise. the young leaves were fragile and green now, not sparse and metallic, and the april rain splashed in his face. he tried to call out to tom chifney, but the words died in his throat. if they would only put him on one of those horses! he knew he could ride, and so be safe and free. he called again. that time his voice came. they must hear. were they not his own servants, after all, and his own horses--or would be soon, when he was grown up? but neither the trainer, nor the boys so much as turned their heads; and the living ribbon of brown and chestnut swept on and away out of sight. no one would heed him, no one would hearken to his cry. once his mother and some man, whom he knew yet did not know, passed by him hand in hand. she wore a white dress, and smiled with a look of ineffable content. her companion was tall, gracious in bearing and movement, but unsubstantial, a luminous shadow merely. richard could not see his face. yet he knew the man was of near kin to him. and to them he tried to speak. but it was useless. for now he was not richard any more. he was not even witherington, the crippled fighting-man of the chevy chase ballad. he was--he was the winged sea-gull, with wild, pale eyes, hiding--abject yet fierce--among the vegetable beds in the brockhurst kitchen-gardens, and picking up loathsome provender of snails and slugs. roger ormiston, calm, able, kindly, yet just a trifle insolent, cigar in mouth, sauntered up and looked at the bird, and it crawled away among the cabbages ignominiously, covered with the shame of its incompleteness and its fallen estate. and then from out the honey-combed rocks, under the black, polished sky, the blue tunicked chinamen swept down on richard again with the maddening horror of infinite number. they crushed in upon him, nearer and nearer, pressing him back against the wall of that evil pagoda. the air was hot and musky with their breath and thick with the muffled roar of their countless footsteps. and they came right in on him, trampling him down, suffocating, choking him with the heat of them and the dead weight. shouting aloud--as it seemed to him--in angry terror, the boy woke. he sat up trembling, wet with perspiration, bewildered by the struggle and the wild phantasmagoria of his dream. he pulled open the neck of his nightshirt, leaned his head against the cool brass rail of the back of the bedstead, while he listened with growing relief to the rumble of the wind in the chimney, and the swish of the rain against the casements, and watched the narrow line of light under the door of his mother's room. yes, he was richard calmady, after all, here in his own sheltered world, among those who had loved and served him all his life. nothing hurtful could reach him here, nothing of which he need be afraid. there was no real meaning in that ugly dream. and then dickie paused a moment, still sitting up in the warm darkness, pressing his hands down on the mattress on either side to keep himself from slipping. for involuntarily he recalled the feeling which had prompted his declaration that he was glad his father had never seen him; recalled his unwillingness to walk, lest he should meet ormiston unexpectedly; recalled the instinct which, even during that glorious time in the gun-room, had impelled him to keep the embroidered _couvre-pieds_ carefully over his legs and feet. and, recalling these things, poor dickie arrived at conclusions regarding himself which he had happily avoided arriving at before. for they were harsh conclusions, causing him to cower down in the bed, and bury his face in the pillows to stifle the sound of the tearing sobs which would come. alas! was there not only too real a meaning in that same ugly dream and that shifting of personality? he understood, while his body quivered with the anguish of it, that he had more in common with, and was nearer, far nearer, to the maimed fighting-man of the old ballad, even to the poor seagull robbed of its power of flight, than to all those dear people whose business in life it seemed to pet and amuse him, and to minister to his every want--to the handsome soldier uncle, whose home-coming had so excited him, to julius march, his indulgent tutor, to mademoiselle de mirancourt, his delightful companion, to clara, his obedient playfellow, to brown-eyed mary cathcart, and even to his lovely mother herself! thus did the bitter winds of truth, which blow forever across the world, first touch richard calmady, cutting his poor boyish pride as with a whip. but he was very young. and the young, mercifully, know no such word as the inevitable; so that the wind of truth is ever tempered for them--the first smart of it over--by the sunshine of ignorant and unlimited hope. chapter iii concerning that which, thank god, happens almost every day the merry spring sky was clear, save in the south where a vast perspective of dappled cloud lay against it, leaving winding rivers of blue here and there, as does ribbed sand for the incoming tide. as the white gate of the inner park--the gray unpainted palings ranging far away to right and left--swung to behind them, and henry the groom, after a smart run, clambered up into his place again beside camp on the back seat of the double dog-cart, richard's spirits rose. straight ahead stretched out the long vista of that peculiar glory of brockhurst, its avenue of scotch firs. the trunks of them, rough-barked and purple below, red, smooth and glistering above, shot up some thirty odd feet--straight as the pillars of an ancient temple--before the branches, sweeping outward and downward, met, making a whispering, living canopy overhead, through which the sunshine fell in tremulous shafts, upon the shining coats and gleaming harness of the horses, upon ormiston's clear-cut, bronzed face and upright figure, and upon the even, straw-coloured gravel of the road. the said road is raised by about three feet above the level of the land on either side. on the left, the self-sown firs grow in close ranks. the ground below them is bare but for tussocks of coarse grass and ruddy beds of fallen fir needles. on the right, the fir wood is broken by coppices of silver-stemmed birches, and spaces of heather--that shows a purple-brown against the gray of the reindeer moss out of which it springs. tits swung and frolicked among the tree-tops, and a jay flew off noisily with a flash of azure wing-coverts and volley of harsh discordant cries. the rapid movement, the moist, pungent odour of the woodland, the rhythmical trot of the horses, the rattle of the splinter-bar chains as the traces slackened going downhill, above all the presence of the man beside him, were pleasantly stimulating to richard calmady. the boy was still a prey to much innocent enthusiasm. it appeared to him, watching ormiston's handling of the reins and whip, there was nothing this man could not do, and do skilfully, yet all with the same easy unconcern. indeed, the present position was so agreeable to him that dickie's spirits would have risen to an unusual height, but for a certain chastening of the flesh in the shape of the occasional pressure of a broad strap against his middle, which brought him unwelcome remembrance of recent discoveries it was his earnest desire to ignore, still better to forget. for just at starting there had been a rather bad moment. winter, having settled him on the seat of the dog-cart, was preparing to tuck him in with many rugs, when ormiston said-- "look here, dear old chap, i've been thinking about this, and upon my word you don't seem to me very safe. you see this is a different matter to your donkey-chair, or the pony-carriage. there's no protection at the side, and if the horses shied or anything--well, you'd be in the road. and i can't afford to spill you the first time we go out together, or there'd be a speedy end of all our fun." richard tried to emulate his uncle's cool indifference, and take the broad strap as a matter of course. but he was glad the tongue of the buckle slipped so directly into place; and that henry's attention was engaged with the near horse, which fretted at standing; and that leonard, the footman, was busy making camp jump up at the back; and that his mother, who had been watching him from the lowest of the wide steps, turned away and went up to the flight to join julius march standing under the gray arcade. as the horses sprang forward, clattering the little pebbles of the drive against the body of the carriage, and swung away round the angle of the house, katherine came swiftly down the steps again smiling, kissing her hand to him. still, the strap hurt--not poor dickie's somewhat ill-balanced body, to which in truth it lent an agreeable sense of security, but his, just then, all too sensitive mind. so that, notwithstanding a fine assumption of gaiety, as he kissed his hand in return, he found the dear vision of his mother somewhat blurred by foolish tears which he had resolutely to wink away. but now that disquieting incident was left nearly ten minutes behind. the last park gate and its cluster of mellow-tinted thatched cottages was past. not only out-of-doors and all the natural exhilaration of it, but the spectacle of the world beyond the precincts of the park--into which world he, in point of fact, so rarely penetrated--wooed him to interest and enjoyment. to dickie, whose life through his mother's jealous tenderness and his own physical infirmity had been so singularly circumscribed, there was an element, slightly pathetic, of discovery and adventure in this ordinary afternoon drive. he did not want to talk. he was too busy simply seeing, everything food for those young eyes and brain so greedy of incident and of beauty. he sat upright and stared at the passing show.--at the deep lane, its banks starred with primroses growing in the hollows of the gnarled roots of oaks and ash trees. at sandyfield rectory, deep-roofed, bow-windowed, the red walls and tiles of it half smothered in ivy and coton-easter. at the low, squat-towered, georgian church, standing in its acre of close-packed graveyard, which is shadowed by yew trees and by the clump of three enormous scotch firs in the rectory garden adjoining. at the church farm, just beyond--a square white house, the slated roofs of it running up steeply to a central block of chimneys, it having, in consequence, somewhat the effect of a monster extinguisher. at the rows of pale, wheat stacks, raised on granite straddles; at the prosperous barns, yards, and stables, built of wood on brick foundations, that surround it, presenting a mass of rich, solid colour and of noisy, crowded, animal life. at the fields, plough and pasture, marked out by long lines of hedgerow trees, broken by coppices--these dashed with tenderest green--stretching up and back to the dark purple-blue range of the moorland. at scattered cottages, over the gates of whose gardens gay with daffodils and polyanthus, groups of little girls and babies, in flopping sunbonnets and scanty lilac pinafores, stared back at the passing carriage, and then bobbed the accustomed curtsy. in the said groups were no boys, save of infant years. the boys were away shepherding, or to plough, or bird-minding. for as yet education was free indeed--in the sense that you were free to take it, or leave it, as suited your pocket and your fancy. richard stared too at the pleasant, furze-dotted commons, spinning away to right and left as the horses trotted sharply onward--commons whereon meditative donkeys endured rather than enjoyed existence, after the manner of their kind; and prodigiously large families of yellow-gray goslings streeled after the flocks of white geese, across spaces of fresh sprung grass around shallow ponds, in which the blue and dapple of the sky was reflected. he stared at sandyfield village too--a straight street of detached houses, very diverse in colour and in shape, standing back, for the most part, amid small orchards and gardens that slope gently up from the brook, which last, backed, here by a row of fine elms, there by one of lombardy poplars, borders the road. three or four shops, modest in size as they are ambitious in the variety of objects offered for sale in them, advance their windows boldly. so does the yellow-washed inn, the calmady arms displayed upon its swinging sign-board. a miller's tented waggon, all powdery with flour, and its team of six horses, brave with brass harness and bells, a timber-carriage, and a couple of spring-carts, were drawn up on the half-moon of gravel before the porch; while, from out the open door, came a sound of voices and odour of many pipes and much stale beer. and richard had uninterrupted leisure to bestow on all this seeing, for his companion, colonel ormiston, was preoccupied and silent. once or twice he looked down at the boy as though suddenly remembering his presence and inquired if he was "all right." but it was not until they had crossed the long, white-railed bridge, at the end of sandyfield street--which spans not only the little brown river overhung by black-stemmed alders, but a bit of marsh, reminiscent of the ancient ford, lush with water grasses, beds of king-cups, and broad-leaved docks--not until then did colonel ormiston make sustained effort at conversation. beyond the bridge the road forks. "left to newlands, isn't it?" he asked sharply. then, as the carriage swept round the turn, he woke up from his long reverie; waking richard up also, from his long dream of mere seeing, to human drama but dimly apprehended close there at his side. "oh, well, well!" the man exclaimed, throwing back his head in sharp impatience, as a horse will against the restraint of the bearing-rein. he raised his eyebrows, while his lips set in a smile the reverse of gay. then he looked down at richard again, an unwonted softness in his expression. "been happy?" he said. "enjoyed your drive? that's right. you understand the art of being really good company, dick." "what's that?" "allowing other people to be just as bad company as they like." "i--i don't see how you could be bad company," dickie said, flushing at the audacity of his little compliment. "don't you, dear old chap? well, that's very nice of you. all the same, i find, at times, i can be precious bad company to myself." "oh! but i don't see how," the boy argued, his enthusiasm protesting against all possibility of default in the object of it. richard wanted to keep his hands down,--unconsciousness, if only assumed, told for personal dignity--but in the agitation of protest, spite of himself, he laid hold of the top edge of that same chastening strap. "it must be so awfully jolly to be like you--able to do everything and go everywhere. there must be such a lot to think about." the softness was still upon ormiston's face. "such a lot?" he said. "a jolly lot too much, believe me, very often, dick." he looked away up the copse-bordered road, over the ears of the trotting horses. "you've read the story of blue beard and that unpleasant locked-up room of his, where the poor little wives hung all of a row? well, i'm sorry to say, dick, most men when they come to my age have a room of that sort. it's an inhospitable place. one doesn't invite one's friends to dine and smoke there. at least no gentleman does. i've met one or two persons who set the door open and rather gloried in inviting inspection--but they were blackguards and cads. they don't count. still each of us is obliged to go in there sometimes himself. i tell you it's anything but lively. i've been in there just now." the dappled cloud creeping upward from the southern horizon veiled the sun, the light of which grew pale and thin. the scent of the larch wood, on the right, hung in the air. richard's eyes were wide with inquiry. his mind suffered growing-pains, as young minds of any intellectual and poetic worth needs must. the possibility of moral experience, incalculable in extent as that golden-gray outspread of creeping, increasing vapour overhead, presented itself to him. the vastness of life touched him to fear. he struggled to find a limit, clothing his effort in childish realism of statement. "but in that locked-up room, uncle roger, you can't have dead women--dead wives." ormiston laughed quietly. "you hit out pretty straight from the shoulder, master dick," he said. "happily i can reassure you on one point. all manner of things are hung up in there--some ugly--almost all ugly, now, to my eyes, though some of them had charming ways with them once upon a time. but, i give you my word, neither ugly nor charming, dead nor alive, are there any wives." the boy considered a moment, then said stoutly, "i wouldn't go in there again. i'd lock the door and throw away the key." "wait till your time comes! you'll find that is precisely what you can't do." "then i'd fetch them out, once and for all, and bury them." the carriage had turned in at the lodge gate. soon a long, low, white house and range of domed conservatories came into view. "heroic remedies!" ormiston remarked, amused at the boy's vehemence. "but no doubt they do succeed now and then. to tell you the truth, dick, i have been thinking of something of the kind myself. only i'm afraid i shall need somebody to help me in carrying out so extensive a funeral." "anybody would be glad enough to help you," richard declared, with a strong emphasis on the pronoun. "ah! but the bother is anybody can't help one. only one person in all this great rough and tumble of a world can really help one. and often one finds out who that person is a little bit too late. however, here we are. perhaps we shall know more about it all in the next half hour, if these good people are at home." in point of fact the good people in question were not at home. ormiston, holding reins and whip in one hand, felt for his card-case. "so we've had our journey for nothing you see, dick," he said. and to richard the words sounded regretful. moreover, the drama of this expedition seemed to him shorn of its climax. he knew there should be something more, and pushed for it. "you haven't asked for mary," he said. "and i thought we came on purpose to see mary. she won't like us to go away like this. do ask." colonel ormiston's expression altered, hardened. and richard, in his present hypersensitive state, remembered the cool scrutiny bestowed on the winged sea-gull of his dream last night. this man had seemed so near him just now, while they talked. suddenly he became remote again, all understanding of him shut away by that slight insolence of bearing. still he did as richard prayed him. miss cathcart was at home. she had just come in from riding. "tell her sir richard calmady is here, and would like, if he may, to see her." without waiting for a reply, ormiston unbuckled that same chastening strap silently, quickly. he got down and, coming round to the farther side of the carriage, lifted richard out; while camp, who had jumped off the back seat, stood yawning, whining a little, shaking his heavy head and wagging his tail in welcome on the door-step. with the bull-dog close at his heels, ormiston carried the boy into the house. the inner doors were open, and, up the long, narrow, pleasantly fresh-tinted drawing-room, mary cathcart came to meet them. the folds of her habit were gathered up in one hand. in the other she carried a bunch of long-stalked, yellow and scarlet tulips. her strong, supple figure stood out against the young green of the lawns and shrubberies, seen through the french windows behind her. she walked carefully, with a certain deliberation, thanks to her narrow habit and top-boots. the young lady carried her thirty-one years bravely. her irregular features and large mouth had always been open to criticism. but her teeth, when her lips parted, were white and even, and her brown eyes frankly honest as ever. "why, dickie dear, it is simply glorious to have you and camp paying visits on your own account."--her speech broke into a little cry, while her fingers closed so tightly on the tulips that the brittle stalks snapped, and the gay-coloured bells of them hung limply, some falling on to the carpet about her feet. "roger--colonel ormiston--i didn't know you were home--were here!" her voice was uncontrollably glad. still carrying the boy, ormiston stood before her, observing her keenly. but he was no longer remote. his insolence, which, after all, may have been chiefly self-protective, had vanished. "i'm very sorry--i mean for those poor tulips. i came to pay my respects to mr. and mrs. cathcart, and not finding them was preparing to drive humbly home again. but----" certainly she carried her years well. she looked absurdly young. the brown and rose-red of her complexion was clear as that of the little maiden who had fought with, and overcome, and kissed the rough welsh pony refusing the grip by the roadside long ago. the hint of a moustache emphasised the upturned corners of her mouth--but that was rather captivating. her eyes danced, under eyelids which fluttered for the moment. she was not beautiful, not a woman to make men run mad. yet the comeliness of her body, and the spirit to which that body served as index, was so unmistakably healthful, so sincere, that surely no sane man, once gathering her into his arms, need ask a better blessing.--"but," ormiston went on, still watching her, "nothing would satisfy dick but he must see you. with many injunctions regarding his safety, katherine made him over to me for the afternoon. i'm on duty, you see. where he goes, i'm bound to go also--even to the destruction of your poor tulips." miss cathcart made no direct answer. "sit here, dickie," she said, pointing to a sofa. "but you don't really mind our coming in, do you?" he asked, rather anxiously. the young lady placed herself beside him, drew his hand on to her knee, patted it gently. "mind? no; on the whole, i don't think i do mind very much. in fact, i think i should probably have minded very much more if you had gone away without asking for me." "there, i told you so, uncle roger," the boy said triumphantly. camp had jumped up on to the sofa too. he put his arm comfortably around the dog's neck. it was as well to acquire support on both sides, for the surface of the glazed chintz was slippery, inconveniently unsustaining to his equilibrium. "it's an awfully long time since i've seen mary," he continued, "more than three weeks." "yes, an awfully long time," ormiston echoed, "more than six years." "dear dickie," she said; "how pretty of you! do you always keep count of my visits?" "of course i do. they were about the best things that ever happened, till uncle roger came home." forgetting herself, mary cathcart raised her eyes to ormiston's in appeal. the boy's little declaration stirred all the latent motherhood in her. his fortunes at once passed so very far beyond, and fell so far short of, the ordinary lot. she wondered whether, and could not but trust that, this old friend and newcomer was not too self-centred, too hardened by ability and success to appreciate the intimate pathos of the position. ormiston read and answered her thought. "oh! we are going to do something to change all that," he said confidently. "we are going to enlarge our borders a bit; aren't we, dick? only, i think, we should manage matters much better if miss cathcart would help us, don't you?" richard remembering the locked-up room of evil contents and that proposal of inclusive funeral rites, gave this utterance a wholly individual application. his face grew bright with intelligence. but, greatly restraining himself, he refrained from speech. all that had been revealed to him in confidence, and so his honour was engaged to silence. ormiston pulled forward a chair and sat down by him, leaning forward, his hands clasped about one knee, while he gazed at the tulips scattered on the floor. "so tell miss cathcart we all want her to come over to brockhurst just as often as she can," he continued, "and help us to make the wheels go round a little faster. tell her we've grown very old, and discreet, and respectable, and that we are absolutely incapable of doing or saying anything foolish or naughty, which she would object to--and----" but richard could restrain himself no longer. "why don't you tell her yourself, uncle roger?" "because, my dear old chap, a burnt child fears the fire. i tried to tell miss cathcart something once, long ago. she mayn't remember----" "she does remember," mary said quietly, looking down at richard's hand and patting it as it lay on her lap. "but she stopped me dead," ormiston went on. "it was quite right of her. she gave the most admirable reasons for stopping me. would you care to hear them?" "oh! don't, pray don't," mary murmured. "it is not generous." "pardon me, your reasons were absolutely just--true in substance and in fact. you said i was a selfish, good-for-nothing spendthrift, and so----" "i was odious," she broke in. "i was a self-righteous little pharisee--forgive me----" "why--there's nothing to forgive. you spoke the truth." "i don't believe it," richard cried, in vehement protest. "dickie, you're a darling," mary cathcart said. colonel ormiston left off nursing his knee, and leaned a little further forward. "well then, will you come over to brockhurst very often, and help us to make the wheels go round, and cheer us all up, and do us no end of good, though--i am a selfish, good-for-nothing spendthrift? you see i run through the list of my titles again to make sure this transaction is fair and square and above-board." a silence followed, which appeared to richard protracted to the point of agitation. he became almost distressingly conscious of the man's still, bronzed, resolute face on the one hand, of the woman's mobile, vivid, yet equally resolute face on the other, divining far more to be at stake than he had clear knowledge of. tired and excited, his impatience touched on anger. "say yes, mary," he cried impulsively, "say yes. i don't see how anybody can want to refuse uncle roger anything." miss cathcart's eyes grew moist. she turned and kissed the boy. "i don't think--perhaps--dickie, that i quite see either," she answered very gently. "mary, you know what you've just said?" ormiston's tone was stern. "you understand this little comedy? it means business. this time you've got to go the whole hog or none." she looked straight at him, and drew her breath in a long half-laughing sigh. "oh, dear me! what a plague of a hurry you are in!" she said. "well--then--then--i suppose i must--it is hardly a graceful expression, but it is of your choosing, not of mine--i suppose i must go the whole hog." roger ormiston rose, treading the fallen tulips under foot. and richard, watching him, beheld that which called to his remembrance, not the hopeless and impotent battle under the black polished sky of his last night's dream, but the gallant stories he had heard, earlier last night, of the battles of sobraon and chillianwallah, of the swift dangers of sport, and large daring of travel. here he beheld--so it seemed to his boyish thought--the aspect of a born conqueror, of the man who can serve and wait long for the good he desires, and who winning it, lays hold of it with fearless might. and this, while causing richard an exquisite delight of admiration, caused him also a longing to share those splendid powers so passionate that it amounted to actual pain. mary cathcart's hand slid from under his hand. she too rose to her feet. "then you have actually cared for me all along, all these years," ormiston declared in fierce joy. "of course--who else could i care for? and--and--you've loved me, roger, all the while?" and ormiston answered "yes,"--speaking the truth, though with a difference. there had been interludes that had contributed somewhat freely to the peopling of that same locked-up room. but it is possible for a man to love many times, yet always love one woman best. all this, however, dickie did not know. he only knew they dazzled him--the man triumphantly strong, the woman so bravely glad. he could not watch them any longer. he went hot all over, and his heart beat. he felt strangely desolate too. they were far away from him in thought, in fact, though so close by. dickie shut his eyes, put his arms round the bull-dog, pressed his face hard against the faithful beast's shoulder; while camp, stretching his short neck to the uttermost, nuzzled against him and essayed to lick his cheek. thus did richard calmady gain yet further knowledge of things as they are. chapter iv which smells very vilely of the stable april softened into may, and the hawthorns were in blossom before richard passed any other very note-worthy milestone on the road of personal development. then, greatly tempted, he committed a venial sin; received prompt and coarse chastisement; and, by means of the said chastisement, as is the merciful way of the eternal justice, found unhoped of emancipation. it happened thus. as the spring days grew warm mademoiselle de mirancourt failed somewhat. the darkness and penetrating chill of the english winter tried her, and this year her recuperative powers seemed sadly deficient. a fuller tide of life had pulsed through brockhurst since colonel ormiston's arrival. the old stillness was departing, the old order changing. with that change mademoiselle de mirancourt had no quarrel, since, to her serene faith, all that came must, of necessity, come through a divine ordering and in conformity to a divine plan. yet this more of activity and of movement strained her. the weekly drive over to westchurch, to hear mass at the humble catholic chapel tucked away in a side street, sorely taxed her strength. she returned fortified, her soul ravished by that heavenly love, which, in pure and innocent natures, bears such gracious kinship to earthly love. yet in body she was outworn and weary. on such occasions she would rally julius march, not without a touch of malice, saying:-- "ah! _très cher ami_, had you only followed the ever blessed footsteps of those dear oxford friends of yours and entered the fold of the true church, what fatigue might you not now spare me--let alone the incalculable advantages to your own poor, charming, fatally darkened soul!" while julius--who, though no less devout than of yore, was happily less fastidiously sensitive--would reply:-- "but, dearest lady, had i followed the footsteps of my oxford friends, remember i should not be at brockhurst at all." "clearly, then, everything is well ordered," she would say, folding her fragile hands upon her embroidery frame, "since it is altogether impossible we could do without you. yet i regret for your soul. it is so capable of receiving illumination. you english--even the most finished among you--remain really deplorably stubborn, and nevertheless it is my fate perpetually to set my affections upon one or other of you." it followed that katherine devoted much of her time to mademoiselle de mirancourt, walked slowly beside her up and down the sunny, garden paths sheltered by the high, red walls whereon the clematis and jasmine began to show for flower; or took her for quiet, little drives within the precincts of the park. they spoke much of lucia st. quentin, of katherine's girlhood, and of those pleasant days in paris long ago. and this brought soothing and comfort, not only to the old lady, but to the young lady also--and of soothing and comfort the latter stood in need just now. for it is harsh discipline even to a noble woman, whose life is still strong in her, to stand by and see another woman but a few years her junior entering on those joys which she has lost,--marriage, probably motherhood as well. roger ormiston's and mary cathcart's love-making was restrained and dignified. but the very calm of their attitude implied a security of happiness passing all need of advertisement. and katherine was very far from grudging them this. she was not envious, still less jealous. she did not want to take anything of theirs; but she wanted, she sorely wanted, her own again. a word, a look, a certain quickness of quiet laughter, would pierce her with recollection. once for her too, below the commonplaces of daily detail, flowed that same magic river of delight. but the springs of it had gone dry. therefore it was a relief to be alone with mademoiselle de mirancourt--virgin and saint--and to speak with her of the days before she had sounded the lovely depths of that same magic flood--days when she had known of its existence only by the mirage, born of the dazzle of its waters, which plays over the innocent vacant spaces of a young girl's mind. it was a relief even, though of sterner quality, to go into the red drawing-room on the ground floor and pace there, her hands clasped behind her, her proud head bowed, by the half hour together. if personal joy is dead past resurrection, there is bitter satisfaction in realising to the full personal pain. the room was duly swept, dusted, casements set open to welcome breeze and sunshine, fires lighted in the grate. but no one ever sat there. it knew no cheerfulness of social intercourse. the crimson curtains and covers had become faded. they were not renewed. the furniture, save for the absence of the narrow bed, stood in precisely the same order as on the night when sir richard calmady died. it was pushed back against the walls. and in the wide empty way between the two doors, katherine paced, saturating all her being with thoughts of that which was, and must remain, wholly and inalienably her own--namely, her immense distress. and in this she took the more comfort, because something else, until now appearing wholly her own, was slipping a little away from her. dickie's health had improved notably in the last few weeks. his listlessness had vanished, while his cheeks showed a wholesome warmth of colour. but his cry was ever. "mother, uncle roger's going to such a place. he says he'll take me. i can go, can't i?" or, "mother, mary's going to do such a thing. she says she'll show me how. she may, mayn't she?" and katherine's answer was always "yes." she grudged the boy none of his new-found pleasures, rejoiced indeed to see him interested and gay. yet to watch the new broom, which sweeps so clean, is rarely exhilarating to those that have swept diligently with the old one. the nest had held her precious fledgling so safely till now; and this fluttering of wings, eager for flight, troubled her somewhat. not only was dickie's readiness to be away from her a trifle hard to bear; but she knew that disappointment, of a certainty, lay in wait for him, and that each effort towards wider action would but reveal to him how circumscribed his powers actually were. meanwhile, however, richard enjoyed himself recklessly, almost feverishly, in the attempt to disprove the teaching of that ugly dream, and keep truth at bay. there had been further drives, and the excitement of witnessing a forest fire--only too frequent in the brockhurst country when the sap is up, and the easterly wind and may sun have scorched all moisture from the surface of the moorland. he and mary had bumped over fir roots and scuttled down bridle-paths in the pony-carriage, to avoid the rush of flame and smoke; had skirmished round at a hand gallop, in search of recruits to reinforce ormiston, and iles, and a small army of beaters, battling against the blazing line that threatened destruction to the fir avenue. now and again, with a mighty roar, which sent dickie's heart into his mouth, great tongues of flame, clear as topaz and ruby in the steady sunshine, would leap upwards, converting a whole tall fir into a tree of fire, while the beaters running back, grimed with smoke and sweat, took a moment's breathing-space in the open. there had been more peaceful pastimes as well--several days' fishing, enchanting beyond the power of language to describe. the clear trout-stream meandering through the rich water-meadows; the herds of cattle standing knee-deep in the grass, lazily chewing the cud and switching their tails at the cloud of flies; the birds and wild creatures haunting the streamside; the long dreamy hours of gentle sport, had opened up to dickie a whole new world of romance. his donkey-chair had been left at the yellow-washed mill beneath the grove of silvery-leaved, ever-rustling, balsam poplars. and thence, while ormiston and mary sauntered slowly on ahead, the men--winter in mufti, oblivious of plate-cleaning and cellarage, and the onerous duties of his high estate, stamp, the water-bailiff, and moorcock, one of the under-keepers--had carried him across the great green levels. winter was an old and tried friend, and it was somewhat diverting to behold him in this novel aspect, affable and chatty with inferiors, displaying, moreover, unexpected knowledge in the mysteries of the angler's craft. the other two men--sharp-featured, their faces ruddy as summer apples, merry-eyed, clad in velveteen coats, that bulged about the pockets, and wrinkled leather gaiters reaching halfway up the thigh--charmed richard, when his first shyness was passed. they were eager to please him. their talk was racy. their laughter ready and sincere. did not stamp point out to him a water-ouzel, with impudently jerking tail, dipping and wading in the shallows of the stream? did not moorcock find him a water-rail's nest, hidden in a tuft of reeds and grass, with ten, yellowish, speckled eggs in it? and did not both men pluck him handfuls of cowslips, of tawny-pink avens, and of mottled, snake-headed fritillaries, and stow them away in the fishing-baskets above the load of silver-and-red spotted trout? mary had protested dickie could throw a fly, if he had a light enough rod. and not only did he throw a fly, but at the fourth or fifth cast a fish rose, and he played it--with skirling reel and much advice and most complimentary excitement on the part of the whole good company--and brought it skilfully within range of stamp's landing-net. never surely was trout spawned that begot such bliss in the heart of an angler! as, with panting sides and open gills, this three-quarter-pound treasure of treasures flopped about on the sunny stream bank all the hereditary instinct of sport spoke up clearly in dickie. the boy--such is youthful masculine human nature--believed he understood at last why the world was made! at dressing-time he had his sacred fish carried on a plate up to his room to show clara; and, but for strong remonstrance on the part of that devoted handmaiden, would have kept it by his bedside all night, so as to assure himself at intervals, by sense of touch--let alone that of smell--of the adorable fact of its veritable existence. but all this, inspiring though it was, served but as prelude to a more profoundly coveted acquaintance--that with the racing-stable. for it was after this last that dickie still supremely longed--the more so, it is to be feared, because it was, if not explicitly, yet implicitly forbidden. a spirit of defiance had entered into him. being granted the inch, he was disposed to take the ell. and this, not in conscious opposition to his mother's will; but in protest, not uncourageous, against the limitations imposed on him by physical misfortune. the boy's blood was up, and consequently, with greater pluck than discretion, he struggled against the intimate, inalienable enemy that so marred his fate. and it was this not ignoble effort which culminated in disobedience. for driving back one afternoon, later than usual,--ormiston had met them, and mary and he had taken a by-path home through the woods,--the pony-carriage, turned along the high level road beside the lake, going eastward, just as the string of race-horses, coming home from exercise, passed along it coming west. richard was driving, chaplin, the second coachman, sitting in the dickey at the back of the low carriage. he checked the pony, and his eyes took in the whole scene--the blue-brown expanse of the lake dotted with water-fowl, on the one hand, the immense blue-brown landscape on the other, ranging away to the faint line of the chalk downs in the south; the downward slope of the park, to the great square of red stable buildings in the hollow; the horses coming slowly towards him in single file. cawing rooks streamed back from the fallow-fields across the valley. thrushes and blackbirds carolled. a wren, in the bramble brake close by, broke into sharp sweet song. the recurrent ring of an axe came from somewhere away in the fir plantations, and the strident rasping of a saw from the wood-yard in the beech grove near the house. richard stared at that oncoming procession. half-way between him and the foremost of the horses the tan ride branched off, and wound down the hillside to the stables. the boy set his teeth. he arrived at a desperate decision,--touched up the pony, drove on. chaplin leaned forward, addressing him, over the back of the seat. "better wait here, hadn't we, sir richard? they'll turn off in a minute." richard did not look round. he tried to answer coldly, but his voice shook. "i know. that's why i am going on." there was a silence save for the cawing of the rooks, ring of the axe, and grinding of wheels on the gravel. chaplin, responsible, correct, over five-and-thirty, and fully intending to succeed old mr. wenham, the head coachman, on the latter's impending retirement from active service, went very red in the face. "excuse me, but i have my orders, sir richard," he said. dickie still looked straight ahead. "very well," he answered, "then perhaps you'd better get out and walk on home." "you know i'm bound not to leave you, sir," the man said. dickie laughed a little in uncontrollable excitement. he was close to them now. the leading horse was just moving off the main road, its shadow lying long across the turf. how was it possible to give way with the prize within reach?--"you can go or stay chaplin, as you please. i mean to speak to chifney. i--i mean to see the stables." "it's as much as my place is worth, sir." "oh! bother your place!" the boy cried impetuously.--dear heart alive, how fine they were as they filed by! that chestnut filly, clean made as a deer, her ears laid back as she reached at the bit; and the brown, just behind her--"i mean, i mean you needn't be afraid, chaplin--i'll speak to her ladyship. i'll arrange all that. go to the pony's head." at the end of the long string of horses came the trainer--a square-built, short-necked man, sanguine complexioned and clean shaven. of hair, indeed, mr. chifney could only boast a rim of carroty-gray stubble under the rim of the back of his hard hat. his right eye had suffered damage, and the pupil of it was white and viscous. his lips were straight and purplish in colour. he raised his hat and would have followed on down the slope, but dickie called to him. as he rode up an unwonted expression came over mr. chifney's shrewd, hard-favoured face. he took off his hat and sat there, bare-headed in the sunshine, looking down at the boy, his hand on his hip. "good-day, sir richard," he said. "anything i can do for you?" "yes, yes," dickie stammered, all his soul in his eyes, his cheeks aflame, "you can do just what i want most. take me down, chifney, and show me the horses." here chaplin coughed discreetly behind his hand. but that proved of small avail, save possibly in the way of provocation. for socially between the racing and house stables was a great gulf fixed; and mr. chifney could hardly be expected to recognise the existence of a man in livery standing at a pony's head, still less to accept direction from such a person. servants must be kept in their place--impudent, lazy enough lot anyhow, bless you! on his feet the trainer had been known to decline to moments of weakness. but in the saddle, a good horse under him, he possessed unlimited belief in his own judgment, fearing neither man, devil, nor even his own meek-faced wife with pink ribbons in her cap. moreover, he felt such heart as he had go out strangely to the beautiful, eager boy gazing up at him. "nothing 'ud give me greater pleasure in life, sir richard," he said, "if you're free to come. we've waited a long time, a precious long time, sir, for you to come down and take a look at your horses." "i'd have been to see them sooner. i'd have given anything to see them. i've never had the chance, somehow." chifney pursed up his lips, and surveyed the distant landscape with a very meaning glance. "i dare say not, sir richard. but better late than never, you know; and so, if you are free to come----" again chaplin coughed. "free to come? of course i am free to come," dickie asserted, his pride touched to arrogance. and mr. chifney looked at him, an approving twinkle in his sound eye. "i agree, sir richard. quite right, sir, you're free, of course." stolen waters are sweet, says the proverb. and to richard calmady, his not wholly legitimate experience of the next hour was sweet indeed. for there remains rich harvest of poetry in all sport worth the name, let squeamish and sentimental persons declaim against it as they may. strength and endurance, disregard of suffering have a permanent appeal and value, even in their coarsest manifestations. no doubt the noble gentlemen of the neighbourhood, who "lay at brockhurst two nights" on the occasion of sir denzil's historic house-warming, to witness the mighty bear-baiting, were sensible of something more in that somewhat disgusting exhibition, than the mere gratification of brutal instincts, the mere savage relish for wounds and pain and blood. and to sir denzil's latest descendant the first sight of the training-stable--as the pony-carriage came to a standstill alongside the grass plot in the centre of the great, graveled square--offered very definite and stirring poetry of a kind. on three sides the quadrangle was shut in by one-storied, brick buildings, the woodwork of doors and windows immaculate with white paint. behind, over the wide archway,--closed fortress-like by heavy doors at night,--were the head-lad's and helpers' quarters. on either side, forge and weighing-room, saddler's and doctor's shop. to right and left a range of stable doors, with round swing-lights between each; and, above these, the windows of hay and straw lofts and of the boys' dormitories. in front were the dining-rooms and kitchens, and the trainer's house--a square clock tower, carrying an ornate gilt vane, rising from the cluster of red roofs. twenty years had weathered the raw of brick walls, and painted the tiling with all manner of orange and rusty-coloured lichens; yet the whole place was admirably spick and span, free of litter. many cats, as dickie noted, meditated in sunny corners, or prowled in the open with truly official composure. over all stretched a square of bluest sky, crossed by a skein of homeward-wending rooks. while above the roofs, on either side the archway, the high-lying lands of the park showed up, broken, here and there, by clumps of trees. mr. chifney slipped out of the saddle.--"here boy, take my horse," he shouted to a little fellow hurrying across the yard. "i'm heartily glad to see you, sir richard," he went on. "now, if you care, as your father's son can't very well be off caring, for horses----" "if i care!" echoed dickie, his eyes following the graceful chestnut filly as she was led in over the threshold of her stable. "i like that. that'll do. chip of the old block after all," the trainer said, with evident relish. "well then, since you do care for horses as you ought to, sir richard, we'll just make you free of this establishment. about the most first-class private establishment in england, sir, though i say it that have run the concern pretty well single-handed for the best part of the last fifteen years--make you free of it right away, sir. and, look you, when you've got hold, don't you leave hold." "no, i won't," dickie said stoutly. mr. chifney was in a condition of singular emotion, as he wrapped richard's rug about him and bore him away into the stables. he even went so far as to swear a little under his breath; and chifney was a very fairly clean-mouthed man, unless members of his team of twenty and odd naughty boys got up to some devilry with their charges. he carried richard as tenderly as could any woman, while he tramped from stall to stall, loose-box to loose-box, praising his racers, calling attention to their points, recounting past prowess, or prophesying future victories. and the record was a fine one; for good luck had clung to the masterless stable, as lady calmady's bank-books and ledgers could testify. "vinedresser by red burgundy out of valeria--won two races at the newmarket spring meeting the year before last. lamed himself somehow in the horse-box coming back--did nothing for eighteen months--hope to enter him for some of the autumn events."--then later:--"sahara, by north african out of sally-in-our-alley. beautiful mare? i believe you, sir richard. why she won the oaks for you. jack white was up. pretty a race as ever i witnessed, and cleverly ridden. like to go up to her in the stall? she's as quiet as a lamb. catch hold of her head, boy." and so dick found himself seated on the edge of the manger, the trainer's arm round him, and the historic sahara snuffing at his jacket pockets. then they crossed the quadrangle to inspect the colts and fillies, where glories still lay ahead. "verdigris by copper king out of valeria again. and if he doesn't make a name i'll never judge another horse, sir. strain of the old touchstone blood there. rather ugly? yes, they're often a bit ugly that lot, but devilish good uns to go. you ask miss cathcart about them. never met a lady who'd as much knowledge as she has of a horse. the baby, by punch out of lady bountiful. not much good, i'm afraid. no grip, you see, too contracted in the hoofs. chloroform by sawbones out of sister to castinette." and so forth, an endless repetition of genealogies, comments, anecdotes to which dickie lent most attentive ear. he was keen to learn, his attention was on the stretch. he was in process of initiation, and every moment of the sacred rites came to him with power and value. yet it must be owned that he found the lessening of the strain on his memory and attention not wholly unwelcome when mr. chifney, sitting beside him on the big, white-painted cornbin opposite diplomacy's loose-box, began to tell him of the old times when he--a little fellow of eight to ten years of age--had been among the boys in his cousin, sam chifney's famous stable at newmarket. of the long, weary traveling before the days of railways, when the horses were walked by highroad and country lane, ankle deep in mud, from newmarket to epsom; and after victory or defeat, walked by slow stages all the way home again. of how, later, he had migrated to doncaster; but, not liking the "yorkshire tykes," had got taken on in some well-known stables upon the berkshire downs. "and it was there, sir richard," he said, "i met your father, and we fancied each other from the first. and he asked me to come to him. these stables were just building then. and here i've been ever since." mr. chifney stared down at the clean red quarries of the stable floor, and tapped his neat gaiters with the switch he held in his hand. "rum places, racing stables," he went on, meditatively; "and a lot of rum things go on in 'em, one way and another, as you'll come to know. and it ain't the easiest thing going, i tell you, to keep your hands clean. ungrateful business a trainer's, sir richard--wearing business--shortens a man's temper and makes him old before his time. out by four o'clock on summer mornings, minding your cattle and keeping your eye on those shirking blackguards of boys. no real rest, sir, day or night. wearing business--studying all the meetings and entering your horses where you've reason to reckon they've most chance. and if your horse wins, the jockey gets all the praise and the petting. and if it fails the trainer gets all the blame. yes, it's wearing work. but, confound it all, sir," he broke out hotly, "there's nothing like it on the face of god's earth. horses--horses--horses--why the very smell of the bedding's sweeter than a bunch of roses. love 'em? i believe you. and you'll love 'em too before you've done." he turned and gripped dickie hard by the shoulder. "for we'll make a thorough-paced sportsman of you yet, sir richard," he said, "god bless you--danged if we don't." which assertion mr. chifney repeated at frequent intervals over his grog that evening, as he sat, not in the smart dining-room hung round with portraits of vinedresser and sahara and other equine notabilities, but in the snug, little, back parlour looking out on to the yard. mrs. chifney was a gentle, pious woman, with whom her husband's profession went somewhat against the grain. she would have preferred a nice grocery, or other respectable, uneventful business in a country town, and dissipation in the form of prayer rather than of race-meetings. but as a slender, slightly self-righteous, young maiden she had fallen very honestly and completely in love with tom chifney. so there was nothing for it but to marry him and regard the horses as her appointed cross. she nursed the boys when they were sick or injured, intervened fairly successfully between their poor, little backs and her husband's all-too-ready ash stick; and assisted julius march in promoting their spiritual welfare, even while deploring that the latter put his faith in forms and ceremonies rather than in saving grace. upon the trainer himself she exercised a gently repressive influence. "we won't swear, mr. chifney," she remarked mildly now. "swear! it's enough to make the whole bench of bishops swear to see that lad." "i did see him," mrs. chifney observed. "yes, out of window. but you didn't carry him round, and hear him talk--knowledgeable talk as you could ask from one of his age. and watch his face--as like as two peas to his father's." "but her ladyship's eyes," put in mrs. chifney. "i don't know whose eyes they are, but i know he can use 'em. it was as pretty as a picture to see how he took it all." chifney tossed off the remainder of his tumbler of brandy and water at a gulp. "swear," he repeated, "i could find it in my heart to swear like hell. but i can find it in my heart to do more than that. i can forgive her ladyship. by all that's----" "thomas, forgiveness and oaths don't go suitably together." "well, but i can though, and i tell you, i do," he said solemnly. "i forgive her.--shoot the clown! by g--! i beg your pardon, maria;--but upon my soul, once or twice, when i had him in my arms to-day, i felt i could have understood it if she'd had every horse shot that stood in the stable." he held the tumbler up against the lamp. but it was quite empty. "uncommon glad she didn't though, poor lady, all the same," he added, parenthetically, as he set it down on the table again. "what do you say, maria--about time we toddled off to bed?" chapter v in which dickie is introduced to a little dancer with blush-roses in her hat "her ladyship's inquired for you more than once, sir." this from winter meeting the pony-carriage and the returning prodigal at the bottom of the steps. the sun was low. across the square lawn--whereon the clown had found death some thirteen years before--peacocks led home their hens and chicks to roost within the two sexagonal, pepper-pot summer-houses that fill in the angles of the red-walled enclosure. the pea-fowl stepped mincingly, high-shouldered, their heads carried low, their long necks undulating with a self-conscious grace. dickie's imagination was aglow like that rose-red sunset sky. the virile sentiment of all just heard and seen, and the exultation of admitted ownership were upon him. he felt older, stronger, more secure of himself than ever before. he proposed to go straight to his mother and confess. in his present mood he entertained no fear but that she would understand. "is lady calmady alone?" he asked. "mr. and mrs. cathcart are with her, sir richard." winter leant down, loosening the rug. his usual, undemonstrative speech took on a loftiness of tone. "mrs. william ormiston and her daughter have driven over with mrs. cathcart."--the butler was not without remembrance of that dinner on the day following dickie's birth. socially he had never considered lady calmady's sister-in-law quite up to the brockhurst level. richard leaned back, watching the mincing peacocks. it was so fair here out of doors. the scent of the may hung in the air. the flame of the sunset bathed the façade of the stately house. no doubt it would be interesting to see new people, new relations; but he really cared to see no one just now, except his mother. from her he wanted to receive absolution, so that, his conscience relieved of the burden of his disobedience, he might revel to the full in the thought of the inheritance upon which--so it seemed to him--he had to-day entered. still, in his present humour, dickie's sense of _noblesse oblige_ was strong. "i suppose i've got to go in and help entertain everybody," he remarked. "her ladyship'll think something's wrong, sir richard, and be anxious if you stay away." the boy held out his arms. "all right then, winter," he said. here chaplin again gave that admonitory cough. richard, his face hardening to slight scorn, looked at him over the butler's shoulder. "oh! you need not be uneasy, chaplin. when i say i'll do a thing, i don't forget." which brief speech caused the butler to reflect, as he bore the boy across the hall and up-stairs, that sir richard was coming to have an uncommonly high manner about him, at times, considering his age. an unwonted loudness of conversation filled the chapel-room. it was filled also by the rose-red light of the sunset streaming in through the curve of the oriel-window. this confused and dazzled richard slightly, entering upon it from the silence and sober clearness of the stair-head. a shrill note of laughter.--mr. cathcart's voice saying, "i felt it incumbent upon me to object, lady calmady. i spoke very plainly to fallowfeild."--julius march's delicately refined tones, "i am afraid spirituality is somewhat deficient in that case."--then the high flute-like notes of a child, rising clearly above the general murmur, "_ah! enfin--le voilà, maman. c'est bien lui, n'est-ce pas?_" and with that, richard was aware of a sudden hush falling upon the assembled company. he was sensible every one watched him as winter carried him across the room and set him down in the long, low armchair near the fireplace. poor dickie's self-consciousness, which had been so agreeably in abeyance, returned upon him, and a red, not of the sunset, dyed his face. but he carried his head proudly. he thought of chifney and the horses. he refused to be abashed. and ormiston, breaking the silence, called to him cheerily:-- "hello, old chap, what have you been up to? you gave mary and me the slip." "i know i did," the boy answered bravely. "how d'ye do, mrs. cathcart?" as the latter nodded and smiled to him--a large, gentle, comfortable lady, uncertain in outline, thanks to voluminous draperies of black silk and black lace. "how d'ye do, sir?" this to mr. cathcart--a tall, neatly-made man, but for a slight roundness of the shoulders. seeing him, there remained no doubt as to whence mary inherited her large mouth; but matter for thankfulness that she had avoided further inheritance. for mr. cathcart was notably plain. small eyes and snub nose, long lower jaw, and gray forward-curled whiskers rendered his appearance unfortunately simian. he suggested a caricature; but one, let it be added, of a person undeniably well-bred. "my darling, you are very late," katherine said. her back was towards her guests as she stooped down arranging the embroidered rug across dickie's feet and legs. laying his hand on her wrist he squeezed it closely for a moment. "i--i'll tell you all about that presently, mummy, when they're gone. i've been enjoying myself awfully--you won't mind?" katherine smiled. but, looking up at her, it appeared to richard that her face was very white, her eyes very large and dark, and that she was very tall and, somehow, very splendid just then. and this fed his fearlessness, fed his young pride, even as, though in a more subtle and exquisite manner, his late experience of the racing-stable had fed them. his mother moved away and took up her interrupted conversation with mr. cathcart regarding the delinquencies of lord fallowfeild. richard looked coolly round the room. every one was there--julius, mary, mademoiselle de mirancourt, while away in the oriel-window roger ormiston stood talking to a pretty, plump, very much dressed lady, who chattered, laughed, stared, with surprising vivacity. as dickie looked at her she stared back at him through a pair of gold eye-glasses. against her knee, that rosy light bathing her graceful, little figure, leant a girl about dickie's own age. she wore a pale pink and blue frock, short and outstanding in the skirts. she also wore a broad-brimmed, white hat, with, a garland of blush-roses around the crown of it. the little girl did not stare. she contemplated richard languidly, yet with sustained attention. her attitude and bearing were attractive. richard wanted to see her close, to talk to her. but to call and ask her to come to him was awkward. and to go to her--the boy grew a little hot again--was more awkward still. mrs. ormiston dropped her gold eye-glasses into her lap. "it really is ten thousand pities when these things happen in the wrong rank of life," she said. "rightly placed they might be so profitable." "for goodness sake, be careful, ella," ormiston put in quickly. "oh! my dear creature, don't be nervous. everybody's attending to everybody else, and if they did hear they wouldn't understand. i'm one of the fortunate persons who are supposed never to talk sense and so i can say what i like." mrs. ormiston gave her shrill little laugh. "oh! there are consolations, depend upon it, in a well-sustained reputation for folly!" the laugh jarred on richard. he decided that he did not quite like his aunt charlotte ormiston. all the same he wished the charming, little girl would come to him. "but to return. it's a waste. to some poor family it might have been a perfect fortune. and i hate waste. perhaps you have never discovered that?" ormiston let his glance rest on the somewhat showy figure. "i doubt if william has discovered it either," he remarked. "oh! as to your poor brother william, heaven only knows what he has or has not discovered!--now, helen, this conversation becomes undesirable. you've asked innumerable questions about your cousin. go and make acquaintance with him. i'm the best of mothers of course, but, at times, i really can do quite well without you." now surely this was a day of good fortune, for again dickie had his desire. and a most surprisingly pretty, little desire it proved--seductive even, deliciously finished in person and in manner. the boy gazed at the girl's small hands and small, daintily shod feet, at the small, lovely, pink and white face set in a cloud of golden-brown hair, at the innocent, blue eyes, at the mouth with upturned corners to it. richard was not of age to remark the eyes were rather light in colour, the lips rather thin. the exquisite refinement of the girl's whole person delighted him. she was delicate as a miniature, as a figure carved in ivory. she was like his uncle roger, when she was silent and still. she was like--oh, poor dick!--some bright glancing, small, saucy bird when she spoke and her voice had those clear, flute tones in it. "since you did not come to me, i had to come to you," she said. "i have wanted so much to see you. i had heard about you at home, in paris." "heard about me?" dickie repeated, flattered and surprised. "but won't you sit down. look--that little chair. i can reach it." and leaning sideways he stretched out his hand. but his finger-tips barely touched the top rail. richard flushed. "i'm awfully sorry," he said, "but i am afraid--it isn't heavy--i must let you get it yourself." the girl, who had watched him intently, her hands clasped, gave a little sigh. then the corners of her mouth turned up as she smiled. a delightful dimple showed in her right cheek. "but, of course," she replied, "i will get it." she settled herself beside him, folded her hands, crossed her feet, exposing a long length of fine, open-work, silk stocking. "i desired enormously to see you," she continued. "but when you came in i grew shy. it is so with one sometimes." "you should use your influence, lady calmady," mr. cathcart was saying. "unquestionably the condition of the workhouse is far from satisfactory. and fallowfeild is too lenient. that _laisser-aller_ policy of his threatens to land us in serious difficulties. the place is insanitary, and the food is unnecessarily poor. i am not an advocate for extravagance, but i cannot bear to see discomfort which might be avoided. fallowfeild is the most kind-hearted of men, but he has a fatal habit of believing what people tell him. and those workhouse officials have got round him. the whole matter ought to be subjected to the strictest investigation." "it is very nice of you to have wanted so much to see me," dickie said. his eyes were softly bright. "oh! but one always wants to see those who are talked about. it is a privilege to have them for one's relations." "but--but--i'm not talked about?" the boy put in, somewhat startled. "but certainly. you are so rich. you have this superb _château_. you are"--she put her head on one side with a pretty, saucy, birdlike movement--"_enfin_," she said, "i had the greatest curiosity to make your acquaintance. i shall tell all my young friends at the convent about this visit. i promised them that, as soon as mamma said we should probably come here. the good sisters also are interested. i shall recount a whole history of this beautiful castle, and of you, and your----" she paused, clasped her hands, looking away at her mother, then sideways at richard, bowing her little person backwards and forwards, laughing softly all the while. and her laughing face was extraordinarily pretty under the shade of her broad-brimmed hat. "it is a great misfortune we stay so short a time," she continued. "i shall not see the half of all that i wish to see." then an heroic plan of action occurred to richard. the daring engendered by his recent act of disobedience was still active in him. he was in the humour to attempt the impossible. he longed, moreover, to give this delectable little person pleasure. he was willing even to sacrifice a measure of personal dignity in her service. "oh! but if you care so much, i--i will show you the house," he said. "will you?" she cried. "you and i alone together. but that is precisely what i want. it would be ravishing." poor dickie's heart misgave him slightly; but he summoned all his resolution. he threw off the concealing rug. "i--i walk very slowly, i'm afraid," he said rather huskily, looking up at her, while in his expression appeal mingled pathetically with defiant pride. "but, so much the better," she replied. "we shall be the longer together. i shall have the more to observe, to recount." she was on her feet. she hovered round him, birdlike, intent on his every movement. meanwhile the sound of conversation rose continuous. lady calmady, calling to julius, had moved away to the great writing-table in the farther window. together they searched among a pile of papers for a letter of dr. knott's embodying his scheme of the new hospital at westchurch. mr. cathcart stood by, expounding his views on the subject. "of course a considerable income can be derived from letters of recommendation," he was saying, "in-patient and out-patient tickets. the clergy come in there. they cannot be expected to give large donations. it would be unreasonable to expect that of them." mademoiselle de mirancourt, mrs. cathcart, and mary had drawn their chairs together. the two elder ladies spoke with a subdued enthusiasm, discussing pleasant details of the approaching wedding, which promised the younger lady so glad a future. mrs. ormiston chattered; while ormiston, listening to her, gazed away down the green length of the elm avenue, beyond the square lawn and pepper-pot summer-houses, and pitied men who made such mistakes in the matter of matrimony as his brother william obviously had. the rose of the sunset faded in the west. bats began to flit forth, hawking against the still warm house-walls for flies. and so, unobserved, dickie slipped out of the security of his armchair, and rose to that sadly deficient full height of his. he was nervous, and this rendered his balance more than ever uncertain. he shuffled forward, steadying himself by a piece of furniture here and there in passing, until he reached the wide open space before the door on to the stair-head. and it required some fortitude to cross this space, for here was nothing to lay hold of for support. little helen ormiston had kept close beside him so far. now she drew back, leaving him alone. leaning against a table, she watched his laborious progress. then a fit of uncontrollable laughter took her. she flew half-way across to the oriel-window, her voice ringing out clear and gay, though broken by bursts of irrepressible merriment. "_regardez, regardez donc, maman! ma bonne m'avait dit qu'il était un avorton, et que ce serait très amusant de le voir. elle m'a conseiller de lui faire marcher_." she darted back, and clapping her hands upon the bosom of her charming frock, danced, literally danced and pirouetted around poor dickie. "_moi, je ne comprenais pas ce que c'était qu'un avorton_," she continued rapidly. "_mais je comprends parfaitement maintenant. c'est un monstre, n'est-ce pas, maman_?" she threw back her head, her white throat convulsed by laughter. "_ah! mon dieu, qu'il est drôle_!" she cried. silence fell on the whole room, for sight and words alike were paralysing in their grotesque cruelty. ormiston was the first to speak. he laid his hand somewhat roughly on his sister-in-law's shoulder. "for god's sake, stop this, ella," he said. "take the girl away. little brute," he added, under his breath, as he went hastily across to poor dick. but lady calmady had been beforehand with him. she swept across the room, flinging aside the dainty, dancing figure as she passed. all the primitive fierceness, the savage tenderness of her motherhood surged up within her. katherine was in the humour to kill just then, had killing been possible. she was magnificently regardless of consequences, regardless of conventionalities, regardless of every obligation save that of sheltering her child. she cowered down over richard, putting her arms about him, knew--without question or answer--that he had heard and understood. then gathering him up against her, she stood upright, facing them all, brother, sister, old and tried friends, a terrible expression in her eyes, the boy's face pressed down upon her shoulder. for the moment she appeared alienated from, and at war with, even julius, even marie de mirancourt. no love, however faithful, could reach her. she was alone, unapproachable, in her immense anger and immense sense of outrage. "i will ask you to go," she said to her sister-in-law,--"to go and take your daughter with you, and to enter this house no more." mrs. ormiston did not reply. even her chatter was for the moment stilled. she pressed a handkerchief against the little dancer's forehead, and it was stained with blood. "ah! she is a wicked woman!" wailed the child. "she has hurt me. she threw me against the table. _maman quel malheur ça se verra. il y aura certainement une çicatrice_!" "nonsense," ormiston said harshly. "it's nothing, kitty, the merest scratch." "yes, my dear, we will have the carriage at once,"--this from mr. cathcart to his wife. the incident, from all points of view, shocked his sense of decency. immediate retirement became his sole object. lady calmady moved away, carrying the boy. she trembled a little. he was heavy. moreover, she sickened at the sight of blood. but little helen ormiston caught at her dress, looked up at her. "i hate you," she said, hissing the words out with concentrated passion between her pretty even teeth. "you have spoilt me. i will hate you always, when i grow up. i will never forget." alone in the great state-bedroom next door, a long time elapsed before either richard or katherine spoke. the boy leaned back against the sofa cushions, holding his mother's hand. the casements stood wide open, and little winds laden with the scent of the hawthorns in the park wandered in, gently stirring the curtains of the ebony bed, so that the trees of the forest of this life thereon embroidered appeared somewhat mournfully to wave their branches, while the hart fled forward and the leopard, relentless in perpetual pursuit, followed close behind. there was a crunching of wheels on the gravel, a sound of hurried farewells. then in a minute or two more the evening quiet held its own again. suddenly dickie flung himself down across katherine's lap, his poor body shaken by a tempest of weeping. "mother, i can't bear it--i can't bear it," he sobbed. "tell me, does everybody do that?" "do what, my own precious?" she said, calm from very excess of sorrow. later she would weep too in the dark, lying lonely in the cold comfort of that stately bed. "laugh at me, mother, mock at me?" and his voice, for all that he tried to control it, tore at his throat and rose almost to a shriek. chapter vi dealing with a physician of the body and a physician of the soul history repeats itself, and to katherine just now came most unwelcome example of such repetition. she had foreseen that some such crisis must arise as had arisen. yet when it arose, the crisis proved none the less agonising because of that foreknowledge. two strains of feeling struggled within her. a blinding sorrow for her child, a fear of and shame at her own violence of anger. katherine's mind was of an uncompromising honesty. she knew that her instinct had, for a space at least, been murderous. she knew that, given equal provocation, it would be murderous again. and this was, after all, but the active, objective aspect of the matter. the passive and subjective aspect showed danger also. in her extremity katherine's soul cried out for god--for the sure resting-place only to be found by conscious union of the individual with the eternal will. but such repose was denied her. for her anger against god, even while thus earnestly desiring him, was even more profound than her anger against man. the passion of those terrible early days when her child's evil fortune first became known to her--held in abeyance all these years by constant employment and the many duties incident to her position--returned upon her in its first force. to believe god is not, leaves the poor human soul homeless, sadly desolate, barren in labour as is a slave. but the sorrow of such belief is as a trifle beside the hideous fear that god is careless and unjust, that virtue is but a fond imagination of all-too-noble human hearts, that the everlasting purpose is not good but evil continually. and, haunted by such fears, katherine once again sat in outer darkness. all gracious things appeared to her as illusions; all gentle delights but as passing anodynes with which, in his misery, man weakly tries to deaden the pain of existence for a little space. she suffered a profound discouragement. and so it seemed to her but as part of the cruel whole when history repeated itself yet further, and dr. knott, pausing at the door of richard's bedroom, turned and said to her:-- "it will be better, you know, lady calmady, to let him face it alone. he'll feel it less without you. winter can give me all the assistance i want." then he added, a queer smile playing about his loose lips:--"don't be afraid. i'll handle him very gently. probably i shan't hurt him at all--certainly not much." "ah!" katherine said, under her breath. "you see it is done by his own wish," john knott went on. "i know," she answered. she respected and trusted this man, entertained for him, notwithstanding his harsh speech and uncouth exterior, something akin to affection. yet remembering the part he had played in the fate of the father, it was very dreadful to her that he should touch the child. and dr. knott read her thought. he did not resent it. it was all natural enough! from his heart he was sorry for her, and would have spared her had that been possible. but he discriminated very clearly between primary and secondary issues, never sacrificing, as do feeble and sentimental persons, the former to the latter. in this case the boy had a right to the stage, and so the mother must stand in the wings. john knott possessed a keen sense of values in the human drama which the exigencies of his profession so perpetually presented to him. he waited quietly, his hand on the door-handle, looking at katherine from under his rough eyebrows, silently opposing his will to hers. suddenly she turned away with an impatient gesture. "i will not come with you," she said. "you are right." "but--but--do you think you can really do anything to help him, to make him happier?" katherine asked, a desperation in the tones of her voice. "happier? yes, in the long run, because certainty of whatever kind, even certainty of failure, makes eventually for peace of mind." "that is a hard saying." "this is a hard world." dr. knott looked down at the floor, shrugging his unwieldy shoulders. "the sooner we learn to accept that fact the better, lady calmady. i know it is sharp discipline, but it saves time and money, let alone disappointment.--now as to all these elaborate contrivances i've brought down from london, they're the very best of their kind. but i am bound to own the most ingenious of such arrangements are but clumsy remedies for natural deficiency. man hasn't discovered how to make over his own body yet, and never will. the almighty will always have the whip-hand of us when it comes to dealing with flesh and blood. all the same we've got to try these legs and things----" katherine winced, pressing her lips together. it was brutal, surely, to speak so plainly? but john knott went on quietly, commiserating her inwardly, yet unswerving in common sense. "try 'em every one, and so convince sir richard one way or the other. this is a turning-point. so far his general health has been remarkably good, and we've just got to set our minds to keeping it good. he must not fret if we can help it. if he frets, instead of developing into the sane, manly fellow he should, he may turn peevish, lady calmady, and grow up a morbid, neurotic lad, the victim of all manner of brain-sick fancies--become envious, spiteful, a misery to others and to himself." "it is necessary to say all this?" katherine asked loftily. dr. knott's eyes looked very straight into hers, and there were tears in them. "indeed, i believe it is," he replied, "or, trust me, i wouldn't say it. i take no pleasure in giving pain at this time of day, whether mental or physical. all i want is to spare pain. but one must sacrifice the present to the future, at times, you know--use the knife to save the limb. now i must go to my patient. it isn't fair to keep him waiting any longer. i'll be as quick as i can. i suppose i shall find you here when i've finished?" as he opened the door dr. knott's heavy person showed in all its ungainliness against the brightness of sunlight flooding dickie's room. and to katherine he seemed hideous just then--inexorable in his great common sense, in the dead weight of his personality and of his will, as some power of nature. he was to her the incarnation of things as they are,--not things as they should be, not things as she so passionately desired they might be. he represented rationalism as against miracle, intellect as against imagination, the bitter philosophy of experience as against that for which all mortals so persistently cry out--namely, the all-consoling promise of extravagant hope. as with chains he bound her down to fact. right home on her he pressed the utter futility of juggling with the actual. from the harsh truth that, neither in matters practical nor spiritual is any redemption without shedding of blood he permitted her no escape. and all this katherine's clear brain recognised and admitted, even while her poor heart only rebelled the more madly. to be convinced is not to be reconciled. and so she turned away from that closed door in a veritable tempest of feeling, and went out into the chapel-room. it was safer, her mind and heart thus working, to put a space between herself and that closed door. just then julius march crossed the room, coming in from the stair-head. the austere lines of his cassock emphasised the height and emaciation of his figure. his appearance offered a marked contrast to that of the man with whom katherine had just parted. his occupation offered a marked contrast also. he carried a gold chalice and paten, and his head was bowed reverentially above the sacred vessels. his eyes were downcast, and the dull pallor of his face and his long thin hands was very noticeable. he did not look round, but passed silently, still as a dream, into the chapel. katherine paced the width of the great room, turned and paced back and forth again some half-dozen times, before he emerged from the chapel door. in her present humour she did not want him, yet she resented his abstraction. the physician of the soul, like the physician of the body, appeared to her lamentably devoid of power to sustain and give comfort at the present juncture. this, it so happened, was one of those days when the mystic joy of his priestly office held julius march forcibly. he had ministered to others, and his own soul was satisfied. his expression was exalted, his short-sighted eyes were alive with inward light. tired and worn, there was still a remarkable suavity in his bearing. he had come forth from the holy of holies, and the vision beheld there dwelt with him yet. meanwhile, brooding storm sat on katherine's brow, on her lips, dwelt in her every movement. and something of this julius perceived, for his devotion to her was intact, as was his self-abnegation. throughout all these years he had never sought to approach her more closely. his attitude had remained as delicately scrupulous, untouched by worldliness, or by the baser part of passion, as in the first hour of the discovery of his love. her near presence gave him exquisite pleasure; but, save when she needed his assistance in some practical matter, he refused to indulge himself by passing much time in her society. abstinence still remained his rule of life. but just now, strong with the mystic strength of his late ministrations, and perceiving her troubled state, he permitted himself to remain and pace beside her. "you have been out all day?" katherine said. "yes, i stayed on to the end with rebecca light. they sent for me early this morning. she passed away very peacefully in that little attic at the new lodge looking out into the green heart of the woods." "ah! it's simple enough to die," katherine said, "being old. the difficult thing is to live, being still young." "has my absence been inconvenient? have you wanted me?" julius asked.--those quiet hours spent in the humble death-chamber suddenly appeared to him as an act of possible selfishness. "oh no!" she answered bitterly. "why should i want you? have i not sent roger and mary away? am i not secretly glad dear marie de mirancourt is just sufficiently poorly to remain in her room? when the real need comes--one learns that among all the other merciless lessons--one is best by oneself." for a while, only the whisper of lady calmady's skirts, the soft, even tread of feet upon the thick carpet. then she said, almost sharply:-- "dr. knott is with richard." "ah! i understand," julius murmured. but lady calmady took up his words with a certain heat. "no, you do not understand. you none of you understand, and that is why i am better by myself. mary and roger in their happiness, dear marie in her saintly resignation, and you"--katherine turned her head, smiled at him in lovely scorn--"you, my dear julius, of all men, what should you know of the bitter pains of motherhood, you who are too good to be quite human, you who regard this world merely as the antichamber of paradise, you, whose whole affection is set on your church--your god--how should you understand? between my experience and yours there is a very wide interval. how can you know what i suffer--you who have never loved." under the stress of her excitement katherine's pace quickened. the whisper of her skirts grew to a soft rush. julius kept beside her. his head was bent reverently, even as over the sacred vessels he had so lately carried. "i too have loved," he said at last. katherine stopped short, and looked at him incredulously. "really, julius?" she said. raising his head, he looked back at her. this avowal gave him a strange sense of completeness and mastery. so he allowed his eyes to meet katherine's, he allowed himself to reckon with her grace and beauty. "very really," he answered. "but when?" "long ago--and always." "ah!" she said. her expression had changed. brooding storm no longer sat on her brow and lips. she was touched. for the moment the weight of her personal distress was lifted. dickie and dr. knott together in that bedchamber, experimenting with unlovely, mechanical devices for aiding locomotion and concealing the humiliation of deformity, were almost forgotten. to those who have once loved, love must always supremely appeal. julius appeared to her in a new aspect. she felt she had done him injustice. she placed her hand on his arm with a movement of apology and tenderness. and the man grew faint, trembled, feeling her hand; seeing it lie white and fair on the sleeve of his black cassock. since childhood it was the first, the solitary caress he had received. "pardon me, dear julius," she said. "i must have pained you at times, but i did not know this. i always supposed you coldly indifferent to those histories of the heart which mean so much to some of us; supposed your religion held you wholly, and that you pitied us as the wise pity the foolish, standing above them, looking down. richard told me many things about you, before he brought me home here, but he never told me this." "richard never knew it," he answered, smiling. her perfect unconsciousness at once calmed and pained him. he had kept his secret, all these years, only too well. katherine turned and began to pace again, her hands clasped behind her back. "but, tell me--tell me," she said. "you can trust me, you know. i will never speak of this unless you speak. but if i knew, it would bring us nearer together, and that would be comforting, perhaps, to us both. tell me, what happened? did she know, and did she love you? she must have loved you, i think. then what separated you? did she die?" "no, thank god, she did not die," julius said. he paused. he longed to gain the relief of fuller confession, yet feared to betray himself. "i believe she loved me truly as a friend--and that was sufficient." "oh no, no!" katherine cried. "do not decline upon sophistries. that is never sufficient." "in one sense, yes--in another sense, no," julius said. "it was thus. i loved her exactly as she was. had she loved me as i loved her she would have become other than she was." "ah! but surely you are too ingenious, too fastidious." katherine's voice took tones of delicate remonstrance and pleading. "that would be your danger, in such a case. _le mieux est l'ennemi du bien_, and you would always risk sacrificing the real to the ideal. i am sorry. i would like you to have tasted the fulness of life. even though the days of perfect joy are very few, it is well to have had them----" she threw back her head, her eyebrows drew together, and her face darkened somewhat. "yes, it is well to have had them, though the memory of them cuts one to the very quick."--then her manner changed again, gaining a touch of gaiety. "really i am very unselfish in wishing all this otherwise," she said, "for it would have been a sore trial to part with you. i cannot imagine brockhurst without you. i should have been in great straits deprived of my friend and counselor. and yet, i would like you to have been very happy, dear julius." their pacing had just brought them to the arched doorway of the chapel. katherine stopped, and raising her arm leaned her hand against the stone jamb of it above her head. "see," she went on, "i want to be truly unselfish. i know how generous you are. perhaps you remain here out of all too great kindness towards my poor dick and me. you mustn't do that, julius. you say she is still living. consider--is it too late?" was it indeed too late? all the frustrated manhood cried aloud in julius march. he covered his face with his hands. his carefully restrained imagination ran riot, presenting enchantments. and katherine, watching him, found herself strangely moved. for it was very startling to see this so familiar figure under so unfamiliar an aspect--to see julius march, her everyday companion and assistant, his reticence, his priestly aloofness, his mild and courtly calm, swept under by a tide of personal emotion. lady calmady was drawn to him by deepened sympathy. yet regret arose in her that this man proved to be, after all, but as other men. she was vaguely disappointed, having derived more security than she had quite realised from his apparent detachment and impassibility. and, as an indirect consequence, her revolt against god suffered access of bitterness. for not only was he--to her seeing--callous regarding the fate of the many, but he failed to support those few most devoted to his cause. in the hour of their trial he was careless even of his own elect. "ah! i think it is indeed by no means too late!" she exclaimed. julius march let his hands drop at his sides. he gazed at her and her expression was of wistful mockery--compassionate rather than ironical. then he looked away down the length of the chapel. in the warm afternoon light, the solid and rich brown of the arcaded stalls on either hand, emphasised the harmonious radiance of the great east window, a radiance as of clear jewels.--ranks of kneeling saints, the gold of whose orioles rose in an upward curve to the majestic image of the christ in the central light--a christ risen and glorified, enthroned, his feet shining forever upon heaven's sapphire floor. before the altar hung three silver-gilt lamps of italian workmanship, in the crimson cup of each of which it had so long been julius's pleasure to keep the tongue of flame constantly alive. the habits of a lifetime are not hastily set aside. gazing on these things, his normal attitude returned to him. not that which he essentially was but that which, by long and careful training of every thought, every faculty, he had become, authoritatively claimed him. his eyes fell from contemplation of the glories of the window to that of the long, straight folds of the cassock which clothed him. it was hardly the garb in which a man goes forth to woo! then he looked at lady calmady--she altogether seductive in her innocence and in her wistful mockery as she leaned against the jamb of the door. "you are mistaken, dear katherine," he said. "it has always been too late." "but why--why--if she is free to listen?" "because i am not free to speak." julius smiled at her. his suavity had returned, and along with it a dignity of bearing not observable before. "let us walk," he said. and then:--"after all i have given you a very mutilated account of this matter. soon after i took orders, before i had ever seen the very noble, to me perfect, woman who unconsciously revealed to me the glory of human love, i had dedicated my life, and all my powers--poor enough, i fear--of mind and body to the service of the church. i was ambitious in those days. ambition is dead, killed by the knowledge of my own shortcomings. i have proved an unprofitable servant--for which may god in his great mercy forgive me. but, while my faith in myself has withered, my faith in him has come to maturity. i have learned to think very differently on many subjects, and to perceive that our heavenly father's purposes regarding us are more generous, more far-reaching, more august, than in my youthful ignorance i had ever dreamed. all things are lawful in his sight. nothing is common or unclean--if we have once rightly apprehended him, and he dwells in us. and yet--yet, a vow once made is binding. we may not do evil to gain however great a good." katherine listened in silence. the words came with the power of immutable conviction. she could not believe, yet she was glad to have him believe. "and that vow precludes marriage?" she said at last. "it does," julius answered. for a time they paced again in silence. then lady calmady spoke, a delicate intimacy and affection in her manner, while once more, for a moment, she let her hand rest on his arm. "so brockhurst keeps you--i keep you, dear julius, to the last?" "yes, if you will, to the very last." "i am thankful for that," she said. "you must forgive me if in the past i have been inconsiderate at times. i am afraid the constant struggle, which certain circumstances of necessity create, tends to make me harsh and imperious. i carry a trouble, which calls aloud for redress, forever in my arms. they ache with the burden of it. and there is no redress. and the trouble grows stronger alas. its voice--so dear, yet so dreaded--grows louder, till it deafens me to all other sounds. the music of this once beautiful world becomes faint. only angry discord remains. and i become selfish. i am the victim of a fixed idea. i become heedless of the suffering of those about me. and you, my poor julius, must have suffered very much!" "now, less than ever before," he answered. but even as he spoke, katherine was struck by his pallor, by the drawn look of his features and languor of his bearing. "ah, you have fasted all day!" she cried. "what matter?" he said, smiling. "the body surely can sustain a trifle of hunger, if the soul and spirit are fed. i have feasted royally to-day in that respect. i am strangely at ease. as to baser sort of food, what wonder if i forgot?" the door of dickie's bedchamber opened, letting in long shafts of sunlight, and dr. knott came slowly forward. his aspect was savage. even his philosophy had been not wholly proof against the pathos of his patient's case. it irritated him to fall from his usual relentlessness of common sense into a melting mood. he took refuge in sarcasm, desirous to detect weakness in others, since he was, unwillingly, so disagreeably conscious of it in himself. "well, we're through with our business, lady calmady," he said. "eh! mr. march, what's wrong with you? putty-coloured skin and shortness of breath. a little less prayer and a little more physical exercise is what you want. successful, lady calmady?--umph--i'm afraid the less said about that the better. sir richard will talk it out with you himself. upset? yes, i don't deny he is a little upset--and, like a fool, i'm upset too. you can go to him now, lady calmady. keep him cheerful, please, and give him his head as much as you can." john knott watched her as she moved away. he shrugged his shoulders and thrust his hands into his breeches' pockets. "she's going to hear what she won't much relish, poor thing," he said. "but i can't help that. one man's meat is another man's poison; and my affair is with the boy's meat, even if it should be of a kind to turn his mother's stomach. he shall have just all the chance i can get him, poor little chap. and now, mr. march, i propose to prescribe for you, for you look uncommonly like taking a short-cut to heaven, and, if i know anything about this house, you've got your work cut out for you here below for a long time to come. through with this business? pooh! we've only taken a preliminary canter as yet. that boy's out of the common in more ways than one, and, cripple or no cripple, he's bound to lead you all a pretty lively dance before he's done." chapter vii an attempt to make the best of it the day had been hot, though the summer was but young. a wealth of steady sunlight bathed the western front of the house. all was notably still, save for a droning of bees, a sound of wood-chopping, voices now and again, and the squeak of a wheelbarrow away in the gardens. richard lay on his back upon the bed. he had drawn the blue embroidered coverlet up about his waist; but his silk shirt was thrown open, exposing his neck and chest. his arms were flung up and out across the pillow on either side his gold-brown, close-curled head. as his mother entered he turned his face towards the open window. there was vigour and distinction in the profile--in the straight nose, full chin, and strong line of the lower jaw, in the round, firm throat, and small ear set close against the head. the muscles of his neck and arms were well developed. seen thus, lying in the quiet glow of the afternoon sunshine, all possibility of physical disgrace seemed far enough from richard calmady. he might indeed, not unfitly, have been compared to one of those nobly graceful lads, who, upon the frieze of some greek temple, set forth forever the perfect pattern of temperance and high courage, of youth and health. as katherine sat down beside the bed, richard thrust out his left hand. she took it in both hers, held and stroked the palm of it. but for a time she could not trust herself to speak. for she saw that, notwithstanding the resolute set of his lips, his breath caught in short quick sobs and that his eyelashes were glued in points by late shed tears. and seeing this, katherine's motherhood arose and confronted her with something of reproach. it seemed to her she had been guilty of disloyalty in permitting her thought to be beguiled even for the brief space of her conversation with julius march. she felt humbled, a little in dickie's debt, since she had not realised to the uttermost each separate moment of his trial as each of those moments passed. "my darling, i am afraid dr. knott has hurt you very much," she said at last. "oh! i don't know. i suppose he did hurt. he pulled me about awfully, but i didn't mind that. i told him to keep on till he made sure," richard answered huskily, still turning his face from her. "but none of those beastly legs and things fitted. he could not fix them so that i could use them. it was horrid. they only made me more helpless than before. you see--my--my feet are in the way." the last words came to katherine as a shock. the boy had never spoken openly of his deformity, and in thus speaking he appeared to her to rend asunder the last of those veils with which she had earnestly striven to conceal the disgrace of it from him. she remained very still, bracing herself to bear--the while slowly stroking his hand. suddenly the strong, young fingers closed hard on hers. richard turned his head. "mother," he said, "the doctor can't do anything for me. it's no use. we've just got to let it be." he set his teeth, choking a little, and drew the back of his right hand across his eyes. "it's awfully stupid; but somehow i never knew i should mind so much. i--i never did mind much till just lately. it began--the minding, i mean--the day uncle roger came home. it was the way he looked at me, and hearing about things he'd done. and i had a beastly dream that night. and it's all grown worse since." he paused a minute, making a strong effort to speak steadily. "i suppose it's silly to mind. i ought to be accustomed to it by this time. i've never known anything else. but i never thought of all it meant and--and--how it looked to other people till helen was here and wanted me to show her the house. i--i supposed every one would take it for granted, as you all do here at home. and then i'd a hope dr. knott might find a way to hide it and so help me. but--but he can't. that hope's quite gone." "my own darling," katherine murmured. "yes, please say that!" he cried, looking up eagerly. "i am your darling, mother, aren't i, just the same? dr. knott said something about you just now. he's an awfully fine old chap. i like him. he talked to me for a long time after we'd sent winter away, and he was ever so kind. and he told me it was bad for you too, you know--for both of us. i'm afraid i had not thought much about that before. i've been thinking about it since. and i began to be afraid that--that i might be a nuisance,--that you might be ashamed of me, later, when i am grown up, since i've always got to be like this, you see." the boy's voice broke. "mother, mother, you'll never despise me, who ever does, will you?" he sobbed. and it seemed to lady calmady that now she must have touched bottom in this tragedy. there could surely be no further to go? it was well that her mood was soft; that for a little while she had ceased to be under the dominion of her so sadly fixed idea. in talking with julius march she had been reminded how constant a quantity is sorrow; how real, notwithstanding their silence, are many griefs; how strong is human patience. and this indirectly had fortified her. wrung with anguish for the boy, she yet was calm. she knelt down by the bedside and put her arms round him. "most precious one--listen," she said. "you must never ask me such a question again. i am your mother--you cannot measure all that implies, and so you cannot measure the pain your question causes me. only you must believe, because i tell it you, that your mother's love will never grow old or wear thin. it is always there, always fresh, always ready. in utter security you can come back to it again and again. it is like one of those clear springs in the secret places of the deep woods--you know them--which bubble up forever. drink, often as you may, however heavy the drought or shrunken the streams elsewhere, those springs remain full to the very lip."--her tone changed, taking a tender playfulness. "why, my dickie, you are the light of my eyes, my darling, the one thing which makes me still care to live. you are your father's gift to me. and so every kiss you give me, every pretty word you say to me, is treasured up for his, as well as for your own, dear sake." she leaned back, laid her head on the pillow beside his, cheek to cheek. katherine was a young woman still--young enough to have moments of delicate shyness in the presence of her son. she could not look at him now as she spoke. "you know, dearest, if i could take your bodily misfortune upon me, here, directly, and give you my wholeness, i would do it more readily, with greater thankfulness and delight than i have ever done anything in----" but richard raised his hand and laid it, almost violently, upon her mouth. "oh stop, mother, stop!" he cried. "don't--it's too dreadful to think of." he flung away, and lay at as far a distance as the width of the bed would allow, gazing at her in angry protest. "you can't do that. but you don't suppose i'd let you do it even if you could," he said fiercely. then he turned his face to the sunny western window again. "i like to know that you're beautiful anyhow, mother, all--all over," he said. there followed a long silence between them. lady calmady still knelt by the bedside. but she drew herself up, rested her elbows on the bed and clasped her hands under her chin. and as she knelt there something of proud comfort came to her. for so long she had sickened, fearing the hour when richard should begin clearly to gauge the extent of his own ill-luck; yet, now the first shock of plain speech over, she experienced relief. for the future they could be honest, she and he,--so she thought,--and speak heart to heart. moreover, in his so bitter distress, it was to her--not to mary, his good comrade, not to roger ormiston, the ulysses of his fancy--that the boy had turned. he was given back to her, and she was greatly gladdened by that. she was gladdened too by richard's last speech, by his angry and immediate repudiation of the bare mention of any personal gain which should touch her with loss. katherine's eyes kindled as she knelt there watching her son. for it was very much to find him chivalrous, hotly sensitive of her beauty and the claims of her womanhood. in instinct, in thought, in word, he had shown himself a very gallant, high-bred gentleman--child though he was. and this gave katherine not only proud comfort in the present, but cheered the future with hope. "look here, dickie, darling," she said softly at last, "tell me a little more about your talk with dr. knott." "oh! he was awfully kind," richard answered, turning towards her again, while his face brightened. "he said some awfully jolly things to me." the boy put out his hand and began playing with the bracelets on katherine's wrists. he kept his eyes fixed on them as he fingered them. "he told me i was very strong and well made--except, of course, for it. and that i was not to imagine myself ill or invalidy, because i'm really less ill than most people, you know. and--he said--you won't think me foolish, mother, if i tell you?--he said i was a very handsome fellow." richard glanced up quickly, while his colour deepened. "am i really handsome?" he asked. katherine smiled at him. "yes, you are very handsome, dickie. you have always been that. you were a beautiful baby, a beautiful little child. and now, every day you grow more like your father. i can't quite talk about him, my dear--but ask uncle roger, ask marie de mirancourt what he was when she knew him first." the boy's face flashed back her smile, as the sea does the sunlight. "oh! i say, but that's good news," he said. he lay quite still on his back for a little while, thinking about it. "that seems to give one a shove, you know," he remarked presently. then he fell to playing with her bracelets again. "after all, i've got a good many shoves to-day, mother. dr. knott's a regular champion shover. he told me about a number of people he'd known who had got smashed up somehow, or who'd always had something wrong, you know--and how they'd put a good face on it and hadn't let it interfere, but had done things just the same. and he told me i'd just got to be plucky--he knew i could if i tried--and not let it interfere either. he told me i mustn't be soft, or lazy, because doing things is more difficult for me than for other people. but that i'd just got to put my back into it, and go in and win. and i told him i would--and you'll help me, mummy, won't you?" "yes, darling, yes," lady calmady said. "i want to begin at once," he went on hurriedly, looking hard at the bracelets. "i shouldn't like to be unkind to her, mother, but do you think clara would give me up? i don't need a nurse now. it's rather silly. may one of the men-servants valet me? i should like winter best, because he's been here always, and i shouldn't feel shy with him. would it bore you awfully to speak about that now, so that he might begin to-night?" lady calmady's brave smile grew a trifle sad. the boy was less completely given back to her than she had fondly supposed. this day was after all to introduce a new order. and the woman always pays. she was to pay for that advance, so was the devoted handmaiden, clara. still the boy must have his way--were it even towards a merely imagined good. "very well, dearest, i will settle it," she answered. "you won't mind, though, mother?" katherine stroked the short curly hair back from his forehead. "i don't mind anything that promises to make you happier, dickie," she said. "what else did you and dr. knott settle--anything else?" richard waited, then he turned on his elbow and looked full and very earnestly at her. "yes, mother, we did settle something more. and something that i'm afraid you won't like. but it would make me happier than anything else--it would make all the difference that--that can be made, you know." he paused, his expression very firm though his lips quivered. "dr. knott wants me to ride." katherine drew back, stood up straight, threw out her hands as though to keep off some actual and tangible object of offense. "not that, richard," she cried. "anything in the world rather than that." he looked at her imploringly, yet with a certain determination, for the child was dying fast in him and the forceful desires and intentions of youth growing. "don't say i mustn't, mother. pray, pray don't, because----" he left the sentence unfinished, overtaken by the old habit of obedience, yet he did not lower his eyes. but lady calmady made no response. for the moment she was outraged to the point of standing apart, even from her child. for a moment, even motherhood went down before purely personal feeling--and this, by the irony of circumstance, immediately after motherhood had made supreme confession of immutability. but remembering her husband's death, remembering the source of all her child's misfortune, it appeared to her indecent, a wanton insult to all her past suffering, that such a proposition should be made to her. and, in a flash of cruelly vivid perception, she knew how the boy would look on a horse, the grotesque, to the vulgar, wholly absurd spectacle he must, notwithstanding his beauty, necessarily present. for a moment the completeness of love failed before pride touched to the very quick. "but, how can you ride?" she said. "my poor child, think--how is it possible?" richard sat upright, pressing his hands down on the bedclothes on either side to steady himself. the colour rushed over his face and throat. "it is possible, mother," he answered resolutely, "or dr. knott would never have talked about it. he couldn't have been so unkind. he drew me the plan of a saddle. he said i was to show it to uncle roger to-night. of course it won't be easy at first, but i don't care about that. and chifney would teach me. i know he would. he said the other day he'd make a sportsman of me yet." "when did you talk with chifney?" lady calmady spoke very quietly, but there was that in her tone which came near frightening the boy. it required all his daring to answer honestly and at once. "i talked to him the day aunt ella and helen were here. i--i went down to the stables with him and saw all the horses." "then either you or he did very wrong," lady calmady remarked. "it was my fault, mother, all my fault. chifney would have ridden on, but i stopped him. chaplin tried to prevent me. i--i told him to mind his own business. i meant to go. i--i saw all the horses, and they were splendid," he added, enthusiasm gaining over fear. "i saw the stables, and the weighing-room, and everything. i never enjoyed myself so much before. i told chaplin i would tell you, because he ought not to be blamed, you know. i did mean to tell you directly i came in. but all those people were here."--richard's face darkened. "and you remember what happened? that put everything else out of my head." a pause. then he said: "are you very angry?" katherine made no reply. she moved away round the foot of the bed and stood at the sunny window in silence. bitterness of hot humiliation possessed her. heretofore, whatever her trial, she had been mistress of the situation; she had reigned a queen-mother, her authority undisputed. and now it appeared her kingdom was in revolt, conspiracy was rife. richard's will and hers were in conflict; and richard's will must eventually obtain, since he would eventually be master. already courtiers bowed to that will. all this was in her mind. and a wounding of feeling, far deeper and more intimate than this,--since katherine's nobility of character was great and the worldly aspect, the greed of personal power and undisputed rule, could not affect her for long. it wounded her, as a slight upon the memory of the man she had so wholly loved, that this first conflict between richard and herself should turn on the question of horses and the racing-stable. the irony of the position appeared unpardonable. and then, the vision of poor richard--her darling, whom she had striven so jealously to shield ever since the day, over thirteen years ago, when undressing her baby she had first looked upon its malformed limbs--richard riding forth for all the staring, mocking world to see, again arose before her. thinking of all this, katherine gazed out over the stately home scene--grass plot and gardens, woodland and distant landscape, rich in the golden splendour of steady sunshine--with smarting eyes and a sense of impotent misery that wrapped her about as a burning garment. the boy was beginning to go his own way. and his way was not hers. and those she had trusted were disloyal, helping him to go it. alone, in retirement, she had borne her great trouble with tremendous courage. but how should she bear it under changed conditions, amid publicity, gossip, comment? dickie, meanwhile, had let himself drop back against the pillows. he set his teeth and waited. it was hard. an opportunity of escape from the galling restraints of his infirmity had been presented to him, and his mother--his mother after promise given, after the sympathy of a lifetime; his mother, in whom he trusted absolutely--was unwilling he should accept it! as he lay there all the desperate longing for freedom and activity that had developed in him of late--all the passion for sport, for that primitive, half-savage manner of life, that intimate, if somewhat brutal, relation to nature, to wild creatures and to the beasts whom man by centuries of usage has broken to his service, which is the special heritage of englishmen of gentle blood--sprang up in richard, strong, all compelling. he must have his part in all this. he would not be denied. he cried out to her imperiously:-- "mother, speak to me! i haven't done anything really wrong. i've a right to do what any other boy has--as far as i can get it. don't you see riding is just the one thing to--to make up--to make a man of me? don't you see that?" he sat bolt upright, stretching out his arms to her in fierce appeal, while the level sunshine touched his bright hair and wildly eager face. "mummy, mummy darling, don't you see? try to see. you can't want to take away my one chance!" katherine turned at that reiterated cry, and her heart melted within her. the boy was her own, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh. from her he had life. from her he had also lifelong disgrace and deprivation. was there anything then, which, he asking, she could refuse to give? she cast herself on her knees beside the bed again and buried her face in the sheet. "my precious one," she sobbed, "forgive me. i am ashamed, for i have been both harsh and weak. i said i would help you, and then directly i fail you. forgive me." and the boy was amazed, speechless at first, seeing her broken thus; shamed in his turn by the humility of her attitude. to his young chivalry it was as an impiety to look upon her tears. "please don't cry, mother," he entreated tremulously, a childlike simplicity of manner taking him. "don't cry--it is dreadful. i never saw you cry before."--then, after a pause, he added: "and--never mind about my riding. i don't so very much care about it--really, i don't believe i do--after all." at that dear lie katherine raised her bowed head, a wonderful sweetness in her tear-stained face, tender laughter upon her lips. she drew the boy's hands on to her shoulders, clasped her hands across his extended arms, and kissed him upon the mouth. "no, no, my beloved, you shall ride," she said. "you shall have your saddle--twenty thousand saddles if you want them. we will talk to uncle roger and chifney to-night. all shall be as you wish." "but you're not angry, mother, any more?" he asked, a little bewildered by her change of tone and by the passion of her lovely looks and speech. katherine shook her head, and still that tender laughter curved her lips. "no, i am never going to be angry any more--with you at least, dick. i must learn to be plucky too. a pair of us, dickie, trying to keep up one another's pluck! only let us go forward hand in hand, you and i, and then, however desperate our doings, i at least shall be content." chapter viii telling, incidentally, of a broken-down postboy and a country fair the brockhurst-mail phaeton waited, in the shade of the three large sycamores, before appleyard's shop at farley row. a groom stood stiff and straight at the horses' heads. while upon the high driving-seat, a trifle excited by the suddenness of his elevation, sat richard. he held the reins in his right hand, and stretched his left to get the cramp out of his fingers. his arms ached--there was no question about it. he had never driven a pair before, and the horses needed a lot of driving. for the wind was gusty, piling up heavy masses of black-purple rain-cloud in the southeast. it made the horses skittish and unsteady, and dickie found it was just all he could do to hold them, so that chifney's reiterated admonition, "keep 'em well in hand, sir richard," had been not wholly easy to obey. from out the open shop-door came mingled odour of new leather and of horse clothing. within mr. chifney delivered himself of certain orders; while appleyard--a small, fair man, thin of nose, a spot of violent colour on either cheek-bone--skipped before him goat-like, in a fury of complacent intelligence. for it was not every day so notable a personage as the brockhurst trainer crossed his threshold. to josiah appleyard, indeed--not to mention his two apprentices stretching eyes and ears from the back-shop, to catch any chance word of mr. chifney's conversation--it appeared as though the gods very really condescended to visit the habitations of men. while mrs. appleyard, peeping from behind the wire blind of the parlour, had--as she afterwards repeatedly declared--"felt her insides turn right over," when she saw the carriage draw up. the conversation was prolonged and low toned. for the order was of a peculiar and confidential character, demanding much explanation on the one part, much application on the other. it was an order, in short, wholly flattering to the self-esteem of the saddler, both as tribute to his social discretion and his technical skill. thus did josiah skip goat-like, being glad. meanwhile, richard calmady waited without, resting his aching arms, gazing down the wide, dusty street, his senses lulled by the flutter of the sycamore leaves overhead. the said street offered but small matter of interest. for farley row is one of those dead-alive little towns on the borders of the forest land, across which progress, even at the time in question, , had written ichabod in capital letters. during the early years of the century some sixty odd coaches, plying upon the london and portsmouth road, would stop to change horses at the white lion in the course of each twenty-four hours. that was the golden age of the row. horns twanged, heavy wheels rumbled, steaming teams were led away, with drooping heads, into the spacious inn yard, and fresh horses stepped out cheerily to take their place between the traces. the next stage across spendle flats was known as a risky one. legends of claude duval and his fellow-highwaymen still haunt the woods and moors that top the long hill going northward. and the passengers by those sixty coaches were wont to recover themselves from terrors escaped, or fortify themselves against terrors to come, by plentiful libations at the bar of the handsome red-brick inn. the house did a roaring trade. but now the traffic upon the great road had assumed a local and altogether undemonstrative character. the coaches had fallen into lumber, the spanking teams had each and all made their squalid last journey to the knacker's; and the once famous gentlemen of the road had long lain at rest in mother earth's lap--sleeping there none the less peacefully because the necks of many of them had suffered a nasty rick from the hangman's rope, and because the hard-trodden pavement of the prison-yard covered them. the fine stables of the white lion stood tenantless, now, from year's end to year's end. rats scampered, and bats squeaked in unlovely ardours of courtship, about the ranges of empty stalls and cobweb-hung rafters. yet one ghost from out the golden age haunted the place still--a lean, withered, bandy-legged, little stick of a man, arrayed in frayed and tarnished splendour of sky-blue waist-jacket, silver lace, and jack-boots of which the soles and upper leathers threatened speedy and final divorce. in all weathers this bit of human wreckage--jackie deeds by name--might be seen wandering aimlessly about the vacant yard, or seated upon the bench beside the portico of the silent, bow-windowed inn, pulling at a, too often empty, clay-pipe and spitting automatically. over richard, tender-hearted as yet towards all creatures whom nature or fortune had treated cavalierly, the decrepit postboy exercised a fascination. one day, when driving through the row with mary cathcart, he had succeeded in establishing relations with jackie deeds through the medium of a half-crown. and now, as he waited beneath the rustling sycamores, it was with a sensation of quick, yet half-shy, pleasure, that he saw the disreputable figure lurch out of the inn yard, stand for a minute shading eyes with hand while making observations, and then hobble across the street, touching the peak of a battered, black-velvet cap as it advanced. "be 'e come to zee the show, sir?" the old man coughed out, peering with dim, blear eyes up into the boy's fresh face. "no, we've come about something from appleyard's. i--i didn't know there was a show." "oh! bain't there though, sir richard! i tell 'e there be a prime sight of a show. there be monkeys down town, and dorgs what dances on their 'inder legs, and gurt iron cages chock full er wild beastises, by what they tells me." dickie, feeling anxiously in his pockets for some coin of sufficient size to be worthy of mr. deeds' acceptance, ejaculated involuntarily:--"oh! are there? i'd give anything to see them." "sixpence 'ud do most er they 'ere shows, i expect. the wild beastises 'ud run into a shilling may be."--the old postboy made a joyless, creaking sound, bearing but slightest affinity to laughter. "but you 'ud see your way round more'n a shilling, sir richard. a terrible, rich, young gentleman, by what they tells me." something a trifle malicious obtained in this attempt at jocosity, causing dickie to bend down rather hastily over the wheel, and thrust his offering into the crumpled, shaky hands. "there," he said. "oh! it's nothing. i'm so pleased you--you don't mind. where do you say this show is?" "gor a'mighty bless 'e, sir," the old man whimpered, with a change of tone. "'tain't every day poor old jackie deeds runs across a rich, young gentleman as ull give him 'arf a crown. times is bad, mortal bad--couldn't be much wuss." "i'm so sorry," richard answered. he felt apologetic, as though in some manner responsible for the decay of the coaching system and his companion's fallen estate. "mortal bad, couldn't be no wuss." "i'm very sorry. but about the show--where is it please?" the boy asked again, a little anxious to change the subject. "oh! that there show. 'tain't much of a show neither, by what they tells me." mr. deeds spoke with sudden irritability. uplifted by the possession of a half crown, he became contemptuous of the present, jealous of the past when such coin was more plentiful with him. "not much of a show," he repeated. "the young uns ull crack up most anything as comes along. but that's their stoopidness. never zeed nothing better. law bless 'e, this ain't a patch on the shows i've a' zeen in my day. cock-fightings, and fellows--wi' a lot er money laid on 'em by the gentry too--a-pounding of each other till there weren't an inch above the belt of 'em as weren't bloody. and the irish giant, and dwarfs 'ad over from france. they tell me most frencheys's made that way. ole boney 'isself wasn't much of a one to look at. and i can mind a calf wi' two 'eads-'ud eat wi' both mouths at once, and all the food 'ud go down into the same belly. and a man wi' no arms, never 'ad none, by what they used to tell me----" "ah!" richard exclaimed quickly. "no, never 'ad none, and yet 'ud play the drum wi' 'is toes and fire off a horse pistol. lor, you would 'er laughed to 'av zeen 'im. 'e made fine sport for the folks 'e did." jackie deeds had recovered his good-humour. he peered up into the boy's face again maliciously, and broke into cheerless, creaking merriment. "gor a'mighty 'as 'is jokes too," he said. "i'm thinking, by the curous made creeturs 'e sends along sometimes." "chifney," richard called imperatively. "chifney, are you nearly ready? we ought to get home. there's a storm coming up." "well, we shall get that matter of the saddle done right enough, sir richard," the trainer remarked presently, as the carriage bowled up the street. "don't be too free with the whip, sir.--steady, steady there.--mind the donkey-cart.--bear away to the right. don't let 'em get above themselves. excuse me, sir richard." he leaned forward and laid both hands quietly on the reins. "look here, sir," he said, "i think you'd better let henry lead the horses past all this variety business." the end of the street was reached. on either hand small red or white houses trend away in a broken line along the edge of a flat, grass common, backed by plantations of pollarded oak trees. in the foreground, fringing the broad roadway, were booths, tents, and vans. and the staring colours of these last, raw reds and yellows, the blue smoke beating down from their little stove-pipe chimneys, the dirty white of tent flaps and awnings, stood out harshly in a flare of stormy sunlight against the solid green of the oaks and uprolling masses of black-purple cloud. here indeed was the show. but to richard calmady's eyes it lacked disappointingly in attraction. his nerves were somewhat a-quiver. all the course detail, all the unlovely foundations, of the business of pleasure were rather distressingly obvious to his sight. a merry-go-round was in full activity--wooden horses and most unseaworthy boats describing a jerky circle to the squeaking of tin whistles and purposeless thrumpings of a drum. close by a crop-eared lurcher, tied beneath one of the vans, dragged choking at his chain and barked himself frantic under the stones and teasing of a knot of idle boys. a half-tipsy slut of a woman threatened a child, who, in soiled tights and spangles, crouched against the muddy hind-wheel of a wagon, tears dribbling down his cheeks, his arm raised to ward off the impending blow. from the menagerie--an amorphous huddle of gray tents, ranged behind a flight of wooden steps leading up to an open gallery hung with advertisements of the many attractions within--came the hideous laughter of a hyena, and the sullen roar of a lion weary of the rows of stolid english faces staring daily, hourly, between the bars of his foul and narrow cage, heart-sick with longing for sight of the open, starlit heaven and the white-domed, moslem tombs amid the prickly, desert thickets and plains of clean, hot sand. on the edge of the encampment horses grazed--sorry beasts for the most part, galled, broken-kneed and spavined, weary and heart-sick as the captive lion. but weary not from idleness, as he. weary from heavy loads and hard traveling and scant provender. sick of collar and whip and reiterated curses. about the tents and booths, across the grass, and along the roadway, loitered a sad-coloured, country crowd. even to the children, it took its pleasure slowly and silently; save in the case of a hulking, young carter in a smock-frock, who, being pretty far gone in liquor, alternately shouted bawdy songs and offered invitation to the company generally to come on and have its head punched. such were the pictures that impressed themselves upon richard's brain as henry led the dancing carriage-horses up the road. and it must be owned that from this first sight of life, as the common populations live it, his soul revolted. delicately nurtured, finely bred, his sensibility accentuated by the prickings of that thorn in the flesh which was so intimate a part of his otherwise noble heritage, the grossness and brutality of much which most boys of his age have already learnt to take for granted affected him to the point of loathing. and more especially did he loathe the last picture presented to him on the outskirts of the common. at the door of a gaudily-painted van, somewhat apart from the rest, stood a strapping lass, tambourine in one hand, tin mug for the holding of pennies in the other. she wore a black, velvet bodice, rusty with age, and a blue, silk skirt of doubtful cleanliness, looped up over a widely distended scarlet petticoat. rows of amber beads encircled her brown throat. she laughed and leered, bold-eyed and coarsely alluring, at a couple of sheepish country lads on the green below. she called to them, pointing over her shoulder with the tin cup, to the sign-board of her show. at the painting on that board richard calmady gave one glance. his lips grew thin and his face white. he jerked at the reins, causing the horses to start and swerve. was it possible that, as old jackie deeds said, god almighty had his jokes too, jokes at the expense of his own creation? that in cynical abuse of human impotence, as a wanton pastime, he sent human beings forth into the world thus ludicrously defective? the thought was unformulated. it amounted hardly to a thought indeed,--was but a blind terror of insecurity, which, coursing through the boy's mind, filled him with agonised and angry pity towards all disgraced fellow-beings, all enslaved and captive beasts. dimly he recognised his kinship to all such. meanwhile the carriage bowled along the smooth road and up the long hill, bordered by fir and beech plantations, which leads to spendle flats. and there, in the open, the storm came down, in rolling thunder and lashing rain. tall, shifting, white columns chased each other madly across the bronze expanse of the moorland. chifney, mindful of his charge, hurried dickie into a greatcoat, buttoned it carefully round him, offered to drive, almost insisted on doing so. but the boy refused curtly. he welcomed the stinging rain, the swirling wind, the swift glare of lightning, the ache and strain of holding the pulling horses. the violence of it all heated his blood as with the stern passion of battle. and under the influence of that passion his humour changed from agonised pity to a fierce determination of conquest. he would fight, he would come through, he would win, he would slay dragons. prometheus-like he would defy the gods. again his thought was unformulated, little more than the push of young, untamed energy impatient of opposition. but that he could face this wild mood of nature and control and guide these high-mettled, headstrong horses gave him coolness and self-confidence. it yielded him assurance that there was, after all, an immensity of distance between himself and all caged, outworn creatures, and that the horrible example of deformity upon the brazen-faced girl's show-board had really nothing to do with him. dickie's last humour was less noble than his first, it is to be feared. but in all healthy natures, in all those in whom the love of beauty is keen, there must be in youth strong repudiation of the brotherhood of suffering. time will teach a finer and deeper lesson to those that have faith and courage to receive it; yet it is well the young should defy sorrow, hate suffering, gallantly, however hopelessly, fight. and the warlike instinct remained by dickie all that evening. he was determined to assert himself, to measure his power, to obtain. while winter was helping him dress for dinner he gave orders that his chair should be placed at the bottom of the table. "but the colonel sits there, sir richard." dickie's face did not give in the least. "he has sat there," he answered rather shortly. "but i have spoken to her ladyship, and in future he will sit by her. i'll go down early, winter. i prefer being in my place when the others come in." it must be added that ormiston accepted his deposition in the best possible spirit, patting the boy on the shoulder as he passed him. "quite right, old chap. i like to see you there. claim your own, and keep it." at which a lump rose in dickie's throat, nearly causing him to choke over his first spoonful of soup. but mary cathcart whose kind eyes saw most things, smiled first upon her lover and then upon him, and began talking to him of horses, as one sportsman to another. and so dickie speedily recovered himself, and grew eager, playing host very prettily at his own table. he demanded to sit up to prayers, moreover, and took his place in the dead richard calmady's stall nearest the altar rails on the left. next him was dr. knott, who had come in unexpectedly just before dinner. he had the boy a little on his mind; and, while contemptuous of his own weakness in the matter, wanted badly to know just how he was. lady calmady had begged him to stay. he could be excellent company when he pleased. he had laid aside his roughness of manner and been excellent company to-night. next him was ormiston, while the seats immediately below were occupied by the men-servants, winter at their head. opposite to richard, across the chapel, sat lady calmady. the fair, summer moonlight streaming in through the east window spread a network of fairy jewels upon her stately, gray-clad figure and beautiful head. beside her was mary cathcart, and then came a range of dark, vacant stalls. and below these was a long line of women-servants, ranging from denny, in rustling, black silk, and clara,--alert and pretty, though a trifle tearful,--through many grades and orders, down to the little scullery-maid, fresh from the keeper's cottage on the warren--homesick, and half scared by the grand gentlemen and ladies in evening-dress, by the strange, lovely figures in the stained-glass windows, by the great, gold cross and flowers, and the rich altar-cloth and costly hangings but half seen in the conflicting light of the moonbeams and quivering candles. john knott was impressed by the scene too, though hardly on the same lines as the little scullery-maid. he had long ago passed the doors of orthodoxy and dogma. christian church and heathen temple--could he have had the interesting experience of entering the latter--were alike to him. the attitude and office of the priest, the same in every age and under every form of religion, filled him with cynical scorn. yet he had to own there was something inexpressibly touching in the nightly gathering together of this great household, gentle and simple; and in this bowing before the source of the impenetrable mystery which surrounds and encloses the so curiously urgent and vivid consciousness of the individual. he had to own, too, that there was something inexpressibly touching in the tones of julius march's voice as he read of the young galilean prophet "going about and doing good"--simple and gracious record of human tenderness and pity, upon which, in the course of centuries, the colossal fabric of the modern christianity, catholic and protestant, has been built up. "'and great multitudes came to him,'" read julius, "'having with them those that were lame, blind, dumb, maimed, and many others, and cast them down at jesus' feet, and he healed them; insomuch that the multitude marveled when they saw the dumb to speak, and the maimed to be whole, and the lame to walk----'" how simple it all sounded in that sweet, old-world story! and yet how lamentably, in striving to accomplish just these same things, his own far-reaching science failed! "'the maimed to be whole, the lame to walk'"--involuntarily he looked round at the boy beside him. richard leaned back in his stall, tired with the long day and its varying emotions. his eyes were half closed, and his profile showed pale as wax against the background of dark woodwork. his eyebrows were drawn into a slight frown, and his face bore a peculiar expression of reticence. once he glanced up at the reader, as though on a sudden a pleasant thought occurred to him. but the movement was a passing one. he leaned back in his stall again and folded his arms, with a movement of quiet pride, almost of contempt. later that night, as her custom was, katherine opened the door of richard's room softly, and entering bent over his bed in the warm dimness to give him a last look before going to rest herself. to-night dickie was awake. he put his arms round her coaxingly. "stay a little, mummy darling," he said. "i am not a bit sleepy. i want to talk." katherine sat down on the edge of the bed. all the mass of her hair was unbound, and fell in a cloud about her to the waist. richard, leaning on one elbow, gathered it together, held and kissed it. he was possessed by the sense of his mother's great beauty. she seemed so magnificently far removed from all that is coarse, spoiled, or degraded. she seemed so superb, so exquisite a personage. so he gazed at her, kissed her hair, and gently touched her arms, where the open sleeves of her white dressing-gown left them bare, in reverential ecstasy. katherine became almost perplexed. "my dearest, what is it?" she asked at last. "oh! it's only that you're so perfect, mother," he said. "you make me feel so safe somehow. i'm never afraid when you are there." "afraid of what?" she asked. a hope came upon her that he had grown nervous of riding, and wanted her to help him to retire gracefully from the matter. but his next words undeceived her. he threw himself back against the pillow and clasped his hands under his head. "that's just it," he said. "i don't know exactly what i am afraid of, and yet i do get awfully scared at times. i suppose, mother, if one's in a good position--the position we're in, you know--nobody can ill-use one very much?" lady calmady's eyes blazed with indignation. "ill-use you? who has ever dared to hint at, to dream of such a thing, dear richard?" "oh, no one--no one! only i can't help wondering about things, you know. and some--some people do get most awfully ill-used. i can't help seeing that." katherine paused before answering. the boy did not look at her. she spoke with quiet conviction, her eyes gazing out into the dimness of the room. "i know," she said, almost reluctantly. "and perhaps it is as well you should know it too, though it is sad knowledge. people are not always very considerate of one another. but ill-usage cannot touch you, my dearest. you are saved by love, by position, by wealth." "you are sure of that, mother?" "sure? of course i am sure, darling," she answered. yet even while speaking her heart sank. richard remained silent for a space. then he said, with certain hesitancy: "mother, tell me, it is true then that i am rich?" "quite true, dick." "but sometimes people lose their money." katherine smiled.--"your money is not kept in a stocking, dearest." "i don't suppose it is," the boy said, turning towards her. "but don't banks break?" "yes, banks break. but a good many broken banks would not affect you. it is too long a story to tell you now, dickie, but your income is very safe. it would almost need a revolution to ruin you. you are rich now; and i am able to save considerable sums for you yearly." "it's--it's awfully good of you to take so much trouble for me, mother," he interrupted, stroking her bare arm again delicately. to katherine his half-shy endearments were the most delicious thing in life--so delicious that at moments she could hardly endure them. they made her heart too full. "eight years hence, when you come of age and i give account of my stewardship, you will be very rich," she said. richard lay quite still, his eyes again fixed on the dimness. "that--that's good news," he said at last, drawing a long breath. "i saw things to-day, mother, while we were driving. it was nobody's fault. there was a fair with a menagerie and shows at farley row. i couldn't help seeing. don't ask me about it, mother. i'd rather forget, if i can. only it made me understand that it is safer for any one--well, any one like--me--don't you know, to be rich." richard sat up, flung his arms round her and kissed her with sudden passion. "beautiful mother, honey-sweet mother," he cried, "you've told me just everything i wanted to know. i won't be afraid any more." then he added, in a charming little tone of authority: "now you mustn't stay here any longer. you must be tired. you must go to bed and go to sleep." book iii la belle dame sans merci chapter i in which our hero's world grows sensibly wider in the autumn of richard calmady went up to oxford. not through ostentation, but in obedience to the exigencies of the case, his going was in a somewhat princely sort, so that the venerable city, moved from the completeness of her scholarly and historic calm, turned her eyes, in a flutter of quite mundane excitement, upon the newcomer. julius march accompanied richard. time and thought had moved forward; but the towers and spires of oxford, her fair cloisters and enchanting gardens, her green meadows and noble elms, her rivers, isis and cherwell, remained as when julius too had been among the young and ardent of her sons. he was greatly touched by this return to the holy city of his early manhood. he renewed old friendships. he reviewed the past, taking the measure calmly of what life had promised, what it had given of good. a pleasant house had been secured in st. giles' street; and a contingent of the brockhurst household, headed by winter, went with the two gentlemen, while chaplin and a couple of grooms preceded them, in charge of a goodly number of horse-boxes. for that first saddle, fashioned now some six years ago by josiah appleyard of farley row, had worked something as near a miracle as ever yet was worked by pigskin. it was a singularly ugly saddle, running up into a peak front and back, furnished with a complicated system of straps and buckles and--in place of stirrups and stirrup-leathers--with a pair of contrivances resembling old-fashioned holsters. mary cathcart's brown eyes had grown moist on first beholding it. and colonel ormiston had exclaimed, "good god! oh, well, poor dear little chap, i suppose it's the best we can do for him." an ugly saddle--yet had josiah appleyard ample reason to skip, goat-like, being glad. for, ugly or not, it fulfilled its purpose, bringing custom to the maker and happiness and health to the owner of it. the boy rode fearlessly, while exercise and exertion begot in him a certain light-heartedness and audacity good to see. the window-seat of the long gallery, the book-shelves of the library, knew him but seldom now. he was no less courteous, no less devoted to his mother, no less in admiration of her beauty; but the young barbarian was well awake in dickie, and drove him out of doors, on to the moorland or into the merry greenwood, with dog, and horse, and gun. on his well-broken pony he shot over the golden stubble fields in autumn, brought down his pheasants, stationed at the edge of the great coverts; went out for long afternoons, rabbiting in the warrens and field banks, escorted by spaniels and retrievers, and keepers carrying lithe, lemon-coloured ferrets tied up in a bag. later, when he was older,--but this tried katherine somewhat, reminding her too keenly of another richard calmady and days long dead,--winter, a trifle reluctant at such shortening of his own virtuous slumbers, would call dickie and dress him, all in the gray of the summer morning; while, at the little arched doorway in the west front, chifney and a groom with a led horse would await his coming, and the boy would mount and ride away from the great, sleeping house. at such times a charm of dewy freshness lay on grass and woodland, on hill and vale. the morning star grew pale and vanished in the clear-flashing delight of sunrise, as richard rode forth to meet the string of racers; as he noted the varying form and fortune of rattlepate or sweet rosemary, of yellow jacket, morion or light-o'-love, over the short fragrant turf of the gallop; as he felt the virile joy which the strength of the horses and the pounding rush of them as they swept past him ever aroused in him. then he would ride on, by a short cut, to the old, red-brick rubbing-house, crowning the rising ground on the farther side of the lake, and wait there to see the finish, talking of professional matters with chifney meanwhile; or, turning his horse's head towards the wide, distant view, sit silent, drawing near to nature and worshipping--with the innocent gladness of a still virgin heart--in the temple of the dawn. life at oxford was set in a different key. the university city was well disposed towards this young man of so great wealth and so strange fortunes; and richard was unsuspicious, and ready enough to meet friendliness half-way. yet it must be owned he suffered many bad quarters of an hour. he was, at once, older in thought and younger in practical experience than his fellow-undergraduates. he was cut off, of necessity, from their sports. they would eat his breakfasts, drink his wine, and show no violent objection to riding his horses. they were considerate, almost anxiously careful of him, being generous and good-hearted lads. and yet poor dick was perturbed by the fear that they were more at ease without him, that his presence acted as a slight check upon their genial spirits and their rattling talk. and so it came about that though his acquaintances were many, his friends were few. chief among the latter was ludovic quayle, a younger son of lord fallowfeild--whom that kindly if not very intelligent nobleman had long ago proposed to export from the whitney to the brockhurst nursery with a view to the promotion of general cheerfulness. mr. ludovic quayle was a rather superfine, young gentleman, possessed of an excellent opinion of himself, and a modest opinion of other persons--his father included. but under his somewhat supercilious demeanour there was a vein of true romance. he loved richard calmady; and neither time, nor opposing interests, nor certain black chapters which had later to be read in the history of life, destroyed or even weakened that love. and so dick, finding himself at sad disadvantage with most of the charming young fellows about him in matters of play, turned to matters of work, letting go the barbarian side of life for a while. in brain, if not in body, he believed himself the equal of the best of them. his ambition was fired by the desire of intellectual triumph. he would have the success of the schools, since the success of the river and the cricket-field were denied him. not that richard set any exaggerated value upon academic honours. only two things are necessary--this at least was his code at that period--never to lapse from the instincts of high-breeding and honour, and to see just as much of life, of men and of affairs, as obedience to those instincts permits. already the sense of proportion was strong in richard, fed perhaps by the galling sense of personal deformity. learning is but a part of the whole of man's equipment, and a paltry enough part unless wisdom go along with it. but the thirst of battle remained in richard; and in this matter of learning, at least, he could meet men of his own age and standing on equal terms and overcome them in fair fight. and so, during the last two years of his university course, he did meet them and overcame, honours falling liberally to his share. julius march looked on in pleased surprise at the exploits of his former pupil. while ludovic quayle, with raised eyebrows and half-tender, half-ironical amusement relaxing the corners of his remarkably beautiful mouth, would say:-- "calmady, you really are a shameless glutton! how many more immortal glories, any one of which would satisfy an ordinary man, do you propose to swallow?" "i suppose it's a bad year," richard would answer. "the others can't amount to very much, or, needless to say, i shouldn't walk over the course." "a charming little touch of modesty, as far as you yourself are concerned," ludovic answered. "but not strikingly flattering to the others. i would rather suppose you abnormally clever, than all the rest abnormally stupid--for, after all, you know, am i, my great self, not among the rest?" at which dickie would laugh rather shamefacedly, and say:--"oh you!--why you know well enough you could do anything you liked if you weren't so confoundedly lazy!" and, meanwhile, at brockhurst, as news arrived of these successes, lady calmady's soul received comfort. her step was light, her eyes full of clear shining as she moved to and fro ordering the great house and great estate. she felt repaid for the bitter pain of parting with her darling, and sending him forth to face the curious, possibly scornful, world of the university city. he had proved himself and won his spurs. and this solaced her in the solitude and loneliness of her present life. for her dear friend and companion marie de mirancourt had found the final repose, before seeking that of the convent. early one february morning, in the second year of richard's sojourn at oxford, fortified by the rites of the church, she had passed the gates of death peacefully, blessing and blessed. katherine mourned for her, and would continue to mourn with still and faithful sorrow, even while welcoming home her young scholar, hearing the details of his past achievements and hopes for the future, or entertaining--with all gracious hospitality--such of his oxford friends as he elected to invite to brockhurst. it was on one of these last occasions, the young men having gone down to the gun-room to smoke and discuss the day's pheasant shooting, that katherine had kept julius march standing before the chapel-room fire, and had looked at him, a certain wistfulness in her face. "he is happy--don't you think, julius?" she said. "he seems to me really happier, more contented, than i have ever seen him since his childhood." "yes, i also think that," julius answered. "he has reason to be contented. he has measured himself against other men and is satisfied of his own powers." "every one admires him at oxford?" "yes, they admire and envy him. he has been brilliantly successful." katherine drew herself up, clasping her hands behind her, and smiling proudly as she mused, gazing into the crimson heart of the burning logs. then, after a silence, she turned suddenly to her companion. "it is very sweet to have you here at home again, julius," she said gently. "i have missed you sorely since dearest marie de mirancourt died. live a little longer than i do, please. ah! i am afraid it is no small thing that i ask you to do for my sake, for i foresee that i shall survive to a lamentably old age. but sacrifice yourself, julius, in the matter of living. less than ever, when the shadows fall, shall i be able to spare you." for which words of his dear lady's, though spoken lightly, half in jest, julius march gave god great thanks that night. it was about this period that two pieces of news, each proving eventually to have much personal significance, reached lady calmady from the outside world. the first took the form of a letter--a rather pensive and tired letter--from her brother, william ormiston, telling her that his daughter helen was about to marry the comte de vallorbes, a young gentleman very well known both to parisian and neapolitan society. the second took the form of an announcement in the _morning post_, to the effect that lady tobemory, whose lamented death that paper had already chronicled, had left the bulk of her not inconsiderable fortune to her god-daughter honoria, eldest child of that distinguished officer general st. quentin. in both cases lady calmady wrote letters of congratulation, in the latter with very sincere and lively pleasure. she held her cousin, general st. quentin, in affection for old sake's sake. honoria she remembered as a singularly graceful, high-bred, little maiden, fleet of foot as a hind--too fleet of foot indeed for little dickie's comfort of mind, and therefore banished from the brockhurst nursery. in the former case, her congratulations being somewhat conventional, she added--in her own name and that of richard--a necklace of pearls, with a diamond clasp and bars to it, of no mean value. in the spring of richard left oxford for good, and took up his residence once more at brockhurst. but it was not until the autumn of the following year, when he had reached the age of three-and-twenty, and had already for some six months served his queen and country in the capacity of justice of the peace for the county of southampton, that any event occurred greatly affecting his fortunes, and therefore worthy to set forth at large in this history. chapter ii telling how dickie's soul was somewhat sick, and how he met fair women on the confines of a wood richard calmady rode homeward through the autumn woods, and the aspect of them was very lovely. but their loveliness was hectic, a loveliness as it seemed, at all events at first sight, of death and burial, rather than of life and hope. the sky was overcast, and a chill clung to the stream side and haunted the hollows. the young man's humour, unfortunately, was only too much in harmony with the more melancholy suggestions of the scene. for richard was by nature something of a poet, though he but rarely wrote verses, and usually burned them as soon as written, being scholar enough to know and feel impatient of the "second best." and this inherent strain of poetry in him tempered the active and practical side of his character, making wealth and position, and all those things which the worldly-minded seek, seem of slight value to him at times. it induced in him many and very varying moods. it carried him back often, even now in the strength of his young manhood, to the fine fancies and exquisite unreason of the fairy world in which those so sadly ill-balanced footsteps of his had first been set. to-day had proved, so far, an unlucky one, prolific of warfare between his clear brain and all too sensitive heart. for it was the burden of richard's temperament--the almost inevitable result of that ever-present thorn in the flesh--that he shrunk as a poet, even as a woman, while as a man, and a strong one, he reasoned and fought. it fell out on this wise. he had attended the quarter sessions at westchurch; and a certain restlessness, born of the changing seasons, being upon him, he had ridden. his habit, when passing outside the limits of his own property, was to drive. he became aware--and angrily conscious his groom was aware also--that his appearance afforded a spectacle of the liveliest interest to the passers-by; that persons of very various age and class had stopped and turned to gaze at him; and that, while crossing the bridge spanning the dark, oily waters of the canal, in the industrial quarter of the pushing, wide-awake, county town, he had been the subject of brutal comment, followed by a hoarse laugh from the collarless throats of some dozen operatives and bargees loitering thereupon. the consequence was that the young man arrived in court, his eyes rather hard and his jaw set. rich, well-born, not undistinguished too for his attainments, and only three and twenty, dickie had a fine fund of arrogance to draw upon yet. he drew upon it this morning, rather to the confusion of his colleagues upon the bench. mr. cathcart, the chairman, was already present, and stood talking with mr. seymour, the rector of farley, a shrewd, able parson of the old sporting type. captain fawkes of water end was there too; and so was lemuel image, eldest son of the mr. image, sometime mayor of westchurch, who has been mentioned in the early pages of this chronicle. in the last twenty years, supported by ever-increasing piles of barrels, the image family had mounted triumphantly upward in the social scale. lemuel, the man in question, married a poor and distant relation of lord aldborough, the late lord lieutenant of the county; and had by this, and by a rather truculent profession of high tory politics, secured himself a seat on the bench. he had given a fancy price, too, for that pretty, little place, frodsmill, the grounds of which form such an exasperating naboth's vineyard in the heart of the newland's property. neither his person, nor his politics, nor his absence of culture, found favour in richard calmady's sight. and to-day, being somewhat on edge, the brewer's large, blustering presence and manner--at once patronising and servile--struck him as peculiarly odious. image betrayed an evil tendency to emphasise his remarks by slapping his acquaintances upon the back. he was also guilty of supposing a defect of hearing in all persons older than, or in any measure denied the absolute plethora of physical vigour so conspicuous in, himself. he invariably raised his voice in addressing richard. in return for which graceful attention dickie most cordially detested him. "image is a bit of a cad, and certainly calmady makes no bones about letting him know it," captain fawkes remarked to mr. seymour, as they drove back to farley in the latter's dog-cart. "fortunately he has a hide like a rhinoceros, or we should have had a regular row between them more than once this morning. calmady's generally charming; but i must say, when he likes, he can be about the most insolent fellow i've ever met, in a gentleman-like way." "a great deal of that is simply self-protective," the clergyman answered. "it is not difficult to see how it comes about, when you take his circumstances into account. if i was him, god forgive me, i know i shouldn't be half so sweet tempered. he bears it wonderfully well, all things considered." nor did the disturbing incidents of the day end with the familiarities of the loud-voiced brewer. the principal case to be tried was a melancholy one enough--a miserable history or wayward desire, shame and suffering, followed by a despairing course of lies and petty thieving to help support the poor baby whose advent seemed so wholly a curse. the young mother--a pretty, desperate creature--made no attempt at denial. she owned she had robbed her mistress of a shilling here and sixpence there, that she had taken now a bit of table silver and then a garment to the pawn-shop. how could she help it? her wages were a trifle, since her character was damaged. wasn't it a charity to employ a girl like her at all, so her mistress said? and yet the child must live. and richard calmady, sitting in judgment there, with those four other gentlemen of substantial means and excellent position, sickened as he listened to the sordid details, the relentless elementary arguments. for the girl, awed and frightened at first, grew eloquent in self-defense.--"she loved him"--he being a smart young fellow, who, with excellent recommendations from chifney, had left the brockhurst stables some two years before, to take service in westchurch.--"and he always spoke her fair. had told her he'd marry her right enough, after a bit--before god he would. but it would ruin his chance of first-class places if he married yet. the gentry wouldn't take any but single men of his age. a wife would stand in his way. and she didn't want to stand in his way--he knew her better than that. not but that he reckoned her just as much his wife as any woman could be. of course he did. what a silly she was to trouble about it. and then when there was no hiding any longer how it was with her, he up and awayed to london, saying he would make a home for her there. and he kept on writing for a bit, but he never told her where to write to him in return, so she couldn't answer. and then his letters came seldom, and then stopped altogether, and then--and then----" the girl was rebuked for her much speaking, and so wasting the time of the court. there were other cases. and richard calmady sickened yet more, recognising in that a parable of perpetual application. for are there not always other cases? the tragedy of the individual life reaching its climax seems, to the chief actor, worthy to claim and hold universal attention. yet the sun never stands still in heaven, nor do the footsteps of men tarry upon earth. no one person may take up too much space, too much time. the movement of things is not stayed. the single cry, however bitter, is drowned in the roar of the pushing crowd. the individual, however keen his griefs, however heinous the offense done him, must make way for those same other cases. this is the everlasting law. and so pained, out of tune, troubled too by smouldering fires of anger, richard left westchurch and his fellow-magistrates as early as he decently could. avoiding the highroad leading by newlands and through sandyfield village, he cut across country by field lanes and over waste lands to farley row. the wide quiet of the autumn afternoon, the slight chill in the air, were grateful to him after the noise and close atmosphere of the court. yet the young man strove vainly to think of pleasant things and to regain his serenity. the girl's tear-blotted face, the tones of her voice, haunted him. six weeks' imprisonment. the sentence, after all, was a light one. yet who was he, who were those four other well-to-do gentlemen, that they should judge her at all? how could they measure the strength of the temptation which had beset her? if temptation is strong enough, must not the tempted of necessity yield? if the tempted does not yield, is that not merely proof that the temptation was not strong enough? the whole thing appeared to him a matter of mathematics or mechanics. given a greater weight than it can carry, the rope is bound to break. and then for those who have not felt the strain to blame the rope, punish the rope! it seemed to richard, as he rode homeward, that human justice is too often a very comedy of injustice. it all appeared to him so exceedingly foolish. and yet society must be protected. other pretty, weak, silly creatures must be warned, by such rather brutal object lessons, not to bear bastards or pawn their mistresses' spoons. "'_je ne sais pas ce que c'est que la vie éternelle, mais celle çi est une mauvaise plaisanterie_,'" dickie quoted to himself somewhat bitterly. he turned aside at farley row, following the narrow road that runs behind the houses in the main street and the great, vacant stables and outbuildings of the white lion inn. and here, as though the immediate displeasures of this ill-starred day were insufficient, memory arose and recalled other displeasures of long ago. recalled old jackie deeds lurching out of that same inn yard, empty pipe in mouth, greedy of alms. recalled the old postboy's ugly morsel of profanity--"god almighty had his jokes too." and, at that, the laughter of those loafers upon the canal bridge saluted richard's ears once more, as did the loud, familiar phrases of mr. lemuel image, the westchurch brewer. before him the flat expanse of clerke's green opened out; and the turf of it--beaded with dew which the frail sunshine of the early morning had failed to burn up--was crossed by long tracks of darker green, where flocks of geese had wandered over its misty surface. here the traveling menagerie and all the booths of the fair had been stationed. memory rigged up the tents once more, painted the vans in crude, glaring colours, set drums beating and merry-go-rounds turning, pointed a malicious finger at the sign-board of a certain show. how many times richard had passed this way in the intervening years, and remembered in passing, yet thrown all hurt of remembrance from him directly and lightly! to-day it gripped him. he put his horse into a sharp trot. skirting the edge of the green, he rode down a rutted cart lane--farm buildings and well-filled rickyards on the left--and forded the shallow, brown stream which separates the parish of farley from that of sandyfield and the tithing of brockhurst. ahead lay the wide, rough road, ending in a broken avenue of ancient oaks, and bordered on either hand by a strip of waste land overgrown with coarse grasses and low thickets of maple--which leads up to the entrance of the brockhurst woods. over these hung a soft, bluish haze, making them appear vast in extent, and upraising the dark ridge of the fir forest, which crowns them, to mountain height against the western sky. a covey of partridges ran up the sandy road before richard's horse; and, rising at last, with a long-drawn whir of wings, skimmed the top of the bank and dropped into the pale stubble field on the other side of it. he paused at the head of the avenue while the keeper's wife--in lilac apron and sunbonnet--ran out to open the big, white gate; the dogs meantime, from their kennels under the spanish chestnuts upon the slope behind her gabled cottage, setting up a vociferous chorus. thus heralded, richard passed into the whispering, mysterious stillness of the autumn woods. the summer had been dry and fine, the foliage unusually rich and heavy, all the young wood ripening well. consequently the turn of the leaf was very brilliant that year. the sweetly, sober, english landscape seemed to have run mad and decked itself, as for a masquerade, in extravagant splendours of colour. the smooth-stemmed beeches had taken on every tint from fiery brown, through orange and amber, to verdigris green touching latest july shoots. the round-headed oaks, practising even in carnival time a measure of restraint, had arrayed themselves in a hundred rich, finely-gradated tones of russet and umber. while, here and there, a tall bird-cherry, waxing wanton, had clothed itself like the woman of babylon in rose-scarlet from crown to lowest black-barked twig. higher up, the larch plantations rose in crowds of butter-coloured spires. amethystine and blood-red, white-spotted toadstools, in little companies, pushed through the light soil on either side the road. trailing sprays of bramble glowed as flame. rowan berries hung in heavy coral bunches, and the dogwood spread itself in sparse china-pink clusters. only the undergrowth of crooked alders, in swampy, low-lying places, kept its dark, purplish green; and the light foliage of the ash waved in shadowy pallor against its knobbed and knotted branches; and the ranks of the encircling firs retained their solemn habit, as though in protest against the universal riot. the stream hidden away in the hazel coppice gurgled and murmured. beech-masts pattered down, startling the stillness as with a sudden dropping of thunder rain. squirrels, disturbed in the ingathering of their winter store, whisked up the boles of the great trees and scolded merrily from the forks of the high branches. shy wild things rustled and scampered unseen through the tangled undergrowth and beds of bracken. while that veil of bluish haze touched all the distance of the landscape with a delicate mystery, and softly blotted the vista of each wide shooting drive, or winding pathway, to left and right. and as richard rode onward, leaves gay even in death fluttering down around him, his mood began to suffer change. he ceased to think and began to feel merely. first came a dreamy delight in the beauty of the scene about him. then the sense of mystery grew upon him--of mystery, not merely hanging in the delicate haze, but dwelling in the endless variety of form and colour which met his eyes, of mystery inviting him in the soft, multitudinous voices of the woodland. and as the minutes passed this sense grew increasingly provocative, became too increasingly elusive. the light leapt into dickie's eyes. he smiled to himself. he was filled with unreasoning expectation. he seemed--it was absurd, yet very charming--to be playing hide-and-seek with some glad secret which at any instant might be revealed to him. it murmured to him in the brook. it scolded at him merrily with the scolding squirrels. it startled the surrounding stillness, with the down pattering beech-masts and fluttering of leaves. it eluded him deftly, rustling away unseen through the green and gold of the bracken. lastly when, reaching the summit of the ridge of hill, he entered upon the levels of the great table-land, it hailed him in the long-drawn sighing of the fir forest. for a wind, suddenly awakened, swept towards him from some far distance, neared, broke overhead, as summer waves upon a shingly beach, died in delicious whispers, only to sweep up and break and die again. meanwhile the gray pall of cloud parted in the west, disclosing spaces of faint yet clearest blue, and the declining sun, from behind dim islands of shifting vapour, sent forth immense rays of mild and misty light. richard laughed involuntarily to himself. for there was a fantastic, curiously alluring influence in all this. it spoke to him as in delicate persuasion. his sense of expectation intensified. he would not ride homeward and shut himself within four walls just yet; but yield himself to the wooing of these fair sylvan divinities; to that of the spirit of the evening wind, of the softly shrouding haze, and of the broadening sunlight, a little longer. a turf-ride branches away to the left, leading along a narrow outstanding spur of table-land to a summer-house, the prospect from which is among the noted beauties of brockhurst. this summer-house or temple, as it has come to be called, is an octagonal structure. round-shafted pillars rise at each projecting angle. in the recesses between them are low stone benches, save in front where an open colonnade gives upon the view. the roof is leaded, and surmounted by a wooden ball and tall, three-sided spike. these last, as well as the plastered, windowless walls are painted white. within, the hollow of the dome is decorated in fresco, with groups of gaily clad ladies and their attendant cavaliers, with errant cupids, garlands of flowers, trophies of rather impossible musical instruments, and cages full of imprisoned, and therefore doubtless very naughty, loves. the colours have grown faint by action of insweeping wind and weather; but this lends a pathos to the light-hearted, highly-artificial art, emphasising the contrast between it and its immediate surroundings. for the temple stands on a platform of turf at the extreme point of the spur of table-land. the hillside, clothed with heather and bracken, fringed lower down with a coppice of delicate birches, falls steeply away in front and on either hand. outstretched below, besides the panorama of the great woods, lies all the country about farley, on to westchurch, and beyond again--pasture and cornlands, scattered hamlets and red-roofed farms half-hidden among trees, the glint of streams set in the vivid green of water-meadows, and soft blue range behind range of distance to that pale uprising of chalk down in the far south. upon the right, some quarter of a mile away, blocking the end of an avenue of ancient scotch firs, the eastern façade of brockhurst house shows planted proudly upon the long gray and red lines of the terrace. richard checked his horse, pausing to look for a moment at that well-beloved home. then musing, he let his horse go forward along the level turf-ride. the glistering, gray dome and white columns of the temple standing out against the spacious prospect--the growing brightness of this last, still chastened by the delicious autumn haze--captivated his imagination. there was, seen thus, a simplicity and distinction altogether classic in the lonely building. to him it appeared not unfit shrine for the worship of that same all-pervasive spirit of mystery, not unfit spot for the revelation of that same glad, yet cunningly elusive secret, of which he suffered the so fond obsession. and so it was that when, coming abreast of the building, the sound of young voices--women's voices--and finely modulated laughter saluted his ear, though startled for no stranger had the right of entry to the park, he was by no means displeased. this seemed but part of the all-pervasive magic of this strange afternoon. richard smiled at the phantasies of his own mood; yet he forgot to be shy, forgot the distressing self-consciousness which made him shrink from the observation of strangers--specially those of the other sex. the adventure tempted his fancy. even familiar things had put on a new and beguiling vesture in the last half hour, so there were miracles abroad, perhaps. anyhow he would satisfy himself as to the aspect of those sweet voiced and, as yet, unseen trespassers. he let his horse go forward slowly across the platform of turf. chapter iii in which richard confirms one judgment and reverses another "how magnificently your imagination gallops when it once gets agoing. here you are bearing away the spoils, when the siege is not yet even begun--never will be, i venture to hope, for i doubt if this would be a very honourable----" the speaker broke off abruptly, as the shadow of horse and rider lengthened upon the turf. and, during the silence which followed, richard calmady received an impression at once arresting and subtly disquieting. a young lady, of about his own age, leaned against one of the white pillars of the colonnade. her attitude and costume were alike slightly unconventional. she was unusually tall, and there was a lazy, almost boyish indifference and grace in the pose of her supple figure and the gallant carriage of her small head. she wore a straight, pale gray-green jacket, into the pockets of which her hands were thrust. her skirt, of the same colour and material, hung in straight folds to her feet, being innocent alike of trimming and the then prevailing fashion of crinoline. further, she wore a little, round matador's hat, three black pompons planted audaciously upstanding above the left ear. her eyes, long in shape and set under straight, observant brows, appeared at first sight of the same clear, light, warm brown as her hair. her nose was straight, rather short, and delicately square at the tip. while her face, unlined, serenely, indeed triumphantly youthful, was quite colourless and sufficiently thin to disclose fine values of bone in the broad forehead and the cutting of jaw and cheek and chin. in that silence, as she and richard calmady looked full at one another, he apprehended in her a baffling element, a something untamed and remote, a freedom of soul, that declared itself alike in the gallantries and severities of her dress, her attitude, and all the lines of her person. she bore relation to the glad mystery haunting the fair autumn evening. she also bore relation to the chill haunting the stream-side and the deep places of the woods. and her immediate action emphasised this last likeness in his mind. when he first beheld her she was bright, with a certain teasing insouciance. then, for a minute, even more, she stood at gaze, as a hind does suddenly startled on the edge of the covert--her head raised, her face keen with inquiry. her expression changed, became serious, almost stern. she recoiled, as in pain, as in an approach to fear--this strong, nymphlike creature. "helen," she called aloud, in tones of mingled protest and warning. and thereupon, without more ado, she retired, nay, fled, into the sheltering, sun-warmed interior of the temple. at this summons her companion, who until now had stood contemplating the wide view from the extreme verge of the platform, wheeled round. for an appreciable time she, too, looked at richard calmady, and that haughtily enough, as though he, rather than she, was the intruder. her glance traveled unflinchingly down from his bare head and broad shoulders to that pocket-like appendage--as of old-fashioned pistol holsters--on either side his saddle. swiftly her bearing changed. she uttered an exclamation of unfeigned and unalloyed satisfaction--a little joyful outcry, such as a child will make on discovery of some lost treasure. "ah! it is you--you," she said, laughing softly, while she moved forward, both hands extended. which hand, by the same token, she proposed to bestow on dickie remained matter for conjecture, since in the one she carried a parasol with a staff-like gold and tortoise-shell handle to it, and in the other, between the first and second fingers, a cigarette, the blue smoke of which curled upward in transparent spirals upon the clear, still air. as the lady of the gray-green gown retired precipitately within the temple, a wave of hot blood passed over richard's body. for notwithstanding his three-and-twenty years, his not contemptible mastery of many matters, and that same honourable appointment of justice of the peace for the county of southampton, he was but a lad yet, with all a lad's quickness of sensitive shame and burning resentment. the girl's repulsion had been obvious---that instinctive repulsion, as poor dickie's too acute sympathies assured him, of the whole for the maimed, of the free for the bound, of the artist for some jarring colour or sound which mars an otherwise entrancing harmony. and the smart of all this was, to him, doubly salted by the fact that he, after all, was a man, his critic merely a woman. the bitter mood of the earlier hours of the day returned upon him. he cursed himself for a doting fool. who was he, indeed, to seek revelation of glad secrets, cherish fair dreams and tempt adventures? consequently it fell out when that other lady--she of the cigarette--advanced thus delightfully towards him, richard's face was white with anger, and his lips rigid with pain--a rigidity begotten of the determination that they should not tremble in altogether too unmanly fashion. sometimes it is very sad to be young. the flesh is still very tender, so that a scratch hurts more than a sword-thrust later. only, let it be remembered, the scratch heals readily; while of the sword-thrust we die, even though at the moment of receiving it we seem not so greatly to suffer. and unquestionably as dickie sat there, on his handsome horse, hat in hand, looking down at the lady of the cigarette, the hurt of that lately received scratch began quite sensibly to lessen. for her eyes, their first unsparing scrutiny accomplished, rested on his with a strangely flattering and engaging insistence. "but this is the very prettiest piece of good fortune!" she exclaimed. "had i arranged the whole matter to suit my own fancy it could not have turned out more happily." her tone was that of convincing sincerity; while, as she spoke, the soft colour came and went in her cheeks, and her lips parting showed little, even teeth daintily precious as a row of pearls. the outline of her face was remarkably pure--in shape an oval, a trifle wide in proportion to its length. her eyebrows were arched, the eyelids arched also--very thin, showing the movement of the eyeballs beneath them, drooping slightly, with a sweep of dark lashes at the outer corner. it struck richard that she bore a certain resemblance to his mother, though smaller and slighter in build. her mouth was less full, her hair fairer--soft, glistening hair of all the many shades of heather honey-comb, broken wax and sweet, heady liquor alike. her hands, he remarked, were very finished--the fingers pointed, the palms rosy. the set of her black, velvet coat revealed the roundness of her bust. the broad brim of her large, black hat, slightly upturned at the sides, and with sweeping ostrich plumes as trimming to it, threw the upper part of her charming face into soft shadow. her heavy, dove-coloured, silk skirts stood out stiffly from her waist, declaring its slenderness. the few jewels she wore were of notable value. her appearance, in fact, spoke the last word of contemporary fashion in its most refined application. she was a great lady, who knew the world and the worth of it. and she was absolute mistress both of that knowledge, and of herself--notwithstanding those outstretched hands, and outcry of childlike pleasure,--there, perhaps, lay the exquisite flattery of this last to her hearer! she was all this, and something more than all this. something for which dickie, his heart still virgin, had no name as yet. it was new to his experience. a something clear, simple, and natural, as the sunlight, and yet infinitely subtle. a something ravishing, so that you wanted to draw it very close, hold it, devour it. yet something you so feared, you needs must put it from you, so that, faint with ecstasy, standing at a distance, you might bow yourself and humbly worship. but such extravagant exercises being, in the nature of his case, physically as well as socially inadmissible, the young man was constrained to remain seated squarely in the saddle--that singularly ungainly saddle, moreover, with holster-like appendages to it--while he watched her, wholly charmed, curious and shy, carried indeed a little out of himself, waiting for her to make further disclosures, since he felt absurdly slow and unready of speech. nor was he destined to wait in vain. the fair lady appeared agreeably ready to declare herself, and that with the finest turns of voice and manner, with the most coercive variety of appeal, pathos, caprice, and dignity. "i know on the face of it i have not the smallest right to have taken possession in this way," she continued. "it is the frankest impertinence. but if you realised how extremely i am enjoying myself, you could not fail to forgive me. all this park of yours, all this nature," she turned sideways, sketching out the great view with a broad gesture of the cigarette and graceful hand that held it, "all this is divinely lovely. it is wiser to possess oneself of it in an illicit manner, to defy the minor social proprieties and unblushingly to steal, than not to possess oneself of it at all. if you are really hungry, you know, you learn not to be too nice as to the ways and means of acquiring sustenance." "and you were really hungry?" richard found himself saying, as he feared rather blunderingly. but he wanted, so anxiously, the present to remain the present--wanted to continue to watch her, and to hear her. she turned his head. how then could he behave otherwise than with stupidity? "la! la!" she replied, laughing indulgently, and thereby enchanting him still more; "what must your experience of life be if you suppose one gets a full meal of divine loveliness every day in the week? for my part, i am not troubled with any such celestial plethora, believe me. i was ravening, i tell you, positively ravening." "and your hunger is satisfied?" he asked, still as he feared blunderingly, and with a queer inward movement of envy towards the wide view she looked upon, and the glory of the sunset which dared touch her hair. "satisfied?" she exclaimed. "is one's hunger for the divinely lovely ever satisfied? just now i have stayed mine with the merest mouthful--as one snatches a sandwich at a railway _buffet_. and directly i must get into the train again, and go on with my noisy, dusty, stifling journey. ah! you are very fortunate to live in this adorable and restful place; to see it in all its fine drama of changing colour and season, year in and year out." she dropped the end of her cigarette into a little sandy depression in the turf, and drawing aside her silken skirts, trod out the red heart of it neatly with her daintily shod foot. just then the other lady, she of the gray-green gown, came from within the shelter of the temple, and stood between the white pillars of the colonnade. dick's grasp tightened on the handle of the hunting-crop lying across his thigh. "am i so very fortunate?" he said, almost involuntarily. his companion looked up, smiling, her eyes dwelling on his with a strange effect of intimacy, wholly flattering, wholly, indeed, distracting to common sense. "yes--you are fortunate," she answered, speaking slowly. "and some day, richard, i think you will come to know that." sudden comprehension, sudden recognition struck the young man--very literally struck him a most unwelcome buffet. "oh! i see--i understand," he exclaimed, "you are my cousin--you are madame de vallorbes." for a moment his sense of disappointment was so keen, he was minded to turn his horse and incontinently ride away. the misery of that episode of his boyhood set its tooth very shrewdly in him even yet. it seemed the most cruelly ironical turn of fate that this entrancing, this altogether worshipful, stranger should prove to be one and the same as the little dancer of long ago with blush-roses in her hat. but though the colour deepened somewhat in the lady's cheeks, she did not lower her eyes, nor did they lose their smiling importunity. a little ardour, indeed, heightened the charm of her manner--an ardour of delicate battle, as of one whose honour has been ever so slightly touched. "certainly, i am your cousin, helen de vallorbes," she replied. "you are not sorry for that, richard, are you? at this moment i am increasingly glad to be your cousin--though not perhaps so very particularly glad to be helen de vallorbes." then she added, rapidly:--"we are here in england for a few weeks, my father and i. troublesome, distressing things had happened, and he perceived i needed change. he brought me away. london proved a desert and a dust-heap. there was no solace, no distraction from unpleasant thoughts to be found there. so we telegraphed and came down last night to the kind people at newlands. naturally my father wanted to see aunt katherine. i desired to see her also, well understood, for i have heard so much of her talent and her great beauty. but i knew they--the brother and sister--would wish to speak of the past and find their happiness in being very sad about it all. at our age--yours and mine--the sadness of any past one may possess is a good deal too present with one still to afford in the least consoling subject of conversation." madame de vallorbes spoke with a certain vehemence. "don't you think so, richard?" she demanded. and richard could but answer, very much out of his heart, that he did indeed think so. she observed him a moment, and then her tone softened. the colour deepened yet more in her cheeks. she became at once prettily embarrassed and prettily sincere. "and then, to tell you quite the truth, i am a trifle afraid of aunt katherine. i have always wanted to come here and to see you, but--it is an absurd confession to make--i have been scared at the idea of meeting aunt katherine, and that is the real reason why i made honoria take refuge with me in this lovely park of yours, instead of going on with my father to the house. there is a legend, a thrice accursed legend in our family,--my mother employs it even yet when she proposes to reduce me to salutary depths of humility--that i came,--she brought me--here, once, long ago, when i was a child, and that i was fiendishly naughty, that i behaved odiously." madame de vallorbes stretched out her hands, presenting the rosy palms of them in the most engaging manner. "but it can't--it can't be true," she protested. "why, in the name of all folly, let alone all common decency, should i behave odiously? it is not like me. i love to please, i love to have people care for me. and so i cannot but believe the legend is the malign invention of some nurse or governess, whom, poor woman, i probably plagued handsomely enough in her day, and who, in revenge, rigged up this detestable scarecrow with which to frighten me. then, moreover, i have not the faintest recollection of the affair, and one generally has an only too vivid memory of one's own sins. surely, _mon cher cousin_, surely i am innocent in your sight, as in my own? you do not remember the episode either?" whereupon dickie, looking down at her,--and still enchanted notwithstanding his so sinister discovery, being first, and always a gentleman, and secondly, though as yet unconsciously, a lover,--proceeded to lie roundly. lied, too, with a notable cheerfulness, born as cheerfulness needs must be of every act of faith and high generosity. "i remember it? of course not," he said. "so let the legend be abolished henceforth and forevermore. here, once and for all, cousin helen, we combine to pull down and bury that scarecrow." madame de vallorbes clapped her hands softly and laughed. and her laughter, having the merit of being perfectly genuine--for the young man very really pleased her fancy--was likewise very infectious. richard found himself laughing too, he knew not why, save that he was glad of heart. "and now that matter being satisfactorily disposed of, you will come to brockhurst often," he said. it seemed to him that a certain joyous equality had been established between him and his divinity, both by his repudiation of all former knowledge of her, and by their moment of laughter. he began fearlessly to make her little offerings. "do you care about riding? i am afraid there is not much to amuse you at brockhurst; but there are always plenty of horses." "and i adore horses." "do you care about racing? we've some rather pretty things in training this year. i should like awfully to show them to you." but here the conversation, just setting forth in so agreeable a fashion, suffered interruption. for the other lady, she of the gray-green gown, sauntered forward from the temple. the carriage of her head was gallant, her air nonchalant as ever; but her expression was grave, and the delicate thinness of her face appeared a trifle accentuated. she came up to madame de vallorbes and passed her hand through the latter's arm caressingly. "you know, really, helen, we ought to go, if we are not to keep your father and the carriage waiting."--then she looked up with a certain determined effort at richard calmady. "we promised to meet mr. ormiston at the first park gate," she added in explanation. "that is nearly a mile from here, isn't it?" "about three-quarters--hardly that," he answered. her eyes were not brown, he perceived, but a clear, dim green, as the soft gloom in the under-spaces of a grove of ilexes. they affected him as fearlessly observant--eyes that could judge both men and things and could also keep their own counsel. "will you give your mother honoria st. quentin's love, please," she went on. "i stayed here with her for a couple of days the year before last, while you were at oxford. she was very good to me. now, helen, come----" "i shall see you again," richard cried to the lady of the cigarette. but his horse, which for some minutes had been increasingly fidgety, backed away down the hillside, and he could not catch the purport of her answer. to the lady of the gray-green gown and eyes he said nothing at all. chapter iv julius march bears testimony "so you really wish me to ask them both to come, richard?" lady calmady stood on the tiger-skin before the gun-room hearth. upon the said hearth a merry, little fire of pine logs clicked and chattered. even here, on the dry upland, the night air had an edge to it; while in the valleys there would be frost before morning, ripening that same splendour of autumn foliage alike to greater glory and swifter fall. and the snap in the air, working along with other unwonted influences, made katherine somewhat restless this evening. her eyes were dark with unspoken thought. her voice had a ring in it. the shimmering, black, satin dress and fine lace she wore gave a certain magnificence to her appearance. her whole being was vibrant. she was rather dangerously alive. her elder brother's unlooked-for advent had awakened her strangely from the reserve and stately monotony of her daily existence, had shaken even, for the moment, the completeness of the dominion of her fixed idea. she ceased, for the moment, to sink the whole of her personality in the maternal relationship. memories of her youth, passed amid the varied interests of society and of the literary and political world of paris and london, assailed her. all those other katherines, in short, whom she might have been, and who had seemed to drop away from her, vanishing phantom-like before the uncompromising realities of her husband's death and her child's birth, crowded about her, importuning her with vague desires, vague regrets. the confines of brockhurst grew narrow, while all that which lay beyond them called to her. she craved, almost unconsciously, a wider sphere of action. she longed to obtain, and to lend a hand in the shaping of events and making of history. even the purest and most devoted among women--possessing the doubtful blessing of a measure of intellect--are subject to such vagrant heats, such uprisings of personal ambition, specially during the dangerous decade when the nine-and-thirtieth year is past. meanwhile richard's answer to her question was unfortunately somewhat over-long in coming, for the young man was sunk in meditation and apparently oblivious of her presence. he leaned back in the long, low armchair, his hands clasped behind his head, the embroidered rug drawn about his waist, a venerable, yellow-edged, calf-bound volume lying face downwards on his lap. while young camp--young no longer, full of years indeed beyond the allotted portion of his kind--reposed, outstretched and snoring, on the all-too-wide space of rug and chair-seat at his feet. and this indifference, both of man and dog, grew irksome to lady calmady. she moved across the shining yellow and black surface of the tiger-skin and straightened the bronzes of vinedresser and lazy lad standing on the high chimneypiece. "my dear, it grows late," she said. "let us settle this matter. if your uncle and cousin are to come, i must send a note over to newlands to-morrow before breakfast. remember i have no choice in the matter. i leave it entirely to you. tell me seriously what you wish." richard stretched himself, turning his head in the hollow of his hands, and shrugged his shoulders slightly. "that is exactly what i would thank you so heartily to tell me," he answered. "do i, or don't i seriously wish it? i give you my word, mother, i don't know." "oh; but, my dearest, that is folly! you must have inclination enough, one way or the other, to come to a decision. i was careful not to commit myself. it is still easy not to ask them without being guilty of any discourtesy." "it isn't that," richard said. "it is simply that being anything but heroic i am trying of two evils to choose the least. i should like to have my uncle--and helen here immensely. but if the visit wasn't a success i should be proportionately disappointed and vexed. so is it worth the risk? disappointments are sufficiently abundant anyhow. isn't it slightly imbecile to run a wholly gratuitous risk of adding to their number?" then the fixed idea began stealthily, yet surely, to reassert its dominion; for there was a perceptible flavour of discouragement in the young man's speech. "dickie, there is nothing wrong, is there,--nothing the matter, to-night?" "oh, dear no, of course not!" he answered, half closing his eyes. "nothing in the world's the matter." he unclasped his hands, leaned forward and patted the bulldog lying across the rug at his feet. "at least nothing more than usual, nothing more than the abiding something which always has been and always will be the matter." "ah, my dear!" katherine cried softly. "i've just been reading burton's anatomy here," he went on bending down, so that his face was hidden, while he pulled the dog's soft ears. "he assures all--whom it may concern--that 'bodily imperfections do not a whit blemish the soul or hinder the operations of it, but rather help and much increase it.' there, camp, poor old man, don't start--it's nothing worse than me. i wonder if the elaborate pains which have been taken through generations of your ancestors to breed you into your existing and very royal hideousness--your flattened nose and perpetual grin, for instance--do help and much increase the operations of your soul!" he looked up suddenly. "what do you think, mother?" "i think--think, my darling," she said, "that perhaps neither you nor i are quite ourselves to-night." "oh, well i've had rather a beastly day!" richard dropped back against the chair cushions again, clasping his hands behind his head. "or i've seemed to have it, which comes practically to much the same thing. i confess i have been rather hipped lately. i suppose it's the weather. you're not really in a hurry, mother, are you? come and sit down." and obediently katherine drew forward a chair and sat beside him. those uprisings of vagrant desire still struggled, combating the dominion of the fixed idea. but the struggle grew faint and fainter. and then, for a measurable time, richard fell silent again while she waited. verily there is no sharper discipline for a woman's proud spirit, than that administered, often quite unconsciously, by the man whom she loves. "we gave a wretched girl six weeks to-day for robbing her mistress," he remarked at last. "it was a flagrant case, so i suppose we were justified. in fact i don't see how we could have done otherwise. but it went against me awfully, all the same. she has a child to support. jim gould got her into trouble and deserted her, like a cowardly, young blackguard. however, it's easy to be righteous at another person's expense. perhaps i should have done the same in his place. i wonder if i should?"-- "my dear, we need hardly discuss that point, i think," lady calmady said. richard turned his head and smiled at her. "poor dear mother, do i bore you? but it is so comfortable to grumble. i know it's selfish. it's a horrid bad habit, and you ought to blow me up for it. but then, mother, take it all round, really i don't grumble much, do i?" "no, no!" katherine said quickly. "indeed, dickie, you don't." "i have been awfully afraid though, lately, that i do grumble more than i imagine," he went on, straightening his head, while his handsome profile showed clear cut against the dancing brightness of the firelight. "but it's almost impossible always to carry something about with you which--which you hate, and not let it infect your attitude of mind and, in a degree, your speech. twenty or thirty years hence it may prove altogether sufficient and satisfactory to know"--his lips worked, obliging him to enunciate his words carefully--"that bodily imperfections do not a whit blemish the soul or hinder its operations--are, in short, an added means of grace. think of it! isn't it a nice, neat, little arrangement, sort of spiritual consolation stakes! only i'm afraid i'm some two or three decades on the near side of that comfortable conclusion yet, and i find----" richard shifted his position, letting his arms drop along the chair arms with a little thud. he smiled again, or at all events essayed to do so. "in fact, i find it's beastly difficult to care a hang about your soul, one way or another, when you clearly perceive your body's making you the laughing-stock of half the people--why, mother, sweet dear mother,--what is it?" for lady calmady's two hands had closed down on his hand, and she bowed herself above them as though smitten with sharp pain. "pray don't be distressed," he went on. "i beg your pardon. i wasn't thinking what i was saying, i'm an ass. it's nothing i tell you but the weather. you're all a lot too good to me and indulge me too much, and i grow soft, and then every trifle rubs me the wrong way. i'm a regular spoilt child--i know it and a jolly good spanking is what i deserve. burton, here, declares that the autumnal, like the vernal, equinox breeds hot humours and distempers in the blood. i believe we ought to be bled, spring and fall, like our forefathers. look here, mother, don't take my grumbling to heart. i tell you i'm just a little hipped from the weather. let's send for dear old knott and get him to drive out the devil with his lancet? no, no, seriously, i tell you what we will do. it'll be good for us both. i have arrived at a decision. we'll have uncle william and--helen----" richard had spoken very rapidly, half ashamed, trying to soothe her. he paused on the last word. he was conscious of a singular pleasure in pronouncing it. the perfectly finished figure of his cousin, outstanding against the wide, misty brightness of the sunset, the scent of the wood and moorland, the haunting suggestion of glad secrets, even that upcurling of blue cigarette smoke, rising as the smoke of incense--with a difference--upon the clear evening air, above all that silent flattery of intimate and fearless glances, those gay welcoming gestures, that merry calling, as of birds in the tree-tops, from the spirit of youth within him to the spirit of youth so visibly and radiantly resident in her--all this rose up before richard. he grew reckless, though reckless of precisely what, innocent as he was, in fact although mature in learning, he knew not as yet. only he turned on his mother a face at once eager and shy, coaxing her as when in his long-ago baby-days he had implored some petty indulgence or the gift of some coveted toy on which his little heart was set. "yes, let us have them," he said. "you know helen is very charming. you will admire her, mother. she is as clever as she can stick, one sees that at a glance. and she is very much _grande dame_ too--and, oh, well, she is a whole lot of charming things! and her coming would be a wholesome breaking up of our ordinary ways of going on. we are usually very contented--at least, i think so--you, and dear julius, and i, but perhaps we are getting into a bit of a rut. helen's society might prove an even more efficacious method of driving out my blue-devils than knott's lancet or a jolly good spanking." he laughed quietly, patting katherine's hand, but looking away. "and there is no denying it would be a vastly more graceful one--don't you think so?" thus were smouldering fires of personal ambition quenched in lady calmady, as so often before. richard's tenderness brought her to her knees. she hugged, with an almost voluptuous movement of passion, that half-rejected burden of maternity, gathering it close against her heart once more. but, along with the rapture of self-surrender, came a thousand familiar fears and anxieties. for she had looked into dickie's mind, as he spoke out his grumble, and had there perceived the existence of much which she had dreaded and to the existence of which she had striven to blind herself. "my darling," she said, with a certain hesitation, "i will gladly have them if you wish it--only you remember what happened long ago when helen was here last?" "yes, i know, i was afraid you would think of that. but you can put that aside. helen's not the smallest recollection of it. she told me so this afternoon." "told you so?" katherine repeated. "yes," he said. "it was awfully sweet of her. evidently she'd been bullied about her unseemly behaviour when she was small, till you, and i, and brockhurst, had been made into a perfect bugbear. she's quite amusingly afraid of you still. but she's no notion what really happened. of course she can't have, or she could not have mentioned the subject to me." richard shrugged his shoulders. "obviously it would have been impossible." there was a pause. lady calmady rose. the young man spoke with conviction, yet her anxiety was not altogether allayed. "impossible," he repeated. "pretty mother don't disquiet yourself. trust me. to tell you the truth i have felt to-day--is it very foolish?--that i should like some one of my own age for a little while, as--don't you know--a playfellow." katherine bent down and kissed him. but mother-love is not, even in its most self-sacrificing expression, without torments of jealousy. "my dear, you shall have your playfellow," she said, though conscious of a tightening of the muscles of her beautiful throat. "good-night. sleep well." she went out, closing the door behind her. the perspective of the dimly-lighted corridor, and the great hall beyond, struck her as rather sadly lifeless and silent. what wonder, indeed, that richard should ask for a companion, for something young! love made her selfish and cowardly she feared. she should have thought of this before. she turned back, again opening the gun-room door. richard had raised himself. he stood on the seat of the chair, steadying himself by one hand on the chair-back, while with the other he pulled the rug from beneath the sleepy bull-dog. "wake up, you lazy old beggar," he was saying. "get down, can't you. i want to go to bed, and you block the way, lying there in gross comfort, snoring. make yourself scarce, old man. if i'd your natural advantages in the way of locomotion, i wouldn't be so slow of using them----" he looked up, and slipped back into a sitting position hastily. "oh, mother, i thought you had gone!" he exclaimed, almost sharply. and to katherine, overstrung as she was, the words came as a rebuke. "my dearest, i won't keep you," she said. "i only came back to ask you about honoria st. quentin." "what about her?" "she is staying at newlands--the two girls are friends, i believe. she seemed to me a fine creature when last i saw her. she knows the world, yet struck me curiously untouched by it. she is well read, she has ideas--some of them a little extravagant, but time will modify that. only her head is awake as yet, not her heart, i think. shall i ask her to come too?" "so that we may wake up her heart?" richard inquired coldly. "no thanks, dear mother, that's, too serious an undertaking. have her another time, please. i saw her to-day, and, no doubt my taste is bad, but i must confess she did not please me very much. nor--which is more to the point in this connection perhaps--did i please her. would you ring the bell, please, as you're there? i want powell. thanks so much. good-night." some ten minutes later julius march, after kneeling in prayer, as his custom was, before the divinely sorrowful and compassionate image of the virgin mother and the dead christ, looked forth through the many-paned study window into the clair-obscure of the windless autumn night. he had been sensible of an unusual element in the domestic atmosphere this evening, and had been vaguely disquieted concerning both katherine and richard. it was impossible but that, as time went on, life should become more complicated at brockhurst, and julius feared his own inability to cope helpfully with such complication. he entertained a mean opinion of himself. it appeared to him he was but an unprofitable servant, unready, tongue-tied, lacking in resource. a depression possessed him which he could not shake off. what had he to show, after all, for these fifty-odd years of life granted to him? he feared his religion had walked in silver slippers, and would so walk to the end. could it then, in any true and vital sense, be reckoned religion at all? gross sins had never exercised any attraction over him. what virtue was there, then, in being innocent of gross sin? but to those other sins--sins of defective moral courage in speech and action, sins arising from over-fastidiousness--had he not yielded freely? was he not a spiritual valetudinarian? he feared so. offered, in the eternal mercy, endless precious opportunities of service, he had been too weak, too timorous, too slothful, to lay hold on them. and so, as it seemed to him very justly, to-night confession, prayer, adoration, left him unconsoled. then, looking out of the many-paned window, while the shame of his barrenness clothed him even as a garment, he beheld lady calmady pacing slowly over the gray quarries of the terrace pavement. a dark, fur-bordered mantle shrouded her tall figure from head to foot. only her face showed, and her hands folded stiffly high upon her bosom, strangely pale against the blackness of her cloak. ordinarily julius would have scrupled to intrude upon her lonely walk. but just now the cry within him for human sympathy was urgent. her near neighbourhood in itself was very dear to him, and she might let fall some gracious word testifying that, in her opinion at least, his life had not been wholly vain. for very surely that which survives when all other passions are uprooted and cast forth--survives even in the case of the true ascetic and saint--is the unquenchable yearning for the spoken approval of those whom we love and have loved. and so, pushed by his poverty of self-esteem, julius march, throwing a plaid on over his cassock, went out and paced the gray quarries beside katherine calmady. on one hand rose the dark, rectangular masses of the house, crowned by its stacks of slender, twisted chimneys. on the other lay the indefinite and dusky expanse of the park and forest. the night was very clear. the stars were innumerable--fierce, cold points of pulsing light.--orion's jeweled belt and sword flung wide against the blue-black vault. cassiopeia seated majestic in her golden chair. northward, above the walled gardens, the bear pointing to the diamond flashing of the pole star. while across all high heaven, dusty with incalculable myriads of worlds, stretched the awful and mysterious highroad of the milky-way. the air was keen and tonic though so still. an immense and fearless quiet seemed to hold all things--a quiet not of sleep, but of conscious and perfect equilibrium, a harmony so sustained and complete that to human ears it issued, of necessity, in silence. and that silence lady calmady was in no haste to break. twice she and her companion walked the length of the terrace, and back, before she spoke. she paused, at length, just short of the arcade of the further garden-hall. "this great peace of the night puts all violence of feeling to the blush," she said. "one perceives that a thousand years are very really as one day. that calms one--with a vengeance." katherine waited, looking out over the vague landscape, clasping the fur-bordered edges of her cloak with either hand. it appeared to julius that both her voice and the expression of her face were touched with irony. "there is nothing new under the sun," she went on, "nor under the 'visiting moon,' nor under those somewhat heartless stars. does it occur to you, julius, how hopelessly unoriginal we are, how we all follow in the same beaten track? what thousands of men and women have stood, as you and i stand now, at once calmed--as i admit that i am--and rendered not a little homeless by the realisation of their own insignificance in face of the sleeping earth and this brooding immensity of space! _a quoi bon, à quoi bon?_ why can't one learn to harden one's poor silly heart, and just move round, stone-like, with the great movement of things accepting fate and ceasing to struggle or to care?" "just because, i think," he answered, "the converse of that same saying is equally true. if, in material things, a thousand years are as one day, in the things of the spirit one day is as a thousand years. remember the christ crying upon the cross--'my god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me?' and suffering during that brief utterance the sum of all the agony of sensible insignificance and sensible homelessness human nature ever has borne or will bear." "ah, the christ! the christ!" lady calmady exclaimed, half wistfully as it seemed to julius march, and half impatiently. she turned and paced the pale pavement again. "you are too courteous, my dear friend, and cite an example august out of all proportion to my little lament." she looked round at him as she spoke, smiling; and in the uncertain light her smile showed tremulous, suggestive of a nearness to tears. "instinctively you scale olympus,--calvary?--yes, but i am afraid both those heights take on an equally and tragically mythological character to me--and would bring me consolation from the dwelling-places of the gods. and my feet, all the while, are very much upon the floor, alas! that is happening to me which never yet happened to the gods, according to the orthodox authorities. just this--a commonplace--dear julius, i am growing old." katherine drew her cloak more severely about her and moved on hastily, her head a little bent. "no, no, don't protest," she added, as he attempted to speak. "we can be honest and dispense with conventional phrases, here, alone, under the stars. i am growing old, julius--and being, i suppose, but a vain, doting woman, i have only discovered what that really means to-day! but there is this excuse for me. my youth was so blessed, so--so glorious, that it was natural i should strive to delude myself regarding its passing away. i perceive that for years i have continued to call that a bride-bed which was, in truth, a bier. i have struggled to keep my youth in fancy, as i have kept the red drawing-room in fact, unaltered. is not all this pitifully vain and self-indulgent? i have solaced myself with the phantom of youth. and i am old--old." "but you are yourself, katherine, yourself. nothing that has been, has ceased to be," julius broke in, unable in the fulness of his reverent honour of his dear lady to comprehend the meaning of her present bitterness. "surely the mere adding of year to year can make no so vital difference?" "ah! you dear stupid creature," she cried,--"stupid, because, manlike, you are so hopelessly sensible--it makes just all the difference in the world. i shall grow less alert, less pliable of mind, less quick of sympathy, less capable of adjusting myself to altered conditions, and to entertaining new views. and, all the while, the demand upon me will not lessen." katherine stopped suddenly in her swift walk. the two stood facing one another. "the demand will increase," she declared. "richard is not happy." and thereupon--since, even in the most devout and holy, the old adam dies extremely hard--julius march fell a prey to very lively irritation. while she talked of herself, bestowing unreserved confidence upon him, he could listen gladly, forever. but if that most welcome subject of conversation should be dropped, let her give him that which he craved to-night, so specially--a word for himself. let her deal, for a little space, with his own private needs, his own private joys and sorrows. "ah! richard is not happy!" he exclaimed, his irritation finding voice. "we reach the root of the matter. richard is not happy. alas, then, for richard's mother!" "are you so much surprised?" katherine asked hotly. "do you venture to blame him? if so, i am afraid religion has made you rather cruel, julius. but that is not a new thing under the sun either. those who possess high spiritual consolations--unknown to the rank and file of us--have generally displayed an inclination to take the misfortunes of others with admirable resignation. dearest marie de mirancourt was an exception to that rule. you might do worse perhaps than learn to follow her example." as she finished speaking lady calmady turned from him rather loftily, and prepared to move away. but even in so doing she received an impression which tended to modify her resentful humour. for an instant julius march stood, a tall, thin, black figure, rigid and shadowless upon the pallor of the gray pavement, his arms extended wide, as once crucified, while he looked, not at her, not out into the repose of the night-swathed landscape, but up at the silent dance of the eternal stars in the limitless fields of space. as katherine, earlier in the evening, had taken up the momentarily rejected burden of her motherhood, so julius now, with a movement of supreme self-surrender, took up the momentarily rejected burden of the isolation of the religious life. self-wounded by self-love, he had sought comfort in the creature rather than the creator. and the creature turned and rebuked him. it was just. now julius gave himself back, bowed himself again under the dominion of his fixed idea; and, so doing, gained, unconsciously, precisely that which he had gone forth to seek. for katherine, struck alike by the strange vigour, and strange resignation, of his attitude, suffered quick fear, not only for, but of him. his aloofness alarmed her. "julius! dear julius!" she cried. "come, let us walk. it grows cold. i enjoy that, but it is not very safe for you. and, pardon me, dear friend, i spoke harshly just now. i told you i was getting old. put my words down to the peevishness of old age then." katherine smiled at him with a sweet, half-playful humility. her face was very wan. and speech not coming immediately to him, she spoke again. "you have always been very patient with me. you must go on being so." "i ask nothing better," julius said. lady calmady stopped, drew herself up, shook back her head. "ah! what sorry creatures we all are," she cried, rather bitterly. "discontented, unstable, forever kicking against the pricks, and fighting against the inevitable. always crying to one another, 'see how hard this is, know how it hurts, feel the weight!' my poor darling cries to me--that is natural enough"--katherine paused--"and as it should be. but i must needs run out and cry to you. in this we are like links of an endless chain. what is the next link, julius? to whom will you cry in your turn?" "the chain is not endless" he replied. "the last link of it is riveted to the steps of the throne of god. i will make my cry there--my threefold cry--for you, for richard, and for myself, katherine." lady calmady had reached the arched side-door leading from the terrace into the house. she paused, with her hand on the latch. "your god and i quarreled nearly four-and-twenty years ago--not when richard, my joy, died, but when richard, my sorrow, was born," she said. "i own i see no way, short of miracle, of that quarrel being made up." "then a miracle will be worked," he answered. "ah! you forget i grow old," katherine retorted, smiling; "so that for miracles the time is at once too long and too short." chapter v telling how queen mary's crystal ball came to fall on the gallery floor this world is unquestionably a vastly stimulating and entertaining place if you take it aright--namely, if you recognise that it is the creation of a profound humorist, is designed for wholly practical and personal uses, and proceed to adapt your conduct to that knowledge in all light-heartedness and good faith. thus, though in less trenchant phrase since she was still happily very young, meditated madame de vallorbes, while standing in the pensive october sunshine upon the wide flight of steps which leads down from the main entrance of brockhurst house. tall, stone pinnacles alternating with seated griffins--long of tail, fierce of beak and sharp of claw--fill in each of the many angles of the descending stone balustrade on either hand. behind her, the florid, though rectangular, decoration of the house front ranged up, storey above storey, in arcade and pilaster, heavily mullioned window, carven plaque and string course, to pairs of matching pinnacles and griffins--these last rampant, supporting the calmady shield and coat-of-arms--the quaint forms of which break the long line of the pierced, stone parapet in the centre of the façade, and rise above the rusty red of the low-pitched roofs, until the spires of the one and crested heads of the other are outlined against the sky. about her feet the pea-fowl stepped in mincing and self-conscious elegance--the cocks with rustlings of heavy trailing quills, the hens and half-grown chicks with squeakings and whifflings--subdued, conversational--accompanied by the dry tap of many bills picking up the glossy grains of indian-corn which she let dribble slowly down upon the shallow steps from between her pretty fingers. she had huddled a soft sable tippet about her throat and shoulders. the skirt of her indigo-coloured, poplin dress, turning upon the step immediately above that on which she stood, showed some inches of rose-scarlet, silken frill lining the hem of it. helen de vallorbes had a lively consciousness of her surroundings. she enjoyed every detail of them. enjoyed the gentle, southwesterly wind which touched her face and stirred her bright hair, enjoyed the plaintive, autumn song of a robin perched on a rose-grown wall, enjoyed the impotent ferocity of the guardian griffins, enjoyed the small sounds made by the feeding pea-fowl, the modest quaker grays and the imperial splendours of their plumage. she enjoyed the turn of her own wrist, its gold chain-bracelet and the handsome lace falling away from and displaying it, as she held out the handfuls of corn. she enjoyed even that space of rose-scarlet declaring itself between the dull blue of her dress and the gray, weathered surface of the stone. but all these formed only the accompaniment, the ground-tone, to more reasoned, more vital enjoyments. before her, beyond the carriage sweep, lay the square lawn enclosed by red walls and by octagonal, pepper-pot summer-houses, whereon--unwillingly, yet in obedience to the wild justice of revenge--roger ormiston had shot the clown, half-brother to touchstone, race-horse of mournful memory. as a child helen had heard that story. now her somewhat light, blue-gray eyes, their beautiful lids raised wide for once, looked out curiously upon the space of dew-powdered turf; while the corners of her mouth--a mouth a trifle thin lipped, yet soft and dangerously sweet for kissing--turned upward in a reflective smile. she, too, knew what it was to be angry, to the point of revenge; had indeed come to brockhurst not without purpose of that last tucked away in some naughty convolution of her active brain. but brockhurst and its inhabitants had proved altogether more interesting than she had anticipated. this was the fourth day of her visit, and each day had proved more to her taste than the preceding one. so she concluded this matter of revenge might very well stand over for the moment, possibly stand over altogether. the present was too excellent, of its kind, to risk spoiling. helen de vallorbes valued the purple and fine linen of a high civilisation; nor did she disdain, within graceful limits, to fare sumptuously every day. she valued all that is beautiful and costly in art, of high merit and distinction in literature. her taste was sure and just, if a little more disposed towards that which is sensuous than towards that which is spiritual. and in all its many forms she appreciated luxury, even entertaining a kindness for that necessary handmaid of luxury--waste. appreciated these the more ardently, that, with birth-pangs at the beginning of each human life, death-pangs and the corruption of the inevitable grave at the close of each, all this lapping, meanwhile, of the doomed flesh in exaggerations of ease and splendour seemed to her among the very finest ironies of the great comedy of existence. it heightened, it accentuated the drama. and among the many good things of life, drama, come how and where and when it might, seemed to her supremely the best. she desired it as a lover his mistress. to detect it, to observe it, gave her the keenest pleasure. to take a leading part in and shape it to the turn of her own heart, her own purpose, her own wit was, so far, her ruling passion. and of potential drama, of the raw material of it, as the days passed, she found increasingly generous store at brockhurst. it invaded and held her imagination, as the initial conception of his poem will that of the poet, or of his picture that of the painter. she brooded over it, increasingly convinced that it might be a masterpiece. for the drama--as she apprehended it--contained not only elements of virility and strength, but an element, and that a persistent one, of the grotesque. this put the gilded dome to her silent, and perhaps slightly unscrupulous, satisfaction. how could it be otherwise, since the presence of the grotesque is, after all, the main justification of the theory on which her philosophy of life was based--namely, the belief that above all eloquence of human speech, behind all enthusiasm of human action or emotion, the ear which hears aright can always detect the echo of eternal laughter? and this grim echo did not affect the charming young lady to sadness as yet. still less did it make her mad, as the mere suspicion of it has made so many, and those by no means unworthy or illiterate persons. for the laugh, so far, had appeared to be on her side, never at her expense--which makes a difference. and the chambers of her house of life were too crowded by health and agreeable sensations, mental activities and sparkling audacities, to have any one of them vacant for reception, more than momentary, of that thrice-blessed guest, pity. and so it followed that, as she fed the mincing pea-fowl, madame de vallorbes' smile changed in character from reflection to impatience. a certain heat running through her, she set her pretty teeth and fell to pelting the pea-hens and chicks mischievously, breaking up all their aristocratic reserve and making them jump and squeak to some purpose. for this precious, this very masterpiece of a drama was not only here potentially, but actually. it was alive. she had felt it move under her hand--or under her heart, which was it?--yesterday evening. again this morning, just now, she had noted signs of its vitality, wholly convincing to one skilled in such matters. impatience, then, became very excusable. "for my time is short and the action disengages itself so deplorably slowly!" she exclaimed. "pah! you greedy, conceited birds, which do you hold dearest after all, the filling of your little stomachs, or the supporting of your little dignities? be advised by a higher intelligence. revenge yourselves on the grains that hit and sting you by gobbling them up. it is a venerable custom that of feasting upon one's enemies. and has been practised, in various forms, both by nations and individuals. there, i give you another chance of displaying wisdom--there--there!--la! la! what an absurd commotion! you little idiots, don't flutter. agitation is a waste of energy, and advances nothing. i declare peace. i want to consider." and so, letting the remaining handfuls of corn dribble down very slowly, while the sunshine grew warmer and the shadows of the guardian griffins more distinct upon the lichen-encrusted stones, helen de vallorbes sank back into meditation--yes, unquestionably the drama was alive. but it seemed so difficult to bring it to the birth. and she wanted, very badly, to hear its first half-articulate cries and watch its first staggering footsteps. all that is so entertaining, you yourself safely grown-up, standing very firm on your feet, looking down! and it would be a lusty child, this drama, very soon reaching man's estate and man's inspiring violence of action, striking out like some blind, giant samson, blundering headlong in its unseeing, uncalculating strength.--helen laid her hands upon her bosom, and threw back her head, while her throat bubbled with suppressed laughter. ah! it promised to be a drama of ten thousand, if she knew her power, and knew her world--and she possessed considerable confidence in her knowledge of both. only, how on earth to set the crystal free of the matrix, how to engage battle, how to get this thing fairly and squarely born? for, as she acknowledged, in the flotation of all such merry schemes as her present one, chance encounters, interludes, neatly planned evasions and resultant pursuits, play so large and important a part. but at brockhurst this whole chapter of accidents was barred, and received rules of strategy almost annihilated, by the fact of richard calmady's infirmity and the hard-and-fast order of domestic procedure, the elaborate system of etiquette, which that infirmity had gradually produced. at brockhurst there were no haphazard exits and entrances. these were either hopelessly official and public, or guarded to an equally hopeless point of secrecy. a contingent of tall, civil men-servants was always on duty. richard was invariably in his place at table when the rest of the company came down. the ladies took their after-dinner coffee in the drawing-room, and joined the gentlemen in the chapel-room, library, or gallery, as the case might be. if they rode, richard was at the door ready mounted, along with the grooms and led-horses. if they drove, he was already seated in the carriage. "and how, how in the name of common sense," madame de vallorbes exclaimed, stamping her foot, and thereby throwing the now thoroughly nervous pea-fowl into renewed agitation, "are you to establish any relation worth mentioning with a man who is perpetually being carried in procession like a hindu idol? my good birds, one's never alone with him--whether by design and arrangement, i know not. but, so far, never, never, picture that! and yet, don't tell me, matchless mixture of pride and innocence though he is, he wouldn't like it!" however, she checked her irritation by contemplation of yesterday. ah! that had been very prettily done assuredly. for riding in the forenoon along the road skirting the palings of the inner park, while they walked their horses over the soft, brown bed of fallen fir-needles,--she, her father, and dick,--the conversation dealt with certain first editions and their bindings, certain treasures, unique in historic worth, locked in the glass tables and fine florentine and _piétra dura_ cabinets of the long gallery. mr. ormiston was a connoisseur and talked well. and helen had sufficient acquaintance with such matters both to appreciate, and to add telling words to the talk. "ah! but i cannot go without seeing those delectable things, richard," she said. "would it be giving you altogether too much trouble to have them out for me?" "why, of course not. you shall see them whenever you like," he answered. "julius knows all about them. he'll be only too delighted to act showman." just here the road narrowed a little, and mr. ormiston let his horse drop a few lengths behind, so that she, helen, and her cousin rode forward side by side. the tones of the low sky, of the ranks of firs and stretches of heather formed a rich, though sombre, harmony of colour. scents, pungent and singularly exhilarating, were given off by the damp mosses and the peaty moorland soil. the freedom of the forest, the feeling of the noble horse under her, stirred helen as with the excitement of a mighty hunting, a positively royal sport. while the close presence of the young man riding beside her sharpened the edge of that excitement to a perfect keenness of pleasure. "ah, how glorious it all is!" she cried. "how glad i am that you asked me to come here." and she turned to richard, looking at him as, since the first day of their meeting, she had not, somehow, quite ventured to look. "but, oh! dear me! please," she went on, "i know mr. march is an angel, a saint--but--but--_mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_, i don't want him to show me those special treasures of yours. he'll take the life out of them. i know it. and make them seem like things read of merely in a learned book. be very charming to me, richard. waste half an hour upon me. show me those moving relics yourself." as she spoke, momentary suspicion rose in dickie's eyes. but she gazed back unflinchingly, with the uttermost frankness, so that suspicion died, giving place to the shy, yet triumphant, gladness of youth which seeks and finds youth. "do, richard, pray do," she repeated. the young man had averted his face rather sharply, and both horses, somehow, broke into a hand gallop. "all right," he answered. "i'll arrange it. this evening, about six, after tea? will that suit you? i'll send you word." then the road had widened, permitting mr. ormiston to draw up to them again. the remainder of the ride had been a little silent. yes, all that had been prettily done. nor had the piece that followed proved unworthy of the prelude. she ran over the scene in her mind now, as she stood among the pocketing pea-fowl, and it caused her both mirth and delightful little heats, in which the heart has a word to say.--madame de vallorbes was ravished to feel her heart, just now and again.--for, contradictory as it may seem, no game is perfect that has not moments of seriousness.--she recalled the aspect of the long gallery, as one of those civil, ever-present men-servants had opened the door for her, and she waited a moment on the threshold. the true artist is never in a hurry. the breadth of the great room immediately before her showed very bright with candle-light and lamplight. but that died away, through gradations of augmenting obscurity, until the extreme end, towards the western bay, melted out into complete darkness. this produced an effect of almost limitless length which moved her to a childish, and at first pleasing, fancy of vague danger--an effect heightened by the ranges of curious and costly objects standing against, or decorating, the walls in a perspective of deepening gloom. turquoise-coloured, satin curtains, faded to intimate accord with the silvered surface of the paneling, were drawn across the wide windows. they reached to the lower edge of the stonework merely, leaving blottings of impenetrable shadow below. while, as culmination of interest, as living centre of this rich and varied setting, was the figure of richard calmady--seen, as his custom was, only to the waist--seated in a high-backed chair drawn close against an antique, oak table, upon which a small _piétra dura_ cabinet shad been placed. the doors of the cabinet stood open, displaying slender columns of jasper and porphyry, and little drawers encrusted with raised work in marbles and precious stones. the young man sat stiffly upright, as one who listens, expectant. his expression was almost painfully serious. in one hand he held a string of pearls, attached to which, and enclosed by intersecting hoops of gold, was a crystal ball that shone with the mild effulgence of a mimic moon. and the great room was so very quiet, that helen, in her pause upon the threshold, had remarked the sound of raindrops tapping upon the many window-panes as with impatiently nervous fingers. and this bred in her a corresponding nervousness--sensation to her, heretofore, almost unknown. the darkness yonder began to provoke a disagreeable impression, queerly challenging both her eyesight and her courage. old convent teachings, regarding the prince of darkness and his emissaries, returned upon her. what if diabolic shapes lurked there, ready to become stealthily emergent? she had scoffed at such archaic fancies in the convent, yet, in lonely hours, had suffered panic fear of them, as will the hardiest sceptic. a certain little scar, moreover, carefully hidden under the soft hair arranged low on her right temple, smarted and pricked. in short, her habitual self-confidence suffered partial eclipse. she was visited by the disintegrating suspicion, for once, that the eternal laughter might, possibly, be at her expense, rather than on her side. but she conquered such suspicion as contemptible, and cast out the passing weakness. the bare memory of it angered her now, causing her to fire a volley of yellow corn at a lordly peacock, which sent him scuttling down the steps on to the gravel in most plebeian haste. yes, she had speedily cast out her weakness, thank heaven! what was all the pother about after all? this was not the first time she had played merry games with the affairs and affections of men. madame de vallorbes smiled to herself, recalling certain episodes, and shook her charming shoulders gleefully, as she looked out into the sunny morning. and then, was there not ample excuse? this man moved her more than most--more than any. she swore he did. her attitude towards him was something new, something quite different, thereby justifying her campaign. and therefore, all the bolder for her brief self-distrust and hesitation, she had swept across the great room, light of foot, and almost impertinently graceful of carriage. "here you are at last!" dickie had exclaimed, with a sigh as of relief. "i shan't want anything more, powell. you can come back when the dressing-bell rings." then, as the valet closed the door behind him, he continued rapidly:--"not that i propose to victimise you till then, helen. you mustn't stay a bit longer than you like. i confess i'm awfully fond of this room. i'm almost ashamed to think how much time i waste in it. doing what? oh, well, just dreaming! you see it contains samples of the doings of all my father's people, and i return to primitive faiths here and to perform acts of ancestor worship." "ah! i like that!" helen said. and she did. picture this man, long of arm, unnaturally low of stature, and astonishingly--yes, quite astonishingly good-looking, moving about among these books and pictures, these trophies of war and of sport, these oriental jars, tall almost as himself, and all the other strange furnishings from out distant years and distant lands! picture him emerging from that well of soft darkness yonder, for instance! helen's eyes danced under their arched and drooping lids, and she registered the fact that, though still frightened, her fright had changed in character. it was grateful to her palate. she relished it as the bouquet of a wine of finest quality. meanwhile her companion talked on. "the ancestor worship? oh yes! i dare say you might like it for a change. getting it as i do, as habitual diet, it is not remarkably stimulating. the natural man prefers to find occasion for worshipping himself rather than his ancestors, after all, you know. but a little turn of it will serve to fill in a gap and lessen the monotony of your visit. i am afraid you must be a good deal bored, helen. it must seem rather terribly humdrum here after paris and naples, and--well--most places, at that rate, as you know them." richard shifted his position. and the crystal moon encompassed by golden bands, crossing and intersecting one another like those of a sidereal sphere, gleamed as with an inward and unearthly light, swinging slowly upon the movement of his hand. "you must feel here as though the clock had been put back two or three centuries. i know we move slowly, and conduct ourselves with tedious deliberation. and so, you understand, you mustn't let me keep you. just look at what you like of these odds and ends, and then depart without scruple. it's rather a fraud, in any case, my showing them to you. julius march, as i told you, is much better qualified to." "julius march, julius march," madame de vallorbes broke in. "do, i beseech you, dear cousin richard, leave him to the pious retirement of his study. is he not middle-aged, and a priest into the bargain?" "unquestionably," dickie said. "but, pardon me, i don't quite see what that has to do with it." thereupon madame de vallorbes made a very naughty, little grimace and drummed with her finger-tips upon the table. "la! la!" she cried, "you're no better than all the rest. commend me to a clever man for incapacity to apprehend what is patent to the intelligence of the most ordinary woman. look about you."--helen sketched in their surroundings with a quick descriptive gesture. "observe the lights and shadows. the ghostly wavings of those pale curtains. smell the potpourri and spices. think of the ancestor worship. listen to the protesting wind and rain. see the mysterious treasure you hold in your hand. and then ask me what middle-age and the clerical profession have to do with all this! why, nothing, just precisely nothing, nothing in the whole world. that's the point of my argument. they'd ruin the sentiment, blight the romance, hopelessly blight it--for me at least." the conversation was slightly embarrassed, both helen and richard talking at length, yet at random. but she knew that it was thus, and not otherwise, that it behooved them to talk. for that which they said mattered not in the least. the thing said served as a veil, as a cloak, merely, wherewith to disguise those much greater things which, perforce, remained unsaid.--to cover his and her lively consciousness of their present isolation, desired these many days and now obtained. to conceal the swift, silent approaches of spirit to spirit, so full of inquiry and self-revelation, fugitive reserves and fugitive distrusts. to hide, as far as might be, the existence of the hungry, all-compelling _joie de vivre_ which is begotten whensoever youth thus seeks and finds youth.--these unspoken and, as yet, unspeakable things were alone of real moment, making eyes lustrous and lips quick with tremulous, uncalled-for smiles irrespective of the purport of their speech. "ah! but that's rather rough on poor dear julius, you know," dickie said. "i suppose you wanted to learn all----" "learn?" she interrupted. "i wanted to feel. don't you know there is only one way any woman worth the name ever really learns--through her emotions? only the living feel. such men as he, if they are sincere, are already dead. he would have made feeling impossible." a perceptible hush descended upon the room. richard calmady's hand usually was steady enough, but, in the silence, the pearls chattered against the table. he went rather pale and his face hardened. "and are you getting anything of that which you wanted, helen?" he asked. "for sometimes in the last few days--since you have been here--i--i have wondered if perhaps we were not all like that--all dead----" "you mean do i get emotion, am i feeling?" she said. "rest contented. much is happening. indeed i have doubted, during the last few days, since i have been here, whether i have ever known what it is to feel actually and seriously before." she sat down at right angles to him, resting her elbows upon the table, her chin upon her folded hands, leaning a little towards him. one of those pleasant heats swept over her, flushing her delicate skin, lending a certain effulgence to her beauty. the scent of roses long faded hung in the air. but here was a rose sweeter far than they. no white rose of paradise, it must be confessed. rather like her immortal namesake, that classic helen, was she _rosa mundi_, glowing with warmth and colour, rose-red rose altogether of this dear, naughty, lower world? "richard," she said impulsively, "why don't you understand? why do you underrate your own power? don't you know that you are quite the most moving, the most attractive--well--cousin, a woman ever had?" she looked closely at him, her lips a little parted, her head thrown back. "life is sweet, dear cousin. reckon with yourself and with it, and live--live."--then she put out her hand and held up the crystal between her face and his. "there," she went on, "tell me about this. i become indiscrete, thanks i suppose to your brockhurst habit of putting back the clock, and speak with truly elizabethan frankness. it belongs to semi-barbaric ages, doesn't it, this, to tell the true truth? show me this. it seems rather fascinating." and richard obeyed mechanically, pointing out to her the signs of the zodiac, those of the planets, and other figures of occult significance engraved on the encircling, golden bands. showed her how those same bands, turning on a pivot, formed a golden cradle, in which the crystal sphere reposed. he lifted it out from that cradle, moreover, and laid it in the softer cradle of her palm. and of necessity in the doing of all this, their heads--his and hers--were very near together, and their hands met. but they were very solemn all the while, solemn, eager, busy, as two babies revealing to each other the mysteries of a newly acquired toy. and it seemed to madame de vallorbes that all this was as pretty a bit of business as ever served to help forward such gay purposes as hers. she was pleased with herself too--for did she not feel very gentle, very sincere, really very innocent and good? "no, hold it so," richard said, rounding her fingers carefully, that the tips of them might alone touch the surface of the crystal. "now gaze into the heart of it steadily, fixing your will to see. pictures will come presently, dimly at first, as in a mist. then the mist will lift and you will read your own fortune and--perhaps--some other person's fate." "have you ever read yours?" "oh! mine's of a sort that needs no crystal to reveal it," he answered, with a queer drop in his voice. "it's written in rather indecently big letters and plain type. always has been." helen glanced at him. his words whipped up her sense of drama, fed her excitement. but she bent her eyes upon the crystal again, and the hush descended once more, disturbed only by that nervous tapping of rain. "i see nothing, nothing," she said presently. "and there is much i would give very much to see." "you must gaze with a simple intention." the young man's voice came curiously hoarse and broken. "purify your mind of all desire." helen did not raise her head. "alas! if those are the conditions of revelation my chances of seeing are extremely limited. to purify one's mind of all desire is to commit emotional suicide. of course i desire, all the while i desire. and equally, of course, you desire. every one who is human and in their sober senses must do that. absence of desire means idiotcy, or----" "or what?" for an instant she looked up at him, a very devil of dainty malice in her expression, in the shrug of her shoulders too, beneath their fine laces and the affected sobriety of that same dull-blue, poplin gown. "or priestly, saintly middle-age--from which may heaven in its mercy ever deliver us," she said. richard shifted his position a little, gathering himself back from her so near neighbourhood--a fact of which the young lady was not unaware. "i'm not quite sure whether i echo your prayer," he said slowly. "i doubt whether that attitude, or one approximate to it, is not the safest and best for some of us." "safest, no doubt." madame de vallorbes' eyes were bent on the crystal sphere again. "as it is safer to decline a duel, than go out and meet your man. best? on that point you must permit me to hold my own opinion. the word best has many readings according to the connection in which it is employed. personally i should always fight." "whatever the odds?" "whatever the odds."--and almost immediately madame de vallorbes uttered a little cry, curiously at variance with her bold words. "something is moving inside the crystal, something is coming. i don't half like it, richard. perhaps we are tempting providence. yes, it moves, it moves, like mist rising off a river. it is poisonous. some woman has looked into this before--a woman of my temperament--and read an evil fortune. i know it. tell me quick, how did the crystal come here, to whom did it belong?" "to mary stuart--mary, queen of scots," dickie said. "ah! unhappy woman, ill-omened woman. you should have told me that before and i would never have looked. here take it, take it. lock it up, hide it. let no woman ever look in it again." as she spoke helen crossed herself hastily, pushing the magic ball towards him. but, as though endowed with life and volition of its own--or was it merely that dick's hand was even yet not quite of the steadiest?--it evaded his grasp, fell off the table edge and rolled, gleaming moonlike, far across the floor, away behind the pedestal of the bronze pompeian antinous, into the dusky shadow of those ghostly-waving, turquoise, satin curtains. with a sense of catastrophe upon her helen had sprung to her feet.--even now, standing in the peaceful warmth of the autumn sunshine, among the feeding pea-fowl, the remembrance of it caused her a little shiver. for at sight of that gleaming ball hurrying across the carpet, all the nervousness, the distrust of herself, the vague spiritual alarms, which had beset her on first entering the room, returned on her with tenfold force. the superstitious terrors of the convent-bred girl mastered the light-hearted scepticism of the woman of the world, and regions of sinister possibility seemed disclosing themselves around her. "oh! how horrible! what does it mean?" she cried. and richard answered cheerily, somewhat astonished at her agitation, trying to reassure her. "mean? nothing, except that i was abominably awkward and the crystal abominably slippery. what does it matter? we can find it again directly." then, self-forgetful in the fulness of his longing to pacify her, richard had pushed his chair back from the table, intending to go in search of the vagrant jewel. but the chair was high, and its make not of the most solid sort; and so he paused, instinctively calculating the amount of support it could be trusted to render him in his descent. and during that pause helen had felt her heart stand still. she set her little teeth now, recalling it. for the extent of his deformity was fully apparent for once. and, apprehending that which he proposed to do, she was smitten by immense curiosity to realise the ultimate of the grotesque in respect of his appearance as he should move, walk, grope in the dimness over there after the lost crystal. but there are some indulgences which can be bought at too high a price, and along with the temptation to gratify her curiosity came an intensification of superstitious alarm. what if she had sinned, and trafficked with diabolic agencies, in trying to read the future? payment of an actively disagreeable character might be exacted for that, and would not such payment risk disastrous augmentation if she gratified her curiosity thus further? helen de vallorbes became quite wonderfully prudent and humane. "no, no, don't bother about it, don't move, dear richard," she cried. "let me find it please. i saw exactly the direction in which it went." and to emphasise her speech, and keep the young man in his place, she laid her hands persuasively upon his shoulders. this brought her charming face, so pure in outline, set in its aureole of honey-coloured hair, very near to his, she looking down, he up. and in this position the two remained longer than was absolutely necessary, silent, quite still, while the air grew thick with the push of unspoken and as yet unspeakable matters, and helen's hands resting upon his shoulders grew heavy, as the seconds passed, with languorous weight. "there are better things than crystals to read in, after all, richard," she said at last. then she lifted her hands almost brusquely and stepped back. "all the same it is stupid i should have to go away," she continued, speaking more to herself than to him. "i am happy here. and when i am happy it's easy to be good--and i like to be good." she crossed the room and passed behind the bronze pompeian antinous. under the shadow of the curtains, in the angle of the bay, against the wainscot, queen mary's magic ball showed softly luminous. helen could have believed that it watched her. she hesitated before stooping to pick it up and looked over her shoulder at richard calmady. his back was towards her, his chair close against the table again. he leaned forward on his elbows, his face buried in his hands. something in the bowed head, in the set of the almost crouching figure reassured madame de vallorbes. she picked up the crystal without more ado, with, indeed, a certain flippancy of gesture. for she had received pleasing assurance that she had been frightened in the wrong place, and that the eternal laughter was very completely on her side after all. and just then a bell had rung in some distant quarter of the great house. powell, incarnation of decent punctualities, had appeared. whereupon the temperature fell to below normal from fever-heat. drama, accentuations of sensibility, in short all the unspoken and unspeakable, withered as tropic foliage at a touch of frost. no doubt it was as well, madame de vallorbes reflected philosophically, since the really psychological moment was passed. there had been a dinner party last night, and---- but here the young lady's reminiscences broke off short. she gathered up her blue, poplin, scarlet-lined skirts, ran down the steps, scattering the pea-fowl to right and left, and hastened across the gravel. "wait half a minute for me, dear aunt katherine," she cried. "are you going to the conservatories? i would so like to see them. may i go too?" lady calmady stood by the door in the high, red-brick wall. she wore a white, lace scarf over her hair--turned up and back, dressed high, as of old, though now somewhat gray upon the temples. the lace was tied under her chin, framing her face. in her gray dress she looked as some stately, yet gracious lady abbess might--a lady abbess who had known love in all fulness, yet in all honour--a lady abbess painted, if such happy chance could be, by the debonair and clean-hearted reynolds. she stood smiling, charmed--though a trifle unwillingly--by the brilliant vision of the younger woman. "assuredly you may come with me, if it would amuse you," she said. "i may? then let me open that door for you. la! la! how it sticks. last night's rain must have swelled it;" and she wrestled unsuccessfully with the lock. "my dear, don't try any more," katherine said. "you will tire yourself. the exertion is too great for you. i will go back and call one of the servants." "no, no;" and regardless of her fine laces, and trinkets, and sables madame de vallorbes put her shoulder against the resisting door and fairly burst it open. "see," she cried, breathless but triumphant, "i am very strong." "you are very pretty," katharine said, almost involuntarily. the steeply-terraced kitchen gardens, neat box edgings, wide flower borders in which a few clumps of chrysanthemum and michaelmas daisy still resisted the frost, ranged down to greenish brown ponds in the valley bottom spotted with busy, quacking companies of white ducks. beyond was an ascending slope of thick wood, the topmost trees of which showed bare against the sky line. all this was framed by the arch of the door. madame de vallorbes glanced at it, while she pulled down the soft waves of hair, which her late exertions had slightly disarranged, over her right temple. then she turned impulsively to lady calmady. "thank you, dear aunt katherine," she said. "i would so like you to like me, you know." "i should be rather unpardonably difficult to please, if i did not like you, my dear," lady calmady answered. but she sighed as she spoke. the two women moved away, side by side, down the path to the glistering greenhouses. but camp, who, missing richard, had followed his mistress out of the house for a leisurely morning potter, turned back sulkily across the gravel homewards, his tail limp, his heavy head carried low. his instincts were conservative, as has been already mentioned. he was suspicious of newcomers. and whoever liked this particular newcomer, madame de vallorbes, he was sorry to say--and on more than one occasion he said it with quite inconvenient distinctness--he did not. chapter vi in which dickie tries to ride away from his own shadow, with such success as might have been anticipated that same morning richard was up and out early. fog had followed on the evening's rain, and at sunrise still shrouded all the landscape. "let her ladyship know i breakfast at the stables and shan't be in before luncheon," he had said to powell while settling himself in the saddle. then, followed by a groom, he fared forth. the house vanished phantom-like behind him, and the clang of the iron gates as they swung to was muffled by the heavy atmosphere, while he rode on by invisible ways across an invisible land, hemmed in, close-encompassed, passed upon, by the chill, ashen whiteness of the fog. and for the cold silence and blankness surrounding him richard was grateful. it was restful--after a grim fashion--and he welcomed rest, having passed a but restless night. for dickie had been the victim of much travail of spirit. his imagination vexed him, pricking up slumbering lusts of the flesh. his conscience vexed him likewise, suggesting that his attitude had not been pure cousinly; and this shamed him, since he was still singularly unspotted from the world, noble modesties and decencies still paramount in him. he was keenly, some might say mawkishly, sensible of the stain and dishonour of turning, even involuntarily and passingly, covetous glances upon another man's goods. in sensation and apprehension he had lived at racing pace during the last few days. that hour in the long gallery last night had been the climax. the gates of paradise had opened before him. and, since opposites of necessity imply their opposites, the gates of hell had opened likewise. it appeared to dickie that the great poets, and painters, and musicians, the great lovers even, had nothing left to tell him--for he knew. knew, moreover, that his eden had come to him with the angel of the fiery sword that "turneth every way" standing at the threshold of it--knew, yet further, as he had never known before, the immensity of the difficulties, disabilities, humiliations, imposed on him by his deformity. bitterly, nakedly, he called his trouble by that offensive name. then he straightened himself in the saddle. yes, welcome the cold weight against his chest, welcome the silence, the blankness, the dead, ashen pallor of the fog! but just where the tan ride, leading down across the road to the left diverges from the main road, this source of negative consolation began to fail him. for a draw of fresher air came from westward, causing the blurred, wet branches to quiver and the pall of mist to gather, and then break and melt under its wholesome breath, while the rays of the laggard sun, clearing the edge of the fir forest, eastward, pierced it, hastening its dissolution. therefore it followed that by the time richard rode in under the stable archway, he found the great yard full of noise and confused movement. the stable doors stood wide along one side of the quadrangle. stunted, boyish figures shambled hither and thither, unwillingly deserting the remnants of half-eaten breakfasts, among the iron mugs and platters of the long, deal tables of the refectory. chifney and preiston--the head-lad--hurried them, shouting orders, admonishing, inciting to greater rapidity of action. and the boys were sulky. the thick morning had promoted hopes of an hour or two of unwonted idleness. now those poor, little hopes were summarily blighted. lazy, pinched with cold by the raw morning air, still a bit hungry, sick even, or downright frightened, they must mount and away--the long line of race-horses streaming, in single file, up the hillside to the exercising ground--with as short delay as possible, or mr. chifney and his ash stick would know the reason why. there were elements of brutality in the scene from which richard would, oftentimes, have recoiled. to-day he was selfish, absorbed to the point of callousness. if he remarked them at all, it was in bitter welcome, as he had welcomed the chill and staring blankness of the fog. he was indifferent to the fact that chifney was harsh, the horses testy or wicked, that the boys' noses were red, and that they blew their purple fingers before laying hold of the reins in a vain attempt to promote circulation. dickie sat still as a statue in the midst of all the turmoil, the handle of his crop resting on his thigh, his eyes hot from sleeplessness and wild thoughts, his face hard as marble.--unhappy? wasn't he unhappy too? suffer? well, let them suffer--within reasonable limits. suffering was the fundamental law of existence. they must bow to the workings of it along with the rest. but one wretched, little chap fairly blubbered. he had been kicked in the stomach some three weeks earlier, and had been in hospital. this was his first morning out. he had grown soft, and was light-headed, his knees all of a shake. by means of voluminous threats preiston got him up. but he sat his horse all of a huddle, as limp as a half-empty sack of chaff. richard looked on feeling, not pity, but only irritation, finally amounting to anger. the child's whole aspect and the sniveling sounds he made were so hatefully ugly. it disgusted him. "here chifney, leave that fellow at home," he said. "he's no good." "he's malingering, sir richard. i know his sort. give in to him now and we shall have the same game, and worse, over again to-morrow." "very probably," richard answered. "only it is evident he has no more hand and no more grip than a sick cat to-day. we shall have some mess with him, and i'm not in the humour for a mess, so just leave him. there boy, stop crying. do you hear?" he added, wheeling round on the small unfortunate. "mr. chifney'll give you another day off, and the doctor will see you. only if he reports you fit and you give the very least trouble to-morrow, you'll be turned out of the stables there and then. we've no use for shirkers. do you understand?" in spite of his irritation, the hardness of richard's expression relaxed as he finished speaking. the poor, little beggar was so abject--too abject indeed for common decency, since he too, after all, was human. richard's own self-respect made it incumbent upon him to lift the creature out of the pit of so absolutely unseemly a degradation. he looked kindly at him, smiled, and promptly forgot all about him. while to the boy it seemed that the gods had verily descended in the likeness of men, and he would have bartered his little, dirty, blear-eyed rudiment of a soul thenceforward for another such a look from richard calmady. dickie promptly forgot the boy, yet some virtue must have been in the episode for he began to feel better in himself. as the horses filed away through the misty sunshine--preiston riding beside the fourth or fifth of the string, while richard and chifney brought up the rear, his chestnut suiting its paces to the shorter stride of the trainer's cob--the fever of the night cooled down in him. half thankfully, half amusedly, he perceived things begin to assume their normal relations. he filled his lungs with the pure air, felt the sun-dazzle pleasant in his eyes. he had run somewhat mad in the last twenty-four hours surely? he was not such a fatuous ass as to have mistaken helen's frank _camaraderie_, her bright interest in things, her charming little ways of showing cousinly regard, for some deeper, more personal feeling? she had been divinely kind, but that was just her--just the outcome of her delightful nature. she would go away on friday--saturday perhaps--he rather hoped saturday--and be just as divinely kind to other people. and then he shook himself, feeling the languid weight of her hands on his shoulders again. would she--would--? for an instant he wanted to get at, and incontinently brain, those other people. after which, richard mentally took himself by the throat and proceeded to choke the folly out of himself. yes, she would go back to all those other people, back moreover to the vicomte de vallorbes--whom, by the way, it occurred to him she so seldom mentioned. well, we don't continually talk about the people we love best, do we, to comparative strangers? she would go back to her husband--her husband.--richard repeated the words over to himself sternly, trying to drive them home, to burn them into his consciousness past all possibility of forgetting. anyhow, she had been wonderfully sweet and charming to him. she had shown him--quite unconsciously, of course--what life might be for--for somebody else. she had revealed to him--what indeed had she not revealed! he remembered the spirit of expectation that possessed him riding back through the autumn woods the day he first met her. the expectation had been more than justified by the sequel. only--only--and then dick became stern with himself again. for, she having, unconsciously, done so much for him, was it not his first duty never to distress her?--never to let her know how much deeper it had all gone with him than with her?--never to insult her beautiful innocence by a word or look suggesting an affection less frank and cousinly than her own? only, since even our strongest purposes have moments of lapse and weakness in execution, it would be safer, perhaps, not to be much alone with her--since she didn't know--how should she? yes, richard agreed with himself not to loaf, to allow no idle hours. he would ride, he would see to business. there were a whole heap of estate matters claiming attention. he had neglected them shamefully of late. unquestionably helen counted for very much, would continue to do so. he supposed he would carry the ache of certain memories about with him henceforth and forever. she had become part of the very fibre of his life. he never doubted that. and yet, he told himself--assuming a second-hand garment of slightly cynical philosophy which suited singularly ill with the love-light in his eyes, there radiantly apparent for all the world to see--that woman, even the one who first shows you you have a heart--and a body too, worse luck--even she is but a drop in the vast ocean of things. there remains all the rest. and with praiseworthy diligence dickie set himself to reckon how immensely much all the rest amounts to. there is plenty, exclusive of her, to think about. more than enough, indeed, to keep one hard at work all day, and send one to bed honestly tired, to sleeping-point, at night. politics for instance, science, literature, entertaining little controversial rows of sorts--the simple, almost patriarchal duties of a great land-owner; pleasant hobbies such as the collection of first editions, or a pretty taste in the binding of favourite books--the observation of this mysterious, ever young, ever fertile nature around him now, immutable order underlaying ceaseless change, the ever new wonder and beauty of all that, and:--"i say, chifney, isn't the brown lady-love filly going rather short on the off foreleg? anything wrong with her shoulder?"--and sport. yes, thank god, in the name of everything healthy and virile, sport and, above all, horses--yes, horses. thus did richard calmady reason with and essay to solace himself for the fact that some fruits are forbidden to him who holds honour dear. reasoned with and solaced himself to such good purpose, as he fondly imagined, that when, an hour and a half later, he established himself in the trainer's dining-room, a mighty breakfast outspread before him, he felt quite another man. racing cups adorned the chimneypiece and sideboard, portraits of race-horses and jockeys adorned the walls. the sun streamed in between the red rep curtains, causing the pot-plants in the window to give off a pleasant scent, and the canary, in his swinging blue and white painted cage above them, to sing. mrs. chifney, her cheeks pink, her manner slightly fluttered,--as were her lilac cap strings,--presided over the silver tea and coffee service, admonished the staid and bulky tom-cat who, jumping on the arm of dickie's chair, extended a scooping tentative paw towards his plate, and issued gentle though peremptory orders to her husband regarding the material needs of her guest. to mrs. chifney such entertainings as the present marked the red-letter days of her calendar. temporarily she forgave chifney the doubtful nature of his calling and his occasional outbreaks of profane swearing alike. she ceased to regret that snug might-have-been, little, grocery business in a country town. she forgot even to hanker after prayer meetings, anniversary teas, and other mild, soul-saving dissipations unauthorised by the church of england. she ruffled her feathers, so to speak, and cooed to the young man half in feudal, half in unsatisfied maternal affection--for mrs. chifney was childless. and it followed that as he teased her a little, going back banteringly on certain accepted subjects of difference between them, praised, and made a hole, in her fresh-baked rolls, her nicely browned, fried potatoes, her clear, crinkled rashers, assuring her it gave one an appetite merely to sit down in a room so shiningly clean and spick and span, she was supremely happy. and dickie was happy too, and blessed the exercise, the food, and the society of these simple persons, which, after his evil night, seemed to have restored to him his wiser and better self. "he always was the noblest looking young gentleman i ever saw," mrs. chifney remarked subsequently to her husband. "but here at breakfast this morning, when he said, 'if you won't be shocked, mrs. chifney, i believe i could manage a second helping of that game pie,' his face was like a very angel's from heaven. unearthly beautiful, thomas, and yet a sort of pain at the back of it. it gave me a regular turn. i had to shed a few tears afterwards when i got alone by myself." "you're one of those that see more than's there, half your time, maria," the trainer answered, with an unusual effort at sarcasm, for he was not wholly easy about the young man himself.--"there's something up with him, and danged if i know what it is." but these reflections he kept to himself. dr. knott, later that same day, made reflections of a similar nature. for though dickie adhered valiantly to his good resolutions--going out with the second lot of horses between ten and eleven o'clock, riding on to banister's farm to inspect the new barn and cowsheds in course of erection, then hurrying down to sandyfield street and listening to long and heated arguments regarding a right-of-way reported to exist across the meadows skirting the river just above the bridge, a right strongly denied by the present occupier. notwithstanding these improving and public-spirited employments, the love-light grew in his eyes all through the long morning, causing his appearance to have something, if not actually angelic, yet singularly engaging, about it. for, unquestionably, next to a fortunate attachment, an unfortunate one, if honest, is among the most inspiring and grace-begetting of possessions granted to mortals. helen must never know--that was well understood. yet the more dickie thought the whole affair over, the more he recognised the fine romance of thus cherishing a silent and secret devotion. he was very young in this line as yet, it may be observed. meanwhile it was nearly two o'clock. he would need to ride home sharply if he was to be in time for luncheon. and at luncheon he would meet her. and remembering that, his heart--traitorous heart--beat quick, and his lips--traitorous lips--began to repeat her name. thus do the gods of life and death love to play chuck-farthing with the wise purposes of men, the theory of the eternal laughter having a root of truth in it, as it would seem, after all! and there ahead of him, under the shifting, dappled shadow of the overarching firs, dr. knott's broad, cumbersome back, and high, two-wheeled trap blocked the road, while timothy, the old groom,--stiff-kneed now and none too active,--slowly pushed open the heavy, white gate of the inner park. as richard rode up, the doctor turned in his seat and looked at him from under his rough eyebrows, while his loose lips worked into a half-ironical smile. he loved this lad of great fortune, and great misfortune, more tenderly than he quite cared to own. then, as dick checked his horse beside the cart, he growled out:-- "no need to make anxious inquiries regarding your health, young sir. what have you been doing with yourself, eh? you look as fit as a fiddle and as fresh as paint." "if i look as i feel i must look ravenously hungry," richard answered, flushing up a little. "i've been out since six." "had some breakfast?" "oh dear, yes! enough to teach one to know what a jolly thing a good meal is, and make one wish for another." "hum!" dr. knott said. "that's a healthy state of affairs, anyhow. young horses going well?" "famously." "bless me, everything's beer and skittles with you just at present then!" richard looked away down the smooth yellow road whereon the dappled shadows kissed and mingled, mingled and kissed, and his heart cried "helen, helen," once again. "oh! i don't know about that," he said. "i get my share as well as the rest i suppose--at least--anyway the horses are doing capitally this season." "i should like to have a look at them." "oh, well you've only got to say when, you know. i shall be only too delighted to show them you." as he walked the trap through the gateway, dr. knott watched richard riding alongside.--"what's up with the boy," he thought. "his face is as keen as a knife, and as soft as--god help us, i hope there's no sweethearting on hand! it's bound to come sooner or later, but the later the better, for it'll be a risky enough set out, come when it may.--ah, look out there now, you old fool,"--this to timothy,--"don't go missing the step and laying yourself up with broken ribs for another three months, just when my work's at its heaviest. be careful, can't you?" "but why not come in to luncheon now?" richard said, wisdom whipping up good resolutions once more, and bidding him check the gladness that gained on him at thought of that approaching meeting. oh yes! he would be discreet, he would erect barriers, he would flee temptation. knott's presence offered a finely rugged barrier, surely. therefore, he repeated, "come in now. my mother will be delighted to see you, and we can have a look round the stables afterwards." "i'll come fast enough if lady calmady will take me as i am. workaday clothes, and second best lot at that. you're alone, i suppose?" he watched the young man as he spoke. noted the lift of his chin, and the slightly studied indifference of his manner. "no, for once we're not. but that doesn't matter. my uncle william ormiston is with us. you remember him?" "i remember his wife." "oh! she's not here," dickie said. "only he and his daughter, madame de vallorbes. you'll come?" "oh! dear yes, i'll come, if you'll be good enough to prepare your ladies for a rough-looking customer. don't let me keep you. wonder what the daughter's like?" he added to himself. "the mother was a bit of a baggage." chapter vii wherein the reader is courteously invited to improve his acquaintance with certain persons of quality but richard might have spared himself the trouble of erecting barriers against too intimate intercourse with his cousin. providence, awaking suddenly as it would seem, to the perils of his position, had already seen to all that. for since he went forth, hot-eyed and hot-headed, into the blank chill of the fog, the company at brockhurst--as powell announced to him--had suffered large and unlooked-for increase. ludovic quayle was the first of the self-invited guests to appear when richard was settled in the dining-room. he sauntered up to the head of the table with his accustomed air of slightly supercilious inquiry, as of one who expects to meet little save fools and foolishness, yet suffers these gladly, being quite secure of his own wisdom. "how are you, dickie?" he said. "fairly robust i hope, for the philistines are upon you. still it might have been worse. i have done what i could. my father, who has never grasped that there is an element of comedy in the numerical strength of his family, wished to bring us over a party of eight. but i stopped that. four, as i tried to make him comprehend, touched the limits of social decency. he didn't comprehend. he rarely does. but he yielded, which was more to the point perhaps. understand though, we didn't propose to add surprise to the other doubtful blessings of our descent on you. i wrote to you yesterday, but it appears you went out at some unearthly hour this morning superior alike to the state of the weather and arrival of your letters." "fine thing going out early---excellent thing going out early. very glad to see you, calmady, and very kind indeed of you and lady calmady to take us in in this friendly way and show us hospitality at such short notice----" this from lord fallowfeild--a remarkably tall, large, and handsome person. he affected a slightly antiquated style of dress, with a sporting turn to it,--coats of dust colour or gray, notably long as to the skirts, well fitted at the waist, the surface of them traversed by heavy seams. his double chin rested within the points of a high, white collar, and was further supported by voluminous, black, satin stock. his face, set in soft, gray hair and gray whisker, brushed well forward, suggested that of a benign and healthy infant--an infant, it may be added, possessed of a small and particularly pretty mouth. save in actual stature, indeed, his lordship had never quite succeeded in growing up. very full of the milk of human kindness, he earnestly wished his fellow-creatures--gentle and simple alike--to be as contented and happy as he, almost invariably, himself was. when he had reason to believe them otherwise, it perplexed and worried him greatly. it followed that he was embarrassed, apologetic even, in richard calmady's presence. he felt vaguely responsible as for some neglected duty, as though there was something somehow which he ought to set right. and this feeling harassed him, increasing the natural discursiveness and inconsequence of his speech. he was so terribly nervous of forgetting and of hurting the young man's feelings by saying the wrong thing, that all possible wrong things got upon his brain, with the disastrous result that of course he ended by saying them. in face of a person so sadly stationary as poor dick, moreover, his own perfect ability to move freely about appeared to him as little short of discourteous, not to say coarse. he, therefore, tried to keep very still, with the consequence that he developed an inordinate tendency to fidget. altogether lord fallowfeild did not show to advantage in richard calmady's company. "ah, yes! fine thing going out early," he repeated. "always made a practice of it myself at your age, calmady. can't stand doctor's stuff, don't believe in it, never did. though i like knott, good fellow knott--always have liked knott. but never was a believer in drugs. nothing better than a good sharp walk, now, early, really early before the frost's out of the grass. excellent for the liver walking----" here, perceiving that his son ludovic looked very hard at him, eyebrows raised to most admonitory height, he added hastily-- "eh?--yes, of course, or riding. riding, nothing like that for health--better exercise still----" "is it?" richard put in. he was too busy with his own thoughts to be greatly affected by lord fallowfeild's blunders just then. "i'm glad to know you think so. you see it's a matter in which i'm not very much of a judge." "no--no--of course not.--queer fellow calmady," lord fallowfeild added to himself. "uncommonly sharp way he has of setting you down." but just then, to his relief, lady calmady, lady louisa barking, and pretty, little lady constance quayle entered the room together. mr. ormiston and john knott followed engaged in close conversation, the rugged, rough-hewn aspect of the latter presenting a strong contrast to the thin, tall figure and face, white and refined to the point of emaciation, of the diplomatist. julius march, accompanied by camp--still carrying his tail limp and his great head rather sulkily--brought up the rear. and dickie, while greeting his guests, disposing their places at table, making civil speeches to his immediate neighbour on the left,--lady louisa,--smiling a good-morning to his mother down the length of the table, felt a wave of childish disappointment sweep over him. for helen came not, and with a great desiring he desired her. poor dickie, so wise, so philosophic in fancy, so enviably, disastrously young in fact! "oh! thanks, lady louisa--it's so extremely kind of you to care to come. the fog was rather beastly this morning wasn't it? and i shouldn't be surprised if it came down on us again about sunset. but it's a charming day meanwhile.--there ludovic please,--next dr. knott. we'll leave this chair for madame de vallorbes. she's coming, i suppose?" and richard glanced towards the door again, and, so doing, became aware that little lady constance, sitting between lord fallowfeild and julius march, was staring at him. she had an innocent face, a small, feminine copy of her father's save that her eyes were set noticeably far apart. this gave her a slow, ruminant look, distinctly attractive. she reminded richard of a gentle, well-conditioned, sweet-breathed calf staring over a bank among ox-eyed daisies and wild roses. as soon as she perceived--but lady constance did not perceive anything very rapidly--that he observed her, she gave her whole attention, to the contents of her plate and her colour deepened perceptibly. "pretty country about you here, uncommonly pretty," lord fallowfeild was saying in response to some remark of lady calmady's. "always did admire it. always liked a meet on this side of the county when i had the hounds. very pleasant friendly spirit on this side too. now cathcart, for instance--sensible fellow cathcart, always have liked cathcart, remarkably sensible fellow. plain man though--quite astonishingly plain. daughter very much like him, i remember. misfortune for a girl that. always feel very much for a plain woman. she married well though--can't recall who just now, but somebody we all know. who was it now, lady calmady?" between that haunting sense of embarrassment, and the kindly wish to carry things off well, and promote geniality, lord fallowfeild spoke loud. at this juncture mr. quayle folded his hands and raised his eyes devoutly to heaven. "oh, my father! oh, my father!" he murmured. then he leant a little forward watching lady calmady. "but, as you may remember, mary cathcart had a charming figure," she was saying, very sweetly, essaying to soften the coming blow. "ah! had she though? great thing a good figure. i knew she married well." "naturally i agree with you there. i suppose one always thinks one's own people the most delightful in the world. she married my brother." "did she though!" lord fallowfeild exclaimed, with much interest. then suddenly his tumbler stopped half-way to his mouth, while he gazed horror-stricken across the table at mr. ormiston. "oh no, no! not that brother," katherine added quickly. "the younger one, the soldier. you wouldn't remember him. he's been on foreign service almost ever since his marriage. they are at the cape now." "oh! ah! yes--indeed, are they?" he exclaimed. he breathed more easily. those few thousand miles to the cape were a great comfort to him. a man could not overhear your strictures on his wife's personal appearance at that distance anyhow.--"very charming woman, uncommonly tactful woman, lady calmady," he said to himself gratefully. meanwhile lady louisa barking, at the other end of the table, addressed her discourse to richard and julius, on either side of her, in the high, penetrating key affected by certain ladies of distinguished social pretensions. whether this manner of speech implies a fine conviction of superiority on the part of the speaker, or a conviction that all her utterances are replete with intrinsic interest, it is difficult to determine. certain it is that lady louisa practically addressed the table, the attendant men-servants, all creation in point of fact, as well as her two immediate neighbours. like her father she was large and handsome. but her expression lacked his amiability, her attitude his pleasing self-distrust. in age she was about six-and-thirty and decidedly mature for that. she possessed a remarkable power of concentrating her mind upon her own affairs. she also laboured under the impression that she was truly religious, listening weekly to the sermons of fashionable preachers on the convenient text that "worldliness is next to godliness" and entertaining prejudices, finely unqualified by accurate knowledge, against the abominable errors of rome. "i was getting so terribly fagged with canvassing that my doctor told me i really must go to whitney and recruit. of course mr. barking is perfectly secure of his seat. i am in no real anxiety, i am thankful to say. he does not speak much in the house. but i always feel speaking is quite a minor matter, don't you?" "doubtless," julius said, the remark appearing to be delivered at him in particular. "the great point is that your party should be able to depend absolutely upon your loyalty. being rather behind the scenes, as i can't help being, you know, i do feel that more and more. and the party depends absolutely upon mr. barking. he has so much moral stamina, you know. that is what they all feel. he is ready at any moment to sacrifice his private convictions to party interests. and so few members of any real position are willing to do that. and so, of course, the leaders do depend on him. all the members of the government consult him in private." "that is very flattering," richard remarked.--still helen tarried, while again, glancing in the direction of the door, he encountered lady constance's mild, ruminant stare. "can one pronounce anything flattering when one sees it to be so completely deserved?" ludovic quayle inquired in his most urbane manner. "prompt and perpetual sacrifice of private conviction to party interest, for example--how can such devotion receive recognition beyond its deserts?" "do have some more partridge, lady louisa," richard put in hastily. "in any case such recognition is very satisfactory.--no more, thank you, sir richard," the lady replied, not without a touch of acerbity. ludovic was very clever no doubt; but his comments often struck her as being in equivocal taste. he gave a turn to your words you did not expect and so broke the thread of your conversation in a rather exasperating fashion. "very satisfactory," she repeated. "and, of course, the constituency is fully informed of the attitude of the government towards mr. barking, so that serious opposition is out of the question." "oh! of course," richard echoed. "still i feel it a duty to canvass. one can point out many things to the constituents in their own homes which might not come quite so well, don't you know, from the platform. and of course they enjoy seeing one so much." "of course, it makes a great change for them," richard echoed dutifully. "exactly, and so on their account, quite putting aside the chance of securing a stray vote here or there, i feel it a duty not to spare myself, but to go through with it just for their sakes, don't you know." "my sister is nothing if not altruistic, you'll find, calmady," mr. quayle here put in in his most exquisitely amiable manner. but now encouraged thereto by lady calmady, lord fallowfeild had recovered his accustomed serenity and discoursed with renewed cheerfulness. "great loss to this side of the county, my poor friend denier," he remarked. "good fellow denier--always liked denier. stood by him from the first--so did your son.--no, no, pardon me--yes, to be sure--excellent claret this--never tasted a better luncheon claret.--but there was a little prejudice, little narrowness of feeling about denier, when he first bought grimshott and settled down here. self-made man, you see, denier. entirely self-made. father was a clergyman, i believe, and i'm told his grandfather kept an umbrella shop in the strand. but a very able, right-minded man denier, and wonderfully good-natured fellow, always willing to give you an opinion on a point of law. great advantage to have a first-rate authority like that to turn to in a legal difficulty. very useful in county business denier, and laid hold of country life wonderfully, understood the obligations of a land-owner. always found a fox in that grimshott gorse of his, eh, knott?" "fox that sometimes wasn't very certain of his country," the doctor rejoined. "hailed from the neighbourhood of the umbrella shop perhaps, and wanted to get home to it." lord fallowfeild chuckled. "capital," he said, "very good--capital. still, it's a great relief to know of a sure find like that. keeps the field in a good temper. yes, few men whose death i've regretted more than poor denier's. i miss denier. not an old man either. shouldn't have let him slip through your fingers so early, knott, eh?" "oh! that's a question of forestry," john knott answered grimly. "if one kept the old wood standing, where would the saplings' chances come in?" "oh! ah! yes--never thought of that before,"--and thinking of it now the noble lord became slightly pensive. "wonder if it's unfair my keeping shotover so long out of the property?" he said to himself. "amusing fellow shotover, very fond of shotover--but extravagant fellow, monstrously extravagant." "lord denier's death gave our host here a seat on the local bench just at the right moment," the doctor went on. "one man's loss is another man's opportunity. rather rough, perhaps, on the outgoing man, but then things usually are pretty rough on the outgoing man in my experience." "i suppose they are," lord fallowfeild said, rather ruefully, his face becoming preternaturally solemn. "not a doubt of it. the individual may get justice. i hope he does. but mercy is kept for special occasions--few and far between. one must take things on the large scale. then you find they dovetail very neatly," knott continued, with a somewhat sardonic mirthfulness. the simplicity and perplexity of this handsome, kindly gentleman, amused him hugely. "but to return to lord denier--let alone my skill, that of the whole medical faculty put together couldn't have saved him." "couldn't it, though?" said lord fallowfeild. "that's just the bother with your self-made man. he makes himself--true. but he spends himself physically in the making. all his vitality goes in climbing the ladder, and he's none left over by the time he reaches the top. lord denier had worked too hard as a youngster to make old bones. it's a long journey from the shop in the strand to the woolsack you see, and he took sick at two-and-thirty i believe. oh yes! early death, or premature decay, is the price most outsiders pay for a great professional success. isn't that so, mr. ormiston?" but at this juncture the conversation suffered interruption by the throwing open of the door and entrance of madame de vallorbes. "pray let no one move," she said, rather as issuing an order than preferring a request--for her father, lord fallowfeild, all the gentlemen, had risen on her appearance--save richard.--richard, his blue eyes ablaze, the corners of his mouth a-tremble, his heart going forth tumultuously to meet her, yet he alone of all present denied the little obvious act of outward courtesy from man to woman. "pinned to his chair, like a specimen beetle to a collector's card," john knott said grimly to himself. "poor dear lad--and with that face on him too. i hoped he might have been spared taking fire a little longer. however, here's the conflagration. no question about that. now let's have a look at the lady." and the lady, it must be conceded, manifested herself under a new and somewhat agitating aspect, as she swept up the room and into the vacant place at richard's right hand with a rush of silken skirts. she produced a singular effect at once of energy and self-concentration--her lips thin and unsmiling, an ominous vertical furrow between the spring of her arched eyebrows, her eyes narrow, unresponsive, severe with thought under their delicate lids. "i am sorry to be late, but it was unavoidable. i was kept by some letters forwarded from newlands," she said, without giving herself the trouble of looking at richard as she spoke. "what does it matter? luncheon's admittedly a movable feast, isn't it?" madame de vallorbes made no response. a noticeable hush had descended upon the whole company, while the men-servants moved to and fro serving the newcomer. even lady louisa barking ceased to hold high discourse, political or other, and looked disapprovingly across the table. an hour earlier she had resented the younger woman's merry wit, now she resented her sublime indifference. both then and now she found her perfect finish of appearance unpardonable. lord fallowfeild's disjointed conversation also suffered check. he fidgeted, vaguely conscious that the atmosphere had become somewhat electric.--"monstrously pretty woman--effective woman--very effective--rather dangerous though. changeable too. made me laugh a little too much before luncheon. louisa didn't like it. very correct views, my daughter louisa. now seems in a very odd temper. quite the grand air, but reminds me of somebody i've seen on the stage somehow. suppose all that comes of living so much in france," he said to himself. but for the life of him he could not think of anything to say aloud, though he felt it would be eminently tactful to throw in a casual remark at this juncture. little lady constance was disquieted likewise. for she, girl-like, had fallen dumbly and adoringly in love with this beautiful stranger but a few years her senior. and now the stranger appeared as an embodiment of unknown emotions and energies altogether beyond the scope of her small imagination. her innocent stare lost its ruminant quality, became alarmed, tearful even, while she instinctively edged her chair closer to her father's. there was a great bond of sympathy between the simple-hearted gentleman and his youngest child. mr. quayle looked on with lifted eyebrows and his air of amused forbearance. and dr. knott looked on also, but that which he saw pleased him but moderately. the grace of every movement, the distinction of face and figure, the charm of that finely-poised, honey-coloured head showing up against the background of gray-blue tapestried wall, were enough, he owned--having a very pretty taste in women as well as in horses--to drive many a man crazy.--"but if the mother's a baggage, the daughter's a vixen," he said to himself. "and, upon my soul if i had to choose between 'em--which god almighty forbid--i'd take my chance with the baggage." as climax lady calmady's expression was severe. she sat very upright, and made no effort at conversation. her nerves were a little on edge. there had been awkward moments during this meal, and now her niece's entrance struck her as unfortunately accentuated, while there was that in richard's aspect which startled the quick fears and jealousies of her motherhood. and to richard himself, it must be owned, this meeting so hotly desired, and against the dangers of which he had so wisely guarded, came in fashion altogether different to that which he had pictured. helen's manner was cold to a point far from flattering to his self-esteem. the subtle intimacies of the scene in the long gallery became as though they had never been. dickie thinking over his restless night, his fierce efforts at self-conquest, those long hours in the saddle designed for the reduction of a perfervid imagination, wrote himself down an ass indeed. and yet--yet--the charm of helen's presence was great. and surely she wasn't quite herself just now, there was something wrong with her? anybody could see that. everybody did see it in fact, he feared, and commented upon it in no charitable spirit. hostility towards her declared itself on every side. he detected that--or imagined he did so--in lady louisa's expression, in ludovic quayle's extra-superfine smile, in the doctor's close and rather cynical attitude of observation, and, last but not least, in the reserve of his mother's bearing and manner. and this hostility, real or imagined, begot in richard a new sensation--one of tenderness, wholly unselfish and protective, while the fighting blood stirred in him. he grew slightly reckless. "what has happened? we appear to have fallen most unaccountably silent," he said, looking round the table, with an air of gallant challenge pretty to see. "so we have, though," exclaimed lord fallowfeild, half in relief, half in apology. "very true--was just thinking the same thing myself." while mr. ouayle, leaning forward, inquired with much sweetness:--"to whom shall i talk? madame de vallorbes is far more profitably engaged in discussing her luncheon, than she could be in discussing any conceivable topic of conversation with such as i. and dr. knott is so evidently diagnosing an interesting case that i have not the effrontery to interrupt him." disregarding these comments richard turned to his neighbour on the left. "i beg your pardon, lady louisa," he said, "but before this singular dumbness overtook us all, you were saying?"-- the lady addressed, electing to accept this as a tribute to the knowledge, and the weight, and distinction, of her discourse, thawed, became condescending and gracious again. "i believe we were discussing the prospects of the party," she replied. "i was saying that, you know, of course there must be a large liberal majority." "yes, of course." "you consider that assured?" julius put in civilly. "it is not a matter of personal opinion, i am thankful to say--because of course every one must feel it is just everything for the country. there is no doubt at all about the majority among those who really know--mr. barking, for instance. nobody can be in a better position to judge than he is. and then i was speaking the other night to augustus tremiloe at lord combmartin's--not william, you know, but augustus tremiloe, the man in the treasury, and he----" "uncommonly fine chrysanthemums those," lord fallowfeild had broken forth cheerfully, finding sufficient, if tardy, inspiration in the table decorations. "remarkably perfect blossoms and charming colour. nothing nearly so good at whitney this autumn. excellent fellow my head gardener, but rather past his work--no enterprise, can't make him go in for new ideas." mr. ormiston, leaning across dr. knott, addressed himself to ludovic, while casting occasional and rather anxious glances upon his daughter. thus did voices rise, mingle, and the talk get fairly upon its legs again. then richard permitted himself to say quietly-- "you had no bad news, i hope, in those letters, helen?" "why should you suppose i have had bad news?" she demanded, her teeth meeting viciously in the morsel of kissing-crust she held in her rosy-tipped fingers. it was as pretty as a game to see her eat. dickie laughed a little, charmed even with her naughtiness, embarrassed too, by the directness of her question. "oh! i don't exactly know why--i thought perhaps you seemed----" "you do know quite exactly why," the young lady asserted, looking full at him. "you saw that i was in a detestable, a diabolic temper." "well, perhaps i did think i saw something of the sort," richard answered audaciously, yet very gently. helen continued to look at him, and as she did so her cheek rounded, her mouth grew soft, the vertical line faded out from her forehead.--"you are very assuaging, cousin richard," she said, and she too laughed softly. "understands the vineries very well though," lord fallowfeild was saying; "and doesn't grow bad peaches, not at all bad peaches, but is stupid about flowers. he ought to retire. never shall have really satisfactory gardens till he does retire. and yet i haven't the heart to tell him to go. good fellow, you know, good, honest, hard-working fellow, and had a lot of trouble. wife ailing for years, always ailing, and youngest child got hip disease--nasty thing hip disease, very nasty--quite a cripple, poor little creature, i am afraid a hopeless cripple. terrible anxiety and burden for parents in that rank of life, you know." "it can hardly be otherwise in any rank of life," lady calmady said slowly, bitterly. an immense weariness was upon her--weariness of the actual and present, weariness of the possible and the future. her courage ebbed. she longed to go away, to be alone for a while, to shut eyes and ears, to deaden alike perception and memory, to have it all cease. then it was as though those two beautiful, and now laughing, faces of man and woman in the glory of their youth, seen over the perspective of fair, white damask, glittering glass and silver, rich dishes, graceful profusion of flowers and fruit, at the far end of the avenue of guests, mocked at her. did they not mock at the essential conditions of their own lives too? katherine feared, consciously or unconsciously they did that. her weariness dragged upon her with almost despairing weight. "do you get your papers the same day here, sir richard?" lady louisa asked imperatively. "yes, they come with the second post letters, about five o'clock," julius march answered. but lady louisa barking intended to be attended to by her host. "sir richard," she paused, "i am asking whether your papers reach you the same day?" and dickie replied he knew not what, for he had just registered the discovery that barriers are quite useless against a certain sort of intimacy. be the crowd never so thick about you, in a sense at least, you are always alone, exquisitely, delicately, alone with the person you love. chapter viii richard puts his hand to a plough from which there is no turning back "dearest mother, you look most deplorably tired." richard sat before the large study table, piled up with letters, papers, county histories, racing calendars, in the gun-room, amid a haze of cigar smoke. "i don't wonder," he went on, "we've had a regular field-day, haven't we? and i'm afraid lord fallowfeild bored you atrociously at luncheon. he does talk most admired foolishness half his time, poor old boy. all the same ludovic shouldn't show him up as he does. it's not good form. i'm afraid ludovic's getting rather spoilt by london. he's growing altogether too finicking and elaborate. it's a pity. lady louisa barking is a rather exterminating person. her conversation is magnificently deficient in humour. it is to be hoped barking is not troubled by lively perceptions or he must suffer at times. lady constance is a pretty little girl, don't you think so? not oppressed with brains, i dare say, but a good little sort." "you liked her?" katherine said. she stood beside him, that mortal weariness upon her yet. "oh yes!--well enough--liked her in passing, as one likes the wild roses in the hedge. but you look regularly played out, mother, and i don't like that in the least." richard twisted the revolving-chair half round, and held out his arms in invitation. as his mother leaned over him, he stretched upward and clasped his hands lightly about her neck.--"poor dear," he said coaxingly, "worn to fiddle-strings with all this wild dissipation! i declare it's quite pathetic."--he let her go, shrugging his shoulders with a sigh and a half laugh. "well, the dissipation will soon enough be over now, and we shall resume the even tenor of our way, i suppose. you'll be glad of that, mother?" the caress had been grateful to katherine, the cool cheek dear to her lips, the clasp of the strong arms reassuring. yet, in her present state of depression, she was inclined to distrust even that which consoled, and there seemed a lack in the fervour of this embrace. was it not just a trifle perfunctory, as of one who pays toll, rather than of one who claims a privilege? "you'll be glad too, my dearest, i trust?" she said, craving further encouragement. richard twisted the chair back into place again, leaned forward to note the hour of the clock set in the centre of the gold and enamel inkstand. "oh! i'm not prophetic. i don't pretend to go before the event and register my sensations until both they and i have fairly arrived. it's awfully bad economy to get ahead of yourself and live in the day after to-morrow. to-day's enough--more than enough for you, i'm afraid, when you've had a large contingent of the whitney people to luncheon. do go and rest, mother. uncle william is disposed of. i've started him out for a tramp with julius, so you need not have him on your mind." but neither in richard's words nor in his manner did lady calmady find the fulness of assurance she craved. "thanks dearest," she said. "that is very thoughtful of you. i will see helen and find out----" "oh! don't trouble about her either," richard put in. again he studied the jewel-rimmed dial of the little clock. "i found she wanted to go to newlands to bid mrs. cathcart good-bye. it seems miss st. quentin is back there for a day or two. so i promised to drive her over as soon as we were quit of the fallowfeild party." "it is late for so long a drive." richard looked up quickly and his face wore that expression of challenge once again. "i know it is--and so i am afraid we ought to start at once. i expect the carriage round immediately." then repenting:--"you'll take care of yourself won't you, mother, and rest?" "oh yes! i will take care of myself," katherine said. "indeed, i appear to be the only person i have left to take care of, thanks to your forethought. all good go with you, dick." it followed--perhaps unreasonably enough--that richard, some five minutes later, drove round the angle of the house and drew the mail-phaeton up at the foot of the gray, griffin-guarded flight of steps--whereon madame de vallorbes, wrapped in furs, the cavalier hat and its trailing plumes shadowing the upper part of her face and her bright hair, awaited his coming--in a rather defiant humour. his cousin was troubled, worried, and she met with scant sympathy. this aroused all his chivalry. whatever she wished for, that he could give her, she should very certainly have. of after consequences to himself he was contemptuous. the course of action which had shown as wisdom a couple of hours ago, showed now as selfishness and pusillanimity. if she wanted him, he was there joyfully to do her bidding, at whatever cost to himself in subsequent unrest of mind seemed but a small thing. if heartache and insidious provocations of the flesh came later, let them come. he was strong enough to bear the one and crush out the other, he hoped. it would give him something to do--he told himself, a little bitterly--and he had been idle of late! and so it came about that richard calmady held out his hand, to help his cousin into her place at his side, with more of meaning and welcome in the gesture than he was quite aware. he forgot the humiliation of the broad strap about his waist, of the high, ingeniously contrived driving-iron against which his feet rested, steadying him upon the sharply sloping seat. these were details, objectionable ones it was true, but, to-day, of very secondary importance. in the main he was master of the situation. for once it was his to render, rather than receive, assistance. helen was under his care, in a measure dependent on him, and this gratified his young, masculine pride, doomed too often to suffer sharp mortification. a fierce pleasure possessed him. it was fine to bear her thus away, behind the fast trotting horses, through the pensive, autumn brightness. boyish self-consciousness and self-distrust died down in richard, and the man's self-reliance, instinct of possession and of authority, grew in him. his tone was that of command, for all its solicitude, as he said:-- "look here, are you sure you've got enough on? don't go and catch cold, under the impression that there's any meaning in this sunshine. it is sure to be chilly driving home, and it's easy to take more wraps." helen shook her head, unsmiling, serious. "i could face polar snows." richard let the horses spring forward, while little pebbles rattled against the body of the phaeton, and the groom, running a few steps, swung himself up on to the back seat, immediately becoming immovable as a wooden image, with rigidly folded arms. "oh! the cold won't quite amount to that," richard said. "but i observe women rarely reckon with the probabilities of the return journey." "the return journey is invariably too hot, or too cold, too soon, or too late--for a woman. so it is better not to remember its existence until you are compelled to do so. for myself, i confess to the strongest prejudice against the return journey." madame de vallorbes' speech was calm and measured, yet there was a conviction in it suggestive of considerable emotion. she sat well back in the carriage, her head turned slightly to the left, so that richard, looking down at her, saw little but the pure firm line of her jaw, the contour of her cheek, and her ear--small, lovely, the soft hair curling away from above and behind it in the most enticing fashion. physical perfection, of necessity, provoked in him a peculiar envy and delight. and nature appeared to have taken ingenious pleasure, not only in conferring an unusual degree of beauty upon his companion, but in finishing each detail of her person with unstinted grace. for a while the young man lost himself in contemplation of that charming ear and partially averted face. then resolutely he bestowed his attention upon the horses again, finding such contemplation slightly enervating to his moral sense. "yes, return journeys are generally rather a nuisance, i suppose," he said, "though my experience of that particular form of nuisance is limited. i have not been outward-bound often enough to know much of the regret of being homeward-bound. and yet, i own, i should not much mind driving on and on everlastingly on a dreamy afternoon like this, and--and as i find myself just now--driving on and seeking some el dorado--of the spirit, i mean, not of the pocket--seeking the fortunate isles that lie beyond the sunset. for it would be not a little fascinating to give one's accustomed self, and all that goes to make up one's accepted identity, the slip--to drive clean out of one's old circumstances and find new heavens, a new earth, and a new personality elsewhere. what do you say, helen, shall we try it?" but helen sat immobile, her face averted, listening intently, revolving many things in her mind, meditating how and when most advantageously to speak. "it would be such an amiable and graceful experiment to try on my own people, too, wouldn't it?" the young man continued, with a sudden change of tone. "and i am so eminently fitted to lose myself in a crowd without fear of recognition, just the person for a case of mistaken identity!" "do not say such things, richard, please. they distress me," madame de vallorbes put in quickly. "and, believe me, i have no quarrel with the return journey in this case. at brockhurst i could fancy myself to have found the fortunate isles of which you spoke just now. i have been very happy there--too happy, perhaps, and therefore, to-day, the whip has come down across my back, just to remind me." "ah! now you say the painful things," dick interrupted. "pray don't--i--i don't like them." madame de vallorbes turned her head and looked at him with the strangest expression. "my metaphor was not out of place. do you imagine horses are the only animals a man drives, _mon beau cousin_? some men drive the woman who belongs to them, and that not with the lightest bit, i promise you. nor do they forget to tie blood-knots in the whip-lash when it suits them to do so." "what do you mean?" he asked abruptly. "merely that the letters, which so stupidly endangered my self-control at luncheon, contained examples of that kind of driving." "how--how damnable," the young man said between his teeth. the red and purple trunks of the great fir trees reeled away to right and left as the carriage swept forward down the long avenue. to richard's seeing they reeled away in disgust, even as did his thought from the images which his companion's words suggested. while, to her seeing, they reeled, smitten by the eternal laughter, the echoes of which it stimulated her to hear.--"the drama develops," she said to herself, half triumphant, half abashed. "and yet i am telling the truth, it is all so--i hardly even doctor it."--for she had been angered, genuinely and miserably angered, and had found that odious to the point of letting feeling override diplomacy. there was subtle pleasure in now turning her very lapse of self-control to her own advantage. and then, this young man's heart was the finest, purest-toned instrument upon which she had ever had the chance to play as yet. she was ravished by the quality and range of the music it gave forth. madame de vallorbes pressed her hands together within the warm comfort of her sable muff, averted her face again, lest it should betray the eager excitement that gained on her, and continued:-- "yes, whip and rein and bit are hardly pretty in that connection, are they? if you would willingly give your identity the slip at times, dear cousin, i have considerably deeper cause to wish to part company with mine! you, in any case, are morally and materially free. a whole class of particularly irritating and base cares can never approach you. and it was in connection with just such cares that i spoke of the hatefulness of return journeys." helen paused, as one making an effort to maintain her equanimity. "my letters recall me to paris," she said, "where detestable scenes and most ignoble anxieties await me." "how soon must you go?" "that is what i asked myself," she said, in the same quiet, even voice. "i have not yet arrived at a decision, and so i asked you to bring me out dickie, this afternoon."--she looked up at him, smiling, lovely and with a certain wistful dignity, wholly coercive. "can you understand that the orderly serenity of your splendid house became a little oppressive? it offered too glaring a contrast to my own state of mind and outlook. i fancied my brain would be clearer, my conclusions more just, here out of doors, face to face with this half-savage nature." "ah, i know all that," richard said. had not the blankness of the fog brought him help this very morning?--"i know it, but i wish you did not know it too." "i know many things better not known," helen replied. her conscience pricked her. she thanked her stars confession had ceased with enlargement from the convent-school, and was a thing of the past. "you see, i want to decide just how long i dare stay--if you will keep me?" "we will keep you," richard said. "you are very charming to me, dick," she exclaimed impulsively, sincerely, again slightly abashed. "how long can i stay, i wonder, without making matters worse in the end, both for my father and for myself? i am young, after all, and i suppose i am tough. the cuticle of the soul--if souls can have a cuticle--like that of the body, thickens under repeated blows. but my father is no longer young. he is terribly sensitive where i am concerned. and he is inevitably drawn into the whirlpool of my wretched affair sooner or later. on his account i should be glad to defer the return journey as long----" "but--but--i don't understand," richard broke out, pity and deep concern for her, a blind fury against a person, or persons, unknown, getting the better of him. "who on earth has the power to plague you and make you miserable, or your father either?" the young man's face was white, his eyes full of pain, full of a great love, burning down on her. as once, long ago, helen de vallorbes could have danced and clapped her hands in naughty glee. for her hunting had prospered above her fondest hopes. she had much ado to stifle the laughter which bubbled up in her pretty throat. she was in the humour to pelt peacocks royally, had such pastime been possible. as it was, she closed her eyes for a little minute and waited, biting the inside of her lip. at last, she said slowly, almost solemnly:-- "don't you know that for certain mistakes, and those usually the most generous, there is no redress?" "what do you mean?" he demanded. "mean?--the veriest commonplace in my own case," she answered. "merely an unhappy marriage. there are thousands such." they had left the shadow of the fir woods now. the carriage crossed the white-railed culvert--bridging the little stream that takes its rise amid the pink and emerald mosses of the peat-bog, and meanders down the valley--and entered the oak plantation just inside the park gate. russet leaves in rustling, hurrying companies, fled up and away from the rapidly turning wheels and quick horse hoofs. the sunshine was wan and chill as the smile on a dead face. lines of pale, lilac cloud--shaped like those flights of cranes which decorate the oriental cabinets of the long gallery--crossed the western sky above the bare balsam poplars, the cluster of ancient half-timbered cottages at the entrance to sandyfield church lane, and the rise of the gray-brown fallow beyond, where sheep moved, bleating plaintively, within a wattled fold. the scene, altogether familiar though it was, impressed itself on richard's mind just now, as one of paralysing melancholy. god help us, what a stricken, famished world it is! will you not always find sorrow and misfortune seated at the root of things if, disregarding overlaying prettiness of summer days, of green leaf and gay blossom, you dare draw near, dig deep, look close? and can nothing, no one, escape the blighting touch of that canker stationed at the very foundations of being? certainly it would seem not--richard reasoned--listening to the words of the radiant woman beside him, ordained, in right of her talent and puissant grace, to be a queen and idol of men. for sadder than the thin sunshine, bare trees and complaint of the hungry flock, was that assured declaration that loveless and unlovely marriages--of which her own was one--exist by the thousand, are, indeed, the veriest commonplace! these reflections held richard, since he had been thinker and poet--in his degree--since childhood; lover only during the brief space of these last ten surprising days. thus the general application claimed his attention first. but hard on the heels of this followed the personal application. for, as is the way of all true lovers, the universality of the law under which it takes its rise mitigates, by most uncommonly little, either the joy or sorrow of the particular case. poignant regret that she suffered, strong admiration that she bore suffering so adherent with such lightness of demeanour--then, more dangerous than these, a sense of added unlooked-for nearness to her, and a resultant calling not merely of the spirit of youth in him to that same spirit resident in her, but the deeper, more compelling, more sonorous call from the knowledge of tragedy in him to that same terrible knowledge now first made evident in her.--and here richard's heart--in spite of pity, in spite of tenderness which would have borne a hundred miseries to save her five minutes' discomfort--sang _te deum_, and that lustily enough! for by this revelation of the infelicity of her state, his whole relation to, and duty towards her changed and took on a greater freedom. to pour forth worship and offers of service at the feet of a happy woman is at once an impertinence to her and a shame to yourself. but to pour forth such worship, such offers of service, at the feet of an unhappy woman--age-old sophistry, so often ruling the speech and actions of men to their fatal undoing!--this is praiseworthy and legitimate, a matter not of privilege merely, but of obligation to whoso would claim to be truly chivalrous. the perception of his larger liberty, and the consequences following thereon, kept richard silent till sandyfield rectory, the squat-towered, georgian church and the black-headed, yew trees in the close-packed churchyard adjoining, the neighbouring farm and its goodly show of golden-gray wheat-ricks were left behind, and the carriage entered on the flat, furze-dotted expanse of sandyfield common. flocks of geese, arising from damp repose upon the ragged autumn turf, hissed forth futile declarations of war. a gipsy caravan painted in staring colours, and hung all over with heath-brooms and basket-chairs, caused the horses to swerve. parties of home-going school-children backed on to the loose gravel at the roadside, bobbing curtsies or pulling forelocks, staring at the young man and his companion, curious and half afraid. for in the youthful, bucolic mind a mystery surrounded richard calmady and his goings and comings, causing him to rank with crowned heads, ghosts, the book of daniel, funerals, the northern lights, and kindred matters of dread fascination. so wondering eyes pursued him down the road. and wondering eyes, as the minutes passed, glanced up at him from beneath the sweeping plumes and becoming shadow of the cavalier's hat. for his prolonged silence rendered madame de vallorbes anxious. had she spoken unadvisedly with her tongue? had her words sounded crude and of questionable delicacy? given his antecedents and upbringing, richard was bound to hold the marriage tie in rather superstitious reverence, and was likely to entertain slightly superannuated views regarding the obligation of reticence in the discussion of family matters. she feared she had reckoned insufficiently with all this in her eagerness, forgetting subtle diplomacies. her approach had lacked tact and _finesse_. in dealing with an adversary of coarser fibre her attack would have succeeded to admiration. but this man was refined and sensitive to a fault, easily disgusted, narrowly critical in questions of taste. therefore she glanced up at him again, trying to divine his thought, her own mind in a tumult of opposing purposes and desires. and just as the contemplation of her beauty had so deeply stirred him earlier this same afternoon, so did the contemplation of his beauty now stir her. it satisfied her artistic sense. save that the nose was straighter and shorter, the young man reminded her notably of a certain antique, terracotta head of the young alexander which she had once seen in a museum at munich, and which had left an ineffaceable impression upon her memory. but, the face of the young alexander beside her was of nobler moral quality than that other--undebauched by feasts and licentious pleasures as yet, masculine yet temperate, the sanctuary of generous ambitions--merciless it might be, she fancied, but never base, never weak. thus was her artistic sense satisfied, morally as well as physically. her social sense was satisfied also. for the young man's high-breeding could not be called in question. he held himself remarkably well. she approved the cut of his clothes moreover, his sure and easy handling of the spirited horses. and then her eyes, following down the lines of the fur rug, received renewed assurance of the fact of his deformity--hidden as far as might be, with decent pride, yet there, permanent and unalterable. this worked upon her strongly. for, to her peculiar temperament, the indissoluble union in one body of elements so noble and so monstrous, of youthful vigour and abject helplessness, the grotesque in short, supplied the last word of sensuous and dramatic attraction. as last evening, in the long gallery, so now, she hugged herself, at once frightened and fascinated, wrought upon by excitement as in the presence of something akin to the supernatural, and altogether beyond the confines of ordinary experience. and to think that she had come so near holding this inimitable creature in her hand, and by overhaste, or clumsiness of statement should lose it! madame de vallorbes was wild with irritation, racked her brain for means to recover her--as she feared--forfeited position. it would be maddening did her mighty hunting prove but a barren pastime in the end. and thereupon the little scar on her temple, deftly concealed under the soft, bright hair, began to smart and throb. ah! well, the hunting should not prove quite barren anyhow, of that she was determined, for, failing her late gay purpose, that small matter of long-deferred revenge still remained in reserve. if she could not gratify one passion, she would gratify quite another. for in this fair lady's mind it was--perhaps unfortunately--but one step from the eden bowers of love to the waste places of vindictive hate.--"yet i would rather be good to him, far rather," she said to herself, with a movement of quite pathetic sincerity. but here, just at the entrance to the village street, an altogether unconscious _deus ex machinâ_--destined at once to relieve helen of further anxiety, and commit poor dickie to a course of action affecting the whole of his subsequent career--presented itself in the shape of a white-tented miller's waggon, which, with somnolent jingle of harness bells and most admired deliberation, moved down the centre of the road. a yellow-washed garden-wall on one side, the brook on the other, there was not room for the phaeton to pass. "whistle," richard commanded over his shoulder. and the wooden image thereby galvanised into immediate activity whistled shrilly, but without result as far as the waggon was concerned. "the fellow's asleep. go and tell him to pull out of the way." then, while the groom ran neatly forward in twinkling, white breeches and flesh-coloured tops, richard, bending towards her, as far as that controling strap about his waist permitted, shifted the reins into his right hand and laid his left upon madame de vallorbes' sable muff. "look here, helen," he said, rather hoarsely, "i am indescribably shocked at what you have just told me. i supposed it was all so different with you. i'd no suspicion of this. and--and--if i may say so, you've taught me a lesson which has gone home--steady there--steady, good lass"--for the horses danced and snorted--"i don't think i shall ever grumble much in future about troubles of my own, having seen how splendidly you bear yours. only i can't agree with you no remedy is possible for generous mistakes. the world isn't quite so badly made as all that. there is a remedy for every mistake except--a few physical ones, which we euphuistically describe as visitations of god.--steady, steady there--wait a bit.--and i--i tell you i can't sit down under this unhappiness of yours and just put up with it. don't think me a meddling fool, please. something's got to be done. i know i probably appear to you the last person in the world to be of use. and yet i'm not sure about that. i have time--too much of it--and i'm not quite an ass. and you--you must know, i think, there's nothing in heaven or earth i would not do for you that i could----" the miller hauled his slow-moving team aside, with beery-thick objurgations and apologies. the groom swung himself up at the back of the carriage again. the impatient horses, getting their heads, swung away down sandyfield street--scattering a litter of merry, little, black pigs and remonstrant fowls to right and left--past modest village shop, and yellow-washed tavern, and red, lichen-stained cottage, beneath the row of tall lombardy poplars that raised their brown-gray spires to the blue-gray of the autumn sky. richard's left hand held the reins again. "half confidences are no good," he said. "so, as you've trusted me thus far, helen, don't you think you will trust somewhat further? be explicit. tell me the rest?" and hearing him, seeing him just then, madame de vallorbes' heart melted within her, and, to her own prodigious surprise, she had much ado not to weep. chapter ix which touches incidentally on matters of finance as richard had predicted the fog reappeared towards sun sunset. at first, as a frail mist, through which the landscape looked colourless and blurred. later it rose, growing in density, until all objects beyond a radius of some twenty paces were engulfed in its nothingness and lost. later still--while helen de vallorbes paid her visit at newlands--it grew denser yet, heavy, torpid, close yet cold, penetrated by earthy odours as the atmosphere of a vault, oppressive to the senses, baffling to sight and hearing alike. from out it, half-leafless branches, like gaunt arms in tattered draperies, seemed to claw and beckon at the passing carriage and its occupants. the silver mountings of the harness showed in points and splashes of hard, shining white as against the shifting, universal dead-whiteness of it, while the breath from the horses' nostrils rose into it as defiant jets of steam, that struggled momentarily with the opaque, all-enveloping vapour, only to be absorbed and obliterated as light by darkness, or life by death. the aspect presented by nature was sinister, had richard calmady been sufficiently at leisure to observe it in detail. but, as he slowly walked the horses up and down the quarter of a mile of woodland drive, leading from the thatched lodge on the right of the westchurch road to the house, he was not at leisure. he had received enlightenment on many subjects. he had acquired startling impressions, and he needed to place these, to bring them into line with the general habit of his thought. the majority of educated persons--so-called--think in words, words often arbitrary and inaccurate enough, prolific mothers of mental confusion. the minority, and those of by no means contemptible intellectual calibre,--since the symbol must count for more than the mere label,--think in images and pictures. dickie belonged to the minority. and it must be conceded that his mind now projected against that shifting, impalpable background of fog, a series of pictures which in their cynical pathos, their suggestions at once voluptuous and degraded, were hardly unworthy of the great master, william hogarth, himself. for helen, in the reaction and relief caused by finding her relation to richard unimpaired, caused too by that joyous devilry resident in her and constantly demanding an object on which to wreak its derision, had by no means spared her lord and master, angelo luigi francesco, vicomte de vallorbes. and this only son of a thrifty, hard-bitten, savoyard banker-noble and a neopolitan princess of easy morals and ancient lineage, this parisian _viveur_, his intrigues, his jealousies, his practical ungodliness and underlying superstition, his outbursts of temper, his shrewd economy in respect of others, and extensive personal extravagance, offered fit theme, with aid of little romancing, for such a discourse as it just now suited his very brilliant, young wife to pronounce. the said discourse opened in a low key, broken by pauses, by tactful self-accusations, by questionings as to whether it were not more merciful, more loyal, to leave this or that untold. but as she proceeded, not only did helen suffer the seductions of the fine art of lying, but she really began to have some ado to keep her exuberant sense of fun within due limits. for it proved so excessively exhilarating to deal thus with angelo luigi francesco! she had old scores to settle. and had she not this very day received an odiously disquieting letter from him, in which he not only made renewed complaint of her poor, little miseries of debts and flirtations, but once more threatened retaliation by a cutting-off of supplies? in common justice did he not deserve villification? therefore, partly out of revenge, partly in self-justification, she proceeded with increasing enthusiasm to show that to know m. de vallorbes was a lamentably liberal education in all civilised iniquities. with a hand, sure as it was light, she dissected out the unhappy gentleman, and offered up his mangled and bleeding reputation as tribute to her own so-perpetually outraged moral sense and feminine delicacy, not to mention her so-repeatedly and vilely wounded heart. and there really was truth--as at each fresh flight of her imagination she did not fail to remind herself--in all that which she said. truth?--yes, just that misleading sufficiency of it in which a lie thrives. for, as every artist "in this kind" is aware, precisely as you would have the overgrowth of your improvisation richly phenomenal and preposterous, must you be careful to set the root of it in the honest soil of fact. to omit this precaution is to court eventual detection and consequent confusion of face. as it was, helen entered the house at newlands, a house singularly unused to psychological aberrations, in buoyant spirits, mischief sitting in her discreetly downcast eyes, laughter perplexing her lips. she had placed her cargo of provocation, of resentment, to such excellent advantage! she was, moreover, slightly intoxicated by her own eloquence. she was at peace with herself and all mankind, with de vallorbes even since his sins had afforded her so rare an opportunity. and this occasioned her to congratulate herself on her own conspicuous magnanimity. it is so exceedingly pleasing not only to know yourself clever, but to believe yourself good! she would be charming to these dear kind, rather dull people. not that honoria was dull, but she had inconveniently austere notions of honour and loyalty at moments. and then the solitary drive home with richard calmady lay ahead, full of possible drama, full of, well, heaven knew what! oh! how entrancing a pastime is life! but to richard, walking the snorting and impatient horses slowly up and down the woodland drive in the blear and sightless fog, life appeared quite other than an entrancing pastime. the pictures projected by his thought, and forming the medium of it, caused him black indignation and revolt, desolated him, too, with a paralysing disgust of his own disabilities. for poor dick had declined somewhat in the last few hours, it must be owned, from the celestial altitudes he had reached before luncheon. some part of his cousin's discourse had been dangerously intimate in character, suggesting situations quite other than platonic. to him there appeared a noble innocence in her treatment of matters not usually spoken of. he had listened with a certain reverent amazement. only out of purity of mind could such speech come. and yet an undeniable effect remained, and it was not altogether elevating. richard was no longer the young sir galahad of the noontide of this eventful day. he was just simply a man--in a sensible degree the animal man--loving a woman, hating that other man to whom she was legally bound. hating that other man, not only because he was unworthy and failed to make her happy, but because he stood in his--richard's--way. hating the man all the more fiercely because, whatever the uncomeliness of his moral constitution, he was physically very far from uncomely. and so, along with nobler incitements to hatred, went the fiend envy, which just now plucked at poor dickie's vitals as the vulture at those of the chained titan of old. whereupon he fell into a meditation somewhat morbid. for, contemplating in pictured thought that other man's bodily perfection, contemplating his property and victim,--the fair modern helen, who by her courage and her trials exercised so potent a spell over his imagination,--richard loathed his own maimed body, maimed chances and opportunities, as he had never loathed them before. how often since his childhood had some casual circumstance or trivial accident brought the fact of his misfortune home to him, causing him--as he at the moment supposed--to reckon, once and for all, with the sum total of it! but as years passed and experience widened, below each depth of this adhering misery another deep disclosed itself. would he never reach bottom? would this inalienable disgrace continue to show itself more restricting and impeding to his action, more repulsive and contemptible to his fellow-men, through all the succeeding stages and vicissitudes of his career, right to the very close? to her hosts madame de vallorbes appeared in her gayest and most engaging humour. it was only a flying visit, she mustn't stay, richard was waiting for her. only she felt she must just have two words with honoria. and say good-bye? yes, ten thousand sorrows, it was good-bye. she was recalled to paris, home, and duty. she made an expressive little grimace at miss st. quentin. "your husband will be"--began mrs. cathcart, in her large, gently authoritative manner. "enchanted to see me, of course, dear cousin selina, or he would not have required my return thus urgently. we may take that for said. meanwhile what strange sprigs of nobility flourish in the local soil here." and she proceeded to give an account of the fallowfeild party at luncheon more witty, perhaps, than veracious. helen could be extremely entertaining on occasion. she gave reins to her tongue, and it galloped away with her in most surprising fashion. "my dear, my dear," interrupted her hostess, "you are a little unkind surely! my dear, you are a little flippant!" but madame de vallorbes enveloped her in the most assuaging embrace. "let me laugh while i can, dearest cousin selina," she pleaded. "i have had a delightful little holiday. every one has been charming to me. you, of course--but then you always are that. your presence breathes consolation. but aunt katherine has been charming too, and that, quite between ourselves, was a little more than i anticipated. now the holiday draws to a close and pay-day looms large ahead. you know nothing about such pay-days, thank heaven, dear cousin selina. they are far from joyous inventions; and so"--the young lady spread abroad her hands, palms upward, and shrugged her shoulders under their weight of costly furs--"and so i laugh, don't you understand, i laugh!" miss st. quentin's delicate, square-cut face wore an air of solicitude as she followed her friend out of the room. there was a trace of indolence in her slow, reflective speech, as in her long, swinging stride--the indolence bred of unconscious strength rather than of weakness, the leisureliness which goes with staying power both in the moral and the physical domain. "see here, nellie," she said, "forgive brutal frankness, but which is the real thing to-day--they're each delightful in their own way--the tears or the laughter?" "both! oh, well-beloved seeker after truth," madame de vallorbes answered. "there lies the value of the situation." "fresh worries?" "no, no, the old, the accustomed, the well-accredited, the normal, the stock ones--a husband and a financial crisis." as she spoke madame de vallorbes fastened the buttons of her long driving-coat. miss st. quentin knelt down and busied herself with the lowest of these. her tall, slender figure was doubled together. she kept her head bent. "i happen to have a pretty tidy balance just now," she remarked parenthetically, and as though with a certain diffidence. "so you know, if you are a bit hard up--why--it's all perfectly simple, nellie, don't you know." for a perceptible space of time madame de vallorbes did not answer. a grating of wheels on the gravel arrested her attention. she looked down the long vista of ruddily lighted hall, with its glowing fire and cheerful lamps to the open door, where, against the blear whiteness of the fog, the mail-phaeton and its occupant showed vague, in outline and in proportions almost gigantic against the thick, shifting atmosphere. miss st. quentin raised her head, surprised at her companion's silence. helen de vallorbes bent down, took the upturned face in both hands and kissed the soft cheeks with effusion. "you are adorable," she said. "but you are too generous. you shall lend me nothing more. i believe i see my way. i can scrape through this crisis." miss st. quentin rose to her feet. "all right," she said, smiling upon her friend from her superior height with a delightful air of affection and apology. "i only wanted you just to know, in case--don't you see. and--and--for the rest, how goes it helen? are you turning all their poor heads at brockhurst? you're rather an upsetting being to let loose in an ordinary, respectable, english country-house. a sort of _mousquetaire au couvent_ the other way about, don't you know. are you making things fly generally?" "i am making nothing fly," the other lady rejoined gaily. "i am as inoffensive as a stained-glass saint in a chapel window. i am absolutely angelic." "that's worst of all," honoria exclaimed, still smiling. "when you're angelic you are most particularly deadly. for the preservation of local innocents, somebody ought to go and hoist danger signals." miss st. quentin, after just a moment's hesitation, followed her friend through the warm, bright hall to the door. then helen de vallorbes turned to her. "_au revoir_, dearest honoria," she said, "and the sooner the better. leave your shopgirls and distressed needlewomen, and all your other good works for a still better one--namely for me. come and reclaim, and comfort, and support me for a while in paris." again she kissed the soft cheek. "i am as good as gold. i am just now actually mawkish with virtue," she murmured, between the kisses. richard witnessed this exceedingly pretty leave-taking not without a movement of impatience. the fog was thickening once more. it grew late. he wished his cousin would get through with these amenities. then, moreover, he did not covet intercourse with miss st. quentin. he pulled the fur rug aside with his left hand, holding reins and whip in his right. "i say, are you nearly ready?" he asked. "i don't want to bother you; but really it's about time we were moving." "i come, i come," madame de vallorbes cried, in answer. she put one neatly-shod foot on the axle, and stepped up--richard holding out his hand to steady her. a sense, at once pleasurable and defiant, of something akin to ownership, came over him as he did so. just then his attention was claimed by a voice addressing him from the further side of the carriage. honoria st. quentin stood on the gravel close beside him, bare-headed, in the clinging damp and chill of the fog. "give my love to lady calmady," she said. "i hope i shall see her again some day. but, even if i never have the luck to do that, in a way it'll make no real difference. i've written her name in my private calendar, and shall always remember it."--she paused a moment. "we got rather near each other somehow, i think. we didn't dawdle or beat about the bush, but went straight along, passed the initial stages of acquaintance in a few hours, and reached that point of friendship where forgetting becomes impossible. "my mother never forgets," richard asserted, and there was, perhaps, a slight edge to his tone. looking down into the girl's pale, finely-moulded face, meeting the glance of those steady, strangely clear and observant eyes, he received an impression of something uncompromisingly sincere and in a measure protective. this, for cause unknown, he resented. notwithstanding her high breeding. miss st. quentin's attitude appeared to him a trifle intrusive just then. "i am very sure of that--that your mother never forgets, i mean. one knows, at once, one can trust her down to the ground and on to the end of the ages."--again she paused, as though rallying herself against a disinclination for further speech. "all captivating women aren't made on that pattern, unfortunately, you know, sir richard. a good many of them it's wisest not to trust anything like down to the ground, or longer than--well--the day before yesterday." and without waiting for any reply to this cryptic utterance, she stepped swiftly round behind the carriage again, waved her hand from the door-step and then swung away, with lazy, long-limbed grace, past the waiting men-servants and through to the ruddy brightness of the hall. madame de vallorbes settled herself back rather languidly in her place. she was pricked by a sharp point of curiosity, regarding the tenor of miss st. quentin's mysterious colloquy with richard calmady. she had been able to catch but a word here and there, and these had been provokingly suggestive. had the well-beloved honoria, in a moment of overscrupulous conscientiousness permitted herself to hoist danger signals? she wanted to know, for it was her business to haul such down again with all possible despatch. she intended the barometer to register set fair whatever the weather actually impending. yet to institute direct inquiries might be to invite suspicion. helen, therefore, declined upon diplomacy, upon the inverted sweetnesses calculated nicely to mask an intention quite other than sweet. she really held her friend in very warm affection. but madame de vallorbes never confused secondary and primary issues. when you have a really big deal on hand--and of the bigness of her present deal the last quarter of an hour had brought her notably increased assurance--even the dearest friend must stand clear and get very decidedly out of the way. so, while the muffled thud of the horses' hoofs echoed up from the hard gravel of the carriage drive through the thick atmosphere, and the bare limbs of the trees clawed, as with lean arms clothed in tattered draperies, at the passing carriage and its occupants, she contented herself by observing:-- "i am grateful to you for driving me over, richard. honoria is very perfect in her own way. it always does me good to see her. she's quite unlike anybody else, isn't she?" but richard's eyes were fixed upon the blank wall of fog just ahead, which, though always stable, always receded before the advancing carriage. the effect of it was unpleasant somehow, holding, as it did to his mind, suggestions of other things still more baffling and impending, from which--though you might keep them at arm's length--there was no permanent or actual escape. the question of miss st. quentin's characteristics did not consequently greatly interest him. he had arrived at conclusions. there was a matter of vital importance on which he desired to speak to his cousin. but how to do that? richard was young and excellently modest. his whole purpose was rather fiercely focused on speech. but he was diffident, fearing to approach the subject which he had so much at heart clumsily and in a tactless, tasteless manner. "miss st. quentin? oh yes!" he replied, rather absently. "i really know next to nothing about her. and she seems merely to regard me as a vehicle of communication between herself and my mother. she sent her messages just now--i hope to goodness i shan't forget to deliver them! she and my mother appear to have fallen pretty considerably in love with one another." "probably," madame de vallorbes said softly. an agreeable glow of relief passed over her. she looked up at richard with a delightful effect of pensiveness from beneath the sweeping brim of her cavalier hat.--"i can well believe aunt katherine would be attracted by her," she continued. "honoria is quite a woman's woman. men do not care very much about her as a rule. there is a good deal of latent vanity resident in the members of your sex, you know, richard; and men are usually conscious that honoria does not care so very much about them. they are quite right, she does not. i really believe when poor, dreadful, old lady tobermory left her all that money honoria's first thought was that now she might embrace celibacy with a good conscience. the st. quentins are not precisely millionaires, you know. her wealth left her free to espouse the cause of womanhood at large. she is a little bit quixotic, dear thing, and given to tilting at windmills. she wants to secure to working women a fair business basis--that is the technical expression, i believe. and so she starts clubs, and forms circles. she says women must be encouraged to combine and to agitate. whether they are capable of combining i do not pretend to say. these high matters transcend my small wit. but, as i have often pointed out to her, agitation is the natural attitude of every woman. it would seem superfluous to encourage or inculcate that, for surely wherever two or three petticoats are gathered together, there, as far as my experience goes, is agitation of necessity in the midst of them." madame de vallorbes leaned back with a little sigh and air of exquisite resignation. "all the same, the majority of women are unhappy enough, heaven knows! if honoria, or any other sweet, feminine quixote, can find means to lighten the burden of our lives, she has my very sincere thanks, well understood." richard drew his whip across the backs of the trotting horses, making them plunge forward against that blank, impalpable wall of all-encircling, ever-receding, ever-present fog. the carriage had just crossed the long, white-railed bridge, spanning the little river and space of marsh on either side, and now entered sandyfield street. the tops of the tall lombardy poplars were lost in gloom. now and again the redness of a lighted cottage window, blurred and contorted in shape, showed through the gray pall. slow-moving, country figures, passing vehicles, a herd of some eight or ten cows--preceded by a diabolic looking billy-goat, and followed by a lad astride the hind-quarters of a bare-backed donkey--grew out of pallid nothingness as the carriage came abreast of them, and receded with mysterious rapidity into nothingness again. the effect was curiously fantastic and unreal. and as the minutes passed that effect of unreality gained upon richard's imagination, until now--as last evening in the stately solitude of the long gallery--he became increasingly aware of the personality of his companion, increasingly penetrated by the feeling of being alone with that personality, as though the world, so strangely blotted out by these dim, obliterating vapours, were indeed vacant of all human interest, human purpose, human history, save that incarnate in this fair woman and his own relation to her. she alone existed, concrete, exquisite, sentient, amid the vague, shifting immensities of fog. she alone mattered. her near neighbourhood worked upon him strongly, causing an excitement in him which at once hindered and demanded speech. night began to close in in good earnest. passing the broad, yellowish glare streaming out from the rounded tap-room window of the calmady arms, and passing from the end of the village street on to the open common, the light had become so uncertain that richard could no longer see his companion's face clearly. this was almost a relief to him, so that, mastering at once his diffidence and his excitement, he spoke. "look here, helen," he said, "i have been thinking over all that you told me. i don't want to dwell on subjects that must be very painful to you, but i can't help thinking about them. it's not that i won't leave them alone, but that they won't leave me. i don't want to presume upon your confidence, or take too much upon myself. only, don't you see, now that i do know it's impossible to sit down under it all and let things go on just the same.--you're not angry with me?" the young man spoke very carefully and calmly, yet the tones of his voice were heavily charged with feeling. madame de vallorbes clasped her hands rather tightly within her sable muff. unconsciously she began to sway a little, just a very little, as a person will sway in time to strains of stirring music. an excitement, not mental merely but physical, invaded her. for she recognised that she stood on the threshold of developments in this very notable drama. still she answered quietly, with a touch even of weariness. "ah! dear richard, it is so friendly and charming of you to take my infelicities thus to heart! but to what end, to what end, i ask you? the conditions are fixed. escape from them is impossible. i have made my bed--made it most abominably uncomfortably, i admit, but that is not to the point--and i must lie on it. there is no redress. there is nothing to be done." "yes, there is this," he replied. "i know it is wretchedly inadequate, it doesn't touch the root of the matter. oh! it's miserably inadequate--i should think i did know that! only it might smooth the surface a bit, perhaps, and put a stop to one source of annoyance. forgive me if i say what seems coarse or clumsy--but would not your position be easier if, in regard to--to money, you were quite independent of that--of your husband, i mean--m. de vallorbes?" for a moment the young lady remained very still, and stared very hard at the fog. the most surprising visions arose before her. she had a difficulty in repressing an exclamation. "ah! there now, i have blundered. i've hurt you. i've made you angry," dickie cried impulsively. "no, no, dear richard," she answered, with admirable gentleness, "i am not angry. only what is the use of romancing?" "i am not romancing. it is the simplest thing out, if you will but have it so." he hesitated a little. the horses were pulling, the fog was in his throat thick and choking--or was it, perhaps, something more unsubstantial and intangible even than fog? the spacious barns and rickyards of the church farm were just visible on the right. in less than five minutes more, at their present pace, the horses would reach the first park gate. the young man felt he must give himself time. he quieted the horses down into a walk. "if i were your brother, helen, i should save you all these sordid money worries as a matter of course. you have no brother--so, don't you see, i come next. it's a perfectly obvious arrangement. just let me be your banker," he said. madame de vallorbes shut her pretty teeth together. she could have danced, she could have sung aloud for very gaiety of heart. she had not anticipated this turn to the situation; but it was a delicious one. it had great practical merits. her brain worked rapidly. immediately those practical merits ranged themselves before her in detail. but she would play with it a little--both diplomacy and good taste, in which last she was by no means deficient, required that. "ah! you forget, dear richard," she said, "in your friendly zeal you forget that, in our rank of life, there is one thing a woman cannot accept from a man. to take money is to lay yourself open to slanderous tongues, is to court scandal. sooner or later it is known, the fact leaks out. and however innocent the intention, however noble and honest the giving, however grateful and honest the receiving, the world puts but one construction upon such a transaction." "the world's beastly evil-minded then," richard said. "so it is. but that is no news, dickie dear," madame de vallorbes answered. "nor is it exactly to the point." inwardly she trembled a little. what if she had headed him off too cleverly, and he should regard her argument as convincing, her refusal as final? her fears were by no means lessened by the young man's protracted silence. "no, i don't agree," he said at last. "i suppose there are always risks to be run in securing anything at all worth securing, and it seems to me, if you look at it all round, the risks in this case are very slight. only you--and m. de vallorbes need know. i suppose he must. but then, if you will pardon my saying so, after what you have told me i can't imagine he is the sort of person who is likely to object very much to an arrangement by which he would benefit, at least indirectly. as for the world,"--richard ceased to contemplate his horses. he tried to speak lightly, while his eyes sought that dimly seen face at his elbow. "oh, well, hang the world, helen! it's easy enough for me to say so, i dare say, being but so slightly acquainted with it and the ways of it. but the world can't be so wholly hide-bound and idiotic that it denies the existence of exceptional cases. and this case, in some of its bearings at all events, is wholly exceptional, i am--happy to think." "you are a very convincing special pleader, richard," madame de vallorbes said softly. "then you accept?" he rejoined exultantly. "you accept?" the young lady could not quite control herself. "ah! if you only knew the prodigious relief it would be," she exclaimed, with an outbreak of impatience. "it would make an incalculable difference. and yet i do not see my way. i am in a cleft stick. i dare not say yes. and to say no----" her sincerity was unimpeachable at that moment. her eyes actually filled with tears. "pah! i am ashamed of myself," she cried, "but to refuse is distracting." the gate of the outer park had been reached. the groom swung himself down and ran forward, but confused by the growing darkness and the thick atmosphere he fumbled for a time before finding the heavy latch. the horses became somewhat restive, snorting and fidgeting. "steady there, steady, good lass," richard said soothingly. then he turned again to his companion. "believe me it's the very easiest thing out to accept, if you'll only look at it all from the right point of view, helen." madame de vallorbes withdrew her right hand from her muff and laid it, almost timidly, upon the young man's arm. "do you know, you are wonderfully dear to me, dick?" she said, and her voice shook slightly. she was genuinely touched and moved. "no one has ever been quite so dear to me before. it is a new experience. it takes my breath away a little. it makes me regret some things i have done. but it is a mistake to go back on what is past, don't you think so? therefore we will go forward. tell me, expound. what is this so agreeably reconciling point of view?" but along with the touch of her hand, a great wave of emotion swept over poor richard, making his grasp on the reins very unsteady. the sensations he had suffered last evening in the long gallery again assailed him. the flesh had its word to say. speech became difficult. meanwhile his agitation communicated itself strangely to the horses. they sprang forward against that all-encircling, ever-present, yet ever-receding, blank wall of fog, to which the overarching trees lent an added gloom and mystery, as though some incarnate terror pursued them. the gate clanged-to behind the carriage. the groom scrambled breathlessly into his place. sir richard's driving was rather reckless, he ventured to think, on such a nasty, dark night, and with a lady along of him too. he was not sorry when the pace slowed down to a walk. that was a long sight safer, to his thinking. "the right point of view is this," richard said at last; "that in accepting you would be doing that which, in some ways, would make just all the difference to my life." he held himself very upright on the sloping driving-seat, rather cruelly conscious of the broad strap about his waist, and the high, unsightly driving-iron against which, concealed by the heavy, fur rug, his feet pushed as he steadied himself. he paused, gazing away into the silent desolation of the now invisible woods, and when he spoke again his voice had deepened in tone. "it must be patent to you--it is rather detestably patent to every one, i suppose, if it comes to that--that i am condemned to be of precious little use to myself or any one else. i share the fate of the immortal sancho panza in his island of barataria. a very fine feast is spread before me, while i find myself authoritatively forbidden to eat first of this dish and then of that, until i end by being every bit as hungry as though the table was bare. it becomes rather a nuisance at times, you know, and taxes one's temper and one's philosophy. it seems a little rough to possess all that so many men of my age would give just anything to have, and yet be unable to get anything but unsatisfied hunger, and--in plain english--humiliation, out of it." madame de vallorbes sat very still. her charming face had grown keen. she listened, drawing in her breath with a little sobbing sound--but that was only the result of accentuated dramatic satisfaction. "you see i have no special object or ambition. i can't have one. i just pass the time. i don't see any prospect of my ever being able to do more than that. there's my mother, of course. i need not tell you she and i love one another. and there are the horses. but i don't care to bet, and i never attend a race-meeting. i--i do not choose to make an exhibition of myself." again helen drew her hand out of her muff, but this time quickly, impulsively, and laid it on richard's left hand which held the reins. the young man's breath caught in his throat, he leaned sideways towards her, her shoulder touching his elbow, the trailing plumes of her hat--now limp from the clinging moisture of the fog--for a moment brushing his cheek. "helen," he said rapidly, "don't you understand it's in your power to alter all this? by accepting you would do infinitely more for me than i could ever dream of doing for you. you'd give me something to think of and plan about. if you'll only have whatever wretched money you need now, and have more whenever you want it--if you'll let me feel, however rarely we meet, that you depend on me and trust me and let me make things a trifle easier and smoother for you, you will be doing such an act of charity as few women have ever done. don't refuse, for pity's sake don't! i don't want to whine, but things were not precisely gay before your coming, you know. need it be added they promise to be less so than ever after you are gone? so listen to reason. do as i ask you. let me be of use in the only way i can." "do you consider what you propose?" madame de vallorbes asked, slowly. "it is a good deal. it is dangerous. with most men such a compact would be wholly inadmissible." then poor dickie lost himself. the strain of the last week the young, headlong passion aroused in him, the misery of his deformity, the accumulated bitterness and rebellion of years arose and overflowed as a great flood. pride went down before it, and reticence, and decencies of self-respect. richard turned and rent himself, without mercy and, for the moment, without shame. he pelted himself with cruel words, with scorn and self-contempt, while he laughed, and the sound of that laughter wandered away weirdly through the chill density of the fog, under the tall, shadowy firs of the great avenue, over the sombre-heather, out into the veiled, crowded darkness of the wide woods. "but i am not as other men are," he answered. "i am a creature by myself, a unique development as much outside the normal social, as i am outside the normal physical law. i--alone by myself--think of it!--abnormal, extraordinary! you are safe enough with me, helen. safe to indulge and humour me as you might a monkey or a parrot. all the world will understand that! only my mother, and a few old friends and old servants take me seriously. to every one else i am an embarrassment, a more or less distressing curiosity."--he met little lady constance quale's ruminant stare again in imagination, heard lord fallowfeild's blundering speech.--"remember our luncheon to-day. it was flattering, at moments, wasn't it? and so if i do queer things, things off the conventional lines, who will be surprised? no one, i tell you, not even the most strait-laced or censorious. allow me at least the privileges of my disabilities. i am a dwarf--a cripple. i shall never be otherwise. had i lived a century or two ago i should have made sport for you, and such as you, as some rich man's professional fool. and so, if i overstep the usual limits, who will comment on that? queer things, crazy things, are in the part. what do i matter?" richard laughed aloud. "at least i have this advantage, that in my case you can do what you can do in the case of no other man. with me you needn't be afraid. no one will think evil. with me--yes, after all, there is a drop of comfort in it--with me, helen, you're safe enough." chapter x mr. ludovic quayle among the prophets that same luncheon party at brockhurst, if not notably satisfactory to the hosts, afforded much subsequent food for meditation to one at least of the guests. during the evening immediately following it, and even in the watches of the night, lady louisa barking's thought was persistently engaged with the subject of richard calmady, his looks, his character, his temper, his rent-roll, the acreage of his estates, and his prospects generally. nor did her interest remain hidden and inarticulate. for, finding that in various particulars her knowledge was superficial and clearly insufficient, on her journey from westchurch up to town next day, in company with her brother ludovic, she put so many questions to that accomplished young gentleman that he shortly divined some serious purpose in her inquiry. "we all recognise, my dear louisa," he remarked presently, laying aside the day's times, of which he had vainly essayed the study, with an air of gentle resignation, crossing his long legs and leaning back in his corner of the railway carriage, "that you are the possessor of an eminently practical mind. you have run the family for some years now, not without numerous successes, among which may be reckoned your running of yourself into the arms--if you will pardon my mentioning them--of my estimable brother-in-law, barking." "really, ludovic!" his sister protested. "let me entreat you not to turn restive, louisa," mr. quayle rejoined with the utmost suavity. "i am paying a high compliment to your intelligence. to have run into the arms of mr. barking, or indeed of anybody else, casually and involuntarily, to have blundered into them--if i may so express myself--would have been a stupidity. but to run into them intentionally and voluntarily argues considerable powers of strategy, an intelligent direction of movement which i respect and admire." "you are really exceedingly provoking, ludovic!" lady louisa pushed the square, leather-covered dressing-case, on which her feet had been resting, impatiently aside. "far from it," the young man answered. "can i put that box anywhere else for you? you like it just where it is?--yes? but i assure you i am not provoking. i am merely complimentary. conversation is an art, louisa. none of my sisters ever can be got to understand that. it is dreadfully crude to rush in waist-deep at once. there should be feints and approaches. you should nibble at your sugar with a graceful coyness. you should cut a few frills and skirmish a little before setting the battle actively in array. and it is just this that i have been striving to do during the last five minutes. but you do not appear to appreciate the commendable style of my preliminaries. you want to engage immediately. there is usually a first-rate underlying reason for your interest in anybody----" again the lady shifted the position of the dressing-case. "to the right?" inquired mr. quayle extending his hand, his head a little on one side, his long neck directed forward, while he regarded first his sister and then the dressing-case with infuriating urbanity. "no? let us come to hecuba, then. let us dissemble no longer, but put it plainly. what, oh, louisa! what are you driving at in respect of my very dear friend, dickie calmady?" now it was unquestionably most desirable for her to keep on the fair-weather side of mr. quayle just then. yet the flesh is weak. lady louisa barking could not control a movement of self-justification. she spoke with dignity, severely. "it is all very well for you to say those sort of things, ludovic----" "what sort of things?" he inquired mildly. "but i should be glad to know what would have become of the family by now, unless some one had come forward and taken matters in hand? of course one gets no thanks for it. one never does get any thanks for doing one's duty, however wearing it is to oneself and however much others profit. but somebody had to sacrifice themselves. mama is unequal to any exertion. you know what papa is----" "i do, i do," murmured mr. quayle, raising his gaze piously to the roof of the railway carriage. "if he has one of the boys to tramp over the country with him at whitney, and one of the girls to ride with him in london, he is perfectly happy and content. he is alarmingly improvident. he would prefer keeping the whole family at home doing nothing----" "save laughing at his jokes. my father craves the support of a sympathetic audience." "shotover is worse than useless." "except to the guileless israelite he is. absolutely true, louisa." "guy would never have gone into the army when he left eton unless i had insisted upon it. and it was entirely through the barkings' influence--at my representation of course--that eddie got a berth in that liverpool cotton-broker's business. i am sure alicia is very comfortably married. i know george winterbotham is not the least interesting, but he is perfectly gentlemanlike and presentable, and so on, and he makes her a most devoted husband. and from what mr. barking heard the other day at the club from somebody or other, i forget who, but some one connected with the government, you know, there is every probability of george getting that permanent under-secretaryship." "did i not start by declaring you had achieved numerous successes?" ludovic inquired. "yet we stray from the point, louisa. for do i not still remain ignorant of the root of your sudden interest in my friend dickie calmady? and i thirst to learn how you propose to work him into the triumphant development of our family fortunes." the proportions of lady louisa's small mouth contracted still further into an expression of great decision, while she glanced at the landscape reeling away from the window of the railway carriage. in the past twelve hours autumn had given place to winter. the bare hedges showed black, while the fallen leaves of the hedgerow trees formed unsightly blotches of sodden brown and purple upon the dirty green of the pastures. over all brooded an opaque, gray-brown sky, sullen and impenetrable. lady louisa saw all this. but she was one of those persons happily, for themselves, unaffected by such abstractions as the aspects of nature. her purposes were immediate and practical. she followed them with praiseworthy persistence. the landscape merely engaged her eyes because she preferred, just now, looking out of the window to looking her brother in the face. "something must be done for the younger girls," she announced. "i feel pretty confident about emily's future. we need not go into that. maggie, if she marries at all--and she really is very useful at home, in looking after the servants and entertaining, and so on--if she marries at all, will marry late. she has no particular attractions as girls go. her figure is too solid, and she talks too much. but she will make a very presentable middle-aged woman--sensible, dependable, an excellent _ménagère_. certainly she had better marry late." "a mature clergyman when she is rising forty--a widowed bishop, for instance. yes, i approve that," mr. quayle rejoined reflectively. "it is well conceived, louisa. we must keep an eye on the bench and carefully note any episcopal matrimonial vacancy. bishops have a little turn, i observe, for marrying somebody who _is_ somebody--specially _en secondes noces_, good men. yes, it is well thought of. with careful steering we may bring maggie to anchor in a palace yet. maggie is rather dogmatic, she would make not half a bad mrs. proudie. so she is disposed of, and then?" for a few seconds the lady held silent converse with herself. at last she addressed her companion in tones of unwonted cordiality. "you are by far the most sensible of the family, ludovic," she began. "and in a family so renowned for intellect, so conspicuous for 'parts and learning,' as macaulay puts it, that is indeed a distinction!"--mr. quayle bowed slightly in his comfortable corner. "a thousand thanks, louisa," he murmured. "i would not breathe a syllable of this to any of the others," she continued. "you know how the girls chatter. alicia, i am sorry to say, is as bad as any of them. they would discuss the question without intermission--simply, you know, talk the whole thing to death." "poor thing!--yet, after all, what thing?" the young man inquired urbanely. lady louisa bit her lip. he was very irritating, while she was very much in earnest. it was her misfortune usually to be a good deal in earnest. "there is constance," she remarked, somewhat abruptly. "precisely--there is poor, dear, innocent, rather foolish, little connie. it occurred to me we might be coming to that." in his turn mr. quayle fell silent, and contemplated the reeling landscape. pasture had given place to wide stretches of dark moorland on either side the railway line, with a pallor of sour bog-grasses in the hollows. the outlook was uncheerful. perhaps it was that which caused the young man to shake his head. "i recognize the brilliancy of the conception, louisa. it reflects credit upon your imagination and--your daring," he said presently. "but you won't be able to work it." "pray why not?" almost snapped lady louisa. mr. quayle settled himself back in his corner again. his handsome face was all sweetness, indulgent though argumentative. he was nothing, clearly, unless reasonable. "personally, i am extremely fond of dickie calmady," he began. "i permit myself--honestly i do--moments of enthusiasm regarding him. i should esteem the woman lucky who married him. yet i could imagine a prejudice might exist in some minds--minds of a less emancipated and finely comprehensive order than yours and my own of course--against such an alliance. take my father's mind, for instance--and unhappily my father dotes on connie. and he is more obstinate than nineteen dozen--well, i leave you to fill in the comparison mentally, louisa. it might be slightly wanting in filial respect to put it into words." again he shook his head in pensive solemnity. "i give you credit for prodigious push and tenacity, for a remarkable capacity of generalship, in short. yet i cannot disguise from myself the certainty that you would never square my father." "but suppose she wishes it herself. papa would deny connie nothing," the other objected. she was obliged to raise her voice to a point of shrillness, hardly compatible with the dignity of the noble house of fallowfeild, _doublé_ with all the gold of all the barkings, for the train was banging over the points and roaring between the platforms of a local junction. mr. quayle made a deprecating gesture, put his hands over his ears, and again gently shook his head, intimating that no person possessed either of nerves or self-respect could be expected to carry on a conversation under existing conditions. lady louisa desisted. but, as soon as the train passed into the comparative quiet of the open country, she took up her parable again, and took it up in a tone of authority. "of course i admit there is something to get over. it would be ridiculous not to admit that. and i am always determined to be perfectly straightforward. i detest humbug of any kind. so i do not deny for a moment that there is something. still it would be a very good marriage for constance, a very good marriage, indeed. even papa must acknowledge that. money, position, age, everything of that kind, in its favour. one could not expect to have all that without some make-weight. i should not regret it, for i feel it might really be bad for connie to have so much without some make-weight. and i remarked yesterday--i could not help remarking it--that she was very much occupied about sir richard calmady." "connie is a little goose," mr. quayle permitted himself to remark, and for once there was quite a sour edge to his sweetness. "connie is not quick, she is not sensitive," his sister continued. "and, really, under all the circumstances, that perhaps is just as well. but she is a good child, and would believe almost anything you told her. she has an affectionate and obedient disposition, and she never attempts to think for herself. i don't believe it would ever occur to her to object to his--his peculiarities, unless some mischievous person suggested it to her. and then, as i tell you, i remarked she was very much occupied about him." once again mr. quayle sought counsel of the landscape which once again had changed in character. for here civilisation began to trail her skirts very visibly, and the edges of those skirts were torn and frayed, notably unhandsome. the open moorland had given place to flat market-gardens and leafless orchards sloppy with wet. innumerable cabbages, innumerable stunted, black-branched apple and pear trees, avenues of dilapidated pea and bean sticks, reeled away to right and left. the semi-suburban towns stretched forth long, rawly-red arms of ugly, little, jerry-built streets and terraces. tall chimneys and unlovely gasometers--these last showing as collections of some monstrous spawn--rose against the opaque sky, a sky rendered momentarily more opaque, dirtier and more dingy, by the masses of london smoke hanging along the eastern horizon. usually ludovic knew his own mind clearly enough. the atmosphere of it was very far from being hazy. now that atmosphere bore annoying resemblance to the opacity obtaining overhead and along the eastern horizon. the young man's sympathies--or were they his prejudices?--had a convenient habit of ranging themselves immediately on one side or other of any question presenting itself to him. but in the present case they were mixed. they pulled both ways, and this vexed him. for he liked to suppose himself very ripe, cynical, and disillusioned, while, in good truth, sentiment had more than a word to say in most of his opinions and decisions. now sentiment ruled him strongly and pushed him--but, unfortunately, in diametrically opposite directions. the sentiment of friendship compelled him hitherward. while another sentiment, which he refused to define--he recognised it as wholesome, yet he was a trifle ashamed of it--compelled him quite other-where. he took refuge in an adroit begging of the question. "after all are you not committing the fundamental error of reckoning without your host, louisa?" he inquired. "connie may be a good deal occupied about calmady, but thereby may only give further proof of her own silliness. i certainly discovered no particular sign of calmady being occupied about connie. he was very much more occupied about the fair cousin, helen de vallorbes, than about any one of us, my illustrious self included, as far as i could see." in her secret soul his hearer had to own this statement just. but she kept the owning to herself, and, with a rapidity upon which she could not help congratulating herself, instituted a flanking movement. "you hear all the gossip, ludovic," she said. "of course it is no good my asking mr. barking about that sort of thing. even if he heard it he would not remember it. his mind is too much occupied. if a woman marries a man with large political interests she must just give herself to them generously. it is very interesting, and one feels, of course, one is helping to make history. but still one has to sacrifice something. i hear next to nothing of what is going on--the gossip, i mean. and so tell me, what do you hear about her, about madame de vallorbes?" "at first hand only that which you must know perfectly well yourself, my dear louisa. didn't you sit opposite to her at luncheon, yesterday?--that she is a vastly good-looking and attractive woman." "at second hand, then?" "at second hand? oh! at second hand i know various amiable little odds and ends such as are commonly reported by the uncharitable and censorious," ludovic answered mildly. "probably more than half of these little treasures are pure fiction, generated by envy, conceived by malice." "pray, ludovic!" his sister exclaimed. but she recovered herself, and added:--"you may as well tell me all the same. i think, under the circumstances, it would be better for me to hear." "you really wish to hear? well, i give it you for what it is worth. i don't vouch for the truth of a single item. for all we can tell, nice, kind friends may be recounting kindred anecdotes of alicia and the blameless winterbotham, or even of you, louisa, and mr. barking." mr. quayle fixed a glance of surpassing graciousness upon his sister as he uttered these agreeable suggestions, and fervid curiosity alone enabled her to resist a rejoinder and to maintain a dignified silence. "it is said--and this probably is true--that she never cared two straws for de vallorbes, but was jockeyed in the marriage--just as you might jockey constance, you know, louisa--by her mother, who has the reputation of being a somewhat frisky matron with a keen eye to the main chance. she is not quite all, i understand, a tender heart could desire in the way of a parent. it is further said that _la belle helène_ makes the dollars fly even more freely than did de vallorbes in his best days, and he has the credit of having been something of a _viveur_. he knew not only his paris, but his baden-baden, and his naples, and various other warm corners where great and good men do commonly congregate. it is added that _la belle helène_ already gives promise of being playful in other ways beside that of expenditure. and that de vallorbes has been heard to lament openly that he is not a native of some enlightened country in which the divorce court charitably intervenes to sever overhard connubial knots. in short, it is rumoured that de vallorbes is not a conspicuous example of the wildly happy husband." "in short, she is not respec----" but the young man held up his hands and cried out feelingly:-- "don't, pray don't, my dear louisa. let us walk delicately as agag--my father's morning ministrations to the maids again! for how, as i pointed out just now, do we know what insidious little tales may not be in circulation regarding yourself and those nearest and dearest to you?" ludovic quayle turned his head and once again looked out of the window, his beautiful mouth visited by a slightly malicious smile. the train was sliding onward above crowded, sordid courts and narrow alleys, festering, as it seemed, with a very plague of poverty-stricken and unwholesome humanity. here the line runs parallel to the river--sullen to-day, blotted with black floats and lines of grimy barges, which straining, smoke-vomiting steam-tugs towed slowly against a strong flowing tide. on the opposite bank the heavy masses of the abbey, the long decorated façade and towers of the houses of parliament, stood out ghostly and livid in a gleam of frail, unrelated sunshine against the murk of the smoky sky. "i should have supposed sir richard calmady was steady," lady louisa remarked, inconsequently and rather stiffly. ludovic really was exasperating. "steady? oh! perfectly. poor, dear chap, he hasn't had much chance of being anything else as yet." "still, of course, lady calmady would prefer his being settled. clearly it would be much better in every way. all things considered, he is certainly one of the people who should marry young. and connie would be an excellent marriage for him, excellent--thoroughly suitable, better, really, than on the face of it he could hope for. ludovic, just look out please and see if the carriage is here. pocock always loses her head at a terminus, and misses the men-servants. yes, there is frederic--with his back to the train, looking the wrong way, of course. he really is too stupid." mr. quayle, however, succeeded in attracting the footman's attention, and, assisted by that functionary and the lean and anxious pocock--her arms full of bags and umbrellas--conveyed his sister out of the railway carriage and into the waiting brougham. she graciously offered to put him down at his rooms, in st. james's place, on her way to the barking mansion in albert gate, but the young man declined that honour. "good-bye, louisa," he said, leaning his elbows on the open window of the brougham and thereby presenting the back view of an irreproachably cut overcoat and trousers to the passers-by. "i have to thank you for a most interesting and instructive journey. your efforts to secure the prosperity of the family are wholly praiseworthy. i commend them. i have a profound respect for your generalship. still, pauper though i am, i am willing to lay you a hundred to one in golden guineas that you will never square papa." subsequently the young man bestowed himself in a hansom, and rattled away in the wake of the barking equipage down the objectionably steep hill which leads from the roar and turmoil of the station into the waterloo bridge road. "i might have offered heavier odds," he said to himself, "for never, never will she square papa." and, not without a light sense of shame, he was conscious that he made this reflection with a measure of relief. chapter xi containing samples both of earthly and heavenly love katherine stood in the central space of the great, state bedroom. it was just upon midnight, yet she still wore her jewels and her handsome, trailing, black, velvet dress. she was very tired. but that tiredness proceeded less from physical than mental weariness. this she recognised, and foresaw that weariness of this character was not likely to find relief and extinction within the shelter of the curtains of the stately bed, whereon the ancient persian legend of the flight of the hart through the tangled forest of this life was so deftly and quaintly embroidered. for, unhappily to-night, the leopard, care, followed very close behind. and katherine, taking the ancient legend as very literally descriptive of her existing state of mind feared that, should she undress and seek the shelter of the rose-lined curtains the leopard would seek it also, and, crouching at her feet, his evil yellow eyes would gaze into her own, wide open, all through that which remained of the night. the night, moreover, was very wild. a westerly gale, with now and again tumultuous violence of rain, rattled the many panes of the windows, wailed in every crevice of door and casement, roared through the mile-long elm avenue below, and roared in the chimneys above. the prince of the power of the air was let loose, and announced his presence as with the shout of battle. sleep was out of the question under present conditions and in her present humour. therefore lady calmady had dismissed clara--now promoted to the dignified office of lady's-maid--and that bright-eyed and devoted waiting-woman had departed reluctant, almost in tears, protesting that:--"it was quite too bad, for her ladyship was being regularly worn out with all the talking and company. and she, for her part, should be heartily glad when the entertaining was over and they were all comfortably to themselves again." nor could katherine honestly assert that she would be altogether sorry when the hour struck, to-morrow, for the departure of her guests. for it appeared to her that, notwithstanding the courtesy and affection of her brother and the triumphant charm of her niece, a spirit of unrest had entered brockhurst along with their entry. would that same spirit depart along with their departing? she questioned it. she was oppressed by a fear that that spirit of unrest had come to stay. and so it was that as she walked the length and breadth of the lofty, white-paneled room, for all the rage and fury of the storm without, she still heard the soft padding of care, the leopard, close behind. then a singular desolation and sense of homelessness came upon katherine. turn where she would there seemed no comfort, no escape, no sure promise of eventual rest. things human and material were emptied not of joy only, but of invitation to effort. for something had happened from which there was no going back. a fair woman from a far country had come and looked upon her son, with the inevitable result, that youth had called to youth. and though the fair woman in question, being already wedded wife,--katherine was rather pathetically pure-minded,--could not in any dangerously practical manner steal away her son's heart, yet she would, only too probably, prepare that heart and awaken in it desires of subsequent stealing away on the part of some other fair woman, as yet unknown, whose heart dickie would do his utmost to steal in exchange. and this filled her with anxiety and far-reaching fears, not only because it was bitter to have some woman other than herself hold the chief place in her son's affections, but because she--as john knott, even as ludovic quayle, though from quite other causes--could not but apprehend possibilities of danger, even of disaster, surrounding all question of love and marriage in the strange and unusual case of richard calmady. and thinking of these things, her sensibilities heightened and intensified by fatigue and circumstances of time and place, a certain feverishness possessed her. that bedchamber of many memories--exquisite and tragic--became intolerable to her. she opened the double doors and passed into the chapel-room beyond, the light thrown by the tall wax candles set in silver branches upon her toilet-table, passing with her through the widely open doors and faintly illuminating the near end of the great room. there was other subdued light in the room as well. for a glowing mass of coal and wood still remained in the brass basket upon the hearth, and the ruddy brightness of it touched the mouldings of the ceiling, glowed on the polished corners and carvings of tables, what-nots, and upon the mahogany frames of solid, georgian sofas and chairs. at first sight, notwithstanding the roaring of wind and ripping of rain without, there seemed offer of comfort in this calm and spacious place, the atmosphere of it sweet with bowls of autumn violets and greenhouse-grown roses. katherine sat down in richard's low armchair and gazed into the crimson heart of the fire. she made a valiant effort to put away haunting fears, to resume her accustomed attitude of stoicism, of tranquil, if slightly defiant, courage. but care, the leopard, refused to be driven away. surely, stealthily he had followed her out of her bedchamber and now crouched at her side, making his presence felt so that all illusion of comfort speedily fled. she knew that she was alone, consciously and bitterly alone, waking in the midst of the sleeping house. no footstep would echo up the stairs, hot to find her. no voice would call her name, in anxiety for her well-being or in desire. it seemed to katherine that a desert lay outstretched about her on every hand, while she sat desolate with care for her sole companion. she recognised that her existing isolation was, in a measure at all events, the natural consequence of her own fortitude and ability. she had ruled with so strong and discreet a hand that the order she had established, the machinery she had set agoing, could now keep going without her. hence her loneliness. and that loneliness as she sat by the dying fire, while the wind raved without, was dreadful to her, peopled with phantoms she dared not look upon. for, not only the accustomed burden of her motherhood was upon her, but that other unaccustomed burden of admitted middle-age. and this other burden, which it is appointed a woman shall bear while her heart often is still all too sadly young, dragged her down. the conviction pressed home on her that for her the splendid game was indeed over, and that, for very pride's sake, she must voluntarily stand aside and submit to rank herself with things grown obsolete, with fashions past and out of date. katherine rose to her feet, filled, for the moment, by an immense compassion for her own womanhood, by an overmastering longing for sympathy. she was so tired of the long struggle with sorrow, so tired of her own attitude of sustained courage. and now, when surely a little respite and repose might have been granted her, it seemed that a new order of courage was demanded of her, a courage passive rather than active, a courage of relinquishment and self-effacement. that was a little too much. for all her valiant spirit, she shrank away. she grew weak. she could not face it. and so it happened that to-night--as once long ago, when poor richard suffered his hour of mental and physical torment at the skilful, yet relentless hands of dr. knott, in the bedchamber near by--katherine's anguish and revolt found expression in restless pacings, and those pacings brought her to the chapel door. it stood ajar. before the altar the three hanging lamps showed each its tongue of crimson flame. a whiteness of flowers, set in golden vases upon the re-table, was just distinguishable. but the delicately carved spires and canopies of stalls, the fair pictured saints, and figure of the risen christ--his wounded feet shining like pearls upon the azure floor of heaven--in the east window, were lost in soft, thick, all-pervading gloom. the place was curiously still, as though waiting silently, in solemn and strained expectation for the accomplishment of some mysterious visitation. and, all the while without, the gale flung itself wailing against the angles of the masonry, and the rain beat upon the glass of the high, narrow windows as with a passion of despairing tears. for some time katherine waited in the doorway, a sombre figure in her trailing, velvet dress. the hushed stillness of the chapel, the confusion and clamour of the tempest, taken thus in connection, were very telling. they exercised a strong influence over her already somewhat exalted imagination. could it be, she asked herself, that these typified the rest of the religious, and the unrest of the secular life? julius march would interpret the contrast they afforded in some such manner no doubt. and what if julius, after all, were right? what if, shutting god out of the heart, you also shut that heart out from all peaceful dwelling-places, leaving it homeless, at the mercy of every passing storm? katherine was bruised in spirit. the longing for some sure refuge, some abiding city was dominant in her. the needs of her soul, so long ignored and repudiated, asserted themselves. yes, what if julius were right, and if content and happiness--the only happiness which has in it the grace of continuance--consisted in submission to, and glad acquiescence in, the will of god? thus did she muse, gazing questioningly at the whiteness of the altar flowers and those steady tongues of flame, hearing the silence, as of reverent waiting, which dwelt in the place. but, on the other hand, to give, in this her hour of weakness, that which she had refused in the hours of clear-seeing strength;--to let go, because she was alone and the unloveliness of age claimed her, that sense of bitter injury and injustice which she had hugged to her breast when young and still aware of her empire,--would not such action be contemptibly poor spirited? she was no child to be humbled into confession by the rod, frightened into submission by the dark. to abase herself, in the hope of receiving spiritual consolation, appeared to her as an act of disloyalty to her dead love and her maimed and crippled son. she turned away with a rather superb lift of her beautiful head, and went back to her own bedchamber again. she hardened herself in opposition, putting the invitations of grace from her as she might have put those of temptation. she would yield to weakness, to feverish agitations and aimless longings, no more. whether sleep elected to visit her or not, she would undress and seek her bed. but hardly had she closed the door and, standing before her toilet-table, began to unclasp the pearls from her throat and bracelets from her wrists, than a sound, quite other than agreeable or reassuring, saluted her ears from close by. it proceeded from the room next door, now unoccupied, since richard, some five or six years ago, jealous of the dignity of his youth, had petitioned to be permitted to remove himself and his possessions to the suite of rooms immediately below. this comprised the gun-room, a bed and dressing-room, and a fourth room connecting with the offices, which came in handy for his valet. since his decline upon this more commodious apartment, the old nursery had stood vacant. katherine could not find it in her heart to touch it. it was furnished now as in dickie's childish days, when, night and morning, she had visited it to make sure of her darling's health and safety. and it was in this shrine of tender recollections that disquieting sounds now arose. hard claws rattled upon the boarded spaces of the floor. some creature snored and panted against the bottom of the door, pushed it with so heavy a weight that the panels creaked, flung itself down uneasily, then moved to and fro again, with that harsh rattling of claws. the image of care, the leopard, as embroidered upon the curtains of her bed, was so present to katherine's imagination to-night that, for a moment, she lost her hold on probability and common sense. it appeared to her that the anxieties and perturbations which oppressed her had taken on bodily form, and, in the shape of a devouring beast, besieged her chamber door. the conception was grisly. both mind and body being rather overstrained, it filled her with something approaching panic. no one was within call. to rouse her brother, or julius, she must make a tour of half the house. again the creature pushed against the creaking panels, and, then, panting and snoring, began ripping away the matting from the door-sill. the terror of the unknown is, after all, greater than that of the known. it was improbable, though the hour was late and the night wild, that savage beasts or cares incarnate should actually be in possession of dickie's disused nursery. katherine braced herself and turned the handle. still the vision disclosed by the opening door was at first sight monstrous enough. a moving mass of dirty white, low down against the encircling darkness, bandy legs, and great grinning mouth. the bull-dog stood up, whining, fawning upon her, thrusting his heavy head into her hand. "why camp, good old friend, what brings you here? are you, too, homeless to-night? but why have you deserted your master?" and then lady calmady's panic fears took on another aspect. far from being allayed they were increased. an apprehension of something actively evil abroad in the great, sleeping house assailed her. she trembled from head to foot. and yet, even while she shrank and trembled, her courage reawoke. for she perceived that as yet she need not rank herself wholly among fashions passed and things grown obsolete. she had her place and value still. she was wanted, she was called for--that she knew--though by whom wanted and for what purpose she, as yet, knew not. the bull-dog, meanwhile, his heavy head carried low, his crooked tail drooping, trotted slowly away into the darkness and then trotted back. he squatted upon his haunches, looking up with anxious, bloodshot eyes. he trotted away again, and again returned and stood waiting, his whole aspect eloquent in its dumb appeal. he implored her to follow, and katherine, fetching one of the silver candlesticks from her dressing-table, obeyed. she followed her ugly, faithful guide across the vacant disused nursery, and on down the uncarpeted turning staircase which opens into the square lobby outside the gun-room. the diamond panes of the staircase windows chattered in their leaded frames, and the wind shrieked in the spouts, and angles, and carved stonework, of the inner courtyard as she passed. the gale was at its height, loud and insistent. yet the many-toned violence of it seemed to bear strange and intimate relation--as that of a great orchestra to a single dominant human voice--to the subtle, evil influence which she felt to be at large within the sleeping house. and so, without pausing to consider the wisdom of her action, pushed by the conviction that something of profound import was taking place, and that some one, or something, must be saved by her from threatening danger, katherine threw open the gun-room door. the shout of the storm seemed far away. this place was quick with stillness too, with the hush of waiting for the accomplishment of some mysterious event or visitation, even as the dark chapel up-stairs had been. only here moving effect of soft, brilliant light, of caressing warmth, of vague, insidious fragrance met her. katherine calmady had only known passion in its purest and most legitimate form. it had been for her, innocent of all grossness, or suggestion of degradation, fair and lovely and natural, revelation of highest and most enchanting secrets. but having once known it in its fulness, she could not fail to recognise its presence, even though it wore a diabolic, rather than angelic face. that passion met her now, exultant, effulgent, along with that light and heat and fragrance, she did not for an instant doubt. and the splendour of its near neighbourhood turned her faint with dread and with poignant memories. she paused upon the threshold, steadying herself with one hand against the cold, stone jamb of the arched doorway, while in the other she held the massive candlestick and its flickering, draught-driven lights. a mist was before her eyes, a singing in her ears, so that she had much ado to see clearly and reckon justly with that which she did see. helen de vallorbes, clothed in a flowing, yet clinging, silken garment of turquoise, shot with blue purple and shimmering glaucous green--a garment in colour such as that with which the waves of adriatic might have clothed the rosy limbs of new-born aphrodite, as she rose from the cool, translucent sea-deeps--knelt upon the tiger-skin before the dancing fire. her hands grasped the two arms of richard's chair. she leaned down right across it, the lines and curves of her beautiful body discernible under her delicate draperies. the long, open sleeves of her dress fell away from her outstretched arms, showing them in their completeness from wrist to shoulder. her head was thrown back, so that her rounded throat stood out, and the pure line of her lower jaw was salient. her eyes were half closed, while all the mass of her honey-coloured hair was gathered low down on the nape of her neck into a net of golden thread. a golden, netted girdle was knotted loosely about her loins, the tasseled ends of it dragging upon the floor. she wore no jewels, nor were they needed, for the loveliness of her person, discovered rather than concealed by those changeful sea-blue draperies, was already dangerously potent. all this katherine saw--a radiant vision of youth, an incarnation, not of care and haunting fears, but of pleasure and haunting delights. and she saw more than this. for in the depths of that long, low armchair richard sat, stiffly erect, his face dead white, thin, and strained--richard, as she had never beheld him before, though she knew the face well enough. it was his father's face as she had seen it on her marriage night, and on his death night too, when his fingers had been clasped about her throat to the point of strangulation. katherine dared look no longer. her heart stood still. shame and anger took her, and along with these an immense nostalgia for that which had once been and was not. her instinct was of flight. but camp trotted forward, growling, and squatted between the pedestals of the library-table, his red eyes blinking sullenly in the square shadow. involuntarily katherine followed him part way across the room. richard looked full at his cousin, absorbed, rigid, an amazement of question in his eyes. not a muscle of his face moved. but madame de vallorbes' absorption was less complete. she started slightly and half turned her head. "ah! there is that dog again," she said. "what has brought him back? he hates me." "damn the dog!" richard exclaimed, hoarsely under his breath. then he said:--"helen, helen, you know----" but madame de vallorbes had turned her head yet further, and her arched eyelids opened quite wide for once, while she smiled a little, her lips parting and revealing her pretty teeth tightly set. "ah! the advent of the bull-dog explains itself," she exclaimed. "here is aunt katherine herself!" slowly, and with an inimitable grace, she rose to her feet. her long, winged sleeves floated back into place, covering her bare arms. her composure was astonishing, even to herself. yet her breath came a trifle quick as she contemplated lady calmady with the same enigmatic smile, her chin carried high--the finest suggestion of challenge and insolence in it--her eyes still unusually wide open and startlingly bright. "richard holds a little court to-night," she continued airily, "thanks to the storm. you also have come to seek the protection of his presence it appears, aunt katherine. indeed, i am not surprised, for you certainly brew very wild weather at brockhurst, at times." something in the young lady's bearing had restored katherine's self-control. "the wind is going down," she replied calmly. "the storm need not alarm you, or keep you watching any longer, helen." "ah! pardon me--you know you are accustomed to these tempests," the younger woman rejoined. "to me it still sounds more than sufficiently violent." "yes, but merely on this side of the house, where richard's and my rooms are situated. the wind has shifted, and i believe on your side you will suffer no further disturbance. you will find it quite quiet. then, moreover, you have to rise early to-morrow--or rather to-day. you have a long journey before you and should secure all the rest you can." madame de vallorbes gathered her silken draperies about her absently. for a moment she looked down at the tiger-skin, then back at lady calmady. "ah yes!" she said, "it is thoughtful of you to remind me of that. to-day i start on my homeward journey. it should give me very much pleasure, should it not? but--do not be shocked, aunt katherine--i confess i am not altogether enraptured at the prospect. i have been too happy, too kindly treated, here at brockhurst, for it to be other than a sorrow to me to depart." she turned to richard, her expression serious, intimate, appealing. then she shook back her fair head, and as though in obedience to an irresistible movement of tenderness, stooped down swiftly over him--seeming to drown him in the shimmering waves of some azure, and thin, clear green, and royal, blue-purple sea--while she kissed him full and daringly upon the mouth. "good-night, good-bye, dear dickie," she said. "yes, good-bye--for i almost hope i may not see you in the morning. it would be a little chilly and inadequate, any other farewell after this. i am grateful to you.--and remember, i too am among those who, to their sorrow, never forget." she approached lady calmady, her manner natural, unabashed, playful even, and gay. "see, i am ready to go to bed like a good child, aunt katherine," she said, "supported by your assurance that my side of the house is no longer rendered terrific by wind and rain. but--i am so distressed to trouble you--but all the lamps are out, and i am none too sure of my way. it would be a rather tragic ending to my happy visit if i incontinently lost myself and wandered till dawn, disconsolate, up and down the passages and stairways of richard's magnificent house. i might even wander in here by mistake again, and that would be unpardonably indiscreet, wouldn't it? so, will you light me to my own quarters, aunt katherine? thank you--how charmingly kind and sweet you are!" as she spoke madame de vallorbes moved lightly away and passed on to the lobby, the heels of her pretty, cloth-of-gold slippers ringing quite sharply on the gray, stone quarries without. and, even as a little while back she had followed the heavy-headed and ungainly bull-dog, so now lady calmady, in her trailing, black, velvet dress, silver candlestick in hand, followed this radiant, fleet-footed creature, whose every movement was eloquent of youth and health and an almost prodigal joy of living. neither woman spoke as they crossed the lobby, and passed the pierced and arcaded stone screen which divides the outer from the inner hall. now and again the flickering candle-light glinted on the younger woman's girdle or the net which controlled the soft masses of her honey-coloured hair. now and again a draught taking the folds of her silken raiment blew it hither and thither, disclosing her beautiful arms or quick-moving slippered feet. she was clothed with splendour of the sea, crowned, and shod, and girt about the loins, with gold. and she fled on silently, till the wide, shallow-stepped stairway, leading up to the rooms she occupied, was reached. there, for a moment, she paused. "pray come no further," she said, and went on rapidly up the flight. on the landing she stopped, a dimly discerned figure, blue and gold against the dim whiteness of high paneled walls, moulded ceiling, stairway, and long descending balustrade. "i have arrived!" she cried, and her clear voice took strange inflections of mockery and laughter. "i have arrived! i am perfectly secure now and safe. let us hope all other inmates of brockhurst are equally so this stormy night. a thousand thanks, dear aunt katherine, for your guidance, and a thousand apologies for bringing you so far. now let me trouble you no longer." the gun-room katherine found just as she had left it, save that camp stood on the tiger-skin before the fire, his fore-paws and his great, grinning muzzle resting on the arm of richard's chair. camp whined a little. mechanically the young man raised his hand and pulled the dog's long, drooping ears. his face was still dead white, and there were lines under his eyes and about the corners of his mouth, as of one who tries to subdue expression of physical pain. he looked straight at lady calmady. "ah!" he said, "so you have come back! you observe i have changed partners!" and again he pulled the dog's ears, while it appeared to his listener that his voice curiously echoed that other voice which had so lately addressed and dismissed her, taking on inflections of mockery. but as she nerved herself to answer, he continued, hastily:-- "i want nothing, dear mother, nothing in the world. pray don't concern yourself any more about me to-night. haven't i camp for company? lamps? oh! i can put them out perfectly well myself. you were right, of course, perfectly right, to come if you were anxious about me. but now surely you are satisfied?" suddenly richard bowed his head, putting both hands over his eyes. "only now, mother, if you love me, go," he said, with a great sob in his voice. "for god's sake go, and leave me to myself." but after sleepless hours, in the melancholy, blear dawn of the november day, katherine lying, face downwards, within the shelter of the embroidered curtains of the state bed, made her submission at last and prayed. "i am helpless, oh, father almighty! i have neither wit nor understanding, nor strength. have mercy, lest my reason depart from me. i have sinned, for years i have sinned, setting my will, my judgment, my righteousness against thine. take me, forgive me, teach me. i bring nothing. i ask everything. i am empty. fill me with thyself, even as with water one fills an empty cup. give me the courage of patience instead of the courage of battle. give me the courage of meekness in place of the courage of pride." book iv a slip betwixt cup and lip chapter i lady louisa barking traces the finger of providence the spirit of unrest, which had entered brockhurst in the dim october weather, along with certain guests, did not--lady calmady had foreseen as much--leave with their leaving. it remained a constant quantity. further, it engendered events very far away from and, at first sight, wholly at variance with those which had accompanied its advent. for example, lady louisa barking, passing through lowndes square one bleak, march morning on her way from albert gate to do a little quiet shopping in sloane street, observed that the calmadys' house--situated at the corner of the square and of ---- street--was given over to a small army of work-people. during richard's minority it had been let for a term of years to sir reginald aldham, of aldham revel in midlandshire. since dickie's coming of age it had stood empty, pending a migration of the brockhurst establishment, which migration had, in point of fact, never yet taken place. but now, as lady louisa, walking with a firm and distinguished tread along the gray, wind-swept pavements, remarked, the house was in process of redecoration, of painting within and without. and, looking on these things, lady louisa's soul received very sensible comfort. she was extremely tenacious of purpose. and, in respect of one purpose at least, heaven had not seen fit, during the last four or five months, to smile upon her. superstitious persons might have regarded this fact as a warning. lady louisa, however, merely regarded it as an oversight. now at last, so it appeared to her, heaven had awakened to a consciousness of its delinquencies, with the satisfactory result that her own commendable patience touched on reasonable hope of reward. and this was the more agreeable and comforting to her because the quayle family affairs were not, it must be owned, at their brightest and best just at present. clouds lowered on the family horizon. for some weeks she had felt the situation called for effective action on her part. but then, how to act most effectively she knew not. now the needed opportunity stared her in the face, along with those high ladders and scaffolding poles surrounding the calmady mansion. she decided, there and then, to take the field; but to take it discreetly, to effect a turning movement, not attempt a front attack. so, on her return to albert gate, after the completion of her morning shopping, she employed the half hour before luncheon in writing an affectionate, sisterly letter to ludovic quayle. that accomplished, young gentleman happened, as she was aware, to be staying at brockhurst. she asked his opinion--in confidence--on the present very uncomfortable condition of the family fortunes, declaring how implicitly she trusted his good sense and respected his judgment. then, passing adroitly to less burning questions, she ended thus-- "pray let lady calmady know how really _delighted everybody_ is to hear she and sir richard will be up this season. i do trust, as i am such a near neighbour, that if there is _anything_ i can do for her, either now, or later when they are settling, she will not hesitate to let me know. it would be such a _sincere_ pleasure to me. mr. barking is too busy with tiresome, parliamentary committees to be able to allow himself more than a week at easter. i should be _thankful_ for a longer rest, for i am feeling dreadfully fagged. but you know how conscientious he always is; and of course one _must_ pay a certain price for the confidence the leaders of one's party repose in one. so do tell lady calmady we are _quite sure_ to be back immediately after easter." reading which sentences mr. quayle permitted himself a fine smile on more than one count. "louisa reminds me of the sweet little poem of 'bruce and the spider,'" he said to himself. "she displays heroic persistence. her methods are a trifle crude though. to provoke statements by making them is but a primitive form of diplomacy. yet why be hard upon louisa? like my poor, dear father, she, more often than not, means well." it followed that some few days later, on his return to whitney, ludovic indited a voluminous letter to his sister, in his very best style. "it is rather a waste," he reflected regretfully. "she will miss the neatest points. the happiest turns of phrase will be lost upon louisa!" to recoup himself for which subjective loss the young man amused himself by giving a very alarmist account of certain matters, though he was constrained to admit the pleasing fact that sir richard and lady calmady really had it in contemplation to go up to town somewhere about easter. and, truth to tell, the main subject of mr. quayle's letter could hardly be otherwise than disquieting, for it was undeniable that lord shotover's debts were causing both himself and others serious embarrassment at this period. there was nothing new in this, that young nobleman's indebtedness being a permanent factor in his family's financial situation. this spring his indebtedness had passed from the chronic to the acute stage, that was all. with the consequence that it became evident lord shotover's debts must be paid, or his relations must submit to the annoyance of seeing him pass through the bankruptcy court. which of these objectionable alternatives was least objectionable lord fallowfeild still stood in doubt, when, in obedience to the parental summons, the young man reached whitney. lord fallowfeild had whipped himself up into a laudable heat of righteous indignation before the arrival of the prodigal. yet he contrived to be out when the dog-cart conveying the said prodigal, and mr. decies of the st lancers--a friend of guy quayle, home on leave from india, whence he brought news of his fellow-subaltern--actually drove up to the door. when, pushed thereto by an accusing conscience, he did at last come in, lord fallowfeild easily persuaded himself that there really was not time before dinner for the momentous conversation. moreover, being very full of the milk of human kindness, he found it infinitely more agreeable to hear the praises of the absent son, guy, than to fall foul of the present son, shotover. so that it was not till quite late that night, by which time he was slightly sleepy, while his anger had sensibly evaporated, that the interview did, actually, take place. "now then, shotover, march off to the place of execution," ludovic quayle said sweetly, as he picked up his bedroom candlestick. "it was a deep and subtle thought that of bringing down decies. only, query, did you think of it, or was it just a bit of your usual luck?" lord shotover smiled rather ruefully upon his prosperous, and, it may be added, slightly parsimonious, younger brother. "well, i don't deny it did occur to me it might work," he admitted. "and after all, you know, one mercy is there's no real vice about his dear old lordship." lord fallowfeild fidgeted about the library, his expression that of a well-nourished and healthy, but rather fretful infant. "oh! ah!--well--so here you are, shotover," he said. "unpleasant business this of yours--uncommonly disagreeable business for both of us." "deuced unpleasant business," the younger man echoed heartily. he closely resembled his father in looks, save that he was clean shaven and of a lighter build. both father and son had the same slight lisp in speaking. "deuced unpleasant," he repeated. "nobody can feel that more than i do." "can't they though," said lord fallowfeild, with a charmingly innocent air of surprise. "there, sit down, shotover, won't you? it's a painful thing to do, but we've got to talk it over, i suppose." "well, of course, if you're kind enough to give me the time, you know,--that's rather what i came down here for." "so you did though," the elder man returned, brightening as though making an illuminating discovery. then, fearing he was forgetting his part and becoming amiable too rapidly, he made a gallant effort to whip up his somnolent indignation. "it's very distressing to me to put it so plainly, but in my opinion it's a disgraceful business." "oh! i give you my word i know it," lord shotover replied, with most disarming candour. his father affected, with difficulty, not to hear the remark. "it doesn't do for a man in your position to be owing money all over the country. it brings the aristocracy into contempt with the shop-keeping class. they're always on the lookout for the shortcomings of their superiors, those people. and they do pay their debts, you see." "they've always got such a thundering lot of money," lord shotover put in. "don't know how they'd contrive to spend it unless they did pay their debts." "oh! ah!--yes----" his father hesitated. it struck him shotover was a reasonable fellow, very reasonable, and he took the whole matter in a very proper spirit. in short, it was not easy to blow up shotover. lord fallowfeild thrust his hands far down into his trouser pockets and turned sideways in the great, leather-covered chair. "i'm not narrow-minded or prejudiced," he began. "i always have kept on civil terms with those sort of people and always will. courtesy is an obligation on the part of a gentleman and a christian. i'd as soon be rude to my tailor as eat with my knife. but a man must respect his own rank or others won't respect it, especially in these nasty, radical, leveling times. you must stand by your class. there's a vulgar proverb about the bird that fouls its own nest, you know. well, i never did that. i've always stood by my own class. helped my poor brother archibald--you can't remember him--weren't born at the time--to run away with lady jane bateman. low, common fellow bateman. i never liked bateman. she left ludovic all that money, you know----" "wish to goodness she'd left it to me," murmured lord shotover. "eh?" inquired his father. then he fell into a moralising vein. "nasty, disreputable things elopements. i never did approve of elopements. leave other men's wives alone, shotover." the younger man's mouth worked a little. "the nuisance is sometimes they won't leave you alone." lord fallowfeild gazed at him a moment, very genially. "oh! ah!--well--i suppose they won't," he said, and he chuckled. "anyhow i stood by your poor uncle archibald. he was my brother of course, and she was a second cousin of your mother's, so i felt bound to. and i saw them across the channel and into the paris train. dreadfully bad crossing that night i remember, no private cabins to be had, and lady jane was dreadfully ill. never take your wife to sea on your honeymoon, shotover. it's too great a risk. that business cost me a lot of money one way and another, and let me in for a most painful scene with bateman afterwards. but, as i say, you're bound to stand by your own class. that'll be my only reason for helping you, you understand, shotover, if i do help you." "and i am sure i hope you will."--the young man rose and stood with his back to the fire and his hands under his coat-tails. he stooped a little, looking down pensively at the hearth-rug between his feet. his clothes--not yet paid for, or likely to be--claimed admiration, so did the length of his legs and the neatness of his narrow hips. "i can only assure you i shall be most awfully grateful if you do help me," he said quietly. "i don't pretend to deserve it--but that doesn't lessen gratitude--rather the other way, don't you know. i shall never forget it." "won't you though?" and for the life of him lord fallowfeild could not help beaming upon this handsome prodigal. "uncommonly highbred looking fellow, shotover," he said to himself. "don't wonder women run after him. uncommonly high bred, and shows very nice feeling too." and then the kindly and simple gentleman drew himself up with a mental jerk, remembering that he was there to curse rather than to bless. he fidgeted violently. "not that i have actually made up my mind to help you yet," he went on. "i am very much inclined to cast you adrift. it distresses me to put it to you so plainly, but you are disgracefully extravagant, you know, shotover." "oh! i know," the young man admitted. "you're a selfish fellow."--lord fallowfeild became relentless. "yes, it's extremely painful to me to say it to you, but you are downright selfish. and that, in the long run, comes uncommonly hard on your sisters. good girls, your sisters. never given your mother or me any trouble, your sisters. but money has to come from somewhere, and each time i pay your debts i have to cut down your sisters' portions." "yes, i know, and that's what's made me so infernally unwilling to come to you about my affairs," lord shotover said, in tones of perfectly genuine regret. "is it though?" his father commented. "good fellow at heart," he added to himself. "displays very proper feeling. always was a good-hearted fellow." "i can only tell you i've been awfully wretched about it for the last three months." "have you though?" said lord fallowfeild, with sympathy. "i got just about as low as i well could. i felt i was nothing but a nuisance and encumbrance. it was beastly to think of fleecing the girls, don't you know. i came precious near cutting my throat--only that seemed rather a dirty way of getting out of it all." "so it is--poor boy--quite right. nasty mean way of shirking your responsibilities. quite agree with you. i have never had any opinion of a man who cut his throat. never mention such a thing, shotover." he blew his nose resonantly.--"never talk of such a thing," he repeated. "and--poor boy--i--i'll pay your debts. only i tell you this really is the last time. there must be no misunderstanding about that. you must reform, shotover, if it's only on account of your sisters. i don't want to take an unfair advantage of you in alluding to your sisters. only you must understand clearly this is the last time. you see it's becoming too frequent. i don't want to press the case unduly against you, but you recollect--i'm sure you do--i paid your debts in fifty-eight, and again in sixty-two, or sixty-three, was it? yes, it must have been sixty-three, because that was the year my poor friend tom henniker died. good fellow henniker--i missed henniker. and they wanted me to take over the hounds. nice fellow in the hunting-field, henniker. never saw him lose his temper but once, and that was when image rode over the hounds on the edge of talepenny wood." "rather coarse sort of brute, image," put in lord shotover. "and henniker had such an excellent manner with the farmers, genial and cheery, very cheery at times and yet without any loss of dignity. great test of a man's breeding that, being cheery without loss of dignity. now my poor friend, henniker--oh! ah! yes, where was i though? your debts now, shotover. yes, it must have been sixty-three, because they all wanted me to succeed him as master, and i had to tell them i could not afford it, so it must have been just after i cleared you." he looked at his erring son with the most engaging air of appeal and remonstrance. "really it won't do, shotover," he repeated. "you must reform. it's becoming too frequent. you'd better travel for a time. that's the proper thing for a man in your position to do when he's in low water. not scuttle, of course. i wouldn't on any account have you scuttle. but, three weeks or a month hence when things are getting into shape, just travel for a time. i'll arrange it all for you. only never talk of cutting your throat again. and you quite understand this is positively the last time. i am very much in earnest, my dear boy, nothing will move me. this settlement is final. and we'll just run up quietly to town to-morrow and have a talk with my lawyers, fox and goteway. very civil and accommodating fellow, goteway--he may be able to make some suggestions. very nice, confidential-mannered person, goteway. knows how to hold his tongue and doesn't ask unnecessary questions--useful man, goteway----" which things coming to the knowledge of lady louisa barking moved her at once to wrath, and to deepened conviction that the moment for decisive action had arrived. it appeared to her that her father had put himself out of court. his weakness regarding his eldest son had practically delivered him into her hand. she congratulated herself upon the good which is thus beneficently permitted to spring out of evil. yet while recognising that a just providence sometimes, at all events, overrules human folly to the production of happy results, she was by no means disposed to spare the mortal whose individual foolishness had given the divine wisdom its opportunity. therefore when, some few days later, lord fallowfeild called on her, after a third or fourth interview with messrs. fox and goteway--beaming, expansive, from the sense of a merciful action accomplished--she received him in a distinctly repressive manner. the great, white and gold drawing-rooms in albert gate were not more frigid or unbending than the bearing of their mistress as she suffered her father's embrace. and that amiable nobleman, notwithstanding his large frame and exalted social position, felt himself shiver inwardly in the presence of his daughter, even as he could remember shivering when, as a small schoolboy, he had been summoned to the dread presence of the headmaster. "very good rooms these of yours, louisa," he began hastily. "always have admired these rooms. capital space for entertaining. barking was quite right to secure the house as soon as it was in the market. i told him at the time he would never regret it." lady louisa did not answer, but called after the retreating footman, who had just brought in a stately and limited tea-tray, much silver and little food:--"i am not at home, william." then, as she put small and accurate measures of tea into a massive teapot, she added severely:--"what is all this i hear about shotover, papa?" "oh! ah! yes--poor shotover. came up to town together again to-day. good-hearted fellow, your brother shotover, but thoughtless. however i have had a most satisfactory talk with my men of business, fox and goteway. i know barking does not think much of fox and goteway. wanted me to go to his own lawyers, hodges and banquet. but if any one serves you conscientiously you should not leave them. it's against my principles to turn off those who serve me conscientiously. i told barking so at the time, i remember. it came out of the business about your settlements, wasn't it--or the last time i paid shotover's----" he cleared his throat hurriedly. "i see the calmadys' house is being done up," he continued. "nice young fellow, calmady. but i never can help feeling a certain awkwardness with him. takes you up rather short in conversation too sometimes. terribly distressing thing his deformity and all that, both for himself and lady calmady. hope, perhaps, she doesn't feel it as some women would though--tactful woman, lady calmady, and very good woman of business. still, never feel quite at my ease with lady calmady. can't help wondering how they'll do in london, you know. rather difficult thing his going about much with that----" lady louisa held out a small teacup. her high penetrating voice asserted itself resolutely against her father's kindly, stumbling chatter, as she asked:-- "is it true you are not coming up from whitney this season?" "oh!--tea--yes, thank you very much, my dear. no--well, i think possibly we may not come up this year. goteway believes he has heard of a very eligible tenant for the belgrave square house, very eligible. and so, nothing actually decided yet, but i think very possibly we may not come up." he spoke apologetically, regarding his daughter, over the small teacup, with an expression of entreaty. every feature of his handsome, innocent countenance begged her not to deal harshly with him. but lady louisa remained obdurate. "shotover's conduct is becoming a positive scandal," she said. "not conduct, my dear--no, not conduct, only money," protested lord fallowfeild. "if money is not conduct i really don't know what is," retorted his daughter. "i do not pretend to go in for such fine distinctions. in any case mr. barking heard the most shocking rumours at his club the other day." "did he though?" ejaculated lord fallowfeild. "he was too considerate to tell me anything very definite, but he felt that, going out and seeing everybody as of course i have to, it was only right i should have some hint of what was being said. every one is talking about shotover. you can imagine how perfectly intolerable it is for me to feel that my brother's debts are being canvassed in this sort of way." "i am very sorry there should be any gossip," lord fallowfeild said humbly. "nasty thing gossip--lies, too, mostly, all of it. nasty, low, unprofitable thing gossip." "and, of course, your all not coming up will give colour to it." "will it though? i never thought of that. you always see straight through things, louisa. you have by far the best head in the family, except ludovic--uncommonly clever fellow ludovic. wonder if i had better talk it all over with ludovic. if you and he agree in thinking our not coming up will make more talk, why, if only on shotover's account, i----" but this was not in the least the turn which his daughter desired the conversation to take. "pray remember you have other children besides shotover, papa!" she said hastily. "and for every one's sake run no further risk of impoverishing yourself. it is obvious that you must save where you can. if there is the chance of a good let for the belgrave square house, it would be madness to refuse it. and, after all, you do not really care about london. if there are any important debates in the lords, you can always come up for a night or so. it does not matter about you." "oh! doesn't it though?" lord fallowfeild put in quite humbly and gently. "and mama would always rather stay on at whitney. only it must not appear as if we were the least uncomfortable at meeting people. i shall make it a point to go everywhere. i shall be dreadfully fagged, of course, but i feel it a duty to all of you to do so. and i should like the girls to go out too. people must not suppose they have no gowns to their backs. maggie and emily have had several seasons. i am less worried about them. but connie must be seen. she is looking extremely pretty." "isn't she though?" lord fallowfeild chimed in, brightening. the picture of those reportedly gownless backs had depressed him abominably. "yes, and she must have every advantage. i have quite decided that. she must come up to me at once. i shall write to mama and point out to her how necessary it is that one of the girls, at least, should be very much _en evidence_ this year. and i am most anxious it should be connie. as i undertake all the fatigue and responsibility i feel i have a right of choice. i will see that she is properly dressed. i undertake everything. now, papa, if you are going down by the : train you ought to start. will you have a hansom?" then, as she shook hands with him, and presented an unresponsive cheek to the paternal lips, lady louisa clinched the matter. "i may consider it quite settled, then, about constance?" she said. "i mentioned it to mr. barking yesterday, and we agreed it ought to be done even if it entailed a little inconvenience and expense. it is not right to be indifferent to appearances. the other two girls can come up for a little while later. alicia must help. of course there is not much room in that wretched, little chelsea house of hers, but george winterbotham can turn out of his dressing-room. alicia must exert herself for once. and, papa, connie need not bring a maid. those country girls from whitney don't always fit in quite well with the upper servants, and yet there is a difficulty about keeping them out of the housekeeper's room. i will provide a maid for her. i'll write to mama about everything to-morrow. and, papa, i do beg you will discourage shotover from coming here, for really i would much rather not see him at present. good-bye. pray start at once. you have barely time to get to waterloo." and so lord fallowfeild started, a little flustered, a little crestfallen, on his homeward journey. "able woman, louisa," he said to himself. "uncommonly clear-sighted woman, louisa. but a trifle hard. wonder if barking ever feels that, now? not very sensitive man, barking, though. suppose that hardness in louisa comes of her having no children. always plenty of children in our family--except my poor brother archibald and lady jane, they had no children. yet somebody told me she'd had one by bateman, which died. never understood about that. capital thing for ludovic she never did have any by archibald. but it's always curious to me louisa should have no children. shouldn't have expected that somehow of barking and louisa. sets her more free, of course, in regard to her sisters. very thoughtful for her sisters, louisa. i suppose she must have connie. nuisance all this gossip about shotover. pretty child, connie--best looking of the lot. people say she's like me. wonderfully pretty child, connie. that young fellow decies thinks so too, or i'm very much mistaken. very much attracted by connie. fine young fellow, decies--comfort to hear of guy from him. suppose she must go up to louisa. gentlemanlike fellow, decies. i shouldn't care to part with connie----" and then, his reflections becoming increasingly interjectional as the train trundled away southwestward, lord fallowfeild leaned back in the corner of the railway carriage and fell very fast asleep. chapter ii telling how vanity fair made acquaintance with richard calmady there was no refusing belief to the fact. the old, cloistered life at brockhurst, for good or evil, was broken up. katherine calmady recognised that another stage had been reached on the relentless journey, that new prospects opened, new horizons invited her anxious gaze. she recognised also that all which had been was dead, according to its existing form, and should receive burial, silent, somewhat sorrowful, yet not without hope of eventual resurrection in regard to the nobler part of it. the fair coloured petals of the flower fall away from the maturing fruit, the fruit rots to set free the seed. yet the vital principle remains, life lives on, though the material clothing of it change. and, therefore, katherine--an upspringing of patience and chastened fortitude within her, the result of her reconciliation to the divine light and resignation of herself to its indwelling--set herself, not to arrest the falling of the flower, but to help the ripening of the seed. if the old garments were out of date, too straight and narrow for her child's growth, then let others be found him. she did not wait to have him ask, she offered, and that without hint of reproach or of unwillingness. yet so to offer cost her not a little. for it was by no means easy to sink her natural pride, and go forth smiling with this son of hers, at once beautiful and hideous in person, for all the world to see. something of personal heroism is demanded of whoso prescribes heroic remedies, if those remedies are to succeed. at night, alone in the darkness, katherine, suddenly awaking, would be haunted by perception of the curious glances, and curious comments, which must of necessity attend richard through all the brilliant pageant of the london season. how would he bear it? and then--self-distrust laying fearful hands upon her--how would she bear it, too? would her late acquired serenity of soul depart, her faith in the gracious purposes of almighty god suffer eclipse? would she fall back into her former condition of black anger and revolt? she prayed not. so long as these evils did not descend upon her, she could bear the rest well enough. for, could she but keep her faith, katherine was beginning to regard all other suffering which might be in store for her as a negligible quantity. with her healthy body, and wholesome memories of a great and perfect human love, it was almost impossible that she should adopt a morbid and self-torturing attitude. yet any religious ideal, worth the name, will always have in it an ascetic element. and that element was so far present with her that personal suffering had come to bear a not wholly unlovely aspect. she had ceased to gird against it. so long as richard was amused and fairly content, so long as the evil which had been abroad in brockhurst house, that stormy autumn night, could be frustrated, and the estrangement between herself and richard,--unacknowledged, yet sensibly present,--which that evil had begotten, might be lessened she cared little what sacrifices she made, what fatigue, exertion, even pain, she might be called on to endure. an enthusiasm of self-surrender animated her. during the last five months, slowly and with stumbling feet; yet very surely, she had carried her life and the burden of it up to a higher plane. and, from that more elevated standpoint, she saw both past events and existing relationships in perspective, according to their just and permanent values. only one object, one person, refused to range itself, and stood out from the otherwise calm, if pensive, landscape as a threatening danger, a monument of things wicked and fearful. katherine tried to turn her eyes from that object, for it provoked in her a great hatred, a burning indignation, sadly at variance with the saintly ideals which had so captivated her mind and heart. katherine remained--always would remain, happily for others--very much a woman. and, as woman and mother, she could not but hate that other woman who had, as she feared, come very near seducing her son. therefore very various causes combined to reconcile her to the coming adventure. indeed she set forth on it with so cheerful a countenance, that richard, while charmed, was also a trifle surprised by the alacrity with which she embraced it. he regarded her somewhat critically, questioning whether his mother was of a more worldly and light-minded disposition than he had heretofore supposed. there had been some talk of julius march joining the contemplated exodus. but he had declined, smiling rather sadly. "no, no," he said. "to go would be a mistake and a weakly selfish one on my part. i have long ceased to be a man of cities, and am best employed, and indeed am most at my ease, herding my few sheep here in the wilderness. i am part and parcel of just all that which we have agreed it is wise you shall leave behind you for a while. my presence would lessen the thoroughness of the change of scene and of thought. you take up a way of life which was familiar to you years ago. the habits of it will soon come back. i have never known them. i should be a hindrance, rather than a help. no, i will wait and keep the lamps burning before the altar, and the fire burning upon the hearth until--and, please god, it may be in peace, crowned with good fortune--you both come back." but the adventure, fairly embarked on, displayed quite other characteristics--as is the way with such skittish folk--than katherine had anticipated. against possibilities of mortification, against possibilities of covert laughter and the pointing fingers of the crowd, she had steeled herself. but it had not occurred to her that both richard's trial and her own might take the form of an exuberant and slightly vulgar popularity, and that, far from being shoved aside into the gutter, the young man might be hoisted, with general acclamation, on to the very throne of vanity fair. the brockhurst establishment moved up to town at the beginning of april. and by the end of the month, sir richard calmady, his wealth, his house, his horses, his dinners, his mother's gracious beauty, and a certain mystery which surrounded him, came to be in every one's mouth. a new star had arisen in the social firmament, and all and sundry gathered to observe the reported brightness of its shining. rich, young, good-looking, well-connected, and strangely unfortunate, here indeed was a novel and telling attraction among the somewhat fly-blown shows of vanity fair! many-tongued rumour was busy with dickie's name, his possessions and personality. the legend of the man--a thing often so very other than the man himself--grew, jonah's gourd-like, in wild luxuriance. all those many persons who had known lady calmady before her retirement from the world, hastened to renew acquaintance with her. while a larger, and it may be added less distinguished, section of society, greedy of intimacy with whoso, or whatsoever, might represent the fashion of the hour, crowded upon their heels. invitations showered down thick as snowflakes in january. to _get_ sir richard and lady calmady was to secure the success of your entertainment, whatever that entertainment might be--to secure it the more certainly because the two persons in question exercised a rather severe process of selection, and were by no means to be had for the asking. all these things ludovic quayle noted, in a spirit which he flattered himself was cynical, but which was, in point of fact, rather anxiously affectionate. it had occurred to him that this sudden and unlooked-for popularity might turn richard's head a little, and develop in him a morbid self-love, that _vanité de monstre_ not uncommon to persons disgraced by nature. he had feared richard might begin to plume himself--as is the way of such persons--less upon the charming qualities and gifts which he possessed in common with many other charming persons, than upon those deplorable peculiarities which differentiated him from them. and it was with a sincerity of relief, of which he felt a trifle ashamed, that, as time went on, mr. quayle found himself unable to trace any such tendency, that he observed his friend's wholesome pride and carefulness to avoid all exposure of his deformity. richard would drive anywhere, and to any festivity, where driving was possible. he would go to the theatre and opera. he would dine at a few houses, and entertain largely at his own house. but he would not put foot to ground in the presence of the many women who courted him, or in that of the many men who treated him with rather embarrassed kindness and courtesy to his face and spoke of him with pitying reserve behind his back. other persons, besides mr. quayle, watched richard calmady's social successes with interest. among them was honoria st. quentin. that young lady had been spending some weeks with sir reginald and lady aldham in midlandshire, and had now accompanied them up to town. lady aldham's health was indifferent, confining her often for days together to the sofa and a darkened room. her husband, meanwhile, possessed a craving for agreeable feminine society, liable to be gratified in a somewhat errant manner abroad, unless gratified in a discreet manner at home. so honoria had taken over the duty, for friendship's sake, of keeping the well-favoured, genial, middle-aged gentleman innocently amused. to honoria, at this period, no experience came amiss. for the past three years, since the death of her godmother, lady tobermory, and her resultant access of fortune, she had wandered from place to place, seeing life, now in stately english country houses, now among the overtaxed, under-fed women-workers of whitechapel and soho, now in some obscure italian village among the folds of the purple apennines. now she would patronise a middle-class british lodging-house, along with some girl friend richer in talent than in pence, in some seaside town. now she would fancy the stringent etiquette of a british embassy at foreign court and capital. honoria was nothing if not various. but, amid all mutations of occupation and of place, her fearlessness, her lazy grace, her serious soul, her gallant bearing, her loyalty to the oppressed, remained the same. "chaste and fair" as artemis, experimental as the comte de st. simon himself, honoria roamed the world--fascinating yet never quite fascinated, enthusiastic yet evasive, seeking earnestly to live yet too self-centred as yet to be able to recognise in what, after all, consists the heart of living. she and mr. quayle had met at aldham revel during the past winter. she attracted, while slightly confusing, that accomplished young gentleman--confusing his judgment, well understood, since mr. quayle himself was incapable of confusion. her views of men and things struck him as distinctly original. her attitude of mind appeared unconventional, yet deeply rooted prejudices declared themselves where he would least have anticipated their existence. and so it became a favourite pastime of mr. quayle's to present to her cases of conscience, of conduct, of manners or morals--usually those of a common acquaintance--for discussion, that he might observe her verdict. he imagined this a scientific, psychologic exercise. he desired, so he supposed, to gratify his own superior, masculine intelligence, by noting the aberrations and arriving at the rationale of her thought. from which it may be suspected that even ludovic quayle had his hours of innocent self-deception. be that, however, as it may, certain it is that in pursuit of this pastime he one day presented to her the peculiar case of richard calmady for discussion, and that, not without momentous, though indirect, result. it happened thus. one noon in may, ludovic had the happiness of finding himself seated beside miss st. quentin in the park, watching the endless string of passing carriages and the brilliant crowd on foot. sir reginald aldham had left his green chair--placed on the far side of the young lady's--and leaned on the railings talking to some acquaintance. "a gay maturity," ludovic remarked with his air of patronage, indicating the elder gentleman's shapely back. "the term 'old boy' has, alas, declined upon the vernacular, and been put to base uses of jocosity, so it is a forbidden one. else, in the present instance, how applicable, how descriptive a term! should we, i wonder, give thanks for it, miss st. quentin, that the men of my generation will mature according to a quite other pattern?" "will not ripen, but sour?" honoria asked maliciously. her companion's invincible self-complacency frequently amused her. then she added:--"but, you know, i'm very fond of him. it isn't altogether easy to keep straight as a young boy, is it? depend upon it, it is ten times more difficult to keep straight as an old one. for a man of that temperament it can't be very plain sailing between fifty and sixty." mr. quayle looked at her in gentle inquiry, his long neck directed forward, his chin slightly raised. "sailing? the yacht is?"-- "the yacht is laid up at cowes. and you understand perfectly well what i mean," honoria replied, somewhat loftily. her delicate face straightened with an expression of sensitive pride. but her anger was short-lived. she speedily forgave him. the sunshine and fresh air, the radiant green of the young leaves, the rather superb spectacle of wealth, vigour, beauty, presented to her by the brilliant london world in the brilliant, summer noon was exhilarating, tending to lightness of heart. there was poetry of an opulent, resonant sort in the brave show. just then a company of life guards clattered by, in splendour of white and scarlet and shining helmets. the rattle of accoutrements, and thud of the hoofs of their trotting horses, detached itself arrestingly from the surrounding murmur of many voices and ceaseless roar of the traffic at hyde park corner. a light came into honoria's eyes. it was good to be alive on such a day! moreover, in her own purely platonic fashion, she really entertained a very great liking for the young man seated at her side. "you have missed your vocation," she said, while her eyes narrowed and her upper lip shortened into a delightful smile. "you were born to be a schoolmaster, a veritable pedagogue and terror of illiterate youth. you love to correct. and my rather sketchy english gives you an opportunity of which i observe you are by no means slow to take advantage. you care infinitely more for the manner of saying, than for the thing said. whereas i"--she broke off abruptly, and her face straightened, became serious, almost severe, again. "do you see who sir reginald is speaking to?" she added. "there are the calmadys." a break had come in the loitering procession of correctly clothed men and gaily clothed women, of tall hats and many coloured parasols, and in the space thus afforded, the brockhurst mail-phaeton became apparent drawn up against the railings. the horses, a noticeably fine and well-matched pair of browns, were restless, notwithstanding the groom at their heads. foam whitened the rings of their bits and falling flakes of it dabbled their chests. lady calmady leaned sideways over the leather folds of the hood, answering some inquiry of sir reginald, who, hat in hand, looked up at her. she wore a close-fitting, gray, velvet coat, which revealed the proportions of her full, but still youthful figure. the air and sunshine had given her an unusual brightness of complexion, so that in face as well as in figure, youth still, in a sensible measure, claimed her. she turned her head, appealing, as it seemed, to richard, and the nimble breeze playing caressingly with the soft white laces and gray plumes of her bonnet added thereby somehow to the effect of glad and gracious content pervading her aspect. richard looked round and down at her, half laughing. unquestionably he was victoriously handsome, seen thus, uplifted above the throng, handling his fine horses, all trace of bodily disfigurement concealed, a touch of old-world courtliness and tender respect in his manner as he addressed his mother. ludovic quayle watched the little scene with close attention. then, as the ranks of the smart procession closed up again, hiding the carriage and its occupants from sight, he leaned back with a movement of quiet satisfaction and turned to his companion. miss st. quentin sat round in her chair, presenting her long, slender, dust-coloured lace-and-silk-clad person in profile to the passers-by, and so tilting her parasol as to defy recognition. the expression of her pale face and singular eyes was far from encouraging. "indeed--and why?" ludovic permitted himself to remark, in tones of polite inquiry. "i had been led to believe that you and lady calmady were on terms of rather warm friendship." "we are," honoria answered, "that is, at brockhurst." "forgive my indiscretion--but why not in london?" the young lady looked full at him. "mr. quayle," she asked, "is it true that you are responsible for this new departure of theirs, for their coming up, i mean?" "responsible? you do me too great an honour. who am i that i should direct the action of my brother man? but lady calmady is good enough to trust me a little, and i own that i advocated a modification of the existing _régime_."--ludovic crossed his long legs and fell to nursing one knee. "it is not breach of confidence to tell you--since you know the fact already--that fate decreed an alien element should obtrude itself into the situation at brockhurst last autumn. i need name no names, i think?" honoria's head was raised. she regarded him steadfastly, but made no sign. "ah! i need not name names," he repeated; "i thought not. well, after the alien element removed itself--the two facts may have no connection--lady calmady very certainly never implied that they had--but, as i remarked, after the alien element removed itself, it was observable that our poor, dear dickie calmady became a trifle difficult, a trifle distrait, in plain english most remarkably grumpy, and far from delightful to live with. and his mother----" "it's too bad, altogether too bad!" broke out honoria hotly. "too bad of whom?" mr. quayle asked, with the utmost suavity. "of the nameless, obtrusive, alien element, or of poor, dear dick?" the young lady closed her parasol slowly, and turning, faced the sauntering crowd again. "of sir richard calmady, of course," she said. her companion did not answer immediately. his eyes pursued a receding carriage far down the string, amid the gaily shifting sunshine and shadow, and the fluttering lace and gray feathers of a woman's bonnet. when he spoke, at last, it was with an unusual trace of feeling. "after all, you know, there are a good many excuses for richard calmady." "if it comes to that there are a good many excuses for helen de vallorbes," honoria put in quickly. "for? for?" the young man repeated, relaxing into the blandest of smiles. "yes, thanks--i see i was right. it was unnecessary to name names.--oh! undoubtedly, innumerable excuses, and of the most valid description, were they needed--were they not swallowed up in the single, self-evident excuse that the lady you mention is a supremely clever and captivating person." "you think so?" said honoria. "think so? show me the man so indifferent to his reputation for taste that he could venture to think otherwise!" "still she should have left him alone."--honoria's indolent, reflective speech took on a peculiar intonation, and she pressed her long-fingered hands together, as though controlling a shudder. "i--i'm ashamed to confess it, i do not like him. but, as i told you, just on that account----" "pardon me, on what account?" miss st. quentin was quick to resent impertinence, and now momentarily anger struggled with her natural sincerity. but the latter conquered. again she forgave mr. quayle. but a dull flush spread itself over her pale skin, and he perceived that she was distinctly moved. this piqued his curiosity. "i know i'm awfully foolish about some things," she said. "i can't bear to speak of them. i dread seeing them. the sight of them takes the warmth out of the sunshine." again ludovic fell to nursing his knee.--what an amazing invention is the feminine mind! what endless entertainment is derivable from striving to follow its tergiversations! "and you saw that which takes the warmth out of the sunshine just now?" he said. "ah! well--alas, for dickie calmady!" "still i can't bear any one not to play fair. you should only hit a man your own size. i told helen de vallorbes so. i'm very, very fond of her, but she ought to have spared him."--she paused a moment. "all the same if i had not promised lady aldham to stay on--as she's so poorly i should have gone out of town when i found the calmadys had come up." "oh! it goes as far as that, does it?" ludovic murmured. "i don't like to see them with all these people. the extent to which he is petted and fooled becomes rather horrible." "are you not slightly--i ask it with all due deference and humility--just slightly merciless?" "no, no," the girl answered earnestly. "i don't think i'm that. the women who run after him, and flatter him so outrageously, are really more merciless than i am. i do not pretend to like him--i can't like him, somehow. but i'm growing most tremendously sorry for him. and still more sorry for his mother. she was very grand--a person altogether satisfying to one's imagination and sense of fitness, at home, with that noble house and park and racing stable for setting. but here, she is shorn of her glory somehow." the girl rose to her feet with lazy grace. "she is cheapened. and that's a pity. there are more than enough pretty cheap people among us already.--i must go. there's sir reginald looking for me.--if i could be sure lady calmady hated it all i should be more reconciled." "possibly she does hate it all, only that it presents itself as the least of two evils." "there is a touch of dancing dogs about it, and that distresses me," miss st. quentin continued. "it is lady calmady's _rôle_ to be apart, separate from and superior to the rest." "the thing's being done as well as it can be," mr. quayle put in mildly. "it shouldn't be done at all," the girl declared.--"here i am, sir reginald. you want to go on? i'm quite ready." chapter iii in which katherine tries to nail up the weatherglass to set fair it is to be feared that intimate acquaintance with lady calmady's present attitude of mind would not have proved altogether satisfactory to that ardent idealist honoria st. quentin. for, unquestionably, as the busy weeks of the london season went forward, katherine grew increasingly far from "hating it all." at first she had found the varied interests and persons presented to her, the rapid interchange of thought, the constant movement of society, slightly bewildering. but, as julius march had foretold, old habits reasserted themselves. the great world, and the ways of it, had been familiar to her in her youth. she soon found herself walking in its ways again with ease, and speaking its language with fluency. and this, though in itself of but small moment to her, procured her, indirectly, a happiness as greatly desired as it had been little anticipated. for to richard the great world was, as yet, something of an undiscovered country. going forth into it he felt shy and diffident, though a lively curiosity possessed him. the gentler and more modest elements of his nature came into play. he was sensible of his own inexperience, and turned with instinctive trust and tender respect to her in whom experience was not lacking. he had never, so he told himself, quite understood how fine a lady his mother was, how conspicuous was her charm and distinguished her intelligence. and he clung to her, grown man though he was, even as a child, entering a bright room full of guests, clings to its mother's hand, finding therein much comfort of encouragement and support. he desired she should share all his interests, reckoning nothing worth the doing in which she had not a part. he consulted her before each undertaking, talked and laughed over it with her in private afterwards, thereby unconsciously securing to her halcyon days, a honeymoon of the heart of infinite sweetness, so that she, on her part, thanked god and took courage. and, indeed, it might very well appear to katherine that her heroic remedy was on the road to work an effectual cure. the terror of lawless passion and of evil, provoked by that fair woman clothed as with the sea waves, crowned and shod with gold, whom she had withstood so manfully in spirit in the wild autumn night, departed from her. she began to fear no more. for surely her son was wholly given back to her--his heart still free, his life still innocent? and, not only did this terror depart, but her anguish at his deformity was strangely lessened, the pain of it lulled as by the action of an anodyne. for, witnessing the young man's popularity, seeing him so universally courted and welcomed, observing his manifest power of attraction, she began to ask herself whether she had not exaggerated the misfortune of that same deformity and the impediment that it offered to his career and chances of personal happiness. she had been morbid, hypersensitive. the world evidently saw in his disfigurement no such horror and hopeless bar to success as she had seen. it was therefore a dear world, a world rich in consolation and promise. it smiled upon richard, and so she smiled upon it, gratefully, trustfully, finding in the plenitude of her thankfulness no wares save honest ones set out for sale in the booths of vanity fair. a large hopefulness arose in her. she began to form projects calculated, as she believed, to perpetuate the gladness of the present. among other tender customs of richard's boyhood into which katherine, at this happy period, drifted back was that of going, now and again, to his room at night, and gossiping with him, for a merry, yet somewhat pathetic half-hour, before herself retiring to rest. it fell out that, towards the middle of june, there had been a dinner party at the barkings on a scale of magnificence unusual even in that opulent house. it was not the second, or even the third, time richard and his mother had dined in albert gate. for lady louisa had proved the most assiduously attentive of neighbours. little lady constance quayle was with her. the young girl had brightened notably of late. her prettiness was enhanced by a timid and appealing playfulness. she had been seized, moreover, with one of those innocent and absorbing devotions towards lady calmady, that young girls often entertain towards an elder woman, following her about with a sort of dog-like fidelity, and watching her with eyes full of wistful admiration. on the present occasion the guests at the barking dinner had been politicians of distinction--members of the then existing government. a contingent of foreign diplomatists from the various embassies had been present, together with various notably smart women. later there had been a reception, largely attended, and music, the finest that europe could produce and money could buy. "louisa climbs giddy heights," mr. quayle had said to himself, with an attempt at irony. but, in point of fact, he was far from displeased, for it appeared to him the house of barking showed to uncommon advantage to-night. "louisa has no staying power in conversation, and her voice is too loud, but in snippets she is rather impressive," he added. "and, oh! how very diligent is louisa!" driving home, richard kept silence until just as the brougham drew up, then he said abruptly:-- "tired? no--that's right. then come and sit with me. i want to talk. i haven't an ounce of sleep in me somehow to-night." it was hot, and when, some three-quarters of an hour later, katherine entered the big bedroom on the ground floor, the upper sashes of the window were drawn low behind the blinds, letting in the muffled roar of the great city as an undertone to the intermittent sound of footsteps, or the occasional passing of a belated carriage or cab. it formed an undertone, also, to richard's memory of the music to which he had lately listened, and the delight of which was still in his ears and pulsing in his blood, making his blue eyes bright and dark and curving his handsome lips into a very eloquent smile as he lay back against the piled-up pillows of the bed. "good heavens, how divinely morabita sang," he said, looking up at his mother as she stood looking down on him, "better even than in _faust_ last night! i want to hear her again just as often as i can. her voice carries one right away, out of oneself, into regions of pure and unmitigated romance. all things are possible for the moment. one becomes as the gods, omnipotent. we've got the box as usual on saturday, mother, haven't we? do you remember if she sings?" katherine replied that the great soprano did sing. "i'm glad," richard said; "and yet i don't know that it's particularly wholesome to hear her. after being as the gods, one descends with rather too much of a run to the level of the ordinary mortal."--he turned on his elbow restlessly, and the movement altered the lie of the bedclothes, thereby disclosing the unsightly disproportion of his person through the light blanket and sheet. "and if one's own level happens unfortunately to be below that of even the ordinary mortal--well--well--don't you know----" "my dear!" katherine put in softly. richard lay straight on his back again, and held out his hand to her. "sit down, do," he said. "turn the big chair round so that i may see you. i like you in that frilly, white dressing-gown thing. don't be afraid, i'm not going to be a brute and grumble. you're much too good to me, and i know i am disgustingly selfish at times. i was this winter, but----" "the past is past," katherine put in again very softly. "yes, please god, it is," he said,--"in some ways."--he paused, and then spoke as though with an effort returning from some far distance of thought:--"yes, i like you in that white, frilly thing. but i liked that new, black gown of yours to-night too. you looked glorious, do you mind my saying so? and no woman walks as well as you do. i compared, i watched. there's nothing more beautiful than seeing a woman walk really well--or a man either, for that matter." then he caught at her hand again, laughing a little.--"no, i'm not going to grumble," he said. "upon my word, mother, i swear i'm not. here let's talk about your gowns. i should like to know, shall you never wear anything but gray or black?" "never, not even to please you, dickie." "ah, that's so delicious with you!" he exclaimed. "every now and then you bring one up short, one knocks one's head against a stone wall! there is an indomitable strain in you. i only hope you've transmitted it to me. i'm afraid i need stiffening.--i beg your pardon," he added quickly and courteously, "it strikes me i am becoming slightly impertinent. but that woman's voice has turned my brain and loosed the string of my tongue so that i speak words of unwisdom. you enjoyed her singing too, though, didn't you? i thought so, catching sight of you while it was going on, attended by the faithful ludovic and little lady constance. it's quite touching to see how she worships you. and wasn't miss st. quentin with you too? yes, i thought so. i can't quite make up my mind about honoria st. quentin. sometimes she strikes me as one of the loveliest women here--and she can walk, if you like, it's a joy to see her. and then again, she seems to me altogether too long, and off-hand somehow, and boyish! and then, too,"--richard moved his head against the white pillows, and stared up at the window, where the blind sucked, with small creaking noises, against the top edge of the open sash,--"she fights shy of me, and personal feeling militates against admiration, you know. i am sorry, for i rather want to talk to her about--oh, well, a whole lot of things. but she avoids me. i never get the opportunity." "my darling, don't you think that is partly imagination?" "perhaps it is," he answered. "i dare say i do indulge in unnecessary fancies about people's manner and so on. i can't very well be off it, you know. and every one is really very kind to me. morabita was perfectly charming when i thanked her in very floundering italian. it's a pity she's so fat. but, never mind, the fat vanishes, to all intents and purposes, when she begins to sing. and old barking is as kind as he can be. i feel awfully obliged to him, though his ministrations to-night amounted to being slightly embarrassing. he brought me cabinet ministers and under-secretaries, and gorgeous germans and turks, in batches--and even a real live chinaman with a pig-tail. mother, do you remember the cabinets at home in the long gallery? i used to dream about them. and that chinaman gave me the queerest feeling to-night. it was idiotic, but--did i ever tell you--when i was a little chap, i was always dreaming about war or something, from which i couldn't get away. others could, but for me--from circumstances, don't you know--there was no possibility of scuttling. and the little chinese figures on the black, lacquer cabinets were mixed up with it. as i say, it gripped me to-night in the midst of all those people and---- oh yes! old barking is very kind," he went on, with a change of tone. "only i wish lady louisa would warn him he need not trouble himself to be amusing. he came and sat by me, towards the end of the evening, and told me the most inane stories in that inflated manner of his. verily, they were ancient as the hills, and a weariness to the spirit. but that good-looking, young fellow, decies, swallowed them all down with the devoutest attention and laughed aloud in all that he conceived to be the right places." a pause came in richard's flow of words. he moved again restlessly and clasped his hands under his head. katherine had seldom seen him thus excited and feverish. a sense of alarm grew on her, lest her heroic remedy was, after all, not working a wholly satisfactory cure. for there was a violence in his utterance, and in his face, a certain recklessness of speech and of demeanour, very agitating to her. "oh, every one's kind, awfully kind," he repeated, looking away at the sucking blind again, "and i'm awfully grateful to them, but---- oh! i tell you, that woman's voice has got me and made me drunk, made me mad drunk. i almost wish i had never heard her. i think i won't go to the opera again. emotion that finds no outlet in action only demoralises one and breaks up one's philosophy, and she makes me know all that might be, and is not, and never, never can be. good god! what a glorious, what an amazing, business i could have made of life if----" he slipped a little on the pillows, had to unclasp his hands hastily and press them down on either side him, to keep his body fairly upright in the bed. his features contracted with a spasm of anger. "if i had only had the average chance," he added harshly. "if i had only started with the normal equipment." and, as she listened, the old anguish, lately lulled to rest in katherine's heart, arose and cried aloud. but she sought resolutely to stifle its crying, strong in faith and hope. "i know, my dearest, i know," she said pleadingly. "and yet, since we have been here, i have thought perhaps we had a little underrated both your happy gift of pleasing and the readiness of others to be pleased. it seems to me, dickie, all doors open if you stretch out your hand. well, my dear, i would have you go forward fearlessly. i would have you more ambitious, more self-confident. i see and deplore my own cowardly mistake. instead of hiding you away at home, and keeping you to myself, i ought to have encouraged you to mix in the world and fill the position to which both your powers and your birth entitle you. i was wrong--i lament my folly. but there is ample time in which to rectify my mistake." richard's face relaxed. "i wonder--i wonder," he said. "i am sure," she replied. "you are too sanguine," he said. "your love for me blinds you to fact." "no, no," she replied again. "love is the only medium in which vision gains perfect clearness, becomes trustworthy and undistorted."--instinctively katherine folded her hands as in prayer, while the brightness of a pure enthusiasm shone in her sweet eyes. "that i have learned beyond all possibility of dispute. it has been given me, through much tribulation, to arrive at that." richard smiled upon her tenderly, then, turning his head, remained silent for a while. the sullen roar of the great city invaded the quiet room through the open windows, the heavy regular tread of a policeman on his beat, a shrill whistle hailing a hansom from a house some few doors distant up the square, and then an answering rumble of wheels and clatter of hoofs. richard's face had grown fierce again, and his breath came quick. he turned on his side, and once more the dwarfed proportions of his person became perceptible. lady calmady averted her eyes, fixing them upon his. but even there she found sad lack of comfort, for in them she read the inalienable distress and desolation of one unhandsomely treated by nature, maimed and incomplete. even the divine light, resident within her, failed to reconcile her to that reading. she shrank back in protest, once again, against the dealing of almighty god with this only child of hers. and yet--such is the adorable paradox of a living faith--even while shrinking, while protesting, she flung herself for support, for help, upon the very being who had permitted, in a sense caused, her misery. "mother can i say something to you?" richard asked, rather hoarsely, at last. "anything--in heaven or earth." "but it is a thing not usually spoken of as i want to speak of it. it may seem indecent. you won't be disgusted, or think me wanting in respect or in modesty?" "surely not," lady calmady answered quietly, yet a certain trembling took her, a nervousness as in face of the unknown. this strong, young creature developed forces, presented aspects, in his present feverish mood, with which she felt hardly equal to cope. "mother, i--i want to marry." "i, too, have thought of that," she said. "you don't consider that i am debarred from marriage?" "oh, no, no!" katherine cried, a little sob in her voice. he looked at her steadily, with those profoundly desolate eyes. "it would not be wrong? it would not be otherwise than honourable?" he asked. if doubts arose within katherine of the answer to that question, she crushed them down passionately. "no, my dearest, no," she declared. "it would not be wrong--it could not, could not be so--if she loved you, and you loved whomsoever you married." "but i'm not in love--at least not in love with any person who can become my wife. yet that does not seem to me to matter very much. i should be faithful, no fear, to any one who was good enough to marry me. enough of love would come, if only out of gratitude, towards the woman who would accept me as--as i am--and forgive that--that which cannot be helped." again trembling shook katherine. so terribly much seemed to her at stake just then! silently she implored wisdom and clear-seeing might be accorded her. she leaned a little forward, and taking his left hand held it closely in both hers. "dearest, that is not all. tell me all," she said, "or i cannot quite follow your thought." richard flung his body sideways across the bed, and kissed her hands as they held his. the hot colour rushed over his face and neck, up to the roots of his close-cropped, curly hair. he spoke, lying thus upon his chest, his face half buried in the sheet. "i want to marry because--because i want a child--i want a son," he said. no words came to katherine just then. but she disengaged one hand and laid it upon the dear brown head, and waited in silence until the violence of the young man's emotion had spent itself, until the broad, muscular shoulders had ceased to heave and the strong, young hands to grasp her wrist. suddenly richard recovered himself, sat up, rubbing his hands across his eyes, laughing, but with a queer catch in his voice. "i beg your pardon," he said. "i'm a fool, an awful fool. hang morabita and her voice and the golden houses of the gods, and beastly, showy omnipotence to which her voice carries one away! to talk sense--mother--just brutal common sense. my fate is fixed, you know. there's no earthly use in wriggling. i am condemned to live a cow's life and die a cow's death. the pride of life may call, but i can't answer. the great prizes are not for me. i'm too heavily handicapped. i was looking at that young fellow, decies, to-night and considering his chances as against my own---- oh! i know there's wealth in plenty. the pasture's green enough to make many a man covet it, and the stall's well bedded-down. i don't complain. only mother, you know--i know. where's the use of denying that which we neither of us ever really forget?--and then sometimes my blood takes fire. it did to-night. and the splendour of living being denied me, i--i--am tempted to say a black mass. one must take it out somehow. and i know i could go to the devil as few men have ever gone, magnificently, detestably, with subtleties and refinements of iniquity." he laughed again a little. and, hearing him, his mother's heart stood still. "verily, i have advantages," he continued. "there should be a picturesqueness in my descent to hell which would go far to place my name at the head of the list of those sinners who have achieved immortality----" "richard! richard!" lady calmady cried, "do you want to break my heart quite?" "no," he answered, simply. "i'd infinitely rather not break your heart. i have no ambition to see my name in that devil's list except as an uncommonly ironical sort of second best. but then we must make some change, some radical change. at times, lately, i've felt as if i was a caged wild beast--blinded, its claws cut, the bars of its cage soldered and riveted, no hope of escape, and yet the vigour, the immense longing for freedom and activity, there all the while." richard stretched himself. "poor beast, poor beast, poor beast!" he said, shaking his head and smiling. "i tell you i get absurdly sentimental over it at times." and then, happily, there came a momentary lapse in the entirety of his egoism. he turned on his side and took lady calmady's hand again, and fell to playing absently with her bracelets. "you poor darling, how i torture you," he said. "and yet, now we've once broken the ice and begun talking of all this, we're bound to talk on to the finish--if finish there is. you see these few weeks in london--i've enjoyed them--but still they've made me understand, more than ever, all i've missed. life calls, mother, do you see? and though the beast is blind, and his claws are cut, and his cage bolted, yet, when life calls, he must answer--must--or run mad--or die--do you see?" "and you shall answer, my beloved. never fear, you will answer," katherine replied proudly. richard's hand closed hard upon hers. "thank you," he said. "you were made to be a mother of heroes, not of a useless log like me.--and that's just why i want to be good. and to be good i want a wife, that i may have that boy. i could keep straight for him, mother, though i'm afraid i can't keep straight for myself, and simply because it's right, much longer. i want him to have just all that i am denied. i want him to restore the balance, both for you and for me. i may have something of a career myself, perhaps, in politics or something. it's possible, but that will come later, if it comes at all. and then it would be for his sake. what i want first is the boy, to give me an object and keep up my pluck, and keep me steady. i, giving him life, shall find my life in him, be paid for my wretched circumscribed existence by his goodly and complete one. he may be clever or not--i'd rather, of course, he was not quite a dunce--but i really don't very much mind, so long as he isn't an outrageous fool, if he's only an entirely sound and healthy human animal." richard stretched himself upon the bed, straightened the sheet across his chest, and clasped his hands under his head again. the desolation had gone out of his eyes. he seemed to look afar into the future, and therein see manly satisfaction and content. his voice was vibrant, rising to a kind of chant. "he shall run, and he shall swim, he shall fence, and he shall row," he said. "he shall learn all gallant sports, as becomes an english gentleman. and he shall ride,--not as i ride, god forbid! like a monkey strapped on a dog at a fair, but as a centaur, as a young demigod. we will set him, stark naked, on a bare-backed horse, and see that he's clean-limbed, perfect, without spot or blemish, from head to heel." and once more katherine calmady held her peace, somewhat amazed, somewhat tremulous, since it seemed to her the young man was drawing a cheque upon the future which might, only too probably, be dishonoured and returned marked no account. for who dare say that this child would ever come to the birth, or coming, what form it would bear? yet, even so, she rejoiced in her son and the high spirit he displayed, while the instinct of romance which inspired his speech touched an answering chord in, and uplifted, her. by now the brief june night was nearly spent. the blind still creaked against the open window sash, but the thud of horse-hoofs and beat of passing footsteps had become infrequent, while the roar of the mighty city had dwindled to a murmur, as of an ebbing tide upon a shallow, sand-strewn beach. the after-light of the sunset, walking the horizon, beneath the pole star from west to east, broadened upward now towards the zenith. even here, in the heart of london, the day broke with a spacious solemnity. richard raised himself, and, sitting up, blew out the candles placed on the table at the bedside. "mother," he said, "will you let in the morning?" lady calmady was pale from her long vigil, and her unspoken, yet searching, emotion. she appeared very tall, ghostlike even, in her soft, white raiment, as she moved across and drew up the sucking blind. above the gray parapets of the houses, and the ranks of contorted chimney-pots, the loveliness of the summer dawn grew wide. warm amber shaded through gradations of exquisite and nameless colour into blue. while, across this last, lay horizontal lines of fringed, semi-transparent, opalescent cloud. to katherine those heavenly blue interspaces spoke of peace, of the stilling of all strife, when the tragic, yet superb, human story should at last be fully told and god be all in all. she was very tired. the struggle was so prolonged. her soul cried out for rest. and then she reminded herself, almost sternly, that the kingdom of god and the peace of it is no matter of time or of place, but is within the devout believer, ever present, immediate, possessing his or her soul, and by that soul in turn possessed. just then the sparrows, roosting in the garden of the square, awoke with manifold and vociferous chirping and chattering. the voice from the bed called to her. "mother," it said imperatively, "come to me. you are not angry at what i have told you? you understand? you will find her for me?" lady calmady turned away from the open window and the loveliness of the summer dawn. she was less tired somehow. god was with her, so she could not be otherwise than hopeful. moreover, the world had proved itself very kind towards her son. it would not deny him this last request, surely? "my dearest, i think i have found her already," lady calmady answered. yet, even as she spoke, she faltered a little, recognising the energy and strength manifest in the young man's countenance, remembering his late discourse, and the pent-up fires of his nature to which that discourse had borne only too eloquent testimony. for who was a young girl, but just out of the schoolroom, a girl in pretty, fresh frocks--the last word of contemporary fashion,--whose baby face and slow, wide-eyed gaze bore witness to her entire innocence of the great primitive necessities, the rather brutal joys, the intimate vices, the far-ranging intellectual questionings which rule and mould the action of mankind,--who was she, indeed, to cope with a nature such as richard's? "mother, tell me, who is it?" and instinctively katherine fell to pleading. she sat down beside the bed again and smoothed the sheet. "you will be tender and loving to her, dickie?" she said. "for she is young and very gentle, and might easily be made afraid. you will not forget what is due to your wife, to your bride, in your longing for a child?" "who is it?" richard demanded again. "ludovic's sister--little lady constance quayle." he drew in his breath sharply. "would she--would her people consent?" he said. "i think so. judging by appearances, i am almost sure they would consent." a long silence followed. richard lay still, looking at the rosy flush that broadened in the morning sky and touched the bosoms of those delicate clouds with living, pulsating colour. and he flushed too, all his being softened into a great tenderness, a great shyness, a quick yet noble shame. for his whole attitude towards this question of marriage changed strangely as it passed from the abstract, from regions of vague purpose and desire, to the concrete, to the thought of a maiden with name and local habitation, a maiden actual and accessible, whose image he could recall, whose pretty looks and guileless speech he knew. "i almost wish she was not ludovic's sister, though," he remarked presently. "it is a great deal to ask." "you have a great deal to offer," katherine said, adding: "you can care for her, dickie?" he turned his head, his lips working a little, his flushed face very young and bright. "oh yes! i can care fast enough," he said. "and i think--i think i could make her happy. and you see, already she worships you. we would pet her, mother, and give her all manner of pretty things, and make a little queen of her--and she would be pleased--she's a child, such a child." richard remained awake far into the morning, till the rose had died out of the sky, and the ascending smoke of many kitchen-chimneys began to stain the expanse of heavenly blue. the thought of his possible bride was very sweet to him. but when at last sleep came, dreams came likewise. helen de vallorbes' perfect face arose, in reproach, before him, and her azure and purple draperies swept over him, stifling and choking him as the salt waves of an angry sea. then some one--it was the comely, long-limbed young soldier, mr. decies--whom he had seen last night at the barkings' great party when morabita sang--and the soprano's matchless voice was mixed up, in the strangest fashion, with all these transactions--lifted helen and all her magic sea-waves from off him, setting him free. but even as he did so, dickie perceived that it was not helen, after all, whom the young soldier carried in his arms, but little lady constance quayle. whereupon richard, waking with a start, conceived a wholly unreasoning detestation of mr. decies, while, along with that, his purpose of marrying lady constance increased notably, waxed strong and grew, putting forth all manner of fair flowers of promise and of hope. chapter iv a lesson upon the eleventh commandment--"parents obey your children" a family council was in course of holding in the lofty, white-and-gold boudoir, overlooking the park, in albert gate. lady louisa barking had summoned it. she had also exercised a measure of selection among intending members. for instance lady margaret and lady emily,--the former having a disposition, in the opinion of her elder sister, to put herself forward and support the good cause with more zeal than discretion, the latter being but a weak-kneed supporter of the cause at best,--were summarily dismissed. "it was really perfectly unnecessary to discuss this sort of thing before the younger girls," she said. "it put them out of their place and rather rubbed the freshness off their minds. and then they would chatter among themselves. and it all became a little foolish and missy. they never knew when to stop." one member of the quayle family, and that a leading one, had taken his dismissal before it was given and, with a nice mixture of defective moral-courage and good common-sense, had removed himself bodily from the neighbourhood of the scene of action. lord shotover was still in london. along with the payment of his debts had come a remarkable increase of cheerfulness. he made no more allusions to the unpleasant subject of cutting his throat, while the proposed foreign tour had been relegated to a vague future. it seemed a pity not to see the season out. it would be little short of a crime to miss goodwood. he might go out with decies to india in the autumn, when that young soldier's leave had expired, and look guy up a bit. he would rather like a turn at pig-sticking--and there were plenty of pig, he understood, in the neighbourhood of agra, where his brother was now stationed. on the morning in question, lord shotover, in excellent spirits, had walked down piccadilly with his father, from his rooms in jermyn street to albert gate. the elder gentleman, arriving from westchurch by an early train, had solaced himself with a share of the by no means ascetic breakfast of which his eldest son was partaking at a little after half-past ten. it was very much too good a breakfast for a person in lord shotover's existing financial position--so indeed were the rooms--so, in respect of locality, was jermyn street itself. lord fallowfeild knew this, no man better. yet he was genuinely pleased, impressed even, by the luxury with which his erring son was surrounded, and proceeded to praise his cook, praise his valet's waiting at table, praise some fine old sporting prints upon the wall. he went so far, indeed, as to chuckle discreetly--immaculately faithful husband though he was--over certain photographs of ladies, more fair and kind than wise, which were stuck in the frame of the looking-glass over the chimneypiece. in return for which acts of good-fellowship lord shotover accompanied him as far as the steps of the mansion in albert gate. there he paused, remarking with the most disarming frankness:-- "i would come in. i want to awfully, i assure you. i quite agree with you about all this affair, you know, and i should uncommonly like to let the others know it. but, between ourselves, louisa's been so short with me lately, so infernally short--if you'll pardon my saying so--that it's become downright disagreeable to me to run across her. so i'm afraid i might only make matters worse all round, don't you know, if i put in an appearance this morning." "has she, though?" ejaculated lord fallowfeild, in reference presumably to his eldest daughter's reported shortness. "my dear boy, don't think of it. i wouldn't have you exposed to unnecessary unpleasantness on any account." then, as he followed the groom-of-the-chambers up the bare, white, marble staircase--which struck almost vaultlike in its chill and silence, after the heat and glare and turmoil of the great thoroughfare without--he added to himself:-- "good fellow, shotover. has his faults, but upon my word, when you come to think of it, so have all of us. very good-hearted, sensible fellow at bottom, shotover. always responds when you talk rationally to him. no nonsense about him."--his lordship sighed as he climbed the marble stair. "great comfort to me at times shotover. shows very proper feeling on the present occasion, but naturally feels a diffidence about expressing it." thus, in the end, it happened that the family council consisted only of the lady of the house, her sister lady alicia winterbotham, mr. ludovic quayle, and the parent whom all three of them were, each in their several ways, so perfectly willing to instruct in his duty towards his children. ludovic, perhaps, displayed less alacrity than usual in offering good advice to his father. his policy was rather that of masterly inactivity. indeed, as the discussion waxed hot--his sisters' voices rising slightly in tone, while lord fallowfeild's replies disclosed a vein of dogged obstinacy--he withdrew from the field of battle and moved slowly round the room staring abstractedly at the pictures. there was a seductive, female head by greuze, a couple of reposeful landscapes by morland, a little constable--waterways, trees, and distant woodland, swept by wind and weather. but upon these the young man bestowed scant attention. that which fascinated his gaze was a series of half-length portraits in oval frames, representing his parents, himself, his sisters, and brothers. these portraits were the work of a lady whose artistic gifts, and whose prices, were alike modest. they were in coloured chalks, and had, after adorning her own sitting-room for a number of years, been given, as a wedding present, by lady fallowfeild to her eldest daughter. mr. quayle reviewed them leisurely now, looking over his shoulder now and again to note how the tide of battle rolled, and raising his eyebrows in mute protest when the voices of the two ladies became more than usually elevated. "you see, papa, you have not been here"--lady louisa was saying. "no, i haven't," interrupted lord fallowfeild. "and very much i regret that i haven't. should have done my best to put a stop to this engagement at the outset--before there was any engagement at all, in fact." "and so you cannot possibly know how the whole thing--any breaking off i mean--would be regarded." "can't i, though?" said lord fallowfeild. "i know perfectly well how i should regard it myself." "you do not take the advantages sufficiently into consideration, papa. of course with their enormous wealth they can afford to do anything."--mr. winterbotham's income was far from princely at this period, and lady alicia was liable to be at once envious of, and injured by, the riches of others. her wardrobe was limited. she was, this morning, vexatiously conscious of a warmer hue in the back pleats than in the front breadth of her mauve, cashmere dress, sparsely decorated with bows of but indifferently white ribbon. "it has enabled them to make an immense success. one really gets rather tired of hearing about them. but everybody goes to their house, you know, and says that he is perfectly charming." "half the parents in london would jump at the chance of one of their girls making such a marriage,"--this from lady louisa. mr. quayle looked over his shoulder and registered a conviction that his father did not belong to that active, parental moiety. he sat stubbornly on a straight-backed, white-and-gold chair, his hands clasped on the top of his favourite, gold-headed walking-stick. he had refused to part with this weapon on entering the house. it gave him a sense of authority, of security. meanwhile his habitually placid and infantile countenance wore an expression of the acutest worry. "would they, though?" he said, in response to his daughter's information regarding the jumping moiety.--"well, i shouldn't. in point of fact, i don't. all that you and alicia tell me may be perfectly true, my dear louisa. i would not, for a moment, attempt to discredit your statements. and i don't wish to be intemperate.--stupid thing intemperance, sign of weakness, intemperance.--still i must repeat, and i do repeat, i repeat clearly, that i do not approve of this engagement." "did not i prophesy long, long ago what my father's attitude would be, louisa?" mr. quayle murmured gently, over his shoulder. then he fell to contemplating the portrait of his brother guy, aged seven, who was represented arrayed in a brown-holland blouse of singular formlessness confined at the waist by a black leather belt, and carrying, cupid-like, in his hands a bow and arrows decorated with sky-blue ribbons.--"were my brothers and i actually such appallingly insipid-looking little idiots?" he asked himself. "in that case the years do bring compensations. we really bear fewer outward traces of utter imbecility now." "i don't wish to be harsh with you, my dears--never have been harsh, to my knowledge, with any one of my children. believe in kindness. always have been lenient with my children----" "and as indirect consequence thereof note my eldest brother's frequent epistles to the hebrews!" commented mr. quayle softly. "the sweet simplicity of this counterfeit presentment of him, armed with a pea-green bait-tin and jointless fishing-rod, hardly shadows forth the copious insolvencies of recent times!" "never have approved of harshness," continued lord fallowfeild. "still i do feel i should have been given an opportunity of speaking my mind sooner. i ought to have been referred to in the first place. it was my right. it was due to me. i don't wish to assert my authority in a tyrannical manner. hate tyranny, always have hated parental tyranny. still i feel that it was due to me. and shotover quite agrees with me. talked in a very nice, gentlemanly, high-minded way about it all this morning, did shotover." the two ladies exchanged glances, drawing themselves up with an assumption of reticence and severity. "really!" exclaimed lady alicia. "it seems a pity, papa, that shotover's actions are not a little more in keeping with his conversation, then." but lord fallowfeild only grasped the head of his walking-stick the tighter, congratulating himself the while on the unshakable firmness both of his mental and physical attitude. "oh! ah! yes," he said, rising to heights of quite reckless defiance. "i know there is a great deal of prejudice against shotover, just now, among you. he alluded to it this morning with a great deal of feeling. he was not bitter, but he is very much hurt, is shotover. you are hard on him, alicia. it is a painful thing to observe upon, but you are hard, and so is winterbotham. i regret to be obliged to put it so plainly, but i was displeased by winterbotham's tone about your brother, last time you and he were down at whitney from saturday to monday." "at all events, papa, george has never cost his parents a single penny since he left balliol," lady alicia replied, with some spirit and a very high colour. but lord fallowfeild was not to be beguiled into discussion of side issues, though his amiable face was crumpled and puckered by the effort to present an uncompromising front to the enemy. "some of you ought to have written and informed me as soon as you had any suspicion of what was likely to happen. not to do so was underhand. i do not wish to employ strong language, but i do consider it underhand. shotover tells me he would have written if he had only known. but, of course, in the present state of feeling, he was shut out from it all. ludovic did know, i presume. and, i am sorry to say it, but i consider it very unhandsome of ludovic not to have communicated with me." at this juncture mr. quayle desisted from contemplation of the family portraits and approached the belligerents, threading his way carefully between the many tables and chairs. there was much furniture, yet but few ornaments, in lady louisa's boudoir. the young man's long neck was directed slightly forward and his expression was one of polite inquiry. "it is very warm this morning," he remarked parenthetically, "and as a family we appear to feel it. you did me the honour to refer to me just now, i believe, my dear father? since my two younger sisters have been banished it has happily become possible to hear both you, and myself, speak. you were saying?" "that you might very properly have written and told me about this business, and given me an opportunity of expressing my opinion before things reached a head." mr. quayle drew forward a chair and seated himself with mild deliberation. lord fallowfeild began to fidget. "very clever fellow, ludovic," he said to himself. "wonderfully cool head"--and he became suspicious of his own wisdom in having made direct appeal to a person thus distinguished. "i might have written, my dear father. i admit that i might. but there were difficulties. to begin with, i--in this particular--shared shotover's position. louisa had not seen fit to honour me with her confidence.--i beg your pardon, louisa, you were saying?--and so, you see, i really hadn't anything to write about." "but--but--this young man"--lord fallowfeild was sensible of a singular reluctance to mention the name of his proposed son-in-law--"this young calmady, you know, he's an intimate friend of yours----" "difficulty number two. for i doubted how you would take the matter----" "did you, though?" said lord fallowfeild, with an appreciable smoothing of crumples and puckers. "i'm extremely attached to dickie calmady. and i did not want to put a spoke in his wheel." "of course not, my dear boy, of course not. nasty unpleasant business putting spokes in other men's wheels, specially when they're your friends. i acknowledge that." "i am sure you do," mr. quayle replied, indulgently. "you are always on the side of doing the generous thing, my dear father,--when you see it." here his lordship's grasp upon the head of his walking-stick relaxed sensibly. "thank you, ludovic. very pleasant thing to have one's son say to one, i must say, uncommonly pleasant."--alas! he felt himself to be slipping, slipping. "deucèd shrewd, diplomatic fellow, ludovic," he remarked to himself somewhat ruefully. all the same, the little compliment warmed him through. he knew it made for defeat, yet for the life of him he could not but relish it.--"very pleasant," he repeated. "but that's not the point, my dear boy. now, about this young fellow calmady's proposal for your sister constance?" mr. quayle looked full at the speaker, and for once his expression held no hint of impertinence or raillery. "dickie calmady is as fine a fellow as ever fought, or won, an almost hopeless battle," he said. "he is somewhat heroic, in my opinion. and he is very lovable." "is he, though?" lord fallowfeild commented, quite gently. "a woman who understood him, and had some idea of all he must have gone through, could not well help being very proud of him." yet, even while speaking, the young man knew his advocacy to be but half-hearted. he praised his friend rather than his friend's contemplated marriage.--"but his dear, old lordship's not very quick. he'll never spot that," he added mentally. and then he reflected that little lady constance was not very quick either. she might marry obediently, even gladly. but was it probable she would develop sufficient imagination ever to understand, and therefore be proud of, richard calmady? "he is brilliant too," ludovic continued. "he is as well read as any man of his standing whom i know, and he can think for himself. and, when he is in the vein he is unusually good company." "everybody says he is extraordinarily agreeable," broke in lady alicia. "old lady combmartin was saying only yesterday--george and i met her at the aldhams', louisa, you know, at dinner--that she had not heard better conversation for years. and she was brought up among macaulay and rogers and all the holland house set, so her opinion really is worth having." but lord fallowfeild's grasp had tightened again upon his walking-stick. "was she, though?" he said rather incoherently. "pray, from all this, don't run away with the notion calmady is a prig," ludovic interposed. "he is as keen a sportsman as you are--in as far, of course, as sport is possible for him." here lord fallowfeild, finding himself somewhat hard pressed, sought relief in movement. he turned sideways, throwing one shapely leg across the other, grasping the supporting walking-stick in his right hand, while with the left he laid hold of the back of the white-and-gold chair. "oh! ah! yes," he said valiantly, directing his gaze upon the tree-tops in the park. "i quite accept all you tell me. i don't want to detract from your friend's merits--poor, mean sort of thing to detract from any man's friend's merits. gentlemanlike young fellow, calmady, the little i have seen of him--reminds me of my poor friend his father. i liked his father. but, you see, my dear boy, there is--well, there's no denying it, there is--and shotover quite----" "of course, papa, we all know what you mean," lady louisa interposed, with a certain loftiness and, it must be owned, asperity. "i have never pretended there was not something one had to get accustomed to. but really you forget all about it almost immediately--every one does--one can see that--don't they, alicia? if you had met sir richard everywhere, as we have this season, you would realise how very very soon that is quite forgotten." "is it, though?" said lord fallowfeild somewhat incredulously. his face had returned to a sadly puckered condition. "yes, i assure you, nobody thinks of it, after just the first little shock, don't you know,"--this from lady louisa. "i think one feels it is not quite nice to dwell on a thing of that kind," her sister chimed in, reddening again. "it ought to be ignored."--from a girl, the speaker had enjoyed a reputation for great refinement of mind. "i think it amounts to being more than not nice," echoed lady louisa. "i think it is positively wrong, for nobody can tell what accident may not happen to any of us at any moment. and so i am not at all sure that it is not actually unchristian to make a thing like that into a serious objection." "you know, papa, there must be deformed people in some families, just as there is consumption or insanity." "or under-breeding, or attenuated salaries," mr. quayle softly murmured. "it becomes evident, my dear father, you must not expect too much of sons, or i of brothers-in-law." "think of old lord sokeington--i mean the great uncle of the present man, of course--of his temper," lady louisa proceeded, regardless of ironical comment. "it amounted almost to mania. and yet lady dorothy hellard would certainly have married him. there never was any question about it." "would she, though? bad, old man, sokeington. never did approve of sokeington." "of course she would. mrs. crookenden, who always has been devoted to her, told me so." "did she, though?" said lord fallowfeild. "but the marriage was broken off, my dear." he made this remark triumphantly, feeling it showed great acuteness. "oh, dear no! indeed it wasn't," his daughter replied. "lord sokeington behaved in the most outrageous manner. at the last moment he never proposed to her at all. and then it came out that for years he had been living with one of the still-room maids." "louisa!" cried lady alicia, turning scarlet. "had he, though? the old scoundrel!" "papa," cried lady alicia. "so he was, my dear. very bad old man, sokeington. very amusing old man too, though." and, overcome by certain reminiscences, lord fallowfeild chuckled a little, shamefacedly. his second daughter thereupon arranged the folds of her mauve cashmere, with bent head.--"it is very clear papa and shotover have been together to-day," she thought. "shotover's influence over papa is always demoralising. it's too extraordinary the subjects men joke about and call amusing when they get together." a pause followed, a brief cessation of hostilities, during which mr. quayle looked inquiringly at his three companions. "alicia fancies herself shocked," he said to himself, "and my father fancies himself wicked, and louisa fancies herself a chosen vessel. strong delusion is upon them all. the only question is whose delusion is the strongest, and who, consequently, will first renew the fray? ah! the chosen vessel! i thought as much." "you see, papa, one really must be practical," lady louisa began in clear, emphatic tones. "we all know how you have spoiled constance. she and shotover have always been your favourites. but even you must admit that shotover's wretched extravagance has impoverished you, and helped to impoverish all your other children. and you must also admit, notwithstanding your partiality for constance, that----" "i want to see connie. i want to hear from herself that she"--broke out lord fallowfeild. his kindly heart yearned over this ewe-lamb of his large flock. but the eldest of the said flock interposed sternly. "no, no," she cried, "pray, papa, not yet. connie is quite contented and reasonable--i believe she is out shopping just now, too. and while you are in this state of indecision yourself, it would be the greatest mistake for you to see her. it would only disturb and upset her--wouldn't it, alicia?" and the lady thus appealed to assented. it is true that when she arrived at the great house in albert gate that morning she had found little lady constance with her pretty, baby face sadly marred by tears. but she had put that down to the exigencies of the situation. all young ladies of refined mind cried under kindred circumstances. had she not herself wept copiously, for the better part of a week, before finally deciding to accept george winterbotham? moreover, a point of jealousy undoubtedly pricked lady alicia in this connection. she was far from being a cruel woman, but, comparing her own modest material advantages in marriage with the surprisingly handsome ones offered to her little sister, she could not be wholly sorry that the latter's rose was not entirely without thorns. that the flower in question should have been thornless, as well as so very fine and large, would surely have trenched on injustice to herself. this thought had, perhaps unconsciously, influenced her when enlarging on the becomingness of a refined indifference to sir richard calmady's deformity. in her heart of hearts she was disposed, perhaps unconsciously, to hail rather than deplore the fact of that same deformity. for did it not tend subjectively to equalise her lot and that of her little sister, and modify the otherwise humiliating disparity of their respective fortunes? therefore she capped lady louisa's speech, by saying immediately:-- "yes, indeed, papa, it would only be an unkindness to run any risk of upsetting connie. no really nice girl ever really quite likes the idea of marriage----" "doesn't she, though?" commented lord fallowfeild, with an air of receiving curious, scientific information. "oh, of course not! how could she? and then, papa, you know how you have always indulged connie"--lady alicia's voice was slightly peevish in tone. she was not in very good health at the present time, with the consequence that her face showed thin and bird-like. while, notwithstanding the genial heat of the summer's day, she presented a starved and chilly appearance.--"always indulged connie," she repeated, "and that has inclined her to be rather selfish and fanciful." the above statements, both regarding his own conduct and the effect of that conduct upon his little ewe-lamb, nettled the amiable nobleman considerably. he faced round upon the speaker with an intention of reprimand, but in so doing his eyes were arrested by his daughter's faded dress and disorganised complexion. he relented.--"poor thing, looks ill," he thought. "a man's an unworthy brute who ever says a sharp word to a woman in her condition."--and, before he had time to find a word other than sharp, lady louisa barking returned to the charge. "exactly," she asserted. "alicia is perfectly right. at present connie is quite reasonable. and all we entreat, papa, is that you will let her remain so, until you have made up your own mind. do pray let us be dignified. one knows how the servants get hold of anything of this kind and discuss it, if there is any want of dignity or any indecision. that is too odious. and i must really think just a little of mr. barking and myself in the matter. it has all gone on in our house, you see. one must consider appearances, and with all the recent gossip about shotover, we do not want another _esclandre_--the servants knowing all about it too. and then, with all your partiality for constance, you cannot suppose she will have many opportunities of marrying men with forty or fifty thousand a year." "no, papa, as louisa says, in your partiality for connie you must not entirely forget the claims of your other children. she must not be encouraged to think exclusively of herself, and it is not fair that you should think exclusively of her. i know that george and i are poor, but it is through no fault of our own. he most honourably refuses to take anything from his mother, and you know how small my private income is. yet no one can accuse george of lack of generosity. when any of my family want to come to us he always makes them welcome. maggie only left us last thursday, and emily comes to-morrow. i know we can't do much. it is not possible with our small means and establishment. but what little we can do, george is most willing should be done." "excellent fellow, winterbotham," lord fallowfeild put in soothingly. "very steady, painstaking man, winterbotham." his second daughter looked at him reproachfully. "thank you, papa," she said. "i own i was a little hurt just now by the tone in which you alluded to george." "were you, though? i'm sure i'm very sorry, my dear alicia. hate to hurt anybody, especially one of my own children. unnatural thing to hurt one of your own children. but you see this feeling of all of yours about shotover has been very painful to me. i never have liked divisions in families. never know where they may lead to. nasty, uncomfortable things divisions in families." "well, papa, i can only say that divisions are almost invariably caused by a want of the sense of duty." lady louisa's voice was stern. "and if people are over-indulged they become selfish, and then, of course, they lose their sense of duty." "my sister is a notable logician," mr. quayle murmured, under his breath. "if logic ruled life, how clear, how simple our course! but then, unfortunately, it doesn't." "shotover has really no one but himself to thank for any bitterness that his brothers and sisters may feel towards him. he has thrown away his chances, has got the whole family talked about in a most objectionable manner, and has been a serious encumbrance to you, and indirectly to all of us. we have all suffered quite enough trouble and annoyance already. and so i must protest, papa, i must very strongly and definitely protest, against connie being permitted, still more encouraged, to do exactly the same thing." lord fallowfeild, still grasping his walking-stick,--though he could not but fear that trusted weapon had proved faithless and sadly failed in its duty of support,--gazed distractedly at the speaker. visions of jewish money-lenders, of ladies more fair and kind than wise, of guinea points at whist, of the prize ring of baden-baden, of newmarket and doncaster, arose confusedly before him. what the deuce,--he did not like bad language, but really,--what the dickens, had all these to do with his ewe-lamb, innocent little constance, her virgin-white body and soul, and her sweet, wide-eyed prettiness? "my dear louisa, no doubt you know what you mean, but i give you my word i don't," he began. "hear, hear, my dear father," put in mr. quayle. "there i am with you. louisa's wing is strong, her range is great. i myself, on this occasion, find it not a little difficult to follow her." "nonsense, ludovic," almost snapped the lady. "you follow me perfectly, or can do so if you use your common sense. papa must face the fact, that constance cannot afford--that we cannot afford to have her--throw away her chances, as shotover has thrown away his. we all have a duty, not only to ourselves, but to each other. inclination must give way to duty--though i do not say constance exhibits any real disinclination to this marriage. she is a little flurried. as alicia said just now, every really nice-minded girl is flurried at the idea of marriage. she ought to be. i consider it only delicate that she should be. but she understands--i have pointed it out to her--that her money, her position, and those two big houses--brockhurst and the one in lowndes square--will be of the greatest advantage to the girls and to her brothers. it is not as if she was nobody. the scullery-maid can marry whom she likes, of course. but in our rank of life it is different. a girl is bound to think of her family, as well as of herself. she is bound to consider----" the groom-of-the-chambers opened the door and advanced solemnly across the boudoir to lord fallowfeild. "sir richard calmady is in the smoking-room, my lord," he said, "to see you." chapter v iphigenia chastened in spirit, verbally acquiescent, yet unconvinced, a somewhat pitiable sense of inadequacy upon him, lord fallowfeild traveled back to westchurch that night. two days later the morning papers announced to all whom it might concern,--and that far larger all, whom it did not really concern in the least,--in the conventional phrases common to such announcements, that sir richard calmady and lady constance quayle had agreed shortly to become man and wife. thus did katherine calmady, in all trustfulness, strive to give her son his desire, while the great, and little, world looked on and made comments, various as the natures and circumstances of the units composing them. lady louisa was filled with the pride of victory. her venture had not miscarried. at church on sunday--she was really too busy socially, just now, to attend what it was her habit to describe as "odds and ends of week-day services," and therefore worshipped on the sabbath only, and then by no means in secret or with shut door--she repeated the general thanksgiving with much unction and in an aggressively audible voice. and lady alicia winterbotham expressed a peevish hope that,--"such great wealth might not turn constance's head and make her just a little vulgar. it was all rather dangerous for a girl of her age, and she"--the speaker--"trusted _somebody_ would point out to connie the heavy responsibilities towards others such a position brought with it." and lord shotover delivered it as his opinion that,--"it might be all right. he hoped to goodness it was, for he'd always been uncommonly fond of the young un. but it seemed to him rather a put-up job all round, and so he meant just to keep his eye on con, he swore he did." in furtherance of which laudable determination he braved his eldest sister's frowns with heroic intrepidity, calling to see the young girl whenever all other sources of amusement failed him, and paying her the compliment--as is the habit of the natural man, when unselfishly desirous of giving pleasure to the women of his family--of talking continuously and exclusively about his own affairs, his gains at cards, his losses on horses, even recounting, in moments of more than ordinarily expansive affection, the less wholly disreputable episodes of his many adventures of the heart. and honoria st. quentin's sensitive face straightened and her lips closed rather tight whenever the marriage was mentioned before her. she refused to express any view on the subject, and to that end took rather elaborate pains to avoid the society of mr. quayle. and lady dorothy hellard,--whose unhappy disappointment in respect of the late lord sokeington and other non-successful excursions in the direction of wedlock, had not cured her of sentimental leanings,--asserted that,--"it was quite the most romantic and touching engagement she had ever heard of." to which speech her mother, the dowager lady combmartin, replied, with the directness of statement which made her acquaintance so cautious of differing from her:--"touching? romantic? fiddle-de-dee! you ought to be ashamed of yourself for thinking so at your age, dorothy. a bargain's a bargain, and in my opinion the bride has got much the best of it. for she's a mawkish, milk-and-water, little schoolgirl, while he is charming--all there is of him. if there'd been a little more i declared i'd have married him myself." and good-looking mr. decies, of the st lancers, got into very hot water with the mounted constables, and with the livery-stable keeper from whom he hired his hacks, for "furious riding" in the park. and julius march walked the paved ways and fragrant alleys of the red-walled gardens at brockhurst, somewhat sadly, in the glowing june twilights, meditating upon the pitiless power of change which infects all things human, and of his own lifelong love doomed to "find no earthly close." and mrs. chifney, down at the racing stables, rejoiced to the point of tears, being possessed by the persistent instinct of matrimony common to the british, lower middle-class. and sandyfield parish rejoiced likewise, and pealed its church-bells in token thereof, foreseeing much carnal gratification in the matter of cakes and ale. and madame de vallorbes, whose letters to richard had come to be pretty frequent during the last eight months, was overtaken by silence and did not write at all. but this omission on the part of his cousin was grateful, rather than distressing, to the young man. it appeared to him very sympathetic of helen not to write. it showed a finely, imaginative sensibility and considerateness on her part, which made dickie sigh, thinking of it, and then, so to speak, turn away his head. and to do this last was the less difficult that his days were very full just now. and his mind was very full, likewise, of gentle thoughts of, and many provisions for, the happiness of his promised bride. the young girl was timid in his presence, it is true. yet she was transparently, appealing, anxious to please. her conversation was neither ready nor brilliant, but she was very fair to look upon in her childlike freshness and innocence. a protective element, a tender and chivalrous loyalty, entered into richard's every thought of her. a great passion and a happy marriage were two quite separate matters--so he argued in his inexperience. and this was surely the wife a man should desire, modest, guileless, dutiful, pure in heart as in person? the gentle dumbness which often held her did not trouble him. it was a pretty pastime to try to win her confidence and open the doors of her artless speech. and then, to richard, tempted it is true, but as yet himself unsullied, it was so sacred and wonderful a thing that this spotless woman-creature in all the fragrance of her youth belonged to him in a measure already, and would belong to him, before many weeks were out, wholly and of inalienable right. and so it happened that the very limitations of the young girl's nature came to enhance her attractions. dickie could not get very near to her mind, but that merely piqued his curiosity and provoked his desire of discovery. she was to him as a book written in strange character, difficult to decipher. with the result that he accredited her with subtleties and many fine feelings she did not really possess, while he failed to divine--not from defective sympathy so much as from absorption in his self-created idea of her--the very simple feelings which actually animated her. his masculine pride was satisfied in that so eligible a maiden consented to become his wife. his moral sense was satisfied also, since he had--as he supposed--put temptation from him and chosen the better part. very certainly he was not violently in love. that he supposed to be a thing of the past. but he was quietly happy. while ahead lay the mysterious enchantments of marriage. dickie's heart was very tender, just then. life had never turned on him a more gracious face. nevertheless, once or twice, a breath of distrust dimmed the bright surface of his existing complacency. one day, for instance, he had taken his _fiancée_ for a morning drive and brought her home to luncheon. after that meal she should sit for a while with lady calmady and then join him in the library down-stairs, for he had that which he coveted to show her. but it appeared to him that she tarried unduly with his mother, and he grew impatient waiting through the long minutes of the summer afternoon. a barrel-organ droned slumberously from the other side of the square, while to his ears, so long attuned to country silences or the quick, intermittent music of nature, the ceaseless roar of london became burdensome. ever after, thinking of this first wooing of his, he recalled--as slightly sinister--that ever-present murmur of traffic,--bearing testimony, at it seemed later, to the many activities in which he could play, after all, but so paltry and circumscribed a part. and, listening to that same murmur now, something of rebellion against circumstance arose in dickie for all that the present was very good. for, as he considered, any lover other than himself would not sit pinned to an armchair awaiting his mistress' coming, but, did she delay, would go to seek her, claim her, and bear her merrily away. the organ-grinder, meanwhile, cheered by a copper shower from some adjacent balcony, turned the handle of his instrument more vigorously, letting loose stirring valse-tune and march upon the sultry air. such music was, of necessity, somewhat comfortless hearing to richard, debarred alike from deeds of arms or joy of dancing. his impatience increased. it was a little inconsiderate of his mother surely to detain constance for so long! but just then the sound of women's voices reached him through the half-open door. the two ladies were leisurely descending the stairs. there was a little pause, then he heard lady calmady say, as though in gentle rebuke:-- "no, no, dear child, i will not come with you. richard would like better to see you alone. too, i have a number of letters to write. i am at home to no one this afternoon. you will find me in the sitting-room here. you can come and bid me good-bye--now, dear child, go." thus admonished, lady constance moved forward. yet, to dickie's listening ears, it appeared that it took her an inordinate length of time to traverse the length of the hall from the foot of the stairs to the library door. and there again she paused, the organ, now nearer, rattling out the tramp of a popular military march. but the throb and beat of the quickstep failed to hasten little lady constance's lagging feet, so that further rebellion against his own infirmity assaulted poor dick. at length the girl entered with a little rush, her soft cheeks flushed, her rounded bosom heaving, as though she arrived from a long and arduous walk, rather than from that particularly deliberate traversing of the cool hall and descent of the airy stairway. "ah! here you are at last, then!" richard exclaimed. "i began to wonder if you had forgotten all about me." the young girl did not attempt to sit down, but stood directly in front of him, her hands clasped loosely, yet somewhat nervously, almost in the attitude of a child about to recite a lesson. her still, heifer's eyes were situate so far apart that dickie, looking up at her, found it difficult to focus them both at the same glance. and this produced an effect of slight uncertainty, even defect of vision, at once pathetic and quaintly attractive. her face was heart-shaped, narrowing from the wide, low brow to the small, rounded chin set below a round, babyish mouth of slight mobility but much innocent sweetness. her light, brown hair, rising in an upward curve on either side the straight parting, was swept back softly, yet smoothly, behind her small ears. the neck of her white, alpaca dress, cut square according to the then prevailing fashion, was outlined with flat bands of pale, blue ribbon, and filled up with lace to the base of the round column of her throat. blue ribbons adorned the hem of her simple skirt, and a band of the same colour encircled her shapely, though not noticeably slender, waist. her bosom was rather full for so young a woman, so that, notwithstanding her perfect freshness and air of almost childlike simplicity, there was a certain statuesque quality in the effect of her white-clad figure seen thus in the shaded library, with its russet-red walls and furnishings and ranges of dark bookshelves. "i am so sorry," she said breathlessly. "i should have come sooner, but i was talking to lady calmady, and i did not know it was so late. i am not afraid of talking to lady calmady, she is so very kind to me, and there are many questions i wanted to ask her. she promises to help and tell me what i ought to do. and i am very glad of that. it will prevent my making mistakes." her attitude and the earnestness of her artless speech were to richard almost pathetically engaging. his irritation vanished. he smiled, looked up at her, his own face flushing a little. "i don't fancy you will ever make any very dangerous mistakes!" he said. "ah! but i might," the girl insisted. "you see i have always been told what to do." "always?" dickie asked, more for the pleasure of watching her stand thus than for any great importance he attached to her answer. "oh yes!" she said. "first by our nurses, and then by our governesses. they were not always very kind. they called me obstinate. but i did not mean to be obstinate. only they spoke in french or german, and i could not always understand. and since i have grown up my elder sisters have told me what i ought to do." it seemed to richard that the girl's small, round chin quivered a little, and that a look of vague distress invaded her soft, ruminant, wide-set eyes. "and so i should have been very frightened, now, unless i had had lady calmady to tell me." "well, i think there's only one thing my mother will need to tell you, and it won't run into either french or german. it can be stated in very plain english. just to do whatever you like, and--and be happy." lady constance stared at the speaker with her air of gentle perplexity. as she did so undoubtedly her pretty chin did quiver a little. "ah! but to do what you like can never really make you happy," she said. "can't it? i'm not altogether so sure of that. i had ventured to suppose there were a number of things you and i would do in the future which will be most uncommonly pleasant without being conspicuously harmful." he leaned sideways, stretching out to a neighbouring chair with his right hand, keeping the light, silk-woven, red blanket up across his thighs with his left. "do sit down, constance, and we will talk of things we both like to do, at greater length---- ah! bother--forgive me--i can't reach it." "oh! please don't trouble. it doesn't matter. i can get it quite well myself," lady constance said, quite quickly for once. she drew up the chair and sat down near him, folding her hands again nervously in her lap. all the colour had died out of her cheeks. they were as white as her rounded throat. she kept her eyes fixed on richard's face, and her bosom rose and fell, while her words came somewhat gaspingly. still she talked on with a touching little effect of determined civility. "lady calmady was very kind in telling me i might sometimes go over to whitney," she said. "i should like that. i am afraid papa will miss me. of course there will be all the others just the same. but i go out so much with him. of course i would not ask to go over very often, because i know it might be inconvenient for me to have the horses." "but you will have your own horses," richard answered. "i wrote to chifney to look out for a pair of cobs for you last week--browns--you said you liked that colour i remember. and i told him they were to be broken until big guns, going off under their very noses, wouldn't make them so much as wince." "are you buying them just for me?" the girl said. "just for you?" dickie laughed. "why, who on earth should i buy anything for but just you, i should like to know?" "but"--she began. "but--but"--he echoed, resting his hands on the two arms of his chair, leaning forward and still laughing, though somewhat shyly. "don't you see the whole and sole programme is that you should do all you like, and have all you like, and--and be happy."--richard straightened himself up, still looking full at her, trying to focus both these quaintly--engaging, far-apart eyes. "constance, do you never play?" he asked her suddenly. "i did practice every morning at home, but lately----" "oh! i don't mean that," the young man said. "i mean quite another sort of playing." "games?" lady constance inquired. "i am afraid i am rather stupid about games. i find it so difficult to remember numbers and words, and i never can make a ball go where i want it to, somehow." "i was not thinking of games either, exactly," richard said, smiling. the girl stared at him in some perplexity. then spoke again, with the same little effect of determined civility. "i am very fond of dancing and of skating. the ice was very good on the lake at whitney this winter. rupert and gerry were home from eton, and eddy had brought a young man down with him--mr. hubbard---who is in his business in liverpool, and a friend of my brother guy's was staying in the house too, from india. i think you have met him--mr. decies. we skated till past twelve one night--a wednesday, i think. there was a moon, and a great many stars. the thermometer registered fifteen degrees of frost mr. decies told me. but i was not cold. it was very beautiful." richard shifted his position. the organ had moved farther away. uncheered by further copper showers, it droned again slumberously, while the murmur sent forth by the thousand activities of the great city waxed loud, for the moment, and hoarsely insistent. "i do not bore you?" lady constance asked, in sudden anxiety. "oh no, no!" richard answered. "i am glad to have you tell me about yourself, if you will; and all that you care for." thus encouraged, the girl took up her little parable again, her sweet, rather vacant, face growing almost animated as she spoke. "we did something else i liked very much, but from what alicia said afterwards i am afraid i ought not to have liked it. one day it snowed, and we all played hide-and-seek. there are a number of attics in the roof of the bachelor's wing at whitney, and there are long up-and-down passages leading round to the old nurseries. mama did not mind, but alicia was very displeased. she said it was a mere excuse for romping. but that was not true. of course we never thought of romping. we did make a great noise," she added conscientiously, "but that was rupert and gerry's fault. they would jump out after promising not to, and of course it was impossible to help screaming. eddy's liverpool friend tried to jump out too, but maggie snubbed him. i think he deserved it. you ought to play fair; don't you think so? after promising, you would never jump out, would you?" and there lady constance stopped, with a little gasp. "oh! i beg your pardon. i am so sorry. i forgot," she added breathlessly. richard's face had become thin and keen. "forget just as often as you can, please," he answered huskily. "i would infinitely rather have you--have everybody--forget altogether--if possible." "oh! but i think that would be wrong of me," she rejoined, with gentle dogmatism. "it is selfish to forget anything that is very sad." "and is this so very sad?" richard asked, almost harshly. the girl stared at him with parted lips. "oh yes!" she said slowly. "of course,--don't you think so? it is dreadfully sad."--and then, her attitude still unchanged and her pretty plump hands still folded on her lap, she went on, in her touching determination to sustain the conversation with due readiness and civility. "brockhurst is a much larger house than whitney, isn't it? i thought so the day we drove over to luncheon--when that beautiful, french cousin of yours was staying with you, you remember?" "yes, i remember," richard said. and as he spoke madame de vallorbes, clothed in the seawaves, crowned and shod with gold, seemed to stand for a moment beside his innocent, little _fiancée_. how long it was since he had heard from her! did she want money, he wondered? it would be intolerable if, because of his marriage, she never let him help her again. and all the while lady constance's unemotional, careful, little voice continued, as did the ceaseless murmur of london. "i remember," she was saying, "because your cousin is quite the most beautiful person i have ever seen. papa admired her very much too. we spoke of that as soon as louisa had left us, when we were alone. but there seemed to me so many staircases at brockhurst, and rooms opening one out of the other. i have been wondering--since--lately--whether i shall ever be able to find my way about the house." "i will show you your way," dickie said gently, banishing the vision of helen de vallorbes. "you will show it me?" the girl asked, in evident surprise. then a companion picture to that of madame de vallorbes arose before dickie's mental vision--namely, the good-looking, long-legged, young, irish soldier, mr. decies, of the st lancers, flying along the attic passages of the whitney bachelor's wing, in company with this immediately--so--demure and dutiful maiden and all the rest of that admittedly rather uproarious, holiday throng. thereat a foolish lump rose in poor richard's throat, for he too was, after all, but young. he choked the foolish lump down again. yet it left his voice a trifle husky. "yes, i will show you your way," he said. "i can manage that much, you know, at home, in private, among my own people. only you mustn't be in a hurry. i have to take my time. you must not mind that. i--i go slowly." "but that will be much better for me," she answered, with rather humble courtesy, "because then i am more likely to remember my way. i have so much difficulty in knowing my way. i still lose myself sometimes in the park at whitney. i did once this winter with--my brother guy's friend, mr. decies. the boys always tease me about losing my way. even papa says i have no bump of locality. i am afraid i am stupid about that. my governesses always complained that i was a very thoughtless child." lady constance unfolded her hands. her timid, engagingly vague gaze dwelt appealingly upon richard's handsome face. "i think, perhaps, if you do not mind, i will go now," she said. "i must bid lady calmady good-bye. we dine at lady combmartin's to-night. you dine there too, don't you? and my sister louisa may want me to drive with her, or write some notes, before i dress." "wait half a minute," dickie said. "i've got something for you. let's see---- oh! there it is!" raising himself he stood, for a moment, on the seat of the chair, steadying himself with one hand on the back of it, and reached a little, silver-paper covered parcel from the neighbouring table. then he slipped back into a sitting position, drew the silken blanket up across his thighs, and tossed the little parcel gently into lady constance quayle's lap. "i as near as possible let you go without it," he said. "not that it's anything very wonderful. it's nothing--only i saw it in a shop in bond street yesterday, and it struck me as rather quaint. i thought you might like it. why--but--constance, what's the matter?" for the girl's pretty, heart-shaped face had blanched to the whiteness of her white dress. her eyes were strained, as those of one who beholds an object of terror. not only her chin but her round, baby mouth quivered. richard looked at her, amazed at these evidences of distressing emotion. then suddenly he understood. "i frighten you. how horrible!" he said. but little lady constance had not suffered persistent training at the hands of nurses, and governesses, and elder sisters, during all her eighteen years of innocent living for nothing. she had her own small code of manners and morals, of honour and duty, and to the requirements of that code, as she apprehended them, she yielded unqualified obedience, not unheroic in its own meagre and rather puzzle-headed fashion. so that now, notwithstanding quivering lips, she retained her intention of civility and entered immediate apology for her own weakness. "no, no, indeed you do not," she replied. "please forgive me. i know i was very foolish. i am so sorry. you are so kind to me, you are always giving me beautiful presents, and indeed i am not ungrateful. only i had never seen--seen--you like that before. and, please forgive me--i will never be foolish again--indeed, i will not. but i was taken by surprise. i beg your pardon. i shall be so dreadfully unhappy if you do not forgive me." and all the while her trembling hands fumbled helplessly with the narrow ribbon tying the dainty parcel, and big tears rolled down slowly out of her great, soft, wide-set, heifer's eyes. never was there more moving or guileless a spectacle! witnessing which, richard calmady was taken somewhat out of himself, his personal misfortune seeming matter inconsiderable, while his childlike _fiancée_ had never appeared more engaging. all the sweetest of his nature responded to her artless appeal in very tender pity. "why, my dear constance," he said, "there's nothing to forgive. i was foolish, not you. i ought to have known better. never mind. i don't. only wipe your pretty eyes, please. yes--that's better. now let me break that tiresome ribbon for you." "you are very kind to me," the girl murmured. then, as the ribbon broke under richard's strong fingers, and the delicate necklace of many, roughly-cut, precious stones--topaz, amethyst, sapphire, ruby, chrysolite, and beryl joined together, three rows deep, by slender, golden chains--slipped from the enclosing paper wrapping into her open hands, constance quayle added, rather tearfully:--"oh! you are much too kind! you give me too many things. no one i know ever had such beautiful presents. the cobs you told me of, and now this, and the pearls, and the tiara you gave me last week. i--i don't deserve it. you give me too much, and i give nothing in return." "oh yes, you do!" richard said, flushing. "you--you give me yourself." lady constance's tears ceased. again she stared at him in gentle perplexity. "you promise to marry me----" "yes, of course, i have promised that," she said slowly. "and isn't that about the greatest giving there can be? a few horses, and jewels, and such rubbish of sorts, weigh pretty light in the balance against that--i being i"--richard paused a moment--"and you--you." but a certain ardour which had come into his speech, for all that he sat very still, and that his expression was wholly gentle and indulgent, and that she felt a comfortable assurance that he was not angry with her, rather troubled little lady constance quayle. she rose to her feet, and stood before him again, as a child about to recite a lesson. "i think," she said, "i must go. louisa may want me. thank you so much. the necklace is quite lovely. i never saw one like it. i like so many colours. they remind me of flowers, or of the colours at sunset in the sky. i shall like to wear this very much. you--you will forgive me for having been foolish--or if i have bored you?" her bosom rose and fell, and the words came breathlessly. "i shall see you at lady combmartin's? so--so now i will go." and with that she departed, leaving richard more in love with her, somehow, than he had ever been before or had ever thought to be. chapter vi in which honoria st. quentin takes the field it had been agreed that the marriage should take place, in the country, one day in the first week of august. this at richard's request. then the young man asked a further favour, namely, that the ceremony might be performed in the private chapel at brockhurst, rather than in the whitney parish church. this last proposal, it must be owned, when made to him by lady calmady, caused lord fallowfeild great searchings of heart. "i give you my word, my dear boy, i never felt more awkward in my life," he said, subsequently, to his chosen confidant, shotover. "can quite understand calmady doesn't care to court publicity. told his mother i quite understood. shouldn't care to court it myself if i had the misfortune to share his--well, personal peculiarities, don't you know, poor young fellow. still this seems to me an uncomfortable, hole and corner sort of way of behaving to one's daughter--marrying her at his house instead of from my own. i don't half approve of it. looks a little as if we were rather ashamed of the whole business." "well, perhaps we are," lord shotover remarked. "for god's sake, then, don't mention it!" the elder man broke out, with unprecedented asperity. "don't approve of strong language," he added hastily. "never did approve of it, and very rarely employ it myself. an educated man ought to be able to express himself quite sufficiently clearly without having recourse to it. still, i must own this engagement of constance's has upset me more than almost any event of my life. nasty, anxious work marrying your daughters. heavy responsibility marrying your daughters. and, as to this particular marriage, there's so very much to be said on both sides. and i admit to you, shotover, if there's anything i hate it's a case where there's very much to be said on both sides. it trips you up, you see, at every turn. then i feel i was not fairly treated. i don't wish to be hard on your brother ludovic and your sisters, but they sprung it upon me, and i am not quick in argument, never was quick, if i am hurried. never can be certain of my own mind when i am hurried--was not certain of it when lady calmady proposed that the marriage should be at brockhurst. and so i gave way. must be accommodating to a woman, you know. always have been accommodating to women--got myself into uncommonly tight places by being so more than once when i was younger----" here the speaker cheered up visibly, contemplating his favourite son with an air at once humorous and contrite. "you're well out of it, you know, shotover, with no ties," he continued, "at least, i mean, with no wife and family. not that i don't consider every man owning property should marry sooner or later. more respectable if you've got property to marry, roots you in the soil, gives you a stake, you know, in the future of the country. but i'd let it be later--yes, thinking of marriageable daughters, certainly i'd let it be later." from which it may be gathered that richard's demands were conceded at all points. and this last concession involved many preparations at brockhurst, to effect which lady calmady left london with the bulk of the household about the middle of july, while richard remained in lowndes square and the neighbourhood of his little _fiancée_--in company with a few servants and many brown holland covers--till such time as that young lady should also depart to the country. it was just now that lady louisa barking gave her annual ball, always one of the latest, and this year one of the smartest, festivities of the season. "i mean it to be exceedingly well done," she said to her sister alicia. "and mr. barking entirely agrees with me. i feel i owe it not only to myself, but to the rest of the family to show that none of us see anything extraordinary in connie's marriage, and that whatever shotover's debts may have been, or may be, they are really no concern at all of ours." in obedience to which laudable determination the handsome mansion in albert gate opened wide its portals, and all london--a far from despicable company in numbers, since parliament was still sitting and the session promised to be rather indefinitely prolonged--crowded its fine stairways and suites of lofty rooms, resplendent in silks and satins, jewels and laces, in orders and titles, and manifold personal distinctions of wealth, or office, or beauty, while strains of music and scent of flowers pervaded the length and breadth of it, and the feet of the dancers sped over its shining floors. it chanced that honoria st. quentin found herself, on this occasion, in a meditative, rather than an active, mood. true, the scene was remarkably brilliant. but she had witnessed too many parallel scenes to be very much affected by that. so it pleased her fancy to moralise, to discriminate--not without a delicate sarcasm--between actualities and appearances, between the sentiments which might be divined really to animate many of the guests, and those conventional presentments of sentiment which the manner and bearing of the said guests indicated. she assured lord shotover she would rather not dance, that she preferred the attitude of spectator, whereupon that gentleman proposed to her to take sanctuary in a certain ante-chamber, opening off lady louisa barking's boudoir, which was cool, dimly lighted, and agreeably remote from the turmoil of the entertainment now at its height. the acquaintance of these two persons was, in as far as time and the number of their meetings went, but slight, and, at first sight, their tastes and temperaments would seem wide asunder as the poles. but contrast can form a strong bond of union. and the young man, when his fancy was engaged, was among those who do not waste time over preliminaries. if pleased, he bundled, neck and crop, into intimacy. and miss st. quentin, her fearless speech, her amusingly detached attitude of mind, and her gallant bearing, pleased him mightily from a certain point of view. he pronounced her to be a "first-rate sort," and entertained a shrewd suspicion that, as he put it, ludovic "was after her." he commended his brother's good taste. he considered she would make a tip-top sister-in-law. while the young lady, on her part, accepted his advances in a friendly spirit. his fraternal attitude and unfailing good-temper diverted her. his rather doubtful reputation piqued her curiosity. she accepted the general verdict, declaring him to be good-for-nothing, while she enjoyed the conviction that, rake or no rake, he was incapable of causing her the smallest annoyance, or being guilty,--as far as she herself was concerned,--of the smallest indiscretion. "you know, miss st. quentin," he remarked, as he established himself comfortably, not to say cosily, on a sofa beside her,--"over and above the pleasure of a peaceful little talk with you, i am not altogether sorry to seek retirement. you see, between ourselves, i'm not, unfortunately, in exactly good odour with some members of the family just now. i don't think i'm shy----" honoria smiled at him through the dimness. "i don't think you're shy," she said. "well, you know, when you come to consider it from an unprejudiced standpoint, what the dickens is the use of being shy? it's only an inverted kind of conceit at best, and half the time it makes you stand in your own light." "clearly it's a mistake every way," the young lady asserted. "and, happily, it's one of which i can entirely acquit you of being guilty." lord shotover threw back his head and looked sideways at his companion.--wonderfully, graceful woman she was certainly! gave you the feeling she'd all the time there was or ever would be. delightful thing to see a woman who was never in a hurry. "no, honestly i don't believe i'm weak in the way of shyness," he continued. "if i had been, i shouldn't be here to-night. my sister louisa didn't press me to come. strange as it may appear to you, miss st. quentin, i give you my word she didn't. nor has she regarded me with an exactly favourable eye since my arrival. i am not abashed, not a bit. but i can't disguise from myself that again i have gone, and been, and jolly well put my foot in it." he whistled very softly under his breath.--"oh! i have, i promise you, even on the most modest computation, very extensively and comprehensively put my foot in it!" "how?" inquired honoria. lord shotover's confidences invariably amused her, and just now she welcomed amusement. for crossing her hostess' boudoir she had momentarily caught sight of that which changed the speculative sarcasm of her meditations to something approaching pain--namely, a pretty, wide-eyed, childish face rising from out a cloud of white tulle, white roses, and diamonds, the expression of which had seemed to her distressingly remote from all the surrounding gaiety and splendour. actualities and appearances here were surely radically at variance? and, now, she smilingly turned on her elbow and made brief inquiry of her companion, promising herself good measure of superficial entertainment which should serve to banish that pathetic countenance, and allay her suspicion of a sorrowful happening which she was powerless alike to hinder or to help. lord shotover pushed his hands into his trousers pockets, leaned far back on the sofa, turning his head so that he could look at her comfortably without exertion and chuckling, a little, as he spoke. "well, you see," he said, "i brought decies. no, you're right, i'm not shy, for to do that was a bit of the most barefaced cheek. my sister louisa hadn't asked him. of course she hadn't. at bottom she's awfully afraid he may still upset the apple-cart. but i told her i knew, of course, she had intended to ask him, and that the letter must have got lost somehow in the post, and that i knew how glad she'd be to have me rectify the little mistake. my manner was not jaunty, miss st. quentin, or defiant--not a bit of it. it was frank, manly, i should call it manly and pleasing. but louisa didn't seem to see it that way somehow. she withered me, she scorched me, reduced me to a cinder, though she never uttered one blessed syllable. the hottest corner of the infernal regions resided in my sister's eye at that moment, and i resided in that hottest corner, i tell you. of course i knew i risked losing the last rag of her regard when i brought decies. but you see, poor chap, it is awfully rough on him. he was making the running all through the winter. i could not help, feeling for him, so i chucked discretion----" "for the first and only time in your life," put in honoria gently. "and pray who and what is this disturber of domestic peace, decies?" "oh! you know the whole affair grows out of this engagement of my little sister connie's. by the way, though, the calmadys are great friends of yours, aren't they, miss st. quentin?" the young man regarded her anxiously, fearful least he should have endangered the agreeable intimacy of their present relation by the introduction of an unpalatable subject of conversation. even in this semi-obscurity he perceived that her fine smile had vanished, while the lines of her sensitive face took on a certain rigidity and effect of sternness. lord shotover regretted that. for some reason, he knew not what, she was displeased. he, like an ass, evidently had blundered. "i'm awfully sorry," he began, "perhaps--perhaps----" "perhaps it is very impertinent for a mere looker-on like myself to have any views at all about this marriage," honoria put in quickly. "bless you, no, it's not," he answered. "i don't see how anybody can very well be off having views about it--that's just the nuisance. the whole thing shouts, confound it. so you might just as well let me hear your views, miss st. quentin. i should be awfully interested. they might help to straighten my own out a bit." honoria paused a moment, doubting how much of her thought it would be justifiable to confide to her companion. a certain vein of knight-errantry in her character inclined her to set lance in rest and ride forth, rather recklessly, to redress human wrongs. but in redressing one wrong it too often happens that another wrong--or something perilously approaching one--must be inflicted. to save pain in one direction is, unhappily, to inflict pain in the opposite one. honoria was aware how warmly lady calmady desired this marriage. she loved lady calmady. therefore her loyalty was engaged, and yet---- "i am no match-maker," she said at last, "and so probably my view is unnecessarily pessimistic. but i happened to see lady constance just now, and i cannot pretend that she struck me as looking conspicuously happy." lord shotover flattened his shoulders against the back of the sofa, expanding his chest and thrusting his hands still farther into his pockets with a movement at once of anxiety and satisfaction. "i don't believe she is," he asserted. "upon my word you're right. i don't believe she is. i doubted it from the first, and now i'm pretty certain. of course i know i'm a bad lot, miss st. quentin. i've been very little but a confounded nuisance to my people ever since i was born. they're all ten thousand times better than i am, and they're doing what they honestly think right. all the same i believe they're making a ghastly mistake. they're selling the poor, little girl against her will, that's about the long and short of it." he bowed himself together, looking at his companion from under his eyebrows, and speaking with more seriousness than she had ever heard him yet speak. "i tell you it makes me a little sick sometimes to see what excellent, well-meaning people will do with girls in respect of marriage. oh, good lord! it just does! but then a high moral tone doesn't come quite gracefully from me. i know that. i'm jolly well out of it. it's not for me to preach. and so i thought for once i'd act--defy authority, risk landing myself in a worse mess than ever, and give decies his chance. and i tell you he really is a charming chap, a gentleman, you know, and a nice, clean-minded, decent fellow--not like me, not a bit. he's awfully hard hit too, and would be as steady as old time for poor little con's sake if----" "ah! now i begin to comprehend," honoria said. "yes, don't you see, it's a perfectly genuine, for-ever-and-ever-amen sort of business." lord shotover leaned back once more, and turned a wonderfully pleasant, if not preeminently responsible, countenance upon his companion. "i never went in for that kind of racket myself, miss st. quentin," he continued. "not being conspicuously faithful, i should only have made a _fiasco_ of it. but i give you my word it touches me all the same when i do run across it. i think it's awfully lucky for a man to be made that way. and decies is. so there seemed no help for it. i had to chuck discretion, as i told you, and give him his chance." he paused, and then asked with a somewhat humorous air of self-depreciation:--"what do you think now, have i done more harm than good, made confusion worse confounded, and played the fool generally?" but again honoria vouchsafed him no immediate reply. the meditative mood still held her, and the present conversation offered much food for meditation. her companion's confession of faith in true love, if you had the good fortune to be born that way, had startled her. that the speaker enjoyed the reputation of being something of a profligate lent singular point to that confession. she had not expected it from lord shotover, of all men. and, as coming from him, the sentiment was in a high degree arresting and interesting. her own ideals, so far, had a decidedly anti-matrimonial tendency, while being in love appeared to her a much overrated, if not actively objectionable, condition. personally she hoped to escape all experience of it. then her thought traveled back to lady calmady,--the charm of her personality, her sorrows, her splendid self-devotion, and to the object of that devotion--namely, richard calmady, a being of strange contrasts, at once maimed and beautiful, a being from whom she--honoria--shrank in instinctive repulsion, while unwillingly acknowledging that he exercised a permanent and intimate fascination over her imagination. she dwelt, in quick pity, too, upon the frightened, wide-eyed, childish face recently seen rising from out its diaphanous cloud of tulle, the prettiness of it heightened by fair wealth of summer roses and flash of costly diamonds, and upon mr. decies, the whole-hearted, young soldier lover, whose existence threatened such dangerous complications in respect of the rest of this strangely assorted company. finally her meditative survey returned to its point of departure. in thought she surveyed her present companion,--his undeniable excellence of sentiment and clear-seeing, his admittedly defective conduct in matters ethical and financial. never before had she been at such close quarters with living and immediate human drama, and, notwithstanding her detachment, her lofty indifference and high-spirited theories, she found it profoundly agitating. she was sensible of being in collision with unknown and incalculable forces. instinctively she rose from her place on the sofa, and, moving to the open window, looked out into the night. below, the park, now silent and deserted, slept peacefully, as any expanse of remote country pasture and woodland, in the mildly radiant moonlight. here and there were blottings of dark shadow cast by the clumps or avenues of trees. here and there the timid, yellow flame of gas lamps struggled to assert itself against the all-embracing silver brightness. here and there windows glowed warm, set in the pale, glistering façades of the adjacent houses. a cool, light wind, hailing from the direction of the unseen serpentine, stirred the hanging clusters of the pink geraniums that fell over the curved lip of the stone vases, standing along the broad coping of the balcony, and gently caressed the girl's bare arms and shoulders. seen under these unaccustomed conditions familiar objects assumed a fantastic aspect. for the night is a mighty magician, with power to render even the weighty brick and stone, even the hard, uncomprising outlines of a monster, modern city, delicately elusive, mockingly tentative and unsubstantial. meanwhile, within, from all along the vista of crowded and brilliantly illuminated rooms, came the subdued, yet confused and insistent, sound of musical instruments, of many voices, many footsteps, the hush of women's trailing garments, the rise and fall of unceasing conversation. and to honoria standing in this quiet, dimly-seen place, the sense of that moonlit world without, and this gas and candle-lit world within, increased the nameless agitation which infected her. a haunting persuasion of the phantasmagoric character of all sounds that saluted her ears, all sights that met her eyes, possessed her. a vast uncertainty surrounded and pressed in on her, while those questionings of appearances and actualities, of truth and falsehood, right and wrong, justice and injustice, with which she had played idly earlier in the evening, took on new and almost terrible proportions, causing her intelligence, nay, her heart itself, to reach out, as never before, in search of some sure rock and house of defense against the disintegrating apprehension of universal instability and illusion. "ah! it is all very difficult, difficult to the point of alarm!" she exclaimed suddenly, turning to lord shotover and looking him straight in the face, with an unself-consciousness and desire of support so transparent, that that gentleman found himself at once delighted and slightly abashed. "bless my soul, but ludovic is a lucky devil!" he said to himself.--"what's--what's so beastly difficult, miss st. quentin?" he asked aloud. and the sound of his cheery voice recalled honoria to the normal aspects of existence with almost humorous velocity. she smiled upon him. "i really believe i don't quite know," she said. "perhaps that the two people, of whom we were speaking, really care for each other, and that this engagement has come between them, and that you have chucked discretion and given him his chance. tell me, what sort of man is he--strong enough to make the most of his chance when he's got it?" but at that moment lord shotover stepped forward, adroitly planting himself right in front of her and thus screening her from observation. "by george!" he said under his breath, in tones of mingled amusement and consternation, "he's making the most of his chance now miss st. quentin, and that most uncommonly comprehensively, unless i'm very much mistaken." her companion's tall person and the folds of a heavy curtain, while screening honoria from observation, also, in great measure, obscured her view of the room. yet not so completely but that she saw two figures cross it, one black, one white, those of a man and a girl. they were both speaking, the man apparently pleading, the girl protesting and moving hurriedly, the while, as though in actual flight. she must have been moving blindly, at random, for she stumbled against the outstanding, gilded leg of a consol table, set against the further wall, causing the ornaments on it to rattle. and so doing, she gave a plaintive exclamation of alarm, perhaps even of physical pain. hearing which, that nameless agitation, that sense of collision with unknown and incalculable forces, seized hold on honoria again, while lord shotover's features contracted and he turned his head sharply. "by george!" he repeated under his breath. but the girl recovered herself, and, followed by her companion,--he still pleading, she still protesting,--passed by the further window on to the balcony and out of sight. there followed a period of embarrassed silence on the part of the usually voluble shotover, while his pleasant countenance expressed a certain half-humorous concern. "really, i'm awfully sorry," he said. "i'd not the slightest intention of landing you in for the thick of the brown like this.". "or yourself either," she replied, smiling, though, with that sense of nameless agitation still upon her, her heart beat rather quick. "well, perhaps not. between ourselves, moral courage isn't my strong point. there's nothing i funk like a row. i say, what shall we do? don't you think we'd better quietly clear out?" but just then a sound caught honoria's ear before which all vague questions of ultimate truth and falsehood, right and wrong fled away. whatever might savour of illusion, here was something real and actual, something pitiful, moreover, arousing the spirit of knight-errantry in her, pushing her to lay lance in rest and go forth, reckless of conventionalities, reckless even of considerations of justice, to the succour of oppressed womanhood. what words the man, on the balcony without, was saying she could not distinguish--whether cruel or kind, but that the young girl was weeping, with the abandonment of long-resisted tears, she could not doubt. "no, no, listen lord shotover," she exclaimed authoritatively. "don't you hear? she is crying as if her poor heart would break. you must stay. if i understand you rightly your sister has only got you to depend on. whatever happens you must stand by her and see her through." "oh! but, my dear miss st. quentin----" the young man's aspect was entertaining. he looked at the floor, he looked at honoria, he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand as though there might be placed the seat of fortitude. "you're inviting me to put my head into the liveliest hornet's nest. what the deuce--excuse me--am i to say to her and all the rest of them? decies, even, mayn't quite understand my interference and may resent it. i think it is very much safer, all round, to let them--him and her--thrash it out between them, don't you know. i say though, what a beastly thing it is to hear a woman cry! i wish to goodness we'd never come into this confounded place and let ourselves in for it." as he spoke, lord shotover turned towards the door, meditating escape in the direction of that brilliant vista of crowded rooms. but honoria st. quentin, her enthusiasm once aroused, became inexorable. with her long swinging stride she outdistanced his hesitating steps, and stood, in the doorway, her arms extended--as to stop a runaway horse--her clear eyes aglow as though a lamp burned behind them, her pale, delicately cut face eloquent of very militant charity. a spice of contempt, moreover, for his display of pusillanimity was quite perceptible to shotover in the expression of this charming, modern angel, clad in a ball-dress, bearing a fan instead of the traditional fiery-sword, who, so determinedly, barred the entrance of that comfortably conventional, worldly paradise to which he, just now, so warmly desired to regain admittance. "no, no," she said, with a certain vibration in her quiet voice, "you are not to go! you are not to desert her. it would be unworthy, lord shotover. you brought mr. decies here and so you are mainly responsible for the present situation. and think, just think what it means. all the course of her life will be affected by that which takes place in the next half-hour. you would never cease to reproach yourself if things went wrong." "shouldn't i?" the young man said dubiously. "of course you wouldn't," honoria asserted. "having it in your power to help, and then shirking the responsibility! i won't believe that of you. you are better than that. for think how young she is, and pretty and dependent. she may be driven to do some fatally, foolish thing if she's left unsupported. you must at least know what is going on. you are bound to do so. moreover, as a mere matter of courtesy, you can't desert me and i intend to stay." "do you, though?" faltered lord shotover, in tones curiously resembling his father's. honoria drew herself up proudly, almost scornfully. "yes, i shall stay," she continued. "i am no matchmaker. i have no particular faith in or admiration for marriage----" "haven't you, though?" said lord shotover. he was slightly surprised, slightly amused, but to his credit be it stated that he put no equivocal construction upon the young lady's frank avowal. he felt a little sorry for ludovic, that was all, fearing the latter's good fortune was less fully established than he had supposed. "no, i don't believe very much in marriage--modern, upper-class marriage," she repeated. "and, just precisely on that account, it seems to me all the more degrading and shameful that a girl should risk marrying the wrong man. people talk about a broken engagement as though it was a disgrace. i can't see that. an unwilling, a--a--loveless marriage is the disgrace. and so at the very church door i would urge and encourage a woman to turn back, if she doubted, and have done with the whole thing." "upon my word!" murmured lord shotover.--the infinite variety of the feminine outlook, the unqualified audacity of feminine action, struck him as bewildering. talk of women's want of logic! it was their relentless application of logic--as they apprehended it--which staggered him. honoria had come close to him. in her excitement she laid her fan on his arm. "listen," she said, "listen how lady constance is crying. come--you must know what is happening. you must comfort her." the young man thrust his hands into his pockets with an air of good-humoured and despairing resignation. "all right," he replied, "only i tell you what it is, miss st. quentin, you've got to come too. i refuse to be deserted." "i have not the smallest intention of deserting you," honoria said. "even yet discretion, though so lately chucked, might return to you. and then you might cut and run, don't you know." chapter vii recording the astonishing valour displayed by a certain small mouse in a corner as honoria st. quentin and the reluctant shotover stepped, side by side, from the warmth and dimness obtaining in the anteroom, into the pleasant coolness of the moonlit balcony, lady constance quayle, altogether forgetful of her usual careful civility and pretty correctness of demeanour, uttered an inarticulate cry--a cry, indeed, hardly human in its abandon and unreasoning anguish, resembling rather the shriek of the doubling hare as the pursuing greyhound nips it across the loins. regardless of all her dainty finery of tulle, and roses, and flashing diamonds, she flung herself forward, face downwards, across the coping of the balustrade, her bare arms outstretched, her hands clasped above her head. mr. decies, blue-eyed, black-haired, smooth of skin, looking noticeably long and lithe in his close-fitting, dress clothes, made a rapid movement as though to lay hold on her and bear her bodily away. then, recognising the futility of any such attempt, he turned upon the intruders, his high-spirited celtic face drawn with emotion, his attitude rather dangerously warlike. "what do you want?" he demanded hotly. "my dear good fellow," lord shotover began, with the most assuaging air of apology. "i assure you the very last thing i--we--i mean i--want is to be a nuisance. only miss st. quentin thought--in fact, decies, don't you see--dash it all, you know, there seemed to be some sort of worry going on out here and so----" but honoria did not wait for the conclusion of elaborate explanations, for that cry and the unrestraint of the girl's attitude not only roused, but shocked her. it was not fitting that any man, however kindly or even devoted, should behold this well-bred, modest and gentle, young maiden in her present extremity. so she swept past mr. decies and bent over lady constance quayle, raised her, strove to soothe her agitation, speaking in tones of somewhat indignant tenderness. but, though deriving a measure of comfort from the steady arm about her waist, from the strong, protective presence, from the rather stern beauty of the face looking down into hers, lady constance could not master her agitation. the train had left the metals, so to speak, and the result was confusion dire. a great shame held her, a dislocation of mind. she suffered that loneliness of soul which forms so integral a part of the misery of all apparently irretrievable disaster, whether moral or physical, and places the victim of it, in imagination at all events, rather terribly beyond the pale. "oh!" she sobbed, "you ought not to be so kind to me. i am very wicked. i never supposed i could be so wicked. what shall i do? i am so frightened at myself and at everything. i did not recognise you. i didn't see it was only shotover." "well, but now you do see, my dear con, it's only me," that gentleman remarked, with a cheerful disregard of grammar. "and so you mustn't upset yourself any more. it's awfully bad for you, and uncomfortable for everybody else, don't you know. you must try to pull yourself together a bit and we'll help you--of course, i'll help you. we'll all help you, of course we will, and pull you through somehow." but the girl only lamented herself the more piteously. "oh no, shotover, you must not be so kind to me! you couldn't if you knew how wicked i have been." "couldn't i?" lord shotover remarked, not without a touch of humorous pathos. "poor little con!" "only, only please do not tell louisa. it would be too dreadful if she knew--she, and alicia, and the others. don't tell her, and i will be good. i will be quite good, indeed i will." "bless me, my dear child, i won't tell anybody anything. to begin with i don't know anything to tell." the girl's voice had sunk away into a sob. she shuddered, letting her pretty, brown head fall back against honoria st. quentin's bare shoulder,--while the moonlight glinted on her jewels and the night wind swayed the hanging clusters of the pink geraniums. along with the warmth and scent of flowers, streaming outward through the open windows, came a confused sound of many voices, of discreet laughter, mingled with the wailing sweetness of violins. then the pleading, broken, childish voice took up its tale again:-- "i will be good. i know i have promised, and i have let him give me a number of beautiful things. he has been very kind to me, because he is clever, and of course i am stupid. but he has never been impatient with me. and i am not ungrateful, indeed, shotover, i am not. it was only for a minute i was wicked enough to think of doing it. but mr. decies told me he--asked me--and--and we were so happy at whitney in the winter. and it seemed too hard to give it all up, as he said it was true. but i will be good, indeed i will. really it was only for a minute i thought of it. i know i have promised. indeed, i will make no fuss. i will be good. i will marry richard calmady." "but this is simply intolerable!" honoria said in a low voice. she held herself tall and straight, looking gallant yet pure, austere even, as some pictured jeanne d'arc, a great singleness of purpose, a high courage of protest, an effect at once of fearless challenge and of command in her bearing.--"is it not a scandal," she went on, "that in a civilised country, at this time of day, woman should be allowed, actually forced, to suffer so much? you must not permit this martyrdom to be completed--you can't!" as she spoke decies watched her keenly. who this stately, young lady--so remarkably unlike the majority of lord shotover's intimate, feminine acquaintance--might be, he did not know. but he discerned in her an ally and a powerful one. "yes," he said impulsively, "you are right. it is a martyrdom and a scandalous one. it's worse than murder, it's sacrilege. it's not like any ordinary marriage. i don't want to be brutal, but it isn't. there's something repulsive in it, something unnatural." the young man looked at honoria, and read in her expression a certain agreement and encouragement. "you know it, shotover--you know it just as well as i do. and that justified me in attempting what i suppose i would not otherwise have felt it honourable to attempt.--look here, shotover, i will tell you what has just happened. i would have had to tell you to-morrow, in any case, if we had carried the plan out. but i suppose i have no alternative but to tell you now, since you've come." he ranged himself in line with miss st. quentin, his back against one of the big stone vases. he struggled honestly to keep both temper and emotion under control, but a rather volcanic energy was perceptible in him. "i love lady constance," he said. "i have told her so, and--and she cares for me. i am not a croesus like calmady. but i am not a pauper. i have enough to keep a wife in a manner suitable to her position, and my own. when my uncle ulick decies dies--which i hope he'll not hurry to do, since i am very fond of him--there'll be the somersetshire property in addition to my own dear, old place in county cork. and your sister simply hates this marriage----" "lord bless me, my dear fellow, so do i!" lord shotover put in with evident sincerity. "and so, when at last i had spoken freely, i asked her to----" but the young girl cowered down, hiding her face in honoria st. quentin's bosom. "oh! don't say it again--don't say it," she implored. "it was wicked of me to listen to you even for a minute. i ought to have stopped you at once and sent you away. it was very wrong of me to listen, and talk to you, and tell you all that i did. but everything is so strange, and i have been so miserable. i never supposed anybody could ever be so miserable. and i knew it was ungrateful of me, and so i dared not tell anybody. i would have told papa, but louisa never let me be alone with him. she said papa indulged me, and made me selfish and fanciful, and so i have never seen him for more than a little while. and i have been so frightened."--she raised her head, gazing wide-eyed first at miss st. quentin and then at her brother. "i have thought such dreadful things. i must be very bad. i wanted to run away. i wanted to die----" "there, you hear, you hear," decies cried hoarsely, spreading abroad his hands, in sudden violence of appeal to honoria. "for god's sake help us! i am not aware whether you are a relation, or a friend, or what. but i am convinced you can help, if only you choose to do so. and i tell you she is just killing herself over this accursed marriage. some one's got at her and talked her into some wild notion of doing her duty, and marrying money for the sake of her family." "oh! i say, damn it all," lord shotover exclaimed, smitten with genuine remorse. "and so she believes she's committing the seven deadly sins, and i don't know what besides, because she rebels against this marriage and is unhappy. tell her it's absurd, it's horrible, that she should do what she loathes and detests. tell her this talk about duty is a blind, and a fiction. tell her she isn't wicked. why, god in heaven, if we were none of us more wicked than she is, this poor old world would be so clean a place that the holy angels might walk barefoot along the piccadilly pavement there, outside, without risking to soil so much as the hem of their garments! make her understand that the only sin for her is to do violence to her nature by marrying a man she's afraid of, and for whom she does not care. i don't want to play a low game on sir richard calmady and steal that which belongs to him. but she doesn't belong to him--she is mine, just my own. i knew that from the first day i came to whitney, and looked her in the face, shotover. and she knows it too, only she's been terrorised with all this devil's talk of duty." so far the words had poured forth volubly, as in a torrent. now the speaker's voice dropped, and they came slowly, defiantly, yet without hesitation. "and so i asked her to go away with me, now, to-night, and marry me to-morrow. i can make her happy--oh, no fear about that! and she would have consented and gone. we'd have been away by now--if you and this lady had not come just when you did, shotover." the gentleman addressed whistled very softly. "would you, though?" he said, adding meditatively:--"by george now, who'd have thought of connie going the pace like that!" "oh, shotover, never tell, promise me you will never tell them!" the poor child cried again. "i know it was wicked, but----" "no, no, you are mistaken there," honoria put in, holding her still closer. "you were tempted to take a rather desperate way out of your difficulties. it would have been unwise, but there was nothing wicked in it. the wrong thing is--as mr. decies tells you--to marry without love, and so make all your life a lie, by pretending to give richard calmady that which you do not, and cannot, give him." then the young soldier broke in resolutely again. "i tell you i asked her to go away, and i ask her again now----" "the deuce you do!" lord shotover exclaimed, his sense of amusement getting the better alike of astonishment and of personal regrets. "only now i ask you to sanction her going, shotover. and i ask you"--he turned to miss st. quentin--"to come with her. i am not even sure of your name, but i know by all that you've said and done in the last half-hour, i can be very sure of you. and, i perceive, that if you come nobody will dare to say anything unpleasant--there'll be nothing, indeed, to be said." honoria smiled. the magnificent egoism of mankind in love struck her as distinctly diverting. yet she had a very kindly feeling towards this black-haired, bright-eyed, energetic, young lover. he was in deadly earnest--to the removing even of mountains. and he had need to be so, for that mountains immediately blocked the road to his desires was evident even to her enthusiastic mind. she looked across compellingly at lord shotover. let him speak first. she needed time, at this juncture, in which to arrange her ideas and to think. "my dear good fellow," that gentleman began obediently, patting decies on the shoulder, "i'm all on your side. i give you my word i am, and i've reason to believe my father will be so too. but you see, an elopement--specially in our sort of highly respectable, humdrum family--is rather a strong order. upon my honour, it is, you know, decies. and, even though kindly countenanced by miss st. quentin, and sanctioned by me, it would make a precious undesirable lot of talk. it really is a rather irregular fashion of conducting the business you see. and then--advice i always give others and only wish i could always remember to take myself--it's very much best to be off with the old love before you're on with the new." "yes, yes," miss st. quentin put in with quick decision. "lord shotover has laid his finger on the heart of the matter. it is just that.--lady constance's engagement to richard calmady must be cancelled before her engagement to you, captain decies, is announced. for her to go away with you would be to invite criticism, and put herself hopelessly in the wrong. she must not put herself in the wrong. let me think! there must be some way by which we can avoid that." an exultation, hitherto unexperienced by her, inspired honoria st. quentin. her attitude was slightly unconventional. she sat on the stone balustrade, with long-limbed, lazy grace, holding the girl's hand, forgetful of herself, forgetful, in a degree, of appearances, concerned only with the problem of rescue presented to her. the young man's honest, wholehearted devotion, the young girl's struggle after duty and her piteous desolation, nay, the close contact of that soft, maidenly body that she had so lately held against her in closer, more intimate, contact than she had ever held anything human before, aroused a new class of sentiment, a new order of emotion, within her. she realised, for the first time, the magnetism, the penetrating and poetic splendour of human love. to witness the spectacle of it, to be thus in touch with it, excited her almost as sailing a boat in a heavy sea, or riding to hounds in a stiff country, excited her. and it followed that now, while she perched aloft boy-like on the balustrade, her delicate beauty took on a strange effulgence, a something spiritual, mysterious, elusive, and yet dazzling as the moonlight which bathed her charming figure. seeing which, it must be owned that lord shotover's attitude towards her ceased to be strictly fraternal, while the attractions of ladies more fair and kind than wise paled very sensibly. "i wish i hadn't been such a fool in my day, and run amuck with my chances," he thought. but miss st. quentin was altogether innocent of his observation or any such thinkings. she looked up suddenly, her face irradiated by an exquisite smile. "yes, i have it," she cried. "i see the way clear." "but i can't tell them," broke in lady constance. honoria's hand closed down on hers reassuringly. "no," she said, "you shall not tell them. and lord shotover shall not tell them. sir richard calmady shall tell lord fallowfeild that he wishes to be released from his engagement, as he believes both you and he will be happier apart. only you must be brave, both for your own sake, and for mr. decies', and for richard calmady's sake, also.--lady constance," she went on, with a certain gentle authority, "do you want to go back to whitney to-morrow, or next day, all this nightmare of an unhappy marriage done away with and gone? well, then, you must come and see sir richard calmady to-night, and, like an honourable woman, tell him the whole truth. it must be done at once, or your courage may fail. we will come with you--lord shotover and i----" "good lord, will we though!" the young man ejaculated, while the girl's great, heifer's eyes grew strained with wonder at this astounding announcement. "i know it will be rather terrible," honoria continued calmly. "but it is a matter of a quarter of an hour, as against a lifetime, and of honour as against a lie. so it's worth while, don't you think so, when your whole future, and mr. decies'"--she pressed the soft hand again steadily--"is at stake? you must be brave now, and tell him the truth--just simply that you do not love him enough--that you have tried,--you have, i know you have done that,--but you have failed, that you love some one else, and that therefore you beg him, in mercy, before it is too late, to set you free." fascinated both by her appearance and by the simplicity of her trenchant solution of the difficulty, lord shotover stared at the speaker. her faith was infectious. yet it occurred to him that all women, good and bad, are at least alike in this--that their methods become radically unscrupulous when they find themselves in a tight place. "it is a fine plan. it ought to work, for--cripple or not--poor calmady's a gentleman," he said, slowly. "but doesn't it seem just a trifle rough, miss st. quentin, to ask him to be his own executioner?" honoria had slipped down from the balustrade, and stood erect in the moonlight. "i think not," she replied. "the woman pays, as a rule. lady constance has paid already quite heavily enough, don't you think so? now we will have the exception that proves the rule. the man shall pay whatever remains of the debt. but we must not waste time. it is not late yet, we shall still find him up, and my brougham is here. i told lady aldham i should be home fairly early. get a cloak lady constance and meet us in the hall. i suppose you can go down by some back way so as to avoid meeting people. lord shotover, will you take me to say good-night to your sister, lady louisa?" the young man fairly chuckled. "and you, mr. decies, must stay and dance."--she smiled upon him very sweetly. "i promise you it will come through all right, for, as lord shotover says, whatever his misfortunes may be, richard calmady is a gentleman.--ah! i hope you are going to be very happy. good-bye." decies' black head went down over her hand, and he kissed it impulsively. "good-bye," he said, the words catching a little in his throat. "when the time comes, may you find the man to love you as you deserve--though i doubt if there's such a man living, or dead either, for that matter! god bless you." some half-hour later honoria stood among the holland-shrouded furniture in lady calmady's sitting-room in lowndes square. the period of exalted feeling, of the conviction of successful attainment, was over, and her heart beat somewhat painfully. for she had had time, by now, to realise the surprising audacity of her own proceedings. lord shotover's parley with richard calmady's man-servant, on the door-step, had brought that home to her, placing what had seemed obvious, as a course of action to her fervid imagination, in quite a new light.--sir richard calmady was at home? he was still up?--to that, yes. would he see lady constance quayle upon urgent business?--to that again, yes--after a rather lengthy delay, while the valet, inscrutable, yet evidently highly critical, made inquiries.--the trees in the square had whispered together uncomfortably, while the two young ladies waited in the carriage. and lord shotover's shadow, which had usually, very surely, nothing in the least portentous about it, lay queerly, three ways at once, in varying degrees of density, across the gray pavement in the conflicting gas and moonlight. and now, as she stood among the shrouded furniture, which appeared oddly improbable in shape seen in the flickering of two hastily lighted candles, honoria could hear shotover walking back and forth, patiently, on that same gray pavement outside. she was overstrained by the emotions and events of the past hours. small matters compelled her attention. the creaking of a board, the rustle of a curtain, the silence even of this large, but half-inhabited, house, were to her big with suggestion, disquietingly replete with possible meaning, of exaggerated importance to her anxiously listening ears. lord shotover had stopped walking. he was talking to the coachman. honoria entertained a conviction that, in the overflowing of his good nature, he talked--sooner or later--to every soul whom he met. and she derived almost childish comfort from the knowledge of the near neighbourhood of that eminently good-natured presence. lord shotover's very obvious faults faded from her remembrance. she estimated him only by his size, his physical strength, his large indulgence of all weaknesses--including his own. he constituted a link between her and things ordinary and average, for which she was rather absurdly thankful at this juncture. for the minutes passed slowly, very slowly. it must be getting on for half an hour since little lady constance, trembling and visibly affrighted, had passed out of sight, and the door of the smoking-room had closed behind her. the nameless agitation which possessed her earlier that same evening returned upon honoria st. quentin. but its character had suffered change. the questioning of the actual, the suspicion of universal illusion, had departed, and in its place she suffered alarm of the concrete, of the incalculable force of human passion, and of a manifestation of tragedy in some active and violent form. she did not define her own fears, but they surrounded her nevertheless, so that the slightest sound made her start. for, indeed, how slowly the minutes did pass! lord shotover was walking again. the horse rattled its bit, and pawed the ground impatient of delay. though lofty, the room appeared close and hot, with drawn blinds and shut windows. honoria began to move about restlessly, threading her way between the pieces of shrouded furniture. a chalk drawing of lady calmady stood on an easel in the far corner. the portrait emphasised the sweetness and abiding pathos, rather than the strength, of the original, and honoria, standing before it, put her hands over her eyes. for the pictured face seemed to plead with and reproach her. then a swift fear took her of disloyalty, of hastiness, of self-confidence trenching on cruelty. she had announced, rather arrogantly, that whatever balance debt remained to be paid, in respect of sir richard and lady constance quayle's proposed marriage, should be paid by the man. but would the man, in point of fact, pay it? would it not, must it not, be paid, eventually, by this other noble and much enduring woman--whom she had called her friend, and towards whom she played the part, as she feared, of betrayer? in her hot espousal of lady constance's cause she had only saved one woman at the expense of another--oh! how hot the room grew! suffocating--lord shotover's steps died away in the distance. she could look lady calmady in the face no more. secure in her own self-conceit and vanity, she had betrayed her friend. suddenly the sharp peal of a bell, the opening of a door, the dragging of silken skirts, and the hurrying of footsteps.--honoria gathered up her somewhat scattered courage, and swung out into the hall. lady constance quayle came towards her, groping, staggering, breathless, her head carried low, her face convulsed with weeping. but to this, for the moment, miss st. quentin paid small heed. for, at the far end of the hall, a bright light streamed out from the open doorway. and in the full glare of it stood a young man--his head, with its cap of close-cropped curls proudly distinguished as that of some classic hero, his features the beautiful features of katherine calmady, his height but two-thirds the height a man of his make should be, his face drawn and livid as that of a corpse, his arms hanging down straight at his sides, his hands only just not touching the marble quarries of the floor on either side of him. honoria uttered an exclamation of uncontrollable pity and horror, caught constance quayle by the arm, and hurried out into the moonlit square to the waiting carriage. lord shotover flung away the end of his cigar and strolled towards them. "got through, fixed it all right--eh, connie? bravo--that's grand!--oh, you needn't tell me! i can imagine it's been a beastly piece of work, but anyway it's over now. you must go home and go to bed, and i'll account for you somehow to louisa. my mind's becoming quite inventive to-night, i promise you.--there, get in--try to pull yourself together. miss st. quentin, upon my word, i don't know how to thank you. you've been magnificent, and put us under an everlasting obligation, con and decies, and my father and i.--nice night, isn't it? you'll put us down in albert gate? all right. a thousand thanks.--yes, i'll go on the box again. you haven't much room for my legs among all those flounces. bless me, it occurs to me i'm getting confoundedly hungry. i shall be awfully glad of some supper." chapter viii a manifestation of the spirit brockhurst house had slumbered all day long in the steady warmth of the july sun. the last three weeks had been rainless, so that the short turf of the uplands began to grow crisp and discoloured, while the resinous scent of the fir forest, at once stimulating and soothing, was carried afar out over the sloping corn-fields and low-lying pastures. above the stretches of purple-budding heather and waste sandy places, upon the moors, the heat-haze danced and quivered as do vapours arising from a furnace. along the underside of the great woods, and in the turn of the valleys, shadows lingered, which were less actual shadows than blottings of blue light. the birds, busy feeding wide-mouthed, hungry fledglings, had mostly ceased from song. but the drowsy hum of bees and chirrup of grasshoppers was continuous, and told, very pleasantly, of the sunshine and large plenty reigning out of doors. for katherine the day in question had passed in martha-like occupations.--a day of organising, of ordering and countermanding, a day of much detail, much interviewing of heads of departments, a day of meeting respectful objections, enlightening thick understandings, gently reducing decorously opposing wills. commissariat, transport, housing of guests, and the servants of guests--all these entered into the matter of the coming wedding. to compass the doing of all things, not only decently and in order, but handsomely, and with a becoming dignity, this required time and thought. and so, it was not until after dinner that katherine found herself at leisure to cease taking thought for the morrow. too tired to rest herself by reading, she wandered out on the troco-ground followed by camp. london had not altogether suited the bull-dog as the summer wore on. now, in his old age, so considerable a change of surroundings put him about both in body and mind. seeing which, richard had begged his mother to take the dog with her on leaving town. camp benefited, unquestionably, by his return to country air. his coat stared less. he carried his ears and tail with more sprightliness and conviction. still he fretted after his absent master, and followed katherine's footsteps very closely, his forehead more than ever wrinkled, and his unsightly mouth pensive notwithstanding its perpetual grin. he attended her now, squatting beside her when she paused, trotting slowly beside her when she moved, a silent, persistent, and, as it might seem, somewhat fatefully faithful companion. yet the occasion was to all appearances far from fateful, the night and the scene, alike, being very fair. the moon had not yet risen, but a brightness behind the sawlike edge of the fir woods eastward heralded its coming, while sufficient light yet remained in the western and northern sky for the mass of the house, its ruddy walls and ranges of mullioned windows, its pierced, stone parapet and stacks of slender, twisted chimneys, to be seen with a low-toned distinctness of form and colour infinitely charming. soft and rich as velvet, it rose, with a certain noble serenity, above its terraces and fragrant, red-walled gardens, under the enormous dome of the tranquil, far-off, evening sky. every aspect of this place, in rain and shine, summer and winter, from dawn to dark and round to dawn again, was familiar to katherine calmady. coming here first, as a bride, the homely splendour of the house, and the gladness of its situation crowning the ridge of hill, appealed strongly to her imagination. later it sheltered her long sorrow, following so hard on the heels of her brief joy. but in both alike, during all the vicissitudes of her thought and of her career, the face of brockhurst remained as that of a friend, kindly, beneficent, increasingly trusted and beloved. and so she had come to know every stick and stone of it, from spacious, vaulted cellar to equally spacious, low-roofed, sun-dried attic--the outlook from each window, the character of each room, the turn of each stairway, the ample proportions of each lobby and stairhead, all the pleasant scents, and sounds, and colours, that haunted it both within and without. it might have been supposed that after so many years of affectionate observation and commerce, brockhurst could have no new word in its tongue, could hold no further self-revelation, for lady calmady. yet, as she passed now from the arcaded garden-hall, supporting the eastern bay of the long gallery, on to the level, green square of the troco-ground, and stood gazing out over the downward sloping park--the rough, short turf of it dotted with ancient thorn trees and broken by beds of bracken and dog-roses--to the long water, glistening like some giant mirror some quarter-mile distant in the valley, she became sensible of a novel element in her present relation to this place. for the first time, in all her long experience, she was at brockhurst quite alone. the house was vacant even of a friend. for julius march had, rather to katherine's surprise, selected just this moment for the paying of his yearly visit to a certain college friend, a scholarly and godly person, now rector of a sleepy, country parish away in the heart of the great, midlandshire grasslands. katherine experienced a momentary sense of injury at his going. yet perhaps it was as well. between the turmoil of the past london season, the coming turmoil of the wedding, and the large and serious issues which that wedding involved, this time of solitude might be salutary. to katherine, just now, it seemed as a bridge carrying her over from one way of life to another. a but slightly known country lay ahead. solitude and self-recollection are good for the soul if it would possess itself in peace. the fair brightness of the indwelling light had not been obscured in her during these months devoted to the world and to society. but it was inevitable that her consciousness of it, and consequently its clear-shining, should have suffered diminution at times. the eager pressure of things to be done, things to be seen, of much conversation, the varied pageant of modern life perpetually presented to her eyes and her intelligence, could not but crowd out the spiritual order somewhat. of late she had had only time to smile upon her god in passing, instead of spending long hours within the courts of his temple. this she knew. it troubled her a little. she desired to return to a condition of more complete self-collectedness. and so, the first movement of surprise past, she hailed her solitude as a means of grace, and strove, in sweet sincerity, to make good use of it. and yet--since the human heart, if sound and wholesome, hungers, even when penetrated by godward devotion, for some fellow-creature on whom to expend its tenderness--katherine, just now, regretted to be alone. the scene was so beautiful, she would gladly have had some one look on it beside herself, and share its charm. then thoughts of the future obtruded themselves. how would little constance quayle view brockhurst? would it claim her love? would she embrace the spirit of it, and make it not only the home of her fair young body, but the home of her guileless heart? katherine yearned in spirit over this girl standing on the threshold of all the deeper experiences of a woman's life, of those amazing revelations which marriage holds for an innocent and modest maiden.--but oh! how lovely are such revelations when the lover is also the beloved! katherine moved on a few paces. the thought of all that, even now at forty-eight, cut her a little too sharply. it is not wise to call up visions of joys that are dead. she would think of something else, so she told herself, as she paused in her rustling gray dress upon the dry, gravel path, the surface of which still sensibly held the warmth of the sun, while camp squatted soberly on his haunches beside her. but, at first, only worrying thoughts responded to her call.--it was not quite kind, surely, of julius to have left home just now. it was a little inconsiderate of him. if she dwelt on the thought of that, clearly it would vex her--so it must be banished. reynolds, the housekeeper, had really been very perverse about the turning of the two larger china-closets into extra dressing-rooms for the week of the wedding, and clara showed an inclination to back her up in opposition. of course the maids would give in--they always did, and that without any subsequent attempt at small reprisals. still the thought of that, too, was annoying and must be banished. at dinner she had received a singular letter from honoria st. quentin. it contained what appeared to katherine as rather over-urgent protestations of affection and offers of service, if at any future time she--the writer--could be of use. the letter was charming in its slight extravagance. but it struck katherine as incomprehensibly penitent in tone--the letter of one who has not treated a friend quite loyally and is hot with anxiety to atone. it was dated this morning too, and must have been posted at some surprisingly early hour to have thus reached brockhurst by the day mail. lady calmady did not quite relish the missive, somehow, notwithstanding its affection. it lacked the perfection of personal dignity which had pleased her heretofore in honoria st. quentin. she felt vaguely disappointed. and it followed that this thought, therefore, must go along with the rest. for she refused to be disquieted. she would compel herself to be at peace. so, putting these small sources of discomfort from her, as unworthy both of her better understanding and of this fair hour and fair place, katherine yielded herself wholly to the influences of her surroundings. the dew was rising--promise of another hot, clear day to-morrow--and along with it rose a fragrance of wild thyme from the grass slopes immediately below. that fragrance mingled with the richer scents of jasmine, full-cupped, july roses, scarlet, trumpet-flowered honeysuckle, tall lilies, and great wealth of heavy-headed, clove carnations, veiling the red walls or set in the trim borders of the gardens behind. a strangely belated nightingale still sang in the big, portugal laurel beside the quaint, pepper-pot summer-house in the far corner of the troco-ground, where the twenty-foot brick wall dips, in steps of well-set masonry, to the gray three-foot balustrade. she never remembered to have heard one sing so late in the summer. the bird was answered moreover by another singer from the coppice, bordering the trout-stream which feeds the long water, away across the valley. in each case the song was, note for note, the same. but the chant of the near bird was hotly urgent in its passion of "wooing and winning," while the song of the answerer came chastened and etherealised by distance. a fox barked sharply on the left, out in the warren. and the churring of the night-jars, as they flitted hither and thither over the beds of bracken and dog-roses, like gigantic moths, on swift, silent wings, formed a continuous accompaniment, as of a spinning-wheel, to the other sounds. never, as she watched and listened, had the genius of brockhurst appeared more potent or more enthralling. for a space she rested in it, asking nothing beyond that which sight and hearing could give. it was very good to breathe the scented air and be lulled by the inarticulate music of nature. it was good to cease from self and from all individual striving, to become a part merely of the universal movement of things, a link merely in the mighty chain of universal being. but such an impersonal attitude of mind cannot last long, least of all in the case of a woman! katherine's heart awoke and cried again for some human object on which to expend itself, some kindred intelligence to meet and reflect her own. ah, were she but better, more holy and more wise, these cravings would doubtless not assail her! the worship of the indwelling light would suffice, and she would cease from desire of the love of any creature. but she had not journeyed so far upon the road of perfection yet, as she sadly told herself. far from it. the nightingale sang on, sang of love, not far hence, not far above, not within the spirit only, but here, warm, immediate, and individual. and, do what she would, the song brought to her mind such love, as she herself had known it during the few golden months of her marriage--of meetings at night, sweet and sacred, of partings, sweet and sacred too, at morning, of secret delights, of moments, at once pure and voluptuous, known only to virtuous lovers. it was not often that remembrance of all this came back to her, save as a faint echo of a once clear-sounding voice. indeed she had supposed it all laid away forever, done with, even as the bright colours it had once so pleased her to wear were laid away in high mahogany presses that lined one side of the lofty state-bedroom up-stairs. but now remembrance laid violent hands on her, shaking both mind and body from their calm. the passion of the bird's song, the caressing suavity of the summer night, the knowledge, too, that so soon another bride and bridegroom would dwell here at brockhurst, worked upon her strangely. she struggled with herself, surprised and half angered by the force of her own emotion, and pleaded at once against, and for, the satisfaction of the immense nostalgia which possessed her. "ah! it is bitter, very bitter, to have had at once so much and so little. bow my proud neck, o lord, to thy yoke. if my beloved had but been spared to me i had never walked in darkness, far from the way of faith, and my child had never suffered bodily disfigurement. perfect me, o god, even at the cost of further suffering. it is sad to be shut away from the joys of my womanhood, while my life is still strong in me. break me, o lord, even as the ploughshare breaks the reluctant clod. hold not thy hand till the work be fully accomplished, and the earth be ready for the sowing which makes for harvest. give me back the beloved of my youth, the beloved of my life, if only for an hour. teach me to submit. show me, beyond all dread of contradiction that vows, truly made, hold good even in that mysterious world beyond the grave. show me that though the body--dear home and vehicle of love--may die, yet love in its essence remains everlastingly conscious, faithful and complete. bend my will to harmony with thine, o lord, and cleanse me of self-seeking. ah! but still let me see his face once again, once again, oh, my god--and i will rebel no more. let me look on him, once again, if only for a moment, and i shall be content. hear me, i am greatly troubled, i am athirst--i faint----" katherine's prayer, which had risen into audible speech, sank away into silence. the near nightingale had fallen silent also. but from across the valley, chastened and etherealised by distance, still came the song of the answering bird. to katherine those fine and delicate notes were full of promise. they bore testimony to the soul which dwells forever behind the outward aspect and sense. whether she fainted in good truth, or whether she passed, for a while, into that sublimated state of consciousness wherein the veils of habit cease to blind and something of the eternal essence and values of things is revealed, perception overstepping, for once, the limits of ordinary, earth-bound apprehension and transcending ordinary circumscription of time and place, she could not tell. nor did she greatly care. for a great peace descended upon her, accompanied by a gentle, yet penetrating expectancy. she stood very still, her feet set on the warm gravel, the night air wrapping her about as with a fragrant garment, the ghostly sweetness of that far-away bird-song in her ears, while momentarily the conviction of the near presence of the man who had so loved her, and whom she had so loved, deepened within her. and therefore it was without alarm, without any shock of amazement, that gradually she found her awareness of that presence change from something felt, to something actually seen. he came towards her--that first richard calmady, her husband and lover--across the smooth, green levels of the troco-ground which lay dusky in the mingling half-lights of the nearly departed sunset and the rising moon, as he had come to her a hundred times in life, back from the farms or the moorlands, from sport or from business, or from those early morning rides, the clean freshness of the morning upon him, after seeing his race-horses galloped. he came bareheaded, in easy workmanlike garments, short coat, breeches, long boots and spurs. he came with the repose of movement which is born of a well-knit frame, and a temperate life, and the grace of gentle blood. he came with the half smile on his lips, and the gladness in his eyes when they first met hers, which had always been there however brief the parting. and katherine perceived it was just thus our beloved dead must needs return to us--should they return at all--laying aside the splendours of the spirit in tenderness for mortal weakness. even as the christ laid aside the visible glory of the godhead, and came a babe among men, so must they come in humble, every-day fashion, graciously taking on the manner and habit common to them during earthly life. therefore she suffered no shrinking, but turned instinctively, as she had turned a hundred times, laughing very softly in the fulness of content, raising her hands, throwing back her head, knowing that he would come behind her and take her hands in his, and kiss her, so, bending down over her shoulder. and, when he came, she did not need to speak, but only to gaze into the well-beloved face, familiar, yet touched--as it seemed to her--with a mysterious and awful beauty, beholding which she divined the answer to many questions. for she perceived, as one waking from an uneasy dream perceives the comfortable truth of day, that her love was not given back to her, for the dear reason that her love had never been taken away. the fiction of time ceased to rule in her, so that the joy of bride and new-wed wife, the strange, sweet perplexities of dawning motherhood were with her now, not as memories merely, but as actual, ever present, deathless fact--the culminating, and therefore permanent, revelation of her individual experience. she perceived this continued and must continue, since it was the fine flower of her nature, the unit of her personal equation, the realisation of the eternal purpose concerning her of almighty god. this fiction of old age was discredited, so was the bitterness of deposition, the mournful fiction of being passed by and relegated to the second place. her place was her own. her standing ground in the universal order, a freehold, absolute and inalienable. she could not abdicate her throne, neither could any wrest it away from her. she perceived that not self-effacement, but self-development, not dissolution, but evolution, was the service required of her. and, as divinely designed contribution to that end was every joy, every sorrow, laid upon her, since by these was she differentiated from all others, by these was she built up into a separate existence, sane, harmonious, well-proportioned, a fair lamp lighted with a burning coal from off the altar of that god of whom it is written, not only that he is a consuming fire, but that he is love. all this, and more, did katherine apprehend, beholding the familiar, yet mysterious countenance of her well-beloved. and the tendency of that apprehension made for tranquillity of spirit, for a sure and certain hope. the faculty which reasons, demands explanation and proof, might not be satisfied, but that higher faculty which divines, accepts, believes, assuredly was so. nor could it be otherwise, since it is the spirit, the idea, not the letter, which giveth life. how long she stood thus, in tender and illuminating, though wordless, communion with the dead, katherine did not know. the deepest spiritual experiences, like the most exquisite physical ones, are to be measured by intensity rather than duration. for a space the vision sensibly held her, the so ardently desired presence there incontestibly beside her, a personality vivid and distinct, yet in a way remote, serene as the immense dome of the cloudless sky, chastened and etherealised as the song of the answering nightingale, and in this differing from any bodily presence, as the song in question differed from that of the bird in the laurel close at hand. gradually, and with such sense of refreshment as one enjoys who, bathing in some clear stream at evening, washes away all soil and sweat of a weary journey, katherine awoke to more ordinary observation of her material surroundings. she became aware that the dog, camp, had turned singularly restless. he slunk away as though wishing to avoid her near neighbourhood, crawled back to her, with dragging hind quarters, cringing and whining as though in acute distress. and, by degrees, another sound obtruded itself, speaking of haste and effort, notably at variance with the delicate and gracious stillness. it came from the highroad crossing the open moor, which loomed up a dark, straight ridge against the southern horizon. it came in rising and falling cadence, but ever nearer and nearer, increasingly distinct, increasingly urgent--the fast, steady trot of a horse. the moon, meanwhile, had swept clear of the saw-like edge of the fir forest, and, while the thin, white light of it broadened upon the dewy grass and the beat of the horse-hoofs rang out clearer and clearer, katherine was aware that the dear vision faded and grew faint. as it had come, softly, without amazement or fear, so it departed, without agitation or sadness of farewell, leaving katherine profoundly consoled, the glory of her womanhood restored to her in the indubitable assurance that what had been of necessity continued, and forever was. and, therefore, she still listened but idly to the approaching sound, not reckoning with it as yet, though the roll of wheels was now added to the rapid beat of the hoofs of the trotting horse. it had turned down over the hillside by the crossroad leading to the upper lodge. suddenly it ceased. the shout of a man's voice, loud and imperative, a momentary pause, then the clang of heavy, iron gates swinging back into place, and once again the roll of wheels and that steady, urgent, determined trot, coming nearer and nearer down the elm avenue, whose stately rows of trees looked as though made of ebony and burnished silver in the slanting moonlight. on it came across the bridge spanning the glistering whiteness of the long water. and on again steadily, and no less rapidly, as though pressed by the hand of a somewhat merciless driver, hot to arrive, bearer of stirring tidings, up the steeply ascending hill to the house. lady calmady listened, beginning to question whom this nocturnal disturber of the peace of brockhurst might be. but only vaguely as yet, since that which she had recently experienced was so great, so wide-reaching in its meaning and promise, that, for the moment, it dwarfed all other possible, all other imaginable, events. the gracious tranquillity which enveloped her could not be penetrated by any anxiety or premonition of momentous happenings as yet. it was not so, however, with camp. for a spirit of extravagant and unreasoning excitement appeared to seize on the dog. forgetful of age, of stiff limbs and short-coming breath, he gamboled round lady calmady, describing crazy circles upon the grass, and barking until the unseemly din echoed back harshly from against the great red and gray façade. he fawned upon her, abject, yet compelling, and, at last, as though exasperated by her absence of response, turned tail and bounded away through the garden-hall and along the terrace, disappearing through the small, arched side-door into the house. and there, within, stir and movement became momentarily more apparent. shifting lights flashed out through the many-paned windows, as though in quick search of some eagerly desired presence. nevertheless, for a little space, katherine lingered, the fragrance of the wild thyme and of the fair gardens still about her, the somnolent churring of the night-jars and faint notes of the nightingale's song still saluting her ears. it was so difficult to return to and cope with the demands of ordinary life. for had she not been caught up into the third heaven and heard words unspeakable, unlawful, in their entirety, for living man to utter? but things terrestrial, in this case as in so many other cases, refused to make large room for, or brook delay from, things celestial. two servants came out, hurriedly, from that same arched side-door. then clara, that devoted handmaiden, called from the window of the red drawing-room. "her ladyship's there, on the troco-ground. don't you see, mr. winter?" the butler hurried along the terrace. katherine met him on the steps of the garden-hall. "is anything wrong, winter?" she asked kindly, for the trusted servant betrayed unusual signs of emotion. "am i wanted?" "sir richard has returned, my lady," he said, and his voice trembled. "sir richard is in the gun-room. he gave orders that your ladyship should be told that he would be glad to speak to you immediately." chapter ix in which dickie shakes hands with the devil "my dear, this is quite unexpected." lady calmady's tone was one of quiet, innate joyousness. a gentle brightness pervaded her whole aspect and manner. she looked wonderfully young, as though the hands of the clock had been put back by some twenty and odd years. every line had disappeared from her face, and in her eyes was a clear shining very lovely to behold. richard glanced at her as she came swiftly towards him across the room. then he looked down again, and answered deliberately:-- "yes, it is, as you say, quite unexpected. this time last night i as little anticipated being back here as you anticipated my coming. but one's plans change rapidly and radically at times. mine have done so." he sat at the large, library writing-table, a pile of letters, papers, circulars before him, judged unworthy of forwarding, which had accumulated during his absence. he tore off wrappers, tore open envelopes, quickly yet methodically, as though bending his mind with conscious determination to the performance of a self-inflicted task. looking at the contents of each in turn, with an odd mixture of indifference and close attention, he flung the major part into the waste-paper basket set beside his revolving-chair. a tall, green-shaded lamp shed a circle of vivid light upon the silver and maroon leather furnishings of the writing-table, upon the young man's bent head, and upon his restless hands as they grasped, and straightened, and then tore, with measured if impatient precision, the letters and papers lying before him. lady calmady stood resting the tips of her fingers on the corner of the table, looking down at him with those clear shining eyes. his reception of her had not been demonstrative, but of that she was hardly sensible. the reconciling assurances of faith, the glories of the third heaven, still dazzled her somewhat. her feet hardly touched earth yet, so that her mother-love and all its sensitive watchfulness was, as yet, somewhat in abeyance. she spoke again with the same quiet joyousness of tone. "you should have telegraphed to me, dearest, and then all would have been ready to welcome you. as it is, i fear, you must feel yourself a trifle neglected. i have been, or have fancied myself, mightily busy all day--foolishly cumbered about much serving--and had gone out to forget maids, and food, and domesticities generally, into the dear garden."--she paused, smiling. "ah! it is a gracious night," she said, "full of inspiration. you must have enjoyed the drive home. the household refuses to take this marriage of yours philosophically, dickie. it demands great magnificence, quite as much, be sure, for its own glorification as for yours. it also multiplies small difficulties, after the manner of well-conducted households, as i imagine, since the world began." richard tore the prospectus of a mining company, offering wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, right across with a certain violence. "oh, well, the household may forego its magnificence and cease from the multiplication of small difficulties alike, as far as any marriage of mine is concerned. you can tell the household so to-morrow, mother, or i can. perhaps the irony of the position would be more nicely pointed by the announcement coming directly from myself. that would heighten the drama." "but, dickie, my dearest?" katherine said, greatly perplexed. "the whole affair is at an end. lady constance quayle is not going to marry me, and i am not going to marry lady constance quayle. on that point at least she and i are entirely at one. all london will know this to-morrow. perhaps brockhurst, in the interest of its endangered philosophy, had better know it to-night." richard leaned forward, opening, tearing, sorting the papers again. a rasping quality was in his voice and speech, hitherto unknown to his mother, a cold, imperious quality in his manner, also, new to her. and these brought her down to earth, setting her feet thereon uncompromisingly. and the earth on which they were thus set was, it must be owned, rather ugly. a woman made of weaker stuff would have cried out against such sudden and painful declension. but katherine, happily both for herself and for those about her, waking even from dreams of noble and far-reaching attainment, waked with not only her wits, but her heart, in steady action. yet she in nowise went back on the revelation that had been vouchsafed to her. it was in nowise disqualified or rendered suspect, because the gamut of human emotion proved to have more extended range and more jarring discords than she had yet reckoned with. her mind was large enough to make room for novel experience in sorrow, as well as in joy, retaining the while its poise and sanity. therefore she, recognising a new phase in the development of her child, without hesitation or regret of self-love for the disturbance of her own gladness braced herself to meet it. his pride had been wounded--somehow, she knew not how--to the very quick. and the smart of that wound was too shrewd, as yet, for any precious balms of articulate tenderness to soothe it. she must give it time to heal a little, meanwhile setting herself scrupulously to respect his dark humour, meet his pride with pride, his calm with at least equal calmness. she drew a chair up to the end of the table, and settled herself to listen quite composedly. "it will be well, dearest," she said, "that you should explain to me clearly what has happened. to do so may avert possible complications." richard's hands paused among the papers. he regarded lady calmady reflectively, not without a grudging admiration. but an evil spirit possessed him, a necessity of mastery--inevitable reaction from recently endured humiliation--which provoked him to measure his strength against hers. he needed a sacrifice to propitiate his anger. that sacrifice must be in some sort a human one. so he deliberately pulled the tall lamp nearer, and swung his chair round sideways, leaning his elbow on the table, with the result that the light rested on his face. it did more. it rested upon his body, upon his legs and feet, disclosing the extent of their deformity. involuntarily katherine shrank back. it was as though he had struck her. morally, indeed, he had struck her, for there was a cynical callousness in this disclosure, in this departure from his practice of careful and self-respecting concealment. meanwhile richard watched her, as, shrinking, her eyelids drooped and quivered. "mother," he said, quietly and imperatively.--and when, not without perceptible effort, she again raised her eyes to his, he went on:--"i quite agree with you that it will be well for me to explain with a view to averting possible complications. it has become necessary that we should clearly understand one another--at least that you, my dear mother, should understand my position fully and finally. we have been too nice, you and i, heretofore, and, the truth being very far from nice, have expended much trouble and ingenuity in our efforts to ignore it. we went up to london in the fond hope that the world at large would support us in our self-deception. so it did, for a time. but, being in the main composed of very fairly honest and sensible persons, it has grown tired of sentimental lying, of helping us to bury our heads ostrich-like in the sand. it has gone over to the side of truth--that very far from flattering or pretty truth to which i have just alluded--with this result, among others, that my engagement has come to an abrupt and really rather melodramatic conclusion." he paused. "go on, richard," lady calmady said, "i am listening." he drew himself up, sitting very erect, keeping his eyes steadily fixed on her, speaking steadily and coldly, though his lips twitched a little. "lady constance did me the honour to call on me last night, rather later than this, absenting herself in the very thick of lady louisa barking's ball for that purpose." katherine moved slightly, her dress rustled. "yes--considering her character and her training it was a rather surprising _démarche_ on her part, and bore convincing testimony to her agitation of mind." "did she come alone?" richard lapsed into an easier position. "oh, dear no!" he said. "allowing for the desperation which dictated her proceedings, they were carried out in a very regular manner, with a praiseworthy regard for appearances. lady constance is, in my opinion, a very sweet person. she is perfectly modest and has an unusual regard--as women go--for honour and duty--as women understand them."--again his voice took on that rasping quality. "she brought a friend, a young lady, with her. fortunately there was no occasion for me to speak to her--she had the good taste to efface herself during our interview. but i saw her in the hall afterwards. i shall always remember that very distinctly. so, i imagine, will she. then lord shotover waited outside with the carriage. oh! believe me, admitting its inherent originality, the affair was conducted with an admirable regard for appearances." again the regular flow of richard's speech was broken. his throat had gone very dry. "lady constance appealed to me in extremely moving terms, articulate and otherwise, to set her free." "to set her free--and upon what grounds?" "upon the rather crude, but preeminently sensible grounds, my dear mother, that after full consideration, she found the bid was not high enough." "indeed," katherine said. "yes, indeed, my dear mother," richard repeated. "does that surprise you? it quite ceased to surprise me, when she pointed out the facts of the case. for she was touchingly sincere. i respected her for that. the position was an ungracious one for her. she has a charming nature, and really wanted to spare me just as much as was possible along with the gaining of her cause. her gift of speech is limited, you know, but then no degree of eloquence or diplomacy could have rendered that which she had to say agreeable to my self-esteem. oh! on the whole she did it very well, very conclusively." richard raised his head, pausing a moment. again that dryness of the throat checked his utterance. and then, recalling the scene of the past night, a great wave of unhappiness, pure and simple, of immense disappointment, immense self-disgust broke over him. his anger, his outraged pride, came near being swamped by it. he came near losing his bitter self-control and crying aloud for help. but he mastered the inclination, perhaps unfortunately, and continued speaking. "yes, decidedly, with the exception of ludovic, that family do not possess ready tongues, yet they contrive to make their meaning pretty plain in the end. i have just driven over from whitney, and am fresh from a fine example of eventual plain speaking from that excellent father of the family, lord fallowfeild. it was instructive. for the main thing, after all, as we must both agree, mother, is to understand oneself clearly and to make oneself clearly understood. and in this respect you and i, i'm afraid, have failed a good deal. blinded by our own fine egoism we have even failed altogether to understand others. lady constance, for instance, possesses very much more character than it suited us to credit her with." "you are harsh, dearest," katherine murmured, and her lips trembled. "not at all," he answered. "i have only said good-bye to lying. can you honestly deny, my dear mother, that the whole affair was just one of convenience? i told you--it strikes me now as a rather brutally primitive announcement--that i wanted a wife because i wanted a son--a son to prove to me the entirety of my own manhood, a son to give me at second hand certain obvious pleasures and satisfactions which i am debarred, as you know, from obtaining at first hand. you engaged to find me a bride. poor, little lady constance quayle, unfortunately for her, appeared to meet our requirements, being pretty and healthy, and too innocent and undeveloped to suspect the rather mean advantage we proposed to take of her.--what? i know it sounds rather gross stated thus plainly. but, the day of lies being over, dare you deny it?--well then, we proceeded to traffic for this desirable bit of young womanhood, of prospective maternity,--to buy her from such of her relations as were perverted enough to countenance the transaction, just as shamelessly as though we had gone into the common bazar, after the manner of the cynical east, and bargained for her, poor child, in fat-tailed sheep or cowries. doesn't it appear to you almost incredible, almost infamous that we--you and i, mother--should have done this thing? the price we offered seemed sufficient to some of her people--not to all, i have learned that past forgetting to-day, thanks to lord fallowfeild's thick-headed, blundering veracity. but, thank heaven, she had more heart, more sensibility, more self-respect, more decency, than we allowed for. she plucked up spirit enough to refuse to be bought and sold like a pedigree filly or heifer. i think that was rather heroic, considering her traditions and the pressure which had been brought to bear to keep her silent. i can only honour and reverence her for coming to tell me frankly, though at the eleventh hour, that she preferred a man of no particular position or fortune, but with the ordinary complement of limbs, to brockhurst, and the house in london, and my forty to forty-five thousand a year, plus----" richard laughed savagely, leaning forward, spreading out his arms. "well, my dear mother,--since as i say the day of lies is over,--plus the remnant of a human being you may see here, at this moment, if you will only have the kindness to look!" at first katherine had listened in mute surprise, bringing her mind, not without difficulty, into relation to the immediate and the present. then watchful sympathy had been aroused, then anxiety, then tenderness, denying itself expression since the time for it was not yet ripe. but as the minutes lengthened and the flow of richard's speech not only continued, but gained in volume and in force, sympathy, anxiety, tenderness, were merged in an emotion of ever-deepening anguish, so that she sat as one who contemplates, spellbound, a scene of veritable horror. from regions celestial to regions terrestrial she had been hurried with rather dislocating suddenness. but her sorry journey did not end there. for hardly were her feet planted on solid earth again, than the demand came that she should descend still further--to regions sub-terrestrial, regions frankly infernal. and this descent to hell, though rapid to the point of astonishment, was by no means easy. rather was it violent and remorseless--a driving as by reiterated blows, a rude merciless dragging onward and downward. yet even so, for all the anguish and shame--as of unseemly exposure--the perversion of her intention and action, the scorn so ruthlessly poured upon her, it was less of herself, the compelled, than of richard, the compelling, that she thought. for even while his anger thus drove and dragged her, he himself was tortured in the flame far below,--so it seemed, and that constituted the finest sting of her agony--beyond her power to reach or help. she, after all, but stood on the edge of the crater, watching. he fought, right down in the molten waves of it--fought with himself, too, more fiercely even than he fought with her. so that now, as years ago waiting outside the red drawing-room, hearing the stern, peremptory tones of the surgeons, the moan of unspeakable physical pain, the grating of a saw, picturing the dismemberment of the living body she so loved, katherine was tempted to run a little mad and beat her beautiful head against the wall. but age, while taking no jot or tittle from the capacity of suffering, still, in sane and healthy natures, brings a certain steadiness to the brain and coolness to the blood. therefore katherine sat very still and silent, her sweet eyes half closed, her spirit bowed in unspoken prayer. surely the all-loving god, who, but a brief hour ago, had vouchsafed her the fair vision of the delight of her youth, would ease his torment and spare her son? and, all the while, outward nature remained reposeful and gracious in aspect as ever. the churring of the night-jars, the occasional bark of the fox in the warren, the song of the answering nightingales, wandered in at the open casements. and, along with these, came the sweetness of the beds of wild thyme from the grass slopes, and the rich, languid scent of the blossom of the little, round-headed, orange trees set, in green tubs below the carven guardian griffins, on the flight of steps leading up to the main entrance. that which had been lovely, continued lovely still. and, therefore perhaps,--she could hope it even in the fulness of her anguish,--the gates of hell might stand open to ascending as well as descending feet and so that awful road might at last--at last--be retraced by this tormented child of hers, whom, though he railed against her, she still supremely loved. but richard, whether actually or intentionally it would be difficult to say, misinterpreted and resented her silence and apparent calm. he waited for a time, his eyes fastened upon her half-averted face. then he picked up one of the remaining packets from the table, tore off the wrapper, glanced at the contents, stretched out his left arm holding the said contents suspended over the waste-paper basket. "yes, it is evident," he declared, "even you do not care to look! well, then, must you not admit that you and i have been guilty of an extravagance of fatuous folly, and worse, in seriously proposing that a well-born, sensitive girl should not only look at, habitually and closely, but take for all her chance in life a crippled dwarf like me--an anomaly, a human curiosity, a creature so unsightly that it must be carried about like any baby-in-arms, lest its repulsive ungainliness should sicken the bystanders if, leaving the shelter of a railway-rug and an armchair, it tries--unhappy brute--to walk?--oh! i'm not angry with her. i don't blame her. i'm not surprised. i agree with her down to the ground. i sympathise and comprehend--no man more. i told her so last night--only amazed at the insane egoism that could ever have induced me to view the matter in any other light. women are generally disposed to be hard on one another. but if you, my dear mother, should be in any degree tempted to be hard on constance quayle, i beg you to consider your own engagement, your own marriage, my father's----" here katherine interrupted him, rising in sudden revolt. "no, no, richard," she said, "that is more, my dear, than i can either permit or can bear. if you have any sort of mercy left in you, do not bring your father's name, and that which lies between him and me, into this hideous conversation." the young man looked hard at her, and then opening his hand, let the pieces of torn paper flutter down into the basket. it was done with a singularly measured action, symbolic of casting off some last tie, severing some last link, which bound his life and his allegiance to his companion. "yes, exactly," he said. "as i expected, the day of lying being over, you as good as own it an outrage to your taste, and your affections, that so frightful a thing, as i am, should venture to range itself alongside your memories of your husband. out of your own mouth are you judged, my dear mother. and, if i am thus to you, upon whom, after all, i have some natural claim, what must i be to others? think of it! what indeed?" katherine made no attempt to answer. perception of the grain of truth which seasoned the vast, the glaring, injustice of his accusations unnerved her. his speech was ingeniously cruel. his humour such, that it was vain to protest. and the hopelessness of it all affected her to the point of physical weakness. she moved across the room, intending to gain the door and go, for it seemed to her the limit of her powers of endurance had been reached. but her strength would not carry her so far. she stumbled on the upturned corner of the shining, tiger-skin rug, recovered herself trembling, and laid hold of the high, narrow, marble shelf of the chimneypiece for support. she must rest a little lest her strength should wholly desert her, and she should fall before reaching the door. behind her, within the circle of lamplight, richard remained, still sorting, tearing, flinging away that which remained of the pile of papers. this deft, persistent activity of his, in its mixture of purpose and abstraction was agitating--seeming, to katherine's listening ears, as though it might go on endlessly, until not only these waste papers, but all and everything within his reach, things spiritual, things of the heart, duties, obligations, gracious and tender courtesies, as well as things merely material, might be thus relentlessly scrutinised, judged worthless, rent asunder and cast forth. what would be spared she wondered, what left? and when the work of destruction was completed, what would follow next?--bracing herself, she turned, purposing to close the interview by some brief pleading of indisposition and to escape. but, as she did so, the sound of tearing ceased. richard slipped down from his place at the writing-table, and shuffling across the room, flung himself down in the long, low armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace. "i don't want to detain you for an unreasonable length of time, mother," he said. "we understand each other in the main, i think, and that without subterfuge or self-deception at last. but there are details to be considered, and, as i leave here early to-morrow morning, i think you'll feel with me it's desirable we should have our talk out. there are a good many eventualities for which it's only reasonable and prudent to make provision on the eve of an indefinitely long absence. practically a good many people are dependent on me, one way and another, and i don't consider it honourable to leave their affairs at loose ends, however uncertain my own future may be." richard's voice had still that rasping quality, while his bearing was instinct with a coldly dominating, and almost aggressive, force. katherine, though little addicted to fear, felt strangely shaken, strangely alienated by the dead weight of the personality, by perception of the innate and tremendous vigour, of this being to whom she had given birth. she had imagined, specially during the last few months of happy and intimate companionship, that if ever mother knew her child, she knew richard--through and through. but it appeared she had been mistaken. for here was a new richard, at once terrible and magnificent, regarding whom she could predicate nothing with certainty. he defied her tenderness, he out-paced her imagination, he paralysed her will. between his thoughts, desires, intentions, and hers, a blind blank space had suddenly intruded itself, impenetrable to her thought. in person he was here close beside her, in mind he was despairingly far away. and to this last, not only his words, but his manner, his expression, his singular, yet sombre, beauty, bore convincing testimony. he had matured with an almost unnatural rapidity, leaving her far behind. in his presence she felt diffident, mentally insecure, even as a child. she remained standing, holding tightly to the narrow ledge of the mantelpiece. she felt dazed and giddy as in face of some upheaval, some cataclysm, of nature. in relation to her son she was conscious, in truth, that her whole world had suffered shipwreck. "where are you going, dickie?" she asked at last very simply. "anywhere and everywhere where amusement, or even the semblance of it, is to be had," he answered.--"do you wish to know how long i shall be away? just precisely as long as amusement in any form offers itself, and as my power of being amused remains to me. this strikes you as slightly ignoble? i am afraid that's a point, my dear mother, upon which i am supremely indifferent. you and i have posed rather extensively on the exalted side of things so far, have strained at gnats and finished up by swallowing a remarkably full-grown camel. this whole business of my proposed marriage has been anything but graceful, when looked at in the common-sense way in which most people, of necessity, look at it. lord fallowfeild appealed to me against myself--which appeared to me slightly humorous--as one man of the world to another. that was an eye-opener. it was likewise a profitable lesson. i promptly laid it to heart. and it is exclusively from the point of view of the man of the world that i propose to regard myself, and my circumstances, and my personal peculiarities, in future. so, to begin with, if you please, from this time forth, we put aside all question of marriage in my case. we don't make any more attempts to buy innocent and well-bred, young girls, inviting them to condone my obvious disabilities in consideration of my little title and my money." richard ceased to look at lady calmady. he looked away through the open window into the serene sky of the summer night, a certain hunger in his expression not altogether pleasant to witness. "fortunately," he continued, with something between a laugh and a sneer, "there is a mighty army of women--always has been--who don't come under the head of innocent, young girls, though some of them have plenty of breeding of a kind. they attach no superstitious importance to the marriage ceremony. my position and money may obtain me consolations in their direction." lady calmady ceased to require the cold support of the marble mantelshelf. "it is unnecessary for us to discuss that subject, at least, richard," she said. the young man turned his head again, looking full at her. and again the distance that divided her from him became to her cruelly apparent, while his strength begot in her a shrinking of fear. "i am sorry," he replied, "but i can't agree with you there. it is inevitable that we should differ in the future, and that you should frequently disapprove. i can't expect you to emancipate yourself from prejudice, as i am already emancipated. i am not sure i even wish that. still, whatever the future may bring forth, of this, my dear mother, i am determined to make a clean breast to-night, so that you shall never have cause to charge me with lack of frankness or of attempt to deceive you." yet, at the moment, the poor mother's heart cried out to be deceived, if thereby it might be eased a little of suffering. then, a nobler spirit prevailing within her, katherine rallied her fortitude. better he should be bound to her even by cynical avowal of projected vice, than not bound at all. listening now, she gained the right--a bitter enough right--to command a measure of his confidence in those still darker days which, as she apprehended, only too certainly lay ahead. so she answered calmly:-- "go on, richard. as you say we may differ in the future. i may disapprove, but i can be silent. you are right. it is better for us both that i should hear." and once more the young man was compelled to yield her a grudging admiration. his tone softened somewhat. "i don't like to see you stand, mother," he said. "our conversation may be prolonged. one never quite knows what may crop up. you will be overtired. and to-morrow, when i am gone, there will be things to do." lady calmady drew forward the chair from the end of the writing-table. her back was towards the lamp, her face in shadow. of this she was glad. in a degree it lessened the strain. the sweet, night air, coming in at the open casements, fluttered the lace on her bodice, as with the touch of a light, cool hand. of this she was glad too. it was refreshing, and she grew increasingly exhausted and physically weak. richard observed her, not without solicitude. "i am afraid you are not well, mother," he said. but katherine shook her head, smiling upon him with misty eyes and lips somewhat tremulous. "i am always well," she replied. "only to-night it has been given me to scale heights and sound opposing depths, and i am a little overcome by perplexity and by surprise. but what does that signify? i shall have plenty of time--too much probably--in which to rest and range my ideas when--you are gone, my dearest." "you must not be here alone." "oh no! people will visit me, no doubt, animated by kindly wishes to lessen my solitude," she answered, still smiling. remembrance of honoria st. quentin's letter came to her mind. could it be that the girl had some inkling of what was in store for her, and that this had inspired the slight over-warmth of her protestations of affection?--"honoria would always be ready to come, should i ask her," she said. all solicitude passed from richard's expression, all softening from his tone. "by all means ask her. that would cap the climax, and round the irony of the situation to admiration!" "indeed? why?" katherine inquired, painfully impressed by the renewed bitterness of his manner. "if you're fond of her that is convincingly sufficient. she and i have never been very sympathetic, but that's a detail. i shall be gone. therefore pray have her, or anybody else you happen to fancy, so long as you do have some one. you mustn't be here alone." "julius remains faithful through all chances and changes." "but i imagine even julius has sufficient social sense to perceive that faithfulness may be a little out of place at this juncture. at least i sincerely hope he'll perceive it, for otherwise he will have to be made to do so--and that will be a nuisance." "dickie, dickie, what are you implying?" lady calmady exclaimed. "by what strange and unlovely thoughts are you possessed to-night?" "i am learning to look at things as the average man of the world looks at them, that's all," he said. "we have been too refined, you and i, to be self-critical, with the consequence that we have allowed ourselves a considerable degree of latitude in many directions. julius' permanent residence here ranks among the fine-fanciful disregardings of accepted proprieties with which we have indulged ourselves. but spades are to be called spades in future--at least by me. so, for the very same reason that i go forth, like the average man of the world, to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season, do i object to julius, or any other man, being your guest during my absence, unless you have some woman of your own position in life living here with you. the levels in social matters have changed, once and for all. i have come to a sane mind and renounced the eccentric subterfuges and paltry hypocrisies, by means of which we have attempted, you and i, to keep disagreeable facts at bay. truth, naked and unabashable, is the only goddess i worship henceforth." he leaned forward, laying his hands upon the arms of his chair. his manner was harsh still. but all coldness had departed from it, rather did a white heat of passion consume him dreadful to witness. "yes, it is wisest to repeat that, so that, on your part, there may be no excuse for any shadow of misapprehension. the levels have altered. the old ones can never be restored. i want to have you grasp this, mother--swallow it, digest it, so that it passes into fibre and tissue of your every thought about me. for an acutely, unscientific, an ingeniously unreasonable, idea obtains widely among respectable, sentimental, so-called religious persons, regarding those who are the victims of disfiguring accident, or, like myself, are physically disgraced from birth. because we have been deprived of our natural rights, because we have so abominably little, we are expected to be slavishly grateful for the contemptible pittance that we have. because, slothfully, by his neglect, or, wantonly, for his amusement, the creator has tortured us, maiming, distorting us up as a laughing-stock before all man and womankind--because he has played a ghastly and brutal practical joke on us, fixing the marks of low comedy in our living flesh and bone--therefore we, forsooth, are to be more pious, more clean-living, temperate, and discreet than the rest--to bow amiably beneath the cross, gratefully to kiss the rod! those irregularities of conduct which are smiled at, and taken for granted, in a man made after the normal, comely fashion, become a scandal in the case of a poor, unhappy devil like me, at which good people hold up their hands in horror. faugh!--i tell you i'm sick of such cowardly cant. a pretty example the almighty's set me of justice and mercy! handsome encouragement he has given me to be virtuous and sober! much i have for which to praise his holy name! arbitrarily, without excuse, or faintest show of antecedent reason, he has elected to curse. and the curse will cling forever and ever, till they lay me in a coffin nearly half as short again as that of any other man, and leave the hideousness of my deformity to be obliterated and purged at last--eaten away by the worms in the dark." richard stretched out his hands, palms upward. "and in return for all this shall i bless? no, indeed--no, thank you. not even towards god almighty himself will i play the part of lick-spittle and sycophant. i have fine enough stuff in me, let alone the energy begotten by the flagrance of his injustice, to take higher grounds with him than that. i will break what men hold to be his laws, wherever and whenever i can--i will make hay of his so-called natural and moral order, just as often as i get the chance. i will curse, and again, curse back." the speaker's voice was deep and resonant, filling the whole room. his utterance deliberate and unshaken. his face dark with the malign beauty of implacable hatred. hearing him, seeing him thus, katherine calmady's fortitude forsook her. she ceased to distinguish or discriminate. nature gave way. she knelt upon the floor before him, her hands clasped, tears coursing down her cheeks. but of her attitude and aspect she was unconscious. "oh, richard, richard!" she cried, "forgive me. curse me, my dearest, throw all the blame on me, my dearest--i accept it--not on god. only try, try to forgive! forgive me for being your mother. forgive me that i ever loved and married. forgive me the intolerable wrong which, all unknowingly, i did you before your birth. i humble myself before you, and with reason. for i am the cause, i, who would give my life for your happiness, my blood for your healing, a thousand times. but through all these years i have done my poor best to serve you and to make up. the hypocrisies and subterfuges which you lash so scornfully--and rightly perhaps--were the fruit of my overcare for you. rail at me. i deserve it. perhaps i have been faithless, but only once or twice, and for a moment. i was faithless towards you here, in the garden to-night. but then i supposed you content. ah! i hardly know what i say!--only rail at me, my beloved, not at god. and then try--try not to leave me in anger. try, before you go, to forgive!" richard had sunk back in his chair, his hands clasped under his head, watching her. it gave him the strangest sensation to see his mother kneeling before him thus. at first it shocked him almost to the point of heated protest, as against a thing unpermissible and indecorous. then the devils of wounded pride, of anarchy, and of revolt asserting themselves, he began to relish, to be appeased by, the unseemly sight. little lady constance quayle, and all that of which she was the symbol, had disappointed and escaped him. but here was a woman, worth a dozen constance quayles, in beauty, in intellect, and in heart, prostrate before him, imploring his clemency as the penitent implores the absolution of the priest! an evil gladness took him that he had power thus to subjugate so regal a creature. his gluttony of inflicting pain--since he himself suffered--his gluttony of exercising dominion--since he himself had been defied and defrauded--was in a degree satisfied. his arrogance was at once reinforced and assuaged. "it is absurd to speak of forgiveness," he said presently, and slowly, "as it is absurd to speak of restitution. these are mere words, having no real tally in fact. we appear to have volition, but actually and essentially we are as leaves driven by the wind. where it blindly drives, there we blindly go. so it has been from the beginning. so it always will be. in the last twenty-four hours there are many things i have ceased to believe in, and among them, my dear mother, is human responsibility." he paused, and motioned lady calmady towards her chair with a certain authority. "therefore calm yourself," he said. "grieve as little as may be about all this matter, and let us talk it over without further emotion." he waited a brief space, giving her time to recover her composure, and then continued coldly, with a careful abstention from any show of feeling. "let us clear our minds of cant, and go forward knowing that there is really neither good nor evil. for these--even as god himself, whose existence i treated from the anthro-pomorphic standpoint just now, so as to supply myself with a target to shoot at, a windmill at which to tilt, a row of ninepins set up for the mere satisfaction of knocking them down again--these are plausible delusions invented by man, in the vain effort to protect himself and his fellows from the profound sense of loneliness, and impotence, which seizes on him if he catches so much as a passing glimpse of the gross comedy of human aspiration, human affection, briefly, human existence." but, strive as he might, excitement gained on richard once more, for young blood is hot and gallops masterfully along the veins, specially under the whip of real or imagined disgrace. he sat upright, grasping the arms of his chair, and looking, not at his mother, but away into the deep of the summer night. "perhaps my personal peculiarities confer on me unusually acute perception of the inherent grossness of the human comedy. i propose to take the lesson to heart. they teach me not to sacrifice the present to the future, but to fling away ideals like so much waste paper, and just take that which i can immediately get. they tell me to limit my horizon, and go the common way of common, coarse-grained, sensual man--in as far as that way is possible to me--and be of this world worldly. and so, mother, i want you to understand that from this day forth i turn over a new leaf, not only in thought, but in conduct. i am going to have just all that my money and position, and even this vile deformity--for, by god, i'll use that too--what people won't give for love they'll give for curiosity--can bring me of pleasure and notoriety. i am going to lay hold of life with these rather horribly strong arms of mine"--he looked across at lady calmady with a sneering smile.--"strong?" he repeated, "strong as a young bull-ape's. i mean to tear the very vitals out of living, to tear knowledge, excitement, intoxication, out of it, making them, by right of conquest, my own. i will compel existence to yield me all that it yields other men, and more--because my senses are finer, my acquaintance with sorrow more intimate, my quarrel with fortune more vital and more just. as i cannot have a wife, i'll have mistresses. as i cannot have honest love, i'll have gratified lust. i am not stupid. i shall not follow the beaten track. my imagination has been stimulated into rather dangerous activity by the pre-natal insult put upon me. and now that i have emancipated myself, i propose to apply my imagination practically." the young man flung himself back in his chair again. "there ought to be startling results," he said, with gloomy exultation. "don't you think so, mother? there should be startling results." lady calmady bowed herself together, putting her hands over her eyes. then raising her head, she managed to smile at him, though very sadly, her sweet face drawn by exhaustion and marred by lately shed tears. "ah! yes, my dearest," she answered, "no doubt the results will be startling, but whether any sensible increase of happiness, either to yourself or others, will be counted among them is open to question." richard laughed bitterly.--"i shall have lived, anyhow," he rejoined. "worn out, not rusted and rotted out--which, according to our former fine-fanciful programme, seemed the only probable consummation of my unlucky existence." his tone changed, becoming quietly businesslike and indifferent. "i am entering horses for some of the french events, and i go through to paris to-morrow to see various men there and make the necessary arrangements. i shall take chifney with me for a few days. but the stables will not give you any trouble. he will have given all the orders." "very well," katherine said mechanically. "later i shall go on to baden-baden." katharine rallied somewhat. "helen de vallorbes is there," she said, not without a trace of her former pride. "certainly helen de vallorbes is there," he answered. "that is why i go. i want to see her. it is inconsistent, i admit, for helen remains the one person gloriously untouched by the wreck of the former order of things. pray let there be no misconception on that point. she belonged to the ideal order, she belongs to it still." "ah, my dear, my dear!" katharine almost cried. his perversity hurt her a little too much so that the small, upspringing flame of decent pride was quenched. "yes," he went on, "there was my initial, my cardinal, mistake. for i was a traitor to all that was noblest and best in me, when i persuaded myself, and weakly permitted you to persuade me, that a loveless marriage is better than a love in which marriage is impossible,--that lady constance quayle, poor little soul, bought, paid for, and my admitted property, could fill helen's place,--though helen was--and i intend her to remain so, for i care for her enough to hold her honour as sacred as i do your own--forever inaccessible." lady calmady staggered to her feet. "that is enough, richard," she said. "that is enough. if you have more to say, in pity leave it until to-morrow." the young man looked at her strangely. "you are ill, mother," he said. "no, no, i am only broken-hearted," she replied. "and a broken heart, alas! never killed so healthy a body as mine. i shall survive this--and more perhaps. god knows. do not vex yourself about me, dickie.--go, live your life as it seems fit to you. i have not the will, even had i the right, to restrain you. and meanwhile i will be the steward of your goods, as, long ago, when you were a child and belonged to me wholly. you can trust me to be faithful and discreet, at least in financial and practical matters. if you ever need me, i will come even to the ends of the earth. and should the desire take you to return, here you will find me.--and so, good-bye, my darling. i am foolishly tired. i grow lightheaded, and dare not linger, lest in my weakness i say that which i afterwards regret." she passed to the door and went out, without looking back. left to himself richard calmady crossed to the writing-table, swung himself up into the revolving-chair, and remained there sorting and docketing papers far into the night. but once, stooping, with long-armed adroitness, to unlock the lowest drawer of the table, a madness of disgust towards the unsightliness of his own person seized on and tore him. "oh! god, god, god," he cried aloud, in the extremity of his passion, "why hast thou made me thus?" and to that question, as yet, there was no answer, though it rang afar over the sleeping park, and up to the clear shining stars of the profound and peaceful summer night. book v rake's progress chapter i in which the reader is courteously entreated to grow older by the space of some four years, and to sail southward ho! away the southeasterly wind came fresh across the bay from the crested range of the monte sant' angelo. the blossoms of the judas-trees, breaking from the smooth gray stems and branches--on which they perch so quaintly--fell in a red-mauve shower upon the slabs of the marble pavement, upon the mimic waves of the fountain basin, and upon the clustering curls, and truncated shoulders, of the bust of homer standing in the shade of the grove of cypress and ilex which sheltered the square, high-lying hill-garden, at this hour of the morning, from the fierceness of the sun. they floated as far even as the semicircular steps of the pavilion on the extreme right--the leaded dome of which showed dark and livid on the one side, white and glistering on the other, against the immense and radiant panorama of mountain, sea, and sky. the garden, its fountains, neatly clipped shrubs, and formal paved alleys, was backed by a large villa of the square, flat-roofed order common to southern italy. the record of its age had recently suffered modification by application of a coat of stucco, of a colour intermediate between faint lemon-yellow and pearl-gray, and by the renovation of the fine arabesques--pompeian in character--decorating the narrow interspaces between its treble range of venetian shutters. otherwise, the aspect of the villa vallorbes showed but small alteration since the year when, for a few socially historic weeks, the "glorious lady blessington," and her strangely assorted train, condescended to occupy it prior to taking up their residence at the palazzo belvedere near by. the walls were sufficiently massive to withstand a siege. the windows of the ground floor, set in deeply-hewn ashlar work, were cross-barred as those of a prison. above, the central windows and door of the entresol, opened on to a terrace of black and white marble, from which at either end a wide, shallow-stepped, curved stairway led down into the garden. the first floor consisted of a suite of noble rooms, each of whose lofty windows gave on to a balcony of wrought ironwork, very ornate in design. the topmost story, immediately below the painted frieze of the parapet, coincided in height and in detail with the entresol. the villa was superbly situated upon an advancing spur of hill, so that, looking down from its balconies, looking out from between the pale and slender columns of the pavilion, the whole city of naples lay revealed below.--naples, that bewildering union of modern commerce and classic association--its domes, its palms, its palaces, its crowded, hoarse-shouting quays, its theatres and giant churches, its steep and filthy lanes black with shadow, its reeking markets, its broad, sun-scorched piazzas, its glittering, blue waters, its fringing forest of tall masts, and innumerable, close-packed hulls of oceangoing ships! naples, city of glaring contrasts--heaven of rascality, hell of horses, unrivaled all the western world over for natural beauty, for spiritual and moral grossness! naples, breeding, teeming, laughing, fighting, festering, city of music, city of fever and death! naples, at once abominable and enchanting--city to which, spite of noise, stenches, cruelty and squalor, those will return, of necessity, and return again, whose imagination has once been taken captive in the meshes of her many-coloured net! and among the captives of naples, on the brilliant morning in question in the early spring of the year , open-eared and open-eyed to its manifest and manifold incongruities, relishing alike the superficial beauty and underlying bestiality of it, was very certainly helen de vallorbes. several years had elapsed since she had visited this fascinating locality, and she could congratulate herself upon conditions adapted to a more intimate and comprehensive acquaintance with its very various humours than she had ever enjoyed before. she had spent more than one winter here, it is true, immediately subsequent to her marriage. but she had then been required to associate exclusively with the members of her husband's family, and to fill a definite position in the aristocratic society of the place. the tone of that society was not a little lax. yet, being notably defective in the saving grace of humour--as to the feminine portion of it, at all events--its laxity proved sadly deficient in vital interest. the fair neapolitans displayed as small intelligence in their intrigues as in their piety. in respect of both they remained ignorant, prejudiced, hopelessly conventional. their noble ancestresses of the renaissance understood and did these things better--so helen reflected. she found herself both bored and irritated. she feared she had taken up her residence in southern italy quite three centuries too late. but all that was in the past--heaven be praised for it! just now she was her own mistress, at liberty--thanks to the fortune of war--to comport herself as she pleased and obey any caprice that took her. the position was ideal in its freedom, while the intrinsic value of it was enhanced by contrast with recent disagreeable experiences. for the alarms and deprivations of the siege of paris were but lately over. she had come through them unscathed in health and fortune. yet they had left their mark. during those months of all-encompassing disappointment and disaster the eternal laughter--in which she trusted--had rung harshly sardonic, to the breaking down of self-confidence, and light-hearted, cynic philosophy. it scared her somewhat. it made her feel old. it chilled her with suspicion of the actuality of the four last things--death and judgment, heaven and hell. the power of a merry scepticism waxed faint amid the scream of shells and long-drawn, murderous crackle of the _mitrailleuse_. helen, indeed, became actively superstitious, thereby falling low in her own self-esteem. she took to frequenting churches, and spending long, still days with the nuns, her former teachers, within the convent of the sacré coeur. circumstances so worked upon her that she made her submission, and was solemnly and duly received back into the fold of the church. she confessed ardently, yet with certain politic reservations. the priest, after all, is but human. it is only charitable to be considerate of his feelings--so she argued--and avoid overburdening his conscience, poor dear man, by blackening your own reputation too violently! the practice of religion was a help--truly it was, since it served to pass the time. and then, who could tell but that it might not prove really useful hereafter, as, when all is said and done, those dread four last things will present themselves to the mind, in hours of depression with haunting pertinacity? it is clearly wise, then, to be on the safe side of holy church in these matters, accepting her own assertion that she is very certainly on the safe side of the deity. yet, notwithstanding her pious exercises, helen de vallorbes found existing circumstances excessively disturbing and disquieting. she was filled with an immense self-pity. she feared her health was failing. she became nervously sensible of her eight-and-twenty years, telling herself that her youth and the glory of it had departed. she wore black dresses, rolled bandages, pulled lint. selecting mary magdalene as her special intercessor, she made a careful study of the life and legends of that saint. this proved stimulating to her imagination. she proceeded to write a little one-act drama concerning the holy woman's dealings, subsequent to her conversion, quite late in life in fact, with such as survived of her former lovers. the dialogue was very moving in parts. helen read it aloud one bleak january evening, by the light of a single candle, to her friend m. paul destournelle, poet and novelist--with whom, just then, by her own desire, her relations were severely platonic--and they both wept. the application, though delicate, was obvious. and those tears appeared to lay the dust of so many pleasant sins, and promise fertilisation of so heavy a crop of virtue, that--by inevitable action of the law of contraries--the two friends found it more than ever difficult to say farewell and part that night. now looking back on all that, viewing it calmly in perspective, her action and attitude struck helen as somewhat imbecile. prayer and penitence have too often a tendency to kick the beam when fear ceases to weight the balance. and so it followed that the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, presented themselves to her as powers by no means contemptible, or unworthy of invocation, this morning, while she sat at the luxuriously furnished breakfast-table beneath the glistering dome of the airy pavilion and gazed out between its slender columns, over the curving lines of the painted city and glittering waters of the bay, to the cone of vesuvius rising, in imperial purple, against the azure sky. to-day, sign, as she noted, of fine weather, omen, as she trusted, of good fortune, the smoke of its everlasting burnings towered up and up into the translucent atmosphere, and then drifted away--a gigantic, wedge-shaped pennon--towards capri and the open sea. and, beholding these things, out of simple, physical well-being, fulness of bread, conviction of her own undiminished beauty, and the merry devilry begotten of these, she fell to projecting a second, a companion, one-act drama founded upon the life of the magdalene, but, this time, before the saint's conversion, at an altogether earlier stage of her very instructive history. and this drama she would not read to m. destournelle--not a bit of it. in it he should have neither part nor lot.--registering which determination, she shook her charming, honey-coloured head, holding up both hands with a gesture of humorous and well-defined repudiation. for, in truth, the day of m. destournelle appeared, just now, to be very effectually over. it had been reasonable enough to urge her natural fears in journeying through a war-distracted land--although guarded by charles, most discreet and resourceful of english men-servants, and zélie forestier, most capable of french lady's-maids--as excuse for paul destournelle joining her at a wayside station a short distance out of paris and accompanying her south. _a la guerre comme à la guerre._ a beautiful woman can hardly be too careful of her person amid the many and primitive dangers which battle and invasion let loose. de vallorbes himself--detestably jealous though he was--could hardly have objected to her thus securing effective protection, had he been acquainted with the fact. that he was not so acquainted was, of course, the veriest oversight. but, the frontier once reached--the better part of three weeks had elapsed in the reaching of it--and all danger of war and tumult past, both the necessity and, to be frank, the entertainment of m. destournelle's presence became less convincing. helen grew a trifle weary of his transports, his suspicions, his _bel tête de jesu souffrant_, his insatiable literary and personal vanity. the charm, the excitement, of the situation, began to wear rather threadbare, while the practical inconveniences and restrictions it imposed increasingly disclosed themselves. a lover, as helen reflected, provided you see enough of him, offers but small improvement upon a husband. he is liable to become possessive and didactic, after the manner of the natural man. he is liable to forget that the relation is permitted, not legalised--that it exists on suffrance merely, and is therefore terminable at the will of either party. the last days of that same southern journey had been marked by misunderstandings and subsequent reconciliations, in an ascending scale of acrimony and fervour on the part of her companion. in helen's case familiarity tended very rapidly to breed contempt. she ceased to be in the least amused by these recurring agitations. at pisa, after a scene of a particularly excited nature, she lost all patience, frankly told her admirer that she found him not a little ridiculous, and requested him to remove himself, his grievances, and his _bel tête de jesu_ elsewhere. m. destournelle took refuge in nerves, threats of morphia, and his bedchamber,--in the chaste seclusion of which apartment helen left him, unvisited and unconsoled, while, attended by her servants, she gaily resumed her journey. an adorable sense of independence possessed her, of the charm of her own society, of the absence of all external compelling or directing of her movements--no circumscription of her liberty possible--the world before her where to choose! not only were privations, dismal hauntings of siege and slaughter, left behind, and m. destournelle, just now most wearisome of lovers, left behind also, but de vallorbes himself had, for the time being, become a permissibly negligible quantity. the news of more fighting, more bloodshed, had just reached her, though the german armies were marching back to the now wholly german rhine. for upon unhappy paris had come an hour of deeper humiliation than any which could be procured by the action of foreign foes. she was a kingdom divided against herself, a mother scandalously torn by her own children. news had reached helen too, news special and highly commendatory of her husband, angelo luigi francesco. early in that eventful struggle he had enlisted in the garde mobile, all the manhood and honest sentiment resident in him stirred into fruitful activity by the shame and peril of his adopted country. now helen learned he had distinguished himself in the holding of chatillon against the insurgents, had been complimented by macmahon upon his endurance and resource, had been offered, and had accepted, a commission in the regular army. promotion was rapid during the later months of the war, and probability pointed to the young man having started on a serious military career. "well, let him both start and continue," helen commented. "i am the last person to be otherwise than delighted thereat. just in proportion as he is occupied he ceases to be inconvenient. if he succeeds--good. if he is shot--good likewise. for him laurels and a hero's tomb. for me crape and permanent emancipation. an agreeably romantic conclusion to a profoundly unromantic marriage--fresh proof, were such needed, of the truth of the immortal dr. pangloss' saying, that 'all is for the best in this best of all possible worlds!'" in such happy frame of mind did madame de vallorbes continue during her visit to florence and upon her onward way to perugia. but there self-admiration ceased to be all-sufficient for her. she needed to read confirmation of that admiration in other eyes. and the gray etruscan city, uplifted on its star-shaped hill, offered her a somewhat grim reception. piercing winds swept across the tiber valley from the still snow-clad apennines above assisi. the austere, dark-walled, lombard-gothic churches and palaces showed forbidding, merciless almost, through the driving wet. even in fair summer weather suspicion of ancient and implacable terror lurks in the shadow of those cyclopean gateways, and stalks over the unyielding, rock-hewn pavements of those solemn mediæval streets. there was an incalculable element in perugia which raised a certain anger in helen. the place seemed to defy her and make light of her pretensions. as during the siege of paris, so now, echoes of the eternal laughter saluted her ears, ironic in tone. nor was the society offered by the residents in the hotel, weather-bound like herself, of a specially enlivening description. it was composed almost exclusively of middle-aged english and american ladies--widows and spinsters--of blameless morals and anxiously active intelligence. they wrapped their lean forms in woolen shawls and ill-cut jackets. they pervaded salon and corridors guide-book in hand. they discoursed of umbrian antiquities, etruscan tombs, frescoes and architecture. having but little life in themselves, they tried, rather vainly, to warm both hands at the fire of the life of the past. among them, helen, in her vigorous and self-secure, though fine-drawn, beauty, was about as much at home as a young panther in a hen-roost. they admired, they vaguely feared, they greatly wondered at her. had one of those glorious young gallants, baglioni or oddi, clothed in scarlet, winged, helmeted, sword on thigh, as perugino has painted them on the walls of the sala del cambio--very strangest union of sensuous worldliness and radiant arch-angelic grace--had one of these magnificent gentlemen ruffled into the hotel parlour, he could hardly have startled the eyes, and perplexed the understanding, of the virtuous and learned anglo-saxon and transatlantic feminine beings there assembled, more than did madame de vallorbes. for all such sexless creatures, for the great company of women in whose outlook man plays no immediate or active part, helen had, in truth, small respect. they appeared to her so absurdly inadequate, so contemptibly divorced from the primary interests of existence. more than once, in a spirit of mischievous malice, she was tempted to bid the good ladies lay aside their baedekers and murrays, and increase their knowledge of the italian character and language by study of the _novelle_ of bandello, or of certain merry tales to be found in the pages of the _decameron_. she had copies of both works in her traveling-bag. she was prepared, moreover, to illustrate such ancient saws by modern instances, for the truth of which last she could quite honestly vouch. but on second thoughts she spared her victims. the quarry was not worth the chase. what self-respecting panther can, after all, go a-hunting in a hen-roost? so from the neighbourhood of their unlovely clothes, questioning glances, and under-vitalised pursuit of art and literature, she removed herself to her sitting-room up-stairs. charles should serve her meals there in future, for to sit at table with these neuters, clothed in amorphous garments, came near upsetting her digestion. meanwhile, as she watched the rain streaming down the panes of the big windows, watched thin-legged, heavily-cloaked figures tacking, wind-buffeted, across the gray-black street into the shelter of some cavernous _port cochère_, it must be owned her spirits went very sensibly down into her boots. even the presence of the despised and repudiated destournelle would have been grateful to her. remembrance of all the less successful episodes of her career assaulted her. and in that connection, of necessity, the thought of brockhurst returned upon her. for neither the affair of her childhood--that of the little dancer with blush-roses in her hat--or the other affair--of now nearly four years back--the intimate drama frustrated, within sight of its climax, by intervention of lady calmady--could be counted otherwise than as failures. it was strange how deep-seated was her discontent under this head. as on queen mary's heart the word calais, so on hers brockhurst, she sometimes thought, might be found written when she was dead. in the last four years richard had given her princely gifts. he had treated her with a fine, old-world chivalry, as something sacred and apart. but he rarely sought her society. he seemed, rather carefully, to elude her pursuit. his name was not exactly a patent of discretion and rectitude in these days, unfortunately. still helen found his care of her reputation--as far as association of her name with his went--somewhat exaggerated. she could hardly believe him to be indifferent to her, and yet---- oh! the whole matter was unsatisfactory, abominably unsatisfactory--of a piece with the disquieting influences of this grim and fateful city, with the detestable weather evident there without! and then, suddenly, an idea came to helen de vallorbes, causing the delicate colour to spring into her cheeks, and the light into her eyes, veiled by those fringed, semitransparent lids. for, some two years earlier, richard calmady had taken her husband's villa at naples on lease, it offering, as he said, a convenient _pied à terre_ to him while yachting along the adjacent coasts, up the black sea to odessa, and eastward as far as aden, and the persian gulf. the house, save for the actual fabric of it, had become rather dilapidated and ruinate. to de vallorbes it appeared clearly advantageous to get the property off his hands, and touch a considerable yearly sum, rather than have his pocket drained by outgoings on a place in which he no longer cared to live. so the villa vallorbes passed for the time being into richard calmady's possession. it pleased his fancy. helen heard he had restored and refurnished it at great expenditure of money and of taste. these facts she recalled. and, recalling them, found both the actuality of rain-blurred, wind-scourged town without, and anger-begetting memories of brockhurst within, fade before a seductive vision of sun-bathed naples and of that nobly placed and painted villa, in which--as it seemed to her--was just now resident promise of high entertainment, the objective delight of abnormal circumstance, the subjective delight of long-cherished revenge. all the rapture of her existing freedom came back on her, while her brain, fertile in forecast of adventure, projected scenes and situations not unworthy of the pen of boccaccio himself. fired by such thoughts, she moved from the window, stood before a tall glass at right angles to it and contemplated her own fair reflection long and intimately. an absorbing interest in the general effect, and in the details, of her person possessed her. she moved to and fro observing the grace of her carriage, the set of her hips, the slenderness of her waist. she unfastened her soft, trailing tea-gown, throwing the loose bodice of it back, critically examining her bare neck, the swell of her beautiful bosom, the firm contours of her arms from shoulder to elbow. her skin was of a clear, golden whiteness, smooth, fine in texture, as that of a child. placing her hands on the gilded frame of the mirror, high up on either side, she observed her face, exquisitely healthful in colour, even as seen in this mournful, afternoon light. she leaned forward, gazing intently into her own eyes--meeting in them, as narcissus in the surface of the fatal pool, the radiant image of herself. and this filled her with a certain intoxication, a voluptuous self-love, a profound persuasion of the power and completeness of her own beauty. she caressed her own neck, her own lips, with lingering finger-tips. she bent her bright head and kissed the swell of her cuplike breasts. never had she received so entire assurance of the magic of her own personality. "it is all--all, as perfect as ever," she exclaimed exultantly. "and while it remains perfect, it should be made use of." helen waved her hand, smiling, to the smiling image in the mirror. "you and i together--your beauty and my brains--i pit the pair of us against all mankind! together we have worked pretty little miracles before now, causing the proud to lay aside their pride and the godly their virtue. a man of strange passions shall hardly escape us--nor shall the mother that bare him escape either." her face hardened, her laughing eyes paled to the colour of fine steel. she lifted the soft-curling hair from off her right temple disclosing a small, crescent-shaped scar. "that is the one blemish, and we will exact the price of it--you and i--to the ultimate _sou_." then she moved away, overcome by sudden amusement at her own attitude, which she perceived risked being slightly comic. heroics were, to her thinking, unsuitable articles for home consumption. yet her purpose held none the less strongly and steadily because excitement lessened. she refastened her tea gown, tied the streaming azure ribbons of it, patted bows and laces into place, walked the length of the room a time or two to recover her composure, then rang the bell. and, on the arrival of charles,--irreproachably correct in dress and demeanour, his clean-shaven, sharp-featured, rakish countenance controlled to praiseworthy nullity of expression, she said:-- "the weather is abominable." the man-servant set down the tray on a little table before her, turned out the corners of the napkin, deftly arranged the tea-things. "it is a little dull, my lady." "how is the glass?" "falling steadily, my lady." "i cannot remain here." "no, my lady?" "find out about the trains south--to naples." "yes, my lady. we can join the roman express at chiusi. when does your ladyship wish to start?" "i must telegraph first." "certainly, my lady." charles produced telegraph forms. it was helen's boast that, upon request, the man could produce any known object from a packet of pins to a white elephant, or fully manned battleship. she had a lively regard for her servant's ability. so had he, it may be added, for that of his mistress. the telegram was written and despatched. but the reply took four days in reaching madame de vallorbes, and during those days it rained incessantly. the said reply came in the form of a letter. sir richard calmady was at constantinople, so the writer--bates, his steward--had reason to believe. but it was probable he would return to naples shortly. meanwhile he--the steward--had permanent orders to the effect that the villa was at madame de vallorbes' disposition should she at any time express the wish to visit it. she would find everything prepared for her reception. this information caused helen singular satisfaction. it was very charming, very courteous, of richard thus to remember her. she set forth from perugia full of ingenious purpose, deliciously light of heart. thus did it come about that, on the afore-mentioned gay, spring morning, madame de vallorbes breakfasted beneath the glistering dome of the airy pavilion, all naples outstretched before her, while the blossoms of the judas-trees fell in a red-mauve shower upon the slabs of the marble pavement, and the mimic waves of the fountain basin, and upon the clustered curls and truncated shoulders of the bust of homer stationed within the soft gloom of the ilex and cypress grove. she had arrived the previous evening, and had met with a dignified welcome from the numerous household. her manner was gracious, kindly, captivating--she intended it to be all that. she slept well, rose in buoyant health and spirits, partook of a meal offering example of the most finished italian cooking. finish, in any department, appealed to helen's artistic sense. life was sweet--moreover it was supremely interesting! her breakfast ended, rising from her place at table, she looked away to the purple cone of the great volcano and the uprising of the smoke of its everlasting burnings. the sight of this, magnificent, menacing evidence of the anarchic might of the powers of nature, quickened the pagan instinct in her. she wanted to worship. and even in so doing, she became aware of a kindred something in herself--of an answering and anarchic energy, a certain menace to the conventional works and ways, and fancied security, of groping, purblind man. the insolence of a great lady, the dangerously primitive instincts of a great courtesan, filled her with an enormous pride, a reckless self-confidence. turning, she glanced back across the formal garden, bright with waxen camellias set in glossy foliage, with early roses, with hyacinths, lemon and orange blossom, towards the villa. upon the black-and-white marble balustrade a man leaned his elbows. she could see his broad shoulders, his bare head. from his height she took him, at first, to be kneeling, as, motionless, he looked towards her and towards the splendid view. then she perceived that he was not kneeling, but standing upright. she understood, and a very vital sensation ran right through her, causing the queerest turn in her blood. "mercy of heaven!" she said to herself, "is it conceivable that now, at this time of day, i am capable of the egregious folly of losing my head?" chapter ii wherein time is discovered to have worked changes helen, however, did not stay to debate as to the state of her affections. she had had more than enough of reflection of late. now action invited her. she responded. the sweep of her turquoise-blue cloth skirts sent the fallen judas-blossoms dancing, to left and right, in crazy whirling companies. she did not wait even to put on her broad-brimmed, garden hat,--the crown of it encircled, as luck would have it, by a garland of pale, pink tulle and pale, pink roses,--but braved the sunshine with no stouter head-covering than the coils of her honey-coloured hair. rapidly she passed up the central alley between the double row of glossy leaved camellia bushes, laughter in her downcast eyes and a delicious thrill of excitement at her heart. she felt strong and light, her being vibrant, penetrated and sustained throughout by the bracing air, the sparkling, crystal-clear atmosphere. yet for all her eagerness helen remained an artist. she would not forestall effects. thriftily she husbanded sensations. thus, reaching the base of the black-and-white marble wall supporting the terrace, where, midway in its long length, it was broken by an arched grotto of rough-hewn stonework, in which maiden-hair fern rooted,--the delicate fronds of it caressing the shoulders of an undraped nymph, with ever-dripping water-pitcher upon her rounded hip,--helen turned sharp to the left, and arrived at the bottom of the descending flight of steps without once looking up. that richard calmady still leaned on the balustrade some twelve to fourteen feet above that same cool, green grotto she knew well enough. but she did not choose to anticipate either sight or greeting of him. both should come to her as a whole. she would receive a single and unqualified impression. so, silently, without apparent haste, she passed up the flight of shallow steps on to the edge of the wide black-and-white chequer-board platform. it was sun-bathed, suspended, as it seemed, between that glorious prospect of city, mountain, sea, and the unsullied purity of the southern heavens. it was vacant, save for the solitary figure and the sharp-edged, yet amorphous, shadow cast by that same figure. for the young man had moved as she came up from the garden below. he stood clear of the balustrade, only the fingers of his left hand resting upon the handrail of it. seeing him thus the strangeness, the grotesque incompleteness, of his person struck her as never before. but this, though it did not move her to mirth as in her childhood, moved her to pity no more now than it then had. that which it did was to deepen, to stimulate, her excitement, to provoke and to satisfy the instinct of cruelty latent in every pagan nature such as hers. could helen have chosen the moment of her birth she would have been a great lady of imperial rome, holding power of life and death over her slaves, and the mutes and eunuchs with which the east should have furnished her palace in the eternal city, and her dainty villa away there on the purple flanks of vesuvius at herculaneum or pompeii. the delight of her own loveliness, of her own triumphant health and activity, would have been increased tenfold by the sight of, by power over, such stultified and hopelessly disfranchised human creatures. and the first sight of richard calmady now, though she did not stop very certainly to analyse the exact how and why of her increasing satisfaction, took its root in this same craving for ascendency by means of the suffering and loss of others. while, unconsciously, the fine flavour of her satisfaction was heightened by the fact that the victim, now before her, was her equal in birth, her superior in wealth, in intelligence and worldly station. but as she drew nearer, richard the while making no effort to go forward and receive her, buoyant self-complacency and self-congratulation suffered diminution. for, rehearsing this same meeting during those rain-blotted days of waiting at perugia, imagination had presented dickie as the inexperienced, tender-hearted, sweet-natured lad she had known and beguiled at brockhurst four years earlier. as has already been stated her meetings with him, since then, had been brief and infrequent. now she perceived that imagination had played a silly trick upon her. the boy she had left, the man who stood awaiting her so calmly were, save in one distressing peculiarity, two widely different persons. for in the interval richard calmady had eaten very freely of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and that diet had left its mark not only on his character, but on his appearance. he had matured notably, all trace of ingenuous, boyish charm having vanished. his skin, though darkened by recent seafaring, was colourless. his features were at once finer and more pronounced than of old--the bone of the face giving it a noticeable rigidity of outline, index at once of indomitable will and irreproachable breeding. the powerful jaw and strong muscular neck might have argued a measure of brutality. but happily the young man's mouth had not coarsened. his lips were compressed, relaxing rarely into the curves which, as a lad, had rendered his smile so peculiarly engaging. still there was no trace of grossness in their form or expression. hard living had, indeed, in richard's case, been matter of research rather than of appetite. the intellectual part of him had never fallen wholly into bondage to the animal. he explored the borders of the forbidden hoping to find some anodyne with which to assuage the ache of a vital discontent, rather than by any compulsion of natural lewdness. much of this quick-witted helen quickly apprehended. he was cleverer, more serious, and mentally more distinguished, than she had supposed him. and this, while opening up new sources of interest and pricking her ambition of conquest, disclosed unforeseen difficulties in the way of such conquest. moreover, she was slightly staggered by the strength and inscrutability of his countenance, the repose of his bearing and manner. his eyes affected her oddly. they were cold and clear as some frosty, winter's night, the pupils of them very small. they seemed to see all things, yet tell nothing. they were as windows opening onto an endless perspective of empty space. they at once challenged curiosity and baffled inquiry. helen's excitement deepened, and she was sensible it needed all the subjective support, all the indirect flattery, with which the fact of his deformity supplied her self-love to prevent her standing in awe of him. as consequence her address was impulsive rather than studied. "richard, i have had a detestable winter," she said. "it wore upon me. it demoralised me. i was growing dull, superstitious even. i wanted to get away, to put a long distance between myself and certain experiences, certain memories. i wanted to hear another language. you have always been sympathetic to me. it was natural, if a little unconventional, to take refuge with you." madame de vallorbes spoke with an unaccustomed and very seductive air of apology, her face slightly flushed, her arms hanging straight at her sides, the long, pink, tulle strings of the hat she carried in her left hand trailing upon the black-and-white squares of the pavement. "to do so seemed obvious in contemplation. i did not stop to consider possible objections. but, in execution, the objections become hourly more glaringly apparent. i want you to reassure me. tell me i have not dared too greatly in coming thus uninvited?" "of course not," he answered. "i hope you found the house comfortable and everything prepared for you. the servants had their orders." "i know, i know. that you should have provided against the possibility of my coming some day moved me a little more than i care to tell you."--helen paused, looking upon him, and that look had in it a delicate affinity to a caress. but the young man's manner, though faultlessly courteous, was lacking in any hint of enthusiasm. helen could have imagined, and that angered her, something of irony in his tone. "oh, there's no matter for thanks," he said. "the house was yours, will be yours again. the least i can do, since you and de vallorbes are good enough to let me live in it meanwhile, is to beg you to make any use you please of it. indeed it is i, rather than you, who come uninvited just now. i had not intended being back here for another month. but there was a case of something suspiciously like cholera on board my yacht at constantinople, and it seemed wisest to get away to sea as soon as possible. one of the firemen--oh, he's all right now! still i shall send him home to england. he's a married man--the only one i have on board. a useful fellow, but he must go. i don't choose to take the responsibility of creating the widow and the fatherless whenever one of my crew chances to fall sick and depart into the unknown." richard talked on, very evidently for the mere sake of passing the time. and all the while those eyes, which told nothing, dwelt quietly upon helen de vallorbes until she became nervously impatient of their scrutiny. for it was not at all thus that she had pictured and rehearsed this meeting during those days of waiting at perugia! "we got in last night," he continued. "but i slept on board. i heard you had just arrived, and i did not care to run the risk of disturbing you after your journey." "you are very considerate," helen remarked. she was surprised out of all readiness of speech. this new richard impressed her, but she resented his manner. he took her so very much for granted. admiration and homage were to her as her daily bread, and that any man should fail to offer them caused her frank amazement. it did more. it raised in her a longing to inflict pain. he might not admire, but at least he should not remain indifferent. therefore she backed a couple of steps, so as to get a good view of richard calmady. and, without any disguise of her purpose, took a comprehensive and leisurely survey of his dwarfed and mutilated figure. while so doing she pinned on her rose-trimmed hat, and twisted the long, tulle strings of it about her throat. "you have altered a good deal, richard," she said reflectively. "probably," he answered. "i had a good deal to learn, being a very thin-skinned young simpleton. in part, anyhow, i have learned it. and i do my best practically to apply my knowledge. but if i have altered, so, happily, have not you." "i remain a simpleton?" she inquired, her irritation finding voice. "you cannot very well remain that which you never have been. what you do remain is--if i may say so--victoriously yourself, unspoiled, unmodified by contact with that singularly stupid invention, society, true to my earliest recollections of you even----" richard shuffled closer to the balustrade, threw his left arm across it, grasping the outer edge of the broad coping,--"even in small details of dress." he looked away over the immense and radiant prospect, and then up at the radiant woman in her vesture of turquoise, pink, and gold. and, so doing, for the first time his face relaxed, being lighted up by a flickering, mocking smile. and something in his shuffling movements, in the fine irony of his expression, pierced helen with a sensation hitherto unknown, broke up the absoluteness of her egotism, stirred her blood. she forgot resentment in an absorbed and absorbing interest. the ordinary man of the world she knew as thoroughly as her old shoe. such an one presented small field of discovery to her. but this man was unique in person, and promised to be so in character also. her curiosity regarding him was profound. for the moment it sunk all personal considerations, all humorous or angry criticism, either of her own attitude towards him or of his attitude towards her. silently she came forward, sat down on the marble bench, close to where he stood, and, turning sideways, leaned her elbows upon the top of the balustrade beside him. she looked up now, rather than down at him, and it went home to her, had nature spared him infliction of that hideous deformity, what a superb creature physically he would have been! there was a silence, helen remaining intent, quiet, apprehension and imagination sensibly upon the stretch. at last richard spoke abruptly. "by the way, did you happen to observe the decorations of your room? do you like them?" "yes and no," she answered. "they struck me as rather wonderful, but liable to induce dreams of scylla and charybdis, of the fata morgana, and other inconvenient accidents of the deep. fortunately i was too tired last night to be excursive in fancy, or i might have slept badly. you have gathered all the colours of the ocean and fixed them, somehow, on those carpets and hangings and strangely frescoed walls." "you saw that?" "how could i fail to see it, since you kindly excuse me of being, or ever having been, a simpleton?"--helen spoke lightly, tenderly almost. an overmastering desire to please had overtaken her. "you have employed a certain wizardry in the furnishing of that room," she continued. "it lays subtle influences upon one. what made you think of it?" "a dream, an idea, which has stuck by me queerly, though all other fond things of the sort were pitched overboard long ago. i suppose one is bound to be illogical on one point, if only to prove to oneself the absolutism of one's logic on all others. thus do i, otherwise sane and consistent realist, materialist, pessimist, cling to my one dream and ideal--take it out, dandle it, nourish and cherish it, with weakly sentimental faithfulness. to do so is ludicrous. but then my being here at all, calmly considered, is ludicrous. and it, too, is among the results of the one idea." he paused, and helen, leaning beside him, waited. the sunshine covered them both. the sea wind was fresh in their faces. while the many voices of naples came up to them confused, strident, continuous, with sometimes a bugle-call, sometimes a clang of hammers, or quick pulse of stringed instruments, or jangle of church-bells, or long-drawn bellow of a steamship clearing for sea, detaching itself from the universal chorus. capri, ischia, procida, floated, islands of amethyst, upon the sapphire of the bay, and the smoke of vesuvius rolled ceaselessly upward. "you see and hear and feel all this," richard continued presently. "well, when i saw it for the first time i was pretty thoroughly out of conceit with myself and all creation. i had been experimenting freely in things not usually talked of in polite society. and i was abominably sold, for i found the enjoyment such things procure is decidedly overrated. unmentionable matters, once fully explored, are just as tedious and inadequate as those which supply the most unexceptionable subjects of conversation. moreover, in the process of exploration i had touched a good deal of pitch, and, the simpleton being still superfluously to the fore in me, i was squeamishly sensible of defilement." the young man shifted his position slightly, resting his chin in the hollow of his hands, speaking quietly and indifferently, as of some matter foreign to himself and his personal interests. "i have reason to believe i was as fairly and squarely wretched as it is possible for an intelligent being to be. i had convinced myself, experimentally, that human existence, human nature, was a bottomless pit and an uncommonly filthy one at that. reaction was inevitable. then i understood why men have invented gods, subscribed to irrational systems of theology, hailed and accredited transparently ridiculous miracles. such lies are necessary to certain stages of development simply for the preservation of sanity, just as, at another stage, sanity, for its own preservation, is necessarily driven to declare their falsehood. and so i, after the manner of my kind, was driven to take refuge in a dream. the subjective, in some form or other, alone makes life continuously possible. and all this, we now look at, determined the special nature of my attempt at subjective support and consolation." richard paused again, contemplating the view. "all this--its splendour, its diversity, its caprices and seductions, its suggestion of underlying danger--presented itself to me as the embodiment of a personality that has had remarkable influence in the shaping of my life." so far helen had listened intently and silently. now she moved a little, straightening up her charming figure, pulling down the wide brim of her hat to shelter her eyes from the heat and brightness of the sun. "a woman?" she asked briefly. richard turned to her, that same flickering of mockery in his still face. "oh! you mustn't require too much of me!" he said. "remember the simpleton was not wholly eradicated then.--yes, very much a woman. of course. how should it be otherwise? it gave me great pleasure to look at that which looked like her. it gives me pleasure even yet. so i wrote and asked de vallorbes to be kind enough to let me rent the villa. you remember it was not particularly well cared for. there was an air of fallen greatness about the poor place. inside it was something of a barrack." "i remember," helen said. "well, i restored and refurnished it--specially the rooms you now occupy, in accordance with what i imagined to be her taste. the whole proceeding was not a little feeble-minded, since the probability of her ever inhabiting those rooms was more than remote. but it amused, it pacified me, as prayer to their self-invented deities pacifies the devout. i never stay here for long together. if i did the spell might be broken. i go away, i travel. i even experiment in things not usually spoken of, but with a cooler judgment and less morbidly sensitive conscience than of old. i amuse myself after more active and practical fashions in other places. here i amuse myself only with my idea." the even flow of his speech ceased.--"what do you think of it, helen?" he demanded, almost harshly. "i think it can't last. it is too intangible, too fantastic." "i admit that to keep it intact needs an infinity of precautions. for instance, i can make no near acquaintance with naples. i cannot permit myself to see the town at close quarters. i only look at it from here. if i want to go to or from the yacht, i do so at night and in a closed carriage. i took on de vallorbes' box at the san carlo. if any good opera is given i go and hear it. otherwise i remain exclusively in the house and garden. i am not acquainted with a single soul in the place." "and the woman," helen exclaimed, a singular emotion at once of envy and protest upon her. "do you treat her with the same cold-blooded calculation?" "of the woman i know just as much and just as little as i know of naples. it is conceivable there may be unlovely elements in her character, as well as unlovely quarters of this beautiful city. i have avoided knowledge of both. you see the whole arrangement is designed not for her benefit, but for my own. it's an elaborate piece of self-seeking on my part, but, so far, it has really worked rather successfully." "it is preposterous. it cannot in the nature of things continue successful," helen declared. "i am not so sure of that," he replied calmly. "even the most preposterous of religious systems proves to have a remarkable power of survival. why not this one? in any case, neither the success nor the failure depends on me. i shall be true, on my part. the rest depends on her." as richard spoke he turned, leaning his back against the balustrade, his face away from the sunlight and the wide view. again the extent of his deformity became arrestingly apparent to madame de vallorbes. "has this woman ever been here?" she asked. "yes--she has been here." "and then? and then?" helen cried. the young man looked up at her, his face keen yet impassive, his eyes--as windows opening on to endless perspective of empty space--telling nothing. she recognised, once again, that he was very strong. she also recognised that, notwithstanding his strength, he was horribly sad. "ah! then," he said, "the last of the poor, little, subjective supports and consolations seemed in danger of going overboard and joining their fellows in the uneasy deeps of the sea.--but the history of that will keep till a more convenient season, cousin helen. you have stood in the midday sun, and i have talked about myself, quite long enough. however, it was only fair to acquaint you with the limited resources in the way of society and amusement offered by your present dwelling. there are horses and carriages of course. give what orders you please. only remember both the town and the surrounding country are pretty rough. it is not fit for a lady to drive by herself. always take your own man, or one of mine, with you if you go out. i hope you won't be quite intolerably bored. ask for whatever you want.--you let me dine with you? thanks." chapter iii helen de vallorbes apprehends vexatious complications four gowns lay outspread upon the indigo-purple, embroidered coverlet of the bed. the afterglow of an orange and crimson sunset touched the folds of them, ranged upward to the vaultings of the frescoed ceiling, and stained the lofty walls as with the glare of a furnace. sea-greens, sea-blues, died in the heat of it, abashed and vanquished. but so did not madame de vallorbes' white lawn and lace _peignoir_, or her abundant hair, which zélie forestier--trim of figure, and sour of countenance--was in the act of dressing. these caught the fiery light and held it, so that from head to foot helen appeared as an image of living gold. sitting before the toilet-table, her reflection in the great, oval mirror pleased her. "which shall i wear?" "that depends upon the length of time madame proposes to stay here. the black dress might be worn on several occasions with impunity. the peacock brocade, the _eau de nil_, the crocus yellow, but once--twice at the uttermost. they are ravishing costumes, but wanting in repose. they are unsuited for frequent repetition." zélie's lean fingers twisted, puffed, pinned, the shining hair very skilfully. "i will put on the black dress." "relieved by madame's _parure_ of pink topaz?" "yes, i will wear the pink topazes." "then it will be necessary to modify the style of madame's _coiffure_." "there is plenty of time." helen took a hand-glass from the table and leaned forward in the low, round-backed chair--faithful copy of a fine classic model. she wanted to see the full glory of the afterglow upon her profile, upon her neck, and bosom. thus might cassiopeia, glass in hand, in her golden chair sit in high heaven!--helen smiled at the pretty conceit. but the glory was already departing. sea-blues, sea-greens, sad by contrast, began to reassert their presence on walls and carpet and hangings. "the black dress? madame decides to remain then?" as she spoke the lady's-maid laid out the jewels,--chains, bracelets, brooches,--each stone set in a rim of tiny rose-knots of delicate workmanship. as she fingered them little, yellow-pink flames seemed to dance in their many facets. then the afterglow died suddenly. the flames ceased to dance. helen's white garments turned livid, her neck and bosom gray--and that, somehow, was extremely unpleasing to madame de vallorbes. "light the candles," she said, almost sharply. "yes, i remain. do hurry, zélie. it is impossible to see. i detest darkness. hurry. do you suppose i want to stay here all night? and look--you must bring that chain further forward. it is not graceful. make it droop. let it follow the line of my hair so that the pendant may fall there, in the centre. you have it too much to the right. the centre--the centre--i tell you. there, let the drop just clear my forehead." thus admonished the french woman wound the jewels in her mistress' hair. but madame de vallorbes remained dissatisfied. the day had been one of uncertainty, of conflicting emotions, and helen's love of unqualified purposes was great. confusion in others was highly diverting. but in herself--no thank you! she hated it. it touched her self-confidence. it endangered the absoluteness of her self-belief and self-worship. and these once shaken, small superstitions assaulted her. in trivial happenings she detected indication of ill-luck. now zélie's long, narrow face, divided into two unequal portions by a straight bar of black eyebrow, and her lean hands, as reflected in the mirror, awoke unreasoning distrust. they appeared to be detached from the woman's dark-clothed person, the outlines of which were absorbed in the increasing dimness of the room. the sallow face moved, peered, the hands clutched and hovered, independent and unrelated, about helen's graceful head. "for pity's sake, more candles, zélie!" she repeated. "you look absolutely diabolic in this uncertain light." "in an instant, madame. i am compelled first to fix this curl in place." she accomplished the operation with most admired deliberation, and moved away more than once, to observe the effect, before finally adjusting the hairpin. "i cannot but regret that madame is unable to wear her hair turned back from the face. such an arrangement confers height and an air of spirituality, which, in madame's case, would be not only becoming but advantageous." helen skidded the hand-glass down upon the dressing-table, causing confusion amid silver-topped pots and bottles, endangering a jar of hyacinths, upsetting a tray of hairpins. "have i not repeatedly given you orders never to allude to that subject," she cried. the maid was on her knees calmly collecting the scattered contents of the tray. "a thousand pardons, madame," she said, with a certain sour impudence. "still, it must ever be a matter of regret to any one truly appreciating madame's style of beauty, that she should be always constrained to wear her hair shading her forehead." modern civilisation imposes restrictions even upon the most high-spirited. at that moment madame de vallorbes was ripe for the commission of atrocities. had she been--as she coveted to be--a lady of the roman decadence it would have gone hard with her waiting-woman, who might have found herself ordered for instant execution or summarily deprived of the organs of speech. but, latter-day sentiment happily forbidding such active expressions of ill-feeling on the part of the employer towards the employed, helen was forced to swallow her wrath, reminding herself, meanwhile, that a confidential servant is either most invaluable of friends or most dangerous of enemies. there is no _viâ media_ in the relation. and zélie as an enemy was not to be thought of. she could not--displeasing reflection--afford to quarrel with zélie. the woman knew too much. therefore madame de vallorbes took refuge in lofty abstraction, while the tiresome uncertainties, the conflicting inclinations of the past day, quick to seize their opportunity, as is the habit of such discourteous gentry,--returned upon her with redoubled importunity and force. she had not seen richard since parting with him at noon, the enigmatic suggestions of his conversation still unresolved, the alternate resentment at his apparent indifference and attraction of his strong and somewhat mysterious personality still vitally present to her. later she had driven out to pozzuoli. but neither stone-throwing urchins, foul and disease-stricken beggars, the pale sulphur plains and subterranean rumblings of the solfaterra, nor stirring of nether fires therein resident by a lanky, wild-eyed lad--clothed in leathern jerkin and hairy, goatskin leggings--with the help of a birch broom and a few local newspapers, served effectually to rouse her from inward debate and questioning. the comfortable, cee-spring carriage might swing and sway over the rough, deep-rutted roads behind the handsome, black, long-tailed horses, the melodramatic-looking coachman might lash stone-throwing urchins and anathematise them, their ancestors and descendants, alike, to the third and fourth generation in the vilest, neapolitan argot, charles might resort to physical force in the removal of wailing, alms-demanding, vermin-eaten wrecks of humanity, but still helen asked herself only--should she go? should she stay? was the game worth the candle? was the risk, not only of social scandal, but of possible _ennui_, worth the projected act of revenge? and worth something more than that. for revenge, it must be owned, already took a second place in her calculations. worth, namely, the enjoyment of possible conquest, the humiliation of possible defeat and rejection, by that strangely coercive, strangely inscrutable, being, her cousin, dickie calmady? no man had ever impressed her thus. and she returned on her thought, when first seeing him upon the terrace that morning, that she might lose her head. helen laughed a little bitterly. she, of all women, to lose her head, to long and languish, to entreat affection, and to be faithful--heaven help us, faithful!--could it ever come to that?--like any sentimental schoolgirl, like--and the thought turned her not a little wicked--like katherine calmady herself! and then, that other woman of whom richard had told her, with a cynical disregard of her own claims to admiration, who on earth could she be? she reviewed those ladies with whom gossip had coupled richard's name. morabita, the famous _prima donna_, for instance. but surely, it was inconceivable that mountain of fat and good nature, with the voice of a seraph, granted, but also with the intellect of a frog, could ever inspire so fantastic and sublimated a passion! and passing from these less legitimate affairs of the heart--in which rumour accredited richard with being very much of a pluralist--her mind traveled back to the young man's projected marriage with lady constance decies, sometime lady constance quayle. remembering the slow, sweet, baby-face and gentle, heifer's eyes, as she had seen them that day at luncheon at brockhurst, nearly five years ago, she again laughed.--no, very certainly there was no affinity between the glorious and naughty city of naples and that mild-natured, well-drilled, little, english girl! who was it then--who? but, whoever the fair unknown rival might be, helen hated her increasingly as the hours passed, regarding her as an enemy, a creature to be exterminated, and swept off the board. jealousy pricked her desire of conquest. an intrigue with richard calmady offered singular, unique attractions. but the force of such attractions was immensely enhanced by the excitement of wresting his affections away from another woman. suddenly, in the full swing of these meditations, as she reviewed them for the hundredth time, zélie's voice claimed her attention. "i made the inquiries madame commanded." "well?" helen said. she was standing fastening clusters of topaz in the bosom of her dress. "the servants in this house are very reserved. they are unwilling to give information regarding their master's habits. i could only learn that sir richard occupies the entresol. communicating as it does with the garden, no doubt it is convenient to a gentleman so afflicted as himself." helen bowed herself together, while the black lace and china-crape skirt slipped over her head. emerging from which temporary eclipse, she said:-- "but do people stay here much? does my cousin entertain? that is what i told you to find out." "as i tell madame, the servants are difficult of approach. they are very correct. they fear their master, but they also adore him. charles can obtain little more information than myself. but he infers that sir richard, when at the villa, lives in retirement--that he is subject to fits of melancholy. there will be little diversion for madame it is to be feared! but what would you have? even though one should be young and rich _ce ne serait que peu amusant d'être estropié, d'être monstre enfin_." helen drew in her breath with a little sigh of content, while taking a final look at herself in the oval glass. the soft, floating draperies, the many jewels, each with its heart of quick, yellow-pink light, produced a combination at once sombre and vivid. it satisfied her sense of artistic fitness. decidedly she did well to begin with the black dress, since it had in it a quality rather of romance than of worldliness! meanwhile zélie, kneeling, straightened out the folds of the long train. "ah!" she exclaimed. "i had forgotten also to inform madame that m. destournelle has arrived in naples. charles, thinking of nothing less than such an encounter, met him this morning on the quay of the santa lucia." helen wheeled round violently, much to the discomfiture of those carefully adjusted folds. "intolerable man!" she cried. "what on earth is he doing here?" "that, charles naturally could not inquire.--will madame kindly remain tranquil for a moment? she has torn a small piece of lace which must be controlled by a pin. probably _monsieur_ is still _en voyage_, is visiting friends as is madame herself." a sudden distrust that the black dress was too mature, that it constituted an admission of departing youth, invaded helen. the reflection in the oval mirror once more caused her discomfort. "tell charles that i am no longer acquainted with m. destournelle. if he presumes to call he is to be refused." helen set her teeth. but whether in anger towards her discarded lover, or the black dress, she would have found it difficult to declare. again uncertainty held her, suspicion of circumstance, and, in a degree, of herself. the lady's-maid, imperturbable, just conceivably impertinent, in manner, had risen to her feet. "there," she said, "it will be secure for to-night, if madame will exercise a moderate degree of caution and avoid abrupt movements. charles says that _monsieur_ inquired very urgently after madame. he appeared dejected and in weak health. he was agitated on meeting charles. he trembled. a little more and he would have wept. it would be well, perhaps, that madame should give charles her orders regarding _monsieur_ herself." "you should not have made me wear this gown," helen broke out inconsequently. "it is depressing, it is hideous. i want to change it." "impossible. madame is already a little late, and there is nothing wrong with the costume. madame looks magnificent. also her wardrobe is, at present, limited. the evening dresses will barely suffice for a stay of a week, and it is not possible for me to construct a new one under ten days." thereupon an opening of doors and voice from the anteroom announcing:-- "dinner is served, my lady. sir richard is in the dining-room." and helen swept forward, somewhat stormy and cassandra-like in her dusky garments. passing out through the high, narrow doorway, she turned her head. "charles, under no circumstance--none, understand--am i at home to monsieur destournelle." "very good, my lady," and, as he closed the double-doors, the man-servant looked at the lady's-maid his tongue in his cheek. but, on the journey through the noble suite of rooms, helen's spirits revived somewhat. her fair head, her warm glancing jewels, her graceful and measured movements, as given back by many tall mirrors, renewed her self-confidence. she too must be fond of her own image, by the way, that unknown rival to the dream of whose approval richard calmady had consecrated these splendid furnishings--witness the multiplicity of looking-glasses!--and then the prospect of this _tête-à-tête_ dinner, the interest of her host's powerful and enigmatic personality, provoked her interest to the point not only of obliterating remembrance of the ill-timed advent of her ex-lover, but of inducing something as closely akin to self-forgetfulness as was possible to her self-centred nature. she grew hotly anxious to obtain, to charm--if it might be, to usurp the whole field of richard's attention and imagination. a small round table showed as an island of tender light in the dimness of the vast room. and richard, sitting at it awaiting her coming, appeared more nearly related to the richard of brockhurst and of five years ago than he had done during the interview of the morning. in any case, she took him more for granted. while he, if still inscrutable and unsmiling, proved an eminently agreeable companion, ready of conversation, very much at his ease, very much a cultivated man of the world, studious--a little excessively so, she thought--in his avoidance of the personal note. and this at once piqued helen, and incited her to intellectual effort. if this was what he wanted, well, he should have it! if he elected to talk of travel, of ancient and alien religions, of modern literature and art, she could meet him more than half-way. her intelligence ran nimbly from subject to subject, point to point. she struck out daring hypotheses, indulged in ingenious paradox, her mind charmed by her own eloquence, her body comforted by costly wines and delicate meats. nor did she fail to listen also, knowing how very dear to every man is the sound of his own voice, or omit to offer refined flattery of quick agreement and seasonable laughter. it was late when she rose from the table at last. "i have had a delightful dinner," she said. "absolutely delightful. and now i will encroach no longer on your time or good nature, richard. you have your own occupations, no doubt. so, with thanks for shelter and generous entertainment, we part for to-night." she held out her hand smiling, but with an admirable effect of discretion, all ardour, all intimacy, kept in check by self-respect and well-bred dignity. madame de vallorbes was enchanted with the reserve of her own demeanour. let it be well understood that she was the least importunate, the least exacting, the most adaptable, of guests! richard took her outstretched hand for the briefest period compatible with courtesy. and a momentary spasm--so she fancied--contracted his face. "you are very welcome, helen," he said. "if it is warm let us breakfast in the pavilion to-morrow. twelve--does that suit you? good-night." upon the inlaid writing-table in the anteroom, helen found a long and impassioned epistle from paul destournelle. perusal of it did not minister to peaceful sleep. in the small hours she left her bed, threw a silk dressing-gown about her, drew aside the heavy, blue-purple, window curtain and looked out. the sky was clear and starlit. naples, with its curving lines of innumerable lights, lay outstretched below. in the southeast, midway between the two, a blood-red fire marked the summit of vesuvius. while in the dimly seen garden immediately beneath--the paved alleys of which showed curiously pale, asserting themselves against the darkness of the flower borders, and otherwise impenetrable shadows of the ilex and cypress grove--a living creature moved, black, slow of pace, strange of shape. at first helen took it for some strayed animal. it alarmed her, exciting her to wildest conjectures as to its nature and purpose, wandering in the grounds of the villa thus. then, as it passed beyond the dusky shade of the trees, she recognised it. richard calmady shuffled forward haltingly, to the terminal wall of the garden, leaned his arms on it, looking down at the beautiful and vicious city and out into the night. helen de vallorbes shivered--the marble floor striking up chill, for all the thickness of the carpet, to her bare feet. her eyes were hard with excitement and her breath came very quick. suddenly, yielding to an impulse of superstitious terror, she dragged the curtains together, shutting out that very pitiful sight, and, turning, fled across the room and buried herself, breathless and trembling, between the sheets of the soft, warm, faintly fragrant bed. "he is horrible," she said aloud, "horrible! and it has come to me at last. it has come--i love--i love!" chapter iv "mater admirabilis" "there, there, my good soul, don't blubber. hysterics won't restore lady calmady to health, or bring sir richard back to england, home, and duty, or be a ha'porth of profit to yourself or any other created being. keep your tears for the first funeral. for i tell you plainly i shan't be surprised out of seven days' sleep if this business involves a visit to the churchyard before we get to the other side of it." john knott stood with his back to the chapel-room fire, his shoulders up to his ears, his hands forced down into the pockets of his riding-breeches. without, black-thorn winter held the land in its cheerless grasp. the spring was late. night frosts obtained, followed by pallid, half-hearted sunshine in the early mornings, too soon obliterated by dreary, easterly blight. this afternoon offered exception to the rule only in the additional discomfort of small, sleeting rain and a harsh skirling of wind in the eastward-facing casements.--"livery weather," the doctor called it, putting down his existing lapse from philosophic tolerance to insufficient secretions of the biliary duct. before him stood clara--sometime dickie calmady's devoted nurse and playfellow--her eyes very bright and moist, the reds and whites of her fresh complexion in lamentable disarray. "i'd never have believed it of sir richard," she assented, chokingly. "it isn't like him, so pretty as he was in all his little ways, and loving to her ladyship, and civilly behaved to everybody, and careful of hurting anybody's feelings--more so than you'd expect in a young gentleman like him. no! it isn't like him. in my opinion he's been got hold of by some designing person, who's worked on him to keep him away to serve their own ends. there, i'd never have believed it of him, that i wouldn't!" the doctor's massive head sank lower, his massive shoulders rose higher, his loose lips twisted into a snarling smile. "lord bless you, that's nothing new! we none of us ever do believe it of them when the little beggars are in long clothes, or first breeched for that matter. it's a trick of mother nature's--one-idead old lady, who cares not a pin for morality, but only for increase. she knows well enough if we did believe it of them we should clear them off wholesale, along with the blind kittens and puppies. a bucket full of water, and broom to keep them under, would make for a mighty lessening of subsequent violations of the decalogue! don't tell me king herod was not something of a philanthropist when he got to work on the infant population of bethlehem. one woman wept for each of the little brats then, but his satanic majesty only knows how many women wouldn't have had cause to weep for each one of them later, if they'd been spared to grow up." while speaking, dr. knott kept his gaze fixed upon his companion. his humour was none of the gentlest truly, yet he did not let that obscure the main issue. he had business with clara, and merely waited till the reds and whites of her comely face should have resumed their more normal relations before pursuing it. he talked, as much to afford her opportunity to overcome her emotion, as to give relief to his own. though now well on the wrong side of sixty, john knott was hale and vigorous as ever. his rough-hewn countenance bore even closer resemblance, perhaps, to that of some stone gargoyle carved on cathedral buttress or spout. but his hand was no less skilful, his tongue no less ready in denunciation of all he reckoned humbug, his heart no less deeply touched, for all his superficial irascibility, by the pains, and sins, and grinding miseries, of poor humanity than of old. "that's right now," he said approvingly, as the heaving of clara's bosom became less pronounced. "wipe your eyes, and keep your nerves steady. you've got a head on your shoulders--always had. well, keep it screwed on the right way, for you'll need all the common sense that is in it if we are to pull lady calmady through. do?--to begin with this, give her food every two hours or so. coax her, scold her, reason with her, cry even.--after all, i give you leave to, just a little, if that will serve your purpose and not make your hand shake--only make her take nourishment. if you don't wind up the clock regularly, some fine morning you'll find the wheels have run down." "but her ladyship won't have any one sit up with her." "very well, then sleep next door. only go in at twelve and two, and again between five and six." "but she won't have anybody occupy the dressing-room. it used to be the night nursery you remember, sir, and not a thing in it has been touched since sir richard moved down to the gun-room wing." "oh, fiddle-de-dee! it's just got to be touched now, then. i can't be bothered with sentiment when it's ten to one whether i save my patient." again sobs rose in clara's throat. the poor woman was hard pressed. but that fixed gaze from beneath the shaggy eyebrows was upon her, and, with quaint gurglings, she fought down the sobs. "my lady's as gentle as a lamb," she said, "and i'd give the last drop of my blood for her. but talk of managing her, of making her do anything, as well try to manage the wind, she's that set in her ways and obstinate!" "if you can't manage her, who can?--mr. march?" clara shook her head. then reluctantly, for though honestly ready to lay down her life for her mistress, she found it far from easy to invite supersession in respect of her, she said:--"miss st. quentin's more likely to get round my lady than any one else." "well, then, i'll talk to her. where is miss st. quentin?" "here, dr. knott. do you want me?" honoria had strolled into the room from the stairhead, her attention arrested by the all-too-familiar sound--since sorrowful happenings often of late had brought him to brockhurst--of the doctor's voice. the skirt of the young lady's habit, gathered up in her left hand, displayed a slightly unconventional length of muddy riding-boot. the said skirt, her tan, covert coat, and slouched, felt hat, were furred with wet. her garments, indeed, showed evident traces of hard service, and, though notably well cut, were far from new or smart. they were sad-coloured, moreover, as is the fashion of garments designed for work. and this weather-stained, mud-bespattered costume, taken in connection with her pale, sensitive face, her gallant bearing, and the luminous smile with which she greeted not only dr. knott but the slightly flustered clara, offered a picture pensive in tone, but very harmonious, and of a singularly sincere and restful quality. to all, indeed, save those troubled by an accusing conscience and fear of detection, honoria st. quentin's presence brought a sense of security and reassurance at this period of her development. her enthusiasms remained to her, but they were tempered by a wider experience and a larger charity--at least in the majority of cases. "i'm in a beastly mess," she observed casually. "so are we," knott answered. he had a great liking for this young lady, finding in her a certain stoicism along with a quickness of practical help. "but our mess is worse than yours, in that it is internal rather than external. yours'll brush off. not so ours--eh, clara? there, you can go. i'll talk things over with miss st. quentin, and she'll talk 'em over with you later." honoria's expression had grown anxious. she spoke in a lower tone of voice. "is lady calmady worse?" "in a sense, yes--simply because she is no better. and she's ill, i tell you, just as dangerously ill as any woman can be, who has nothing whatever actually the matter with her." "except an only son," put in honoria. "i am beginning to suspect that is about the most deadly disease going. the only thing to be said in its favour is that it is not infectious." john knott could not quite keep admiration from his eyes, or provocation from his tongue. he richly enjoyed getting a rise out of miss st. quentin. "i am not so sure of that," he said. "in the case of beautiful women, judging by history, it has shown a tendency to be recurrently sporadic in any case." "recommend all such to spend a few months at brockhurst then, under existing circumstances," honoria answered. "there will be very little fear for them after that. they will have received such a warning, swallowed such an antidote!--it is like assisting at the infliction of slow torture. it almost gets on one's brain at times." "why do you stay on then?" honoria looked down at her muddy boots and then across at the doctor. she was slightly the taller of the two, for in these days his figure had fallen together and he had taken to stooping. her expression had a delightful touch of self-depreciation. "why does any one stay by a sinking ship, or volunteer for a forlorn hope? why do you sit up all night with a case of confluent smallpox, or suck away the poisonous membrane from a diphtheric throat, as i hear you did only last week? i don't know. just because, if we are made on certain lines, we have to, i suppose. one would be a trifle too much ashamed to be seen in one's own company, afterwards, if one deserted. it really requires less pluck to stick than to run--that's the reason probably.--but about dear lady calmady. the excellent clara was in tears. is there any fresh mischief over and above the only son?" "not at present. but it's an open question how soon there may be.--good-day, mr. march. been riding? ought to be a bit careful of that cranky chest of yours in this confounded weather.--lady calmady?--yes, as i was telling miss st. quentin, her strength is so reduced that complications may arise any day. a chill, and her lungs may go; a shock, and her heart. it comes to a mere question of the point of least resistance. i won't guarantee the continued soundness of any organ unless we get changed conditions, a let up of some sort." the doctor looked up from under his eyebrows, first at honoria and then at julius. he spoke bitterly, defiant of his inclination towards tenderness. "she's just worn herself out," he said, "that's the fact, in the service of others, loving, giving, attempting the impossible in the way of goodness all round. 'be not righteous over much'--there's a text to that effect in the scriptures, mr. march, isn't there? preach a good, rattling sermon on it next sunday to lady calmady, if you want to keep her here a bit longer. nature abhors a vacuum. granted. but nature abhors excess, even of virtue. and punishes it just as harshly as excess of vice.--yes, i tell you, she's worn herself out." miss st. quentin dropped into a chair and sat bowed together, her hands on her knees, her feet rather far apart. the brim of her hat, pulled down in front to let the rain run off, partially concealed her face. she was not sorry, for a movement of defective courage was upon her, evidence of which she preferred to keep to herself. julius march remained silent. and this she resented slightly, for she badly wanted somebody to say something, either vindictive or consolatory. then, indignation getting the better alike of reticence and charity, she exclaimed:-- "it is unpardonable. it ought to be impossible one person should have power to kill another by inches, like this, with impunity." ludovic quayle had sauntered into the room behind julius march. he too was wet and dirty, but such trifles in no wise affected the completeness of his urbanity. his long neck directed forward, as in polite inquiry, he advanced to the little group by the fire, and took up his station beside honoria's chair. "pardon me, my dear miss st. quentin," he asked sweetly, "but why the allusions to murder? what is unpardonable?" "sir richard calmady's conduct," she answered shortly. she threw back her head and addressed dr. knott. "it is so detestably unjust. what possible quarrel has he with her, after all?" "ah! that--that--lies very deep. a thing, perhaps, only a man, or a mother, can quite comprehend," the doctor answered slowly. honoria's straight eyebrows drew together. she objected to extenuating circumstances in this connection, yet, as she admitted, reason usually underlay all dr. knott's statements. she divined, moreover, that reason, just now, touched upon matters inconveniently intimate. she abstained, therefore, from protest or comment. but, since feminine emotion, even in the least weakly of the sex, is bound to find an outlet, she turned upon poor mr. quayle. "he is your friend," she said. "the rest of us are helpless. you ought to take measures. you ought to suggest a remedy." "with all the pleasure in life," the young man answered. "but you may remember that you delivered yourself of precisely the same sentiments a year and a half ago. and that, fired with the ardour of a chivalrous obedience, i fled over the face of the european continent in hot pursuit of poor, dear dickie calmady." "poor, dear!" ejaculated honoria. "yes, very much poor, dear, through it all," the young man affirmed. "breathless, but still obedient, i came up with him at odessa." "what was he doing there?" put in the doctor. mr. quayle regarded him not without humour. "really, i am not my friend's keeper, though miss st. quentin is pleased to make me a handsome present of that enviable office. and so--well--i didn't inquire what he was doing. to tell the truth, i had not much opportunity, for though i found him charming,--yes, charming, miss st. quentin,--i also found him wholly unapproachable regarding family affairs. when, with a diplomatic ingenuity upon which i cannot but congratulate myself, i suggested the advisability of a return to brockhurst, in the civilest way in the world he showed me the door. impertinence is not my _forte_. i am by nature humble-minded. but, i give you my word, that was a little episode of which i do not crave the repetition." growling to himself, clasping his hands behind his back, john knott shifted his position. then, taken with that desire of clergy-baiting, which would seem to be inherent in members of the faculty, he addressed julius march. "come, now," he said, "your pupil doesn't do you an overwhelming amount of credit it must be admitted, still you ought to be able to give an expert's opinion upon the tendencies of his character. how much longer do you allow him before he grows tired of filling his belly with the husks the swine eat?" "god knows, not i," julius answered sadly, but without rancour. "i confess to the faithlessness of despair at times. and yet, being his mother's son, he cannot but tire of it eventually, and when he does so the revulsion will be final, the restoration complete----" "he'll die the death of the righteous? oh yes! i agree there, for there's fine stuff in him, never doubt that. he'll end well enough. only the beginning of that righteous ending, if delayed much longer, may come a bit too late for the saving of my patient's life and--reason." "do you mean it is as serious as all that?" ludovic asked with sudden anxiety. "every bit as serious!--oh! you should have let your sister marry him, mr. quayle. then he would have settled down, come into line with the average, and been delivered from the morbid sense of outlawry which had been growing on him--it couldn't be helped, on the whole he has kept very creditably sane in my opinion--from the time he began to mix freely in general society. i'm not very soft or sickly sentimental at my time of day, but i tell you it turns my stomach to think of all he must have gone through, poor chap. it's a merciless world, miss st. quentin, and no one knows that better than we case-hardened old sinners of doctors.--yes, your sister should have married him, and we might have been saved all this. i doubted the wisdom of the step at the time. but i was a fool. i see now his mother's instinct was right." mr. quayle pursed up his small mouth and gently shrugged his shoulders. "it is a delicate subject on which to offer an opinion," he said. "i debated it freely in the privacy of my inner consciousness at the time, i assure you. if lady calmady had lighted upon the right, the uniquely right, woman--perhaps--yes. but to shore up a twenty-foot, stone wall with a wisp of straw,--my dear doctor, does that proceeding approve itself to your common sense? and, as is a wisp of straw to such a wall, so was my poor, little sister,--it's hardly flattering to my family pride to admit it,--but thus indeed was she, and no otherwise, to dickie calmady." whereupon honoria glanced up gratefully at the speaker, for even yet her conscience pricked her concerning the part she had played in respect of that broken engagement. while john knott, observant of that upward glance, was once again struck by her manifest sincerity, and the gallant grace of her, heightened by those workmanlike and mud-bespattered garments. and, being so struck, he was once again tempted by, and once again yielded himself to, the pleasures of provocation. "marry him yourself, miss st. quentin," he growled, a touch of earnest behind his raillery, "marry him yourself and so set the rest of us free of the whole pother. i'd back you to handle him or any fellow living, with mighty great success, if you'd the mind to!" for a moment it seemed open to question whether that very fair fish might not make short work of angler as well as of bait. but honoria relented, refusing provocation. and this not wholly in mercy to the speaker, but because it offered her an opportunity of reading mr. quayle a, perhaps useful, lesson. her serious eyes narrowed, and her upper lip shortened into a delightful smile. "hopeless, dr. knott!" she answered. "to begin with he'll never ask me, since we like each other very royally ill. and to end with--" she carefully avoided sight of mr. quayle--"i--you see--i'm not what you call a marrying man." chapter v exit camp about twenty minutes later the young lady, still booted and spurred, opened the door which leads from the chapel-room into lady calmady's bedchamber. as she did so a gentle warmth met her, along with a sweetness of flowers. within, the melancholy of the bleak twilight was mitigated by the soft brightness of a pink-shaded lamp, and a fitful flickering of firelight. this last, playing upon the blue-and-white, dutch tiling of the hearth and chimney-space conferred a quaint effect of activity upon the actors in the biblical scenes thereon depicted. the patriarch abraham visibly flourished his two-inch sword above the prostrate form of hapless isaac. the elders pranced, unblushingly, in pursuit of the chaste susanna. while poor little tobit, fish in hand, clung anxiously to the flying draperies of his long-legged, and all-too-peripatetic, guardian angel. such profane vivacity, on the part of persons usually accounted sacred, offered marked an almost cynical contrast to the extreme quiet otherwise obtaining, accentuated the absoluteness, deepened the depth, of it. for nothing stirred within the length and breadth of the room, nor did any smallest sound disturb the prevailing silence. at these southward-facing casements no harsh wind shrilled. the embroidered curtains of the state-bed hung in stiff, straight folds. the many-coloured leaves and branches of the trees of the forest of this life were motionless. care, the leopard, crouched, unobservant, forgetful to spring, while the hart was fixed spellbound in the midst of its headlong flight. a spell seemed, indeed, to rest on all things, which had in it more than the watchful hush of the ordinary sickroom. it suggested a certain moral attitude--a quiet, not acquiesced in merely, but promoted. upon honoria--her circulation quickened by recent exercise, her cheeks still tingling from the stinging sleet, her retina still retaining impressions of the stern grandeur of the wide-ranging fir woods and gray-brown desolation of the moors--this extreme quiet produced an extremely disquieting effect. passing from the chapel-room and the society of her late companions--all three persons of distinct individuality, all three possessing, though from very differing standpoints, a definitely masculine outlook on life--into this silent bedchamber, she seemed to pass with startling abruptness from the active to the passive, from the objective to the subjective side of things, from the world that creates to that which obeys, merely, and waits. the present and masculine, with its clear practical reason, its vigorous purposes, was exchanged for a place peopled by memories only, dedicated wholly to submissive and patient endurance. and this fell in extremely ill with honoria's present humour, while the somewhat unseemly antics of the small, scriptural personages, pictured upon the chimney-space and hearth, troubled her imagination, in that they added a point of irony to this apparent triumph of the remote over the immediate, of tradition over fact. nor as, stung with unspoken remonstrance, she approached lady calmady was this sense of intrusion into an alien region lessened, or her appreciation of the difficulties of the mission she had been deputed by doctor, priest, and amiable young fine gentleman--her late companions--to fulfil, by any means lightened. for katherine lay back in the great rose-silk and muslin-covered armchair, at right angles to the fireplace, motionless, not a participant merely, so it seemed to the intruder, in that all-embracing quiet, but the very source and centre of it, its nucleus and heart. the lines of her figure were shrouded in a loose, wadded gown of dove-coloured silk, bordered with swan's-down. a coif of rare, white lace covered her upturned hair. her eyes were closed, the rim of the eye-socket being very evident. while her face, though smooth and still graciously young, was so attenuated as to appear almost transparent. now, as often before, it struck honoria that a very exquisite spiritual quality was present in her aspect--her whole bearing and expression betraying, less the languor and defeat of physical illness, than the exhaustion of long sustained moral effort, followed by the calm of entire self-dedication and renunciation of will. on the table at her elbow were a bowl of fresh-picked violets and greenhouse-grown tea-roses, some books of the hour, both english and french, a miniature of dickie at the age of thirteen--the proud, little head and its cap of close-cropped curls showing up against a background of thick-set foliage. on the table, too, lay a well-worn, vellum-bound copy of that holiest of books ever, perhaps, conceived by the heart and written by the hand of man--thomas à kempis' _imitation of christ_. it was open at the chapter which is thus entitled--"of the zealous amendment of our whole life." while close against it was a packet of richard's letters--those curt, businesslike communications, faultlessly punctual in their weekly arrival, which, while they relieved her anxiety as to his material well-being, stabbed his mother's heart only less by the little they said, than by all they left unsaid. and looking upon that mother now, taking cognisance of her surroundings, honoria st. quentin's young indignation, once again, waxed hot. while, since it was the tendency of her mind to run eagerly towards theory, to pass from the particular to the general, and instinctively to apprehend the relation of the individual to the mass, looking thus upon katherine, she rebelled, not only against the doom of this one woman, but against that doom of universal womanhood of which she offered, just now, only too eloquent an example. and a burning compassion animated honoria for feminine as against all masculine creatures, for the bitter patience demanded of the passive, as against the large latitude permitted the active principle; for the perpetual humiliation of the subjective and spiritual under the heavy yoke of the objective and practical,--for the brief joy and long barrenness of all those who are condemned to obey and to wait, merely, as against those who are born to command and to create. from a child she had been aware of the element of tragedy inherent in the fact of womanhood. it had quickened exaggerations of sentiment in her at times, and pushed her into not a little knight-errantry,--witness the affair of lady constance quayle's engagement. but, though more sober in judgment than of old and less ready to get her lance in rest, the existence of that tragic element had never disclosed itself more convincingly to her than at the present moment, nor had the necessity to attempt the assuaging of the smart of it called upon her with more urgent voice. yet she recognised that such attempt taxed all her circumspection, all her imaginative sympathy and tact. very free criticism of the master of the house, of his sins of omission and commission alike, were permissible in the chapel-room and in the presence of her late companions. the subject, unhappily, had called for too frequent mention, by now, for any circumlocution to be incumbent in the discussion of it. but here, in the brooding quiet of this bedchamber, and in lady calmady's presence, all that was changed. trenchant statements of opinion, words of blame, were proscribed. the sinner, if spoken of at all, must be spoken of with due reticence and respect, his wilfulness ignored, the unloveliness of his conduct gently, even eagerly, explained away. and, therefore, it came about that this fair champion of much-wronged womanhood, though fired with the zeal of righteous anger, had to go very softly and set a watch before her lips. but as she paused, fearful to break in too abruptly upon lady calmady's repose, she began to question fearfully whether speech was, in truth, still available as a means of communication between herself and the object of her solicitude. for lady calmady lay so very still, her sweet face showed so transparent against the rose-silk, muslin-covered pillows, that the younger woman was shaken by a swift dread that dr. knott's melancholy predictions had already found fulfilment, and that the lovely, labour-wasted body had already let the valiant, love-wasted soul depart. "cousin katherine, dear cousin katherine," she called very gently, under her breath, and then waited almost awestricken, sensible, to the point of distress, alike of the profound quiet, which it seemed as an act of profanity to have even assayed to break, and of the malign activity of those little, scriptural figures anticking so wildly in the chimney-space and on the hearth. seconds, to honoria of measureless duration, elapsed before lady calmady gave sign of life. at length she moved her hands, as though gathering, with infinite tenderness, some small and helpless creature close and warm against her bosom. honoria's vision grew somewhat blurred and misty. then, with a long-drawn, fluttering sigh, katherine looked up at the tall, straight figure. "dick--ah, you've come in! my beloved--have you had good sport?" she said. honoria sat down on the end of the sofa, bowing her head. "alas, alas, it is only me, cousin katherine. nothing better than me, honoria st. quentin. would that it were some one better," and her voice broke. but lady calmady had come into full possession of herself. "my dear, i must have been dozing, and my thoughts had wandered far on the backward road, as is the foolish habit of thoughts when one grows old and is not altogether well and strong."--katherine spoke faintly, yet with an air of sweetly playful apology. "one is liable to be confused, under such circumstances, when one first wakes--and--you have the smell of the sleet and the freshness of the moors upon you." she paused, and then added:--"but, indeed, the confusion of sleep once past, i could hardly have anything dearer for my eyes first to light on than your very dear self." hearing which gracious words, indignation in the cause of this woman, burning compassion for the wrongs and sorrows of universal womanhood, both of which must be denied utterance, worked very forcibly in honoria. she bent down and taking lady calmady's hand kissed it. and, as she did this, her eyes were those of an ardent, yet very reverent lover, and so, when next she spoke, were the tones of her voice. but katherine, still anxious to repair any defect in her recognition and greeting, and still with that same effect of playful self-depreciation, spoke first. "i had been reviewing many things, with the help of blessed thomas à kempis here, before i became so drowsy. the dear man lays his finger smartly upon all the weak places in one's fancied armour of righteousness. it is sometimes not quite easy to be altogether grateful to him. for instance, he has pointed out to me conclusively that i grow reprehensibly selfish." "oh come, come!" honoria answered, in loving raillery. "thomas is acute to the point of lying if he has convinced you of that!" "unhappily, no," katherine returned. "i know it, i fear, without any pointing of thomas's finger. but i rather shirked admission of my knowledge--well, for the very bad reason that i wanted very badly to put off the day of amendment. now the holy man has touched my witness and"--she turned her head against the pillows and looked full at the younger woman, while her under-lip quivered a little. "my dear, i have come to be very greedy of the comfort of your companionship. i have been tempted to consider not your advantage, but solely my own. the pointing finger of thomas has brought it home to me that brockhurst and i are feeding upon your generosity of time, and helpfulness, to an unconscionable extent. we are devouring the best days of your life, and hindering you alike from work and from pleasure. it must not be. and so, my dear, i beg you go forth, once more, to all your many friends and to society. you are too young, and too gifted, to remain here in this sluggish backwater, alongside a derelict like me. it is not right. you must make for the open stream again and let the free wind and the strong current bear you gladly on your appointed course. and my gratitude and my blessing will go with you always. but you must delay no longer. for me you have done enough." for a little space honoria held her friend's hand in silence. "are--are--you tired of me then?" she said. "ah, my dear!" katherine exclaimed. and the exclamation was more reassuring, somehow, than any denial could have been. "after all," honoria went on, "i really don't see why you're to have a monopoly of faithfulness. there's selfishness now, if you like--to appropriate a virtue _en bloc_ not leaving a rag, not the veriest scrappit of it for anybody else! and then, has it never occurred to you, that i may be just every bit as greedy of your companionship as you of mine--more so, i fancy, because--because----" honoria bowed her head and kissed the hand she held, once again. "you see--i know it sounds as if i was rather a beast--perhaps i am--but i never cared for any one--really to care, i mean--till i cared for you." "my dear!"--katherine said again, wondering, shrinking somewhat, at once touched and almost repulsed. the younger woman's attitude was so far removed from her own experience. "does it displease you? does it seem to you unnatural?" honoria asked quickly. "a little," lady calmady answered, smiling, yet very tenderly. "all the same it's quite true. you opened a door, somehow, that had always been shut. i hardly believed in its existence. of course i had read plenty about the--affections, shall we call them? and had heard women and girls, and men, too, for that matter, talk about them pretty freely. but it bored me a good deal. i thought it all rather silly, and rather nasty perhaps."--honoria shook her head. "it didn't appeal to me in the least. but when you opened the door"--she paused, her face very grave, yet with a smile on it, as she looked away at the little figures anticking upon the hearth. "oh, dear me, i own i was half scared," she said, "it let in such a lot of light!" but, for this speech, lady calmady had no immediate answer. and so the quiet came back, settling down sensibly on the room again--even as, when at dawn the camp is struck, the secular quiet of the desert comes back and possesses its own again. and, in obedience to that quiet, katherine's hand rested passively in the hand of her companion, while she gazed wonderingly at the delicate, half-averted face, serious, lit up by the eagerness of a vital enthusiasm. and, having a somewhat sorrowful fund of learning to draw upon in respect of the dangers all eccentricity, either of character or development, inevitably brings along with it, she trembled, divining that noble and strong and pure though it was, that face, and the temperament disclosed by it, might work sorrow, both to its possessor and to others, unless the enthusiasm animating it should find some issue at once large and simple enough to engage its whole aspiration and power of work. but abruptly honoria broke up the brooding quiet, laughing gently, yet with a catch in her throat. "and when you had let in the light, cousin katherine, good heavens, how thankful i was i had never married. picture finding out all that after one had bound oneself, after one had given oneself! what an awful prostitution."--her tone changed and she stroked the elder woman's hand softly. "so you see you can't very well order me off, the pointing finger of thomas notwithstanding. you have taught me----" "only half the lesson as yet," katherine said. "the other half, and the doxology which closes it, neither i, nor any other woman, can teach you." "you really believe that?" "ah! my dear," katherine said, "i do more than believe. i know it." the younger woman regarded her searchingly. then she shook her charming head. "it's no good to arrive at a place before you've got to it," she declared. "and i very certainly haven't got to the second half of the lesson, let alone the doxology, yet. and then i'm so blissfully content with the first half, that i've no disposition to hurry. no, dear cousin katherine, i am afraid you must resign yourself to put up with me for a little while longer. your foes, unfortunately, are of your own household in this affair. dr. knott has just been holding forth to us--julius march, and mr. quayle, and me--and swearing me over, not only to stay, but to make you eat and drink and come out of doors, and even to go away with me. because--yes, in a sense your thomas is right with his pointing finger, though he got a bit muddled, good man, not being quite up-to-date, and pointed to the wrong place----" honoria left her sentence unfinished. she knelt down--her tall, slender figure, angular, more like that of a youth, than like that of a maid, in her spare mud-stained habit and coat. impulsively she put her hands on lady calmady's hips, laid her head in her lap. "have you but one blessing, oh! my more than mother?" she cried. "do we count for nothing, all the rest of us--your household, and tenants rich and poor, and julius the faithful, and ludovic the bland, and that queer lump of sagacity and ugliness, john knott? why will you kill yourself? why will you die and leave us all, just because one person is perverse? that's hardly the way to make us--who love you--bear with and pity him and welcome him home.--oh! i know i am treading on dangerous ground and venturing to approach very close. but i don't care--not a hang! we're at the end of our patience. we want you, and we mean to have you back." honoria raised herself, knelt bolt upright, her hands on the arms of lady calmady's chair, her expression full of appeal. "be kind to us, be kind," she said. "we only ask you, after all, to eat and drink--to let clara take care of you at night, and i'll do so by day.--and then, when you are stronger, you must come away with me, up north, to ormiston. you have not been there for years, and its gray towers are rather splendid overlooking that strong, uneasy, northern sea. it stirs the viking blood in one, and makes that which was hard seem of less moment. roger and mary are there, too--will be all this summer. and you know it refreshed you to see them last year. and if we go pretty soon the boys will be at school, so they won't tire you with their racketing. they're jolly monkeys, though, in my opinion, godfrey wants smacking. he comes the elder-brother a lot too much over poor little dick.--but that's neither here nor there. oh! it's for you to get out of the backwater into the stream, ten times more than for me. dearest physician, heal thyself!" but katherine, though deeply touched by the loving ardour of the younger woman's appeal, and the revelation of tenderness and watchful care, constantly surrounding her, which that appeal brought along with it, could not rouse herself to any immediate response. sternly, unremittingly, since the fair july night when richard had left her nearly five years earlier, she had schooled herself into unmurmuring resignation and calm. in the prosecution of such a process there must be loss as well as gain. and katherine had, in great measure, atrophied impulse, and, in eradicating personal desire, had come near destroying all spontaneity of emotion. she could still give, but the power of receiving was deadened in her. and she had come to be jealous of the quiet which surrounded her. it was her support and solace. she asked little more than not to have it broken up. she dreaded even affection, should that strive to draw her from the cloistered way of life. the world, and its many interests, had ceased to be of any moment to her. she asked to be left to contemplation of things eternal and to the tragedy of her own heart. and so, though it was beautiful to know herself to be thus cherished and held in high esteem, that beauty came to her as something unrelated, as sweet words good to hear, yet spoken of some person other than herself, or of a self she had ceased to be. all privilege implies a corresponding obligation, and to the meeting of fresh obligations katherine felt herself not only unequal, but indisposed. and so, she smiled now upon honoria st. quentin, leaning back against the rose-silk and muslin-covered pillows, with a lovely indulgence, yet rather hopelessly unmoved and remote. "ah! my dear, i am beyond all wish to be healed after the fashion you, in your urgent loving-kindness, would have me," she said. "i look forward to the final healing, when my many mistakes and shortcomings shall be forgiven and the smart of them removed. and i am very tired. i do not think it can be required of me to go back." "i know, i know," honoria replied.--she rose to her feet and moved across to the fireplace, her straight eyebrows drawn together, her expression one of perplexity. "i must seem a brute for trying to drag you back. when dr. knott, and the other two men, asked me to come and reason with you, i was on the edge of refusing. i hardly had the heart to worry you. and yet," she added wistfully, "after all, in a way, it is just simply your own, dear fault. for if you will be a sort of little kingdom of heaven to us, you see, it's inevitable that, when you threaten to slip away from us, we should play the part of the violent and do our best to take our kingdom by force and keep it in spite of itself." "you overrate the heavenliness of the poor little kingdom," katherine said. "its soil has become barren, its proud cities are laid waste. it's an unprofitable place, believe me, dearest child. let it be. seek your fortune in some kingdom from which the glory has not departed and whose motto is not _ichabod_." "unfortunately, i can't do that," the younger woman answered. "i've explained why already. where my heart is, there, you see, my kingdom is also." "ah! my dear, my dear," katherine said, touched, yet somewhat weary. "and after all it is not wholly for our own sakes we make this fight to keep you."--miss st. quentin's voice sank. she spoke slowly and as though with reluctance. "we do it for the sake of the person you love best in the world. i don't say we love him very much, but that is beside the mark. we owe him a certain duty--i, because i am living in his house, the others because they are his friends. when he comes home--as come he surely will--they all say that, even while they blame him--would it not be an almost too cruel punishment if he found brockhurst empty of your presence? you would not wish that. it's not a question of me, of course. i don't count. but you gone, no one--not even the old servants, i believe--would stay. blame would be turned into something awkwardly near to hatred." lady calmady's serenity did not desert her, but a touch of her old loftiness of manner was apparent. and miss st. quentin was very glad. anything, even anger, would be welcome if it dissipated that unnatural, paralysing calm. "you forget julius, i think," she said. "he will be faithful to the very end, faithful unto death. and so will another friend of happier days, poor, blind, old camp." a sudden inspiration came to honoria st. quentin. "you must only count on julius, i am afraid, cousin katherine--not on camp." and to her immense relief she perceived lady calmady's serenity give a little. it was as though she came nearer. her sweet face was troubled, her eyes full of questioning. "camp grew a little too tired of waiting about three weeks ago. you did not ask for him----" "didn't i?" katherine said, smitten by self-reproach. "never once--and so we did not tell you, fearing to distress you." miss st. quentin came over and sat down on the end of the sofa again. she rested her hands on her knees. her feet were rather far apart. she fixed her eyes upon the small prophets and patriarchs anticking upon the hearth. "but it wasn't really so very bad," she said reflectively. "and we did all we could to smooth his passage, poor, dear beast, to the place where all good dogs go. we had the vet out from westchurch two or three times, but there was nothing much he could do. and i thought him a bit rough. nervousness, i fancy. you see the dog did not like being handled by a stranger, and made it rather hot for him once or twice. i could not let him be worried, poor old man, and so julius march, and winter, and i, took turn and turn about with him." "where did he die?" "in the gun-room, on the tiger-skin."--honoria did not look round. her voice grew perceptibly husky. "chifney and i sat up with him that last night." "you and chifney?" lady calmady exclaimed, almost in protest. "yes. of course the men would have been as kind as kind could be. only i had a feeling you would be glad to know i was there, later, when we told you. you see chifney's as good as any vet, and i had to have somebody. the dog was rather queer. i did not quite know how to manage him alone." lady calmady put out her hand. honoria took it silently, and fell to stroking it once more. it was a declaration of peace, she felt, on the part of the obstinate well-beloved--possibly a declaration of something over and above peace. "winter saw to our creature comforts," the young lady continued. "oh, we weren't starved, i promise you! and chifney was excellent company." she hesitated a moment. "he told me endless yarns about horses--about doncaster and newmarket, and goodwood. i was greatly flattered at being regarded sufficiently of the equestrian order to hear all that.--and he told me stories about richard, when he was quite a little boy--and about his father also." honoria had a conviction the tears were running down lady calmady's cheeks, but she would not look round. she only stroked the hand she held softly, and talked on. "they were fine," she said, "some of those stories. i am glad to have heard them. they went home to me. when all is said and done, there is nothing like breeding and pluck, and the courtesy which goes along with them. but after midnight camp grew very restless. he had his blanket in the big armchair--you know the one i mean--as usual. but he wouldn't stay there. we had to lift him down. you see his hindquarters were paralysed, and he couldn't help himself much. it was pathetic. i can't forget the asking look in his half-blind eyes. but we couldn't make out what he wanted. at last he dragged himself as far as the door, and we set it open and watched him, poor, dear beast. he got across the lobby to the bottom of the little staircase----" the speaker's breath caught. "then we made out what it was. he wanted to get up here, to come to you.--well, i could understand that! i should want just that myself, shall want it, when it comes to the last. he whimpered when chifney carried him back into the gun-room." honoria turned her head and looked lady calmady in the face. her own was more than commonly white and very gentle in expression. "he died in the gray of the morning, with his great head on my lap. i fancy it eased him to have something human, and--rather pitiful--close against him. julius had just come in to see how we were getting on, i won't declare he did not say a prayer--i think he did. but i wasn't quite as steady as i might have been just then." she turned her head, looking back at the figures upon the hearth. she was satisfied. lady calmady's long-sustained calm had given way, and she wept. "we buried him, in his blanket, under the big portugal-laurel, where the nightingale sings, at the corner of the troco-ground, close to camp the first and old camp. the upper servants came, and chaplin and hariburt from the house-stables, and chifney and the head-lad--and some of the gardeners. poor, old wenham drove up in his donkey-chair from the west lodge. julius was there, of course. we did all things decently and in order." honoria's voice ceased. she sat stroking the dear hand she held and smiling to herself, notwithstanding a chokiness in her throat, for she had a comfortable belief the situation was saved. then clara entered, prepared to encounter remonstrance, bearing a tray. "it's all right, clara," miss st. quentin said. "lady calmady is quite ready for something to eat. i've been telling her about camp." and katherine, sitting upright, with great docility and a certain gentle shame, accepted food and drink. "since you wish it, dearest," she said, "and since julius must not be left alone in a quite empty house." "our kingdom of heaven stays with us then?" honoria exclaimed joyously. "such as it is--poor thing--it will do its best to stay. i thought i had cried my eyes dry forever, long ago. but it seems not. you and camp have broken up the drought." "i have not hurt you?" honoria said, in sudden penitence. "no, no--you have given me relief. i was ceasing to be human. the blessed thomas was right--i grew very selfish." "but you're not displeased with me?" honoria insisted. lady calmady's playfulness had returned, but with a new complexion. "ah! it is a little soon to ask that!" she said. "still i will go north with you a fortnight hence--go to ormiston. and by then, perhaps, you may be forgiven. open the casement, dearest, and let in the wind. the air of this room is curiously dead. give my love to julius and ludovic. tell them i will come into the chapel-room after dinner to-night.--what--my child, are you so very glad?--kiss me.--god keep you.--now i will rest." chapter vi in which m. paul destournelle has the bad taste to threaten to upset the apple-cart helen de vallorbes rose from her knees and slipped out from under the greasy and frayed half-curtain of the confessional box. the atmosphere of that penitential spot had been such as to make her feel faint and dizzy. she needed to recover herself. and so she stood, for a minute or more, in the clear, cool brightness of the nave of the great basilica, her highly-civilised figure covered by a chequer-work of morning sunshine streaming down through the round-headed windows of the lofty clere-storey. as the sense of physical discomfort left her she instinctively arranged her veil, and adjusted her bracelets over the wrists of her long gloves. yet, notwithstanding this trivial and mundane occupation, her countenance retained an expression of devout circumspection, of the relief of one who has accomplished a serious and somewhat distasteful duty. her sensations were increasingly agreeable. she had rid herself of an oppressive burden. she was at peace with herself and with--almost--all man and womankind. yet, it must be admitted, the measure had been mainly precautionary. helen had gone to confession, on the present occasion, in much the same spirit as an experienced traveler visits his dentist before starting on a protracted journey. she regarded it as a disagreeable, but politic, insurance against possible accident. her distaste had been increased by the fact that there really were some rather risky matters to be confessed. she had even feared a course of penance might have been enforced before the granting of absolution--this certainly would have been the case had she been dealing with that firm disciplinarian and very astute man of the world, the jesuit father who acted as her spiritual adviser in paris. but here in naples, happily, it was different. the fat, sleepy, easy-going, old canon--whose person exuded so strong an odour of snuff that, at the solemnest moment of the _confiteor_, she had been unable to suppress a convulsive sneeze--asked her but few inconvenient questions. pretty fine-ladies will get into little difficulties of this nature. he had listened to very much the same story not infrequently before, and took the position amiably, almost humorously, for granted. it was very wicked, a deadly sin, but the flesh--specially such delicately bred, delicately fed, feminine flesh--is admittedly weak, and the wiles of satan are many. is it not an historic fact that our first mother did not escape?--was helen's repentance sincere, that was the point? and of that helen could honestly assure him there was no smallest doubt. indeed, at this moment, she abhorred, not only her sin, but her co-sinner, in the liveliest and most comprehensive manner. return to him? sooner the dog return to its vomit! she recognised the iniquity, the shame, the detestable folly, of her late proceedings far too clearly. temptation in that direction had ceased to be possible. then followed the mysterious and merciful words of absolution. and helen rose from her knees and slipped out from beneath the frayed and greasy curtain a free woman, the guilt of her adultery wiped off by those awful words, as, with a wet cloth, one would wipe writing off a slate leaving the surface of it clean in every part. precisely how far she literally believed in the efficacy of that most solemn rite she would not have found it easy to declare. scepticism warred with expediency. but that appeared to her beside the mark. it was really none of her business. let her teachers look to all that. to her it was sufficient that she could regard it from the practical standpoint of an insurance against possible accident--the accident of sin proving actually sinful and actually punishable by a narrow-minded deity, the accident of the veritable existence of heaven and hell, and of holy church veritably having the keys of both these in her keeping, the accident--more immediately probable and consequently worth guarding against--that, during wakeful hours, some night, the half-forgotten lessons of the convent school would come back on her, and, as did sometimes happen, would prove too much for her usually victorious audacity. but, it should be added that another and more creditable instinct did much to dictate madame de vallorbes' action at this juncture. as the days went by the attraction exercised over her by richard calmady suffered increase rather than diminution. and this attraction affected her morally, producing in her modesties, reticencies of speech, even of thought, and prickings of unflattering self-criticism unknown to her heretofore. her ultimate purpose might not be virtuous. but undeniably, such is the complexity--not to say hypocrisy--of the human heart, the prosecution of that purpose developed in her a surprising sensibility of conscience. many episodes in her career, hitherto regarded as entertaining, she ceased to view with toleration, let alone complacency. the remembrance of them made her nervous. what if richard came to hear of them? the effect might be disastrous. not that he was any saint, but that she perceived that, with the fine inconsistency common to most well-bred englishmen, he demanded from the women of his family quite other standards of conduct to those which he himself obeyed. other women might do as they pleased. their lapses from the stricter social code were no concern of his. he might, indeed, be not wholly averse to profiting by such lapses. but in respect of the women of his own rank and blood the case was quite otherwise. he was alarmingly capable of disgust. and, not a little to her own surprise, fear of provoking, however slightly, that disgust had become a reigning power with her. never had she felt as she now felt. her own sensations at once captivated and astonished her. this had ceased to be an adventure dictated by merry devilry, undertaken out of lightness of heart, inspired by a mischievous desire to see dust whirl and straws fly, or undertaken even out of necessity to support self-satisfaction by ranging herself with cynical audacity on the side of the eternal laughter. this was serious. it was desperate--the crisis, as she told herself, of her life and fate. the result was singular. never had she been more vividly, more electrically, alive. never had she been more diffident and self-distrustful. and this complexity of sensation served to press home on her the high desirability of insurance against accident, of washing clean, as far as might be possible, the surface of the slate. so it followed that now, standing in the chequer-work of sunshine within the great basilica, self-congratulation awoke in her. the lately concluded ceremony, some of the details of which had really been most distasteful, might or might not be of vital efficacy, but, in any case, she had courageously done her part. therefore, if holy church spoke truly, her first innocence was restored. helen hugged the idea with almost childish satisfaction. now she could go back to the villa vallorbes in peace, and take what measure---- she left the sentence unfinished. even in thought it is often an error to define. let the future and her intentions regarding it remain in the vague! she signed to zélie forestier--seated on the steps of a side-chapel, yellow-paper-covered novel in hand--to follow her. and, after making a genuflexion before the altar of our lady of the immaculate conception, gathered up her turquoise-coloured skirts--the yellow-tufa quarries were not superabundantly clean--and pursued her way towards the great main door. the benevolent priest, charmed by her grace of movement, watched her from his place in the confessional, although another penitent now kneeled within the greasy curtain. verily the delinquencies of so delectable a piece of womanhood were easily comprehensible! neither god nor man, in such a case, would be extreme to mark what was done amiss.--moreover, had she not promised generous gifts alike to church and poor? the sin which in an ugly woman is clearly mortal, in a pretty one becomes little more than venial. making which reflection a kindly, fat chuckle shook his big paunch, and, crossing himself, he turned his attention to the voice murmuring from behind the wooden lattice at his side. yet it would appear that abstract justice judged less leniently of the position. for, passing out on to the portico--about the base of whose enormous columns half-naked beggars clustered, exposing sores and mutilations, shrilly clamouring for alms--the dazzling glare of the empty, sun-scorched piazza behind him, helen came face to face with no less a personage than m. paul destournelle. it was as though some one had struck her. the scene reeled before her eyes. then her temper rose as in resentment of insult. to avoid all chance of such a meeting she had selected this church in an unfashionable quarter of the town. here, at least, she had reckoned herself safe from molestation. and, that precisely in the hour of peace, the hour of politic insurance against accident, this accident of all others should befall her, was maddening! but anger did not lessen her perspicacity. how to inflict the maximum of discomfort upon m. destournelle with the minimum of risk to herself was the question. an interview was inevitable. she wanted, very certainly, to get her claws into him, but, for safety's sake, that should be done not in attack, but in defense. therefore he should speak first, and in his words, whatever those words might be, she promised herself to discover legitimate cause of offense. so, leisurely, and with studied ignorance of his presence, she flung largesse of _centissimi_ to right and left, and, while the chorus of blessing and entreaty was yet loud, walked calmly past m. destournelle down the wide, shallow steps, from the solid shadow of the portico to the burning sun-glare of the piazza. the young man's countenance went livid. "do you dare to pretend not to recognise me?" he literally gasped. "on the contrary i recognise you perfectly." "i have written to you repeatedly." "you have--written to me with a ridiculous and odious persistence." madame de vallorbes picked her steps. the pavement was uneven, the heat great. destournelle's hands twitched with agitation, yet he contrived not only to replace his panama hat, but opened his white umbrella as a precaution against sunstroke. and this diverted, even while exasperating, helen. measures to ensure personal safety were so characteristic of destournelle. "and with what fault, i ask you, can you reproach me, save that of a too absorbing, a too generous, adoration?" "that fault in itself is very sufficient." "do you not reckon, then, in any degree, with the crime you are in process of committing? have you no sense of gratitude, of obligation? have you no regret for your own loss in leaving me?" helen drew aside to let a herd of goats pass. they jostled one another impudently, carrying their inquisitive heads and short tails erect, at right angles to the horizontal line of their narrow backs. they bleated, as in impish mischief. their little beards wagged. their little hoofs pattered on the stone, and the musky odour of them hung in the burning air. madame de vallorbes put her handkerchief up to her face, and over the edge of it she contemplated paul destournelle. every detail of his appearance was not only familiar, but associated in her mind with some incident of his and her common past. now the said details asserted themselves, so it seemed to her, with an impertinence of premeditated provocation.--the high, domed skull, the smooth, prematurely-thin hair parted in the middle and waved over the ears. the slightly raised eyebrows, and fatigued, red-lidded, and vain, though handsome eyes. the straight, thin nose, and winged, open nostrils, so perpetually a-quiver. the soft, sparse, forked beard which closely followed the line of the lower jaw and pointed chin. the moustache, lightly shading the upper lip, while wholly exposing the fretful and rather sensuous mouth. the long, effeminate, and restless hands. the tall, slight figure. the clothes, of a material and pattern fondly supposed by their wearer to present the last word of english fashion in relation to foreign travel, the colour of them accurately matched to the pale, brown hair and beard.--so much for the detail of the young man's appearance. as a whole, that appearance was elegant as only french youth ventures to be elegant. refinement enveloped paul destournelle--refinement, over-sensitised and under-vitalised, as that of a rare exotic forced into precocious blossoming by application of some artificial horticultural process. and all this--elaborately effective and seductive as long as one should happen to think so, elaborately nauseous when one had ceased so to think--had long been familiar to helen to the point of satiety. she turned wicked, satiety transmuting itself into active vindictiveness. how gladly would she have torn this emasculated creature limb from limb, and flung the lot of it among the refuse of the neapolitan gutter! but, from beneath the shade of his umbrella, the young man recommenced his plaint. "it is inconceivable that, knowing my cruel capacity for suffering, you should be indifferent to my present situation," he asserted, half violently, half fretfully. "the whole range of history would fail to offer a case of parallel callousness. you, whose personality has penetrated the recesses of my being! you, who are acquainted with the infinite intricacy of my mental and emotional organisation! a touch will endanger the harmony of that exquisite mechanism. the interpenetration of the component parts of my being is too complete. i exist, i receive sensations, i suffer, i rejoice, as a whole. and this lays me open to universal, to incalculable, pain. now my nerves are shattered--intellectual, moral, physical anguish permeate in every part. i rally my self-reverence, my nobility of soul. i make efforts. by day i visit spots of natural beauty and objects of art. but these refuse to gratify me. my thought is too turgid to receive the impress of them. concentration is impossible to me. feverish agitation perverts my imagination. my ideas are fugitive. i endure a chronic delirium. this by day," he extended one hand with a despairing gesture, "but by night----" "oh, i implore you," helen interrupted, "spare me the description of your nights! the subject is a hardly modest one. and then, at various times, i have already heard so very much about them, those nights!" calmly she resumed her walk. the amazing vanity of the young man's speech appeased her, in a measure, since it fed her contempt. let him sink himself beyond all hope of recovery, that was best. let him go down, down, in exposition of fatuous self-conceit. when he was low enough, then she would kick him! meanwhile her eyes, ever greedy of incident and colour, registered the scene immediately submitted to them. in the centre of the piazza, women--saffron and poppy-coloured handkerchiefs tied round their dark heads--washed, with a fine impartiality, soiled linen and vegetables in an iron trough, grated for a third of its length, before a fountain of debased and flamboyant design. their voices were alternately shrill and gutteral. it was perhaps as well not to understand too clearly all which they said. on the left came a break in the high, painted house-fronts, off which in places the plaster scaled, and from the windows of which protruded miscellaneous samples of wearing apparel and bedding soliciting much-needed purification by means of air and light. in the said break was a low wall where coarse plants rooted, and atop of which lay some half-dozen ragged youths, outstretched upon their stomachs, playing cards. the least decrepit of the beggars, armed with helen's largesse of copper coin, had joined them from beneath the portico. gambling, seasoned by shouts, imprecations, blows, grew fast and furious. in the steep roadway on the right a dray, loaded with barrels, creaked and jolted upward. the wheels of it were solid discs of wood. the great, mild-eyed, cream-coloured oxen strained, with slowly swinging heads, under the heavy yoke. scarlet, woolen bands and tassels adorned their broad foreheads and wide-sweeping, black-tipped horns, and here and there a scarlet drop their flanks, where the goad had pricked them too shrewdly. and upon it all the unrelenting southern sun looked down, and helen de vallorbes' unrelenting eyes looked forth. one of those quick realisations of the inexhaustible excitement of living came to her. she looked at the elegant young man walking beside her, apprised, measured, him. she thought of richard calmady, self-imprisoned in the luxurious villa, and of the possibilities of her, so far platonic, relation to him. she glanced down at her own rustling skirts and daintily-shod feet traveling over the hot stones, then at the noisy gamblers, then at the women washing, with that consummate disregard of sanitation, food and raiment together in the rusty iron trough by the fountain. the violent contrasts, the violent lights and shadows, the violent diversities of purpose and emotion, of rank, of health, of fortune and misfortune, went to her head. whatever the risks or dangers that excitement remained inexhaustible. nay, those very dangers and risks ministered to its perpetual upflowing. it struck her she had been over-scrupulous, weakly conscientious, in making confession and seeking absolution. such timid moralities do not really shape destiny, control or determine human fate. the shouting, fighting youths there, with their filthy pack of cards and few _centissimi_, sprawling in the unstinted sunshine, were nearer the essential truth. they were the profound, because the practical philosophers! therefore let us gamble, gamble, gamble, be the stake small or great, as long as the merest flicker of life, or fraction of uttermost farthing, is left! and so, when destournelle took up his lament again, she listened to him, for the moment, with remarkable lightness of heart. "i appeal to you in the name of my as yet unwritten poems, my masterpieces for which france, for which the whole brotherhood of letters, so anxiously waits, to put a term to this appalling chastisement!" "delicious!" said helen, under her breath. "your classicism is the natural complement of my mediævalism. the elasticity, the concreteness, of your temperament fertilised the too-brooding introspectiveness of my own. it lightened the reverence which i experience in the contemplation of my own nature. it induced in me the hint of frivolity which is necessary to procure action. our union was as that of high-noon and impenetrable night. i anticipated extraordinary consequences." "marriage of a butterfly and a bat? yes, the progeny should be surprising, little animals certainly," commented madame de vallorbes. "in deserting me you have rendered me impotent. that is a crime. it is an atrocity. you assassinate my genius." "then, indeed, i have reason to congratulate myself on my ingenuity," she returned, "since i succeeded in the assassination of the non-existent!" "you, who have praised it a thousand times--you deny the existence of my genius?" almost shrieked m. destournelle. he was very much in earnest, and in a very sorry case. his limbs twitched. he appeared on the verge of an hysteric seizure. to plague him thus was a charmingly pretty sport, but one safest carried on with closed doors--not in so public a spot. "i do not deny the existence of anything, save your right to make a scene and render me ridiculous as you repeatedly did at pisa." "then you must return to me." "oh! la, la!" cried helen. "that you should leave me and live in your cousin's house constitutes an intolerable insult." "and where, pray, would you have me live?" she retorted, her temper rising, to the detriment of diplomacy. "in the street?" "it appears to me the two localities are synonymous--morally." madame de vallorbes drew up. rage almost choked her. m. destournelle's words stung the more fiercely because the insinuation they contained was not justified by fact. they brought home to her her non-success in a certain direction. they called up visions of that unknown rival, to whom--ah, how she hated the woman!--richard calmady's affections were, as she feared, still wholly given. that her relation to him was innocent, filled her with humiliation. first she turned to zélie forestier, who had followed at a discreet distance across the piazza. "go on," she said, "down the street. find a cab, a clean one. wait in it for me at the bottom of the hill." then she turned upon m. destournelle. "your mind is so corrupt that you cannot conceive of an honest friendship, even between near relations. you fill me with repulsion--i measured the depth of your degeneracy at pisa. that is why i left you. i wanted to breathe in an uninfected atmosphere. my cousin is a person of remarkable intellectual powers, of chivalrous ideals, and of superior character. he has had great troubles. he is far from well. i am watching over and nursing him." the last statement trenched boldly on fiction. as she made it madame de vallorbes moved forward, intending to follow the retreating zélie down the steep, narrow street. for a minute m. destournelle paused to recollect his ideas. then he went quickly after her. "stay, i implore you," he said. "yes, i own at pisa i lost myself. the agitation of composition was too much for me. my mind seethed with ideas. i became irritable. i comprehend i was in fault. but it is so easy to recommence, and to range oneself. i accept your assurances regarding your cousin. it is all so simple. you shall not return to me. you shall continue your admirable work. but i will return to you. i will join you at the villa. my society cannot fail to be of pleasure to your cousin, if he is such a person as you describe. in a _milieu_ removed from care and trivialities i will continue my poem. i may even dedicate it to your cousin. i may make his name immortal. if he is a person of taste and ideals, he cannot fail to appreciate so magnificent a compliment. you will place this before him. you will explain to him how necessary to me is your presence. he will be glad to cooperate in procuring it for me. he will understand that in making these propositions i offer him a unique opportunity, i behave towards him with signal generosity. and if, at first, the intrusion of a stranger into his household should appear inconvenient, let him but pause a little. he will find his reward in the development of my genius and in the spectacle of our mutual felicity." destournelle spoke with great rapidity. the street which they had now entered, from the far end of the piazza, was narrow. it was encumbered by a string of laden mules, by a stream of foot passengers. interruption of his monologue, short of raising her voice to screaming pitch, was impossible to madame de vallorbes. but when he ceased she addressed him, and her lips were drawn away from her pretty teeth viciously. "oh! you unspeakable idiot!" she said. "have you no remnant of decency?" "do you mean to imply that sir richard calmady would have the insolence, is so much the victim of insular prejudice as, to object to our intimacy?" madame de vallorbes clapped her hands together in a sort of frenzy. "idiot, idiot," she repeated. "i wish i could kill you." suddenly m. paul destournelle had all his wits about him. "ah!" he said, with a short laugh, curiously resembling in its malice the bleating of the little goats, "i perceive that which constitutes the obstacle to our union. it shall be removed." he lifted his panama hat with studied elegance, and turning down a break-neck, side alley, called, over his shoulder:-- "_abientôt très chère madame._" chapter vii splendide mendax unpunctuality could not be cited as among madame de vallorbes' offenses. yet, on the morning in question, she was certainly very late for the twelve o'clock breakfast. richard calmady--awaiting her coming beneath the glistering dome of the airy pavilion, set in the angle of the terminal wall of the high-lying garden--had time to become conscious of slight irritation. it was not merely that he was constitutionally impatient of delay, but that his nerves were tiresomely on edge just now. trifles had power to endanger his somewhat stoic equanimity. but when at length helen emerged from the house irritation was forgotten. moving through the vivid lights and shadows of the ilex and cypress grove, her appearance had a charm of unwonted simplicity. at first sight her graceful person had the effect of being clothed in a religious habit. richard's youthful delight in seeing a woman walk beautifully remained to him. it received satisfaction now. helen advanced without haste, a certain grandeur in her demeanour, a certain gloom, even as one who takes serious counsel of himself, indifferent to external things, at once actor in, and spectator of, some drama playing itself out in the theatre of his own soul. and this effect of dignity, of self-recollection, was curiously heightened by her dress--of a very soft and fine, woolen material, of spotless white, the lines of it at once flowing and statuesque. while as head-gear, in place of some startling construction of contemporary, parisian millinery, she wore, after the modest italian fashion, a black lace mantilla over her bright hair. arrived, she greeted richard curtly, and without apology for delay accepted the contents of the first dish offered to her by the waiting men-servants, ate as though determinedly and putting a force upon herself, and--that which was unusual with her before sundown--drank wine. and, watching her, involuntarily richard's thought traveled back to a certain luncheon party at brockhurst, graced by the presence of genial, puzzle-headed lord fallowfeild and members of his numerous family, when helen had swept in, even as now, had been self-absorbed, even as now. of the drive to newlands, all in the sad november afternoon, following on that luncheon, he also thought, of communications made by helen during that drive, and of the long course of event and action directly or indirectly consequent on those communications. he thought of the fog, too, enveloping and almost choking him, when in the early morning driven by furies, still virgin in body as in heart, he had ridden out into a blank and sightless world hoping the chill of it would allay the fever in his blood,--and of the fog again, in the afternoon, from out which the branches of the great trees, like famine-stricken arms in tattered draperies, seemed to pluck evilly at the carriage, as he walked the smoking horses up and down the newlands' drive, waiting for helen to rejoin him. and now, somehow, that fog seemed to come up between him and the well-furnished breakfast-table, between him and the radiant expanse of the vivacious, capricious, half-classic, half-modern, mercantile city outstretched there, teeming, breeding, fermenting, in the fecundating heat of the noonday sun. the chill of the fog struck cold into his vitals now, giving him the strangest physical sensation. richard straightened himself in his chair, passed his hands across his eyes impatiently. brockhurst, and all the old life of it, was a subject of which he forbade himself remembrance. he had divorced himself from all that, cut himself adrift from it long ago. by an act of will, he tried to put it out of his mind now. but the fog remained--an actual clouding of his physical vision, blurring all he looked upon. it was horribly uncomfortable. he wished he was alone. then he might have slipped down from his chair and, according to his poor capacity of locomotion, sought relief in movement. meanwhile, silently, mechanically, helen de vallorbes continued her breakfast. and as she so continued, in addition to his singular physical sensations of blurred vision and clinging chill, he became aware of a growing embarrassment and constraint between himself and his companion. so far, his and her intercourse had been easy and spontaneous, because superficial. since that first interview on the terrace a tacit agreement had existed to avoid the personal note. now, for cause unknown, that intercourse threatened entering upon a new phase. it was as though the concentration, the tension, which he observed in her, and of which he was sensible in himself, must of necessity eventuate in some unbosoming, some act--almost involuntary--of self-revelation. this unaccustomed silence and restraint seemed to richard charged with consequences which, in his present condition of defective volition, he was powerless to prevent. and this displeased him, mastery of surrounding influences being very dear to him. at last, coffee having been served, the men-servants withdrew to the house, but the constraint was not thereby lessened. helen sat upright, her chin resting upon the back of her left hand, her eyes, under their drooping lids, looking out with a veiled fierceness upon the fair and glittering prospect. richard saw her face in profile. the black mantilla draped her shoulders and bust with a certain austerity of effect. it was evident that--by something--she had been stirred to the extinction of her habitual vivacity and desire to shine. and richard, for all his coolness of head and rather cynical maturity of outlook, had a restless suspicion of going forth--even as on that foggy morning at brockhurst--into a blank and sightless world, full of hazardous possibility, where the safe way was difficult of discovery and where masked dangers might lurk. solicitous to dissipate his discomfort he spoke a little at random. "you must forgive me for being such an abominably bad host," he said courteously. "i am not quite the thing this morning, somehow. i had a little go of fever last night. my brain is like so much pulp." helen dropped her hand upon the table as though putting a term to an importunate train of thought. "i have always understood the villa to be remarkably free from malaria," she remarked abstractedly. "so it is. i quite believe that. the servants certainly keep well enough. but so, unfortunately, is not the port." helen turned her head. a vertical line was observable between her arched eyebrows. "the port?" she repeated. richard swallowed his black coffee. perhaps it might steady him and clear his head. the numbness of his faculties and senses alike exasperated him, filling him with a persuasion he would say precisely those things wisdom would counsel to leave unsaid. "yes--you know i generally go down and sleep on board the yacht." there was a momentary pause. madame de vallorbes' lips parted in a soundless exclamation. then she pushed back the modest folds of the mantilla, leaving her neck free. the action of her hands was very graceful as she did this, and she looked fixedly at richard calmady. "i did not know that," she said slowly. then added, as though reasoning out her own thought:--"and naples harbour is admittedly one of the most pestilential holes on the face of the earth. are you not tempting providence in the matter of disease, richard? are you not rather wantonly indiscreet?" "on the contrary," he answered, and something of mockery touched his expression, "i see it quite otherwise. i have been congratulating myself on the praiseworthy abundance of my discretion." and the words were no sooner out of his mouth than richard cursed himself for a bungler, and a slightly vulgar one at that. but upon his hearer those same words worked a remarkable change. her gloom, her abstraction, departed, leaving only a pretty pensiveness. she smiled with chastened sweetness upon richard calmady--a smile nicely attuned to the semi-religious simplicity of her dress. "ah! perhaps we are both a trifle out of sorts this morning!" she said. "i, too, have had my little turn of sickness--sickness of heart. and that seems unfair, since i rose in the best disposition of spirit. quite early i went to confession." "confession?" richard repeated. "i did not know your submission to the church carried you to such practical lengths." "evidently we are each fated to make small discoveries regarding the habits of the other, to-day," she rejoined. "possibly confession is to me just what those nights spent on board the yacht, lying in that malodorous harbour, are to you!" helen's smile broadened to a dainty naughtiness, infinitely provoking. but pensiveness speedily supervened. she folded her hands upon the edge of the table and looked down at them meditatively. "i relieved my conscience. not that there was much to relieve it of, thank heaven! we have lived austerely enough most of us, this winter in france. only it becomes a matter of moral, personal cleanliness, after a time, all that--exaggerated, but very comfortable. just as one takes one's bath twice daily, not that it is necessary but that it is a luxury of physical purity and self-respect, so one comes to go to confession. that is a luxury of moral purification. it is as a bath to the soul, ministering to the perfection of its cleanliness and health." she looked up at richard smiling, that same dainty naughtiness very present. "you observe i am eminently candid. i tell you exactly how my religion affects me. i can only reach high-thinking through acts which are external and concrete. in short, i am a born sacramentalist." and richard listened, interested and entertained. yet, since that strange blurring of fog still confused his vision and his judgment, vaguely suspicious that he missed the main intent of her speech. suspicious as one who, listening to the clever patter of a conjurer, detects in it the effort to distract attention from some difficult feat of legerdemain, until that feat has passed from attempt merely into accomplished fact. "and, indirectly, that is where my heart-sickness comes in," she continued, with a return to something of her former abstraction and gloom. "i was coming away, coming back here--and i was very happy. it is not often one can say that. and then--_pouf_---like that," she brought her hands smartly together, "the charming bubble burst! for, upon the very church steps, i met a man whom i have every cause to hate." as she spoke, the fog seemed to draw away, burnt up by the great, flaming sun-god there. richard's brain grew clear--clearer, indeed, than in perfect health--and his still face grew more still than was, even to it, quite natural. "well?" he asked, almost harshly. and helen, whose faith in her own diplomacy had momentarily suffered eclipse, rejoiced. for the tone of his voice betrayed not disgust, but anxiety. it stirred her as a foretaste of victory. and victory had become a maddening necessity to her. destournelle had forced her hand. his natural infirmity of purpose relieved her of the fear he could work her any great mischief. yet his ingenuity, inspired by wounded vanity, might prove beyond her calculations. it is not always safe to forecast the future by experience of the past in relation to such a being as destournelle! therefore it became of supreme importance, before that gentleman had time further to obtrude himself, to bind richard calmady by some speech, some act, from which there was no going back. and more than just that. the sight of her ex-lover, though she now loathed him--possibly just because she so loathed him--provoked passion in her. it was as though only in a new intrigue could she rid herself of the remembrance of the old intrigue which was now so detestable to her. she craved to do him that deepest, most ultimate, despite. and passion cried out in her. the sight of him, though she loathed him, had made her utterly weary of chastity. all of which emotions--but held as hounds in a leash, ready to be slipped when the psychological moment arrived, and by no means to be slipped until the arrival of it--dictated the tenor of her next speech. "well," she answered, with an air of half-angry sincerity altogether convincing, "i really don't know that i am particularly proud of the episode. i know i was careless, that i laid myself open to the invidious comment, which is usually the reward of all disinterested action. one learns to accept it as a matter of course. and you see paul destournelle----" "oh, destournelle!" richard exclaimed. "you have read him?" "every one has read him." "and what do you think of him?" "that his technique is as amazingly clever as his thought is amazingly rotten." "i know--i know," she said eagerly. "and that is just what induced me to do all i could for him. if one could cut the canker away, give him backbone and decency, while retaining that wonderful technique, one would have a second and a greater théophile gautier." richard was looking full at her. his face had more colour, more animation, than usual. "if--yes--if," he returned. "but that same _if_ bulks mighty big to my mind." "i know," she repeated. "yet it seemed to me worth the attempt. and then, you understand,--who better?--that if one's own affairs are not conspicuously happy, one has all the more longing the affairs of others should be crowned with success. and this winter specially, among the sordid miseries, disgraces, deprivations, of the siege, one was liable to take refuge in an over-exalted altruism. it was difficult in so mad a world not to indulge in personal eccentricity--to the neglect of due worship of the great goddess conventionality. with death in visible form at every street corner, one's sense of humour, let alone one's higher faculties, rebelled against the futility of such worship. so many detestable sights and sounds were perpetually presented to one--not to mention broth of abominable things daily for dinner--that one turned, with thanksgiving, to beautiful form in art, to perfectly felicitous words and phrases. the meaning of them mattered but little just then. they freed one from the tyranny of more or less disgusting fact. they satisfied eye and ear. one asked nothing more just then--luckily, you will say, since the animal destournelle has very surely nothing more to give." in speaking, helen pushed her chair back, turning it sideways to the table. her speech was alive with varied and telling inflections. her smallest gesture had in it something descriptive and eloquent. "and so i fell to encouraging the animal," she continued, almost plaintively, yet with a note of veiled laughter in her voice. "reversing the order of circe--naples inclines one to classic illustration, sometimes a little hackneyed--by the way, speaking of naples, look at the glory of it all just now, richard!--i tried to turn, not men to swine, but swine to men. and i failed, of course. the gods know best. they never attempt metamorphosis on the ascending scale! i let destournelle come to see me frequently. the world advised itself to talk. but, being rather bitterly secure of myself, i disregarded that. if one is aware that one's heart was finally and long ago disposed of, one ceases to think seriously of that side of things. you must know all that well enough--witness the sea-born furnishings of my bedroom up-stairs!" for half a minute she paused. richard made no comment. "hard words break no bones," she added lightly. "and so, to show how much i despised all such censorious cackle, i allowed destournelle to travel south with me when i left paris." "you pushed neglect of the worship of conventionality rather far," richard said. helen rose to her feet. excitement gained on her, as always during one of her delightful improvisations, her talented _viva voce_ improvements on dry-as-dust fact. she laughed softly, biting her lip. more than one hound had been slipped by now. they made good running. she stood by richard calmady, looking down at him, covering him, so to speak, with her eyes. the black mantilla no longer veiled her bright head. it had fallen to the ground, and lay a dark blot upon the mellow fairness of the tesselated pavement. white-robed, statuesque--yet not with the severe grace of marble, but with that softer, more humanly seductive grace of some figure of cunningly tinted ivory--she appeared, just then, to gather up in herself all the poetry, the intense and vivid light, the victorious vitality, of the clear, burning, southern noon. "ah, well, conventionality proved perfectly competent to avenge herself!" she exclaimed. "the animal destournelle took the average, the banal view, as might have been anticipated. he had the insane presumption to suppose it was himself, not his art, in which i was interested. i explained his error, and departed. i recovered my equanimity. that took time. i felt soiled, degraded. and then to-day i meet him again, unashamed, actually claiming recognition. i repeated my explanation with uncompromising lucidity----" richard moved restlessly in his chair, looking up almost sharply at her. "waste of breath," he said. "no explanation is lucid if the hearer is unwilling to accept it." and then the two cousins, as though they had reached unexpectedly some parting of the ways, calling for instant decision in respect of the future direction of their journey, gazed upon one another strangely--each half defiant of the other, each diligent to hide his own and read the other's thought, each sensible of a crisis, each at once hurried and arrested by suspicion of impending catastrophe, unless this way be chosen that declined--though it seemed, in good truth, not in their keeping, but in that of blind chance only that both selection and rejection actually resided. and, in this strait, neither habit of society, fine sword-play of diplomacy and tact, availed to help them. for suddenly they had outpaced all that, and brought up amongst ancient and secular springs of action and emotion before which civilisation is powerless and the ready tongue of fashion dumb. but even while he so gazed, in fateful suspense and indecision, the fog came up again, chilling richard calmady's blood, oppressing his brain as with an uprising of foul miasma, blurring his vision, so that helen's fair, downward-gazing face was distorted, rendered illusive and vague. and, along with this, distressing restlessness took him, compelling him to seek relief in change of posture and of place. he could not stop to reckon with how that which he proposed to do might strike an onlooker. his immediate sensations filled his whole horizon. silently he slipped down from his chair, stood a moment, supporting himself with one hand on the edge of the table, and then moved forward to that side of the pavilion which gave upon the garden. here the sunshine was hot upon the pavement, and upon the outer half of each pale, slender column. richard leant his shoulder against one of these, grateful for the genial heat. since her first and somewhat inauspicious meeting with him in childhood, helen had never, close at hand, seen richard calmady walk thus far. she stared, fascinated by that cruel spectacle. for the instant transformation of the apparently tall, and conspicuously well-favoured, courtly gentleman, just now sitting at table with her, into the shuffling, long-armed, dwarfed and crippled creature was, at first utterly incredible, then portentous, then, by virtue of its very monstrosity, absorbing and, to her, adorable, whetting appetite as veritable famine might. chastity became to her more than ever absurd, a culpable waste of her own loveliness, of sensation, of emotion, a sin against those vernal influences working in this generous nature surrounding her and working in her own blood. all the primitive instinct of her womanhood called aloud in her that she must wed--must wed. and the strident voice of the great, painted city coming up to her, urgent, incessant, carried the same message, as did the radiant sea, whose white lips kissed the indented coast-line as though pale and hungry with love. while the man before her, by his very abnormality and a certain secretness inevitable in that, heightened her passion. he was to her of all living men most desirable, so that she must win him and hold him, must see and know. in a few steps, light as those of the little, rose-crowned dancer of long ago, she followed him across the shining floor. there was a point of north in the wind, adding exhilaration to the firm sunshine as ice to rare wine. the scent of narcissus, magnolia, and lemon blossom was everywhere. the cypresses yielded an aromatic, myrrh-like sweetness. the uprising waters of the fountain, set in the central alley, swerved southward, falling in a jeweled rain. helen, in her spotless raiment, came close and richard calmady turned to her. but his eyes no longer questioned hers. they were as windows opening back on to empty space, seeing all, yet telling nothing. his face had become still again and inscrutable, lightened only by that flickering, mocking smile. it seemed as though the psychological moment were passed and social sense, ordinary fashions of civilised intercourse, had not only come back but come to stay. "i think we will omit destournelle from our talk in future," he said. "as a subject of conversation i find he disagrees with me, notwithstanding his felicity of style and his admirable technique. i will give orders which, i hope, may help to protect you from annoyance in future. in this delightful land, by wise exercise of just a little bribery and corruption, it is still possible to make the unwelcome alien prefer to seek health and entertainment elsewhere. now, will you like to go back to the house?" the approach to the pavilion from the lower level of the garden was by a carefully graded slope of roman brick, set edgewise. at regular intervals of about eighteen inches this was crossed--on the principle of a gang-plank--by raised marble treads. without waiting for his cousin's reply, richard started slowly down the slope. at the best of times this descent for him demanded caution. now his vision was again so queerly blurred that he miscalculated the distance between the two lowest treads, slipped and stumbled, lunging forward. quick as a cat, madame de vallorbes was behind him, her right hand grasping his right elbow, her left hand under his left armpit. "ah! dickie, dickie, don't fall!" she cried, a sudden terror in her voice. her muscles hardened like steel. it needed all her strength to support him, for he was heavy, his body inert as that of one fainting. for a moment his head rested against her bosom; and her breath came short, sighing against his neck and cheek. by sheer force of will richard recovered his footing, disengaging himself from her support, shuffling aside from her. "a thousand thanks, helen," he said. then he looked full at her, and she--untender though she was--perceived that the perspective of space on which, as windows might, his eyes seemed to open back, was not empty. it was peopled, crowded--even as those steep, teeming byways of naples--by undying, unforgetable misery, humiliation, revolt. "yes, it is rather unpardonable to be--as i am--isn't it?" he said. adding hastily, yet with a certain courteous dignity:--"i am ashamed to trouble you, to ask you--of all people--to run messages for me--but would you go on to the house----" "dickie, why may not i help you?" she interrupted. "ah!" he said, "the answer to that lies away back in the beginning of things. even unlucky devils, such as myself, are not without a certain respect for that which is fitting, for seemliness and etiquette. send one of my men please. i shall be very grateful to you--thanks." and helen de vallorbes, her passion baulked and therefore more than ever at white heat, swept up the paved alley, amid the sweet scents of the garden, beneath the jeweled rain of the fountain, that point of north in the wind dallying with her as in laughing challenge, making her the more mad to have her way with richard calmady, yet knowing that of the two--he and she--he was the stronger as yet. chapter viii in which helen de vallorbes learns her rival's name "i hear morabita sings, in _ernani_, at the san carlo on friday night. do you care to go, helen?" the question, though asked casually, had, to the listener, the effect of falling with a splash, as of a stone into a well, awakening unexpected echoes, disturbing, rather harshly, the constrained silence which had reigned during the earlier part of dinner. all the long, hot afternoon, madame de vallorbes had been alone--richard invisible, shut persistently away in those rooms of the _entresol_ into which, as yet, she had never succeeded in penetrating. richard had not proposed to her to do so. and it was part of that praiseworthy discretion which she had agreed with herself to practise--in her character of scrupulously unexacting guest--only to accept invitations, never to issue them. how her cousin might occupy himself, whom even he might receive, during the time spent in those rooms, she did not know. and it was idle to inquire. neither of her servants, though skilful enough, as a rule, in the acquisition of information, could, in this case, acquire any. and so it came about that during those many still bright hours, following on her rather agitated parting with richard at midday, while she paced the noble rooms of the first floor--once more taking note of their costly furnishings and fine pictures, meeting her own restless image again and again in their many mirrors--and later, near sundown, when she walked the dry, brown pathways of the ilex and cypress grove, the wildest suspicions of his possible doings assailed her. for she was constrained to admit that, though she had spent a full week now under his roof, it was but the veriest fringe, after all, of the young man's habits and thought with which she was actually acquainted. and this not only desperately intrigued her curiosity, but the apartness, behind which he entrenched himself and his doings, was as a slight put upon her and consequent source of sharp mortification. so to-day she ranged all permitted spaces of the villa and its grounds softly, yet lithe, watchful, fierce as a she-panther--her ears strained to hear, her eyes to see, driven the while by jealousy of that nameless rival, to remembrance of whom all the whole place was dedicated, and by baffled passion, as with whips. nor did superstition fail to add its word of ill-omen at this juncture. a carrion crow, long-legged, heavy of beak, alighting on the clustered curls of the marble bust of homer, startled her with vociferous croakings. a long, narrow, many-jointed, blue-black, evil-looking beetle crawled from among the rusty, fibrous, cypress roots across her path. a funeral procession, priest and acolytes, with lighted tapers, sitting within the glass-sided hearse at head and foot of the flower-strewn coffin, wound slowly along the dusty, white road--bordered by queer growth of prickly-pear and ragged, stunted palm-trees--far below. she crossed herself, turning hurriedly away. yet, for an instant, death, triumphant, hideous, inevitable, and all the spiritual terror and physical disgust of it, grinned at her, its fleshless face, as it seemed, close against her own. and alongside death--by some malign association of ideas and ugly antic of profanity--she saw the _bel tête de jesu_ of m. paul destournelle as she had seen it this morning, he looking back, hat in hand, as he plunged down the break-neck, neapolitan side-street, with that impish, bleating, goatlike laugh. by the time the dinner-hour drew near she found her outlook in radical need of reconstruction, and to that end bade zélie dress her in the crocus-yellow brocade, reserved for some emergency such as the present. it was a gown, surely, to restore self-confidence and induce self-respect! fashioned fancifully, according to a picturesque, seventeenth-century, venetian model, the full sleeves and the long-waisted bodice of it--this cut low, generously displaying her shoulders and swell of her bosom--were draped with superb _guipure de flandres à brides frisées_ and strings of seed pearls. all trace of ascetic simplicity had very certainly departed. helen was resplendent--strings of seed pearls twisted in her honey-coloured hair, a clear red in her cheeks and hard brilliance in her eyes, bred of eager jealous excitement. she had, indeed, reached a stage of feeling in which the sight of richard calmady, the fact of his presence, worked upon her to the extent of dangerous emotion. and now this statement of his, and the question following it, caused the flame of the inward fires tormenting her to leap high. "ah! morabita!" she exclaimed. "what an age it is since i have heard her sing, or thought about her! how is her voice lasting, richard?" "i really don't know," he answered, "and that is why i am rather curious to hear her. there was literally nothing but a voice in her case--no dramatic sense, nothing in the way of intelligence to fall back on. on that account it interested me to watch her. she and her voice had no essential relation to one another. her talent was stuck into her, as you might stick a pin into a cushion. she produced glorious effects without a notion how she produced them, and gave expression--and perfectly just expression--to emotions she had never dreamed of. at the best of times singers are a feeble folk intellectually, but, of all singers i have known, she was mentally the very feeblest." "no, perhaps she was not very wise," helen put in, but quite mildly, quite kindly. "and so if the voice went, everything went. and that made one reflect agreeably upon the remarkably haphazard methods employed by that which we politely call almighty god in his construction of our unhappy selves. design?--there's not a trace of design in the whole show. bodies, souls, gifts, superfluities, deficiencies, just pitched together anyhow. the most bungling of human artists would blush to turn out such work." richard spoke rapidly. he had refused course after course. and now the food on his plate remained untasted. seen in the soft light of the shaded candles his face had a strange look of distraction upon it, as though he too was restless with an intimate, deep-seated restlessness. his skin was less colourless than usual, his manner less colourless also. and this conferred a certain youthfulness on him, making him seem nearer--so helen thought--to the boy she had known at brockhurst, than to the man, whom lately, she had been so signally conscious that she failed to know. "no, i hope morabita's voice remains to her," he continued. "her absolute nullity minus it is disagreeable to think of. and much as i relish collecting telling examples of the fatuity of the creator--she, voiceless, would offer a supreme one--i would spare her that, poor dear. for she was really rather charming to me at one time." "so it was commonly reported," helen remarked. "was it?" richard said absently. though as a rule conspicuously abstemious, he had drunk rather freely to-night, and that with an odd haste of thirst. now he touched his champagne tumbler, intimating to bates, the house-steward--sometime the brockhurst under butler--that it should be refilled. "i can't have seen morabita for nearly three years," he went on. "and my last recollections of her are unfortunate. she had sent me a box, in vienna it was i think, for the _traviata_. she was fat then, or rather, fatter. stage furniture leaves something to desire in the way of solidity. in the death scene the middle of the bed collapsed. her swan-song ceased abruptly. her head and heels were in the air, and the very largest rest of her upon the floor, bed and bedclothes standing out in a frill all around. it was a sight discouraging to sentiment. i judged it kinder not to go to supper with her after the performance that night." richard paused, again drained his glass. "i beg your pardon," he said, "what atrocious nonsense i am talking!" "i think i rather enjoy it," madame de vallorbes answered. she looked at the young man sideways, from under her delicate eyelids. he was perfectly sober--of that there was no question. yet he was less inaccessible, somehow, than usual. she inclined to experiment.--"only i am sorry for morabita in more ways than one, poor wretch. but then perhaps i am just a little sorry for all those women whom you reject, richard." "the women whom i reject?" he said harshly. "yes, whom you reject," helen repeated.--then she busied herself with a small black fig, splitting it deftly open, disclosing the purple, and rose, and clear living greens of the flesh and innumerable seeds of it, colours rich as those of a tropic sky at sunset.--"and there are so many of those women it seems to me! i am coming to have a quite pathetic fellowship for them." she buried her white teeth in the softness of the fig.--"not without reason, perhaps. it is idle to deny that you are a pastmaster in the ungentle art of rejection. what have you to say in self-defense, dickie?" "that talking nonsense appears to be highly infectious--and that it is a disagreeably oppressive evening." helen de vallorbes smiled upon him, glanced quickly over her shoulder to assure herself the servants were no longer present--then spoke, leaning across the corner of the table towards him, while her eyes searched his with a certain daring provocation. "yes, i admit i have finished my fig. dinner is over. and it is my place to disappear according to custom."--she laid her rosy finger-tips together, her elbows resting on the table. "but i am disinclined to disappear. i have a number of things to say. take that question of going to the opera, for instance. half naples will be there, and i know more than half naples, and more than half naples knows me. i do not crave to run incontinently into the arms of any of de vallorbes' many relations. they were not conspicuously kind to me when i was here as a girl and stood very much in need of kindness. so the question of going to the san carlo, you see, requires reflection. and then,"--her tone softened to a most persuasive gentleness,--"then, the evenings are a trifle long when one is alone and has nothing very satisfactory to think about. and i have been worried to-day, detestably worried."--she looked down at her finger-tips. her expression became almost sombre. "in any case i shall not plague you very much longer, richard," she said rather grandly. "i have determined to remove myself bag and baggage. it is best, more dignified to do so. reluctantly i own that. here have i no abiding city. i wish i had, perhaps, but i haven't. therefore it is useless, and worse than useless, to play at having one. one must just face the truth." she looked full at the young man, smiling at him, as though somehow forgiving him a slight, an unkindness, a neglect. "and so, just because to you it all matters so uncommonly little, let us talk rather longer this evening." she rose. "i'll go on into the long drawing-room," she said. "the windows were still open there when i came in to dinner. the room will be pleasantly cool. you will come?" and she moved away quietly, thoughtfully, opened the high double-doors, left them open, and that without once looking back. yet her hearing was strained to catch the smallest sound above that which accompanied her, namely, the rustling of her dress. then a queer shiver ran all down her spine and she set her teeth, for she perceived that halting, shuffling footsteps had begun to follow those light and graceful footsteps of her own. "_ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute_," she said to herself. "i have no fear for the rest." yet, crossing the near half of the great room, she sank down on a sofa, thankful there was no farther to go. in the last few minutes she had put forth more will-power, felt more deeply, than she had supposed. her knees gave under her. it was a relief to sit down. the many candles in the cut-glass chandeliers, hanging from along the centre of the painted ceiling, were lighted, filling the length and breadth of the room with a bland, diffused radiance. it touched picture and statue, tall mirror, rich curtain, polished woodwork of chair and table, gleaming ebony and ivory cabinet. it touched helen de vallorbes' bright head and the strings of pearls twisted in her hair, her white neck, the swell of her bosom, and all that delicate wonder of needlework--the flanders' lace--trimming her bodice. it lay on her lap, too, as she leaned back in the corner of the sofa, her hands pressed down on either side her thighs--lay there bringing the pattern of her brocaded dress into high relief. this was a design of pomegranates--leaves, flowers, and fruit--and of trailing, peacock feathers, a couple of shades lighter than the crocus-yellow ground. the light took the over-threads and stayed in them. the window stood wide open on to the balcony, the elaborately wrought-ironwork of which--scroll and vase, plunging dolphin and rampant sea-horse--detached itself from the opaque background of the night. and in at the window came luscious scents from the garden below, a chime of falling water, the music, faint and distant, in rising and falling cadence of a marching military band. in at it also, and rising superior to all these in imperativeness and purpose, came the voice of naples itself--no longer that of a city of toil and commerce, but that of a city of pleasure, a city of licence, until such time as the dawn should once again break, and the sun arise, driving back man and beast alike to labour, the one from merry sinning, the other from hard-earned sleep. and once again, but in clearer, more urgent, accents, the voice of the city repeated its message to helen de vallorbes, calling aloud to her to do even as it was doing, namely, to wed--to wed. and, hearing it, understanding that message, for a little space shame took her, in face both of its and her own shamelessness, so that she closed her eyes, unable for the moment to look at richard calmady as he crossed the great room in that bland and yet generous light. but, almost immediately, his voice, cold and measured in tone, there close beside her, claimed her attention. "that which you said at dinner rather distresses me, helen." then, shame or no shame, madame de vallorbes, of necessity, opened her eyes. and, so doing, it needed all her self-control to repress a cry. she forced her open hands down very hard on the mattress of the sofa. for richard leaned his back against the jamb of the open window, and she saw his face and all his poor figure in profile. his left hand hung straight at his side, the tips of his fingers only just not touching the floor. and again, as at midday the spectacle of his deformity worked upon her strangely. "what of all that which i said at dinner distresses you?" she asked gently, with sudden solicitude. "you showed me that i have been a wretchedly negligent host."--in speaking, the young man turned his head and looked at her, paused a moment, almost startled by her resplendent aspect. then he looked down at his own stunted and defective limbs. his expression became very grim. he raised his shoulders just perceptibly. "i reproach myself with having allowed you to be so much alone. it must have been awfully dull for you." "it was a little dull," helen said, still gently. "i ought to have begged you to ask some of the people you know in naples to come here. it was stupid of me not to think of it. i need not have seen them, neither need they have seen me." he looked at her steadily again, as though trying to fix her image in his memory. "yes, it was stupid of me," he repeated absently. "but i have got into churlish, bachelor habits--that can hardly be helped, living alone, or on board ship, as i do--and i have pretty well forgotten how to provide adequately for the entertainment of a guest." "oh! i have had that which i wanted, that which i came for," helen answered, very charmingly,--"had it in part, at all events. though i could have put up with just a little more of it, dickie, perhaps." "i warned you, if you remember, that opportunities of amusement--as that word is generally understood--would be limited." "amusement?" she exclaimed, with an almost tragic inflection of contempt. "oh yes!" he said, "amusement is not to be despised. i'd give all i am worth, half my time, to be amused--but that again, like hospitality, is rather a lost art with me. you remember, i warned you life at the villa in these days was not precisely hilarious." helen clapped her hands together. "ah! you are wilfully obtuse, you are wilfully, cruelly pigheaded!" she cried. "pardon me, dear richard, but your attitude is enough to exasperate a saint. and i am no saint as yet. i am still human--radically, for my own peace of mind lamentably, human. i am only too capable of being grieved, humiliated, hurt. but there, it is folly to say such things to you! you are hopelessly insensible to all that. so i take refuge in quoting your own words of this morning against you--that no explanation is lucid if the hearer refuses to accept it." "i am dull, no doubt, but honestly i fail to see how that remark of mine can be held to apply in the present case." "it applies quite desolatingly well!" helen declared, with spirit. then her manner softened into a seductiveness of forgiveness once again.--"and so, dear richard, i am glad that i had already determined to leave here to-morrow. it would have been a little too wretched to arrive at that determination after this conversation. you must go alone to hear your old flame, morabita, sing. only, if her voice is still as sympathetic as of old, if it moves you from your present insensibility, you may read remembrance of some aspects of my visit into the witchery of it if you like. it may occur to you what those aspects really meant." helen smiled upon him, leaning a little forward. her eyes shone, as though looking out through unshed tears. "it's not exactly flattering to one's vanity to be compelled to depute to another woman the making of such things clear. but it is too evident i waste my time in attempting to make them clear myself. no explanation is lucid, _et cætera_----" helen shook back her head with an extraordinary charm of half-defiant, half-tearful laughter. she was playing a game, her whole intelligence bent on the playing of it skilfully. yet she was genuinely touched. she was swayed by her very real emotion. she spoke from her heart, though every word, every passing action, subserved her ultimate purpose in regard to richard calmady. "and, after all, one must retain some remnant of self-respect with which to cover the nakedness of one's---- oh yes! decidedly, morabita's voice had best do the rest." richard had moved from his station in the window. he stood at the far end of the sofa, resting his hands on the gilded and carven arm of it. now the ungainliness of his deformity was hidden, and his height was greater than that of his companion, obliging her to look up at him. "i gave you my word, helen," he said, "i have no notion what you are driving at." "driving at, driving at?" she cried. "why, the self-evident truth that you are forcing me rather brutally to pay the full price of my weakness in coming here, in permitting myself the indulgence of seeing you again. you told me directly i arrived, with rather cynical frankness, that i had not changed. that is quite true. what i was at brockhurst, four years ago, what i then felt, that i am and that i feel still. oh! you have nothing to reproach yourself with in defect of plain speaking, or excess of amiable subterfuge! you hit out very straight from the shoulder! directly i arrived you also told me how you had devoted this place--with which, after all, i am not wholly unconnected--to the cult, to the ideal worship, of a woman whom you loved." "so i have devoted it," richard said. "and yet i was weak enough to remain!" the young man's face relaxed, but its expression remained enigmatic. "and why not?" he asked. "because, in remaining, i have laid myself open to misconstruction, to all manner of pains and penalties, not easy to be endured, to the odious certainty of appearing contemptible in your estimation as well as in my own." helen patted her pretty foot upon the floor in a small frenzy of irritation. "how can i hope to escape, since even the precious being whom you affect to worship you keep sternly at arm's length, that is among the other pleasing things you confided to me immediately on my arrival--lest, seen at close quarters, she should fall below your requirements and so you should suffer disillusion. ah! you are frightfully cold-blooded, repulsively inhuman. whether you judge others by yourself, reckoning them equally devoid of natural feeling, or whether you find a vindictive relish in rejecting the friendship and affection so lavishly offered you----" "is it offered lavishly? that comes as news to me," he put in. "ah! but it is. and i leave you to picture the pleasing entertainment afforded the offerer in seeing you ignore the offering, or, worse still, take it, examine it, and throw it aside like a dirty rag! in one case you underline your rejection almost to the point of insult." "this is very instructive. i am learning a whole lot about myself," richard said coolly. "but look," madame de vallorbes cried, "do you not prefer exposing yourself to the probability of serious illness rather than remain under the same roof with me? the inference hits one in the face. to you the pestilential exhalations, the unspeakable abominations, of naples harbour appear less dangerous than my near neighbourhood." "you put it more strongly than i should," he answered, smiling. "yet, from a certain standpoint, that may very well be true." for an instant helen hesitated. her intelligence, for all its alertness, was strained exactly to appraise the value of his words, neither over, nor under, rating it. and her eyes searched his with a certain boldness and imperiousness of gaze. richard, meanwhile, folding his arms upon the carven and gilt frame of the sofa, looked back at her, smiling still, at once ironically and very sadly. then swift assurance came to her of the brazen card she had best play. but, playing it, she was constrained to avert her eyes and set her glance pensively upon the light-visited surface of her crocus-yellow, silken lap. "i will do my best possible to accept your nightly journeys as a compliment in disguise, then," she said, quite softly. "for truly, when i come to think of it, were she, herself, here--she, the woman you so religiously admire that you take elaborate pains to avoid having anything on earth to do with her--were she herself here you could hardly take more extensive measures to secure yourself against risk of disappointment, hardly exercise a greater rage of caution!" "perhaps that's just it. perhaps you have arrived at it all at last. perhaps she is here," he said. and he turned away, steadying himself with one hand against the jamb of the window, and shuffled out slowly, laboriously, onto the balcony into the night. for a quite perceptible length of time helen de vallorbes continued to contemplate the light-visited surface of her crocus-yellow, silken lap. she followed the lines of the rich pattern--pomegranate, fruit and blossom, trailing peacock's feather. for by such mechanical employment alone could she keep the immensity of her excitement and of her triumph in check. to shout aloud, to dance, to run wildly to and fro, would have been only too possible to her just then. all that for which she had schemed, had ruled herself discreetly, had ridden a waiting race, had been hers, in fact, from the first--the prize adjudged before ever she left the starting-post. she held this man in the hollow of her hand, and that by no result of cunning artifice, but by right divine of beauty and wit and the manifold seductions of her richly-endowed personality. and, thinking of that, she clenched her dainty fists, opened them again, and again clenched them, upon the yielding mattress of the sofa, given over to an ecstasy of physical enjoyment, weaving even as, with clawed and padded paws, her prototype the she-panther might. slowly she raised her downcast eyes and looked after richard calmady, his figure a blackness, as of vacancy, against the elaborate wrought-ironwork of the balcony. and so doing, an adorable sensation moved her, at once of hungry tenderness and of fear--fear of something unknown, in a way fundamental, incalculable, the like of which she had never experienced before. ah! indeed, of all her many loves, here was the crown and climax! yet, in the midst of her very vital rapture, she could still find time for remembrance of the little, crescent-shaped scar upon her temple, and for remembrance of katherine calmady, who had, unwittingly, fixed that blemish upon her and had also more than once frustrated her designs. this time frustration was not possible. she was about to revenge the infliction of that little scar! and, at the same time the intellectual part of her was agreeably intrigued, trying to disentangle the why and wherefore of richard's late action and utterances. while self-love was gratified to the highest height of its ambition by the knowledge that not only in his heart had she long reigned, but that he had dedicated time and wealth and refined ingenuity to the idea of her, to her worship, to the making of this, her former dwelling-place, into a temple for her honour, a splendid witness to her victorious charm, a shrine not unfitting to contain the idol of his imagination. for a little space she rested in all this, savouring the sweetness of it as some odour of costly sacrifice. for whatever her sins and lapses, helen de vallorbes had the fine æsthetic appreciations, as well as the inevitable animality, of the great courtesan. the artist was at least as present in her as the whore. and it was not, therefore, until realisation of her present felicity was complete, until it had soaked into her, so to speak, to the extent of a delicious familiarity, that she was disposed to seek change of posture or of place. then, at last, softly, languidly, for indeed she was somewhat spent by the manifold emotions of the day, she rose and followed richard into the starless, low-lying night. her first words were very simple, yet to herself charged with far-reaching meaning--as a little key may give access to a treasure-chest containing riches of fabulous worth. "richard, is it really true, that which you have told me?" "what conceivable object could i have in lying?" "then why have you delayed?--why wasted the precious days--the precious months and years, if it comes to that?" "how in honour and decency could i do otherwise--circumstances being such as they are, i being that which i am?" the two voices were in notable contrast. both were low, both were penetrated by feeling. but the man's was hoarse and rasping, the woman's smooth and soft as milk. "ah! it is the old story!" she said. "will you never comprehend, dickie, that what is to you hateful in yourself, may to some one else be the last word of attraction, of seduction, even?" "god forbid i should ever comprehend that!" he answered. "when i take to glorying in my shame, pluming myself upon my abnormality, then, indeed, i become beyond all example loathsome. the most deplorable moment of my very inglorious career will be precisely that in which i cease to look at myself with dispassionate contempt." helen knelt down, resting her beautiful arms upon the dark hand-rail of the balcony, letting her wrists droop over it into the outer dimness. the bland light from the open window dwelt on her kneeling figure and bowed head. but it was as well, perhaps, that the night dropped a veil upon her face. "and yet so it is," she said. "you may repudiate the idea, but the fact remains. i do not say it would affect all women alike--affect those, for instance, whose conception of love, and of the relation between man and woman, is dependent upon the slightly improper and very tedious marriage service as authorised by the english church. let the conventional be conventional still! so much the better if you don't appeal to them--meagre, timid, inadequate, respectable--a generation of fashion-plates with a sixpenny book of etiquette, moral and social, stuck inside them to serve for a soul." helen's voice broke in a little spasm of laughter, and her hands began, unconsciously, to open and close, open and close, weaving in soft, outer darkness. "we may leave them out of the argument.--but there remain the elect, richard, among whom i dare count myself. and over them, never doubt it, just that which you hate and which appears at first sight to separate you so cruelly from other men, gives you a strange empire. you stimulate, you arrest, you satisfy one's imagination, as does the spectacle of some great drama. you are at once enslaved and emancipated by this thing--to you hateful, to me adorable--beyond all measure of bondage or freedom inflicted upon, or enjoyed by, other men. and in this, just this, lies magnificent compensation if you would but see it. i have always known that--known that if you would put aside your arrogance and pride, and yield yourself a little, it was possible to love you, and give you such joy in loving as one could give to no-one else on earth." her voice sweetened yet more. she leaned forward, pressing her bosom against the rough ironwork of the balcony. "i knew that, from the first hour we met, in the variegated, autumn sunshine, upon the greensward, before the white summer-house overlooking that noble, english, woodland view. i saw you, and so doing i saw mysteries of joy in myself unimagined by me before. it went very hard with me then, richard. it has gone very hard with me ever since." madame de vallorbes' words died away in a grave and delicate whisper. but she did not turn her head, nor did richard speak. only, close there beside her, she heard him breathe, panting short and quick even as a dog pants, while a certain vibration seemed to run along the rough ironwork against which she leaned. and by these signs helen judged her speech, though unanswered, had not been wholly in vain. from below, the luscious fragrance of the garden, the chime of falling water, and the urgent voice of the painted pleasure-city came up about her. night had veiled the face of naples, even as helen's own. yet lines of innumerable lights described the suave curve of the bay, climbed the heights of posilipo, were doubled in the oily waters of the harbour, spread abroad alluring gaiety in the wide piazzas, and shone like watchful and soliciting eyes from out the darkness of narrow street, steep lane, and cutthroat alley. while, above all that, high uplifted against the opacity of the starless sky, a blood-red beacon burned on the summit of vesuvius, the sombre glow of it reflected upon the underside of the masses of downward-rolling smoke as upon the belly of some slow-crawling, monstrous serpent. suddenly helen spoke once again, and with apparent inconsequence. "richard, you must have known she could never satisfy you--why did you try to marry constance quayle?" "to escape." "from whom--from me?" "from myself, which is much the same thing as saying from you, i suppose." "and you could not escape?" "so it seems." "but--but, dear richard," she said plaintively, yet with very winning sweetness, "why, after all, should you want so desperately to escape?" richard moved a little farther from her. "i have already explained that to you, to the point of insult, so you tell me," he said. "surely it is unnecessary to go over the ground again?" "you carry your idealism to the verge of slight absurdity," she answered. "oh! you of altogether too little faith, how should you gauge the full flavour of the fruit till you have set your teeth in it? better, far better, be a sacramentalist like me and embrace the idea through the act, than refuse the act in dread of imperiling the dominion of the idea. you put the cart before the horse with a vengeance, dickie! there's such a thing as being so reverently-minded towards your god that he ceases to be the very least profit or use to you." and again she heard that panting breath beside her. again laughter bubbled up in her fair throat, and her hands fell to weaving the soft, outer darkness. "you must perceive that it cannot end here and thus," she said presently. "of course not," he answered. then, after a moment's pause, he added coldly enough:--"i foresaw that, so i gave orders yesterday that the yacht was not to be laid up, but only to coal and provision, and undergo some imperatively necessary repairs. she should be ready for sea by the end of the week." helen turned sideways, and the bland light, from the room within, touched her face now as well as her kneeling figure. "and then, and then?" she demanded, almost violently. "then i shall go," richard replied. "where, i do not yet know, but as far, anyhow, as the coal in the yacht's bunkers will drive her. distance is more important than locality just now. and i leave you here at the villa, helen. do not regret that you came. i don't." he too had turned to the light, which revealed his face ravaged and aged by stress of emotion, revealed too the homelessness, as of empty space, resident in his eyes. "i shall be glad to remember the place pleases and speaks to you. it has been rather a haven of rest to me during these last two years. you would have had it at my death, in any case. you have it a little sooner--that's all." but helen held out her arms. "the villa, the villa," she cried, "what do i want with that! god in heaven, are you utterly devoid of all sensibility, all heart? or are you afraid--afraid even yet, oh, very chicken-livered lover--that behind the beauty of naples you may find the filth? it is not so, dickie. it is not so, i tell you.--look at me. what would you have more? surely, for any man, my love is good enough!" and then hurriedly, with a rustling of silken skirts, hot with anger from head to heel, she sprang to her feet. across the room one of the men-servants advanced. "the carriage is at the door, sir," he said. and madame de vallorbes' voice broke in with a singular lightness and nonchalance:-- "surely it is rather imprudent to go out again to-night? you told me, at dinner, you were not well, that you had had a touch of fever." she held out her hand, smiling serenely. "be advised," she said--"avoid malaria. i shall see you before i go to-morrow? yes--an afternoon train, i think. good-night, we meet at breakfast as usual." she stepped in at the window, gathered up certain small properties--a gold scent-bottle, one or two books, a blotting-case, as with a view to final packing and departure. just as she reached the door she heard richard say curtly:-- "send the carriage round. i shall not want it to-night." but even so helen did not turn back. on the contrary, she ran, light of foot as the little dancer, of long ago, with blush-roses in her hat, through all the suite of rooms to her own sea-blue, sea-green bedchamber, and there, sitting down before the toilet-table, greeted her own radiant image in the glass. her lips were very red. her eyes shone like pale stars on a windy night. "quick, quick, undress me, zélie! put me to bed. i am simply expiring of fatigue," she said. chapter ix concerning that daughter of cupid and psyche whom men call voluptas the furniture, though otherwise of the customary proportions, had all been dwarfed. this had been achieved in some cases by ingenious design in its construction, in others by the simple process of cutting down, thus reducing table and chair, couch and bureau, in itself of whatever grace of style, dignity of age, or fineness of workmanship, to an equality of uncomely degradation in respect of height. the resultant effect was of false perspective. nor was this unpleasing effect lessened by the proportions of the room itself. in common with all those of the _entresol_, it was noticeably low in relation to its length and width, while the stunted vaultings of its darkly-frescoed ceiling produced an impression of heaviness rather than of space. bookcases, dwarfed as were all the other furnishings, lined the walls to within about two feet of the spring of the said vaulting. made of red cedar and unpolished, the cornices and uprights of them were carved with arabesques in high relief. an antique, persian carpet, sombre in colouring and of great value, covered the greater portion of the pale pink and gray mosaic pavement of the floor. thick, rusty-red, genoa-velvet curtains were drawn over each low, square window. a fire of logs burned on the open hearth. and this notwithstanding the unaccustomed warmth of the outside air, did but temper the chill atmosphere of the room and serve to draw a faint aroma from the carven cedar wood. it was here, to his library,--carried down-stairs by his men-servants as a helpless baby-child might be,--that richard calmady had come when helen de vallorbes departed so blithely to her bedchamber. and it was here he remained, though nearly two hours had elapsed since then, finding sleep impossible. for the wakefulness and unrest of rapidly breeding illness were upon him. his senses and his will had been in very active conflict. desire had licked him, as with fiery tongues, driving him onward. honour, self-contempt in face of temptation to sensual indulgence, an aspiration after somewhat stoic asceticism which had come to influence his action of late, held him back. but now, here and alone, the immediately provoking cause of passion removed, reaction against the strain of all that had very sensibly set in. he felt strangely astray, as though drifting at hazard upon the waters of an unquiet, mist-blinded sea. he was conscious of a deep-seated preoccupation regarding some matter, which he was alike unable to forget or to define. formless images perplexed his vision. formless thoughts pursued one another, as with the hurry of rumoured calamity, through his mind. a desolating apprehension of things insufficiently developed, of the inconclusive, the immature, the unattained, of things mutilated, things unfinished, born out of due time and incomplete, oppressed his fancy. even the events of the last few hours, in which he had played so considerable a part, took on a shadowy semblance, ceased to appeal to him as realities, began to merge themselves in that all-pervading apprehension of defectiveness, of that which is wanting, lopped off, so to speak, and docked. it was to him as though all natural, common-sense relations were in abeyance, as though his own, usually precise, mental processes were divorced from reason and experience, had got out of perspective, in short--even as this low, wide, cedar-scented library, of which the vaulted ceiling seemed to approach unduly close to the mosaic, marble floor, and all its dwarfed furnishings, its squat tables and almost legless chairs, had got out of perspective. the alternate purposeless energy and weariful weakness of fever, just as the alternate dry flush and trembling chill of it, distressed him. he had slipped on a smoking-coat, but even the weight of this thin, silk garment seemed oppressive, although, now and again, he felt as though around his middle he wore a belt of ice. not without considerable exertion he rolled forward a couch--wide, high-backed, legless, mounted upon little wheels--to the vicinity of the fire. he drew himself up on to it and rested among the piled-up cushions. perhaps, if he waited, exercising patience, sleep might mercifully visit him and deliver him from this intolerable confusion of mind. deliver him, too, from that hideous apprehension of universal mutilation, of maimed purposes, maimed happenings, of a world peopled by beings maimed as he was himself, but after a more subtle and intimate fashion, a fashion intellectual or moral rather than merely physical, so that they had to him, just now, an added hatefulness of specious lying, since to ordinary seeing they appeared whole, while whole they truly and actually were not. sternly he tried to shake himself free of these morbid fancies, to bring his imagination under control and force himself once again to join hands with reality and common sense. and, to this end, he turned his attention to the consideration of practical matters. he dwelt on the details of the coaling and revictualing of his yacht, upon the objective of the voyage upon which he proposed to start a few days hence. he reviewed the letters which must be written and the arrangements which must be made with a view to putting his cousin legally in possession of the villa, the rent of which he proposed still to pay to her husband. this suite of rooms he would retain for his own use. that was necessary, obligatory. yet, why must he retain it? he did not propose to return and live here at any future time. this episode was over--or rather, had it not simply failed of completion? was it not, like all the rest, maimed, lopped off ungainly, docked? then, where came in the obligation to reserve these rooms? he could not remember. yet he knew that he was compelled to do so, because--because---- and, once again, richard's power of concentration broke down. once again his thought eluded him, becoming tangled, fugitive, not to be grasped. while, like swarms of shrill squeaking bats disturbed in the recesses of some age-old cavern by sudden intrusion of voices and of lights, half-formed visions, half-formed ideas, once again, flapped duskily about him, torturing in their multiplicity alike to his senses and his brain. he fought with them, striving to beat them off in a madness of disgust, half suffocated by the fanning of their foul and stifling wings. then, exhausted by the conflict, he stumbled and fell, while they closed down on him. and he, losing consciousness, slept. that unconsciousness lasted in point of fact but for a few minutes. yet to richard those minutes were as years, as centuries. at length, still heavy with dreamless slumber, he was aware of the stealthy turning of a key in a lock. little padding foot-falls, soft as those of some strong, yet dainty, cat-creature crossed the carpet. a whisper of silk came along with them, like the murmur of the breeze in an oak grove on a clear, hot, summer noon, or the sibilant ripple of the sea upon spaces of fine-ribbed, yellow sand. and the impression produced upon richard was delicious, as of one passing from a close room into the open air. confusion and exhaustion left him. energy returned. the energy of breeding fever merely, yet to him it appeared that of refreshment, of renewed and abounding health. he was conscious, too, of a will outside himself, acting upon his will--a will self-secure, impregnable, working with triumphant daring towards a single end. it certainly was unmaimed--in its present manifestation in any case. it told, and with assurance, of completion, of attainment. yielding himself to it, with something of the recklessness a man yields himself to the poison which yet promises relief, richard opened his eyes. before him stood helen de vallorbes. in one hand she carried a little lamp. in the other her high-heeled, cloth-of-gold slippers. her feet were bare. in the haste of the journey, from her bedchamber up-stairs through the great rooms and down the marble stairs, the fronts of the sea-blue, sea-green dressing-gown she wore had flown apart, thus disclosing not only her delicate night-dress, but--since this last was fine to the point of transparency--all the secret loveliness of her body and her limbs. her shining hair curled low upon her forehead, half concealed her pretty ears, and lay upon her shoulders like a little, golden cape. and, from out this brightness of her hair, the exultant laughter bubbling in her throat, the small lamp carried high in one hand, she looked down at richard calmady. "i waited till the hours grew old and you did not come to me, so i have come to you, dickie," she said. "let what will happen to-morrow, this very certainly shall happen to-night--that with you and me love shall have his own way, speak his own language, be worshipped with the rites, be found in the sacraments, ordained by himself, and to which all nature is, and has been, obedient since life on earth first began!" not till the gray of a rain-washed, windy morning had come, and naples had put off its merry sinning, changing from a city of pleasure to a city of labour and, too often, of callously inflicted pain, did helen de vallorbes leave the cedar-scented library. the fire of logs had burnt itself out upon the hearth, and other fires, perhaps, had pretty thoroughly burnt themselves out likewise. then, with the extinguished lamp in one hand and her high-heeled, cloth-of-gold slippers in the other, she had run swiftly, barefoot, up the cold, marble stairs, through the suite of lofty rooms, her image, in the bleak dimness of the wet morning, given back by their tall mirrors as that of no mortal woman but some fear-driven, hurrying ghost. carefully closing the door of the bedchamber behind her, she threw her dressing-gown aside and buried herself in the luxurious softness of the unslept-in bed. and she was only just in time. servants began to move to and fro. the house was awake. chapter x the abomination of desolation sullenly, persistently, the rain came down. in the harbour the wash was just sufficient to make the raveled fruit-baskets, the shredded vegetables, the crusts and offal thrown out from the galleys, heave and sway upon the oily surface of the water, while screaming gulls dropped greedily upon the floating refuse, and rising, circled over the black, liquid lanes and open spaces between the hulls of the many ships. but it was insufficient to lift the yacht, tied up to the southern quay of the porto grande. she lay there inert and in somewhat sorry plight under the steady downpour. for the moment all the winsome devilry of a smart, sea-going craft was dead in her, and she sulked, ashamed through all her eight hundred tons of wood and iron, copper, brass, and steel. for she was coaling, over-deck, and was grimy from stem to stern. while, arrayed in the cast clothes of all europe, tattered, undersized, gesticulating, the human scum of naples swarmed up the steep, narrow planks from the inky lighters and in over her side. "beastly dirty job this. shan't get her paint clean under a week!" the first mate grumbled to his companion, the second mate--a dark-haired, dreamy-eyed, west-country lad, but just out of his teens. the two officers, in dripping oilskins, stood at the gangway checking the tally of coal-baskets as they came on board. just now there was a pause in the black procession, as an empty lighter sheered off, making room for a full one to come alongside, thus rendering conversation momentarily possible. "pity the boss couldn't have stayed on shore till we were through with it and cleaned up a bit," the speaker continued. "makes the old man no end waxy to have any one on board when the yacht's like she is. i don't blame him. she's as neat and pretty as a white daisy in a green pasture when she's away to sea. and now, poor little soul, she's a regular slut." "i know i'd 'ave stayed ashore fast enough if i was the boss," the boy said, half wistfully. "that villa of his is like a piece of poetry. i keep on saying over to myself how it looks." "oh! it's not so bad for foreign parts," the senior officer replied. "and you're young yet and soft, penberthy. you'll come of that presently. england's best for houses, town and country, and most other things--women, and fights, and even sunshine, for when you do get sunshine at home there's no spite in it.--hi! there you ganger," he shouted suddenly, and resentfully, leaning out over the bulwarks, "hurry 'em up a bit, can't you? you don't suppose i mean to stand here till the second anniversary of the day of judgment, watching your blithering, chicken-shanked macaronies suck rotten oranges, do you? start 'em up again. whatever are you waiting for, man? start 'em up, i say." the boy's dreamy eyes, full of unwritten verse, dwelt with a curious indifference upon the broken procession of ascending, black figures. he had but lately joined, and to him both the fine vessel and her owner were invested with a certain romance. "what was the fancy for calling the yacht the _reprieve_?" he asked presently. "wait till you've had the chance to take a good look at sir richard, and you'll answer your question yourself," the other man answered oracularly. then he broke out again into sustained invective:--"hold up there, you little fool of a tight-rope-dancing, _bella napoli_ gorilla, and don't go dropping good, honest, welsh steam-coal overboard into your confounded, stinking local sewer! i don't care to see any of your blamed posturings, don't flatter yourself. hold up you grimacing, great grandson of a lousy she-ape, can't you, and walk straight.--take him all round sir richard calmady's the best boss i ever sailed with--one of the sternest, but the civilest too.--shove 'em along, ganger, will you. shove 'em along, i say.--he's one of the few men i've loved, i'm not ashamed to say it, mr. penberthy, and about the only one i ever remember to have feared, in my life." meanwhile, if the scene to seaward was cheerless, that to landward offered but small improvement. for the murk of low-brooding cloud and falling rain blotted out the castel s. elmo, and the capo di monte and pizzafalcone heights. even the castello del'ovo down on the shore line, comparatively near at hand, loomed up but a denser mass of indigo-gray amid the all obtaining grayness. the tall multi-coloured, many-shuttered houses fronting the quays--restaurants, _cafés_, money-changers' bureaux, ships' chandlers, and slopshops--looked tawdry and degraded as a clown's painted face seen by daylight. thick, malodorous vapours arose from the squalid streets, lying back on the level, and from the crowded shipping of the port. these hung in the stagnant air, about the forest of masts and the funnels of steamers. and the noise of the place was as that of bedlam let loose.--the long-drawn, chattering rush of the coal pitched from the baskets down the echoing, iron shoots. the grate and scream of saws cutting through blocks of stone and marble. the grind of heavy wheels upon the broken, irregular flags. the struggling clatter of hoofs, lashing of whips, squeal of mules, savage voices raised in cries and imprecations. the clank and roar of machinery. the repeated bellowing of a great liner, blowing off steam as she took up her berth in the outer harbour. the shattering rattle of the chains of a steam crane, when the monster iron-arm swung round seeking or depositing its burden and the crank ran out in harsh anger, as it seemed, and defiance. and through all this, as under-current, the confused clamour of the ever-shifting, ever-present crowd, and the small, steady drip of the rain. squalid, sordid, brutal even, the coarse actualities of her trade and her poverty alike disclosed, her fictions and her foulness uncondoned by reconciling sunshine, naples had declined from radiant goddess to common drab. it was in this character that richard calmady, driving yesterday, and for the first time, through the streets at noon, had been fated to see his so fondly-idealised city. it was in this character that he apprehended it again to-day, waiting in his deck-cabin until cessation of the rain and on-coming of the friendly dusk should render it not wholly odious to sit out on deck. the hours lagged, and even this bright and usually spotless apartment--with its shining, white walls, its dark, blue leather and polished, mahogany fittings--the coal dust penetrated. it rimmed the edge of the books neatly ranged on the racks. it smirched the charts laid out on the square locker-table below. it drifted in at the cabin windows, along with the babel of sound and the all-pervading stench of the port. this was, in itself, sufficiently distasteful, sufficiently depressing. and to richard, just now, the disgust of it came with the heightened sensibility of physical illness, and as accompaniment to an immense private shame and immense self-condemnation, a conviction of outlawry and a desolation passing speech. he looked for comfort, for promise of restoration, and found none, in things material or things intellectual, in others or in himself. for his mind, always prone to apprehend by images rather than by words, and to advance by analogy rather than by argument, discovered, in surrounding aspects and surrounding circumstance, a rather hideously apt parable and illustration of its present state. just as this seemingly fair city was proven, on intimate acquaintance, repulsive beyond the worst he had ever feared and earnestly refused to know of it, so a certain fair woman, upon whom, since boyhood, his best, most chivalrous, most unselfish, affections had centred, was proven--herself, moreover, flagrantly contributing to that proving--vile beyond all that rumor, heard and passionately denied by him, had ever ventured to whisper concerning her. nor was the misery of this revelation lessened by the knowledge that his own part in it all had been very base. he had sinned before. he would sin again probably. richard had long ceased to regard these matters from a strictly puritanic standpoint. but this particular sinning was different to any that had gone before, or which could come after it. for it partook--so at least, it now appeared to him--of the nature of sacrilege, since he had sinned against his ideal, degrading that to gross uses which he had agreed with himself to hold sacred, defiling it and, thereby, very horribly defiling himself. and this disgrace of their relation, his own and hers, the inherent abomination of it all and its inherent falsity, had been forced home on him with a certain violence of directness just in the common course of daily happenings. for among the letters, brought to him along with his first breakfast, yesterday, after that night of secret licence, had been three of serious import. one was from lady calmady, and that he put aside with a certain anger, calling himself unwilling, knowing himself unfit, to read it. another he tore open. the handwriting was unknown to him. he began reading it in bewilderment. then he understood. "monsieur,"--it ran,--"you are in process of exterminating me. but, since i have reason to believe that no sufficient opportunity has been afforded you of realising the enormity of your conduct, i rally the profoundness of nobility which i discover within me--i calm myself. i go further, i explain. living in retirement, you may not have learned that i am in naples. i followed your cousin here--madame de vallorbes. my connection with her represents the supreme passion of my passionate youth. at once a frenzy and an anodyne, i have found in it the inspiration of my genius in its later development. this work must not be put a stop to. it is too majestic, it is weighted with too serious consequences to the whole of thinking france, of thinking europe. a less experienced woman cannot satisfy the extravagance of my desires, the demands of my all-consuming imagination. the reverence with which a person, such as yourself, must regard commanding talent, the concessions he must be willing to make to its necessities, are without limit. this i cannot doubt that you will admit. the corollary is obvious. either, _monsieur_, you will immediately invite me to reside with you at your villa--thereby securing for yourself daily intercourse with a nature of distinguished merit--or you will restore madame de vallorbes to me without hesitation or delay. her devotion to me is absolute. how could it fail to be so, since i have lavished upon her the treasures of my extraordinary personality? but a fear of insular prejudice on your part withholds her at this moment from full expression of that devotion. she suffers as well as myself. it will be your privilege to put a term to this suffering by requesting me to join her, or by restoring her to me. to do otherwise will be to prolong the eclipse of my genius, and thereby outrage the conscience of civilised humanity which breathlessly awaits the next utterance of its chosen poet. if you require the consolation of feminine society, marry--it would be very simple--some white-souled, english miss. but restore to me, to whom her presence is indispensable, this woman of regal passions. i shall present myself at your house to-day to receive your answer in person. the result of a refusal on your part to receive me will be attended by calamitous consequences to yourself.--accept, _monsieur_, the expression of my highest consideration, "paul auguste destournelle." for the moment richard saw red, mad with rage at the insolence of the writer. and then came the question, was it true, this which the letter implied? had helen, indeed, lied to him? and, notwithstanding its insane vanity, did this precious epistle give a more veracious account of her relation to the young poet than that which she had herself volunteered? he tried to put the thought from him. who was he--to-day of all days--to be nice about the conduct of another? who was he to sit in judgment? so he turned to his correspondence again, taking another letter, at random, from the pile. and then, looking at the superscription, he turned somewhat sick. "mon cher,"--wrote m. de vallorbes,--"my steward informs me that he has just received your draft for a quarter's rent of the villa. i thank you a thousand times for your admirable punctuality. decidedly you are of those with whom it is a consolation to do business. need i assure you that the advent of this money is far from inopportune, since a grateful country, while showering distinctions upon me with one hand, with the other picks my pocket. i find it not a little expensive this famous military service! but then, ever since i can remember, i have found all that afforded me the slightest, active pleasure equally that! and this sport of war, i promise you, is the most excellent sport in which i have as yet participated. it satisfies the primitive instincts more thoroughly than even your english fox-hunting. a _battue_ of _communards_ is obviously superior to a _battue_ of pheasants. to the dignity of killing one's fellow-men is added the satisfaction of ridding oneself of vermin. it becomes a matter of sanitation and self-respect. and this, indirectly, recalls to me, that report declares my wife to be with you at naples. _mon cher je vous en fais câdeau_. with you, at least, i know that my honour is safe. you may even instil into her mind some faint conception of the rudiments of morality. to be frank with you, she needs that. a couple of months ago she did me the honour to elope--temporarily, of course--with m. paul destournelle. you may have glanced, one day, at his crapulous verses. i suppose honour demanded that i should pursue the guilty pair and account for one, if not both, of them. but i was too busily engaged with my little _communards_. we set these gentry up against a wall and dispose of them in batches. i have had a good deal of this, but, as i say, it has not yet become monotonous. traits of individual character lend it vivacity. and then, putting aside the exigencies of my profession, i do not know that anything is to be gained by inviting public scandal. you have an english proverb to the effect that one should wash one's dirty linen at home. this i have tried to do, as you cannot but be aware, all along. if one has had the misfortune to marry messalina, one learns to be philosophic. a few lovers more or less, in that connection, what, after all, does it matter? indeed, i begin to derive ironical consolation from the fact of their multiplicity. the existence of one would have constituted a reflection upon my charms. but a matter of ten, fifteen, twenty, ceases to be in any degree personal to myself. only i object to destournelle. he is too young, too _rococco_. he represents a descent in the scale. i prefer _des hommes mures_, generals, ministers, princes. the devil knows we have had our share of such! your generosity to her has saved us from jews so far, and from _nouveaux riches_, by relieving the business of commercial aspects. give her some salutary advice, therefore, _mon cher_, and if she becomes inconvenient forward her to paris. i forgive to seventy-times-seven, being still proud enough to struggle after an appearance of social and conjugal decency. _enfin_ it is a relief to have unburdened myself for once, and you have been the good genius of my unfortunate _ménage_, for which heaven reward you.--yours, in true cousinly regard and supreme reliance on your discretion, "luigi angelo francesco de vallorbes." that this, in any case, had a stamp of sincerity upon it, richard could not doubt. it must be admitted that he had long ceased to accept madame de vallorbes' estimate of her husband with unqualified belief. but, be that as it might, whether he were a consummate, or merely an average, profligate, one thing was certain that this man trusted him--richard calmady,--and that he--richard calmady--had very vilely betrayed that trust. he stared at the letter, and certain sentences in it seemed to sear him, even as the branding-iron used on a felon might. this was a new shame, different to, and greater than, any his deformity had ever induced in him, even as evil done is different to, and greater than, evil suffered. morality may be relative only and conventional. honour, for all persons of a certain standing and breeding, remains absolute. and it was precisely of his own honour that he had deprived himself. not only in body, but in character, he was henceforth monstrous. for a while richard had remained very still, looking at this thing into which he had made himself as though it were external and physically visible to him. then, suddenly, he had reached out his hand for his mother's letter. a decision of great moment was impending. he would know what she had to say before finally making that decision. he wondered bitterly, grimly, whether her words would plunge him yet deeper in this abyss of self-hatred and self-contempt. my darling,"--she wrote,--"i am foolishly glad to learn that you are back at naples. it gives me comfort to know you are even thus much nearer home and in a country where i too have traveled and of which i retain many dear and delightful recollections. you may be surprised, perhaps, to see the unaccustomed address upon my note-paper and may wonder what has made me guilty of deserting my post. now, since the worst of it is certainly over, i may tell you that my health has failed a good deal of late. nothing of a really serious nature--you need not be alarmed about me. but i had got into a rather weak and unworthy state, from which it became very desirable i should rouse myself. selfishness is insidious, but none the less reprehensible because it takes the apparently innocent form of sitting in a chair with one's eyes shut! however, that best of men, john knott, brought very bracing influences to bear on me, convincing me of sin--in the gentlest way in the world--by means of honoria st. quentin. and so i picked myself up, dear dickie,--picked the whole of myself up, as i hope, always saving and excepting my self-indulgent inertia,--and came away here to ormiston. at first, i confess, i felt very much like a dog at a fair, or the proverbial mummy at a feast. but they all bore with me in the plenty of their kindness, and, in the last week, i have banished the mummy and trained the scared dog to altogether polite and pretty behaviour. till i came back to it, i hardly realised how truly i loved this place. how should it be otherwise? i met your father first here after his third term at eton. i remember he snubbed me roundly. i met him again the year before our marriage. without vanity i declare that then he snubbed me not one little bit. these things are very far away. but to me, though far away, they are very vivid and very lovely. i see them as you, when you were small, so often pleaded to see a fairy landscape by looking through the large end of the gold and tortoise-shell spy-glass upon my writing-table. all of which may seem to you somewhat childish and trivial, but i grow an old woman and have a fancy for toys and tender make-believes--such as fairy landscapes seen through the big end of a spy-glass. the actual landscape, at times, is a trifle discouragingly rain-washed and cloudy!---roger and mary are here. their two boys are just gone back to school again. they are fine, courteous, fearless, little fellows. roger makes a rather superb middle-aged man. he has much of my father--your grandfather's reticence and dignity. indeed, he might prove slightly alarming, was one not so perfectly sure of him, dear creature. mary remains, as of old, the most wholesome and helpful of women. yes, it is good to dwell, for a time, among one's own people. and i cannot but rejoice that my eldest brother has come to an arrangement by which, at his death, your uncle william will receive a considerable sum of money in lieu of the property. this last will go direct to roger, and eventually to his boys. if your uncle william had a son, the whole matter would be different. but i own it would hurt me that in the event of his death there would be no ormiston at ormiston after these many generations. in all probability the place would be sold immediately, moreover, for it is an open secret that, through no fault of his own, poor man, william is sadly embarrassed in money matters. and he has other sorrows--of a rather terrible nature, since they are touched with disgrace. but here you will probably detect a point of prejudice, so i had better stop!--i look out upon a gray, northern sea, where 'the white horses fume and fret' under a cold, gray, northern sky. the oaks in the park are just thickening with yellow-green buds. and there, close to my window, perched on a topmost twig, a missel-thrush is singing, facing the wind like a gentleman. you look out upon a purple sea, i suppose, beneath clear skies and over orange trees and palms. i wonder if any brave bird pipes to you as my storm-cock to me? it brings up one's courage to hear his song, so strong and wild and sweet, in the very teeth of the gale too! but now you will have had enough of my news and more than enough. i write to you more freely, you see, than for a long time past, being myself more free of spirit. and therefore i dare add this, in all and every case, my darling, god keep you. and remember, should you weary of wandering, that not only the doors of brockhurst, but the doors of my heart, stand forever wide open to welcome you home.--yours always, k. c." reading which gentle, yet in a sense daring, words, richard's shame took on another complexion, but one by no means calculated to mitigate the burning of it. his treachery towards de vallorbes became almost vulgar and of small moment beside his cruelty to this superbly magnanimous woman, his mother. for, all these years, determinately and of set purpose, defiant of every better impulse, he had hardened his heart against her. to differ from her, to cherish that which was unsympathetic to her, to put aside every tradition in which she had nurtured him, to love that which she condemned, to condemn that which she loved--and this, if silently, yet unswervingly--had been the ruling purpose of his action. that which had its origin in passionate revolt against his own unhappy disfigurement, had come to be an interest and object in itself. in this quarrel with her--a quarrel, intimate, pre-natal, anterior to consciousness and to volition--he found the justification of his every lapse, his every crookedness of conduct and of thought. since he could not reach almighty god, and strike at the eternal first cause which he held responsible for the inalienable wrong done to him, he would strike, with cold-blooded persistence, at the woman whom almighty god had permitted to be his instrument in the infliction of that wrong. and to where had that sustained purpose of striking led him? even--so he judged just now--to the dishonour and desolation of to-day, following upon the sacrilegious licence of last night. all this richard saw with the alternately groping, benumbed, mental vision and the glaring, mental nakedness of breeding fever. small wonder that looking for comfort, for promise of restoration, he found none in things material, in things intellectual, in others, or in himself! he felt outcasted beyond hope of redemption, but not repentant, hardly remorseful even, only aware of all that which had happened, and of his own state. for lady calmady's letter was to him little more, as yet, than a placing of facts. to trade upon her magnificent generosity of affection, and seek refuge in those outstretched arms now, with the mark of the branding-iron so sensibly upon him, appeared to him of all contemptible doings the most radically contemptible. obviously it was impossible to go back. he must go on rather--out of sight, out of mind. fantastic schemes of disappearing, of losing himself, far away, in remote and nameless places, among the coral islands of the pacific or the chill majesty of the antarctic seas, offered themselves to his imagination. the practical difficulties presented by such schemes, their infeasibility, did not trouble him. he would sever all connection with that which had been, with that which had made for good equally with that which had made for evil. by his own voluntary act and choice he would become as a man dead, the disgrace of his malformed body, the closer and more hideous disgrace of his defiled and prostituted soul, surviving in legend merely, as might some ugly, old-time fable useful for the frightening of unruly babies. and to that end of self-obliteration he instantly applied himself, with outward calm, but with the mental hurry and restlessness of increasing illness. his first duty was to end the whole matter of his relation to helen,--helen shorn of her divinity, convicted liar and wanton, yet mistress still for him, as he feared, of mighty enchantments. so he wrote to her very briefly. the note should be given her later in the day. in it he stated that he should have left the villa before this announcement reached her, left it finally and without remotest prospect of return, since he could not doubt that she recognised, as he did, how impossible it had become that he and she should meet again. he added that he would communicate with her shortly as to business arrangements. that done, he summoned powell, his valet, bidding him pack. he would go down to the yacht at once. he had received information which made it imperative that he should quit naples immediately. to be out of all this, rid of it, fairly started on the road of negation of social being, negation of recognised existence, infected him like a madness. but even the most forceful human will must bend to stupidities of detail and of material fact. unexpected delays had occurred. the yacht was not ready for sea, neither coaled, nor provisioned, nor sound of certain small damages to her machinery. vanstone, the captain, might mislay his temper, and the first mate expend himself in polysyllabic invective, young penberthy cease to dream, stewards, engineers, carpenters, cooks, quartermasters, seamen, firemen, do their most willing and urgent best, nevertheless the morning of next day, and even the afternoon of it, still found richard calmady seated at the locker-table of the white-walled deck-cabin, his voyage towards self-obliteration not yet begun. charts were outspread before him, upon which, at weary intervals, he essayed to trace the course of his coming wanderings. but his brain was dull, he had no power of consecutive thought. that same madness of going was upon him with undiminished power, yet he knew not where he wanted to go, hardly why he wanted to go, only that a blind obsession of going drove him. he was miserably troubled about other matters too--about that same brief letter he had written to helen before leaving the villa. he was convinced that he had written such a letter, but struggle as he might to remember the contents of it they remained to him a blank. he was haunted by the fear that in that letter he had committed some irremediable folly, had bound himself to some absurdly unworthy course of action. but what it might be escaped and, in escaping, tortured him. and then, this surely was friday, and morabita sang at the san carlo to-night? and surely he had promised to be there, and to meet the famous _prima donna_ and sup with her after the performance, as in former days at vienna? he had not always been quite kind to her, poor, dear, fat, good-natured, silly soul! he could not fail her now.--and then he went back to a chart of the south pacific again. only he could not see it plainly, but saw, instead of it, the great folio of copper-plate engravings lying on the broad window-seat of the eastern bay of the long gallery at home. he was sitting there to watch for the race-horses coming back from exercise, tom chifney pricking along beside them on his handsome cob. and the long-ago, boyish desperation of longing for wholeness, for freedom, brought a moistness to his eyes, and a lump into his throat. and all the while the coal dust drifted in at each smallest crevice and aperture, and the air was vibrant with rasping, jarring uproar and nauseous with the stale, heavy odours of the city and the port. and steadily, ceaselessly, the descending rain drummed upon the roofing overhead. at length a stupor took him. his head sunk upon his arms, folded upon those outspread charts, while the noise of all the rude activities surrounding him subtly transformed itself into that of a great orchestra. and above this, superior to, yet nobly supported by it, morabita's voice rose in the suave and passionate phrases of the glorious cavatina--"_ernani, ernani, involami, all aborito ampleso._"--yes, her voice was as good as ever! richard drew a long breath of relief. here, at least, was something true to itself, and amid so much of change, so much of spoiling, still unspoilt! he raised his head and listened. for something must have happened, something of serious moment. the orchestra, for some unaccountable reason, had suddenly broken down. yes, it must be the orchestra which disaster had overtaken, for a voice very certainly continued. no, not a voice, but voices--those of vanstone the captain, and price the first mate, and old billy tinn the boatswain--loud, imperative, violently remonstrant, but swept under and swamped at moments by cries and volleys of foulest, neapolitan _argot_ from hoarse, neapolitan throats. and that abruptly silenced orchestra?--richard came back to himself, came back to actualities of environment and prosaic fact. an infinitely weariful despair seized him. for the sound that had reached so sudden a termination was not that of cunningly-attuned, musical instruments, but the long-drawn, chattering rush of the coal, pitched from the baskets down the echoing, iron shoots. the cabin door opened discreetly and powell, incarnation of decorous punctualities even amid existing tumultuously discomposing circumstances, entered. "from the villa, sir," he said, depositing letters and newspapers upon the table. richard put out his hand, turned them over mechanically. for again, somehow, notwithstanding the babel without, that exquisite invitation--"_ernani, ernani, involami_,"--assailed his ears. the valet waited a little, quiet and deferential in bearing, yet observing his master with a certain keenness and anxiety. "i saw mr. bates, as you desired, sir," he said at last. richard looked up at him vaguely. and it struck him that while powell was on shore to-day he had undoubtedly had his hair cut. this interested him--though why, he would have found it difficult to say. "mr. bates thought you should be informed that a gentleman called early yesterday afternoon, as he said by appointment." yes--certainly powell had had his hair cut.--"did the gentleman give his name?" "yes, sir, m. paul destournelle." powell spoke slowly, getting his tongue carefully round the foreign syllables, and, for all the confusion of his hearer's mind, the name went home. vagueness passed from richard's glance. "he was refused, of course." "her ladyship had given orders that should any person of that name call he was to be admitted."--powell spoke with evident reluctance. "consequently mr. bates was uncertain how to act, having received contrary orders from you, sir, the day before yesterday. he explained this to her ladyship, but she insisted." richard's mind had become perfectly lucid. "very well," he said coldly. "mr. bates also thought you should know, sir, that after m. destournelle's visit her ladyship announced she should not remain at the villa. she left about five o'clock, taking her maid. charles followed with all the baggage." the valet paused. richard's manner was decidedly discouraging, yet, something further must at least be intimated. "her ladyship gave no address to mr. bates for the forwarding of her letters." but here the cabin door, left slightly ajar by powell, was opened wide, and that with none of the calm and discretion displayed by the functionary in question. a long perspective of grimy deck behind him, his oilskins shiny from the wet, with trim, black beard, square-made, bold-eyed, hot-tempered, warm-hearted, alert, humorous--typical west countryman as his gentle dreamy cousin, penberthy, the second mate, though of a very different type--stood captain vanstone. his easily-ruffled temper suffered from the after effects of what is commonly known as a "jolly row," and his speech was curt in consequence thereof. "sorry to disturb you, sir richard," he said, "and still more sorry to disappoint you, but it can't be helped." dickie turned upon him so strangely drawn and haggard a countenance, that vanstone with difficulty repressed an exclamation. he looked in quick inquiry at the valet, who so far departed from his usual decorum as to nod his head in assent to the silent questioning. "what's wrong now?" richard said. "why, these beggarly rascals have knocked off. price offered them a higher scale of pay. i had empowered him to do so. but they won't budge. the rain's washed the heart out of them. we've tried persuasion and we've tried threats--it's no earthly use. not a basket more coal will they put on board before five to-morrow morning." "can't we sail with what we have got?" "not enough to carry us to port said." "what will be the extent of the delay this time?" richard asked. his tone had an edge to it. again captain vanstone glanced at the valet. "with luck we may get off to-morrow about midnight." he stepped back, shook himself like a big dog, scattering the water off his oilskins in a shower upon the slippery deck. then he came inside the cabin and stood near richard. his expression was very kindly, tender almost. "you must excuse me, sir," he said. "i know it doesn't come within my province to give you advice. but you do look pretty ill, sir richard. every one's remarking that. and you are ill, sir--you know it, and i know it, and mr. powell here knows it. you ought to see a doctor, sir--and if you'll pardon plain language, this beastly cess-pit of a harbour is not a fit place for you to sleep in." and poor dickie, after an instant of sharp annoyance, touched by the man's honest humanity smiled upon him--a smile of utter weariness, utter homelessness. "perfectly true. get me out to sea then, vanstone. i shall be better there than anywhere else," he said. whereupon the kindly sailor-man turned away, swearing gently into his trim, black beard. but the valet remained, impassive in manner, actively anxious at heart. "have you any orders for the carriage, sir?" he asked. "garçia drove me down. i told him to wait until i had inquired." richard was long in replying. his brain was all confused and clouded again, while again he heard the voice of the famous soprano--"_ernani, ernani, involami_." "yes," he said at last. "tell garçia to be here in good time to drive me to the san carlo. i have an appointment at the opera to-night." chapter xi in which dickie goes to the end of the world and looks over the wall the opera box, which richard calmady had rented along with the villa vallorbes, was fifth from the stage on the third tier, to the right of the vast horseshoe. thus situated, it commanded a very comprehensive view of the interior of the house. the _parterre_--its somewhat comfortless seats, rising as on iron stilts, as they recede, row by row, from the proscenium--was packed. while, since the aristocratic world had not yet left town, the boxes--piled, tier above tier, without break of dress-circle or gallery, right up to the lofty roof--were well-filled. and it was the effect of these last that affected richard oddly, displeasingly, as, helped by powell and andrews,--the first footman, who acted as his table-steward on board the _reprieve_,--he made his way slowly down to the chair, placed on the left, at the front of the box. for the accepted aspects and relations of things seen were remote to him. he perceived effects, shapes, associations of colour, divorced from their habitual significance. it was as though he looked at the written characters of a language unknown to him, observing the form of them, but attaching no intelligible meaning to that form. and so it happened that those many superimposed tiers of boxes were to him as the waxen cells of a gigantic honeycomb, against the angular darknesses of which little figures, seen to the waist, took the light--the blond face, neck and arms of some woman, the fair colours of her dress--and showed up with perplexing insistence. for they were all peopled, these cells of the honeycomb, and--so it seemed to him--with larvæ, bright-hued, unworking, indolent, full-fed. down there upon the _parterre_, in the close-packed ranks of students, of men and women of the middle-class, soberly attired in walking costume, he recognised the working bees of this giant hive. by their unremitting labour the dainty waxen cells were actually built up, and those larvæ were so amply, so luxuriously, fed. and the working bees--there were so many, so very many of them! what if they became mutinous, rebelled against labour, plundered and destroyed the indolent, succulent larvæ of which he--yes, he, richard calmady--was unquestionably and conspicuously one? he leaned back in his chair, pulled forward the velvet drapery so as to shut out the view of the house, and fixed his eyes upon the heads of the musicians in the orchestra. the overture was nearly over. the curtain would very soon go up. then he observed that powell still stood near him. the man was strangely officious to-day, he thought. could that be connected in any way with the fact he had had his hair cut? for a moment the notion appeared to dickie quite extravagantly amusing. but he kept his amusement, as so much else, to himself. and again the working bees, down in the _parterre_, attracted his attention. they were buzzing, buzzing angrily, displeased with the full-fed larvæ in the boxes, because these last were altogether too social, talked too loud and too continuously, drowning the softer passages of the overture. those dull-coloured insects had expended store of hard-earned _lire_ upon the queer seats they occupied, mounted as upon iron stilts. they meant to have the whole of that which they had paid for, and hear every note. if they swarmed, now, swarmed upward, clung along the edges of those many tiers of boxes, punished inconsiderate insolence with stings?---it would hardly be unjust.--but there was powell still, clad in sober garments. he belonged to the working bees. and richard became aware of a singular diffidence and embarrassment in thinking of that. if they should swarm, those workers, he would rather the valet did not see it, somehow. he was a good fellow, a faithful servant, a man of nice feeling, and such an incident would place him in an awkward position. he ought to be spared that. carefully dickie reasoned it all out. "you need not stay here any longer, powell," he said. "when shall i return, sir?" the curtain went up. a roll of drums, a chorus of men's voices, somewhat truculent, in the drinking song. "at the end of the performance, of course." but the valet hesitated. "you might require to send some message, sir." richard stared at the chorus. the opera being performed but this once, economy prevailed. costumiers had ransacked their stock for discovery of garments not unpardonably inappropriate. the result showed a fine superiority to details of time and place. one spanish bandit, a portly _basso_, figured in a surprising variety of highland dress designed, and that locally, for a chieftain in the opera of _lucia di lammermoor_. his acquaintance with the eccentricities of a kilt being of the slightest, consequences ensued broadly humorous.--again dickie experienced great amusement. but that message?--had he really one to send? probably he had. he could not remember, and this annoyed him. possibly he might remember later. he turned to powell, forgetting his amusement, forgetting the too intimate personal revelations of the unhappy _basso_. "yes--well--come back at the end of the second act, then," he said. if the bees swarmed it would be over by that time, he supposed, so powell's return would not matter much one way or the other. a persuasion of something momentous about to be accomplished deepened in him. the madness of going, which had so pushed him earlier in the day, fell dead before it. for this concourse of living creatures must be gathered together to witness some event commensurate in importance with the greatness of their number. he felt sure of that. yes--before long they would swarm. incontestably they would swarm!--again he drew aside the velvet drapery and looked down curiously upon the arena and its occupants. for a new idea had come to him regarding these last. they still presented the effect of a throng of busy, angry insects. but richard knew better. he had penetrated their disguise, a disguise assumed to insure their ultimate purpose with the greater certainty. he knew them to be human. he knew their purpose to be a moral one. and, looking upon them, recognising the spirit which animated them, he was taken with a reverence and sympathy for average, toiling humanity unfelt by him before. for he saw that by these, the workers, the final issues are inevitably decided, by these the final verdict is pronounced. individually they may be contemptible, but in their corporate intelligence, corporate strength, they are little short of majestic. of art, letters, practical civilisation, even religion, even, in a degree, nature herself, they are alike architects and judges. it must be so. it always has been so time out of mind in point of fact. and then he wondered why they were so patient of constraint? why had they not risen long ago and obliterated the pretensions of those arrogant, indolent larvæ peopling the angular apertures of the honey cells--those larvæ of whom, by birth and wealth, sinfulness and uselessness, he was himself so conspicuous an example? but then still clearer understanding of this whole strange matter came to him.--they, like all else,--mighty though they are in their corporate intention,--are obedient to fate. they can only act when the time is ripe. and then he understood yet more clearly. their purpose in congregating here, whether they were conscious of it or not, was retributive. they were present to witness and to accomplish an act of foreordained justice.--richard paused a moment, struggling with his own thought. and then he saw quite plainly that he himself was the object of that act of foreordained justice, he himself was the centre of that dimly-apprehended, approaching event. his punishment, his deliverance by means of that punishment, was that which had brought this great multitude together here to-night. he was awed. yet with that awe came thankfulness, gratitude, an immense sense of relief. he need not seek self-obliteration, losing himself in far-away, tropic islands, or the ice-bound regions of the uttermost south. he could stay here. sit quite still even--and that was well, for he was horribly tired and spent. he need only wait. when the time was ripe, they would do all the rest--do it for him by doing it to him.--how finely simple it all was! incidentally he wondered if it would hurt very much. not that that mattered, for beyond lay peace. only he hoped they would get to work pretty soon, so that it might be over before the end of the second act, when powell, the valet, would come back. richard's face had grown very youthful and eager. his eyes were unnaturally bright. and still he gazed down at that great company. his heart went out to it. he loved it, loved each and every member of it, as he had never conceived of loving heretofore. he would like to have gone down among them and become part of them, one with them in purpose, a partaker of their corporate strength. but that was forbidden. they were his preordained executioners. yet in that capacity they were not the less, but the more, lovable. they were welcome to exact full justice. he longed after them, longed after the pain it was their mission to inflict.--and they were getting ready, surely they were getting ready! there was a sensible movement among them. they turned pale faces away from the brilliantly lighted stage, and towards the great horseshoe of waxen cells enclosing them. they were busy, dull-coloured insects again, and they buzzed--resentfully, angrily, they buzzed. yet even while dickie noted all this, greatly moved by it, appreciating its inner meaning, its profound relation to himself and the drama of his own existence, he was not wholly unmindful of the progress of the opera and the charm of the graceful and fluent music which saluted his ears. he was aware of the entrance of the hero, of his greeting by his motley-clad followers. he felt kindly, just off the surface of his emotion so to speak, towards this impersonator of ernani. the young actor's appearance was attractive, his voice fresh and sympathetic, his bearing modest. but the aristocratic occupants of the boxes treated him cavalierly. the famous milanese tenor, whose name was on the programme, having failed to arrive, this local, and comparatively inexperienced, artist had been called upon to fill his part. therefore the smart world talked more loudly than before, while the democratic occupants of the _parterre_, jealous for the reputation of their fellow-citizen, broke forth into stormy protest. and richard could have found it in his heart to protest also. for it was waste of energy, this senseless conflict! it was unworthy of the dignity of that dull-coloured multitude, on whom his hopes were so strangely set--of the men in whose hands are the final rewards and punishments, by whose voice the final judgment is pronounced. it pained him to see these ministers of the eternal justice thus led away by trivial happenings, and their attention distracted from the main issue. for what, in god's name, did he and his sentimental love-carrollings amount to, this pretty fellow of a player, this fictitious hero of the modern, neapolitan, operatic stage? weighed in the balances, he and his whole occupation and calling were lighter, surely, than vanity itself? rightly considered, he and his singing were but as a spangle, as some glittering trifle of tinsel, upon the veil still hiding the awful, yet benign, countenance of that tremendous and so surely approaching event.--let him sing away, then, sing in peace. for the sound of his singing might help to lighten the weariness of the hours until the supreme hour should strike, and the glittering veil be torn asunder, and the countenance it covered be at last and wholly revealed. reasoning thus, richard raised his opera glasses and swept those many superimposed ranges of waxen cells. and the aspect of them was to him very sinister, for everywhere he seemed to encounter soft, voluptuous, brainless faces, violences of hot colour, and costly clothing cunningly devised to heighten the physical allurements of womanhood. everywhere, beside and behind these, he seemed to encounter the faces of men, gluttonous of pleasure, hungering for those generously-discovered, material charms. they were veritable antechambers of vice, those angular-mouthed, waxen cells. and, therefore, very fittingly, as he reflected, he had his place in one of them, since he was infected by the vices, active partaker in the sensuality, of his class.--oh! that the bees would swarm--swarm, and make short work of it all, inflict completeness of punishment, and thereby cleanse him and set him free! in its intensity his longing came near taking the form of articulate prayer. and then his thought shifted once more, attaching itself curiously, speculatively, to individual objects. for his survey of the house had just now brought a box into view, situated on the grand tier and almost immediately opposite his own. it was occupied by a party of six persons. with four of those persons richard was aware he had nothing to do. but with the remaining two persons--a woman fashioned, as it appeared, of ivory and gold, and a young man standing almost directly behind her--he had much, everything, in fact, to do. it was incomprehensible to him that he had not observed these two persons sooner, since they were as necessary to the accomplishment of that terrible, yet beneficent, approaching event as he himself was. the woman he knew actually and intimately, though as yet he could give her no name, nor recall in what his knowledge of her consisted. the young man he knew inferentially. and dickie was sensible of regarding him with instinctive repulsion, since his appearance presented a living and grossly ribald caricature of a figure august, worshipful, and holy. long and closely richard studied those two persons, studied them, forgetful of all else, straining his memory to place them. and all the while they talked. but, at last, the woman fashioned of ivory and gold ceased talking. she folded her arms upon the velvet cushion of the front of the box and gazed right out into the theatre. there was a splendid arrogance in the pose of her head, and in the droop of her eyelids. then she looked up and across, straight at richard. he saw her drooping eyelids raised, her eyes open wide, and remain fixed as in amazement. a something alert, and very fierce, came into her expression. she seemed to think carefully for a brief space. she threw back her head, and he saw uncontrollable laughter convulse her beautiful throat. and, at that same moment, a mighty outburst of applause and of welcome shook the great theatre from floor to ceiling, and, as it died away, the voice of the famous soprano, rich and compelling as of old, swelled out, and made vibrant with passionate sweetness the whole atmosphere. and richard hailed that glorious voice, not that in itself it moved him greatly, but because in it he recognised the beginning of the end. it came as prelude to catastrophe which was also salvation.--very soon the bees would swarm now! he rallied his patience. he had not much longer to wait. meanwhile he looked back at that box on the grand tier, striving to unriddle the mystery of his knowledge of those two persons. he needed glasses no longer. his sight had become preternaturally keen. again the two were talking--and about him, that was somehow evident. and, as they talked, he beheld a being, exquisitely formed, perfect in every part, step forth from between the lips of the woman fashioned of ivory and gold. it knelt upon one knee. over the heads of the vast, dull-coloured multitude of workers, those witnesses of and participators in the execution of eternal justice, it gazed at him, richard calmady, and at him alone. and its gaze enfolded and held him like an embrace. it wooed him, extending its arms in invitation. it was naked and unashamed. it was black--black as the reeking, liquid lanes between the hulls of the many ships, over which the screaming gulls circled seeking foul provender, down in naples harbour.--and he knew the fair woman it came forth from for helen de vallorbes, herself, in her crocus-yellow gown sewn with seed pearls. and he knew it for the immortal soul of her. and he perceived, moreover, as it smiled on and beckoned him with lascivious gestures, that its hands and its lips were bloody, since it had broken the hearts of living women and torn and devoured the honour of living men. "_ernani, ernani, involami_"--still the air was vibrant with that glorious voice. but the love of which it was the exponent, the flight which it counseled, had ceased, to richard's hearing, to bear relation to that which is earthly, concrete, and of the senses. the passion and promise of it were alike turned to nobler and more permanent uses, presaging the quick coming of expiation and of reconciliation contained in that supreme event. for he knew that, in a little moment, helen must arise and follow the soul which had gone forth from her--the soul of which, in all its admirable perfection of outward form and blackness of intimate lies and lust, was close to him--though he no longer actually beheld it--here, beside him, laying subtle siege to him even yet. where it went, there, of necessity, she who owned it must shortly follow, since soul and body cannot remain apart, save for the briefest space, until death effect their final divorce. therefore helen would come speedily. it could not be otherwise--so, at least, he argued. and her coming meant the culmination. then, time being fully ripe, the bees would swarm, swarm at last,--labour revenging itself upon sloth, hunger upon gluttony, want upon wealth, obscurity upon privilege,--justice being thus meted out, and he, richard, cleansed and delivered from the disgrace of deformity now so hideously infecting both his spirit and his flesh. of this he was so well assured that, disregarding the felt, though unseen, presence of that errant soul, disdaining to do battle with it, he leaned forward once more, looking down into the close-packed arena of the great theatre. all those brilliant figures, members of his own class, here present, were matter of indifference to him. in this moment of conscious and supreme farewell, it was to the dull-coloured multitude that he turned. they still moved him to sympathy. unconsciously they had enlightened him concerning matters of infinite moment. at their hands he would receive penance and absolution. before they dealt more closely with him,--since that dealing must involve suffering which might temporarily cloud his friendship for them,--he wanted to bid them farewell and assure them of his conviction of the righteousness of their corporate action. so, silently, he blessed them, taking leave of them in peace. then he found there were other farewells to be said.--farewell to earthly life as he had known it, the struggle and very frequent anguish of it, its many frustrated purposes, fair illusions, unfulfilled hopes. he must bid farewell, moreover, to art as he had relished it--to learning, as he had all too intermittently pursued it--to travel, as he had found solace in it--to the inexhaustible interest, the inextinguishable humour and pathos, in brief, of things seen. and, reviewing all this, a profound nostalgia of all those minor happinesses which are the natural inheritance of the average man arose in him--happiness of healthy, light-hearted activities, not only of the athlete and the fighting-man, but of the playing-field, and the ball-room, and the river--happinesses to him inevitably denied. with an almost boyish passion of longing, he cried out for these.--just for one day to have lived with the ease and freedom with which the vast majority of men habitually live! just for one day to have been neither dwarf nor cripple, but to have taken his place and his chance with the rest, before it all was over and the tale told! but very soon richard put these thoughts from him, deeming it unworthy to dwell upon them at this juncture. the call was to go forward, not to go back. so he settled himself in his chair once more, pulling the velvet drapery forward so as to shut out the sight of the house. bitterness should have no part in him. when that happened which was appointed to happen, it must find him not only acquiescent but serene and undisturbed. he composed himself, therefore, with a decent and even lofty pride. then he turned his eyes upon the narrow door, there in the semi-obscurity of the back of the box, and waited. and all the while royally, triumphantly, morbita sang. during that period of waiting--whether in itself brief or prolonged, he knew not--sensation and thought alike were curiously in abeyance. richard neither slept nor woke. he knew that he existed, but all active relation to being had ceased. and it was with painful effort he in a measure returned to more ordinary correspondence with fact, aroused by the sound of low-toned, emphatic speech close at hand, and by a scratching as of some animal denied and seeking admittance. then he perceived that the door yielded, letting in a spread of yellow brightness from the corridor. and in the midst of that brightness, part and parcel of it thanks to the lustre of her crocus-yellow dress, her honey-coloured hair, her fair skin and softly-gleaming ornaments, stood helen de vallorbes. behind her, momentarily, richard caught sight of the young man whose face had impressed him as a ribald travesty of that of some being altogether worshipful and holy. the face peered at him with, as it seemed, malicious curiosity over the rounded shoulder of the woman of ivory and gold, the effect was very hateful, and, with a sense of thankfulness, richard saw helen close the door and come, alone, down the two steps leading from the back of the box. as she passed from the dimness into the clearer light, he watched her, quiescent, yet with absorbing interest. for he perceived that the hands of the clock had been put back somehow. intervening years and the many events of them had ceased to obtain, so that, of all the many helens, enchanting or evil, whom he had come to know, he saw now only one, and that the first and earliest--a little dancer, with blush-roses in her hat, dainty as a toy, finished to her rosy finger-tips and the toes of her pretty shoes, merry and merciless, as she had pirouetted round him mocking his shuffling, uncertain progress across the chapel-room at brockhurst fifteen years ago. "ah! so you have come back!" he exclaimed, almost involuntarily. madam de vallorbes pushed a chair from the front of the box into the shadow of the velvet draperies beside richard. "it is unnecessary that all naples should take part in our interview," she said. she sat down, turning to him, leaning a little towards him. "you do not deserve that i should come back, you know, dickie," she continued. "you both deserted and deceived me. that is hardly chivalrous, hardly just indeed, after taking all a woman has to give. you led me to suppose you had departed for good and all. why should you deceive me?" "the yacht was not ready for sea," richard said simply. "then you might, in common charity, have let me know that. you were bound to give me an opportunity of speaking to you once again, i think." in his present state of detachment from all worldly considerations, absolute truthfulness compelled richard. the event was so certain, the swarming of the bees so very near, that small diplomacies, small evasions, seemed absurdly out of place. "i did not want to hear you speak," he said. "but doesn't it strike you that was rather dastardly in face of what had taken place between us? do you know that you appear in a new and far from becoming light?" denial seemed to richard futile. he remained silent. for a moment helen looked towards the stage. when she spoke again it was as with reluctance. "i was desperately unhappy. i went all over the villa in the vain hope of finding you. i went back to that room of yours in which we parted. i wanted to see it again."--helen paused. her speech was low-toned, soft as milk.--"it was rather dreadful, dickie, for the place was all in disarray, littered with signs of your hasty departure, damp, cheerless--the rain beating against the windows. and i hate rain. i found there, not you--whom i so sorely wanted--but something very much else.--a letter to you from de vallorbes."--once more she paused. "i excuse you of anything worse than negligence in omitting to destroy it. misery knows no law, and i was miserable. i read it." richard had listened with the same detachment, yet the same absorbed interest, with which he had watched her entrance. she was a wonderful creature in her adroitness, in her handling of means to serve her own ends! but he could not pay her back in her own coin. the time was too short for anything but simple truth. he felt strangely tired. these reiterated delays became harassing. if the bees would swarm, only swarm! then it would be over, and he could sleep. he clasped his hands behind his head and looked at madame de vallorbes. her soul kneeled on her lap, its delicate arms were clasped about her neck--black against the lustrous white of her skin and all those twisted ropes of seed pearls. it pressed its breasts against hers, amorously. it loved her and she it. and he understood that in the whole scope of nature there was but it alone, it only, that she ever had loved, or did, or could, love. and, understanding this, he was filled with a great compassion for her. and, answering her, his expression was gentle and pitiful. still he needs must speak the truth. "perhaps it was as well that you should read luigi's letter," he said. she turned upon him fiercely and scornfully, yet even as she did so her soul fell to beckoning to him, soliciting him with evilly alluring gestures. "my congratulations to you," she exclaimed, "upon your praiseworthy candour! i am to gather, then, that you believe that which my husband advises himself to tell you? under the circumstances it is exceedingly convenient to you to do so, no doubt." "how can i avoid believing it?" richard asked, quite sweet-temperedly. "surely we need not waste the little time which remains in argument as to that? you must admit, helen, that luigi's letter fits in. it supplies just the piece of the puzzle which was missing. it tallies with all the rest." "all the rest?" "oh yes! it is part of the whole, precisely that part both of you and of naples which i knew, and tried so hard not to know, from the first. but it is worse than useless to practice such refusals. the whole, and nothing less than the whole, is bound to get one in the end. it is contrary to the nature of things that any integral portion of the whole should submit to permanent denial."--richard's voice deepened. he spoke with a subdued enthusiasm, thinking of the dull-coloured multitude there in the arena and the act of retributive justice on the eve, by them, of accomplishment.--"it seems to me the radical weakness of all human institutions, of all systems of thought, resides in exactly that effort to select and reject, to exalt one part as against another part, and so build not upon the rock of unity and completeness, but upon the sand of partiality and division. and sooner or later the whole revenges itself, and the fine-fanciful fabric crumbles to ruin, just for lack of that which in our short-sighted over-niceness we have taken such mighty great pains to miss out. this has happened times out of number in respect of religions, and philosophies, and the constitution of kingdoms, and in that of fair romances which promised to stand firm to all eternity. and now, now, in these last few days,--since laws which rule the general, also rule the individual life,--it has happened in respect of you, helen, to my seeing, and in respect of naples."--richard smiled upon her sadly and very sweetly.--"i am sorry," he said, "yes, indeed, horribly sorry. it is a bitter thing to see the last of one's gods go overboard. but there is no remedy. sorry or not, so it is." madame de vallorbes looked at him keenly. her attitude was strained. her face sombre with thought. "my god! my god!" she exclaimed, "that i should sit and listen to all this! and yet you were never more attractive. there is an unnatural force, unnatural beauty about you. you are ill, richard. you look and you speak as a man might who was about to join hands with death." but dickie's attention had wandered again. he pulled the velvet drapery aside somewhat, and gazed down into the crowded house. they lingered strangely in the performance of their mission, that dull-coloured multitude of workers!--just then came another mighty outburst of applause, cries, _vivas_, the famous soprano's name called aloud. the sound was stimulating, as the shout of a victorious army. richard hailed it as a sign of speedy deliverance, and sank back into his place. "oh yes!" he said civilly and lightly, "i fancy i am pretty bad. i am a bit sick of this continued delay, you see. i suppose they know their own business best, but they do seem most infernally slow in getting under weigh. i was ready hours ago. however, they must be nearly through with preliminaries now. and when once we're fairly into it, i shall be all right." "you mean when the yacht sails?" madame de vallorbes asked. still she looked at him intently. he turned to her smiling, and she observed that his eyes had ceased to be as windows opening back on to empty space. they were luminous with a certain gay content. "yes, of course--when the yacht sails, if you like to put it that way," he answered. "and when will that be?" the shout of the arena grew louder in the recall. it surged up to the roof and quivered along the lath and plaster partitions of the boxes. "very soon now. immediately, i think, please god," he said.--but why should she make him speak thus foolishly in riddles? of a surety she must read the signs of the approach of that momentous and beneficent event as clearly as he himself! was she not equally with himself involved in it? was she not, like himself, to be cleansed and set free by it? therefore it came as a painful bewilderment and shock to him when she drew closer to him, leaned forward, laid her hand lightly upon his thigh. "richard," she said, very softly, "i forgive all. i am not satisfied with loving. i will come with you. i will stay with you. i will be faithful to you--yes, yes, even that. your loving is unlike any other. it is unique, as you yourself are unique. i--i want more of it." "but you must know that it is too late to go back on that now," he said, reasoning with her, greatly perplexed and distressed by her determined ignoring of--to him--self-evident fact. "all that side of things for us is over and done with." her lips parted in naughty laughter. and then, not without a shrinking of quick horror, richard beheld the soul of her--that being of lovely proportions, exquisitely formed in every part, yet black as the foul, liquid lanes between the hulls of the many ships down in naples harbour--step delicately in between those parted lips, returning whence it came. and, beholding this, instinctively he raised her hand from where it rested upon his thigh, and put it from him, put it upon her glistering, crocus-yellow lap where her soul had so lately kneeled. "let us say no more, helen," he entreated, "lest we both forfeit our remaining chance, and become involved in hopeless and final condemnation." but madame de vallorbes' anger rose to overwhelming height. she slapped her hands together. "ah, you despise me!" she cried. "but let me assure you that in any case this assumption of virtue becomes you singularly ill. it really is a little bit too cheap, a work of supererogation in the matter of hypocrisy. have the courage of your vices. be honest. you can be so to the point of insult when it serves your purpose. own that you are capricious, own that you have lighted upon some woman who provokes your appetite more than i do! i have been too tender of you, too lenient with you. i have loved too much and been weakly desirous to please. own that you are tired of me, that you no longer care for me!" and he answered, sadly enough:-- "yes, that last is true. having seen the whole, that has happened which i always dreaded might happen. the last of my self-made gods has indeed gone overboard. i care for you no longer." helen sprang up from her chair, ran to the door, flung it open. the first act of the opera was concluded. the curtain had come down. the house below and around, the corridor without, were full of confused noise and movement. "paul, m. destournelle, come here," she cried, "and at once!" but richard was more than ever tired. the strain of waiting had been too prolonged. lights, draperies, figures, the crowded arena, the vast honeycomb of boxes, tier above tier, swam before his eyes, blurred, indistinct, vague, shifting, colossal in height, giddy in depth. the bees were swarming, at last, swarming upward through seas of iridescent mist. but he had no longer empire over his own attitude and thoughts. he had hoped to meet the supreme moment in full consciousness, with clear vision and thankfulness of heart. but he was too tired to do so, tired in brain and body alike. and so it happened that a dogged endurance grew on him, simply a setting of the teeth and bracing of himself to suffer silently, even stupidly, all that might be in store. for the bees were close upon him now, countless in number, angry, grudging, violent. but they no longer appeared as insects. they were human, save for their velvet-like, expressionless eyes. and all those eyes were fixed upon him, and him alone. he was the centre towards which, in thought and action, all turned. nor were the dull-coloured occupants of the _parterre_ alone in their attack. for those gay-coloured larvæ--the men and women of his own class--indolent, licentious, full-fed, hung out of the angular mouths of the waxen cells, above the crimson and gold of their cushions, pointing at him, claiming and yet denouncing him. and in the attitude of these the democratic and the aristocratic sections--he detected a difference. the former swarmed to inflict punishment for his selfishness, uselessness, sensuality. but the latter jeered and mocked at his bodily infirmity, deriding his deformity, making merry over his shortened limbs and shuffling walk. and against this background, against this all-enclosing tapestry of faces which encircled him, two persons, and the atmosphere and aroma of them, so to speak, were clearly defined. they were close to him, here within the narrow limits of the opera box. then a great humiliation overtook richard, perceiving that they, and not the people, the workers, august in their corporate power and strength, were to be his executioners.--no--no--he wasn't worth that! and, for all his present dulness of sensation, a sob rose in his throat. madame de vallorbes, resplendent in crocus-yellow brocade, costly lace, and seed pearls, the young man, her companion--the young man of the light, forked beard, domed skull, vain eyes and peevish mouth--the young man of holy and dissolute aspect--were good enough instruments for the eternal justice to employ in respect of him, richard calmady. "look, m. destournelle," helen said very quietly, "this is my cousin of whom i have already spoken to you. but i wished to spare him if possible, and give him room for self-justification, so i did not tell you all. richard, this is my friend, m. destournelle, to whom my honour and happiness are not wholly indifferent." dickie looked up. he did not speak. vaguely he prayed it might all soon be over. paul destournelle looked down. he raised his eye-glass and bowed himself, examining richard's mutilated legs and strangely-shod feet. he broke into a little, bleating, goat-like laugh. "_mais c'est etonnant!_" he observed reflectively. "i was in his house," helen continued. "i was there unprotected, having absolute faith in his loyalty."--she paused a moment. "he seduced me. richard can you deny that?" "_canaille!_" m. destournelle murmured. he drew a pair of gloves through his hands, holding them by the finger-tips. the metal buttons of them were large, three on each wrist. those gloves arrested richard's attention oddly. "i do not deny it," dickie said. "and having thus outraged, he deserted me. do you deny that?" "no," dickie said again. for it was true, that which she asserted, true, though penetrated by subtle falsehood impossible, as it seemed to him, to combat,--"no, i do not deny it." "you hear!" helen exclaimed. "now do what you think fit." still destournelle drew the gloves through his hands, holding them by the finger-tips. "under other circumstances i might feel myself compelled to do you the honour of sending you a challenge, _monsieur_," he said. "but a man of sensibility like myself cannot do such violence to his moral and artistic code as to fight with an outcast of nature, an abortion, such as yourself. the sword and the pistol i necessarily reserve for my equals. the deformed person, the cripple, whose very existence is an offense to the eye and to every delicacy of sense, must be condescended to, and, if chastised at all, must be chastised without ceremony, chastised as one would chastise a dog." and with that he struck richard again and again across the face with those metal-buttoned gloves. mad with rage, blinded and sick with pain, dickie essayed to fling himself upon his assailant. but destournelle was too adroit for him. he skipped aside, with his little, bleating, goat-like laugh, and richard fell heavily full length, his forehead coming in contact with the lower step of the descent from the back of the box. he lay there, too weak to raise himself. paul destournelle bent down and again examined him curiously. "_c'est etonnant!_" he repeated.--he gave the prostrate body a contemptuous kick. "dear madame, are you sufficiently avenged? is it enough?" he inquired sneeringly. and vaguely, as from some incalculable distance, richard heard helen de vallorbes' voice:--"yes--it is a little affair of honour which dates from my childhood. it has taken many years in adjusting. i thank you, _mon cher_, a thousand times. now let us go quickly. it is enough." then came darkness, silence, rest. book vi the new heaven and the new earth chapter i in which miss st. quentin bears witness to the faith that is in her honoria divested herself of her traveling-cap, thrust her hands into the pockets of her frieze ulster, and thus, bareheaded, a tall, supple, solitary figure, paced the railway platform in the dusk. above the gentle undulations of the western horizon splendours of rose-crimson sunset were outspread, veiled, as they flamed upward, by indigo cloud of the texture and tenuity of finest gauze. and those same rose-crimson splendours found repetition upon the narrow, polished surface of the many lines of rails, causing them to stand out, as though of red-hot metal, from the undeterminate gray-drab of the track where it curved away, southeastward, across the darkening country towards the savoy alps. and from out the fastnesses of these last, quick with the bleak purity of snow, came a breathing of evening wind. to honoria it brought refreshing emphasis of silence, and of immunity from things human and things mechanical. it spoke to her of virgin and unvisited spaces, ignorant of mankind and of obligation to his so many and so insistent needs. and there being in honoria herself a kindred defiance of subjection, a determination, so to speak, of physical and emotional chastity, she welcomed these intimations of the essential inviolability of nature, finding in them justification and support of her own mental attitude--of the entire wisdom of which she had, it must be owned, grown slightly suspicious of late. and this was the more grateful to her, not only as contrast to the noise and dust of a lengthy and hurriedly-undertaken journey, but because that same journey had been suddenly and, in a sense violently, imposed upon one whom she held in highest regard, by another whom she had long since agreed with herself to hold in no sort of regard at all. since the highly-regarded one set forth, she--honoria--of course, set forth likewise. and yet, in good truth, the whole affair rubbed her not a little the wrong way! she recognised in it a particularly flagrant example of masculine aggression. some persons, as she reflected, are permitted an amount of elbow room altogether disproportionate to their deserts. be sufficiently selfish, sufficiently odious, and everybody becomes your humble servant, hat in hand! that is unfair. it is, indeed, quite extensively exasperating to the dispassionate onlooker. and, in miss st. quentin's case, exasperation was by no means lessened by the fact that candour compelled her to admit doubt not only as to the actuality of her own dispassionateness, but, as has already been stated, to the wisdom of her mental attitude generally. she wanted to think and feel one way. she was more than half afraid she was much disposed to think and feel quite another way. this was worrying. and, therefore, it came about that honoria hailed the present interval of silence and solitude, striving to put from her remembrance both the origin and object of her journey, while filling her lungs with the snow-fed purity of the mountain wind and yielding her spirit to the somewhat serious influences of surrounding nature. all too soon the great paris-express would thunder into the station. the heavy, horse-box-like sleeping-car--now standing on the culoz-geneva-bâle siding--would be coupled to the rear of it. then the roar and rush would begin again--from dark to dawn, and on through the long, bright hours to dark once more, by mountain gorge, and stifling tunnel, and broken woodland, and smiling coastline, and fertile plain, past chambéry, and turin, and bologna, and mighty rome herself, until the journey was ended and distant naples reached at last. but miss st. quentin's communings with nature were destined to speedy interruption. ludovic quayle's elongated person, clothed to the heels in a check traveling-coat, detached itself from the company of waiting passengers, and blue-linen-clad porters, upon the central platform before the main block of station buildings, and made its light and active way across the intervening lines of crimson-stained metals. "if i am a nuisance mention that chastening fact without hesitation," he said, standing on the railway track and looking up at her with his air of very urbane intelligence. "present circumstances permit us the privilege--or otherwise--of laying aside restraints of speech, along with other small proprieties of behaviour commonly observed by the polite. so don't spare my feelings, dear miss st. quentin. if i am a bore, tell me so, and i will return, and that without any lurking venom in my breast, whence i came." "do anything you please," honoria replied, "except be run over by the paris train." "the paris train, so i have just learned, is an hour late, consequently its arrival hardly enters into the question. but, since you are graciously pleased to bid me do as i like, i stay," mr. quayle returned, stepping on to the platform and turning to pace beside her.--"what a gaol delivery it is to get into the open! that last engine of ours threw ashes to a truly penitential extent. my mouth and throat still claim unpleasantly close relation to a neglected, kitchen grate. and if our much vaunted _waggon-lits_ is the last word of civilisation in connection with travel, then all i can say is that, in my humble opinion, civilisation has yet a most exceedingly long way to go. it really is a miraculously uncomfortable vehicle. and how lady calmady contrives to endure its eccentricities of climate and of motion, i'm sure i don't know." "in her case the end would make any sort of means supportable," honoria answered. her pacings had brought her to the extreme end of the platform where it sloped to the level of the track. she stood there a moment, her head thrown back, snuffing the wind as a hind, breaking covert, stands and snuffs it. a spirit of questioning possessed her, though not--as in the hind's case--of things concrete and material. it is true she could have dispensed with mr. quayle's society. she did not want him. but he had shown himself so full of resource, so considerate and helpful, ever since the news of sir richard calmady's desperate state had broken up the peace of the little party at ormiston castle, now five days ago, that she forgave him even his preciousness of speech, even his slightly irritating superiority of manner. she had ceased to be on her guard with him during these days of travel, had come to take his presence for granted and to treat him with the comfortable indifference of honest good-fellowship. so, it followed that now, speaking with him, she continued to follow out her existing train of thought. "i'm by no means off my head about poor dickie calmady," she said presently,--"specially where cousin katherine is concerned. i couldn't go on caring about anybody, irrespective of their conduct, just because they were they. and yet i can't help seeing it must be tremendously satisfying to feel like that." "a thousand pardons," ludovic murmured, "but like what?" "why as cousin katherine feels--just whole-heartedly, without analysis, and without alloy--to feel that no distance, no fatigue, no nothing in short, matters, so long as she gets to him in time. i don't approve of such a state of mind, and yet"--honoria wheeled round, facing the glory of colour dyeing all the west--"and yet, i'm untrue enough to my own principles rather to envy it." she sighed, and that sigh her companion noted and filed for reference. indeed, an unusually expansive cheerfulness became, perceptible in mr. quayle. "by the bye, is there any further news?" she inquired. "general ormiston has just had a telegram." "anything fresh?" "still unconscious, strength fairly maintained." "oh! we know that by heart!" honoria said. "we do. and we know the consequences of it--the sweet little see-saw of hope and fear, productive of unlimited discussion and anxiety. no weak letting one stand at ease about that telegram! it keeps one's nose hard down on the grindstone." "if he dies," honoria said slowly, "if he dies--poor, dear cousin katherine!--when can we hear again?" "at turin," mr. quayle replied. then they both fell silent until the far end of the platform was reached. and there, once more, honoria paused, her small head carried high, her serious eyes fixed upon the sunset. the rosy light falling upon her failed to disguise the paleness of her face or its slight angularity of line. she was a little worn and travel-stained, a little disheveled even. yet to her companion she had rarely appeared more charming. she might be tired, she might even be somewhat untidy, but her innate distinction remained--nay, gained, so he judged, by suggestion of rough usage endured. her absolute absence of affectation, her unself-consciousness, her indifference to adventitious prettinesses of toilet, her transparent sincerity, were very entirely approved by ludovic quayle. "yes, that see-saw of hope and fear must be an awful ordeal, feeling as she does," miss st. quentin said presently. "and yet, even so, i am uncertain. i can't help wondering which really is best!" "again a thousand pardons," the young man put in, "but i venture to remind you that i was not cradled in the forecourt of the temple of the pythian apollo, but only in the nursery of a conspicuously philistine, english country-house." for the first time during their conversation honoria looked full at him. her glance was very friendly, yet it remained meditative, even a trifle sad. "oh! i know, i'm fearfully inconsequent," she said. "but my head is simply rattled to pieces by that beastly _waggon-lit_. i had gone back to what i was thinking about before you joined me, and to what we were saying just now about cousin katherine." "yes--yes, exactly," ludovic put in tentatively. she was going to give herself away--he was sure of it. and such giving away might make for opportunity. in spirit, the young man proceeded to take his shoes from off his feet. the ground on which he stood might prove to be holy. moreover miss st. quentin's direct acts of self-revelation were few and far between. he was horribly afraid those same shoes of his might creak, so to speak, thereby startling her into watchfulness, making her draw back. but honoria did not draw back. she was too much absorbed by her own thought. she continued to contemplate the glory of the flaming west, her expression touched by a grave and noble enthusiasm. "i suppose one can't help worrying a little at times--it's laid hold of me very much during the last month or two--as to what is really the finest way to take life. one wants to arrive at that fairly early; not by a process of involuntary elimination, on the burnt-child-fears-the-fire sort of principle, when the show's more than half over, as so many people do. one wants to get hold of the stick by the right end now, while one's still comparatively young, and then work straight along. i want my reason to be the backbone of my action, don't you know, instead of merely the push of society and friendship, and superficial odds and ends of so-called obligation to other people." "yes," mr. quayle put in again. "now, it seems to me, that"--honoria extended one hand towards the sunset--"is cousin katherine's outlook on life and humanity, full of colour, full of warmth. it burns with a certain prodigality of beauty, a superb absence of economy in giving. and that"--with a little shrug of her shoulders she turned towards the severe, and sombre, eastern landscape--"that, it strikes me, comes a good deal nearer my own. which is best?" mr. quayle congratulated himself upon the removal of his shoes. the ground was holy--holy to the point of embarrassment even to so unabashable and ready-tongued a gentleman as himself. he answered with an unusual degree of diffidence. "an intermediate position is neither wholly inconceivable nor wholly untenable, perhaps." "and you occupy it? yes, you are very neatly balanced. but then, do you really get anywhere?" "is not that a rather knavish speech, dear miss st. quentin?" the young man inquired mildly. "i don't know," she answered, "i wish to goodness i did." now was here god-given opportunity, or merely a cunningly devised snare for the taking of the unwary? ludovic pondered the matter. he gently kicked a little pebble from the dingy gray-drab of the asphalt on to the permanent way. it struck one of the metals with a sharp click. a blue-linen-clad porter, short of stature and heavy of build, lighted the gas lamps along the platform. the flame of these wavered at first, and flickered, showing thin and will-o'-the-wisp-like against the great outspread of darkening country across which the wind came with a certain effect of harshness and barrenness--the inevitable concomitant of its inherent purity. and the said wind treated miss st. quentin somewhat discourteously, buffeting her, obliging her to put up both hands to push back stray locks of hair. also the keen breath of it pierced her, making her shiver a little. both of which things her companion noting, took heart of grace. "is it permitted to renew a certain petition?" he asked, in a low voice. honoria shook her head. "better not, i think," she said. "and yet, dear miss st. quentin, pulverised though i am by the weight of my own unworthiness, i protest that petition is not wholly foreign to the question you did me the honour to ask me just now." "oh! dear me! you always contrive to bring it round to that!" she exclaimed, not without a hint of petulance. "far from it," the young man returned. "for a good, solid eighteen months, now, i have displayed the accumulated patience of innumerable asses." "of course, i see what you're driving at," she continued hastily. "but it is not original. it's just every man's stock argument." "if it bears the hall-mark of hoary antiquity, so much the better. i entertain a reverence for precedent. and honestly, as common sense goes, i am not ashamed of that of my sex." miss st. quentin resumed her walk. "you really think it stands in one's way," she said reflectively, "you really think it a disadvantage, to be a woman?" "oh! good lord!" mr. quayle ejaculated, softly yet with an air so humorously aghast that it could leave no doubt as to the nature of his sentiments. then he cursed himself for a fool. his shoes indeed had made a mighty creaking! he expected an explosion of scornful wrath. he admitted he deserved it. it did not come. miss st. quentin looked at him, for a moment, almost piteously. he fancied her mouth quivered and that her eyes filled with tears. then she turned and swung away with her long, easy, even stride. mentally the young man took himself by the throat, conscience-stricken at having humiliated her, at having caused her to fall, even momentarily, from the height of her serene, maidenly dignity. for once he became absolutely uncritical, careless of appearances. he fairly ran after her along the platform. "dear miss st. quentin," he called to her, in tones of most persuasive apology. but honoria's moment of piteousness was past. she had recovered all her habitual lazy and gallant grace when he came up with her. "no--no," she said. "hear me. i began this rather foolish conversation. i laid myself open to--well to a snubbing. i got one, anyhow!" "in mercy don't rub it in!" mr. quayle murmured contritely. "but i did," honoria returned. "now it's over and i'm going to pick up the pieces and put them back in their places--just where they were before." "but i protest!--i hailed a new combination. i discover in myself no wild anxiety to have the pieces put back just where they were before." "oh! yes, you do," honoria declared. "at least, you certainly will when i explain it to you."--she paused.--"you see," she said, "it is like this. living with and watching cousin katherine, i have come to know all that side of things at its very finest." "forgive me.--it? what? may i recall to you the fact of the philistine nursery?" the young lady's delicate face straightened. "you know perfectly well what i mean," she said.--"that which we all think about so constantly, and yet affect to speak of as a joke or a slight impropriety--love, marriage, motherhood." "yes, lady calmady is a past-master in those arts," mr. quayle replied.--again the ground was holy. he was conscious his pulse quickened. "the beauty of it all, as one sees it in her case, breaks one up a little. there is no laugh left in one about those things. one sees that to her they are of the nature of religion--a religion pure and undefiled, a new way of knowing god and of bringing oneself into line with the truth as it is in him. but, having once seen that, one can decline upon no lower level. one grows ambitious. one will have it that way or not at all." honoria paused again. the bleak wind buffeted her. but she was no longer troubled or chilled by it, rather did it brace her to greater fearlessness of resolve and of speech. "you are contemptuous of women," she said. "i have betrayed characteristics of the ass, other than its patience," ludovic lamented. "oh! i didn't mean that," honoria returned, smiling in friendliest fashion upon him. "every man worth the name really feels as you do, i imagine. i don't blame you. possibly i am growing a trifle shaky as to feminine superiority, and woman spelled with a capital letter, myself. i'm awfully afraid she is safest--for herself and others--under slight restraint, in a state of mild subjection. she's not quite to be trusted, either intellectually or emotionally--at least, the majority of her isn't. if she got her head, i've a dreadful suspicion she would make a worse hash of creation generally than you men have made of it already, and that"--honoria's eyes narrowed, her upper lip shortened, and her smile shone out again delightfully--"that's saying a very great deal, you know." "my spirits rise to giddy heights," mr. quayle exclaimed. "i endorse those sentiments. but whence, oh, dear lady, this change of front?" "wait a minute. we've not got to the end of my contention yet." "the paris train is late. there is time. and this is all excellent hearing." "i'm not quite so sure of that," honoria said. "for, you see, just in proportion as i give up the fiction of her superiority, and admit that woman already has her political, domestic, and social deserts, i feel a chivalry towards her, poor, dear thing, which i never felt before. i even feel a chivalry towards the woman in myself. she claims my pity and my care in a quite new way." "so much the better," mr. quayle observed, outwardly discreetly urbane, inwardly almost riotously jubilant. "ah! wait a minute," she repeated. her tone changed, sobered. "i don't want to spread myself, but you know i can meet men pretty well on their own ground. i could shoot and fish as well as most of you, only that i don't think it right to take life except to provide food, or in self-defense. there's not so much happiness going that one's justified in cutting any of it short. even a jack-snipe may have his little affairs of the heart, and a cock-salmon his gamble. but i can ride as straight as you can. i can break any horse to harness you choose to put me behind. i can sail a boat and handle an axe. i can turn my hand to most practical things--except a needle. i own i always have hated a needle worse--well, worse than the devil! and i can organise, and can speak fairly well, and manage business affairs tidily. and have i not even been known--low be it spoken--to beat you at lawn tennis, and lord shotover at billiards?" "and to overthrow my most socratic father in argument. and outwit my sister louisa in diplomacy--_vide_ our poor, dear dickie calmady's broken engagement, and the excellent, scatter-brain decies' marriage." "but lady constance is happy?" honoria put in hastily. "blissful, positively blissful, and with twins too! think of it!--decies is blissful also. his sense of humour has deteriorated since his marriage, from constant association with good, little connie who was never distinguished for ready perception of a joke. he regards those small, simultaneous replicas of himself with unqualified complacency, which shows his appreciation of comedy must be a bit blunted." "i wonder if it does?" miss st. quentin observed reflectively. whereat mr. quayle permitted himself a sound as nearly approaching a chuckle as was possible to so superior a person. "a thousand pardons," he murmured, "but really, dear lady, you are so very much off on the other tack." "am i?" miss st. quentin said. "well, you see--to go back to my demonstration--i've none of the quarrel with your side of things most women have, because i'm not shut out from it, and so i don't envy you. i can amuse and interest myself on your lines. and therefore i can afford to be very considerate and tender of the woman in me. i grow more and more resolved that she shall have the very finest going, or that she shall have nothing, in respect of all which belongs to her special province--in regard to love and marriage. in them she shall have what cousin katherine has had, and find what cousin katherine has found, or all that shall be a shut book to her forever. even if discipline and denial make her a little unhappy, poor thing, that's far better than letting her decline upon the second best." honoria's voice was full and sweet. she spoke from out the deep places of her thought. her whole aspect was instinct with a calm and seasoned enthusiasm. and, looking upon her, it became ludovic quayle's turn to find the evening wind somewhat bleak and barren. it struck chill, and he turned away and moved westwards towards the sunset. but the rose-crimson splendours had become faint and frail, while the indigo cloud had gathered into long, horizontal lines as of dusky smoke, so that the remaining brightness was seen as through prison bars. a sadness, indeed, seemed to hold the west, even greater than that which held the east, since it was a sadness not of beauty unborn, but of beauty dead. and this struck home to the young man. he did not care to speak. miss st. quentin walked beside him in silence, for a time. when at last she spoke it was very gently. "please don't be angry with me," she pleaded. "i like you so much that--that i'd give a great deal to be able to think less of my duty to the tiresome woman in me." "i would give a great deal too," he declared, regardless of grammar. "but i'm not the only woman in the world, dear mr. quayle," she protested presently. "but i, unfortunately, have no use for any other," he returned. "ah, you distress me!" honoria cried. "well, i don't know that you make me superabundantly cheerful," he answered. just then the far-away shriek of a locomotive and dull thunder of an approaching train was heard. mr. quayle looked once more towards the western horizon. "here's the paris-express!" he said. "we must be off if we mean to get round before our horse-box is shunted." he jumped down on to the permanent way. miss st. quentin followed him, and the two ran helter-skelter across the many lines of metals, in the direction of the culoz-geneva-bâle siding. that somewhat childish and undignified proceeding ministered to the restoration of good fellowship. "great passions are rare," mr. quayle said, laughing a little. his circulation was agreeably quickened. how surprisingly fast this nymph-like creature could get over the ground, and that gracefully, moreover, rather in the style of a lissome, long-limbed youth than in that of a woman. "rare? i know it," she answered, the words coming short and sharply. "but i accept the risk. a thousand to one the book remains shut forever." "and i, meanwhile, am not too proud to pass the time of day with the second best, and take refuge in the accumulated patience of innumerable asses." and, behind them, the express train thundered into the station. chapter ii telling how, once again, katherine calmady looked on her son the bulletin received at turin was sufficiently disquieting. richard had had a relapse. and when at bologna, just as the train was starting, general ormiston entered the compartment occupied by the two ladies, there was that in his manner which made miss st. quentin lay aside the magazine she was reading and, rising silently from her place opposite lady calmady, go out on to the narrow passageway of the long sleeping-car. she was very close to the elder woman in the bonds of a dear and intimate friendship, yet hardly close enough, so she judged, to intrude her presence if evil-tidings were to be told. a man going into battle might look, so she thought, as roger ormiston looked now--very stern and strained. it was more fitting to leave the brother and sister alone together for a little space. at the far end of the passageway the servants were grouped--clara, comely of face and of person, neat notwithstanding the demoralisation of feminine attire incident to prolonged travel. winter, the brockhurst butler, clean-shaven, gray-headed, suggestive of a distinguished anglican ecclesiastic in mufti. miss st. quentin's lady's-maid, faulstich by name, a north-country woman, angular of person and of bearing, loyal of heart. and zimmermann, the colossal german-swiss courier, with his square, yellow beard and hair _en brosse_. an air of discouragement pervaded the party, involving even the polyglot conductor of the _waggon-lits_, a small, quick, sandy-complexioned, young fellow of uncertain nationality, with a gold band round his peaked cap. he respected this family which could afford to take a private railway-carriage half across europe. he shared their anxieties. and these were evidently great. clara wept. the old butler's mouth twitched, and his slightly pendulous cheeks quivered. the door at the extreme end of the car was set wide open. ludovic quayle stood upon the little, iron balcony smoking. his feet were planted far apart, yet his tall figure swayed and curtseyed queerly as the heavy carriage bumped and rattled across the points. high walls, overtopped by the dark spires of cypresses, overhung by radiant wealth of lilac wisteria, and of roses red, yellow, and white, reeled away in the keen sunshine to the left and right. then, clearing the outskirts of the town, the train roared southward across the fair, italian landscape beneath the pellucid, blue vault of the fair, italian sky. and to honoria there was something of heartlessness in all that fair outward prospect. here, in italy, the ancient gods reigned still, surely, the gods who are careless of human woe. "is there bad news, winter?" she asked. "mr. bates telegraphs to the general that it would be well her ladyship should be prepared for the worst." "it'll kill my lady. for certain sure it will kill her! she never could be expected to stand up against that. and just as she was getting round from her own illness so nicely too----" audibly clara wept. her tears so affected the sandy-complexioned, polyglot conductor that he retired into his little pantry and made a most unholy clattering among the plates and knives and forks. honoria put her hand upon the sobbing woman's shoulder and drew her into the comparative privacy of the adjoining compartment, rendered not a little inaccessible by a multiplicity of rugs, traveling-bags, and hand-luggage. "come, sit down, clara," she said. "have your cry out. and then pull yourself together. remember lady calmady will want just all you can do for her if sir richard--if"--and honoria was aware somehow of a sharp catch in her throat--"if he does not live." and, meanwhile, roger ormiston, now in sober and dignified middle-age, found himself called upon to repeat that rather sinister experience of his hot and rackety youth, and, as he put it bitterly, "act hangman to his own sister." for, as he approached her, katherine, leaning back against the piled-up cushions in the corner of the railway carriage, suddenly sat bolt-upright, stretching out her hands in swift fear and entreaty, as in the state bedroom at brockhurst nine-and-twenty years ago. "oh, roger, roger!" she cried, "tell me, what is it?" "nothing final as yet, thank god," he answered. "but it would be cruel to keep the truth from you, kitty, and let you buoy yourself up with false hopes." "he is worse," katherine said. "yes, he is worse. he is a good deal weaker. i'm afraid the state of affairs has become very grave. evidently they are apprehensive as to what turn the fever may take in the course of the next twelve hours." katherine bowed herself together as though smitten by sharp pain. then she looked at him hurriedly, fresh alarms assaulting her. "you are not trying to soften the blow to me? you are not keeping anything back?" "no, no, no, my dear kitty. there--see--read it for yourself. i telegraphed twice, so as to have the latest news. here's the last reply." ormiston unfolded the blue paper, crossed by white strips of printed matter, and laid it upon her lap. and as he did so it struck him, aggravating his sense of sinister repetition, that she had on the same rings and bracelets as on that former occasion, and that she wore stone-gray silk too--a long traveling sacque, lined and bordered with soft fur. it rustled as she moved. a coif of black lace covered her upturned hair, framed her sweet face, and was tied soberly under her chin. and, looking upon her, ormiston yearned in spirit over this beautiful woman who had borne such grievous sorrows, and who, as he feared, had sorrow yet more grievous still to bear.--"for ten to one the boy won't pull through--he won't pull through," he said to himself. "poor, dear fellow, he's nothing left to fall back upon. he's lived too hard." and then he took himself remorsefully to task, asking himself whether, among the pleasures and ambitions and successes of his own career, he had been quite faithful to the dead, and quite watchful enough over the now dying, richard calmady? he reproached himself, for, when death stands at the gate, conscience grows very sensitive regarding any lapses, real or imagined, of duty towards those for whom that dread ambassador waits. twice katherine read the telegram, weighing each word of it. then she gave the blue paper back to her brother. "i will ask you all to let me be alone for a little while, dear roger," she said. "tell honoria, tell ludovic, tell my good clara. i must turn my face to the wall for a time, so that, when i turn it upon you dear people again, it may not be too unlovely." and ormiston bent his head and kissed her hand, and went out, closing the door behind him--while the train roared southward, through the afternoon sunshine, southward towards chiusi and rome. and katherine calmady sat quietly amid the noise and violent, on-rushing movement, making up accounts with her own motherhood. that she might never see dickie again, she herself dying, was an idea which had grown not unfamiliar to her during these last sad years. but that she should survive, only to see dickie dead, was a new idea and one which joined hands with despair, since it constituted a conclusion big with the anguish of failure to the tragedy of their relation, hers and his. her whole sense of justice, of fitness, rebelled under it, rebelled against it. she implored a space, however brief, of reconciliation and reunion before the supreme farewell was said. but it had become natural to katherine's mind, so unsparingly self-trained in humble obedience to the divine ordering, not to stay in the destructive, but pass on to the constructive stage. she would not indulge herself in rebellion, but rather fashion her thought without delay to that which should make for inward peace. and so now, turning her eyes, in thought, from the present, she went back on the baby-love, the child-love which, notwithstanding the abiding smart of richard's deformity, had been so very exquisite to her. upon the happier side of all that she had not dared to dwell during this prolonged period of estrangement. it was too poignant, too deep-seated in the springs of her physical being. to dwell on it enervated and unnerved her. but now, richard the grown man dying, she gave herself back to richard the little child. it solaced her to do so. then he had been wholly hers. and he was wholly hers still, in respect of that early time. the man she had lost--so it seemed, how far through fault of her own she could not tell. and just now she refused to analyse all that. upon all which strengthened endurance, upon gracious memories engendering thankfulness, could her mind alone profitably be fixed. and so, as the train roared southward, and the sun declined and the swift dusk spread its mantle over the face of the classic landscape, katherine cradled a phantom baby on her knee, and sat in the oriel window of the chapel-room, at brockhurst, with the phantom of her boy beside her, while she told him old-time legends of war, and of high endeavour, and of gallant adventure, watching the light dance in his eyes as her words awoke in him emulation of those masters of noble deeds whose exploits she recounted. and in this she found comfort, and a chastened calm. so that, when at length general ormiston--incited thereto by the faithful clara, who protested that her ladyship must and should dine--returned to her, he found her storm-tossed no longer, but tranquil in expression and solicitous for the comfort of others. she had conquered nature by grace--conquered, in that she had compelled herself to unqualified submission. if this cup might not pass from her, still would she praise almighty god and bless his holy name, asking not that her own, but his will, be done. it followed that the evening, spent in that strangely noisy, oscillating, onward-rushing dwelling-place of a railway-carriage, was not without a certain subdued brightness of intercourse and conversation. katherine was neither preoccupied nor distrait, or unamused even by the small accidents and absurdities of travel. later, while preparations were being made by the servants for the coming night, she went out, with the two gentlemen and honoria st. quentin, on to the iron platform at the rear of the swaying car, and stood there under the stars. the mystery of these last, and of the dimly discerned and sleeping land, offered penetrating contrast to the sleeplessness of the hurrying train with its long, sinuous line of lighted windows, and to the sleeplessness of her own heart. the fret of human life is but as a little island in the great ocean of eternal peace--so she told herself--and then bade that sleepless heart of hers both still its passionate beating and take courage. and when, at length, she was alone, and lay down in her narrow berth, peace and thankfulness remained with katherine. the care and affection of brother, friends, and servants, was very grateful to her, so that she composed herself to rest, whether slumber was granted her or not. the event was in the hands of god--that surely was enough. and in the dawn, reaching rome, the news was so far better that it was not worse. richard lived. and when, some seven hours later, the train steamed into naples station, and bates, the house-steward--the marks of haste and keen anxiety upon him--pushed his way up to the carriage door, he could report there was this amount of hope even yet, that richard still lived, though his strength was as that of an infant and whether it would wax or wane wholly none as yet could say. "then we are in time, bates?" lady calmady had asked, desiring further assurance. "i hope so, my lady. but i would advise your coming as quickly as possible." "is he conscious?" "he knew captain vanstone this morning, my lady, just before i left." the man-servant shouldered the crowd aside unceremoniously, so as to force a passage for lady calmady. "her ladyship should go up to the villa at once, sir," he said to general ormiston. "i had better accompany her. i will leave andrews to make all arrangements here. the carriage is waiting." then, honoria beside her, katherine was aware of the hot glare and hard shadow, the grind and clatter, the violent colour, the strident vivacity of the neapolitan streets, as with voice and whip, garçia sprung the handsome, long-tailed, black horses up the steep ascent. this, followed by the impression of a cool, spacious, and lofty interior, of mild-diffused light, of pale, marble floors and stairways, of rich hangings and distinguished objects of art, of the soft, green gloom of ilex and myrtle, the languid drip of fountains. and this last served to mark, as with raised finger, the hush,--bland, yet very imperative--which held all the place. after the ceaseless jar and tumult of that many-days' journey, here, up at the villa, it seemed as though urgency were absurd, hot haste of affection a little vulgar, a little contemptible, all was so composed, so urbane. and that urbanity, so bland, so, in a way, supercilious, affected honoria st. quentin unpleasantly. she was taken with unreasoning dislike of the place, finding something malign, trenching on cruelty even, in its exalted serenity, its unchanging, inaccessible, mask-like smile. very certainly the ancient gods held court here yet, the gods who are careless of human tears, heedless of human woe! and she looked anxiously at lady calmady, penetrated by fear that the latter was about to be exposed to some insidious danger, to come into conflict with influences antagonistic and subtly evil. wicked deeds had been committed in this fair place, wicked designs nourished and brought to fruition here. she was convinced of that. was convinced further that those designs had connection with and had been directed against lady calmady. the thought of helen de vallorbes, exquisite and vicious,--as she now reluctantly admitted her to be,--was very present to her. as far as she knew, it was quite a number of years since helen had set foot in the villa. yet it spoke of her, spoke of the more dangerous aspects of her nature.--honoria sighed over her friend. helen had gone, latterly, very much to the bad, she feared. and as all this passed rapidly through her mind it aroused all her knight-errantry, raising a strongly protective spirit in her. she questioned just how much active care she might take of lady calmady without indiscretion of over-forwardness. but even while she thus debated, opportunity of action was lost. quietly, a great simplicity and singleness of purpose in her demeanour, without word spoken, without looking back, katherine followed the house-steward across the cool, spacious hall, through a doorway and out of sight. and that singleness of purpose, so discernible in her outward demeanour, possessed katherine's being throughout. she was as one who walks in sleep, pushed by blind impulse. she was not conscious of herself, not conscious of joy or fear, or any emotion. she moved forward dumbly, and without volition, towards the event. her senses were confused by this transition to stillness from noise, by the immobility of all surrounding objects after the reeling landscape on either hand the swaying train, by the bland and tempered light after the harsh contrasts of glare and darkness so constantly offered to her vision of late. she was dazed and faint, moreover, so that her knees trembled, her sensibility, her powers of realisation and of sympathy, for the time being, atrophied. the house-steward ushered her into a large, square room. the low, darkly-painted, vaulted ceiling of it produced a cavernous effect. an orderly disorder prevailed, and a somewhat mournful dimness of closed, green-slatted shutters and half-drawn curtains. the furniture, costly in fact, but dwarfed, in some cases actually legless, was ranged against the squat, carven bookcases that lined the walls, leaving the middle of the room vacant save for a low, narrow camp-bed. the bed stood at right angles to the door by which katherine entered, the head of it towards the shuttered, heavily-draped windows, the foot towards the inside wall of the room. at the bedside a man knelt on one knee, and his appearance aroused, in a degree, katherine's dormant powers of observation. he had a short, crisp, black beard and crisp, black hair. he was alert and energetic of face and figure, a man of dare-devil, humorous, yet kindly eyes. he wore a blue serge suit with brass buttons to it. he was in his stocking-feet. the wristbands and turn-down collar of his white shirt were immaculate. katherine, lost, trembling, the support of the habitual taken from her, a stranger in a strange land, liked the man. he appeared so admirable an example of physical health. he inspired her with confidence, his presence seeming to carry with it assurance of that which is wholesome, normal, and sane. he glanced at her sharply, not without hint of criticism and of command. authoritatively he signed to her to remain silent, to stand at the head of the bed, and well clear of it, out of sight. katherine did not resent this. she obeyed. and standing thus, rallying her will to conscious effort, she looked steadily, for the first time, at the bed and that which lay upon it. and so doing she could hardly save herself from falling, since she saw there precisely that which the shape of the room and the disarray of it, along with vacant space and the low camp-bed in the centre of that space, had foretold--for all her dumbness of feeling, deadness of sympathy--she must assuredly see.--all these last four-and-twenty hours she had solaced herself with the phantom society of dickie the baby-child, of dickie the eager boy, curious of many things. but here was one different from both these. different, too, from the young man, tremendous in arrogance, and in revolt against the indignity put on him by fate, from whom she had parted in such anguish of spirit nearly five years back. for, in good truth, she saw now, not richard calmady her son, her anxious charge, whose debtor--in that she had brought him into life disabled--she held herself eternally to be, but richard calmady her husband, the desire of her eyes, the glory of her youth--saw him, worn by suffering, disfigured by unsightly growth of beard, pallid, racked by mortal weakness, the sheet expressing the broad curve of his chest, the sheet and light blanket disclosing the fact of that hideous maiming he had sustained--saw him now as on the night he died. captain vanstone, meanwhile reassured as to the newcomer's discretion and docility, applied his mind to his patient. "see here, sir," he said, banteringly yet tenderly, "we were just getting along first-rate with these uncommonly mixed liquors. you mustn't cry off again, sir richard." he slipped his arm under the pillows, dexterously raising the young man's head, and held the cup to his lips. "my dear good fellow, i wish you would let me be," dickie murmured. he spoke courteously, yet there were tears in his voice for very weakness. and, hearing him, it was as though something stirred within katherine which had long been bound by bitterness of heavy frost. vanstone shook his head.--"very sorry, sir richard," he replied. "daren't let you off. i've got my orders, you see." the bold and kindly eyes had a certain magnetic efficacy of compulsion in them. the sick man drank, swallowed with difficulty, yet drank again. then he lay back, for a while, his eyes closed, resting. and katherine stood at the head of the bed, out of sight, waiting till her time should come. she folded her hands high upon her bosom. her thought remained inarticulate, yet she began to understand that which she had striven so sternly to uproot, that which she had supposed she had extirpated, still remained with her. once more, with a terror of joyful amazement, she began to scale the height and sound the depth of human love. presently the voice--whether that of husband or of son she did not stay to discriminate--it gripped her very vitals--reached her from the bed. she fancied it rang a little stronger. "it is contemptibly futile, and therefore conspicuously in keeping with the rest, to have taken all this trouble about dying only, in the end, to sneak back." "oh! well, sir, after all you're not so very far on the return voyage yet!" vanstone put in consolingly. richard opened his eyes. katherine's vision was blurred. she could not see very clearly, but she fancied he smiled. "yes, with luck, i may still give you all the slip," he said. "now, a little more, sir, please. yes, you can if you try." "but i tell you i don't care about this business of sneaking back. i don't want to live." "very likely not. but i'm very much mistaken if you want to die, like a cat in a cupboard, here ashore. mend enough to get away on board the yacht to sea. there'll be time enough then to argue the question out, sir. half a mile of blue water under your feet sends up the value of life most considerably." as he spoke the sailor looked at katherine calmady. his glance enjoined caution, yet conveyed encouragement. "here, take down the rest of it, sir richard," he said persuasively. "then i swear i won't plague you any more for a good hour." again he raised the sick man dexterously, and as he did so katherine observed that a purple scar, as of a but newly healed wound, ran right across dickie's cheek from below the left eye to the turn of the lower jaw. and the sight of it moved her strangely, loosening that last binding as of frost. a swift madness of anger against whoso had inflicted that ugly hurt arose in katherine, while her studied resignation, her strained passivity of mental attitude, went down before a passion of fierce and primitive emotion. the spirit of battle became dominant in her along with an immense necessity of loving and of being loved. tender phantoms of past joy ceased to solace. the actual, the concrete, the immediate, compelled her with a certain splendour of demand. katherine appeared to grow taller, more regal of presence. the noble energy of youth and its limitless generosity returned to her. instinctively she unfastened her pelisse at the throat, took the lace coif from her head, letting it fall to the ground, and moved nearer. richard pushed the cup away from his lips. "there's some one in the room, vanstone!" he said, his voice harsh with anger. "some woman--i heard her dress. i told you all--whatever happened--i would have no woman here." but katherine, undismayed, came straight on to the bedside. she loved. she would not be gainsaid. with the whole force of her nature she refused denial of that love.--for a brief space richard looked at her, his face ghastly and rigid as that of a corpse. then he raised himself in the bed, stretching out both arms, with a hoarse cry that tore at his throat and shuddered through all his frame. and, as he would have fallen forward, exhausted by the effort to reach her and the lovely shelter of her, katherine caught and, kneeling, held him, his poor hands clutching impotently at her shoulders, his head sinking upon her breast. while, in that embrace, not only all the motherhood in her leapt up to claim the sonship in him, but all the womanhood in her leapt up to claim the manhood in him, thereby making the broken circle of her being once more wholly perfect and complete, so that carrying the whole dear burden of his fever-wasted body in her encircling arms and upon her breast, even as she had carried, long since, that dear fruit of love, the unborn babe, within her womb, katherine was taken with a very ecstasy and rapture of content. "my beloved is mine--is mine!" she cried,--"and i am his." captain vanstone was on his feet and half-way across the room. "man alive, but it hurts like merry hell!" he said, as he softly closed the door. chapter iii concerning a spirit in prison upon those moments of rapture followed days of trembling, during which the sands of richard calmady's life ran very low, and his brain wandered in delirium, and he spoke unwittingly of many matters of which it was unprofitable to hear. periods of unconsciousness, when he lay as one dead; periods of incessant utterance--now violent in unavailing repudiation, now harsh with unavailing remorse--alternated. and, at this juncture, much of lady calmady's former very valiant pride asserted itself. in tender jealousy for the honour of her beloved one she shut the door of that sick-room, of sinister aspect, against brother and friend, and even against the faithful clara. none should see or hear richard in his present alienation and abjection, save herself and those who had hitherto ministered to him. he should regain a measure, at least, of his old distinction and beauty before any, beyond these, looked on his face. and so his own men-servants--captain vanstone, capable, humorous, and alert--and price, the red-headed, welsh first-mate, of varied and voluminous gift of invective--continued to nurse him. these men loved him. they would be loyal in silence, since, whatever his lapses, dickie was and always had been--as katherine reflected--among the number of those happily-endowed persons who triumphantly give the lie to the cynical saying that "no man is a hero to his _valet de chambre_." to herself katherine reserved the right to enter that sinister sick-room whenever she pleased, and to sit by the bedside, waiting for the moment--should it ever come--when richard would again recognise her, and give himself to her again. and those vigils proved a searching enough experience, notwithstanding her long apprenticeship to service of sorrow--which was also the service of her son. for, in the mental and moral nudity of delirium, he made strange revelation, not only of acts committed, but of inherent tendencies of character and of thought. he spoke, with bewildering inconsequence and intimacy, of incidents and of persons with whom she was unacquainted, causing her to follow him--a rather brutal pilgrimage--into regions where the feet of women, bred and nurtured like herself, but seldom tread. he spoke of persons with whom she was well acquainted also, and whose names arrested her attention with pathetic significance, offering, for the moment, secure standing ground amid the shifting quicksand of his but half-comprehended words. he spoke of morabita, the famous _prima donna_, and of gentle mrs. chifney down at the brockhurst racing-stables. he grew heated in discussion with lord fallowfeild. he petted little lady constance quayle. he called camp, coaxed and chaffed the dog merrily--whereat lady calmady rose from her place by the bedside and stood at one of the dim, shuttered windows for a while. he spoke of places, too, and of happenings in them, from westchurch to constantinople, from a nautch at singapore to a country fair at farley row. but, recurrent through all his wanderings, were allusions, unsparing in revolt and in self-abasement, to a woman whom he had loved and who had dealt very vilely with him, putting some unpardonable shame upon him, and to a man whom he himself had very basely wronged. the name, neither of man nor woman, did katherine learn.--madame de vallorbes' name, for which she could not but listen, he never mentioned, nor did he mention her own.--and recurrent, also, running as a black thread through all his speech, was lament, not unmanly but very terrible to hear--the lament of a creature, captive, maimed, imprisoned, perpetually striving, perpetually frustrated in the effort, to escape. and, noting all this, katherine not only divined very dark and evil pages in the history of her beloved one, but a struggle so continuous and a sorrow so abiding that, in her estimation at all events, they cancelled and expiated the darkness and evil of those same pages. while the mystery, both of wrong done and sorrow suffered, so wrought upon her that, having, in the first ecstasy of recovered human love, deserted and depreciated the godward love a little, she now ran back imploring assurance and renewal of that last, in all penitence and humility, lest, deprived of the counsel and sure support of it, she should fail to read the present and deal with the future aright--if, indeed, any future still remained for that beloved one other than the yawning void of death and inscrutable silence of the grave! the better part of a week passed thus, and then, one fair morning, winter, bringing her breakfast to the anteroom of that same sea-blue, sea-green bedchamber--sometime tenanted by helen de vallorbes--disclosed a beaming countenance. "mr. powell wishes me to inform your ladyship that sir richard has passed a very good night. he has come to himself, my lady, and has asked for you." the butler's hands shook as he set down the tray. "i hope your ladyship will take something to eat before you go down-stairs," he added. "mr. powell told sir richard that it was still early, and he desired that on no consideration should you be hurried." which little word of thoughtfulness on dickie's part brought a roundness to katherine's cheek and a soft shining into her sweet eyes, so that honoria st. quentin, sauntering into the room just then with her habitual lazy grace, stood still a moment in pleased surprise, noting the change in her friend's appearance. "why, dear cousin katherine," she asked, "what's happened? all's right with the world!" "yes," katherine answered. "god's very much in his heaven, to-day, and all's right with all the world, because things are a little more right with one man in it.--that is the woman's creed--always has been, i suppose, and i rather hope always will be. it is frankly personal and individualistic, i know. possibly it is contemptibly narrow-minded. still i doubt if she will readily find another one which makes for greater happiness or fulness of life. you don't agree, dearest, i know--nevertheless pour out my tea for me, will you? i want to dispose of this necessary evil of breakfast with all possible despatch. richard has sent for me. he has slept and is awake." and as miss st. quentin served her dear friend, she pondered this speech curiously, saying to herself:--"yes, i did right, though i never liked ludovic quayle better than now, and never liked any other man as well as i like ludovic quayle. but that's not enough. i'm getting hold of the appearance of the thing, but i haven't got hold of the thing itself. and so the woman in me must continue to be kept in the back attic. she shall be denied all further development. she shall have nothing unless she can have the whole of it, and repeat cousin katherine's creed from her heart." richard did not speak when lady calmady crossed the room and sat down at the bedside. he barely raised his eyelids. but he felt out for her hand across the surface of the sheet. and she took the proffered hand in both hers and fell to stroking the palm of it with her finger-tips. and this silent greeting, and confiding contact of hand with hand, was to her exquisitely healing. it gave an assurance of nearness and acknowledged ownership, more satisfying and convincing than many eloquent phrases of welcome. and so she, too, remained silent, only indeed permitting herself, for a little while, to look at him, lest so doing she should make further demand upon his poor quantity of strength. a folding screen in stamped leather, of which age had tempered the ruby and gold to a sober harmony of tone, had been placed round the head of the bed, throwing this last into clear, quiet shadow. the bed linen was fresh and smooth. richard had made a little toilet. his silk shirt, open at the throat, was also fresh and smooth. he was clean shaven, his hair cropped into that closely-fitting, bright-brown cap of curls. katherine perceived that his beauty had begun to return to him, though his face was distressingly worn and emaciated, and the long, purplish line of that unexplained scar still disfigured his cheek. his hands were little more than skin and bone. indeed, he was fragile, she feared, as any person could be who yet had life in him, and she wondered, rather fearfully, if it was yet possible to build up that life again into any joy of energy and of activity. but she put such fears from her as unworthy. for were they not together, he and she, actually and consciously reunited? that was sufficient. the rest could wait. and to-day, as though lending encouragement to gracious hopes, the usually gloomy and cavernous room had taken to itself a quite generous plenishing of air and light. the heavy curtains were drawn aside. the casements of one of the square, squat windows were thrown widely open. the slatted shutters without were partially opened likewise. a shaft of strong sunshine slanted in and lay, like a bright highway, across the rich colours of the persian carpet. the air was hot but nimble, and of a vivacious and stimulating quality. it fluttered some loose papers on the writing-table near the open window. it fluttered the delicate laces and fine muslin frills of lady calmady's morning-gown. there was a sprightly mirthfulness in the touch of it, not unpleasing to her. for it seemed to speak of the ever-obtaining youth, the incalculable power of recuperation, the immense reconstructive energy resident in nature and the physical domain. and there was comfort in that thought. she turned her eyes from the bed and its somewhat sorrowful burden--the handsome head, the broad, though angular, shoulders, the face, immobile and mask-like, with closed eyelids and unsmiling lips, reposing upon the whiteness of the pillows--and fixed them upon that radiant space of outer world visible between the dark-framing of the half-open shutters. beyond the dazzling, black-and-white chequer of the terrace and balustrade, they rested on the cool green of the formal garden, the glistering dome and slender columns of the pavilion set in the angle of the terminal wall.--and this last reminded her quaintly of that other pavilion, embroidered, with industry of innumerable stitches, upon the curtains of the state bed at home--that pavilion, set for rest and refreshment in the midst of the tangled ways of the forest of this life, where the hart may breathe in security, fearless of care, the pursuing leopard, which follows all too close behind.--owing to her position and the sharp drop of the hillside, naples itself, the great painted city, its fine buildings and crowded shipping, was unseen. but, far away, the lofty promontory of sorrento sketched itself in palest lilac upon the azure of the sea and sky. and, as katherine reasoned, if this fair prospect, after so many ages of tumultuous history and the shock of calamitous events, after battle, famine, terror of earthquake and fire, devastation by foul disease, could still recover and present such an effect of triumphant youthfulness, such, at once august and mirthful, charm, might not her beloved one, lying here broken in health and in spirit, likewise regain the glory of his manhood and the delight of it, notwithstanding present weakness and mournful eclipse?--yes, it would come right--come right--katherine told herself, thereby making one of those magnificent acts of faith which go so far to produce just that which they prophesy. god could not have created so complex and beautiful a creature, and permitted it so to suffer, save to the fulfilment of some clear purpose which would very surely be made manifest at last. god almighty should be justified of his strange handiwork; and she of her love before the whole of the story was told.--and, stirred by these thoughts, and by the fervour of her own pious confidence, katherine's finger-tips traveled more rapidly over the palm of that outstretched and passive hand. then, on a sudden, she became aware that richard was looking fixedly at her. she turned her head proudly, the exaltation of a living faith very present in her smile. "you are the same," he said slowly. his voice was low, toneless, and singularly devoid of emotion.--"deliciously the same. you are just as lovely. you still have your pretty colour. you are hardly a day older----" he paused, still regarding her fixedly. "i'm glad you have got on one of those white, frilly things you used to wear. i always liked them." katherine could not speak just then. this sudden and complete intimacy unnerved her. it was so long since any one had spoken to her thus. it was very dear to her, yet the toneless voice gave a strange unreality to the tender words. "it's a matter for congratulation that you are the same," richard went on, "since everything else, it appears, is destined to continue the same. one should have one thing it is agreeable to contemplate in that connection, considering the vast number of things altogether the reverse of agreeable which one fondly hoped one was rid of forever, and which intrude themselves." he shifted himself feebly on the pillows, and the flicker of a smile crossed his face. "poor, dear mother," he said, "you see again, without delay, the old bad habit of grumbling!" "grumble on, grumble on, my best beloved," katherine murmured, while her finger-tips traveled softly over his palm. "verily and indeed, you are the same!" richard rejoined. once more he lay looking full at her, until she became almost abashed by that unswerving scrutiny. it came over her that the plane of their relation had changed. richard was, as never heretofore, her equal, a man grown. suddenly he spoke. "can you forgive me?" and so far had katherine's thought journeyed from the past, so absorbed was it in the present, that she answered, surprised:-- "my dearest, forgive what?" "injustice, ingratitude, desertion," richard said, "neglect, systematic cruelty. there is plenty to swell the list. all i boasted i would do i have done--and more."--his voice, until now so even and emotionless, faltered a little. "i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son." katherine's hand closed down on his firmly. "all that, as far as i am concerned, is as though it was not and never had been," she answered.--"so much for judgment on earth, dearest.--while in heaven, thank god, we know there is more joy over the one sinner who repents than over the ninety-and-nine just persons who need no repentance." "and you really believe that?" richard said, speaking half indulgently, half ironically, as if to a child. "assuredly, i believe it." "but supposing the sinner is not repentant, but merely cowed?"--richard straightened his head on the pillows and closed his eyes. "you gave me leave to grumble--well, then, i am so horribly disappointed. here have life and death been sitting on either side of me for the past month, and throwing with dice for me. i saw them as plainly as i can see you. the queer thing was they were exactly alike, yet i knew them apart from the first. day and night i heard the rattle of the dice--it became hideously monotonous--and felt the mouth of the dice-box on my chest when they threw. i backed death heavily. it seemed to me there were ways of loading the dice. i loaded them. but it wasn't to be, mother. life always threw the highest numbers--and life had the last throw." "i praise god for that," katherine said, very softly. "i don't, unfortunately," he answered. "i hoped for a neat little execution--a little pain, perhaps, a little shedding of blood, without which there is no remission of sins--but i suppose that would have been letting me off too easy." he drew away his hand and covered his eyes. "when i had seen you i seemed to have made my final peace. i understood why i had been kept waiting till then. having seen you, i flattered myself i might decently get free at last. but i am branded afresh, that's all, and sent back to the galleys." lady calmady's eyes sought the radiant prospect--the green of the garden, the slender columns of the airy pavilion, the lilac land set in the azure of sea and sky. no words of hers could give comfort as yet, so she would remain silent. her trust was in the amiable ministry of time, which may bring solace to the tormented, human soul, even as it reclothes the mountainside swept by the lava stream, or cleanses and renders gladly habitable the plague devastated city. but there was a movement upon the bed. richard had turned on his side. he had recovered his self-control, and once more looked fixedly at her. "mother," he said calmly, "is your love great enough to take me back, and give yourself to me again, though i am not fit so much as to kiss the hem of your garment?" "there is neither giving nor taking, my beloved," she answered, smiling upon him. "in the truth of things, you have never left me, neither have i ever let you go." "ah! but consider these last four years and their record!" he rejoined. "i am not the same man that i was. there's no getting away from fact, from deeds actually done, or words actually said, for that matter. i have kept my singularly repulsive infirmity of body, and to it i have added a mind festering with foul memories. i have been a brute to you, a traitor to a friend who trusted me. i have been a sensualist, an adulterer. and i am hopelessly broken in pride and self-respect. the conceit, the pluck even, has been licked right out of me."--richard paused, steadying his voice which faltered again.--"i only want, since it seems i've got to go on living, to slink away somewhere out of sight, and hide myself and my wretchedness and shame from every one i know.--can you bear with me, soured and invalided as i am, mother? can you put up with my temper, and my silence, and my grumbling, useless log as i must continue to be?" "yes--everlastingly yes," katherine answered. richard threw himself flat on his back again. "ah! how i hate myself--my god, how i hate myself!" he exclaimed. "and how beyond all worlds i love you," katherine put in quietly. he felt out for her hand across the sheet, found and held it. there were footsteps upon the terrace to the right, the scent of a cigar, ludovic quayle's voice in question, honoria st. quentin's in answer, both with enforced discretion and lowness of tone. general ormiston joined them. miss st. quentin laughed gently. the sound was musical and sweet. footsteps and voices died away. a clang of bells and the hooting of an outward-bound liner came up from the city and the port. richard's calm had returned. his expression had softened. "will those two marry?" he asked presently. lady calmady paused before speaking. "i hope so--for ludovic's sake," she said. "he has served, if not quite jacob's seven years, yet a full five for his love." "if for ludovic's sake, why not for hers?" dickie asked. "because two halves don't always make a whole in marriage," katherine said. "you are as great an idealist as ever!"--he paused, then raised himself, sitting upright, speaking with a certain passion. "mother, will you take me away, away from every one, at once, just as soon as possible? i never want to see this room, or this house, or naples again. the climax was reached here of disillusion, and of iniquity, and of degradation. don't ask what it was. i couldn't tell you. and, mercifully, only one person, whose lips are sealed in self-defense, knows exactly what took place besides myself. but i want to get away, away alone with you, who are perfectly unsullied and compassionate, and who have forgiven me, and who still can love. will you come? will you take me? the yacht is all ready for sea." "yes," katherine said. "i asked this morning who was here with you, and powell told me. i can't see them, mother, simply i can't! i haven't the nerve. i haven't the face. can you send them away?" "yes," katherine said. richard's eyes had grown dangerously bright. a spot of colour burned on either cheek. katherine leaned over him. "my dearest," she declared, "you have talked enough." "yes, they're beginning to play again, i can hear the rattle of the dice.--mother take me away, take me out to sea, away from this dreadful place.--ah! you poor darling, how horribly selfish i am!--but let me get out to sea, and then later, take me home--to brockhurst. the house is big. nobody need see me." "no, no," katherine said, laying him back with tender force upon the pillows.--"no one has seen you, no one shall see you. we will be alone, you and i, just as long as you wish. with me, my beloved, you are very safe." chapter iv dealing with matters of hearsay and matters of sport one raw, foggy evening, early in the following december, the house at newlands presented an unusually animated scene. on the gravel of the carriage-sweep, without, grooms walked breathed and sweating horses--the steam from whose bodies and nostrils showed white in the chill dusk--slowly up and down. in the hall, within, a number of gentlemen, more or less mud-bespattered, regaled themselves with cheerful conversation, with strong waters of unexceptionable quality, and with their host, mr. cathcart's very excellent cigars. they moved stiffly and stood in attitudes more professional than elegant. the long, clear-coloured drawing-room beyond offered a perspective of much amiable comfort. the glazed surfaces of its flowery-patterned chintzes gave back the brightness of candles and shaded lamps, while drawn curtains shut out the somewhat mournful prospect of sodden garden, bare trees, and gray, enshrouding mist. at the tea-table, large, mild, reposeful, clothed in wealth of black silk and black lace, was mrs. cathcart. lord fallowfeild, his handsome, infantile countenance beaming with good-nature and good-health above his blue-and-white, bird's-eye stock and scarlet hunting-coat, sat by her discoursing with great affability and at great length. mary ormiston stood near them, an expression of kindly diversion upon her face. her figure had grown somewhat matronly in these days, and there were lines in her forehead and about the corners of her rather large mouth, but her crisp hair was still untouched by gray, her bright, gipsy-like complexion had retained its freshness, she possessed the same effect of wholesomeness and good sense as of old, while her honest, brown eyes were soft with satisfied mother-love as they met those of the slender, black-headed boy at her side.--godfrey ormiston was in his second term at eton, and had come to newlands to-day for his exeat.--the little party was completed by lord shotover, who stood before the fire warming that part of his person which by the lay mind, unversed in such mysteries, might have been judged to be already more than sufficiently warmed by the saddle, his feet planted far apart and a long glass of brandy and soda in his hand. for this last he had offered good-tempered apology. "i know i've no business to bring it in here, mrs. cathcart," he said, "and make your drawing-room smell like a pot-house. but, you see, there was a positive stampede for the hearth-rug in the hall. a modest man, such as myself, hadn't a chance. there's a regular rampart, half the county in fact, before that fire. so i thought i'd just slope in here, don't you know? it looked awfully warm and inviting. and then i wanted to pay my respects to mrs. ormiston too, and talk to this young chap about eton in peace." whereat godfrey flushed up to the roots of his hair, being very sensibly exalted. since what young male creature who knew anything really worth knowing--that was godfrey's way of putting it at least--did not know that lord shotover had been a mighty sportsman from his youth up, and upon a certain famous occasion had won the grand national on his own horse? "only tea for me, mrs. cathcart," lord fallowfeild was saying. "capital thing tea. never touch spirits in the daytime and never have. no reflection upon other men's habits."--he turned an admiring, fatherly glance upon the tall, well-made shotover.--"other men know their own business best. always have been a great advocate for believing every man knows his own business best. still stick to my own habits. like to be consistent. very steadying, sobering thing to be consistent, very strengthening to the character. always have told all my children that. as you begin, so you shall go on. always have tried to begin as i was going on. haven't always succeeded, but have made an honest effort. and it is something, you know, to make an honest effort. try to bear that in mind, you young gentleman,"--this, genially, to godfrey ormiston. "not half a bad rule to start in life with, to go on as you begin, you know." "always provided you start right, you know, my dear fellow," shotover observed, patting the boy's shoulder with his disengaged hand, and looking at the boy's mother with a humorous suggestion of self-depreciation. now, as formerly, he entertained the very friendliest sentiments towards all good women, yet maintained an expensively extensive acquaintance with women to whom that adjective is not generically applicable. but lord fallowfeild was fairly under weigh. words flowed from him, careless of comment or of interruption. he was innocently and conspicuously happy. he had enjoyed a fine day's sport in company with his favourite son, whose financial embarrassments were not, it may be added, just now in a critical condition. and then, access of material prosperity had recently come to lord fallowfeild in the shape of a considerable coal-producing property in the north of midlandshire. the income derived from this--amounting to from ten to twelve thousand a year--was payable to him during his lifetime, with remainder, on trust, in equal shares to all his children. there were good horses in the whitney stables now, and no question of making shift to let the house in belgrave square for the season, while the amiable nobleman's banking-account showed a far from despicable balance. and consciousness of this last fact formed an agreeable undercurrent to his every thought. therefore was he even more than usually garrulous according to his own kindly and innocent fashion. "very hospitable and friendly of you and cathcart, to be sure," he continued, "to throw open your house in this way. kindness alike to man and beast, man and beast, for which my son and i are naturally very grateful." lord shotover looked at mary again, smiling.--"little mixed that statement, isn't it," he said, "unless we take for granted that i'm the beast?" "i was a good deal perplexed, i own, mrs. cathcart, as to how we should get home without giving the horses a rest and having them gruelled. fourteen miles----" "a precious long fourteen too," put in shotover. "so it is," his father agreed, "a long fourteen. and my horse was pumped, regularly pumped. i can't bear to see a horse as done as that. it distresses me, downright distresses me. hate to over-press a horse. hate to over-press anything that can't stand up to you and take its revenge on you. always feel ashamed of myself if i've over-pressed a horse. but i hadn't reckoned on the distance." "'the pace was too hot to inquire,'" quoted shotover. "so it was. meeting at grimshott, you see, we very rarely kill so far on this side of the country." "breaking just where he did, i'd have bet on that fox doubling back under talepenny wood and making across the vale for the earths in the big brockhurst warren," lord shotover declared. "would you, though?" said his father. "very reasonable forecast, very reasonable, indeed. quite the likeliest thing for him to do, only he didn't do it. don't believe that fox belonged to this side of the country at all. don't understand his tactics. if it had been in my poor friend denier's time, i might have suspected him of being a bagman." lord fallowfeild chuckled a little. "ran too straight for a bagman," shotover remarked. "well, he gave us a rattling good spin whose-ever fox he was." "didn't he, though?" said lord fallowfeild genially.--he turned sideways in his chair, threw one shapely leg across the other, and addressed himself more exclusively to his hostess. "haven't had such a day for years," he continued. "and a very pleasant thing to have such a day just when my son's down with me--very pleasant, indeed. it reminds me of my poor, dear friend henniker's time. good fellow, henniker. i liked henniker. never had a better master than tom henniker, very tactful, nice-feeling man, and had such an excellent manner with the farmers---- ah! here's cathcart--and knott. how d'ye do, knott? always glad to see you.--very pleasant meeting such a number of friends. very pleasant ending to a pleasant day, eh, shotover? mrs. cathcart and i were just speaking of poor tom henniker. you used to hunt then, cathcart. do you remember a run, just about this time of year?--it may have been a little earlier. i tell you why. it was the second time the hounds met after my poor friend aldborough's funeral." "lord aldborough died on the twenty-seventh of october," john knott said. the doctor limped in walking. he suffered a sharp twinge of sciatica and his face lent itself to astonishing contortions. "plain man, knott," lord fallowfeild commented inwardly. "monstrously able fellow, but uncommonly plain. so's cathcart for that matter. well-dressed man and very well-preserved as to figure, but remarkably like an ourang-outang now his eyes are sunk and his eyebrows have grown so tufty."--then he glanced anxiously at lord shotover to assure himself of the entire absence of simian approximations in the case of his own family.--"oh! ah! yes," he remarked aloud, and somewhat vaguely. "quite right, knott. then of course it was earlier. record run for that season. seldom had a better. we found a fox in the grimshott gorse and ran to water end without a check." "and lemuel image got into the tilney brook," mary ormiston said, laughing a little. "so he did though!" lord fallowfeild rejoined, beaming. and then suddenly his complacency suffered eclipse. for, looking at the speaker, he became disagreeably aware of having, on some occasion, said something highly inconvenient concerning this lady to one of her near relations. he rushed into speech again:--"loud-voiced, blustering kind of fellow, image. i never have liked image. extraordinary marriage that of his with a connection of poor aldborough's. never have understood how her people could allow it." "oh! money'll buy pretty well everything in this world except brains and a sound liver," dr. knott said, as he lowered himself cautiously on to the seat of the highest chair available. "or a good conscience," mrs. cathcart observed, with mild dogmatism. "i am not altogether so sure about that," the doctor answered. "i have known the doubling of a few charitable subscriptions work extensive cures under that head. depend upon it there's an immense deal more conscience-money paid every year than ever finds its way into the coffers of the chancellor of the exchequer." "so there is though!" said lord fallowfeild, with an air of regretful conviction. "never put it as clearly as that myself, knott, but must own i am afraid there is." mr. cathcart, who had joined lord shotover upon the hearth-rug, here intervened. he had a tendency to air local grievances, especially in the presence of his existing noble guest, whom he regarded, not wholly without reason, as somewhat lukewarm and dilatory in questions of reform. "i own to sharing your dislike of image," he remarked. "he behaved in an anything but straightforward manner about the site for the new cottage hospital at parson's holt." "did he, though?" said lord fallowfeild. "yes.--i supposed it had been brought to your notice." lord fallowfeild fidgeted a little.--"rather too downright, cathcart," he said to himself. "gets you into a corner and fixes you. not fair, not at all fair in general society.--oh! ah!--cottage hospital, yes," he added aloud. "very tiresome, vexatious business about that hospital. i felt it very much at the time." "it was a regular job," mr. cathcart continued. "no, not a job, not a job, my dear fellow. unpleasant word job. nothing approaching a job, only an oversight, at most an unfortunate error of judgment," lord fallowfeild protested.--he glanced at his son inviting support, but that gentleman was engaged in kindly conversation with bright-eyed, little godfrey ormiston. he glanced at mary--remembered suddenly that his unfortunate remark regarding that lady had been connected with her resemblance to her father, and the latter's striking defect of personal beauty. he glanced at the doctor. but john knott sat all hunched together, watching him with an expression rather sardonic than sympathetic. "there was culpable negligence somewhere, in any case," his persecutor, mr. cathcart, went on. "it was obvious image pressed that bit of land at waters end on the committee simply because no one would buy it for building purposes. his affectation of generosity as to price was a piece of transparent hypocrisy." "i suppose it was," lord fallowfeild agreed mildly. "a certain anonymous donor had promised a second five hundred pounds, if the hospital was built on high ground with a subsoil of gravel." "it is on gravel," put in lord fallowfeild anxiously. "saw it myself--distinctly remember seeing gravel when the heather had been pared before digging the foundations--bright yellow gravel." "yes, and with a ten-foot bed of blue clay underneath. most dangerous soil going,"--this from dr. knott, grimly. "is it, though?" lord fallowfeild inquired, with an amiable effort to welcome unpalatable, geological information. "not a doubt of it. the surface water and generally the sewage--for we are very far yet from having discovered a drain-pipe which is impeccable in respect of leakage--soak through the porous cap down to the clay and lie there--to rise again not at the last day by any means, but on the evening of the very first one that's been hot enough to cause evaporation." "do they, though?" said lord fallowfeild. he was greatly impressed.--"capable fellow, knott, wonderful thing science," he commented inwardly and with praiseworthy humility. but mr. cathcart returned to the charge. "the hospital was disastrously the loser, in any case," he remarked. "as a matter of course, the conditions having been disregarded, lady calmady withdrew her promise of a second donation." "oh! ah! lady calmady, really!" the simple-minded nobleman exclaimed. "very interesting piece of news and very generous intention, no doubt, on the part of lady calmady. but give you my word cathcart that until this moment i had no notion that the anonymous donor of whom we heard so much from one or two members of the committee--heard too much, i thought, for i dislike mysteries--foolish, unprofitable things mysteries--always turn out to be nothing at all in the finish--oh! ah! yes--well, that the anonymous donor was lady calmady!" and thereupon he shifted his position with as much assumption of _hauteur_ as his inherent amiability permitted. he turned his chair sideways, presenting an excellently flat, if somewhat broad, scarlet-clad back to his persecutor upon the hearth-rug.--"sorry to set a man down in his own house," he said to himself, "but cathcart's a little wanting in taste sometimes. he presses a subject home too closely. and, if i was bamboozled by image, it really isn't cathcart's place to remind me of it." he turned a worried and puckered countenance upon his hostess, upon dr. knott, upon the drawing-room door. in the hall beyond one or two guests still lingered. a lady had just joined them, notably straight and tall, and lazily graceful of movement. lord fallowfeild knew her, but could not remember her name. "oh! ah! shotover," he said, over his shoulder, "i don't want to hurry you, my dear boy, but perhaps it would be as well if you'd just go round to the stables and take a look at the horses." then, as the gentleman addressed moved away, escorted by his host and followed in admiring silence by godfrey ormiston, he repeated, almost querulously:--"foolish things mysteries. nothing in them, as a rule, when you thrash them out. mares' nests generally. and that reminds me, i hear young"--lord fallowfeild's air of worry became accentuated--"young calmady's got home again at last." "yes," mrs. cathcart said, "richard and his mother have been at brockhurst nearly a month." "have they, though?" exclaimed lord fallowfeild. he fidgeted. "it's a painful subject to refer to, but i should be glad to know the truth of these nasty, uncomfortable rumours about young calmady. you see there was that question of his and my youngest daughter's marriage. i never approved. shotover backed me up in it. he didn't approve either. and in the end calmady behaved in a very high-minded, straightforward manner. came to me himself and exhibited very good sense and very proper feeling, did calmady. admitted his own disabilities with extraordinary frankness, too much frankness, i was inclined to think at the time. it struck me as a trifle callous, don't you know. but afterwards, when he left home in that singular manner and went abroad, and we all lost sight of him, and heard how reckless he had become and all that, it weighed on me. i give you my word, mrs. cathcart, it weighed very much on me. i've seldom been more upset by anything in my life than i was by the whole affair of that wedding." "i am afraid it was a great mistake throughout," mrs. cathcart said. she folded her plump, white hands upon her ample lap and sighed gently. "wasn't it, though? so i told everybody from the start you know," commented lord fallowfeild. "it caused a great deal of unhappiness." "so it did, so it did," the good man said, quite humbly. he looked crestfallen, his kindly and well-favoured countenance being overspread by an expression of disarmingly innocent penitence.--"it weighed on me. i should be glad to be able to forget it, but now it's all cropping up again. you see there are these rumours that poor, young calmady's gone under very much one way and another, that his health's broken up altogether, and that he is shut up in two rooms at brockhurst because--it's a terribly distressing thing to mention, but that's the common talk, you know--because he's a little touched here"--the speaker tapped his smooth and very candid forehead--"a little wrong here! horrible thing insanity," he repeated. at this point dr. knott, who had been watching first one person present and then another from under his shaggy eyebrows with an air of somewhat harsh amusement, roused himself. "pardon me, all a pack of lies, my lord," he said, "and stupid ones into the bargain. sir richard calmady's as sane as you are yourself." "is he, though?" the other exclaimed, brightening sensibly. "thank you, knott. it is a very great relief to me to hear that." "only a man with a remarkably sound constitution could have pulled round. i quite own he's been very hard hit, and no wonder. typhoid and complications----" "ah! complications?" inquired lord fallowfeild, who rarely let slip an opportunity of acquiring information of a pathological description. "yes, complications. of the sort that are most difficult to deal with, emotional and moral--beginning with his engagement to lady constance----" "oh, dear me!"--this, piteously, from that lady's father. "and ending--his satanic majesty knows where! i don't. it's no concern of mine, nor of any one else's in my opinion. he has paid his footing--every man has to pay it, sooner or later--to life and experience, and personal acquaintance with the _thou shalt not_ which, for cause unknown, goes for so almighty much in this very queer business of human existence. he has had a rough time, never doubt that, with his high-strung, arrogant, sensitive nature and the dirty trick played on him by that heartless jade, dame fortune, before his birth. for the time, this illness had knocked the wind out of him. if he sulks for a bit, small blame to him. but he'll come round. he is coming round day by day." as he finished speaking the doctor got on to his feet somewhat awkwardly. his subject had affected him more deeply than he quite cared either to own to himself or to have others see. "that plaguy sciatic nerve again!" he growled. lord fallowfeild had risen also.--"capable man, knott, but rather rough at times, rather too didactic," he said to himself, as he turned to greet miss st. quentin. she had strolled in from the hall. her charming face was full of merriment. there was something altogether gallant in the carriage of her small head. "i was so awfully glad to see lord shotover!" she said, as she gave her hand to that gentleman's father. "it's an age since he and i have met." "very pleasant hearing, my dear young lady, for shotover, if he was here to hear it! lucky fellow, shotover."--the kindly nobleman beamed upon her. he was nothing if not chivalrous. mentally, all the same, he was much perplexed. "of course, i remember who she is. but i understood it was ludovic," he said to himself. "made sure it was ludovic. uncommonly attractive, high-bred woman. very striking looking pair, she and shotover. can't fancy shotover settled though. say she's a lot of money. wonder whether it is shotover?--uncommonly fine run, best run we've had for years," he added aloud. "pity you weren't out, miss st. quentin.--well, good-bye, mrs. cathcart. i must be going. i am extremely grateful for all your kindness and hospitality. it is seldom i have the chance of meeting so many friends this side of the country.--good-day to you, knott--goodbye, miss st. quentin.--wonder if i'd better ask her to whitney," he thought, "on the chance of its being shotover? better sound him first though. never let a man in for a woman unless you've very good reason to suppose he wants her." honoria, meanwhile, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her long, fur-lined, tan, cloth, driving-coat sat down on the arm of mary ormiston's flowery-patterned, chintz-covered chair. "i left you all in a state of holy peace and quiet," she said, smiling, "and a fine show you've got on hand by the time i come back." "they ran across the ten-acre field and killed in the shrubbery," mrs. ormiston put in. john knott limped forward. he stood with his hands behind him looking down at the two ladies. some months had elapsed since he and miss st. quentin had met. he was very fond of the young lady. it interested him to meet her again. honoria glanced up at him smiling. "have you been out too?" she asked. "not a bit of it. i'm too busy mending other people's brittle anatomy to have time to risk breaking any part of my own. i'm ugly enough already. no need to make me uglier. i came here for the express purpose of calling on you." "you saw katherine?" mary asked. "oh yes! i saw cousin katherine." "how is she?" "an embodiment of faith, hope, and charity, as usual, but with just that pinch of malice thrown in which gives the compound a flavour. in short, she is enchanting. and then she looks so admirably well." "that six months at sea was a great restorative," mary remarked. "yet it really is rather wonderful when you consider the state she was in before we went to you at ormiston, and how frightened we were at her undertaking the journey to naples." "her affections are satisfied," dr. knott said, and his loose lips worked into a smile, half sneering, half tender. "i am an old man, and i have had a good lot to do with women--at second hand. feed their hearts, and the rest of the mechanism runs easy enough. anything short of organic disease can be cured by that sort of nourishment. even organic disease can be arrested by it. and what's more, i have known disease develop in an apparently perfectly healthy subject simply because the heart was starved. oh! i tell you, you're marvelous beings." "and yet you know i feel so abominably sold," honoria declared, "when i consider the way in which we all--roger, mr. quayle, and i--acted bodyguard, attended cousin katherine to naples, wrapped her in cotton wool, dear thing, sternly determined to protect her at all costs and all hazards from--well, i am ashamed to say i had no name bad enough at that time for richard calmady! and then this very person, whom we regarded as her probable destruction, proves to be her absolute salvation, while she proceeds to turn the tables upon us in the smartest fashion imaginable. she showed us the door and entreated us, in the most beguiling manner, to return whence we came and leave her wholly at the mercy of the enemy. i was furious"--miss st. quentin laughed--"downright furious! and roger's temper, for all his high-mightiness, was a thing to swear at, rather than swear by, the morning he and i left naples. with the greatest difficulty we persuaded her even to keep clara. she had a rage, dear thing, for getting rid of the lot of us. oh! we had a royal skirmish and no mistake." "so roger told me." honoria stretched herself a little, lolled against the back of the chair, steadying herself by laying one hand affectionately on the other woman's shoulder. and john knott, observing her, noted not only her nonchalant and almost boyish grace, but a swift change in her humour from light-hearted laughter to a certain, and as he fancied, half-unwilling enthusiasm. "but to-day," she went on, "when cousin katherine told me about it, i confess the whole situation laid hold of me. i could not help seeing it must have been finely romantic to go off like that--those two alone--caring as she cares, and after the long separation. it sounds like a thing in some elizabethan ballad. there's a rhythm in it all which stirs one's blood. she says the yacht's crew were delightful to her, and treated her as a queen. one can fancy that--the stately, lovely queen-mother, and that strange only son!--they called in at the north african ports, and at gib and madeira, and the cape de verds, and then ran straight for rio. then they steamed up the coast to pernambuco, and on to the west indies. richard never went ashore, cousin katherine only once or twice. but they squattered about in the everlasting summer of tropic harbours, fringed with palms and low, dim, red-roofed, tropic houses--just sampled it all, the colour, and light, and beauty, and far awayness of it--and then, when the fancy took them, got up steam and slipped out again to sea. and the name of the yacht is the _reprieve_. that's in the picture, isn't it?" honoria paused. she leaned forward, her chin in her hands, her elbows on her knees. she looked up at john knott, and there was a singular expression in her clear and serious eyes. "i used to pity cousin katherine," she said. "i used to break my heart over her. and now--now, upon my word, i believe i envy her.--and see here, dr. knott, she has asked me to go on to brockhurst from here. it seems that though richard refuses to see any one, except you of course, and julius march, he fusses at his mother being so much alone. what ought i to do? i feel rather uncertain. i have fought him, i own i have. we have never been friends, he and i. he doesn't like me. he's no reason to like me--anything but! what do you say? shall i refuse or shall i go?" and the doctor reflected a little, drawing his great, square hand down over his mouth and heavy, bristly chin. "yes, go," he answered. "go and chance it. your being at brockhurst may work out in more of good than we now know." chapter v telling how dickie came to untie a certain tag of rusty, black ribbon yet, as those gray, midwinter weeks went on to christmas, and the coming of the new year, it became undeniable there was that in the aspect of affairs at brockhurst which might very well provoke curious comment. for the rigour of richard calmady's self-imposed seclusion, to which miss st. quentin had made allusion in her conversation with dr. knott, was not relaxed. rather, indeed, did it threaten to pass from the accident of a first return, after long absence and illness, into a matter of fixed and accepted habit. for those years of lonely wandering and spasmodic rage of living, finding their climax in deepening disappointment, disillusion, and the shock of rudely inflicted insult and disgrace, had produced in richard a profound sense of alienation from society and from the amenities of ordinary intercourse. since he was apparently doomed to survive, he would go home--but go home very much as some trapped or wounded beast crawls back to hide in its lair. he was master in his own house, at least, and safe from intrusion there. the place offered the silent sympathy of things familiar, and therefore, in a sense, uncritical. it is restful to look on that upon which one has already looked a thousand times. and so, after his reconciliation with his mother, followed, in natural sequence, his reconciliation with brockhurst. here he would see only those who loved him well enough--in their several stations and degrees--to respect his humour, to ask no questions, to leave him to himself. richard was gentle in manner at this period, courteous, humorous even. but a great discouragement was upon him. it seemed as though some string had snapped, leaving half his nature broken, unresponsive, and dumb. he had no ambitions, no desire of activities. sport and business, were as little to his mind as society. more than this.--at first the excuse of fatigue had served him, but very soon it came to be a tacitly admitted fact that richard did not leave the house. surely it was large enough, he said, to afford space for all the exercise he needed? refusing to occupy his old suite of rooms on the ground-floor, he had sent orders, before his arrival, that the smaller library, adjoining the long-gallery, should be converted into a bedchamber for him. it had been richard's practice, when on board ship, to steady his uncertain footsteps, on the slippery or slanting plane of the deck, by the use of crutches. and this practice he in great measure retained. it increased his poor powers of locomotion. it rendered him more independent. sometimes, when secure that lady calmady would not receive visitors, he would make his way by the large library, the state drawing-room, and stair-head, to the chapel-room and sit with her there. but more often his days were spent exclusively in the long-gallery. he had brought home many curious and beautiful objects from his wanderings. he would add these to the existing collection. he would examine the books too, procure such volumes as were needed to complete any imperfect series, and, in the departments both of science, literature, and travel, bring the library up to date. he would devote his leisure to the study of various subjects--especially natural science--regarding which he was conscious of a knowledge, deficient, or merely empirical. "i really am perfectly contented, mother," he said to lady calmady more than once. "look at the length and breadth of the gallery! it is as a city of magnificent distances, after the deck of the dear, old yacht and my twelve-foot cabin. and i'm not a man calculated to occupy so very much space after all! let me potter about here with my books and my _bibelots_. don't worry about me, i shall keep quite well, i promise you. let me hybernate peacefully until spring, anyhow. i have plenty of occupation. julius is going to amend the library catalogue with me, and there are those chests of deeds, and order-books, and diaries, which really ought to be looked over. as it appears pretty certain i shall be the last of the race, it would be only civil, i think, to bestow a little of my ample leisure upon my forefathers, and set down some more or less comprehensive account of them and their doings. they appear to have been given to rather dramatic adventures.--don't you worry, you dear sweet! as i say, let me hybernate until the birds of passage come and the young leaves are green in the spring. then, when the days grow long and bright, the sea will begin to call again, and, when it calls, you and i will pack and go." and katherine yielded, being convinced that richard could treat his own case best. if healing, complete and radical, was to be affected, it must come from within and not from without. her wisdom was to wait in faith. there was much that had never been told, and never would be told. much which had not been explained, and never would be explained. for, notwithstanding the very gracious relation existing between herself and richard, katherine realised that there were blank spaces not only in her knowledge of his past action, but in her knowledge of the sentiments which now animated him. as from a far country his mind, she perceived, often traveled to meet hers. "there was a door to which she found no key." but katherine, happily, could respect the individuality even of her best beloved. unlike the majority of her sex she was incapable of intrusion, and did not make affection an excuse for familiarity. love, in her opinion, enjoins obligation of service, rather than confers rights of examination and direction. she had learned the condition in which his servants had found richard, in the opera box of the great theatre at naples, lying upon the floor unconscious, his face disfigured, cut, and bleeding. but what had produced this condition, whether accident or act of violence, she had not learned. she had also learned that her niece, helen de vallorbes, had stayed at the villa just before the commencement of richard's illness--he merely passing his days there, and spending his nights on board the yacht in the harbour, where, no doubt, that same illness had been contracted. but she resisted the inclination to attempt further discovery. she even resisted the inclination to speculate regarding all this. what richard might elect to tell her, that, and that only, would she know, lest, seeking further, bitter and vindictive thoughts should arise in her and mar the calm, pathetic sweetness of the present and her deep, abiding joy in the recovery of her so-long-lost delight. she refused to go behind the fact--the glad fact that richard once more was with her, that her eyes beheld him, her ears heard his voice, her hands met his. every little act of thoughtful care, every pretty word of half-playful affection, confirmed her thankfulness and made the present blest. even this somewhat morbid tendency of his to shut himself away from the observation of all acquaintance, conferred on her such sweetly exclusive rights of intercourse that she could not greatly quarrel with his secluded way of life. as to the business of the estate and household, this had become so much a matter of course to her that it caused her but small labour. if she could deal with it when richard was estranged and far away, very surely she could deal with it now, when she had but to open the door of that vast, silvery-tinted, pensively fragrant, many-windowed room, and entering, among its many strange and costly treasures, find him--a treasure as strange, and if counted by her past suffering, as costly, as ever ravished and tortured a woman's heart. and so it came about that, to such few friends as she received, katherine could show a serene countenance. shortly before christmas, miss st. quentin came to brockhurst, and coming stayed, adapting herself with ready tact to the altered conditions of life there. katherine found not only pleasure, but support, in the younger woman's presence, in her devoted yet unexacting affection, in her practical ability, and in the sight of so graceful a creature going to and fro. she installed her guest in the gun-room suite. and, by insensible degrees, permitted honoria to return to many of her former avocations in connection with the estate, so that the young lady took over much of the outdoor business, riding forth almost daily, by herself or in company with julius march, to superintend matters of building or repairing, of road-mending, hedging, copsing, or forestry, and not infrequently cheering chifney--a somewhat sour-minded man just now and prickly-tempered, since richard asked no word of him or of his horses--by visits to the racing stables. "i had better step down and have a crack with the poor, old dear, cousin katherine," she would say, "or those unlucky little wretches of boys will catch it double tides, which really is rather superfluous." and all the while, amid her very varied interests and occupations, remembrance of that hidden, twilight life, going forward up-stairs in the well-known rooms which she now never entered, came to honoria as some perpetually recurrent and mournful harmony, in an otherwise not ungladsome piece of music, might have come. it exercised a certain dominion over her mind. so that richard calmady, though never actually seen by her, was never wholly absent from her thought. all the orderly routine of the great house, all the day's work and the sentiment of it, was subtly influenced by awareness of the actuality of his invisible presence. and this affected her strongly, causing her hours of repulsion and annoyance, and again hours of abounding, if reluctant pity, when the unnatural situation of this man--young as herself, endowed with a fine intelligence, an aptitude for affairs, the craving for amusement common to his age and class--and the pathos inherent in that situation, haunted her imagination. his self-inflicted imprisonment appeared a reflection upon, in a sense a reproach to, her own freedom of soul and pleasant liberty of movement. and this troubled her. it touched her pride somehow. it produced in her a false conscience, as though she were guilty of an unkindness, a lack of considerateness and perfect delicacy. "whether he behaves well or ill, whether he is good or bad, richard calmady invariably takes up altogether too much room," she would tell herself half angrily--to find herself within half an hour, under plea of usefulness to his mother, warmly interested in some practical matter from which richard calmady would derive, at least indirectly, distinct advantage and benefit! this, then, was the state of affairs one saturday afternoon at the beginning of february. with poor dickie himself the day had been marked by abundant discouragement. he was well in body. the restfulness of one quiet, uneventful week following another had steadied his nerves, repaired the waste of fever, and restored his physical strength. but, along with this return of health had come a growing necessity to lay hold of some idea, to discover some basis of thought, some incentive to action, which should make life less purposeless and unprofitable. richard, in short, was beginning to generate more energy than he could place. the old order had passed away, and no new order had, as yet, effectively disclosed itself. he had not formulated all this, or even consciously recognised the modification of his own attitude. nevertheless he felt the gnawing ache of inward emptiness. it effectually broke up the torpor which had held him. it made him very restless. it reawoke in him an inclination to speculation and experiment. snow had fallen during the earlier hours of the day, and, the surface of the ground being frost-bound, it, though by no means deep, remained unmelted. the whiteness of it, given back by the ceiling and pale paneling of walls of the long-gallery, notwithstanding the generous fires burning in the two ornate, high-ranging chimney-places, produced, as the day waned, an effect of rather stark cheerlessness in the great room. this was at once in unison with richard's somewhat bleak humour, and calculated to increase the famine of it. all day long he had tried to stifle the cry of that same famine, that same hunger of unplaced energy, by industrious work. he had examined, noted, here and there transcribed, passages from deeds, letters, order-books, and diaries offering first-hand information regarding former generations of calmadys. it happened that studies he had recently made in contemporary science, specially in obtaining theories of biology, had brought home to him what tremendous factors in the development and fate of the individual are both evolution and heredity. at first idly, and as a mere pastime, then with increasing eagerness--in the vague hope his researches might throw light on matters of moment to himself and of personal application--he had tried to trace out tastes and strains of tendency common to his ancestors. but under this head he had failed to make any very notable discoveries. for these courtiers, soldiers, and sportsmen were united merely by the obvious characteristics of a high-spirited, free-living race. they were raised above the average of the country gentry, perhaps, by a greater appreciation, than is altogether common, of literature and art. but as richard soon perceived it was less any persistent peculiarity of mental and physical constitution, than a similarity of outward event united them. the perpetually repeated chronicle of violence and accident which he read, in connection with his people, intrigued his reason, and called for explanation. was it possible, he began to ask himself, that a certain heredity in incident, in external happening, may not cling to a race? that these may not by some strange process be transmissible, as are traits of character, temperament, stature, colouring, feature, and face? and if this--as matter of speculation merely--was the case, must there not exist some antecedent cause to which could be referred such persistent effect? might not an hereditary fate in external events take its rise in some supreme moral or spiritual catastrophe, some violation of law? the greek dramatists held it was so. the writers of the old testament held it was so, too. sitting at the low writing-table, near the blazing fire, that stark whiteness reflected from off the snow-covered land all around him, richard debated this point with himself. he admitted the theory was not scientific, according to the reasoning of modern physical science. it approached an outlook theological rather than rationalistic, yet he could not deny the conception, admission. the vision of a doomed family arose before him--starting in each successive generation with brilliant prospects and high hope, only to find speedy extinction in some more or less brutal form of death--a race dwindling, moreover, in numbers as the years passed, until it found representation in a single individual, and that individual maimed, and incomplete! heredity of accident, heredity of disaster, finding final expression in himself--this confronted richard.--he had reckoned himself, heretofore, a solitary example of ill-fortune. but, mastering the contents of these records, he found himself far from solitary. he merely participated, though under a novel form, in the unlucky fate of all the men of his race. and then arose the question--to him, under existing circumstances, of vital importance--what stood behind all that--blind chance, cynical indifference, wanton and arbitrary cruelty, or some august, far-reaching necessity of, as yet, unsatisfied justice? richard pushed the crackling, stiffly-folded parchments, the letters frayed and yellow with age, the broken-backed, discoloured diaries and order-books, away from him, and sat, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, thinking. and the travail of his spirit was great, as it needs must be, at times, with every human being who dares live at first, not merely at second hand--who dares attempt a real, and not merely a nominal assent--who dares deal with earthly existence, the amazing problems and complexities of it, immediately, refusing to accept--with indolent timidity--tradition, custom, hearsay, convenience, as his guides.--oh! for some sure answering, some unimpeachable assurance, some revelation not relative and symbolic, but absolute, some declaration above all suspicion of cunningly-devised opportunism, concerning the dealings of the unknown force man calls god, with the animal man calls man!--and then richard turned upon himself contemptuously. for it was childish to cry out thus. the heavens were dumb above him as the snow-bound earth was dumb beneath. there was no sign!--never had been. never would be, save in the fond imaginations of religious enthusiasts, crazed by superstition, by austerities, and hysteria, duped by ignorance, by hypocrites and quacks. with long-armed adroitness he reached down and picked up those light-made, stunted crutches, slipped from his chair and adjusted them. for a long while he had used them as a matter of course without criticism or thought. but now they produced in him a swift disgust. his hands, grasping the lowest crossbar of them, were in such disproportionate proximity to the floor! for the moment he was disposed to fling them aside. then again he turned upon himself with scathing contempt. for this too was childish. what did the use of them matter, since, used or not, the fact of his crippled condition remained? and so, with a renewal of bitterness and active rebellion, lately unknown to him, he moved away down the great room--past bronze athlete and marble goddess, past oriental jars, tall as himself, uplifted on the squat, carven, ebony stands, past strangely-painted, half-fearful, lacquer cabinets, past porcelain bowls filled with faint sweetness of dried rose-leaves, bay, lavender, and spice, past trophies of savage warfare and, hardly less savage, civilised sport, towards the wide mullion-window of the eastern bay. but just before reaching it, he came opposite to a picture by velasquez, set on an easel across the corner of the room. it represented a hideous and misshapen dwarf, holding a couple of graceful greyhounds in a leash--an unhappy creature who had made sport for the household of some castilian grandee, and whose gorgeous garments, of scarlet and gold, were ingeniously designed so as to emphasise the physical degradation of its contorted person. richard had come, of late, to take a sombre pleasure in the contemplation of this picture. the desolate eyes, looking out of the marred and brutal face, met his own with a certain claim of kinship. there existed a tragic freemasonry between himself and this outcasted being, begotten of a common knowledge, a common experience. as a boy richard hated this picture, studiously avoided the sight of it. it had suggested comparisons which wounded his self-respect too shrewdly and endangered his self-security. he hated it no longer, finding grim solace, indeed, in its sad society. and it was thus, in silent parley with this rather dreadful companion, as the blear february twilight descended upon the bare, black trees and snow-clad land without, and upon the very miscellaneous furnishings of the many-windowed gallery within, that julius march now discovered richard calmady. he had returned, across the park, from one of the quaint brick-and-timber cottages just without the last park gate, at the end of sandyfield church-lane. a labourer's wife was dying, painfully enough, of cancer, and he had administered the blessed sacrament to her, there, in her humble bedchamber. the august promises and adorable consolations of that mysterious rite remained very sensibly present to him on his homeward way. his spirit was uplifted by the confirmation of the divine compassion therein perpetually renewed, perpetually made evident. and, it followed, that coming now upon richard calmady alone, here, in the stark, unnatural pallor of the winter dusk, holding silent communion with that long-ago victim of merciless practices and depraved tastes, not only caused him a painful shock, but also moved him with fervid desire to offer comfort and render help.--yet, what to say, how to approach richard without risk of seeming officiousness and consequent offense, he could not tell. the young man's experiences and his own were so conspicuously far apart. for a moment he stood uncertain and silent, then he said:-- "that picture always fills me with self-reproach." richard looked round with a certain lofty courtesy by no means encouraging. and, as he did so, julius march was conscious of receiving a further, and not less painful impression. for richard's face was very still, not with the stillness of repose, but with that of fierce emotion held resolutely in check, while in his eyes was a desolation rivalling that of the eyes portrayed by the great spanish artist upon the canvas close at hand. "when i first came to brockhurst, that picture used to hang in the study," he continued, by way of explanation. "ah! i see, and you turned it out!" richard observed, not without an inflection of irony. "yes. in those days i am afraid i did not discriminate very justly between refinement of taste and self-indulgent fastidiousness. while pluming myself upon an exalted standard of sensibility and sentiment, i rather basely spared myself acquaintance with that, both in nature and in art, which might cause me distress or disturbance of thought. i was a mental valetudinarian, in short. i am ashamed of my defect of moral courage and charity in relation to that picture." richard shifted his position slightly, looked fixedly at the canvas and then down at his own hands in such disproportionate proximity to the floor. "oh! you were not to blame," he said. "it is obviously a thing to laugh at, or run from, unless you happen to have received a peculiar mental and physical training. anyhow the poor devil has found his way home now and come into port safely enough at last?" he glanced back at the picture, over his shoulder, as he moved across the room. "perhaps he's even found a trifle of genuine sympathy--so don't vex your righteous soul over your repudiation of him, my dear julius. the lapses of the virtuous may make, indirectly, for good. and your instinct, after all, was both the healthy and the artistic one. velasquez ought to have been incapable of putting his talent to such vile uses, and the first comer with a spark of true philanthropy in him ought to have knocked that poor little monstrosity on the head." richard came to the writing-table, glanced at the papers which encumbered it, made for an armchair drawn up beside the fire. "sit down, julius," he said. "there is something quite else about which i want to speak to you. i have been working through all these documents, and they give rise to speculations neither strictly scientific nor strictly orthodox, yet interesting all the same. you are a dealer in ethical problems. i wonder if you can offer any solution of this one, of which the basis conceivably is ethical. as to these various owners of brockhurst--sir denzil, the builder of the house, is a delightful person, and appears to have prospered mightily in his undertakings, as so liberal-minded and ingenious a gentleman had every right to prosper. but after him--from the time, at least, of his grandson, thomas--everything seems to have gone to rather howling grief here. we have nothing but battle, murder, and sudden death. these become positively monotonous in the pertinacity of their repetition. of course one may argue that adventurous persons expose themselves to an uncommon number of dangers, and consequently pay an uncommon number of forfeits. i dare say that is the reasonable explanation. only the persistence of the thing gets hold of one rather. the manner of their dying is very varied, yet there are two constant quantities in each successive narrative, namely, violence and comparative youth." richard's speech had become rapid and imperative. now he paused. "think of my father's death, for instance----" he said. his narrow, black figure crouched together, julius march knelt on one knee before the fire. he held his thin hands outspread, so as to keep the glow of the burning logs from his face. he was deeply moved, debating a certain matter with himself. "to all questions supremely worth having answered, there is no answer--i take that for granted," the young man continued. "and yet one is so made that it is impossible not to go on asking. i can't help wanting to get at the root of this queer recurrence of accident, and all the rest of it, which clings to my people. i can't help wanting to make out whether there was any psychological moment which determined the future, and started them definitely on the down-grade. what happened--that's what i want to arrive at--what happened at that moment? had it any reasonable and legitimate connection with all which has followed?" as he held them outspread, between his face and the glowing fire, julius march's hands trembled. he found himself confronted by a situation which he had long foreseen, long and earnestly prayed to avoid. the responsibility was so great of either giving or withholding the answer, as he knew it, to that question of dickie's. a way of rendering possible help opened before him. but it was a way beset with difficulties, a way at once fantastic and coarsely realistic, a way along which the sublime and the ridiculous jostled each other with somewhat undignified closeness of association, a way demanding childlike faith, not to say childish credulity, coupled with a great fearlessness and self-abnegation before ever a man's steps could be profitably set in it. if presented to richard, would he not turn angrily from it as an insult offered to his intellect and his breeding alike? indeed, the hope of effecting good showed very thin. the danger of provoking evil bulked very big. what was his duty? he suffered an agony of indecision. and again with a slight inflection of mockery in his tone, richard spoke. "all blind chance, julius? i declare i get a little weary of this deity of yours. he neglects his business so flagrantly. he really is rather scandalously much of an absentee. and he would be so welcome if he would condescend to deal a trifle more openly with one, and satisfy one's intelligence and moral sense. if, for instance, he would afford me some information regarding this same psychological moment which i need so badly just now as a peg to hang a theory of casualty upon. i am ambitious--as much in the interests of his reputation as in those of my own curiosity--to get at the logic of the affair, to get at the why and wherefore of it, and lay my finger on the spot where differentiation sets in." julius march stood upright. richard's scorn hurt him. it also terminated his indecision. for a little space he looked out into the stark whiteness of the snowy dusk, and then down at the young man, leaning back in the low chair, there close before him. to julius' short-sighted eyes, in the uncertain light, dickie's face bore compelling resemblance to lady calmady's. this touched him with the memory of much, and he went back on the thought of the divine compassion, perpetually renewed, perpetually made evident in the eucharistic sacrifice. man may rail, yet god is strong and faithful to bless. perhaps that way was neither too fantastic, nor too humble, after all, for richard to walk in. "has no knowledge of the received legend about this subject ever reached you?" "no--never--not a word." "i became acquainted with it accidentally, long ago, before your birth. it is inadmissible, according to modern canons of thought, as such legends usually are. and events, subsequent to my acquaintance with it, conferred on it so singular and painful a significance that i kept my knowledge to myself. perhaps when you grew up i ought to have put you in possession of the facts. they touch you very nearly." richard raised his eyebrows. "indeed," he said coldly. "but a fitting opportunity--at least, so i judged, being, i own, backward and reluctant in the matter--never presented itself. in this, as in much else, i fear i have betrayed my trust and proved an unprofitable servant--if so may god forgive me." "it would have gone hard with brockhurst without you, julius," richard said, a sudden softening in his tone. "i will bring you the documents the last thing to-night, when--when your mother has left you. they are best read, perhaps, in silence and alone." chapter vi a litany of the sacred heart richard drew himself up on to the wide, cushioned bench below the oriel-window. the february day was windless and very bright. and although, in sheltered, low-lying places, where the frost held, the snow still lingered, in the open it had already disappeared, and that without unsightliness of slush--shrinking and vanishing, cleanly burned up and absorbed by the genial heat. a sabbath-day restfulness held the whole land. there was no movement of labour, either of man or beast. and a kindred restfulness pervaded the house. the rooms were vacant. none passed to and fro. for it so happened that good mr. caryll's successor, the now rector of sandyfield, had been called away to deliver certain charity sermons at westchurch, and that to-day julius march officiated in his stead. therefore lady calmady and miss st. quentin, and the major part of the brockhurst household, had repaired by carriage or on foot to the little, squat, red-brick, georgian church whose two bells rang out so friendly and fussy an admonition to the faithful to gather within its walls. richard had the house to himself. and this accentuation of solitude, combined with wider space wherein he could range without fear of observation, was far from unwelcome to him. last night he had untied the tag of rusty, black ribbon binding together the packet of tattered, dog's-eared, little chap-books which for so long had reposed in the locked drawer of julius march's study table beneath the guardianship of the bronze _pietà_. with very conflicting feelings he had mastered the contents of those same untidy, little volumes, and learned the sordid, and probably fabulous, tale set forth in them in meanest vehicle of jingling verse. vulgarly told to catch the vulgar ear, pandering to the popular superstitions of a somewhat ignoble age, it proved repugnant enough--as julius had anticipated--both to richard's reason and to his taste. the critical faculty rejected it as an explanation absurdly inadequate. the cause was wholly disproportionate to the effect, as though a mouse should spring forth a mountain instead of a mountain a mouse. at least that was how the matter struck richard at first. for the story was, after all, as he told himself, but a commonplace of life in every civilised community. many a man sins thus, and many a woman suffers, and many bastards are yearly born into the world without--perhaps unfortunately--subsequent manifestation of the divine wrath and signal chastisement of the sinner, or of his legitimate heirs, male or female. affiliation orders are as well known to magistrate's clerks, as are death-certificates of children bearing the maiden name of their mother to those of the registrar. all that richard could dispose of, if with a decent deploring of the frequency of it, yet composedly enough. but there remained that other part of it. and this he could not dispose of so cursorily. his own unhappy deformity, it is true, was amply accounted for on lines quite other than the fulfilment of prophecy, offering, as it did, example of a class of prenatal accidents which, if rare, is still admittedly recurrent in the annals of obstetrics and embryology. nevertheless, the foretelling of that strange child of promise, whose outward aspect and the circumstances of whose birth--as set forth in the sorry rhyme of the chap-book--bore such startling resemblance to his own, impressed him deeply. it astonished, it, in a sense, appalled him. for it came so very near. it looked him so insistently in the face. it laid strong hands on him from out the long past, claiming him, associating itself imperatively with him, asserting, whether he would or no, the actuality and inalienability of its relation to himself. science might pour scorn on that relation, exposing the absurdity of it both from the moral and physical point of view. but sentiment held other language. and so did that nobler morality which takes its rise in considerations spiritual rather than social and economic, and finds the origins and ultimates, alike, not in things seen and temporal, but in things unseen and eternal--things which, though they tarry long for accomplishment, can neither change, nor be denied, nor, short of accomplishment, can pass away. and it was this aspect of the whole, strange matter--the thought, namely, of that same child of promise who, predestined to bear the last and heaviest stroke of retributive justice, should, bearing it rightly, bring salvation to his race--which obtained with dickie on the fair sunday morning in question. it refused to quit him. it affected him through all his being. it appealed to the poetry, the idealism, of his nature--a poetry and idealism not dead, as he had bitterly reckoned them, though sorely wounded by ill-living and the disastrous issues of his passion for helen de vallorbes. he seemed to apprehend the approach of some fruitful, far-ranging, profoundly-reconciling and beneficent event. as in the theatre at naples, when morabita sang, and to his fever-stricken, brain-sick fancy the dull-coloured multitude in the _parterre_ murmured, buzzing remonstrant as angry swarming bees, so now a certain exaltation of feeling, exaltation of hope, came upon him. yet having grown, through determined rebellion and unlovely experience, not a little distrustful of all promise of good, he turned on himself bitterly enough, asking if he would never learn to profit by hardly-bought, practical knowledge? if he would never contrive to cast the simpleton wholly out of him? he had been fooled many times, fooled there at naples to the point of unpardonable insult and degradation. what so probable as that he would be fooled again, now? and so, in effort to shake off both the dominion of unfounded hope, and the gnawing ache of inward emptiness which made that hope at once so cruel and so dear, as the sound of wheels dying away along the lime avenue assured him that the goodly company of church-goers had, verily and indeed, departed, he set forth on a pilgrimage through the great, silent house. passing through the two libraries, the antechamber and state drawing-room--with its gilded furniture, fine pictures and tapestries--he reached the open corridor at the stair-head. here the polished, oak floor, the massive balusters, and tall, carven newel-posts--each topped by a guardian griffin, long of tail, ferocious of beak, and sharp of claw--showed with a certain sober cheerfulness in the pleasant light. for, through all the great windows of the eastern front, the sun slanted in obliquely. while in the chapel-room beyond, situated in the angle of the house and thus enjoying a southern as well as eastern aspect, richard found a veritable carnival of misty brightness, so that he moved across to the oriel-window--whose gray, stone mullions and carved transomes showed delicately mellow of tone between the glittering, leaded panes--in a glory of welcoming warmth and sunlight. frost and snow might linger in the hollows, but here in the open, on the upland, spring surely had already come. with the help of a brass ring, riveted by a stanchion into the space of paneling below the stone window-sill--placed there long ago, when he was a little lad, to serve him in such case as the present--richard drew himself up on to the cushioned bench. he unfastened one of the narrow, curved, iron-framed casements, and, leaning his elbows on the sill, looked out. the air was mild. the smell of the earth was sweet, with a cleanly, wholesome sweetness. the sunshine covered him. and somehow, whether he would or no, hope reasserted its dominion, and that exaltation of feeling entered into possession of him once again, as he rested, gazing away over the familiar home scene, over this land, which, as far as sight carried, had belonged to his people these many generations, and was now his own. directly below, at the foot of the descending steps of the main entrance, lay the square, red-walled space of gravel and of turf. he looked at it curiously, for there, with the maiming and death of thomas calmady's bastard, if legend said truly, all this tragic history of disaster had begun. there, too, the clown, race-horse of merry name and mournful memory, had paid the penalty of wholly involuntary transgression just thirty years ago. that last was a rather horrible incident, of which richard never cared to think. chifney had told him about it once, in connection with the parentage of verdigris--had told him just by chance. to think of it, even now, made a lump rise in his throat. across the turf--offering quaint contrast to those somewhat bloody memories--the peacocks, in all their bravery of royal blue-purple, living green and gold, led forth their sober-clad mates. they had come out from the pepper-pot summer-houses to sun themselves. they stepped mincingly, with a worldly and disdainful grace, and, reaching the gravel, their resplendent trains swept the rounded pebbles, making a small, dry, rattling sound, which, so deep was the surrounding quiet, asserted itself to the extent of saluting dickie's ears. beyond the red wall the parallel lines of the elm avenue swept down to the blue and silver levels of the long water, the alder copses bordering which showed black-purple, and the reed-beds rusty as a fox, against thin stretches of still unmelted snow. the avenue climbed the farther ascent to the wide archway of the red and gray gate-house, just short of the top of the long ridge of bare moorland. the grass slopes of the park, to the left, were backed by the dark, sawlike edge of the fir forest, and a soft gloom of oak woods, gray-brown and mottled as a lizard's belly and back, closed the end of the valley eastward. on the right the terraced gardens, with their ranges of glittering conservatories, fell away to the sombre pond in the valley, home of loudly-discoursing companies of ducks. the gentle hillside above was clothed by plantations, and a grove of ancient beech trees, whose pale, smooth boles stood out from among undergrowth of lustrous hollies and the warm russet of fallen leaves. and over it all brooded the restfulness of the sabbath, and the gladness of a fair and equal light. and the charm of the scene worked upon richard, not with any heat of excitement, but with a temperate and reasonable grace. for the spirit of it all was a spirit of temperance, of moderation, of secure tranquillity--a spirit stoic rather than epicurean, ascetic rather than hedonic, yet generous, spacious, nobly reasonable, giving ample scope for very sincere, if soberly-clad pleasures, and for activities by no means despicable or unmanly, though of a modest, unostentatious sort. dickie had tried not a few desperate adventures, had conformed his thought and action to not a few glaring patterns, rushing to violences of extreme colour, extreme white and black. all that had proved preeminently unsuccessful, a most poisonous harvest of dead sea fruit. what, he began to ask himself, if he made an effort to conform it to the pattern actually presented to him--mellow, sun-visited, with the brave red of weather stained masonry in it, blue and silver of water and sky, lustre of sturdy hollies, as well as the solemnity of leafless woods, finger of frost in the hollows, and bleakness of snow? and, as he sat meditating thus, breathing the clear air, feeling the tempered, yet genial, sun-heat, many questions began to resolve themselves. he seemed to look, as down a long, cloudy vista--beyond the tumult and unruly clamour, the wayward resistance and defiant sinning, the craven complainings, the ever-repeated suspicions and misapprehensions of man--away into the patient, unalterable purposes of god. and looking, for the moment, into those purposes, he saw this also--namely, that sorrow, pain, and death, are sweet to whosoever dares, instead of fighting with, or flying from them, to draw near, to examine closely, to inquire humbly, into their nature and their function. he began to perceive that these three reputed enemies--hated and feared of all men--are, after all, the fashioners and teachers of humanity, to whom it is given to keep hearts pure, godly and compassionate, to purge away the dross of pride, hardness, and arrogance, to break the iron bands of ambition, self-love, and vanity, to purify by endurance and by charity, welding together--as with the cunning strokes of the master-craftsman's hammer--the innumerable individual atoms into a corporate whole, of fair form, of supreme excellence of proportion, the image and example of a perfect brotherhood, of a republic more firmly based and more beneficent than even that pictured by the divine plato himself--since that was consolidated by exclusion, this by inclusion and pacification of those things which men most dread.--perceived that, without the guiding and chastening of these three lovely terrors, humanity would, indeed, wax wanton, and this world become the merriest court of hell, lust and corruption have it all their own foul way, the flesh triumph, and all bestial things come forth to flaunt themselves gaudily, greedily, without remonstrance and without shame in the light of day.--perceived in these three, a trinity of holy spirits, bearing forever the message of the divine mercy and forgiveness.--perceived how, of necessity, only the man of sorrows can truly be the son of god. and, perceiving all this, richard's attitude towards his own unhappy deformity began to suffer modification. the sordid, yet extravagant, chap-book legend no longer outraged either his moral or his scientific sense. he recalled his emotions in the theatre at naples when morabita sang, remembering how wholly welcome had then been to him that imagined approaching-act of retributive justice. he recalled, too, the going forth of love towards his supposed executioners which he had experienced, his reverence for, and yearning towards, the dull-coloured working-bees of the _parterre_. how he had longed to be at one with them, partaker of their corporate action and corporate strength! how he had rejoiced in the conviction that the final issues are subject to their ruling, that the claims of want are stronger than those of wealth, that labour is more honourable than sloth, intelligence than privilege, liberty more abiding than tyranny--the idea of equality, of fellowship, more excellent than the aristocratic idea, that of born master and of born serf! and both that welcome of the accomplishment of a signal act of justice, and that desire to participate in the eternal strength of the children of labour as against the ephemeral and fictitious strength of the children of idleness and wealth, found strange confirmation in the chap-book legend. for it seemed to richard that, taking all that singular matter both of prophecy and of cure simply--as believers take some half-miraculous, scripture tale--he had already, in his own person, in right of the physical uncomeliness of it, paid part, at all events, of the price demanded by the eternal justice for his ancestors' sinning and for his own. it was not needful that the bees should swarm and the dull-coloured multitude revenge itself on the indolent, full-fed larvæ peopling the angular honey-cells, as far as he, richard calmady, was concerned. that revenge had been taken long ago, in a mysterious and rather terrible manner, before his very birth. while, in the stern denunciation, the adhering curse, of the outraged and so-soon-to-be-childless mother, he found the just and age-old protest, the patient faith in the eventual triumph of the proletariat--of the defenseless poor as against the callous self-seeking and sensuality of the securely guarded rich. by the fact of his deformity he was emancipated from the delusions of his class, was made one, in right of the suffering and humiliation of it, with the dull-coloured multitudes whose corporate voice declares the ultimate verdict, who are the architects and judges of civilisation, of art, even of religion, even, in a degree, of nature herself. salvation, according to the sorry yet inspiring rhyme of the chap-book, was contingent upon precisely this recognition of brotherhood with, and practice of willing service towards, all maimed and sorrowful creatures. his america was here or nowhere, his vocation clearly indicated, his work immediate and close at hand. how the eternal justice might see fit to deal with other souls, why he had been singled out for so peculiar and conspicuous a fate, richard did not pretend to say. all that had become curiously unimportant to him. for he had ceased to call that fate a cruel one. it had changed its aspect. it had come suddenly to satisfy both his conscience and his imagination. with a movement at once of wonder and of deep-seated thankfulness, he, for the first time, held out his hands to it, accepting it as a comrade, pledging himself to use rather than to spurn it. he looked at it steadfastly and, so looking, found it no longer abhorrent but of mysterious virtue and efficacy, endued with power to open the gates of a way, closed to most men, into the heart of humanity, which, in a sense, is nothing less than the heart of almighty god himself. it was as though, like the saint of old, daring to kiss the scabs and sores of the leper, he found himself gazing on the divine lineaments of the risen christ. and this brought to him a sense of almost awed repose. it released him from the vicious circle of self, of sharp-toothed disappointment and leaden-heavy discouragement, in which he had so long fruitlessly turned. he seemed consciously to slough off the foul and ragged garment of the past and all its base, unprofitable memories, as the snake sloughs off her old skin in the warm may weather and glides forth, glittering, in a coat of untarnished, silver mail. the whole complexion of his thought regarding his personal disfigurement was changed. not that he flattered himself the discomfort, the daily vexation and impediment of it, had passed away. on the contrary these very actually remained, and would remain to the end. and the consequences they entailed remained also, the restrictions and deprivations they inflicted. they put many things, dear to every sane and healthy-minded man, hopelessly out of his reach, very much upon the shelf. love and marriage were shelved thus, in his opinion, let alone lesser and more ephemeral joys. only the ungrudging acceptance of the denial of those joys, whether small or great, was a vital part of that idea to the evolution of which he now dedicated himself--that whole which, in process of its evolution, would make for a sober and temperate well-being, formed on the pattern, sober yet nobly spacious, cleanly, and wholesome, of the sun-visited landscape there without. he had just got to discipline himself into the harmony with the idea newly revealed to him. and that, as he told himself, not without a sense of the humour of the situation in certain aspects, meant in more than one department, plenty of work!--and he had to spend himself and go on, through good report and ill, through gratitude and, if needs be, through abuse and detraction, still spending himself, actively, untiringly, in the effort to make some one person--it hardly mattered whom, but for choice, those who like himself had been treated unhandsomely by nature or by accident--just a trifle happier day by day. but, while richard rested thus in the quiet sunshine, he lost count of time. high-noon came and passed, finding and leaving him in absorbed contemplation of his own thought. at last a barking of dogs, and the sound of wheels away on the north side of the house, broke up the silence. then a faint echo of voices, a boy's laughter in the great hall below. then footsteps, which he took to be lady calmady's, coming lightly up the grand staircase. at the stair-head those footsteps paused for a little space, as though in indecision whither to turn. and richard, pushed by an impulse of considerateness somewhat, it must be owned, new to him, called:-- "mother, is that you? do you want me? i'm here." whereat the footsteps came forward, in at the open door and through the soft glory of the all-pervading sunshine, with an effect of gentle urgency and haste. katherine's gray, silk pelisse was unfastened, showing the grey, silk gown, its floating ribbons, pretty frills and flounces, beneath. every detail of her dress was very fresh and very finished, a demure daintiness in it, from the topmost, gray plume and upstanding, velvet bow of her bonnet to the pretty shoes upon her feet. along with a lace handkerchief and her church books, she carried a bunch of long-stalked violets. her face was delicately flushed, a great surprise, touching upon anxiety, tempering the quick pleasure of her expression. "my dearest," she said, "this is as delightful as it is unexpected. what brings you here?" and richard smiled at her without reserve, no longer as though putting a force upon himself or of set purpose, but naturally, spontaneously, as one who entertains pleasant thoughts. he took her hand and kissed it with a certain courtliness and reverent fervour. "i came to look for something here," he said, "which i have looked for at many times and in very various places, yet never somehow managed to find." but katherine, at once tenderly charmed and rendered yet more anxious by a quality in his manner and his speech unfamiliar to her, the purport of which she failed at once to gauge, answered him literally. "my dearest, why didn't you tell me? i would have looked for it before i went to church, and saved you the trouble of the journey from the gallery here." "oh! the journey wasn't bad for me, i rather enjoyed it," dickie said. "and then to tell you the truth, you've spent the better part of your dear life in looking for that same something which i could never manage to find! poor, sweet mother, no thanks to me, so far, that you haven't utterly worn yourself out in the search for it."--he paused, and gazed away out of the open casement.--"but i have a good hope that's all over and done with now, and that at last i've found the thing myself." and katherine, still charmed, still anxious, looked down at him wondering, for there was a perceptible undercurrent of emotion beneath the lightness of his speech. "however, all that will keep," he continued.--"how did you enjoy your church? did dear old julius distinguish himself? how did he preach?" and katherine, still wondering, again answered literally. "very beautifully," she said, "with an unusual force and pathos. he took the congregation not a little by storm. he fairly carried us away. he was eloquent, and that with a simplicity which made one question whether he did not speak out of some pressing personal experience."--katherine's manner was touched by a pretty edge of pique.--"really i believed i knew all about julius and his doings by this time, but it seems i don't! i think i must find out. it would vex me that anything should happen in which he needed sympathy, and that i did not offer it.--his subject was the answer to prayer and the fulfilment of prophecy--and how both come, come surely and directly, yet often in so different a form to that which, in our narrowness of vision and dulness of sense, we anticipate, that we fail to recognise either the answer or the fulfilment, and so miss the blessing they must needs bring, and which is so richly, so preciously, ours if we had but the wit to understand and lay hold of it." whereupon richard smiled again. "yes," he said, "very probably julius did speak out of personal experience, or rather vicarious experience. however, i don't think he need worry this time, at least i hope not. the answer to prayer and fulfilment of prophecy, when they're good enough to come along, don't always get the cold shoulder."--then his expression changed, hardened a little, his lips growing thin and his jaw set.--"look here, mother," he added, "i think perhaps i have been rather playing the fool lately, since we came home. i propose to take to the ordinary habits of civilised, christian man again. if it doesn't bother you, would you kindly let the servants know that i'm coming down to luncheon?" "oh! my dearest, how stupid of me, i'm so grieved!" katherine cried. she sat down beside him on the cushioned bench, dropping service books, handkerchief, and violets, in the extremity of her gentle and apologetic distress.--"it never occurred to me that you might like to come down. the newlands people came over to church, and i brought mary and the two boys back. godfrey is over from eton for the sunday, and little dick has had a cold and has not gone back to school yet. what can we do? it would be lovely to have you, and yet i don't quite know how i can send them away again." "but why on earth should they be sent away?" richard said, touched and amused by her earnestness. "mary's always a dear, and i've been thinking lately i shouldn't mind seeing something of that younger boy. he is my godson, isn't he? and knott tells me he is curiously like you and uncle roger. you see it's about time to select an heir-apparent for brockhurst. luckily i've a free hand. my life's the last in the entail." then, looking at him, lady calmady's lips trembled a little. health had returned and with it his former good looks, but matured, spiritualised, as it seemed to her just now. the livid line of the scar had died out too, and was nearly gone. and all this, taken in connection with his words just uttered, affected her to so great and poignant a love, so great and poignant a fear of losing him, that she dared not trust herself to make any comment on those same words lest the flood-gates of emotion should be opened and she should lose her self-control. "very well, dickie," she said, bowing her head.--then she added quickly, with a little gasp of renewed distress and apology:--"but--but, oh! dear me, honoria is here too!" whereat richard laughed outright. he could not help it, she was so vastly engaging in her distress. "all right," he said, "i am equal to accepting honoria st. quentin into the bargain. in short, mother dear, i take over the lot, and if anybody else turns up between now and two o'clock i'll take them over as well.--why, why, you dear sweet, don't look so scared! there's nothing to trouble about. i'm not too good to live, never fear. on the contrary, i am prepared to do quite a fine amount of living--only on new and more modest lines perhaps. but we won't talk about that just yet, please. we'll wait to give it a name until we're a little more sure how it promises to work out." chapter vii wherein two enemies are seen to cry quits godfrey ormiston scudded along the terrace, past the dining-room windows, at the top of his speed, and miss st. quentin followed him at a hardly less unconventional pace. together they burst, by the small, arched side-door, into the lobby. there ensued discussion lively though brief. then, winter setting wide the dining-room door in invitation, sight of honoria was presented to the company assembled within.--she, in brave attire of dark, red cloth, black braided and befrogged, heavy, silk cords and knotted, dangling tassels--head-gear to match, dark red and black, a tall, stiff aigrette set at the side of it--in all producing a something delightfully independent, soldierly, ruffling even, in her aspect, as she pushed the black-haired, bright-faced, slim-made lad, her two hands on his shoulders, before her into the room. "may we come to luncheon as we are, cousin katherine?" she cried. "we're scandalously late, but we're also most ferociously hungry and----" but here, although lady calmady turned on her a welcoming and far from unjoyful countenance, she stopped dead, while godfrey incontinently gave vent to that which his younger brother--sitting beside his mother, mary ormiston, at table, on richard calmady's right--described mentally as "the most awful squawk." which squawk, it may be added--whatever its effect upon other members of the company--as denoting involuntary and unceremonious descent from the high places of thirteen-year-old, public-school omniscience on the part of his elder, produced in eight-year-old dick ormiston such overflowings of unqualified rapture that, for a good two minutes, he had to forego assimilation of chocolate _soufflet_, and, slipping his hands beneath the table, squeeze them together just as hard as ever he could with both knees, to avoid disgracing himself by emission of an ecstatic giggle. for once he had got the whip hand of godfrey!--having himself, for the best part of an hour now, been conversant with interesting developments, he found it richly diverting to behold his big brother thus incontinently bowled over by sudden disclosure of them. he repressed the giggle, with the help of squeezing knees and a certain squirming all down his neat, little back, but his blue eyes remained absolutely glued to godfrey's person, as the latter, recovering his presence of mind and good manners, proceeded solemnly up to the head of the table to greet his unlooked-for host. honoria, meanwhile, if guiltless of an audible squawk, had been--as she subsequently reflected--potentially alarmingly capable of some such primitive expression of feeling. for the shock of surprise which she suffered was so forcible, that it induced in her an absurd unreasoning instinct of flight. indeed, that had happened, or rather was in process of happening, which revolutionised all her outlook. for that the unseen presence, consciousness of which had come to be so constant a quantity in her action and her thought, should thus declare itself in visible form, be materialised, become concrete, and that instantly, without prologue or preparation, projecting itself wholesale--so to speak--into the comfortable commonplaces of a sunday luncheon--after her slightly uproarious race home with a perfectly normal schoolboy, from morning church too--affected her much as sudden intrusion of the supernatural might. it modified all existing relations, introducing a new and, as yet, incalculable element. nor had she quite yet realised what power the unseen richard calmady, these many years, had exercised over her imagination, until richard calmady seen, was there evident, actually before her. then all the harsh judgments she had passed upon him, all the disapproval of, and dislike she had felt towards, him, flashed through her mind. and that matter too of his cancelled engagement!--the last time she had seen him was in the house in lowndes square, on the night of lady louisa barking's great ball, standing--she could see all that now--it was as if photographed upon her brain--always would be--and it turned her a little sick.--nevertheless it was impossible to pause any longer. it would be ridiculous to fly, so she must stick it out. that best of good samaritans, mary ormiston, began talking to julius march across the length of the table. "oh dear, yes, of course," she was saying. "but i never realised she was a sister of your old oxford friend. i wish i had. it would have been so pleasant to talk about you and about home in that far country! her husband is in the rifle brigade, and she really is a nice, dear woman. i saw a great deal of her while we were at the cape." and so, under cover of mary's kindly conversation, miss st. quentin settled down into her lazy, swinging stride. her small head carried high, her pale, sensitive face very serious, her straight eyebrows drawn together by concentration of purpose, concentration of thought, she followed the boy up the long room. as she came towards him, richard calmady looked full at her. his head was carried somewhat high too. his face was very still. his eyes--with those curiously small pupils to them--were very observant, in effect hiding rather than revealing his thought. his manner, as he held out his hand to her, was courteous, even friendly, and yet, notwithstanding her high and fearless spirit, honoria--for the first time in her life probably--felt afraid. and then she began to understand how it came about that, whether he behaved well or ill, whether he was good or bad, cruel or kind, seen or unseen even, richard, of necessity, could not but occupy a good deal of space in the lives of all persons brought into close contact with him. for she recognised in him a rather tremendous creature, self-contained, not easily accessible, possessed of a larger portion than most men of energy and resolution, possessed too--and this, as she thought of it, again turned her a trifle sick--of an unusual capacity of suffering. "i am ashamed of being so dreadfully late," she said as she slipped into the vacant place on his left.--godfrey ormiston was beyond her, next to julius march.--honoria was aware that her voice sounded slightly unsteady, in part from her recent scamper, in part from a queer emotion which seemed to clutch at her throat.--"but we walked home over the fields and by the warren, and just in that boggy bit where you cross the welsh-road, godfrey found the slot of a red-deer in the snow, and naturally we both had to follow it up." "naturally," richard said. "i'm not so sure it was a red-deer, honoria," the boy broke in. "oh yes, it was," she declared as she helped herself to a cutlet. "it couldn't have been anything else." "why not?" richard asked. he was interested by the tone of assurance in which she spoke. "oh, well, the tracks were too big for a fallow-deer to begin with. and then there's a difference, you can't mistake it if you've ever compared the two, in the cleft of the hoof." "and you have compared the two?" "oh, certainly," honoria answered.--she was beginning to recover her nonchalance of manner and indolent slowness of speech. "i lose no opportunity of acquiring odds and ends of information. one never knows when they may come in handy." she looked at him as she spoke, and her upper lip shortened and her eyes narrowed into a delightful smile--a smile, moreover, which had the faintest trace of an asking of pardon in it. and it struck richard that there was in her expression and bearing a transparent sincerity, and that her eyes--now narrowed as she smiled--were not the clear, soft brown they appeared at a distance to be, but an indefinable colour, comparable only to the dim, yet clear, green gloom which haunts the under-spaces of an ilex grove upon a summer day. he turned his head rather sharply. he did not want to think about matters of that sort. he was grateful to this young lady for the devoted care she had bestowed on his mother--but, otherwise her presence was only a part of that daily discipline which must be cheerfully undertaken in obedience to the exigencies of his new and fair idea. "probably it is a deer that has broken out of windsor great park and traveled," he said. "they do that sometimes, you know." but here small dick ormiston, whose spirits, lately pirouetting on giddy heights of felicity, had suffered swift declension bootwards at mention of his thrilling adventure in which, alas, he had neither lot nor part, projected himself violently into the conversational arena. "mother," he piped, his words tumbling one over the other in his eagerness--"mother, i expect it's the same deer that grandpapa was talking about when lord shotover came over to tea last friday, and wanted to know if honoria wasn't back at newlands again. and then he and grandpapa yarned, don't you know. because, cousin richard--it must have been while you were away last year--the buckhounds met at bagshot and ran through frimley and right across spendle flats----" "no, they didn't, cousin richard," godfrey interrupted. "they ran through the bottom of sandyfield lower wood." "but they lost--any way they lost, cousin richard," the younger boy cried.--"you weren't there, godfrey, so you can't know what grandpapa said. he said they lost somewhere just into brockhurst, and he told lord shotover how they beat up the country for nearly a week, and how they never found it, and had to give it up as a bad job and go home again. and--and--lord shotover said, rotten bad sport, stag-hunting, unless you get it on exmoor, where they're not carted and they don't saw their antlers off. he said meets of the buckhounds ought to be called stockbroker's parade, that was about all they amounted to. and so, cousin richard, i think,--don't you, mother--that this must be that same deer?" whereat the elder dick's expression, which had grown somewhat dark at the mention of lord shotover, brightened sensibly again. and, for cause unknown, he looked at honoria, smiling amusedly, before saying to the very voluble small sportsman:-- "to be sure, dick. your arguments are unanswerable, convincingly sound. no reasonable man could have a doubt about it! of course it's the same deer." and so the luncheon finished gaily enough, though miss st. quentin was conscious her contributions to the cultivation of that same gaiety were but spasmodic. she dreaded the conclusion of the meal, fearing lest then she might be called upon to behold richard calmady once again, as she had beheld him--now just on six years ago--in the half dismantled house in lowndes square, on the night of lady louisa barking's ball. and from that she shrank, not with her former physical repulsion towards the man himself, but with the moral repulsion of one compelled against his will to gaze upon a pitifully cruel sight, the suffering of which he is powerless to lessen or amend. the short, light-made crutches, lying on the floor by the young man's chair, shocked her as the callous exhibition of some unhappy prisoner's shackling-irons might. it constituted an indignity offered to the richard sitting here beside her, so much as to think of, let alone look at, that same richard when on foot. therefore it was with an oddly mingled relief and sense of playing traitor, that she rose with the rest of the little company and left him by himself. she was thankful to escape, though all the while her inherent loyalty tormented her with accusation of meanness, as of one who deserts a comrade in distress. but here the small dick, to whom such complex refinements of sensibility were as yet wholly foreign, created a diversion by prancing round from the far side of the table and forcibly seizing her hand. he was jealous of the large share godfrey had to-day secured of her society. he meant to have his innings. so he rubbed his curly head against her much braided elbow, butting her lovingly in the exuberance of his affection as some nice, little ram-lamb might. but just as they reached the door, through which lady calmady and the rest of the party had already passed, the boy drew up short. "i say, hold on half a minute, honoria, please," he said. and then, turning round, his cheeks red as peonies, he marched back to where richard sat alone at the head of the table. "in case--in case, don't you know," he began, stuttering in the excess of his excitement--"in case, cousin richard, mummy didn't quite take in what you said at the beginning of luncheon--you did mean for really that i was to come and stay here in the summer holidays, and that you'd take me out, don't you know, and show me your horses?" and to honoria, glancing at them, there was a singular, and almost tragic, comment on life in the likeness, yet unlikeness, of those two faces.--the features almost identical, the same blue eyes, the two heads alike in shape, each with the same close-fitted, bright-brown cap of hair. but the boy's face flushed, without afterthought or qualification of its eager happiness--the man's colourless, full of reserve, almost alarmingly self-contained and still. yet, when the elder richard's answer came, it was altogether gentle and kindly. "yes, most distinctly _for really_, dick," he said. "let there be no mistake about it. let it be clearly understood i want to have you here just as long, and just as often, as your mother and father will spare you. i'll show you the horses, never fear, and let you ride them too." "a--a--a real big one?" "just as big a one as you can straddle." richard paused.--"and i'll show you other things, if all goes well, which i'm beginning to think--and perhaps you'll think so too some day--are more important even than horses." he put his hand under the boy's chin, tipped up the ruddy, beaming, little face and kissed it. "it's a compact," he said.--"now cut along, old chap. don't you see you're keeping miss st. quentin waiting?" whereupon the small richard started soberly enough, being slightly impressed by something--he knew not quite what--only that it made him feel awfully fond, somehow, of this newly discovered cousin and namesake. but, about half-way down the room, that promise of a horse, a thorough-bred, and just as big as he could straddle, swept all before it, rendering his spirits uncontrollably explosive. so he made a wild rush and flung himself headlong upon the waiting honoria. "oh! you want to bear-fight, do you? two can play at that game," she cried, "you young rascal!" then without apparent effort, or diminution of her lazy grace, the elder richard saw her pick the boy up by his middle, and, notwithstanding convulsive wrigglings on his part, throw him across her shoulder and bear him bodily away through the lobby, into the hall, and out of sight. hence it fell out that not until quite late that evening did the moment so dreaded by miss st. quentin actually arrive. in furtherance of delay she practised a diplomacy not altogether flattering to her self-respect, coming down rather late for dinner, and retiring immediately after that meal to the gun-room, under plea of correspondence which must be posted at farley in time for to-morrow's day mail. she was even late for prayers in the chapel, so that, taking her accustomed place next to lady calmady in the last but one of the stalls upon the epistle-side, she found all the members of the household, gentle and simple alike, already upon their knees. the household mustered strong that night, a testimony, it may be supposed, to feudal as much as to religious feeling. in the seats immediately below her were an array of women-servants, declining from the high dignities of mrs. reynolds the housekeeper, the faithful clara, and her own lanky and loyal north-country woman faulstich, to a very youthful scullery maid, sitting just without the altar rails at the end of the long row. opposite were not only winter, bates the steward, powell, andrews, and the other men-servants, but chaplin, heading a detachment from the house stables, and--unexampled occurrence!--gnudi the italian _chef_, with his air of gentle and philosophic melancholy and his anarchic sentiments in theology and politics, liable,--these last--when enlarged on, to cause much fluttering in the dove-cote of the housekeeper's room.--"to hear signer gnudi talk sometimes made your blood run cold. it seemed as if you couldn't be safe anywhere from those wicked foreign barricades and massacres," as clara put it. and yet, in point of fact, no milder man ever larded a woodcock or stuffed it with truffles. alone, behind all these, in the first of the row of stalls with their carven spires and dark vaulted canopies, sat richard calmady, whom all his people had thus come forth silently to welcome. but, through prayer and psalm and lesson alike, as miss st. quentin noted, he remained immovable, to her almost alarmingly cold and self-concentrated. only once he turned his head, leaning a little forward and looking towards the purple, and silver, and fair, white flowers of the altar, and the clear shining of the altar lights. "then shall the righteous answer him, saying, lord, when saw we thee an hungered and fed thee? or thirsty and gave thee drink? when saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked and clothed thee? or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee? and the king shall answer and say unto them, verily i say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." the words were given out by julius march, not only with an exquisite distinctness of enunciation, but with a ring of assurance, of sustaining and thankful conviction. richard leaned back in his stall again, looking across at his mother. while honoria, taken with a sensitive fear of inquiring into matters not rightfully hers to inquire into, hastily turned her eyes upon her open prayer-book. they must have many things to say to one another, that mother and son, as she divined, to-day,--far be it from her to attempt to surprise their confidence! she rose from her knees, cutting her final petitions somewhat short, directly the last of the men-servants had filed out of the chapel, and, crossing the chapel-room, a tall, pale figure in her trailing, white, evening dress, she pulled back the curtain of the oriel window, opened one of the curved, many-paned casements and looked out. she was curiously moved, very sensible of a deeper drama going forward around her, going forward in her own thought--subtly modifying and transmuting it--than she could at present either explain or place. the night was cloudy and very mild. a soft, sobbing, westerly wind, with the smell of coming rain in it, saluted her as she opened the casement. the last of the frost must be gone, by now, even in the hollows--the snow wholly departed also. the spring, though young and feeble yet, puling like some ailing baby-child in the voice of that softly-complaining, westerly wind, was here, very really present at last. honoria leaned her elbows on the stone window-ledge. her heart went out in strong emotion of tenderness towards that moist wind which seemed to cry, as in a certain homelessness, against her bare arms and bare neck.--"inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these my brethren----" but just then katherine calmady called to her, and that in a sweet, if rather anxious, tone. "honoria, dear child, come here," she said. "richard is putting me through the longer catechism regarding those heath fires in august year, and the state of the woods." then, as the young lady approached her, lady calmady laid one hand on her arm, looking up in quick and loving appeal at the serious and slightly troubled face. "my answers only reveal the woeful greatness of my ignorance. my geography has run mad. i am planting forests in the midst of corn-fields, so dickie assures me, and making hay generally--as you, my dear, would say--of the map." still her eyes dwelt upon honoria's in insistent and loving appeal. "come," she said, "explain to him, and save me from further exposition of my own ignorance." thus admonished the young lady sat down on the low sofa beside richard calmady. as she did so katherine rose and moved away. honoria determined to see only the young man's broad shoulders, his irreproachable dress clothes, his strangely still and very handsome face. but, since there was no concealing rug to cover them, it was impossible that she should long avoid also seeing his shortened and defective limbs and oddly shod feet. and at that she winced and shrank a little, for all her high spirit and inviolate, maidenly strength. "oh yes! those fires!" she said hurriedly. "there were several--you remember, cousin katherine?--or i dare say you don't, for you were ill all the time. but the worst was on spendle flats. you know that long three-cornered bit"--she looked richard bravely in the face again--"which lies between the portsmouth road and our crossroad to farley? it runs into a point just at the top of star hill." "yes, i know," dickie said. he had seen her wince.--well, that wasn't wonderful! she could not very well do otherwise, if she had eyes in her head. he did not blame her. and then, though it was not easy to do so with entire serenity, this was precisely one of those small unpleasant incidents which, in obedience to his new code, he was bound to accept calmly, good-temperedly, just as part of the day's work, in fact. he had done with malingering. he had done with the egoism of sulking and hiding--even to the extent of a _couvre-pieds_. all right, here it was!--richard settled his shoulders squarely against the straight, stuffed back of the chippendale sofa, and talked on. "it's a pity that bit is burnt," he said. "i haven't been over that ground for nearly six years, of course. but i remember there were very good trees there--a plantation at the top end, just before you come to the big gravel-pits, and the rest self-sown. are they all gone?" "licked as clean as the back of your hand," honoria replied, warming to her subject. "they hardly repaid felling for firewood. it made me wretched. some idiot threw down a match, i suppose. there had been nearly a month's drought, and the whole place was like so much tinder. there was an easterly breeze too. you can imagine the blaze! we hadn't the faintest chance. poor, old iles lost his head completely, and sat down with his feet in a dry ditch and wept. there must be over two hundred acres of it. it's a dreadful eyesore, perfectly barren and useless, but for a little sour grass even a gipsy's donkey has to be hard up before he cares to eat!"--miss st. quentin shifted her position with a certain impatience. "i can't bear to see the land doing no work," she said. "doing no work?" dickie inquired. he began to be interested in the conversation from other than a purely practical and local standpoint. "of course," she asserted. "the land has no more right to lie idle than any of the rest of us--unless it's a bit of tilth sweetening in fallow between two crops. that is reasonable enough. but for the rest," she said, a certain brightness and self-forgetting gaining on her--"let it contribute its share all the while, like an honest citizen of the universe. let it work, most decidedly let it work." "and what about such trifles as the few hundred square miles of desert or mountain range?" richard inquired, half amused, half--and that rather unwillingly--charmed. "they are liable to be a thorn in the side of the--well, socialist." "oh, i've no quarrel with them. they come under a different head."--honoria's manner had ceased to be in any degree embarrassed, though a slight perplexity came into her expression. for just then she remembered, somehow, her pacings of the station platform at culoz, the salutation of the bleak, pure, evening wind from out the fastnesses of the alps, and all her conversation there with her faithful admirer, ludovic quayle. and it occurred to her what singular contrast in sentiment that bleak evening wind offered to the mild, moist, westerly wind--complaint of the homeless baby, spring--which had just now cried against her bosom! and again honoria became conscious of being in contact, both in herself and in her surroundings, with more coercing, more vital drama than she could either interpret or place. again something of fear invaded her, to combat which she hurried into speech.--"no, i haven't any quarrel with deserts and so on," she repeated. "they're uncommonly useful things for mankind to knock its head against--invincible, unnegotiable, splendidly competent to teach humanity its place. you see we've grown not a little conceited--so at least it seems to me--on our evolutionary journey up from the primordial cell. we're too much inclined to forget we've developed soul quite comparatively recently, and, therefore, that there is probably just as long a journey ahead of us--before we reach the ultimate of intellectual and spiritual development--as there is behind us physically from, say the parent ascidian, to you and me. and--and somehow"--honoria's voice had become full and sweet, and she looked straight at dickie with a rare candour and simplicity--"somehow those big open spaces remind one of all that. they drive one's ineffectualness home on one. they remind one that environment, that mechanical civilisation, all the short cuts of applied science, after all count for little and inevitably come to the place called _stop_. and that braces one. it makes one the more eager after that which lies behind the material aspects of things, and to which these merely act as a veil." honoria had bowed herself together. her elbows were on her knees, her chin in her two hands, her charming face alight with a pure enthusiasm. and richard watched her curiously. his acquaintance with women was fairly comprehensive, but this woman represented a type new to his experience. he wanted to tolerate her merely, to regard her as an element in his scheme of self-discipline. and it began to occur to him that, from some points of view, she knew as much about that, as much about the idea inspiring it, as he did. he leaned himself back in the angle of the sofa, and clasped his hands behind his head. "all the same," he said, "i am afraid those burnt acres on spendle flats are hardly extensive enough to afford an object for me to knock my head against, and so enforce salutary remembrance of the limitations of human science. possibly that has already been sufficiently brought home to me in other ways." he paused a minute. honoria straightened herself up. again she saw--whether she would or no--those defective shortened limbs and oddly shod feet. and again, somehow, that complaint of the moist spring wind seemed to cry against her bare arms and neck, begetting an overwhelming pitifulness in her. "so, since it's not necessary we should reserve it as an object lesson in general ineffectualness, miss st. quentin, what shall we do with it?" "oh, plant," she said. "with the ubiquitous scotchman?" "it wouldn't carry anything else, except along the boundaries. there you might put in a row of horn-beam and oak. they always look rather nice against a background of firs.--only the stumps of the burnt trees ought to be stubbed." "let them be stubbed," richard said. "where are you going to find the labour? the estate is very much under-manned." "import it," richard said. "no, no," honoria answered, again warming to her subject. "i don't believe in imported labour. if you have men by the week, they must lodge. and the lodger is as the ten plagues of egypt in a village. if a man comes by the day, he is tired and slack. his heart is not in his work. he does as little as he can. moreover, in either case, the wife and children suffer. he's certain to take them home short money. he's pretty safe, being tired in the one case, or, in the other, on the loose, to drink." dickie's face gave. he laughed a little. "we seem to have come to a fine _impasse_!" he remarked. "though humiliatingly small, that tract of burnt land must clearly be kept to knock one's head against." honoria rose to her feet. "richard, i wish you'd build," she said, in her earnestness unconscious of the unceremonious character of her address. "iles ought to have done that before now. but he is old and timid, and his one idea has been to save. you know this brockhurst property alone would carry eight or ten more families. there's plenty of work. it needn't be made. it is there ready to hand. give them good gardens, allotments if you can, and leave to keep a pig. that's infinitely better than extravagant wages. root them down in the soil. let them love the place--tie them up to it----" "your socialism is rather quaintly crossed with feudalism, isn't it?" dickie remarked. he drew himself forward, slipped down off the sofa, stood upright. and then, indeed, the cruel disparity between his stature and her own--for tall though she was, he, by right of make and length of arm, should evidently have been by some two or three inches the taller--and all the grotesqueness of his deformity, were fully disclosed to honoria. for the second time that day, her tact, her presence of mind, her ready speech, deserted her. she backed a little away from him. and richard perceived that. it is not easy to be absolutely philosophic. something of his old anger revived towards miss st. quentin. he shuffled forward a step or two, and, steadying himself with one hand on the arm of the sofa, reached down to pick up his crutches. but his grasp was not very sure just then. he secured one. to his intense annoyance the other escaped him, falling back on the floor with a rattle. then, instantly, before he could make effort to recover it, honoria's white figure swept down on one knee in front of him. she laid hold of the crutch, gave it him silently, and rose to her full height again, pale, gallant, stately, but with a quivering of her lips and nostrils, and an amazement of regret and pity in her eyes, which very certainly had never found place there heretofore. "thanks," richard said.--he waited just a minute. he too was amazed somehow. he needed to revise the position. "about those eight or ten happy families whom you wish to root so firmly in the soil, and the housing of them--are you busy to-morrow morning?" "oh no--no"--honoria declared, with rather unnecessary emphasis. generosity should surely be met by generosity. dickie leaned his arm against the arm of the sofa, and looked up at the speaker. her transparent sincerity, her superb chastity--he could call it by no other word--of manner and movement, even of outline--the slight angularity of strong muscle as opposed to soft roundness of cushioned flesh--these arrested and impressed him. "i had chifney up from the stables this afternoon and made my peace with him," he said. "he was very full of your praises, honoria--for the cousinship may as well be acknowledged between us, don't you think? you have supplemented my lapses in respect of him, as of a good deal else."--richard looked away to the door of lady calmady's bedroom. it stood open, and katherine came from within with some books, and a silver candlestick, in her hands. "my dears," she said, "do you know it grows very late?" "all right," he answered, "we're making out some plans for to-morrow."--he looked at honoria again. "chifney engaged he and chaplin would find a horse, between them, which could be trusted to--well--to put up with me," he said. "i promised to go down and have breakfast with dear mrs. chifney at the stables, but i can be back here by eleven. would you be inclined to come out with me then? we could ride over to that burnt land and have a poke round for sites for your cottages." "oh yes, indeed, i can come," honoria answered. her delightful smile beamed forth, and it had a new and very delicate charm in it. for it so happened that the woman in her whom--to use her own phrase--she had condemned to solitary confinement in the back attic, beat very violently against her prison door just then in attempt to escape. "dear cousin katherine, good-night. good-night, richard," she said hurriedly.--she went out of the room, lazily, slowly, down the black, polished staircase, across the great, silent hall, and along the farther lobby. but she let the gun-room door bang to behind her and flung herself down in the armchair--in which, by the way, the old bull-dog had died a year ago, broken-hearted by over long waiting for the homecoming of his absent master. and then honoria, though the least tearful of women, wept--not in petulant anger, or with the easy, luxuriously sentimental overflow common to feminine humanity, but reluctantly, with hard, irregular sobs which hurt, yet refused to be stifled, since the extreme limit of emotional and mental endurance had been reached. "oh, it's fine!" she said, half aloud. "i can see that it's fine--but, dear god, is there no way out of it? it's so horribly, so unspeakably sad." and richard remained on into the small hours, sitting before the dying fire of the big hearth-place, at the eastern end of the gallery. mentally he audited his accounts, the profit and loss of this day's doing, and, on the whole, the balance showed upon the profit side. verily it was only a day of small things, of very humble ambitions, of far from world-shaking successes! still four persons, he judged, he had made a degree or so happier.--his mother rejoiced, though with trembling as yet, at his return to the ordinary habits of the ordinary man.--sweet, dear thing, small wonder that she trembled! he had led her such a dance in the past, that any new departure must give cause for anxious questionings. dickie sunk his head in his hands.--god forgive him, what a dance he had led her!--and julius march was happier--he, richard, was pretty certain of that--since julius could not but understand that, in the present case at all events, neither fulfilment of prophecy nor answer to prayer had been disregarded.--and the hard-bitten, irascible, old trainer, tom chifney, was happier--probably really the happiest of the lot--since he demanded nothing more recondite and far-reaching than restoration to favour, and due recognition of the importance of his calling and of the merits of his horses.--and nice, funny, voluble, little dick ormiston was happier too. richard's heart went out strangely to the dear little lad! he wondered if it would be too much to ask mary and roger to give him the boy altogether? then he put the thought from him, judging it savoured of the selfishness, the exclusiveness, and egoism, with which he had sworn to part company forever. he stretched his hand out over the arm of the chair, craving for some creature, warm, sentient, dumbly sympathetic, to lay hold of.--he remembered there used to be a man down near alton, a hard-riding farmer, who bred bull-dogs--white ones with black points, like camp and camp's forefathers. he would tell chifney to go down there and bespeak the two best of the next litter of puppies.--yes--he wanted a dog again. it was foolish perhaps, but after all one did want something, and, since other things were denied, a dog must do--and he wanted one badly.--yet the day had been a success on the whole. he had been true to his code. only--and richard shrugged his shoulders rather wearily--it had got to be begun all over again to-morrow, and next day, and next--an endless perspective of to-morrows. and the poor flesh, with its many demands, its delicious and iniquitous passions, its enchantments, its revelations, its adorable languors, its drunken heats, must it have nothing, nothing at all? must that whole side of things be ruled out forever?--he had no more desire for mistresses, god forbid--helen, somehow, had cleansed him of all possibility of that. and he would never ask any woman to marry him. the sacrifice on her part would be too great.--he thought of little lady constance.--simply, it was not right.--so, practically, the emotional joys of life were reduced to this--they must consist solely in giving--giving--giving--of time, sympathy, thought and money! a far from ignoble programme no doubt, but a rather austere one for a man of liberal tastes, of varied experience, and of barely thirty.--and he was as strong as a bull now. he knew that. he might live to be ninety.--yes, he thought he would ask for little dick ormiston. the boy would be an amusement and interest him.--and then suddenly the vision of honoria st. quentin, in her red and black-braided gown, with that air of something ruffling and soldierly about it, whipping the small dick up in her strong arms, throwing him across her shoulder and bearing him off bodily, and of honoria later, her sensitive face all alight, as she discoursed of the ultimate aim and purpose of life and of living, came before him. above her white dress, he could see her white and finely angular shoulders as she swept down to pick up that wretched crutch.--yes, she was a being of singular contrasts, of remarkable capacity, both mental and practical! and she might have a heart--she might. once or twice it had looked rather like it.--but, after all, what did that matter? the feminine side of things was excluded. besides he supposed she was half engaged to ludovic quayle. dickie yawned. he was sleepy. his meditations became unprofitable. he had best go to bed. "and the devil fly away with all women, saving and excepting my well beloved mother," he said. chapter viii concerning the brotherhood founded by richard calmady, and other matters of some interest it was still very sultry. all the windows of the red drawing-room stood wide open. outside the thunder rain fell, straight as ramrods, in big globular drops, which spattered upon the gray quarries and splashed on the pink and lilac, lemon-yellow, scarlet and orange of the pot plants,--hydrangeas, pelargoniums, and early-flowering chrysanthemums,--set, three deep, along the base of the house wall, the whole length of the terrace front. the atmosphere was thick. masses of purple cloud, lurid light crowning their summits, boiled up out of the southeast. but the worst of the storm was already over, and the parched land, grateful for the downpour of rain, exhaled a whiteness of smoke--as in thanksgiving from off some altar of incense. on the grass slopes of the near park a flight of rooks had alighted. they stalked and strode over the withered turf with a self-important, quaintly clerical air, seeking provender, but, so far, finding none, since the moisture had not yet sufficiently penetrated the hardened soil for earth-worms and kindred creeping-things to move surfacewards. within, the red drawing-room had suffered conspicuous change. for, on richard moving down-stairs to his old quarters in the southwestern wing of the house, lady calmady had judged it an act of love, rather than of desecration, to restore this long-disused apartment to its former employment. adjoining the dining-room,--connecting this last with the billiard-room, summer-parlour, and garden-hall,--this room was convenient to assemble in before, and sit in for a while after, meals. richard would thereby be saved superfluous journeys up-stairs. and this act of restitution, which was also in a sense an act of penitence, once decided upon, katherine carried it forward with a certain gentle ardour, renewing crimson carpets and hangings and disposing the furniture according to its long-ago positions. the memory of what had once been should remain forever here enshrined, but with the glad colours of life, not the faded ones of unforgiven death upon it. it satisfied her conscience to do this. for it appeared to her that so very much of good had been granted her of late, so large a measure of peace and hope vouchsafed to her, that it was but fitting she should bear testimony to her awareness of all that by obliteration of the last outward sign of the rebellion of her sorrowful youth. the richard of to-day, homestaying, busy with much kindness, thoughtful of her comfort, honouring her with delicate courtesies--which to whoso receives them makes her womanhood a privilege rather than a burden--yet teasing her not a little, too, in the security of a fair and equal affection, bore such moving resemblance to that other richard, first master of her heart, that katherine could afford to cancel the cruelty of certain memories, retaining only the lovelier portion of them, and could find a peculiar sweetness in frequentation of this room, formerly devoted wholly to a sense of injury and blackness of hate. and on the day in question, katherine's presence exhaled a specially tender brightness, even as the thirsty earth, refreshed by the thunder rain, sent up a rare whiteness as of incense smoke. for she had been somewhat anxious about dickie lately. to her sensitive observation of him, his virtue, his evenness of temper, his reasonableness, had come to have in them a pathetic element. he was lovely and pleasant in his ways. but sometimes, when tired or off his guard, she had surprised an expression on his face, a constrained patience of speech, even of attitude, which made her fear he had given her but that half of his confidence calculated to cheer, while he kept the half calculated to sadden rather rigorously to himself. and, in good truth, richard did suffer somewhat at this period. the first push of enthusiastic conviction had passed, while his new manner of conduct and of thought had not yet acquired the stability of habit. the tide was low. shallows and sand-bars disclosed themselves. he endured the temptations arising from the state known to saintly writers as "spiritual dryness," and found those temptations of an inglorious and wholly unheroic sort. and, though he held his peace, katherine feared for him--feared that the way he elected to walk in was over-strait, and that, though resolution would hold, health might be overstrained. "my darling, you never grumble now," she had said to him a few days back. to which he answered:-- "poor, dear mother, have i cheated you of one of your few, small pleasures? was it so very delightful to listen to that same grumbling?" "i begin to believe it was," katherine declared. "it conferred a unique distinction upon me, you see, because i had a comfortable conviction you grumbled to nobody else. one is jealous of distinction. yes--i think i miss it, dickie." whereupon he laughed and kissed her, and swore he'd grumble fast enough if there was anything--which positively there wasn't--to grumble about. all of which, though it charmed katherine, appeased her anxiety but moderately. the young man worked too hard. his opportunities of amusement were too scant. katherine cast about in thought, and in prayer, for some lightening of his daily life, even if such lightening should lessen the completeness of his dependence upon herself. and it was just at this juncture that miss st. quentin wrote proposing to come to brockhurst for a week. she had not been there since the whitsuntide recess. she wrote from ormiston, where she was staying on her way south, after paying a round of country-house visits in scotland. it was now late september. she would probably go to cairo for the winter with young lady tobermory--grandniece by marriage of her late godmother and benefactress--whose lungs were pronounced to be badly touched. might she, therefore, come to brockhurst to say good-bye? and to this proposed visit richard offered no opposition, though he received the announcement of it without any marked demonstration of pleasure.--oh, by all means let her come! of course it must be a pleasure to his mother to have her. and he'd got on very well with her in the spring--unquestionably he had.--richard's expression was slightly ironical.--but he did really like her?--oh dear, yes, he liked her exceedingly. she was quite curiously clever, and she was sincere, and she was rather beautiful too, in her own style--he had always thought that. by all means have her.--after which conversation richard went for a long ride, inspected cottages in building at sandyfield, visited a house, undergoing extensive, internal alterations, which stands back from clerke's green, about a hundred yards short of appleyard, the saddler's shop at farley row. he came in late. unusual silence held him during dinner. and lady calmady took herself to task, reproaching herself with selfishness. honoria was very dear to her, and so, only too probably, she had overrated the friendliness of dickie's attitude towards the young lady. but they had seemed to get on so extremely well in the spring, and very fairly well at whitsuntide! yet, perhaps, in that, as in so much else, richard put a constraint upon himself, obeying conscience rather than inclination. katherine was perturbed. nor had her perturbations suffered diminution yesterday, upon miss st. quentin's arrival. richard remained unexpansive. to-day, however, matters had improved. something--possibly the thunderstorm--seemed to have thawed his coldness, broken up his reticence of manner. therefore katherine gave thanks and moved with a lighter heart. as for miss st. quentin herself, an innate gladsomeness pervaded her aspect not easy to resist. lady calmady had been sensible of it when the young lady first greeted her that morning. it remained by her now, as she stood after luncheon at one of the open windows, watching the up-rolling thunder-cloud, the spattering raindrops, the quaintly solemn behaviour of the stalking, striding rooks. honoria was easily entertained to-day. she felt well-disposed towards every living creature. and the rooks diverted her extremely. profanely they reminded her of certain archiepiscopal garden-parties, with this improvement on the human variant, that here wives and daughters also were condemned to decent sables instead of being at liberty to array themselves according to self-invented canons of remarkably defective taste. but, though diverted, it must be owned she gave her attention the more closely to all that outward drama of storm and rain and to the antics of the rooks, because she was very conscious of the fact that richard calmady had followed her and his mother into the red drawing-room, and it hurt her--though she had now, of necessity, witnessed it many times--it hurt, it still very shrewdly distressed her, to see him walk. as she heard the soft thud and shuffle of his onward progress, followed by the little clatter of the crutches as he laid them upon the floor beside his chair, the brightness died out of honoria's face. she registered sharp annoyance against herself, for she had not anticipated that this would continue to affect her so much. she supposed she had grown accustomed to it during her last two visits to brockhurst, and that, this time, it would occasion her no shock. but the sadness of the young man's deformity remained present as ever. the indignity of it offended her. the desire by some, by any, means to mitigate the woeful circumscription of liberty and opportunity which it inflicted, wrought upon her almost painfully. and so she looked very hard at the hungry anticking rooks, both to secure time for recovery of her equanimity, and also to spare richard smallest suspicion that she avoided beholding his advance and installation. "we needn't start until four, mother," she heard him say. "but i'm afraid it is clearing." honoria turned from the window. "yes, it is clearing," she remarked, "incontestably clearing! you won't escape the grimshott function after all." "it's a nuisance having to go," richard replied. "but you see this is an old engagement. people are wonderfully civil and kind. i wish they were less so. they waste one's time. but it doesn't do to be ungracious, and we needn't stay more than half an hour, need we, mother?" he looked up at honoria. "don't you think, on the whole, you'd better come too?" he said. but the young lady shook her head smilingly. she stood close beside lady calmady. "oh dear, no," she answered. "i am quite absolutely certain i hadn't better come too." richard continued to look up at her. "half the county will be there. everything will be richly, comprehensively dull. think of it. do come," he repeated, "it would be so good for your soul." "oh, my soul's in the humour to be nobly careless of personal advantage," honoria replied. "it's in a state of almost perilously full-blown optimism regarding the security of its own salvation to-day, somehow."--her glance rested very sweetly upon lady calmady.--"and then all the rest of me--and not impossibly my soul has a word to say in that connection too--cries out to go and tramp over the steaming turf and breathe the scent of the fir woods again." honoria sat down lazily on the arm of a neighbouring easy-chair, against the crimson cover of which her striped blue-and-white, shirting dress showed excellently distinct and clear. richard's prolonged and quiet scrutiny oppressed her slightly, necessitating change of attitude and place. "and then," she continued, "i want to go down to the paddocks and have a look at the yearlings. how are they coming on? have you anything good?" "two or three promising fillies. they're in the paddock nearest the long water. you'll find them as quiet as sheep. but i'll ask you not to go in among the brood-mares and foals unless chifney is with you. they may be a bit savage and shy, and it is not altogether safe for a lady." he stretched out his hand, taking lady calmady's hand for a moment. "dear mother, you look tired. you'll have to put up with grimshott. the weather's not going to let us off. go and rest till we start." and when, a few minutes later, katharine, departing, closed the door behind her, he addressed miss st. quentin again. "how do you think my mother is?" "beautifully well." "not worried?" "no," honoria said. "you are really quite contented about her, then?" the question both surprised and touched his hearer as a friendly and gracious admission that she possessed certain rights. "oh dear, yes," she said. "i am more than contented about her. no one can fail to be so who, loving her, sees her now. there was just one thing she wanted. now she has it, and so all is well." "what one thing?" dickie asked, with a hint of irony in his manner and his voice. "why, you--you, richard," honoria said. she drew herself up proudly, a little alarmed by, a little defiant of, the directness of her own speech, perceiving, so soon as she had uttered it, that it might be construed as indirect reproach. and to administer reproach had been very far from her purpose. she fixed her eyes upon the domes of the great oaks, crowning an outstanding knoll at the far end of the lime avenue. the foliage of them, deep green shading to russet, was arrestingly solid and metallic, offering a rather magnificent scheme of stormy colour taken in connection with the hot purple of the uprolling cloud. framed by the stone work of the open window, the whole presented a fine picture in the manner of salvator rosa. a few, bright raindrops splashed and splattered, and the thunder growled far away in the north. the atmosphere was heavy. for a time neither spoke. then honoria said, gently, as one asking a favour:-- "richard, will you tell me about that home of yours? cousin katherine was speaking of it to me last night." and it seemed to her his thought must have journeyed to some far distance, and found difficulty in returning thence, it was so long before he answered her, while his face had become set, and showed colourless as wax against the surrounding crimson of the room. "oh, the home!" he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders just perceptibly. "it doesn't amount to very much. my mother in her dear unwisdom of faith and hope magnifies the value of it. it's just an idle man's fad." "a fad with an uncommon amount of backbone to it, apparently." "that depends on its eventual success. it's a thing to be judged not by intentions but by results." "what made you think of it?" richard looked full at her, spreading out his hands, and again shrugging his shoulders, slightly. again miss st. quentin accused herself of a defect of tact. "isn't it rather obvious why i should think of it?" he asked. "it seemed to me that, in a very mild and limited degree, it was calculated to meet a want."--he smiled upon her, quite sweet-temperedly, yet once more there was a flavour of irony in his tone.--"of course hideous creatures and disabled creatures are an eyesore. we pity, but we look the other way. i quite accept that. they are a nuisance, since they are a standing witness to the fact that things, here below, very far from always work smoothly and well, and that there are disasters beyond the power of applied science to put right. the ordinary human being doesn't covet to be forcibly reminded of that by means of a living object lesson." richard shifted his position, clasped his hands behind his head. he had begun speaking without idea of self-revelation, but the relief of speech, after long self-repression, took him, goading him on. old strains of feeling, kept under by conscious exercise of will, asserted themselves. he asked neither sympathy nor help. he simply called from off those shallows and sand-bars laid bare by the ebbing tide of his first enthusiasm. he protested, wearied by the spiritual dryness which had caused all effort to prove so joyless of late. to have sought relief in words before his mother would have been unpardonable, he held. she had borne enough from him in the past, and more than enough. but to permit it himself in the presence of this young, strong, capable woman of the world, was very different. she came out of the swing of society and of affairs, of large interests in politics and in thought. she would go back into those again very shortly, so what did it matter? she captivated him and incensed him alike. his relation to her had been so fertile of contradictions--at once singularly superficial and fugitive, and singularly vital. he did not care to analyse his own feelings in respect of her. he had, so he told himself, never quite cared to do that. she had wounded his pride shrewdly at times, still he had unquestioning faith in her power of comprehending his meaning as she sat there, graceful, long-limbed, indolent, in her pale dress, looking towards the window, the light on her face revealing the fine squareness of the chiselling of her profile, of her jaw, her nostril, and brow. she appeared so free of spirit, so untrammeled, so excellently exalted above all that is weak, craven, smirched by impurity, capable of baseness and deceit! "but naturally with me the case is different," he went on, his voice growing deeper, his utterance more measured. "it is futile to resent being reminded of that which, in point of fact, you never forget. it's childish for the pot to call the kettle black. and so i came to the conclusion, a few months ago, to put away all such childishness, and set myself to gain whatever advantage i could from--well--from my own blackness." honoria turned her head, averting her face yet further. richard could only see the outline of her cheek. she had never before heard him make so direct allusion to his own deformity, and it frightened her a little. her heart beat curiously quick. for it was to her as though he compelled her to draw near and penetrate a region in which, gazing thitherward questioningly from afar, she had divined the residence of stern and intimate miseries, inalienable, unremittent, taking their rise in an almost alarming distance of time and fundamentally of cause. "you see, in plain english," he said, "i look at all such unhappy beings from the inside, not, as the rest of you do, merely from the out. i belong to them and they to me. it is not an altogether flattering connection. only recently, i am afraid, have i had the honesty to acknowledge it! but, having once done so, it seems only reasonable to look up the members of my unlucky family and take care of them, and if possible put them through--not on the lines of a charitable institution, which must inevitably be a rather mechanical, stepmother kind of arrangement at best, but on the lines of family affection, of personal friendship." he paused a moment. "does that strike you as too unpractical and fantastic, contrary to sound, philanthropic principle and practice?" honoria shook her head. "it is based on a higher law than any of modern organised philanthropy," she said, and her voice had a queer unsteadiness in it. "it goes back to the gospels--to the matter of giving your life for your friend." as she spoke, honoria rose. she went across and stood at the window. furtively she dabbed her pocket handkerchief against her eyes. "well, after all, one must give one's life for something or other, you know," dickie remarked, "or the days would become a little too intolerably dull, and then one might be tempted to make short work of life altogether." honoria returned to her chair and sat down--this time not on the arm of it but in ordinary conventional fashion. she faced richard. he observed that her eyelids were slightly swollen, slightly red. this gave an extraordinary effect of gentleness to her expression. "how do you find them--the members of your sad family?" she asked. "oh, in all sorts of ways and of places! knott swears it is contrary to reason, an interfering with the beneficent tendency of nature to kill off the unfit. yet he works like a horse to help me--even talks of giving up his practice and moving to farley row, so as to be near the headquarters of my establishment. the lease of a rather charming, old house there fell in this year. fortunately the tenant did not want to renew, so i am having that made comfortable for them." richard smiled. a greater sense of well-being animated him. out of the world she had come, back into the world she would go again. meanwhile she was nobly fair to look upon, she was pure of heart, intercourse with her made for the justification of high purposes and unselfish experiment--so he thought. "i am growing as keen on bagging a fine cripple as another man might on bagging a fine tiger," he said. "the whole matter at bottom, i suspect, turns on the instinct of sport.--only the week before last i acquired a rather terribly superior specimen. a lad of eighteen, a factory hand in westchurch. he was caught by some loose gearing and swept into the machinery. what is left of him--if it survives, which it had much better not, and i can't help hoping it will, he is such a plucky, sweet-natured fellow--will require a nurse for the rest of its life. so i am pushing on the work at farley, that the home may be ready when we get him out of hospital.--by the way, i must go to-morrow and stir up the workmen. do you care to come and see it all, if the afternoon is fine and not too hot?" and honoria agreed. nor did she shrink when richard slipping out of his chair picked up his crutches.--"i suppose it is about time to get ready for the grimshott function," he said.--she walked beside him to the door, opened it and passed into the neutral-tinted, tapestry-hung dining-room. there the young man waited a moment. he looked not at her but straight before him. "honoria," he said suddenly, almost harshly, "you and helen de vallorbes used to be great friends. for more than a year i have held no communication with her, except through my lawyers. can you tell me anything about her?" miss st. quentin hesitated. "nothing very direct--i heard from de vallorbes about three months ago. i don't think i am faithless--indeed i held on to her as long as i could, richard! i am not squeamish, and then i always prefer to stand by the woman. but whatever de vallorbes may have been, he pulled himself together rather admirably from the time he went into the army. he wanted to keep straight and to live respectably. and--i hate to say so--but she treated him a little too flagrantly. and then--and then----" honoria put her hands over her eyes and shook back her head angrily. "it wasn't one man, richard." dickie went white to the lips. "i know that," he said. he moved forward a few steps. "who is it now? destournelle?" "oh no--no"--honoria said. "some russian--from the extreme east--kazan, i think--prince, millionaire, drunken savage. but he adores her. he squanders money upon her, surrounds her with barbaric state. this is de vallorbes' version of the affair. the scandal is open and notorious. but she and her prince together have great power. something will eventually be arranged in the way of a marriage. she will not come back." chapter ix telling how ludovic quayle and honoria st. quentin watched the trout rise in the long water some hour and a half later miss st. quentin passed down the flight of stone steps, leading from the southern end of the terrace to the grass slopes of the park. arrived at the lowest step she gathered the skirt of her dress up over one arm, thereby securing greater freedom of movement, and displaying a straight length of pink and white petticoat. thus prepared she fared forth over the still smoking turf. the storm had passed, but the atmosphere remained thick and humid. a certain opulence of colour obtained in the landscape. the herbs in the grass, wild-thyme, wild-balm, and star-flowered camomile, smelt strongly aromatic as she trod them under foot, while the beds of bracken, dried and yellowed by the drought, gave off a sharp, woody scent. usually, when thus alone and in contact with nature, such matters claimed honoria's whole attention, ministering to her love of earth-lore and of mother earth--producing in her silent worship of those primitive deities who at once preside over and inhabit the waste-land and the tilth, the untamed forest and the pastures where heavy-uddered, sweet-breathed cows lie in the deep, meadow grass, the garden ground, all pleasant, orchard places, and the broad promise of the waving crops. but this afternoon, although the colour, odour, warmth, and all the many voices praising the refreshment of the rain, were sensibly present to her, honoria's thought failed to be engrossed by them. for she was in process of worshipping younger and more compassionate deities, sadder, because more human, ones, whose office lies not with nature in her eternal repose and fecundity but with man in his eternal failure and unrest. not august ceres, giver of the golden harvest-fields, or fierce cybele, the goddess of the many paps, but spare, brown-habited st. francis, serving his brethren with bleeding hands and feet, held empire over her meditations.--in imagination she saw--saw with only too lively realisation of detail--that eighteen-year-old lad, in the factory at westchurch, drawn up--all the unspent hopes and pleasures of his young manhood active in him--by the loose gearing, into the merciless vortex of revolving wheels, and there, without preparation, without pause of warning, without any dignity of shouting multitude, of arena or of stake, martyred--converted in a few horrible seconds from health and wholeness into a formless lump of human waste. and up and down the land, as she reflected, wherever the great systems of trade and labour, which build up the mechanical and material prosperity of our day, go forward, kindred things happen--let alone question of all those persons who are born into the world already injured, or bearing the seeds of foul and disfiguring diseases in their organs and their blood.--verily richard calmady's sad family was a rather terribly large one, well calculated to maintain its numbers, even to increase! for neither the age of human sacrifice nor of cannibalism is really over, nor is the practice of these limited to savage peoples in distant lands or far-away isles of the sea. they form the basis actually, though in differing of outward aspect, of all existing civilisations, just as they formed the basis of all past civilisations--a basis, moreover, perpetually recemented and relaid. and, as she considered--being courageous and fair-minded--it was inevitable that this should be so, unthinkable that it should be otherwise, since it made, at least indirectly, for the prosperity of the majority and development of the race.--considering which--the apparently cruel paradox and irony of it--honoria swung down past the scattered hawthorns, thick with ruddy fruit, across the fragrant herbs and short, sweet turf, through the straggling fern-brakes, which impeded her progress, plucking at her skirts, careless of the rich colour and ample beauty outspread before her. but soon, as a bird after describing far-ranging circles drops at last upon the from at-first-determined spot, so her thought settled down, with relief yet in a way unwillingly--and that not out of any lingering repulsion, but rather from a certain proud modesty and self-respect--upon richard calmady himself. not only did he apprehend all this, far more clearly, more intimately, than she could.--had he not spoken of the advantages of a certain blackness?--honoria's vision became somewhat indistinct.--but he set out to deal with it in a practical manner. and in this connection she began to understand how it had come about that through years of ingratitude and neglect, and of loose-living, on his part, his mother could still remain patient, could endure, and supremely love. for behind the obvious, the almost coarse, tragedy and consequent appeal of the man's deformity, there was the further appeal of something very admirable in the man himself, for the emergence and due blossoming of which it would be very possible, very worth while, for whoso once recognised its existence to wait. john knott had been right in his estimate of richard. ludovic quayle had been right. lady calmady had been right.--honoria had begun to believe that, even before richard had come forth from his self-imposed seclusion, in the spring. the belief had increased during her subsequent intercourse with him, had been reinforced during her few days' visit at whitsuntide. yet, until now, she had never freely and openly admitted it. she wondered why? and then hastily she put such wondering from her. again a certain proud modesty held her back. she did not want to think of herself in relation to him, or of him in relation to herself. she wished, for a reason she refused to define, to exclude the personal element. doing that she could permit herself larger latitude of admiration. his acknowledgment of fellowship with, and obligation of friendship towards, all victims of physical disaster kindled her enthusiasm. she perceived that it was contrary to the man's natural arrogance, natural revolt against the humiliation put upon him--a rather superb overcoming, in short, of nature by grace. nor was it the outgrowth of any morbid or sentimental emotion. it had no tincture of the hysteric element. it took its rise in conviction and in experiment. for richard, though still young, struck her as remarkably mature. he had lived his life, sinned his sins--she did not doubt that--suffered unusual sorrows, bought his experience in the open market and at a sufficiently high price. and this was the result! it pleased her imagination by its essential unworldliness, its idealism and individuality of outlook. she went back on her earlier judgment of him, first formulated as a complaint,--he was strong, whether for good or evil--now unselfishly for good--and honoria, being herself among the strong, supremely valued and welcomed strength. and so it happened that the tone of her meditations altered, being increasingly attuned to a serious, but very real congratulation. for she perceived that the tragedy of human life also constitutes the magnificence of human life, since it affords, and always must afford, supreme opportunity of heroism. she had traversed the open space of turf, and come to the tall, iron hurdles enclosing the paddock. she folded her arms on the topmost bar of the iron gate and stood there. she wanted to rest a little in these thoughts that had come to her. she was not quite sure of them as yet. but, if they meant anything, if they were other than mere rhetoric, they must mean a very great deal, into harmony with which it would be necessary to bring her thought upon many other subjects. she was conscious of an excitement, a reaching out towards some but-half-disclosed glory, some new and very exquisite fulness of life. but was it new, after all? was it not rather the at-last-permitted activity of faculties and sensibilities hitherto refused development, voluntarily, perhaps cowardly, held in check and repressed? she appeared to be making acquaintance with unexpected depths of apprehension and emotion in herself. and this, for cause unknown, brought her into more lively commerce with her immediate surroundings and the sentiment of them. her eyes rested on them questioningly, as though they might afford a tally to, perhaps an explanation of, the strange, yet lovely emotion which had invaded her. here in the valley, notwithstanding the recent drought, the grass was lush. across the paddock, just within the circuit of the far railings, a grove of large beech trees broke the expanse of living green. beyond, seen beneath their down-sweeping branches, the surface of the long water repeated the hot purple, the dun-colour and silver-pink, of the sky. on the opposite slope, extending from the elm avenue to the outlying masses of the woods and upward to the line of oaks which run parallel with the park palings, were cornlands. the wheat, a red-gold, was already for the most part bound in shocks. a company of women, wearing lilac and pink sunbonnets and all-round, blue, linen aprons faded by frequent washing to a fine clearness of tone, came down over the blond stubble. they carried, in little baskets and shining tins, tea for the white-shirted harvesters who were busy setting up the storm-fallen sheaves. they laughed and talked together, and their voices came to honoria with a pleasant quality of sound. two stumbling baby-children, hand in hand, followed them, as did a small, white-and-tan, spotted dog. one woman was bareheaded and wore a black bodice, which gave a singular value to her figure amid the all-obtaining yellow of the corn. the scene in its simple and homely charm held the poetry of that happier side of labour, of that most ancient of all industries--the husbandman's--and of the generous giving of the soil. set in a frame of opulently coloured woodland and sky, the stately red-brick and freestone house crowning the high land and looking forth upon it all, the whole formed, to honoria's thinking, a very noble picture. and then, of a sudden, in the midst of her quiet enjoyment of it and a tenderness which the sight of it somehow begot in her, honoria was seized by sharp, unreasoning regret that she must so soon leave it. unreasoning regret that she had engaged to go abroad this winter, with poor, pretty, frivolous, young lady tobermory--spoilt child of society and of wealth--now half-crazed, rendered desperate, by the fear that disease, which had laid a threatening finger on her, might lay its whole hand cutting short her playtime and breaking her many toys. of anything other than toys and playtime she had no conception.--"those brutes of doctors tell tobermory i must give up low gowns," she wrote. "and i adore my neck and shoulders. every one always has admired them. it makes me utterly miserable to cover them up. and now that i am thinner i could have my gowns cut lower than ever, nearly down to my waist, which makes it all the more intolerable. i went to dessaix about it, went over to paris on purpose, though tobermory was wild at my traveling in the heat. he--dessaix, i mean, not poor t.--was just as nice as possible, and promised to invent new styles. still, of course, i must look dowdy at night in a high gown. everybody does. i shall feel exactly like our clergyman's wife at ellerhay, when she comes to dine with us at christmas and easter and once in the summer. i refuse to have her oftener than that. she has a long back and about fourteen children, which she seems to think a great credit to her. i don't, as they are ugly, and she is dreadfully poor. she wears her sunday silk with lace _wound_ about, don't you know, but wound _tight_. that means full dress. i am buying some lace, duchesse at three and a half guineas a yard. i suppose i shall come to _winding_ that of an evening. then i shall look like her. it makes me cry dreadfully, and, as i tell tobermory, that is worse for me than any number of lungs. darling h., if you really love me in the least, bring nothing but high gowns. perhaps i mayn't mind quite so much if i never see you in a low one."--there had been much more to the same effect, pathetic in its inadequacy and egoism. only, as honoria reflected, that is a style of pathos dangerously liable to pall upon one. she sighed, for the prospect of spending the winter participating in the frivolities, and striving to restrain the indiscretions of this little, damaged butterfly, did not smile upon her. she might have stayed on here, stayed on at brockhurst, worked over the dear place as she had so often done before--helping lady calmady. why had she promised?--well--because she had been rather restless, unsettled, and at loose ends of late---- whereupon the young lady bent down and unfastened the padlock with a certain decision of movement, closed the gate, relocking it carefully behind her, and started off across the deep grass of the paddock, her pale face very serious, her small head held high. she would keep faith with evelyn tobermory. of course she would keep faith with her. it was not only a matter of honour, but of expediency. it was much, very much better to go. yet whence this sudden heat proceeded, and why the egyptian journey assumed suddenly such paramount desirability, she carefully did not stay to inquire--an omission not, perhaps, without significance. the half-dozen dainty fillies, meanwhile, who had eyed her shyly from their station beneath the beech trees, trotted gently towards her with friendly whinnyings, their fine ears pricked, their long tails carried well away in a sweeping curve. honoria went on to meet them. she was glad of something to occupy her hands, some outside, concrete thing to occupy her thought. she took the foremost, a dark bay, by the nose strap of its leather head-stall, patted the beast's sleek neck, looked into its prominent, heavy-lidded eyes,--the blue film over the velvet-like iris and pupil of them giving a singular softness of effect,--drew down the fine, aristocratic head, and kissed the little star where the hair turned in the centre of the smooth, hard forehead. it was as perfectly bred as she was herself--so clean, so fresh, that to touch it was wholly pleasant! then she backed away from it, holding it at arm's-length, noting how every line of its limbs and body was graceful and harmonious, full of the purpose of easy strength, easy freedom of movement. that it was a trifle blown out in barrel, from being at grass, only gave its contours an added suavity. it was a lovely beast, a delicious beast! honoria smiled upon it, talked to, patted and coaxed it. while another young beauty, waxing brave, pushed its black muzzle under her arm, and lipped at her jacket pockets in search of bread and of apples. and, these good things once discovered, the rest of the drove came about her, civilly, a trifle proudly, as befitted such fine ladies, with no pushings and bustlings of vulgar greed. and they charmed her. she was very much at one with them. she fed them fearlessly, thrusting one aside in favour of another, giving each reward in due turn. she passed her hands down over their slender limbs. the warm colours and the gloss of them were pleasant to her eyes. and they smelt sweet, as did the trampled grass beneath their unshod hoofs. for a while the human problem--its tragedy, magnificence, inadequacy alike--ceased to trouble her. the poetry of these beautiful, innocent, clean-feeding beasts was, for the moment, sufficient in and by itself. but, even while she thus played with and rejoiced in them, remembrance of their owner came back to her, his maiming, as against their perfection of finish, the lamentable disparity between his physical equipment and theirs. honoria's expression lost its nonchalant gaiety. she pushed her gentle, equine comrades away to left and right, not that they ceased to please but that the human problem and the tragedy of it once more became dominant. she walked on across the paddock rapidly, while the fillies, forming up behind her, followed in single file treading a sinuous pathway through the grass, the foremost one still pushing its black muzzle, now and again, under her elbow and nibbling insinuatingly at her empty jacket pockets.--if only that horrible misfortune had not befallen richard calmady! if--if---- but then, had it not befallen him, would he ever have been excited to so admirable effort, would he ever have attained so absorbing and vigorous a personality as he actually had? again her thought turned on itself, to provocation of momentary impatience.--honoria unfastened the second padlock with a return of her former decision.--there were conclusions she wished instinctively to avoid, from which she instinctively desired escape. she forced aside the all-too-affectionate, bay filly who crowded upon her, shot back the bar of the gate and relocked it. then, once again, she kissed the pretty beast on the forehead as it stretched its neck over the top of the gate. "good-bye, dear lass," she said. "win your races and, when the time comes, drop foals as handsome as yourself, and thank your stars you're under orders, and so have small chance to muddle your affairs--as with your good looks, my dear, you most assuredly would--like all the rest of us." with which excellent advice she swung away down the last twenty yards of the avenue and out on to the roadway of the red-brick and freestone bridge. here, in the open above the water, the air was sensibly fresher. from the paddock the deserted fillies whinnied to her. the voices of the harvesters came cheerily from the cornland. the men sat in the blond stubble, backed by a range of upstanding sheaves. the women, bright in those frail blues, clear pinks, and lilacs, knelt serving their meal. she of the black bodice stood apart, her hands upon her hips, looking towards the bridge and its solitary occupant. the tan-and-white, spotted dog ran to and fro chasing field-mice and yapped. the baby children staggered after it, uttering excited squeakings and cries. the lower cloud had parted in the west, disclosing an upper stratum of pale gold, which widened upward and outward as the minutes passed. save immediately below, in the shadow of the bridge, this found reflection in the water, overlaying it as with the blond of the stubble and warmer tones of the sheaves. honoria sat down sideways on the coping of the parapet. she watched the moor-hens, dark of plumage, a splash of fiery orange on their jaunty, little heads, swim out with restless, jerky motion from the edge of the reed-beds and break up the shining surface with diverging lines of rippling, brown shadow. in the shade cast by the bridge, trout rose at the dancing gnats and flies. she could see them rush upward through the brown water. sometimes they leapt clear of it, exposing their silver bellies, pink-spotted sides, and the olive-green of their backs. they dropped again with a flop, and rings circled outward from the place of their disappearing. all this honoria saw, but dreamily, pensively. she realised, as never before, that, much as she might love this place and the life of it, she was a guest only, a pilgrim and sojourner. the completeness of her own independence ceased to please.--"me this unchartered freedom tires." as she quoted the line, honoria smiled. these were, indeed, new aspects of herself! where would they carry her, both in thought and in action? it was a little alarming to contemplate that. and then her pensiveness increased, a strange nostalgia taking her--amounting almost to physical pain--for that same but-half-disclosed glory, that same new and very exquisite fulness of life, apprehension of which had lately been vouchsafed to her. if she could remain very still and undisturbed, if she could empty her consciousness of all else, bend her whole will to an act at once of determination and of reception, perhaps, it would be given her clearly to see and understand. the idealist, the mystic, were very present in honoria just then. she fixed her eyes upon the shining surface of the water. a conviction grew upon her that, could she maintain a certain mental and emotional equilibrium, something of permanent and very vital importance must take place. suddenly she heard footsteps upon the gravel of the roadway. she started, turned deliberately, holding in check the agitation which possessed her, to find herself confronted by the tall, preeminently modern and mundane, figure of ludovic quayle. honoria gave herself a little shake of uncontrollable impatience. for less than twopence-halfpenny she could have given the very gentlemanlike intruder a shake too! he let her down with a bump, so to speak, from regions mysterious and supernal, to regions altogether social and of this world worldly. and yet she knew that such feelings were not a little hard and unjust as entertained towards poor mr. quayle. the young man, in any case, was happily ignorant of having offended. he sauntered out on to the bridge, hat in hand, his head a trifle on one side, his long neck directed slightly forward, his expression that of polite and intimate amusement--but whether amusement at his own, or his fellow-creatures' expense, it would have been difficult to declare. "at last, i find you, my dear miss st. quentin," he said. "and i have sought for you as for lost treasure. forgive a biblical form of address--a reminiscence merely of my father's morning ministrations to my unmarried sisters, the footmen, and the maids. he reads them the most surprising little histories at times, which make me positively blush--but that's a detail. to account for my invasion of your idyllic solitude--i learned incidentally you proposed coming here from ormiston this week. i thought i would venture on an early attempt to find you. but i drew the house blank, though assisted by winter--the terrace also blank. then from the troco-ground i beheld that which looked promising, coquetting with dickie's yearlings. so i followed on to know--my father and the maids again--followed on to--to my reward." mr. quayle stood directly in front of her. he spoke with admirable urbanity, yet with even greater rapidity than usual. his beautifully formed mouth pursed itself up between the sentences, with that effect of indulgent superiority which was at once so attractive and so excessively provoking. but, for all that, honoria perceived that, for once in his life, the young man was distinctly, not to say acutely, nervous. "the reward will be limited i'm afraid," she replied, "for my temper is unaccountably out of sorts this afternoon." "and, if one may make bold to inquire, why out of sorts, dear miss st. quentin?" he sat down on the parapet near her, crossed his legs, and fell to nursing his left knee. the woman of the black bodice went up across the pale stubble to her companions. she talked to them, nodding her head in the direction of the bridge. "i have promised to do a certain thing, and having promised, of course i must do it." honoria looked away towards the harvesters up there among the gold of the corn. "and yet, now i have committed myself, thinking it over i find i dislike doing it warmly." "the statement of the case is just a trifle vague," mr. quayle remarked. "but--if one may brave a suggestion--supersede a first duty by a second and, of course, a greater. with a little exercise of imagination, a little good-will, a little assistance from a true friend thrown in perhaps, it is generally quite possible to manage that, i think." "and you are prepared to play the part of the true friend?" "undoubtedly." "then go to cairo for the winter with evelyn tobermory. you must take no low gowns--ah! poor little soul, it is pathetic, though--she's forbidden to wear them. and--let me stay here!" honoria said. ludovic gazed at his hands as they clasped his knee, then he looked sideways at his companion. "here, meaning--meaning brockhurst, dear miss st. quentin?" he asked very sweetly. "meaning england," she declared. "england?--ah! really. that pleases me better. patriotism is an excellent virtue. the remark is not a wholly original one, but it comes in handy just now, all the same." the young lady's head went up. her face straightened. she was displeased. turning sideways, she leaned both hands on the stonework and stared down into the water. but speedily she repented. "see how the fish rise," she said. "it really is a pity one hasn't a fly-rod." "i was under the impression you once told me that you objected to taking life, except in self-defense or for purposes of commissariat. the trout would almost certainly be muddy. and i am quite unconscious of being exposed to any danger--at least from the trout." miss st. quentin kept her eyes fixed upon the water. "i told you my temper was out of sorts," she said. "is that a warning?" ludovic inquired, with the utmost mildness. honoria was busy feeling in her jacket pockets. at the bottom of them a few crumbs remained. she emptied these on to the surface of the water, by the simple expedient of turning the pockets inside out. "i know nothing about warnings," she said. "i state a plain fact. you can make of it what you please." the young man rose leisurely from his place, sauntered across the roadway, and stood with his back to her, looking down the valley. the harvesters, their meal finished, moved away towards the further side of the great corn-field. the women followed them slowly, gleaning as they went. it was very quiet. and again there came to honoria that ache of longing for the but-half-disclosed glory and fulness of life. it was there, an actuality--could she but find it, had she but the courage and the wit. then, from the open moorland beyond the park palings, came the sound of horses trotting sharply. ludovic quayle turned and recrossed the road. he smiled, but his superfine manner, his effect of slight impertinence were, for the moment, in abeyance. "miss st. quentin," he said, "what is the use of fencing any longer? i have done that which i engaged to do, namely, displayed the patience of innumerable asses. and--if i may be pardoned mentioning such a thing--the years pass. really they do. and i seem to get no forwarder! my position becomes slightly ludicrous." "i know it, i know it!" honoria cried penitently. "that i am ludicrous?" "no, no," she protested, "that i have been unreasonable and traded on your forbearance, that i have done wrong in allowing you to wait." "that you could not very well help," he said, "since i chose to wait. and, indeed, i greatly preferred waiting as long as there seemed to be a hope there was something--anything, in short--to wait for." "ah! but that is precisely what i have never been sure about myself--whether there really was anything to wait for or not." she sat straight on the coping of the parapet again. her face bore the most engaging expression. there was a certain softness in her aspect to-day. she was less of a youth, a comrade, so it seemed to mr. quayle, more distinctly, more consciously a woman. but now, to the sound of trotting horse-hoofs was added that of wheels. with a clang the park gates were thrown open. "and are you still uncertain? in the back of your mind is there still a trifle of doubt?--if so, give me the benefit of it," the young man pleaded, half laughingly, half brokenly. a carriage passed under the gray archway of the red-brick and freestone lodges. rapidly it came on down the wide, smooth, string-coloured road--a space of neatly kept turf on either side--under the shade of the heavy-foliaged elm trees. mr. quayle glanced at it, and paused with raised eyebrows. "i call you to witness that i do not swear, dear miss st. quentin, though men have been known to become blasphemous on slighter provocation than this," he said. "however, the rather violently-approaching interruption will be soon over, i hope and believe; since the driving is that of richard calmady of brockhurst when his temper--like your own--being somewhat out of sorts, he, as jehu the son of nimshi of old--my father's morning ministrations to the maids again--driveth furiously." then, with an air of humorous resignation, his mouth working a little, his long neck directed forward as in mildly-surprised inquiry, he stood watching the approaching mail-phaeton. the wheels of it made a hollow rumbling, the tramp of the horses was impetuous, the pole-chains rattled, as it swung out on to the bridge and drew up. the grooms whipped down and ran round to the horses' heads. and these stood, a little extended, still and rigid as of bronze, the red of their open nostrils and the silver mounting of their harness very noticeable. lady calmady called to mr. quayle. the young man passed round at the back of the carriage, and, standing on the far side of the roadway, talked with her. honoria st. quentin remained sitting on the parapet of the bridge. a singular disinclination to risk any movement had come upon her. not the present situation in relation to ludovic quayle, but that other situation of the but-half-disclosed glory, the new and exquisite fulness of life oppressed her, penetrating her whole being to the point of physical weakness. questioningly, yet with entire unself-consciousness, she looked up at richard calmady. and he, from the exalted height of the driving-seat, looked down at her. a dark, cloth rug was wrapped tight round him from the waist downward. it concealed the high driving-iron against which his feet rested. it concealed the strap which steadied him in his place. his person appeared finely proportioned. his head and face were surprisingly handsome seen thus from below--though it must be conceded the expression of the latter was very far from angelic. "you were well advised to stay at home, honoria," he said. there was a grating tone in his voice. "the function was even more distinguished for dulness than you expected?" "on the contrary, it was not in the least dull. it was actively objectionable, ingeniously unpleasant. whereas this----" his face softened a little. he glanced at the golden water and cornland, the lush green of the paddock, the rich, massive colouring of woodland and sky. honoria glanced at it likewise, and, so doing, rose to her feet. that nostalgia of things new and glorious ached in her. yet the pain of it had a strange and intimate charm, making it unlike any pain she had ever yet felt. it hurt her very really, it made her weak, yet she would not have had it cease. "yes, it is all very lovely, isn't it?" she said. she laid her hand on the folded leather of the carriage hood. again she looked up. "it is a good deal to have this--always--your own, to come back to, richard." she spoke sadly, almost unwillingly. dickie did not answer, but he looked down, a certain violence and energy very evident in him, his blue eyes hard, and, in the depth of them, desolate as the sky of a winter night. calmly, yet in a way desperately, as those who dare inquiry beyond the range of permitted human speech, the young man and woman looked at one another. lady calmady's sweet voice, meanwhile, went on in kindly question. ludovic quayle's in well-placed, slightly elaborate answer. the near horse threw back its head and the pole-chains rattled smartly.--honoria's lips parted, but the words, if words indeed there were, died in her throat. she raised her hands, as though putting a tangible and actual presence away from her. she did not change colour, but for the moment her delicate features appeared thickened, as by a rush of blood. she was almost plain. yet the effect was inexpressibly touching. it was as though she had received some mysterious injury which she was dumb, incapable to express. she let her hands drop at her sides, turned away and walked to the far end of the bridge. suddenly richard's voice came to her, aggressive, curt. "look out, ludovic--stand clear of the wheel." the horses sprang forward, the grooms scrambled up at the back, and the carriage swung away from the brightness of the open to the gloom of the avenue and up the long hill to the house. mr. quayle contemplated it for a minute or so and then, with an air of amused toleration, he followed miss st. quentin across the bridge. "poor, dear dickie calmady, poor, dear dickie!" he said. "he attempts the impossible. fails to attain it--as a matter of course, and, meanwhile, misses the possible--equally as a matter of course. it is all very magnificent, no doubt, but it is also not a little uncomfortable, at times, for other people.--however that trifle of criticism is, after all, beside the mark. now that the whirlwind has ceased, miss st. quentin, may the still, small voice of my own affairs presume to make itself----" but there he stopped abruptly. "my dear friend," he asked in quick anxiety, "what is the matter? pardon me, but what on earth has happened to you?" for honoria leaned both elbows on the low, carved pillar terminating the masonry of the parapet. she covered her face with her hands. and, incontestably, she shuddered queerly from head to foot. "wait half a second," she said, in a stifled voice. "it's nothing--i'm all right." slowly she raised herself, and took a long breath. then she turned to her faithful lover, showing him a brave, if somewhat drawn and tired countenance. "ludovic," she said gently, "don't, don't please let us talk any more about all that. and don't, i entreat you, wait any longer. if there was any uncertainty, if there was a doubt in the back of my mind, it's gone. forgive me--this must sound brutal--but there is no more doubt. i can't marry you. i am sorry, horribly sorry--for you have been as charming to me as a man could be--but i shall never be able to marry you." mr. quayle's expression retained its sweetness, even its effect of amusement, though his lips quivered, and his eyelids were a little red. "i do not come up to the requirements of the grand passion?" he said. "alas! poor me----" "no, no, it isn't that," honoria protested. "ah, then,"--he paused, with an air of extraordinary intelligence--"perhaps some one else does?" "yes," she said simply, "i don't like it, but it's there, and so i've got to go through with it--some one else does." "in that case it is indeed hopeless! i give it up," he cried. he moved aside and stood gazing at the rising trout in the golden-brown water. then he raised his head sharply, as in obedience to a thought suddenly occurring to him, and gazed at brockhurst house. the brightness of the western sky found reflection in its many windows. a noble cheerfulness seemed to pervade it, as it crowned the hillside, amid its gardens and far-ranging woods. "by all that's"--mr. quayle began. but he repressed the exclamation, and his expression was wholly friendly as he returned to miss st. quentin. "good-bye," he said.--"i am glad, honestly glad, you have found the grand passion, though the object of it can't, in the first blush of the affair be altogether _persona grata_ to myself. but, to show that really i have a little root of magnanimity in me, i am quite prepared to undertake a winter at cairo, plus evelyn tobemory and minus low dresses, if that will enable you to stay on here--i mean in england,--of course." he pursed up his beautiful mouth, he carried his head on one side with the liveliest effect of provocation, as he held the young lady's hand while bidding her farewell. "out of my heart i hope you will be very happy," he said. "i shall never be anything but honoria st. quentin," she answered rather hastily. then she softened, forgiving him.--"oh! why," she said, "why will you make me quarrel with you just now, just at the last?" "because--because--" mr. quayle's voice broke, though his superior smile remained to him.--"i think i will not prolong the interview," he said. "to be frank with you, dear miss st. quentin, i am about as miserable as is consonant with complete sanity and excellent health. i do not propose to blow my brains out, but i think--yes, thanks--you appreciate the desirability of that course of action too?--i think it is about time i went." chapter x concerning a day of honest warfare and a sunset harbinger not of the night but of the dawn that episode, upon the bridge spanning the long water, brought richard would-be saint, richard pilgrim along the great white road which leads onward to perfection, into lively collision with richard the natural man, not to mention richard the "wild bull in a net." these opposing forces engaged battle, with the consequence that the carriage horses took the hill at a rather breakneck pace. not that dickie touched them, but that, he being vibrant, they felt his mood down the length of the reins and responded to it. "ludovic need hardly have been in such a prodigious hurry," he broke out. "he might have allowed one a few days' grace. it was a defect of taste to come over immediately--but then all that family's taste is liable to lapses." promptly he repented, ashamed both of his anger and such self-revealing expression of it. "i dare say it's all for the best though. better a thing should be nipped in the bud than in the blossom. and this puts it all on a right footing. one might easily drift into depending too much upon honoria. i own i was dangerously near doing that this spring. i don't mind telling you so now, mother, because this, you see, disposes finally of the matter." his voice contended oddly with the noise of the wheels, rattle of the pole-chains, pounding of the hoofs of the pulling horses. the sentences came to lady calmady's ears disjointed, difficult to follow and interpret. therefore she answered slightly at random. "my dearest, i could have kept her longer in the spring if i had only known," she said, a disquieting suspicion of lost opportunity assailing her. "but, from certain things which you said, i thought you preferred our being alone." "so i did. i wanted her to go because i wanted her to stay. do you see?" "ah, yes! i see," katherine replied. and at that moment, it must be conceded, her sentiments were not conspicuously pacific towards her faithful adherent, mr. quayle. "we've a good many interests in common," dickie went on, "and there seemed a chance of one's settling down into a rather charming friendship with her. it was a beguiling prospect. and for that very reason, it was best she should depart. the prospect, in all its beguilingness, renewed itself to-day after luncheon."--he paused, handling the plunging horses.--"and so after all ludovic shall be reckoned welcome. for, as i say, i might have come to depend on her. and one's a fool--i ought to have learnt that salutary lesson by this time--a rank fool, to depend on anybody, or anything, save oneself, simply and solely oneself"--his tone softened--"and upon you, most dear and long-suffering mother.--therefore the dream of friendship goes overboard after all, along with the rest of one's little illusions. and every illusion one rids oneself of is so much to the good. it lightens the ship. it lessens the chances of sinking. clearly it is so much pure gain." that evening, pleading--unexampled occurrence in her case--a headache as excuse, miss st. quentin did not put in an appearance at dinner. nor did richard put in an appearance at breakfast next morning. at an early hour he had received a communication earnestly requesting his presence at the westchurch infirmary. his mission promised to be a melancholy one, yet he was not sorry for the demand made by it upon his time and thought. for, notwithstanding the philosophic tone he had adopted with lady calmady in speaking of that friendship which, if not nipped in the bud, might have reached perils of too luxuriant blossoming, the would-be saint and the natural man, the pilgrim on the highroad to perfection and that very inconvenient animal "the wild bull in a net," kept up warfare within richard calmady. they were hard at it even yet, when, in the fair freshness of the september morning--the grasses and hedge-fruit, the wild flowers, and the low-growing, tangled coppices by the roadside, still heavy with dew--he drove over to westchurch. the day was bright, with flying cloud and a westerly breeze. the dust was laid, and the atmosphere, cleared by the storm of the preceding afternoon, had a smack of autumn in it. it was one of those delicious, yet distracting, days when the sea calls, and when whosoever loves seafaring grows restless, must seek movement, seek the open, strain his eyes towards the margin of the land--be the coast-line never so far distant--tormented by desire for sight of the blue water, and the strong and naked joys of the mighty ridge and furrow where go the gallant ships. with the upspringing of the wind at dawn, that calling of the sea had made itself heard to richard. at first it suggested only the practical temptation of putting the _reprieve_ into commission, and engaging lady calmady to go forth with him on a three or four months' cruise. but that, as he speedily convinced himself, was but a pitifully cheap expedient, a shirking of voluntarily assumed responsibility, a childish cheating of discontent, rather than an honestly attempted cure of it. if cure was to be achieved, the canker must be excised, boldly cut out, not overlaid merely by some trifle of partially concealing plaster. for he knew well enough--as all sea-lovers know--and, as he drove through the dappled sunlight and shadow, frankly admitted--that though the sea itself very actually and really called, yet its calling was the voice and symbol of much over and above itself. for in it speaks the eternal necessity of going forward, that hunger and thirst for the absolute and ultimate which drives every human creature whose heart and soul and intellect are truly animate. and to him, just now, it spoke more particularly of the natural instincts of his manhood--of ambition, of passion, of headlong desire of sensation, excitement, adventure, of just all that, in fact, which he had forsworn, had agreed with himself to cast aside and forget. and, thinking of this, suspicion assailed him that forswearing had been slightly insincere and perfunctory. he accused himself of nourishing the belief that giving, he would also receive,--and that in kind,--while that any sacrifice which he offered would be returned to him doubled in value. casting his bread upon the waters, he accused himself of having expected to find it, not "after many days," but immediately--a full baker's dozen ready to hand in his pocket. his motives had not been wholly pure. actually, though not at the time consciously, he had assayed to strike a bargain with the almighty. just as he reached the top of the long, straight hill leading down into westchurch, richard arrived at these unflattering conclusions. on either side the road, upon the yellow surface of which the sunlight played through the tossing leaves of the plane trees, were villas of very varied and hybrid styles of architecture. they were, for the most part, smothered in creepers, and set in gardens gay with blossom. below lay the sprawling, red-brick town blotted with purple shadow. a black canal meandered through the heart of it, crossed by mean, humpbacked bridges. the huge, amorphous buildings of its railway station--engine sheds, goods warehouses, trailing of swiftly dispersed white smoke--the grime and clamour of all that, its factory buildings and tall chimneys, were very evident, as were the pale towers of its churches. and beyond the ugly, pushing, industrial commonplace of it, striking a very different note, the blue ribbon of the still youthful thames, backed by high-lying chalk-lands fringed with hanging woods, traversed a stretch of flat, green meadows. richard's eyes rested upon the scene absently, since thought just now had more empire over him than any outward seeing. for he perceived that he must cleanse himself yet further of self-seeking. those words, "if thou wilt be perfect sell that thou hast and give to the poor, and follow thou me," have not a material and objective significance merely. they deal with each personal desire, even the apparently most legitimate--with each indulgence of personal feeling, even the apparently most innocent--with the inward attitude and the atmosphere of the mind even more closely than with outward action and conduct. and so richard reached the conclusion that he must strip himself yet nearer to the bone. he must digest the harsh truth that virtue is its own reward in the sense that it is its only reward, and must look for nothing beyond that. he had grown slack of late, seduced by visions of pleasant things permitted most men but to him forbidden, and wearied, too, by the length of the way and inevitable monotony of it now first heat of enthusiasm had evaporated. well--it was all very simple. he must just re-dedicate himself. and in this stern and chastened frame of mind he drove through the bustle of the country town--saturday, market day, its streets unusually alive--nodding to an acquaintance here and there in passing, two or three of his tenant farmers, mr. cathcart of newlands in on county business, goodall the octogenarian miller from parson's holt, and lemuel image, the brewer, bursting out of an obviously new suit of very showy tweeds. then, at the main door of the infirmary, helped by the stalwart, hospital porter, he got down from the dog-cart, and subsequently--raked by curious eyes, saluted by hardly repressed tittering from the out-patients waiting _en queue_ for admission to the dispensary--he made his slow way along the bare, vault-like, stone passage to the accident ward, in the far corner of which a bed was shut off from the rest by an arrangement of screens and of curtains. and it was in the same chastened frame of mind that, some four or five hours later, dickie entered the dining-room at brockhurst. the two ladies had nearly finished luncheon and were about to rise from the table. lady calmady greeted him very gladly, but abstained from inquiry as to his doings or from comment on the lateness of the hour, since experience had long ago taught her that of all known animals man is the one of whom it is least profitable for woman to ask questions. he was here at home, alive, intact, her eyes were rejoiced by the sight of him, that was sufficient. if he had anything to tell her, no doubt he would tell it later. for the rest, she had something to tell him, but that too must wait till time and circumstance were propitious, since the conveying of it involved delicate diplomacies. it must be handled lightly. for the life of her she must avoid all appearance of eagerness, all appearance of attaching serious importance to the communication. lady calmady had learned, this morning, that honoria st. quentin did not propose to marry ludovic quayle. the young lady, whose charming nonchalance was curiously in eclipse to-day, had given her to understand so much, but very briefly, the subject evidently being rather painful to her. she was silent and a little distrait; but she was also very gentle, displaying a disposition to follow katherine about wherever she went and a pretty zeal in doing small, odd jobs for her. katherine was touched and tenderly amused by her manner, which was as that of a charming child coveting assurance that it need not be ashamed of itself, and that it has not really done anything naughty! but katherine sighed too, watching this strong, graceful, capable creature; for, if things had been otherwise with dickie, how thankfully she would have given the keeping of his future into this woman's hands! she had ceased to be jealous even of her son's love. gladly, gratefully, would she have shared that love, accepting the second place, if only--but all that was beyond possibility of hope. still the friendship of which he had spoken somewhat bitterly yesterday--poor darling--remained. ludovic quayle's pretensions--she felt very pitifully towards that accomplished gentleman, all his good qualities had started into high relief!--but, his pretensions no longer barring the way to that friendship, she pledged herself to work for the promotion of it. dickie was too severe in self-repression, was over-strained in stoicism; and, ignoring the fact that in his fixity of purpose, his exaggerations of self-abnegation, he proved himself very much her own son, she determined secretly, cautiously, lovingly, to combat all that. it was, therefore, with warm satisfaction that, as honoria was about to rise from the table, she observed richard emerge, in a degree, from his abstraction, and heard him say:-- "you told me you'd like to ride over to farley this afternoon and see the home for my crippled people. are you too tired after your headache, or do you still care to go?" "oh! i'm not tired, thanks," honoria answered. then she hesitated, and richard, looking at her, was aware, as on the bridge yesterday, of a sudden and singular thickening of her features, which, while marring her beauty, rendered her aspect strangely pathetic, as of one who sustains some mysterious hurt. and to him it seemed, for the moment, as though both that hurt and the infliction of it bore subtle relation to himself. common sense discredited the notion as unpermissibly fantastic, still it influenced and softened his manner. "but you know you are looking frightfully done up yourself, richard," she went on, with a charming air of half-reluctant protest. "isn't he, cousin katherine? are you sure you want to ride this afternoon? please don't go out just on my account." "oh! i'm right enough," he answered. "i'd infinitely rather go out." he pushed back his chair and reached down for his crutches. still the fantastic notion that, all unwittingly, he had been guilty of doing honoria some strange injury, clung to him. he was sensible of the desire to offer reparation. this made him more communicative than he would otherwise have been. "i saw a man die this morning--that's all," he said. "i know it's stupid, but one can't help it--it knocks one about a bit. you see he didn't want to die, poor fellow, though, god knows, he'd little enough to live for--or to live with, for that matter." "your factory hand?" honoria asked. richard slipped out of his chair, and stood upright. "yes, my factory hand," he answered. "dear, old knott was fearfully savage about it. he was so tremendously keen on the case, and made sure of pulling him through. but the poor boy had been sliced up a little too thoroughly."--richard paused, smiling at honoria. "so all one could do was to go with him just as far as is permitted out into the great silence, and then--then come home to luncheon. the home at farley loses its point, rather, now he is dead. still there are others, plenty of others, enough to satisfy even knott's greed of riveting broken human crockery.--oh yes! i shall enjoy riding over, if you are still good to come. four o'clock--that'll suit you? i'll order the horses." and so, in due time, the two rode forth together into the brightness of the september afternoon. the sea still called, but dickie's ears were deaf to all dangerous allurements and excitations resident in that calling. it had to him, just now, only the pensive charm of a far-away melody, which, though no doubt of great and immediate import to others, had ceased to be any concern of his. beside the death-bed in the hospital-ward he had renewed his vows, and the efficacy of that renewal was very present with him. it made for repose. it laid the evil spirit of defiance, of self-consciousness, of humiliation, so often obtaining in his intercourse with women--a spirit begotten by the perpetual prick of his deformity, and in part, too, by his determined adoption of the ascetic attitude in regard to the affections. he was spent by the emotions of the morning, but that also made for repose. for the time being devils were cast out. he was tranquil, yet exalted. his eyes had a smile in them, as though they looked beyond the limit of things transitory and material into the regions of the pure idea, where the eternal values are disclosed and peace has her dwelling. and, precisely because of all this, he could take honoria's presence lightly, be chivalrously solicitous of her entertainment and well-being, and talk to her with greater freedom than ever heretofore. he ceased to be on his guard with her because, in good truth, it seemed to him there ceased to be anything to guard against. for the time being, at all events, he had got to the other side of all that, and so she and his relation to her, had become part of that charming but faraway melody which was no concern of his--though mighty great and altogether worthy concern of others, of ludovic quayle, for example.--and in his present tranquil humour he could listen to the sweetness of that melody ungrudgingly. it was pleasant. he could enjoy it without envy--though it was none of his. but to honoria's seeing, it must be owned, matters shaped themselves very differently. for the usually unperturbed, the chaste and gallant soul of her endured violent assaults, violent commotions, the origin of which she but partially understood. and these richard's frankness, his courteous, in some sort brotherly, good-fellowship, served to intensify rather than allay. the feeling of the noble horse under her, the cool, westerly wind in her face, went to steady her nerves, and restore the self-possession, courage of judgment, and clearness of thought, which had been lacking to her during the past twenty-four hours. nevertheless she rode as through a but-newly-discovered country, familiar objects displaying alien aspects, familiar phrases assuming unlooked-for significance, a something challenging and fateful meeting her everywhere. the whole future seemed to hang in the balance, and she waited, dreading yet longing, to see the scale turn. this afternoon the harvesters were carrying the corn. red-painted waggons, drawn by sleek, heavy-made cart-horses, crawled slowly across the blond stubble. it was pretty to see the rusty-gold sheaves tossed up from the shining prongs of the pitchforks on to the mountainous load. honoria and richard watched this, a little minute, from the grass-ride bordering the roadway beneath the elms. next came the high-lying moorland, beyond the lodges. the fine-leaved heath was thick with red-purple blossom. patches of dusky heather were frosted with dainty pink. spikes of genista and beds of needle-furze showed sharply yellow, vividly green, and a fringe of blue campanula, with frail, quivering bells, outlined all open spaces. the face of the land had been washed by the rain. it shone with an inimitable cleanliness, as though consciously happy in relief from all soil of dust. and it was here, the open country stretching afar on all sides, that dickie began talking, not, as at first, in desultory fashion, but of matters nearly pertaining and closely interesting to himself. "you know," he said, as they walked the horses quietly, neck to neck, along the moorland road, "i don't go in for system-making or for reforms on any big scale. that doesn't come within my province. i must leave that to politicians and to men who are in the push of the world. i admire it. i rejoice in the hot-headed, narrow-brained, whole-hearted agitator, who believes that his system adopted, his reform carried through, the whole show will instantly be put straight. such faith is very touching." "and the reformer has sometimes done some little good after all," honoria commented. "of course he has!" dickie agreed. "only, as a rule, poor dear, he can't be contented but that his special reform should be the final one, that his system should be the universal panacea. and in point of fact no reform is final this side of death, and no panacea is universal, save that which the maker of the universe chooses to work out--is working out now, if we could any way grasp it--through the slow course of unnumbered ages. let the reformer do all he can, but don't let him turn sour because his pet reform, his pet system, sinks away and is swallowed up in the great sea of things--sea of human progress, if you like. every system is bound to prove too small, every reform ludicrously inadequate--be it never so radical--because material conditions are perpetually changing, while man in his mental, emotional and physical aspects remains always precisely the same." they passed from the breezy upland into the high-banked lane which, leading downwards, joins the great london and portsmouth road just beyond farley row. "and--and that is where i come in!" richard said, turning a little in the saddle and smiling sweet-temperedly, yet with a suggestion of self-mockery, upon his companion. "just because, in essential respects, mankind remains--notwithstanding modifications of his environment--substantially the same, from the era of the pentateuch to the era of the rougon-macquarts, there must always be a lot of wreckage, of waste, and refuse humanity. the inauguration of each new system, each new reform--religious, political, educational, economic--practically they're all in the same boat--let alone the inevitable breakdown or petering out of each, necessarily produces a fresh crop of such waste and refuse material. and in that a man like myself, who does not aspire to cure or to construct, but merely to alleviate and to pick up the pieces, finds his chance." and honoria listened musing--approved, enthusiasm gaining her; yet protested--since, even while she admired, she rebelled a little on his account, and for his sake. "but it is rather a hard life, surely richard," she said, "which you propose to yourself? always the pieces, the thing broken and spoiled, never the thing in its beauty, full of promise, and whole!" "it is less hard for me than for most," he answered, "or should be so. after all, i am to the manner born--a bit of human wreckage myself, with which, but for the accident of wealth, things would have gone pretty badly. i used to be horribly scared sometimes, as a small boy, thinking to what uses i might be put if the kindly, golden rampart ever gave." he became silent. as for honoria, she had neither courage to look at, nor answer, him just then. "and you see, i'm absolutely free," he added presently.--"i am alone, always shall be so. if the life is hard, i ask no one to share it, so i may make it what i like." "oh! no, no--you misunderstand, richard! i didn't mean that," honoria cried quickly, half under her breath. again he looked at her, smiling. "didn't you? all the kinder of you," he said. thereupon regret, almost intolerable in its poignancy, invaded miss st. quentin that she would have to go away, to go back to the world and all the foolish obtaining fashions of it; that she would have to take that preeminently well-cushioned and luxurious winter's journey to cairo. she longed inexpressibly to remain here, to assist in these experiments made in the name of holy charity. she longed inexpressibly to---- and there honoria paused, even in thought. yet she glanced at the young man riding beside her--at the handsome profile, still and set in outline, the suggestion--it was no more--of a scar running downward across the left cheek, at the well-made, upright, broad-shouldered figure, and then at the saddle, peaked, back and front, with oddly-shaped appendages to it resembling old-fashioned holsters.--and, as yesterday upon the bridge, the ache of a pain at once sweet and terrible laid hold of her, making her queerly faint. the single street, sun-covered, sleepy, empty save for a brewer's dray and tax-cart or two standing before the solid georgian portals of the white lion inn, for a straggling tail of children bearing home small shoppings and jugs of supper beer, for a flock of gray geese proceeding with suggestively self-righteous demeanour along the very middle of the roadway and lowering long necks to hiss defiance at the passer-by, and for an old black retriever dozing peacefully beneath one of the rustling sycamores in front of josiah appleyard, the saddler's shop--all these, as she looked at them, became uncertain in outline, reeled before honoria's eyes. for the moment she experienced a difficulty in keeping steady in the saddle. but the horses still walked quietly, neck to neck, their shadows, and those of their riders growing longer, narrower, outstretched before them as the sun declined in the west. all the future hung in the balance, but the scale had not turned as yet. then richard's voice took up its parable again. "perhaps it's a rather fraudulently comfortable doctrine, yet it does strike one that the justification of disaster, in all its many forms, is the opportunity it affords the individualist. he may use it for self-aggrandisement, or for self-devotion--though i rather shy at so showy a word as that last. however, the use he makes of it isn't the point. what is the point, to my mind at least, is this--though it doesn't sound magnificent, it hardly indeed sounds cleanly--that whatever trade fails, whatever profession, thanks to the advance of civilisation, becomes obsolete, that of the man with the dust-cart, of the scavenger, of the sweeper, won't." once more richard smiled upon his companion charmingly, yet with something of self-mockery. "and so, you see, having knocked about enough to grow careless of niceties of prejudice, and to acquire immense admiration for any vocation which promises permanence, i join hands with the dustman. in the light of science, and in that of religion alike, nothing really is common or unclean. and then--then, if you are outcasted in any case as some of us are, it's a little too transparently cheap to be afraid of soiling----" he broke off.--"away there to the left, honoria," he said. "you see the house? the yellow-washed one, with the gables and tiled roofs--there, back on the slope.--bagshaw, the bond street poulterer, had it for years. his lease ran out in the spring, and happily he didn't care to renew. had bought himself an up-to-date, villa residence somewhere in the suburbs--chistlehurst, i believe. so i took the place over. it will do for a beginning--the small end of the wedge of my scavenger's business. there are over five acres of garden and orchard, and plenty of rooms on each floor, which gives good range for the disabled to move about in--and the stairs, only one flight, are easy. one has to think of these details. and--well, the house commands a magnificent view of clerke's green, and the geese on it, than which nothing clearly can be more exciting!" the groom rode forward and opened the gate. before the square, outstanding porch richard drew up. "i should like to come in with you," he said. "but you see it's rather a business getting off one's horse, and i can't very well manage the stairs. so i'll wait about till you are ready. don't hurry. i want you to see all the arrangements, if it doesn't bore you, and make suggestions. the carpenters are there, doing overtime. they'll let you through if the caretaker's out." thus admonished, miss st. quentin dismounted and made her way into the house. a broad passage led straight through it. the open door at the farther end disclosed a vista of box-edged paths and flower-borders where, in gay ranks, stood tall sunflowers, hollyhocks, michaelmas-daisies, and such like. beyond was orchard, the round-headed apple-trees, bright with polished fruit, rising from a carpet of grass. the rooms, to left and right of the passage, were pleasantly sun-warmed and mellow of aspect, the ceilings of them crossed by massive beams. honoria visited them, dutifully observant. she encountered the head carpenter, an acquaintance and ally during those four years so great part of which she had spent at brockhurst. she talked with him, making inquiries concerning wife, children and trade, incident to such a meeting, her face very serious all the while, the skirt of her habit gathered up in one hand, her gait a trifle stiff and measured owing to her high riding-boots. but, though she acquitted herself in all kindliness of conversation, though she conscientiously inspected each separate apartment, and noted the cheerful comeliness of orchard and garden, it must be owned all these remained singularly distant from her actual emotion and thought. she was glad to be alone. she was glad to be away from richard calmady, though zealously obedient to his wishes in respect of this inspection. for his presence became increasingly oppressive from the intensity of feeling it produced in her, and which she was, at present, powerless to direct towards any reasonable and definite end. this rendered her tongue-tied, and, as she fancied, stupid. her unreadiness mortified her. she, usually indifferent enough to the impression she produced on others, was sensible of a keen desire to appear at her best. she did in fact, so she believed, appear at her worst, slow of understanding and of sympathy.--but then all the future hung in the balance. the scale delayed to turn. and the strain of waiting became agitating to the point of distress. at last the course of her so-dutiful survey brought her to a quaint, little chamber, situated immediately over the square, outstanding porch. it was lighted by a single, hooded window placed in the centre of the front wall. it was evidently designed for a linen room, and was in process of being fitted with shelves and cupboards of white pine. the floor was deep in shavings, long, curly, wafer-coloured, semi-transparent. they rustled like fallen leaves when honoria stepped among them. the air was filled with the odour of them, dry and resinous as that of the fir forest. ever after that odour affected honoria with a sense of half-fearful joy and of impending fate. she stood in the middle of the quaint, little chamber. the ceiling was low. she had to bend her head to avoid violent contact between the central beam of it and the crown of her felt hat. but circumscribed though the space, and uncomfortable though her posture, she had an absurd longing to lock the door of the little room, never to come out, to stay here forever! here she was safe. but outside, on the threshold, stood something she dared not name. it drew her with a pain at once terrible and lovely. she dreaded it. yet once close to it, once face to face with it, she knew it would have her--that it would not take no for an answer. her pride, her chastity, were in arms. was this, she wondered, what men and women speak of so lightly, laugh and joke about? was this love?--to her it seemed wholly awe-inspiring. and so she clung strangely to the shelter of the quaint, little room with its sea of rustling, resinous shavings. on the other side the door of it waited that momentous decision which would cause the scale to turn. yet the minutes passed. to prolong her absence became impossible. just then there was a movement below, a crunching of the gravel, as though of a horse growing restless, impatient of standing. honoria moved forward, opened the window, pushing back the casement against a cluster of late-blossoming, red roses, the petals of which floated slowly downward describing fluttering circles. richard calmady was just below. honoria called to him. "i am coming, richard, i am coming!" she said. he turned in the saddle and looked up at her smiling--a smile at once courageous and resigned. yet, notwithstanding that smile, honoria once again discovered in his eyes the chill desolation and homelessness of the sky of the winter night. then the scale turned, turned at last--for that same lovely pain grew lovelier, more desirable than any possibility of ease, until such time as that desolation should pass, that homelessness be cradled to content in some sure harbourage.--here was the thing given her to do, and she must do it! she would risk all to win all. and, with that decision, all her serenity and freedom of soul returned. the white light of a noble self-devotion, reckless of self-spending, reckless of consequence, the joy of a great giving, illuminated her face. as to richard, he, looking up at her, though ignorant of her purpose, misreading the cause of that inspired aspect, still thought he had never witnessed so graciously gallant a sight. the nymph whom he had first known, who had baffled and crossed him, was here still, strong, untamed, elusive, remote. but a woman was here too, of finest fibre, faithful and loyal, capable of undying tenderness, of an all-encircling and heroic love. then the desires of the natural man stirred somewhat in richard, just because--paradox though it undoubtedly was--she provoked less the carnal, perishing passion of the flesh, than the pure and imperishable passion of the spirit. irrepressible envy of ludovic quayle, her lover, seized him, irrepressible demand for just all those things which that other richard, the would-be saint, had so sternly condemned himself to repudiate, to cast aside and forget. and the would-be saint triumphed--beating down thought of all that, trampling it under foot--so that after briefest interval he called up to her cheerily enough. "well, what do you make of the dust-cart? rather fascinating, isn't it? notwithstanding its uncleanly name, it's really rather sweet." to which she answered, speaking from out the wide background of her own emotion and purpose:-- "yes, yes--it's sad in a way, richard, penetratingly, splendidly sad. but one wouldn't have it otherwise; for it is splendid, and it is sweet, abundantly sweet."--then her tone changed.--"i won't keep you waiting any longer, i'm coming," she said. honoria looked round the quaint, little room, with its half-adjusted shelves and cupboards, the floor of it deep in resinous, semi-transparent, wafer-coloured shavings, bidding it adieu. for good or evil, happiness or sorrow, she was sensible it told for much in her life's history. then, something delicately militant in her carriage, she swung away down-stairs and out of the house. she was going forth to war indeed, to a war which in no shape or form had she ever waged as yet. many men had wooed her, and their wooing had left her cold. she had never wooed any man. why should she? to her no man had ever mattered one little bit. so she mounted, and they rode away.--a spin across the level turf to hearten her up, satisfy the fulness of sensation which held her, and shake her nerves into place. it was exhilarating. she grew keen and tense, her whole economy becoming reliable and well-knit by the strong exercise and sense of the superbly healthy and unperplexed vitality of the horse under her. honoria could have fought with dragons just then, had such been there to fight with! but, in point of fact, nothing more agressively dangerous presented itself for encounter than the shallow ford which divides the parish of farley from that of sandyfield and the tithing of brockhurst. snorting a little, the horses splashed through the clear, brown water and entered upon the rough, rutted road, grass grown in places, which, ending beneath a broken avenue of ancient, stag-headed oaks, leads to the entrance of the brockhurst woods. these, crowned by the dark, ragged line of the fir forest, rose in a soft, dense mass against the western sky, in which showed promise of a fair pageant of sunset. a covey of partridges ran up the sandy ruts before the horses, and, rising at last with a long-drawn whir of wings, skimmed the top of the crumbling bank and dropped in the stubble-field on the right. a pause, while the keeper's wife ran out to open the white gate,--the dogs meanwhile, from their wooden kennels under the spanish chestnuts upon the hillock behind the lodge, pulling at their chains and keeping up a vociferous chorus. thus heralded, the riders passed into the mysteriously whispering quiet of the great woods. the heavy, summer foliage remained as yet untouched by the hectic of autumn. diversity was observable in form rather than in tint, and from this resulted a remarkable effect of unity, a singleness of intention, and of far-reaching secrecy. the multitudinous leaves and the all-pervading green gloom of them around, above, seemed to engulf horses and riders. it was as though they rode across the floor of ocean, the green tides sweeping overhead. yet the trees of the wood asserted their intelligent presence now and again. audibly they talked together, bent themselves a little to listen and to look, as though curious of the aspect and purposes of these wandering mortals. and all this, the unity and secrecy of the place, affected both richard and honoria strangely, circling them about with something of earth-magic, removing them far from ordinary conditions of social intercourse, and thus rendering it possible, inevitable even, that they should think such thoughts and say such words as part company with subterfuge and concealment, go naked, and speak uttermost truth. for, with only the trees of the wood to listen, with that sibilant whisper of the green tide overhead, with strong emotion compelling them--in the one case towards death of self, in the other towards giving of self--in the one towards austere passivity, in the other towards activity taxing all capital of pride, of delicacy, and of tact--developments became imminent, and those of the most vital sort. the conversation had been broken, desultory; but now, by tacit consent, the pace became quiet again, the horses were permitted to walk. to have gone other than softly through the living heart of the greenwood must have savoured of desecration. yet richard was not insensible to a certain danger. he tried, rousing himself to conversation, to rouse himself also to the practical and commonplace. "i am glad you liked my house," he said. "but i hear the aristocracy of the row laments. it shies at the idea of being invaded by more or less frightful creatures. but i remain deaf. i really can't bother about that. it is so immeasurably more unpleasant to be frightful than to see that which is so, that i'm afraid my sympathies remain rather pig-headedly one-sided. i propose to educate the row in the grace of pity. it may lay up merit by due exercise of that." richard took off his hat and rode bareheaded, looking away into the delicious, green gloom. here, where the wood was thickest, oak and beech shutting out the sky, clasping hands overhead, the ground beneath them deep in moss and fern, that gloom was precisely like the colour of honoria's eyes. he wished it wasn't so. he tried to forget it. but the resemblance haunted him. look where he might, still he seemed to look into those singular and charming eyes. he talked on determinedly, putting a force upon himself--too often saying that which, no sooner was it out of his mouth, than, he wished unsaid. "i don't want to be too hard on the row, though. it has a right, after all, to its little prejudices. only you see for those who, poor souls, are different to other people it becomes of such supreme importance to keep in touch with the average. i have found that out in practice. and so i refuse to shut my waste humanity away. they must neither hide themselves nor be hidden, be spared seeing how much other people enjoy from which they are debarred, or grow over-conscious of their own ungainliness. that is why i've planted them and their gardens, and their pigs and their poultry--we'll have a lot of live stock, a second generation, even of chickens, offers remarkable consolations!--on the highroad, at the entrance of the little town, where, on a small scale at all events, they'll see the world that's straight-backed and has its proper complement of limbs and senses, go by. envy, hatred, and malice, and the seven devils of morbidity are forever lying in wait for them--well--for us--for me and those like me, i mean. in proportion as one's brought up tenderly--as i was--one doesn't realise the deprivation and disgust of one's condition at the start. but once realised, one's inclination is to kill. at least a man's is. a woman may accept it more quietly, i suppose." "richard," honoria said slowly, "are you sure you don't greatly exaggerate all--all that?" he shook his head. "thirty years' experience--no, i don't exaggerate! each time one makes a fresh acquaintance, each time a pretty woman is just that bit kinder to one than she would dare be to any man who was not out of it, each time people are manifestly interested--politely, of course--and form a circle, make room for one as they did at that particularly disagreeable grimshott garden party yesterday, each time--i don't want to drivel, but so it is--one sees a pair of lovers--oh! well, it's not easy to retain one's philosophy, not to obey the primitive instincts of any animal when it's ill-used and hurt, and to revenge oneself--to want to kill, in short." "you--you don't hate women, then?" honoria said, still slowly. richard stared at her for a moment. "hate them?" he said. "i only wish to goodness i did." "but in that case," she began bravely, "why----" "this is why," he broke in.--"you may remember my engagement to lady constance quayle, and the part you, very properly, took in the canceling of it? you know better than i do--though my imagination is pretty fertile in dealing with the situation--what instincts and feelings prompted you to take that part." the young lady turned to him, her arms outstretched, notwithstanding bridle-reins and whip, her face, and those strange eyes which seemed so integral a part of the fair green-wood, full of sorrowful entreaty and distress. "richard, richard," she cried, "will you never forgive me that? she didn't love you. it was horrible, yet in doing that which i did, i believed--i believe so still--i did what was right by you both." "undoubtedly you did right--and that justifies my contention. in doing that which you did you gave voice to the opinion of all wholesome-minded people. that's exactly where it is. you felt the whole business to be outrageous. so it was. i heartily agree."--he paused, and the trees talked softly together, bending down a little to listen and to look.--"as you say, she wasn't in love. poor child, how could she be? no woman ever will be--at least not in love of the nobler sort--of the sort which, if one cannot have it, one had a vast deal better have no love at all." "but i am not so sure of that," honoria said stoutly. "you rush to conclusions. isn't it rather a reflection on all the rest of us to take little lady constance as the measure of the insight and sensibility of the whole sex? and then she had already lost all her innocent, little heart to captain decies. indeed you're not fair to us.--wait----" "like ludovic quayle?" miss st. quentin straightened herself in the saddle. "oh! dear no, not the least like ludovic quayle!" she said. which enigmatic reply produced silence for a while on dickie's part. for there were various ways in which it might be interpreted, some flattering, some eminently unflattering, to himself. and from every point of view it was wisest to accept that last form of interpretation. the whole conversation had been perilous in character. it had been too intimate, had touched him too nearly, taking place here in the clear glooms of the green-wood moreover which bore such haunting kinship to those singularly sincere, and yet mysterious, eyes. it is dangerous to ride across the floor of ocean with the whispering tide sweeping overhead, and in such gallant company, besides, that to ride thus forever could hardly come amiss!--richard, in his turn, straightened himself up in the saddle, opened his chest, taking a long breath, carried his head high, said a stern "get thee behind me, satan," to encroaching sentiment and emotion, and to those fair visions which his companion's presence and her somewhat daring talk had conjured up. he defied the earth-magic, defied those sylvan deities who as he divined, sought to enthral him. for the moment he confounded honoria's influence with theirs. it was something of a battle, and not the first one he had fought to-day. for the great, white road which leads onward to perfection looked dusty and arid enough--no reposeful shadow, no mystery, no beguiling green glooms over it! stark, straight, hard, it stretched on endlessly, as it seemed, ahead. to travel it was slow and tedious work, in any case; and to travel it on crutches!--but it was worse than useless to play with such thoughts as these. he would put a stop to this disintegrating talk. he turned to honoria and spoke lightly, with a return of self-mockery. "oh! your first instinct was the true one, depend upon it," he said. "though i don't deny it contributed, indirectly, to giving me a pretty rough time." "oh! dear me!" honoria cried, almost piteously. then she added:--"but i don't see, why was that?" "because, i suppose, i had a sort of unwilling belief in you," he said, smiling.--oh! this accursed conversation, why would it insistently drift back into intimacy thus! "have i justified that belief?" she asked, with a certain pride yet a certain eagerness. "more than justified it," dickie answered. "my mother, who has a touchstone for all that is of high worth, knew you from the first. like the devils, i--i believed and trembled--at least that is how i see it all now. so your action came as a rather searching revelation and condemnation. when i perceived all that it involved--oh, well! first i went to the dogs, and then----" the horses walked side by side. honoria stretched out her hand impulsively, laid it on his arm. "richard, richard, for pity's sake don't! you hurt me too much. it's terrible to have been the cause of such suffering." "you weren't the cause," he said. "lies were the cause, behind which, like a fool, i'd tried to shelter myself. you've been right, honoria, from first to last. what does it matter after all?--don't take it to heart. for it's over now--all over, thank god, and i have got back into normal relations with things and with people."--he looked at her very charmingly, and spoke with a fine courtesy of tone.--"one way and another you have taught me a lot, and i am grateful. and, in the future, though the conditions will be altered, i hope you'll come back here often, honoria, and just see for yourself that my mother is content; and give my schemes and fads a kindly look in at the same time. and perhaps give me a trifle of sound advice. i shall need it safe enough. you see what i want to get at is temperance--temperance all round, towards everything and everybody--not fanaticism, which, in some respects, is a much easier attitute of mind." richard looked up into the whispering, green tide overhead. "yes, one must deny oneself the luxury of fanaticism, if possible," he said, "deny oneself the vanity of eccentricity. one must take everything simply, just in the day's work. one must keep in touch. keep in touch with your world, the great world, the world which cultivates pleasure and incidentally makes history, as well as with the world of the dust-cart--i know that well enough--if one's to be quite sane. you see loneliness, a loneliness of which i am thankful to think you can form no conception, is the curse of persons like myself. it inclines one to hide, to sulk, to shut oneself away and become misanthropic. to hug one's misery becomes one's chiefest pleasure--to nurse one's grief, one's sense of injury. oh! i'm wary, very wary now, i tell you," he added, half laughing. "i know all the insidious temptations, the tricks and frauds, and pitfalls of this affair. and so i'll continue to go to grimshott garden parties as discipline now and then, while i gather my disabled and decrepit family very closely about me and say words of wisdom to it--wisdom derived from a mature and extensive personal experience." there was a pause before miss st. quentin spoke. then she said slowly. "and you refuse to let any one help? you, you refuse to let any one share the cares of that disabled family?" again dickie stared at her, arrested by her speech and doubtful of the intention of it. he could have sworn there were tears in her voice, that it trembled. but her face was averted, and he could see no more than the slightly angular outline of her cheek and chin. "isn't that a rather superfluous question?" he remarked. "as you pointed out a little while ago, mine is not a super-abundantly cheerful programme. no one would volunteer for such service--at least no one likely to be acceptable to my mother, or indeed likely to satisfy my own requirements. i admit, i'm a little fastidious, a little critical and exacting, when it comes to close quarters and--well--permanent association, even yet." "i am very glad to hear that," honoria said. her face remained averted, but there was a change in her attitude, a decision in the pose of her figure, suggestive both of challenge and of triumph. richard was nonplussed, but his blood was up. this conversation had gone far enough--indeed too far. very certainly he would make an end of it. "but god forbid," he exclaimed, "that i should ever fall to such a depth of selfishness as to invite any person who would satisfy my taste, my demands, to share my life! i mayn't amount to very much, but at least i have never used my personal ill luck to trade on a woman's generosity and pity. what i have had from women, i've paid for, in hard cash. in that respect my conscience is clear. it has been a bargain, fair and square and above board, and all my debts are settled in full. you hardly think at this time of day i should use my proposed schemes of philanthropy as a bait?" richard sent his horse forward at a sharp trot. "no, no, honoria," he said, "let it be understood that side of things is over forever." but here came relief from the green glooms of the green-wood and the dangerous magic of them. for the riders had reached the summit of the hill, and entered upon the levels of the great table-land at the head of which brockhurst house stands. here was the open, the fresh breeze, the long-drawn, sighing song of the fir forest--a song more austere, more courageous, more virile, than ever sung by the trees of the wood which drop their leaves for fear of the sharp-toothed winter, and only put them forth again beneath the kisses of soft-lipped spring. covering all the western sky were lines of softly-rounded, broken cloud, rank behind rank, in endless perspective, the whole shaped like a mighty fan. the under side of them was flushed with living rose. the clear spaces behind them paved with sapphire at the zenith, and palest topaz where they skirted the far horizon. "how very beautiful it is!" honoria cried, joyously. "richard let us see this." she turned her horse at the green ride which leads to the white temple situate on that outstanding spur of hill. she rode on quickly till she reached the platform of turf before the temple. richard followed her with deliberation. he was shaken. his calm was broken up, his whole being in tumult. why had she pressed just all those matters home on him which he had agreed with himself to cast aside and forget? it was a little cruel, surely, that temptation should assail him thus, and the white road towards perfection be made so difficult to tread, just when he had re-dedicated himself and renewed his vows? he looked after her. it was here he had met her first, after the time when, as a little maid, she had proved too swift of foot, leaving him so far behind that it sorely hurt his baby dignity and caused him to see her depart without regret. she was still swift of foot. she left him behind now. for the moment he was ready to swear that, not only without regret, but with actual thankfulness he could again witness her departure.--yes, he wanted her to go, because he so desperately wanted her to stay--that was the truth. for not only dickie the natural man, but dickie "the wild bull in a net," had a word to say just then.--god in heaven, what hard work it is to be good! miss st. quentin kicked her left foot out of the stirrup, threw her right leg over the pommel, turned, and slipped straight out of the saddle. she stood there a somewhat severely tall, dark figure, strong and positive in effect, against the immense and reposeful landscape--far-ranging, purple distance, golden harvest-fields, silver glint of water in the hollows, all the massive grandeur of the woods, and that superb pageant of sunset sky. the groom rode forward, took her horse, led it away to the far side of the grass platform behind the temple. those ranks of rosy cloud in infinite perspective, with spaces of clearest topaz and sapphire light between, converged to the glowing glory of the sun, the rim of which now touched the margin of the world. they were as ranks of worshippers, of blessed souls redeemed and sainted, united by a common act of adoration, every form clothed by reflection of his glory, every heart, every thought centred upon god.--richard looked at all that, but it failed to speak to him. then he saw honoria resolutely turn her back upon the glory. she came directly towards him. her face was very thin, her manner very calm. she laid her left hand on the peak of his saddle. she looked him full in the eyes. "richard," she said, "be patient a minute and listen.--it comes to this, that a woman--your equal in position, of your own age, and not without money--does volunteer to share your work. it's no forlorn hope. she is not disappointed. on the contrary she has, and can have, pretty well all the world's got to give. only--perhaps very foolishly, for she doesn't know much about the matter, having been rather coldblooded as yet--she has fallen in love." there was a silence, save that the wind came out of the west, out of the majesty of the sunset, and with it came the calling of the sea--not only of the blue water, or of those green tides that sweep above wandering mortals in the magic green-wood; but of the sea of faith, of the sea of love--love human, love divine, love universal--which circles not only this, but all possible states of being, all possible worlds. presently richard spoke hoarsely, under his breath. "with whom?" he said. "with you----" dickie went white to the lips. he sat absolutely still for a little space, his hands resting on his thighs. "tell her to think," he said, at last.--"she proposes to do that which the world will condemn, and rightly, from its point of view. it will misread her motives. it won't spare disagreeable comment. tell her to think.--tell--tell her to look.--cripple, dwarf, the last, as he ought to be, of an unlucky race--a man who's carried up and down-stairs like an infant, who's strapped to the saddle, strapped to the driving seat--who is cut off from most forms of activity and of sport.--a man who will never have any sort of career--who has given himself, in expiation of past sins, to the service of human beings a degree more unfortunate than himself.--no, no, stop--hear me out.--she must know it all!--a man who has lived far from cleanly, who has evil memories and evil knowledge of life--no--listen!--a man whom you,--yes, you yourself, honoria,--have condemned bitterly, from whom, notwithstanding your splendid nerve and pluck, so repulsive is his deformity, you have shrunk a hundred times." "she has thought of all that," honoria answered calmly. "but she has thought of this too,--that, going up and down the world to find the most excellent thing in it, she has found this thing, love. and so to her, richard, your crippling has come to be dearer than any other man's wholeness. your wrong-doings--may god forgive her--dearer than any other man's virtue. your virtues so wholly beautiful that--that----" the tears came into her eyes, her lips quivered, she backed away a little from rider and horse. "richard," she cried fiercely, "if you don't care for me, if you don't want me, be honourable, tell me so straight out and let us have done with it! i am strong enough, i am man enough, for that. for heaven's sake don't take me out of pity. i would never forgive you. there's a good deal of us both, one way and another, and we should give each other a hell of a time if i was in love and you were not. but"--she put her hand on the peak of that very ugly saddle again--"but, if you do care, here i am. i have never failed any one yet. i will never fail you. i am yours body and soul. marry me," she said. chapter xi in which richard calmady bids the long-suffering reader farewell the midsummer dusk had fallen, drawing its soft, dim mantle over the face of the land. the white light walked the northern sky from west to east. a nightingale sang in the big, portugal laurel at the corner of the troco-ground, and was answered by another singer from the coppice, across the valley, bordering the trout stream that feeds the long water. a fox barked sharply out in the warren. beetles droned, flying conspicuously upright, straight on end, through the warm air. the churring of the night-jars, as they flitted hither and thither over the beds of bracken and dog-roses, like gigantic moths, on quick, silent wings, formed a continuous accompaniment, as of a spinning-wheel, to the other sounds. and dick ormiston laughed consumedly, doubling himself together now and again and holding his slim sides in effort to moderate his explosive merriment. he was in uproarious spirits.--back from school to-day, and that nearly a month earlier than could by the most favourable process of calculation have been anticipated, thanks to development of measles on the part of some much-to-be-commended school-fellows. how he blessed those praiseworthy young sufferers! and how he laughed, watching the two heavy-headed, lolloping, half-grown, bull-dog puppies describe crazy circles upon the smooth turf in the deepening dusk. seen thus in the half-light they appeared more than ever gnome-like, humorously ugly and awkward. they trod on their own ears, tumbled over one another, sprawled on the grass, panting and grinning, until their ecstatic owner incited them to further gyrations. to dick this was a night of unbridled licence. had he not dined late? had he not leave to sit up till half-past ten o'clock? was he not going out, bright and early, to-morrow morning to see the horses galloped? could life hold greater complement of good for a brave, little, ten-year-old soul, and slender, serviceable, little, ten-year-old body emulous of all manly virtues and manly pastimes? so the boy laughed; and the sound of his laughter reached the ears both of the elder and the younger lady calmady, as they slowly paced the straight walk between the gray balustrade and the edge of the turf. on their left the great outstretch of valley and wood lay drowned in the suave uncertainties of the summer night. before them was the whole terrace-front of the house, its stacks of twisted chimneys clear cut against the sky. bright light shone out from the windows of the red drawing-room, and from those of the hall, bringing flowers, sections of gray pavement, and like details into sharp relief. there were passing lights in the range of windows above, suggesting cheerful movement within the great house. at the southern end of the terrace, just below the arcade of the garden-hall--which showed pale against the shadow within and brickwork above--two men were sitting. their voices reached the ladies now and then in quiet yet animated talk. a spirit of peace, of security, of firmly-planted hope, seemed to pervade all the scene, all the place. waking or sleeping, fear was banished. all was strong to work to-morrow, so to-night all could calmly yield itself to rest. and it was a sense of just this, and a tender anxiety lest the fulness of the gracious content of it should be in any degree marred to her dear companion, which made honoria calmady say presently:-- "you don't mind little dick's racketting with those ridiculous puppies, do you, cousin katherine? if it bothers you i'll stop him like a shot." but katherine shook her head. "my dearest child, why stop him?" she said. "the foolishnesses of young creatures at play are delicious, and laughter, so long as it is not cruel, i reckon among the good gifts of god."--she paused a moment. "dear marie de mirancourt tried to teach me that long ago, but i was culpably dull of hearing in those days where spiritual truth was concerned, and i failed to grasp her meaning. i believe we never really love, either man or almighty god, until we can both laugh ourselves and let others laugh. of all false doctrines that of the sour-faced, joyless puritan is the falsest. his mere outward aspect is a sin against the holy ghost." and honoria smiled, patting the hand which lay on her arm very tenderly. "how i love your heavenly rage!" she said. they moved on a few steps in silence. then, careless of all the rapture its notification of the passing of time might cut short, the clock at the house-stables chimed the half-hour. honoria paused in her gentle walk. "bedtime, dick," she cried. "all right," the boy returned. he pursued, and laid hold of, the errant puppies, stowing them, not without kickings and strugglings on their part, one under either arm. they were large and heavy, just as much as he could carry, and he staggered across the grass with them, presenting the effect of a small, black donkey between a pair of very big, white panniers. "i say, they are awfully stunning though, you know, honoria," he said rather breathlessly as he came up to her. "very soul-satisfying, aren't they, dick?" she replied. "richard foresaw as much. that is why he got them for you." "if i put them down do you suppose they'll follow? carrying them does make my arms ache." "oh, they'll follow fast enough," honoria said. he lowered the puppies circumspectly on to the gravel. "they'll be whoppers when they're grown," he remarked. "what shall you call them?" "adam and eve i think, because they're the first of my lot. they're pedigree dogs--and later i may want to show, don't you see." "yes, i see," honoria said. he came close to her, putting his face up half shyly to be kissed. then as young lady calmady, somewhat ghostly in her trailing, white evening dress, bent her charming head, the boy, suddenly overcome with the manifold excitements of the day, flung his arms round her. "oh! oh!" he gasped, "how awfully ripping it is to be back here again with you and cousin richard and aunt katherine! i wish number-four dormitory would get measles the middle of every term!--only i forgot--perhaps i ought not to touch you, honoria, after messing about with the dogs. do you mind?" "not a bit," she said. "but, honoria,"--he rubbed his cool cheek against her bare neck--"i say, don't you think you might come and see me, just for a little weeny while, after i'm in bed to-night?" and young lady calmady, thus coaxed, held the slight figure close. she had a very special place in her heart for this small dick, who in face, and as she hoped in nature also, bore such comfortable resemblance to that elder, and altogether well-beloved, dick who was the delight of her life. "yes, dear, old chap, i'll come," she said. "only it must really be for a little, weeny while, because you must go to sleep. by the way, who's going to valet you these holidays? clara or faulstich?" "oh, neither," the boy answered. "i think i'm rather old for women now, don't you know, honoria."--at which statement she laughed, his cheek being again tucked tight into the turn of her neck. "i shall have andrews in future. i asked cousin richard about it. he's a very civil-mannered fellow, and he knows about yachts and things, and he says he likes being up before five o'clock." "does he? excellently veracious young man!" honoria remarked. but thereupon, exuberance of joy demanding active expression, the boy broke away with a whoop and set off running. the puppies lolloped away at his heels. and young lady calmady--whom such giddy fancies still took at times, notwithstanding nearly three years of marriage--flew after the trio, the train of her dress floating out behind her to most admired extravagance of length as she skimmed along the path. fair lady, boy, and dogs disappeared, with sounds of merriment, into the near garden-hall; reappeared upon the terrace, bearing down, but at sobering pace, upon the occupants of the chairs set at the end of it. one man rose to his feet, a tall, narrow, black figure. the other remained seated. the light shining forth from the great bay-window of the hall touched the little group, conferring a certain grandeur upon the graceful, white-clad honoria. her satin dress shimmered as she moved. there was, as of old, a triumph of high purity, of freedom of soul, in her aspect. her voice came, with a fine gladness yet soft richness of tone, across that intervening triangular space of sloping turf upon which terrace and troco-ground alike looked down. the nightingale, who had fallen silent during the skirmish, took up his passionate singing again, and was answered delicately, a song not of the flesh but of the spirit, by the bird from across the valley. katherine calmady stood solitary, watching, listening, her hands folded rather high on her bosom. the caressing suavity of the summer night enfolded her. and remembrance came to her of another night, nearly four-and-thirty years ago, when, standing in this same spot, she, young, untried, ambitious of unlimited delight, had felt the first mysterious pangs of motherhood, and told her husband of that new, unseen life which was at once his and her own. and of yet another night, when, after long experience of sorrow, solitude, and revolt, her husband had come to her once again--but come even as the bird's song came from across the valley, etherealised, spiritualised, the same yet endowed with qualities of unearthly beauty--and how that strange and exquisite communion with the dead had fortified her to endure an anguish even greater than any she had yet known.--she had prayed that night that she might behold the face of her well-beloved, and her prayer had been granted. she had prayed that, without reservation, she might be absorbed by, and conformed to, the divine will. and that prayer had, as she humbly trusted, been in great measure granted also. but then the divine will had proved so very merciful, the divine intention so wholly beneficent, there was small credit in being conformed to either!--katherine bowed her head in thanksgiving. the goodness of the almighty towards her had been abundant beyond asking or fondest hope. she was aroused from her gracious meditation by the sound of footsteps--measured, a little weary perhaps--approaching her. she looked up to see julius march. and a point of gentle anxiety pricked katherine. for it occurred to her that julius had failed somewhat in health and energy of late. she reproached herself lest, in the interest of watching those vigorous, young lives so dear to her, participating in their schemes, basking in the sunshine of their love, she had neglected julius and failed to care for his comfort as she might. to those that have shall be given even of sympathy, even of strength. in that there is an ironical as well as an equitable truth; and she was to blame perhaps in the ironical application of it. it followed therefore, that she greeted him now with a quickening both of solicitude and of affection. "come and pace, dear julius, come and pace," she said, "as in times past. yet not wholly as in the past, for then often i must have distressed and troubled you, since my pacings were too often the outcome of restlessness and of unruly passion, while now----" katherine broke off, gazing at the little company gathered upon the terrace. "surely they are very happy?" she said, almost involuntarily. and he, smiling at his dear lady's incapacity of escape from her fixed idea, replied:-- "yes, very surely." katherine tied the white, lace coif she wore a little tighter beneath her chin. "in their happiness i renew that of my own youth," she said gently, "as it is granted to few women, i imagine, to renew it. but i renew it with a reverence for them; since my own happiness was plain sailing enough, obvious, incontestable, whilst theirs is nobler, and rises to a higher plane. for its roots, after all, are planted in very mournful fact, to which it has risen superior, and over which it has triumphed." but he answered, jealous of his dear lady's self-depreciation:-- "i can hardly admit that. to begin in unclouded promise of happiness, to decline to searching and unusual experience of sorrow, and then, by self-discipline and obedience, to attain your present altitude of tranquillity and assurance of faith, is surely a greater trial, a greater triumph, than to begin with difficulties, with much, i admit, to overcome and resist, but to succeed as they are succeeding and be granted the high land of happiness which they even now possess? they are young, fortune smiles on them. above all, they have one another----" "ah, yes!" she said, "they have one another. long may that last. it is a very perfect marriage of true minds, as well as true hearts. i had, and they have, all that love can give,"--lady calmady turned at the end of the walk. "but it troubles me, as a sort of emptiness and waste, dear julius, that you have never had that. it pains me that you, who possess so noble a power of disinterested and untiring friendship, should never have enjoyed that other, and nearer relation, which transcends friendship even as to-morrow's dawn will transcend in loveliness the chastened restfulness of this evening's dusk." katherine moved onward with a certain sweet dignity of manner. "tell me--is she still alive, julius, this lady whom you so loved?" "yes, thank god," he said. "and you have never tried to elude that vow which--as you once told me--you made long ago before you knew her?" "never," he replied. "without it i could not have served her as i have been able to serve her. i am wholly thankful for it. it made much possible which must have otherwise been impossible." "and have you never told her that you loved her--even yet?" "no," he replied, "because, had i told her, i must have ceased to serve her, i must have left her, katherine, and i did not think god required that of me." lady calmady walked on in silence, her head a little bent. at the end of the path she stood a moment, listening to the answering songs of the two nightingales. "ah!" she said softly, "how greatly i have under-rated the beauty of the dusk! to submit to dwell in the border-land, to stand on the dim bridge, thus, between day and night, demands perhaps the very finest courage conceivable. you have shown me, julius, how exquisite and holy a thing it is.--and, as to her whom you have so faithfully loved, i think, could she know, she would thank you very deeply for never telling her the truth. she would entreat you to keep your secret to the end. but to remain near her, to let her seek counsel of you when in perplexity or distress, to talk with her both of those you and she love, and have loved, and of the promise of fair things beyond and above our present seeing--pacing with her at times--even as you and i, dear friend, pace together here to-night--amid the restrained and solemn beauty of the dusk. would she not do this?" "it is enough that you have done it for her, katherine," he answered. "with your ruling i am wholly, unendingly content." "perhaps dickie and honoria's dear works of mercy and the noonday tide of energy which flows through the house, have caused us to see less of each other than of old," lady calmady continued with a charming lightness. "that is a mistake needing correction. the young to the young, dear julius. you and i, who go at a quieter pace, will enjoy our peaceful friendship to the full. i shall not tire of your company, i promise you, if you do not of mine. long may you be spared to me. god keep you, most loyal friend. goodnight." then lady calmady, deeply touched, yet unmoved from her altitude of thankfulness and calm, musing of many matters and the working out of them to a beneficent and noble end, slowly went the length of the terrace to where, at the foot of the steps of the garden-hall, richard still sat. as she came near he held out his hand to her. "dear, sweet mother," he said, "how i like to see you walk in that stately fashion, the whole of you--body, mind, and spirit, somehow evident--gathered up within the delicious compass of yourself! as far back as i can remember anything. i remember that. when i watched you it always made me feel safe. it seemed more like music heard, somehow, than something seen." "dickie, dickie," she exclaimed, flushing a little, "don't make me vain in my old age!" "but it's true," he said. "and why shouldn't one tell the pretty truths as well as the plain ones?--isn't it a positively divine night? look at the moon just clearing the top of the firs there! it is good to be alive. mother--may i say it?--i am very grateful to you for having brought me into the world." "ah! but, my poor darling----" katherine cried. "no, no," he said, "put that out of your dear head once and for all. i am grateful, being as i am, grateful for everything, it being as it is. i don't believe i would have anything--not anything save those four years when i left you--altered, even if i could. i've found my work, and it enlarges its borders in all manner of directions; and it prospers. and i have money to put it through. and i have that boy. he's a dear little chap, and it is wonderfully good of uncle roger and mary to give him to me. but he's getting a trifle too fond of horses. i can't break poor, old chifney's heart; but when his days are numbered, those of the stables--as far as training racers goes--are numbered likewise, i think. i'll keep on the stud farm. but i grow doubtful about the rest. i wish it wasn't so, but so it is. sport is changing hands, passing from those of romance into those of commerce.--well, the stables served their turn. they helped to bring me through. but now perhaps they're a little out of the picture." richard drew her hand nearer and kissed it, leaning back in his chair, and looking up at her. "and i have you--" he said, "you most perfect of mothers.--and--ah! here comes honoria!" the lilac lady the second of the peace greenfield books by ruth alberta brown author of "at the little brown house," "tabitha at ivy hall," "tabitha's glory," "tabitha's vacation," etc. the saalfield publishing company chicago akron, ohio new york copyright, mcmxiv by the saalfield publishing co. to edith haserick mcfarlane, the saint elspeth of my girlhood, this story is affectionately dedicated. [illustration: "oh," cried gail in quick sympathy, "what a feeble old creature! it is a shame she has to beg her living. where is my purse?"] contents i. exploring the new home ii. the flag room iii. christmas day with the campbells iv. a zealous little missionary v. an unexpected invitation vi. peace's spring vacation vii. a voice from the lilac bushes viii. a picnic in the enchanted garden ix. giuseppe nicoli and the monkey x. the last day of school xi. peace finds new playmates xii. a little child shall lead them xiii. children's day at hill street church xiv. how the fourth of july money was spent xv. peace gives the lilac lady an idea xvi. the lilac lady falls asleep the lilac lady chapter i exploring the new home two days after the night of the memorable surprise party in the little brown house, the place stood dismantled and deserted under the naked, shivering trees, good-byes had been spoken, and the six smiling sisters had driven away from their parker home amid much fluttering of handkerchiefs and waving of hands. everyone was sorry to see them go, yet all rejoiced in the great good fortune which had befallen the little orphan brood. even after the judge's carriage, which was to take them to the station, disappeared around the bend of the creek road, the enthusiastic crowd of friends and neighbors clustered about the sagging gate continued to shout their joking warnings and happy wishes upon the crisp, frosty, morning air. "there," breathed peace, grinning from ear to ear, as she slowly unwound from the corkscrew twist she had assumed in her attempt to catch the last glimpse of the old home. "they're all out of sight now. i can't even see hec abbott any longer up in the tree with his dirty handkerchief. oh, mr. judge, i forgot you were our coachman this morning, but his handkerchief _is_ awful dirty! it always is. i guess his mother doesn't chase him up like gail does us with clean ones. faith greenfield, what do you mean by kicking me like that? ain't there room enough on that back seat for your big feet?" "little girls should be heard and not seen," quoted cherry with her most sanctimonious air, noting the gathering frown on the older sister's face, and not quite understanding what had gone amiss. "yes, that's just what peace believes, too," cried hope with her happy, contagious laugh in which gail and the judge and even faith joined, making the sharp air ring with their hilarity. "guess this ride must make you feel ticklish, too," suggested peace, looking over her shoulder with a comical, self-complacent air at the crowded rear seat of the carryall. "i 'xpected to see some of you bawling about now--" "bawling!" echoed the girls in genuine surprise, while the old judge chuckled to himself. "what for?" "'cause we've left parker for good and all. we're never going to live there any more." "but we shall visit there often. grandpa said so," cried hope, warmly. "it isn't as if we were bound for the poor-farm or some dreadful orphan home. we might have reason to cry then; but as it is, we're going to martindale to live in a splendid great house with splendid, lovely people; and i can't help wanting to jump up and shout for gladness, even though we do love parker and all the people there who have been so good to us--" "good for you, miss hope! hip, hip, hurrah!" broke in the judge, flapping the reins wildly as he doffed his hat and cheered heartily. "that's the proper spirit! we parkerites don't expect you to break your hearts because you are going to a new home; we'd think it very queer indeed if you did. but we are glad to know this old town holds a tender spot in your memories. we shall miss you more than you will us, which is only natural; but as hope says, you will be often among us as visitors, even though the little brown house will never be home to you again. doctor and mrs. campbell have not only opened the door of their big house to you, but also the door of their hearts. go in and take possession. you can make them the happiest people on earth if you want to--and i know you do. they intended to drive over after you this morning, but we villagers said no. they ought to be in martindale to greet you, and we certainly deserved the privilege of escorting you to--" "ain't it nice to be pop'lar?" sighed peace in ecstasy. "we're all bones of _condescension_ today--now what are you laughing at?" "oh, we've reached the station already," chirped allee with a suddenness which made everyone jump. "and if there isn't mr. strong!" cried the older girls in astonishment. "how did you ever get here ahead of us? we left you sitting on peace's gate-post." "he sneaked," peace declared without giving him a chance for reply. "he can sneak in anywhere. oh, i didn't mean that as a _complimemp_, mr. preacher. you know i didn't! but you truly go so like a cat that people never know when you will jump out at them. where is elspeth--i mean pet--i mean--oh, there she is in the station house, and miss truesdale and miss dunbar and dr. bainbridge! we're much obliged that so many of you have come down to make sure we left town. let me get out of here, judge! i want to kiss glen again." scrambling excitedly out of her seat beside the dignified driver, she was over the wheels before he could stop her, and into the arms of the waiting friends. none of the orphan sisters had expected such a glorious send-off--nor, indeed, had the parker friends planned it beforehand. it was just one of those acts of kindness born of the impulse of the moment and made possible because of a shortcut to the station and the grocer's wagon which stood hitched in front of mr. hartman's door. but the sight of the little group of neighbors on the station platform was very gratifying to every one of the youthful greenfields, and each proceeded to show her pleasure in her own characteristic way. this second farewell-taking was very brief, however, for down the tracks came the puffing train, stopping at the narrow platform only long enough for the laughing, chattering girls to climb aboard, before it glided away again, with peace's shrill protests trailing off into silence: "i don't see why we have to take the train when it is such a teeny short ride. i'd rather go by street-car. i didn't kiss elspeth but once, and the judge looked as if he was dying for another--" silently, soberly, the gay little company at the railroad station dispersed to their various homes; but fortunately for the band of inexperienced travellers aboard the flying train, there was no time for serious thought, so brief was their journey. scarcely were they settled with their hand-bags and grips when the brakeman threw open the door and strode down the aisle, bawling loudly, "martindale, martindale! our next stop is martindale union depot!" and before they could realize what was happening, the porter had bundled them off in the great, dark, noisy station-yard, filled with throngs of excited, hurrying people passing in and out of the heavy iron gates. caught in the jam, there was a moment of breathless bewilderment; a frantic disentangling of themselves from the pushing, shoving crowd; a hurried, frightened survey of the sea of unfamiliar faces around them, and then straight into the arms of the smiling college president the anxious sextette walked. "well, well, well!" he cried with boyish eagerness, trying to gather them all in one embrace. "here you are at last! i've waited one solid hour for this train. those parker people tried to tell me it was my place to stand in the doorway over at the house and welcome you there, but blessed if i could wait! neither could grandma. i thought i had stolen away without anyone seeing me, but before i had reached the car-tracks, there she was right at my heels. here, mother, are your--own!" no welcome from the doorsteps of the great house could have warmed and thrilled those six hearts as did the husky, tremulous words of greeting in the dim, smoky station amid the clanging engines and shouted orders of trainmen. home! ah, what a glorious feeling of possession! the tears which had not come at thought of leaving the old home now welled up in the blue eyes and in the brown, but they were tears of joy and thanksgiving. "i knew someone would do some bawling before we got through with this," sniffed peace, searching in vain for the handkerchief which was never to be found in her pocket, and finally wiping her eyes on the august president's coat-sleeve. "let's go home now. i want to see what it's like. you didn't bring the carriage, did you? it's just as well, i guess, for i s'pose we'll have lots of rides anyway. only i wanted to see if the horses looked anything like black prince. is this our car? oak street--i'll remember that; i may want to do some travelling all by myself some day. if you've got ten rooms in your house, how many are you going to turn over to us? for our very own, i mean. three in a room makes things awfully crowded if the rooms are as teeny as they were in our house in parker. 'tisn't so bad in winter, but in summer we nearly roast to death nights. do you have much comp'ny, and will we have to give up our rooms to them all the time? i forgot to ask you about these things before we said we'd come." "peace!" reproved gail in an undertone, trying to check the flow of questions and information pouring so rapidly from the lively tongue. "don't talk all the time. give grandpa a chance to say a few words." "yes, i will," responded the child with angelic sweetness, in such loud tones that she could be heard all over the car. "i'm waiting for him to say a few words now. how about it, grandpa? shall we each have a room or must we double up or thribble--" "peace!" called allee in wild excitement, "there is frances sherrar's house!" "where? is it, grandpa?" asked cherry, a little twinge of envy seizing her as she remembered her younger sisters' visit there a few weeks before. "yes," he replied, glancing hastily out of the window, "i think very likely it was, as they live on the corner we have just passed, and the next street is where we get off. press the button, curlypate, or the conductor will carry us by. i didn't know you were acquainted with the sherrars, abigail. frances is a student at the university; you will probably be in some of her classes. give me your hand, hope. there, mother, all our family are off. right about face! one block west, and--here we are. welcome home, my children! peace, how do you like the looks of it?" they had paused in front of a great, rambling, old house, set in the midst of a wide lawn, brown and sere now with approaching winter, and surrounded by huge, knotted, gnarled, old oaks, whose dry leaves still clung to the twisted branches and rustled in the crisp air. a fat, sleek, black tabby lay asleep on the warm porch-rail; a gaunt, ungainly greyhound lay sunning himself on the door mat, and from inside somewhere came the sound of a canary's riotous song. the whole place breathed of home, and with a deep sigh of content, peace lifted her great, brown eyes to the president's face and whispered, "it seems 'sif i b'longed already." "you do," he murmured huskily. "this is home, dear." hand in hand they walked up the path and through the door into the big hall, flooded with warm sunshine and sweet with the smell of roses. up the stairway they marched, followed by the other sisters, all silent, wondering, but happy, and paused in the doorway of a large, airy room, furnished with easy-chairs and couches, a tempting array of late books, and a dainty sewing-table, heaped with pretty materials such as young girls love. "this is mother's domain," the president announced, stepping aside to let them enter. "hang your wraps in that closet for the time being, make yourselves presentable--there is a mirror on purpose for prinking--and then get acquainted with your new home. there is still an hour and a half before luncheon will be served, and that ought to give you quite an opportunity to make discoveries. now away with you!" "but--," "how," "what do you mean?" blurted out the astonished girls, wondering whether he was in earnest or just joking, for this seemed a queer way to introduce them to their new life. "just what i say," he laughed. "mother thought we ought to conduct you about the place and explain all the different phases of your new home, but i am inclined to believe you will like it better if you can make the tour all by yourselves. young folks usually glory in unexplored fields. now to it, for time is fleeting! i shall call for a report of your discoveries at luncheon. a prize for the one who has seen the most." "do we have to go by ourselves?" peace lingered to ask. "as you wish," was the brief response; and with his hat in his hand, the busy president descended the stairs, leaving a very bewildered group in the sewing-room behind him. "well!" gail ejaculated. "how shall we begin?" "i saw a piano as we came through the hall below," faith half whispered. "and books! everywhere!" cried cherry, her eyes fastened longingly upon the little book-case in the corner. "do they really belong to us now?" "yes, of course," answered peace in business-like tones. "come on, allee; let's get to work and see what we can find before lunch time. this is a pretty big house, and we've got to hustle if we get all around it in an hour and a half. wonder where grandpa and grandma went. shall we commence at the bottom and work up, or start in at the attic? i guess the attic first will be best, seeing we've come up one flight of stairs already, and it would be just a waste of time to go down and have to climb them all again." answering her own question, she clutched alice's hand and disappeared in one direction, as the sisters, following her example, scattered about the great house on their tours of inspection. the next ninety minutes were busy ones in the campbell house, and it was necessary to ring the dinner bell twice before all members of the happy family were summoned to the table. "well, how goes it?" smiled the president. "judging from the time it took to gather the clans, some of you must have been pretty busy." "we were," dreamily murmured cherry, who had been dragged bodily from the stacks of books in the library. "made any great discoveries?" "yes, indeed!" they cried in unison. "good! i'm all impatience! relate your adventures. we are anxious to hear how you like your new home--mother and i. abigail, you are the oldest; suppose you begin." "i didn't get very far, i am afraid," said gail modestly. "just a peep into the rooms upstairs and a beginning down here when i found gussie almost on the verge of tears because her dessert had burned black and she had no time to make any more; so i--" "bet our talking burned up her pies," peace was heard to murmur remorsefully. "--helped her out a little," continued gail, "and by that time the bell rang, so there was no opportunity for any further investigations." "saint elizabeth," said the president reverently, while the white-haired mistress of the house beamed her approval. "now, faith,--but there is really no need of asking her about her discoveries. she got no further than the parlor with its piano. now, did you?" "no, grandpa," faith confessed unblushingly. "i saw it when we came in, and i simply couldn't resist it a minute longer than was absolutely necessary. there will be lots of days for getting acquainted here, and besides, i knew peace would carry off the prize--" "me carry off the prize!" peace interrupted. "i've never got a prize for anything in my life--" "only because there never was one offered before for the person who could see the most or talk the longest," laughed faith, and peace subsided suddenly. "saint cecilia,--she could not get past the piano," teased dr. campbell, when the shout of laughter at faith's sally had died away. "hope, what have you to say for yourself?" "not much. i visited all the rooms upstairs and down; fed the canary; got acquainted with blinks, the cat, and kyte, the hound; found towzer and tried to make him be friends with kyte, but he wouldn't be coaxed. gussie said there were some kittens in the basement, so i went down there to find them, but the boy from the hardware store was there working on the furnace, and some way we fell to talking about studies, and he was so discouraged over his algebra lesson for night-school that i stopped to see if i could help him out a little, and the bell rang just as we got the third problem worked." "my gentle saint lucia," he said in praise, as he turned from her to the next sister in age. "cherry, give an account of your wanderings." "i wandered downstairs as far as the library--i guess that is what you call it." "and then what?" for she stopped as if her tale were told. "that's all. i stayed there." "oh!" the president wilted, mrs. campbell stared, and for a moment even the sisters were silent in surprise at the matter-of-fact tone of the narrator; then the whole assembly burst into another merry shout, much to the disgust of poor cherry, who could see no cause for amusement, and voiced her sentiments by saying petulantly, "i don't see anything the matter with that! what difference is there between playing the piano all the morning and reading books?" "it wasn't what you did that amused us," said mrs. campbell soothingly. "it was the way you told it. we won't laugh any more." "oh!" breathed the ruffled damsel in relief, "if that's all, i don't care how much you laugh. but you'll have a better chance with peace--she never can tell anything straight." "what kind of a saint is cherry?" inquired the younger girl, ignoring the compliment she had just received. "if gail is saint 'lizabeth and faith is saint cecilia and hope is saint lucy, what's cherry?" "saint bookworm, i guess, miss curiosity-box. what have you been doing this morning?" "oh, lots of things," she sighed heavily. "allee and me went together. we began with the attic, which is full of trunks of old clothes and battered-up furniture and cobwebs, and has two rooms for the hired girls to sleep in. gussie's room is just _suburb_! it's dec'rated with the queerest looking old bird of a bedstead--" "peace! what slang!" cried faith in genuine horror. "it's no such thing! it is a bird! she calls it a swan, for it's got a tall, crooked neck for the foot-board, and if i had it in my room, i'd hang curtains on its tail. it could be done just splendid! i'll show you after lunch if you don't b'lieve me." "oh, we believe you! go on. i'm interested in that room," begged hope, wondering why she too had not begun with the attic. "then on the wall she has a great fish-net full of the prettiest postcards of norway and sweden and de'mark. she's a swede, you know,--gussie is; and her married brother and two sisters and grandmother still live over there. that's where the fish-net came from. i didn't have time to stop long to look at the cards 'cause there was so much else to do 'fore lunch time, but she's invited us to come up some evening when she's through work and then she'll tell all about them. there's the loveliest green and yellow quilt on her bed that she made all herself. she said grandma had a red one for her to use, but it seemed more like home with her own things, so she uses them instead of those that b'long to the house. but the prettiest of everything is a queer little piece of glass hanging in the window which makes her room look like a real rainbow on sunny days, 'cause the _prison respects_ the light and sorts out all the colors. oh, you needn't laugh and think you know better! gussie told us all about it, didn't she, allee?" "gussie did not call it a _prison_," hope could not refrain from saying. "it is a prism, and it re--it isn't _respects_ the light, grandpa--" "no. refracts is the word she wants to use. peace tries to drink in so much information that she can't digest it all." "maybe that is what's the matter," peace agreed thoughtfully. "anyway, her room is a beauty--lots prettier that marie's, though marie has the same chance of making hers look nice that gussie has. there's the same difference in the girls themselves that there is in their rooms, too." "why, what do you mean?" cried the astonished mistress of the house, while the president nodded his head in approval at the child's observations. "well, gussie is good-natured and 'bliging, while marie is cross and grouchy. we hadn't got the knob of her door turned before she ordered us out of her room and told us to mind our own business." "poor childie, i ought to have cautioned you not to go into either of those attic rooms without the girls' permission. you see, while they work here, that is the one place in the house which is really theirs, and they don't want the rest of the family intruding." "yes, i know now. gussie told me how it was when i spoke of marie's being cross, but we never touched a thing; we just looked, didn't we, allee? marie had the tooth-ache, and that's enough to make anyone ugly. i got her some funny stuff that a shoemaker in parker gave me once when i had the tooth-ache. after that she was a little pleasanter to us--that is, for a time. it did stop the aching right away, but it took all the skin off her cheek where she put the medicine--it is to be rubbed on outside. i forgot to tell her it would do that, so she didn't like it very well when her face began to peel off, 'cause she is going to the theatre tonight with her beau. but when she jawed about it, i told her i'd rather have a skinned face and a chance to go to the theatre, than an aching tooth any day of the week, and fin'ly she decided she would, too. i guess i'll like her in time, but i like gussie better. then we went on downstairs and 'xamined the rooms on that floor. the big front room is awfully pretty, and so is grandma's room where she sews, but the other three bedrooms are very bare and ugly-looking. is that where you're going to put us, grandpa?" "peace!" shrieked the sisters in horrified chorus. "yes!" roared the delighted president, and even mrs. campbell joined in his merriment. "well, i s'pose it is healthy," peace reluctantly admitted; then as if divining a joke somewhere, she smiled serenely and continued her recital. "we looked through the parlor and library and dining-room and where you put company when they come, and then we came to the kitchen. we got there ahead of gail all right, for gussie was just making some pies and reading a book at the same time." "a book!" echoed mrs. campbell, a slight frown gathering on the usually placid forehead. "yes, it was a _pome_ of some kind that she was trying to learn. she wants to be a _neducated_ swede. she got through high school, but she wants to know more'n that, so's she can be a teacher some day. that's how she comes to be cooking for other people. she is a good cook and can make pretty good money that way. she isn't a big spender, so every month she can put away 'most all of her wages towards going to normal school. i always thought normal school was where they sent bad boys and girls who couldn't be good at home, but she says i mean reform school. i guess she'll get to normal school all right. i told her gail would help her with her lessons when they got too hard for her alone, 'cause gail's to go to the university right away; but i didn't think faith would be much good at that, as long's she isn't quite through high school herself. i told her faith could make lovely fancy things to eat and would like awfully well to teach her when she had any spare time, and gussie says she'll be tickled to learn, 'cause she is only a plain cook and not up on frills yet." faith and the president exchanged comical glances across the table, but peace was too much interested in her cake and fruit to notice what was going on around her, and blissfully continued, "we went down in the basement, too, and saw that boy from benton's. his name is caspar dodds. his father is dead--what a lot of dead folks there are in this world!--and he has to earn money to take care of his mother and two sisters. she does plain sewing, and i promised you'd hire her sometimes, grandma. they live on sixteenth street, just at the corner where the pendennis car turns off from the bridge. he told me how to get there. he's going to night-school so's he can learn the education he's missing daytimes, and says he gets along well in everything but algebra. i guess that's how he came to speak to hope about it. i told him she'd be glad to help him with 'xamples he couldn't do, 'cause she was professor watson's star scholar in that. gussie told _us_ about the kittens, too, so i knew hope would be down to find them, and that way she'd see caspar. she must have come along right after us or she wouldn't have found him, 'cause he was 'most ready to go when we went out to the barn. "jud had just brought in the horses from exercising them, and i told him i guessed likely we'd help him at that job after this, for all of us like to ride. at first he wasn't going to let us see the horses and we had to do a lot of talking 'fore he'd give in. he used awful poor grammar, and when he told us the stable wasn't the place for little girls and that we better go in the house and learn to cook like gussie, i asked him why he didn't get some books and learn to speak right like gussie, instead of sitting on an old box and reading yellow newspapers--well, it _was_ yellow, just as yellow and musty and old as it could be! and he's too nice looking to be nothing but a horseman all his life. when i told him that, he got interested and fin'ly showed us some books he was trying to study, but he can't see sense in the grammar. gussie promised to help him, but she never has much time for such things, and he thinks she thinks he's a plumb dunce. i promised to ask her if that's the way she felt, but he said i mustn't; so i did the next best i could think of--i told him cherry would study grammar with him. she uses the same book he has in the barn, and--" "peace greenfield, did you really tell him that?" gasped poor frightened cherry, looking as if she had just heard her death sentence pronounced. "why, yes! i thought you'd be glad to help him out that much. i haven't got as far as grammar in school yet, or i'd teach him all myself; but i promised to _talk_ proper grammar to him, so's to help all i could. what do you look so scared about, cherry? he really wants to learn; he ain't fooling. and he's an awful nice man. he showed us the squirrels' hole in the vacant oak by the barn--i mean the hollow oak--and took us down to the boat-house on the river. you never told us anything about the river being so near here, grandpa. and he pointed out the university buildings through the trees, and promised to show us around the grounds right after lunch if you didn't have time to bother. he let us go up in the barn loft and says if you're willing, we can have a playhouse up there in the part with the window that looks out over the river. then he pulled out his watch to let us know it was lunch time, but we told him right square out that there was one more thing we wanted to see, lunch time or no lunch time, and that was the horses. so after he grumbled some more about children being such nuisances, he took us downstairs again, and showed us your marmalade and champagne. oh, but--" "what?" shouted the whole family in shocked amazement. "marmalade and champagne," peace repeated more slowly. "that is what jud called them. they aren't as pretty as our black prince, 'cause they are only red, and a red horse is never as nice as a black--" "horses! what funny names!" laughed hope. "she has made a mistake," smiled mrs. campbell. "they are marmaduke and charlemagne. my nephew's children named them, which accounts for their high-sounding titles. i am glad you like marmaduke and charlemagne, peace. we think they are very intelligent animals. jud has succeeded in teaching them several rather clever tricks." "yes, i like the horses and i like the people. it's going to be nice to live with such a _neducated_ bunch. marie's the only one that doesn't want to learn more, but p'raps she'll get over it. who wins the prize, grandpa? that's all allee and me saw. and what is the prize?" "after dinner in the den tonight i'll tell you the secret," the president promised. "i had no idea it would take so long to recount your adventures, but my time is up now. i must go back to the university at once. and by the way, peace, i am afraid jud will have to show you around the campus if you must see it this afternoon. i have an important meeting at two o'clock." chapter ii the flag room scarcely had the dinner hour ended that evening when the hilarious trio of younger girls, followed by the more sedate, but no less eager older sisters, scurried down the long corridor toward the den where the president had already intrenched himself, waiting for the promised visit. "here we are, grandpa!" announced allee, tumbling breathlessly through the doorway and into the nearest chair. "we raced and i beat." "'cause cherry tripped me up," exploded peace wrathfully. "it's no fair--" "tut, tut, my children!" dr. campbell interposed. "no scrapping allowed here. this is a home, not a kennel." "oh, we weren't scrapping," peace hastily assured him, "but i'd have won if cherry hadn't got her feet mixed up with mine, so's allee got in ahead. i don't care, though. i can run the fastest of the bunch outdoors. jud says i'm a racer, all right. _did_ i get the prize for talking the most this noon? gail and faith and all of them think i ought to have it--that is, allee and me. we went together and saw the same things, though i did do all the telling." the president laughed. "yes, i believe you and allee won the prize all right. grandma thinks so, too, but that is just where the hitch comes; because, you see, the prize was just to be your choice of rooms upstairs, and with peace in one room and allee in another, how are we going to settle the question as to who has first choice?" "do you mean that the winner can choose which of those three bare rooms she wants for her very own?" "that's it." his eyes twinkled merrily. peace's untrammeled frankness furnished him much amusement. "well, then, why is allee going to be in one room and me in another?" "why--why--why--" stammered the learned doctor, at loss to know how to explain certain plans he and mrs. campbell had in mind. "we thought it would be best to pair you off so one of you younger girls roomed with one of the older sisters. don't you?" "no," was the emphatic reply. "it wouldn't do at all." "why not?" gently asked mrs. campbell, who had entered the room so quietly that none of the girls was aware of her presence. "well, s'pose you paired us off 'cording to our looks," peace explained, without waiting for any of the sisters to register objections; "there'd be hope and allee together, for they are the lightest; and gail and cherry would have a room by themselves, 'cause they aren't either light or dark; and that would leave faith and me to each other, being the darkest of them all. now, faith and me can't get along together two minutes. ask gail, ask hope. any of them will tell you so. it ain't because we like to fight, either. we just ain't made to suit each other, that's all. mother used to say there are lots of people in the world like that, and the only way to get along is to make the best of it and agree to disagree. but it would never do to put us in the same room. that's too close. we don't like the same things, even. faith'd be cross 'cause i'd want to put my b'longings certain places, and i'd get awful ugly if she took all the nice spots for her things. "then, s'posing you paired us off by ages--the youngest with the oldest, and the next youngest with the next oldest,--that would still leave faith and me together. it wouldn't do at all, you see." "how would you suggest dividing the rooms among you, then?" meekly inquired the president, casting a comical look of resignation at his puzzled wife. "put the ones of us together that get along the best. allee and me are chums, and cherry and hope, and faith and gail. then we'd all be suited and there wouldn't be any fussing--'nless it was among the big girls." the president coughed gently behind his hand, mrs. campbell bent over to straighten an imaginary wrinkle in the rug at her feet, while gail and hope were industriously studying a picture on the wall. but faith readily seconded peace's proposition, saying heartily, "what she says is true, grandpa. she and i can't seem to get along together at all, though we do love each other dearly. we never have been interested in the same things, and i don't believe we ever will be. we have always paired off the way she says, and get along famously that way." "but how will you furnish the rooms that way?" wailed mrs. campbell suddenly. "i had planned it all out--the blondes together, the brunettes, and--" "the blondes and brunettes?" repeated cherry in bewilderment. "yes; fair-haired, blue-eyed people are blondes, while those with dark hair and eyes are brunettes," hope explained. "it would be so much easier to carry out a color scheme in each room if you girls were paired off according to looks," sighed the woman in disappointment. "colors wouldn't amount to much if we fought all the time," murmured peace, trying hard to look cheerful even at the prospect of having to room with the one sister she could not understand or agree with. "that's so," agreed the president, chasing away the disfiguring frown on his forehead with a bright smile. "besides, mother, the girls may have altogether different plans for decorating their rooms than--well, peace and allee have first choice of room then. which shall it be?" "the one with the teenty porch!" quickly responded the duet, as though the matter had already been privately discussed. "aha, conspirators! had your minds all made up, did you?" "yes, grandpa," peace answered. "we have both slid down the pillar into the garden--what was the garden--and clum up the trellis as _easy_! just think how much time we can save going in and out that way instead of having to run clear down the hall to the stairs every time--" "peace!" screamed mrs. campbell in horror. "peace!" echoed the scandalized sisters. but for a long moment the president only stared. then he spoke. "now, see here, children, if you have that balcony room for your own, you must promise one thing. don't _ever_ use the porch pillars for a stairway again, either to get inside the house or out. do you understand?" "yes, grandpa," came the reluctant promise. "you will not forget?" "no, grandpa," with still more reluctance. "if you do, you will forfeit that room, remember. porch pillars were never made for such purposes. they are not only hard on your clothes, but think what would happen if you should slip and fall." the whole group shuddered at this direful picture, and the chief culprit snuggled closer to this newly found guardian, and whispered contritely, "we didn't think of that before. we'll be good." "that's my girlie! now for the other matters we must consider. when it was settled that you were to come here to live, mother and i talked over plans for refurnishing the rooms you are to occupy, but somehow we could not come to any satisfactory conclusions, and finally decided it would be best and wisest to let you select your own furniture and arrange it to suit yourselves." "whee!" interrupted peace with a delighted little hop. "won't that be--" "don't say 'bully'," implored cherry. "no, i won't. i'll say jolly. won't that be jolly? hooray!" her shout of joy ended in such a queer, shrill squeak that the little company burst into a gale of laughter, and it was some minutes before order was restored, but when at last the merriment had subsided, each duet found themselves holding a small slip of paper which quite took their breath away. "what is it?" asked allee, standing on tiptoe to get a better view of the yellow scrap in peace's hand, though she could not read a word on it. "grandpa! is it to furnish our rooms with?" cried hope, impulsively dropping a kiss on the tip of mrs. campbell's nose. "oh, you precious people!" whispered gail tremulously. "it is altogether too much. we ought not to spend all that just on our rooms." "now, look here, my dearies," interposed mrs. campbell, beaming benignly at the flushed, surprised faces of the six girls, "father and i figured it all out carefully, and that is the amount we decided upon as necessary for all the fixings you would want to make you cosy. and you will find it won't go so far after all; but i know you can trim up some very dainty, pretty rooms with that amount. the beds we already had, so we left them there, but all the other furniture has been removed to the attic or disposed of in other ways, so you can follow your own inclinations in refurnishing your boudoirs. that is why i was so anxious to have the blondes together, but--i don't believe it will matter much. you will find some way of getting around that." "of course they will, and the room that is fixed up the prettiest a week from today will be presented with an appropriate picture," declared the president, hugely enjoying the pleasure and surprise of his adopted family. silence for a breathless moment fell upon the eager group, then with characteristic energy, peace grabbed allee's hand and started for the door, saying, "come on, sister, let's get to work right away. we've got to win that picture to go with our porch." just at the threshold another thought occurred to her, and she faced about with the remark, "say, grandpa, do we have to spend _all_ this money for dec'rations?" "no," he laughed. "if you can find anything in the attic which you can use, take possession of it." "and the money we don't spend is ours?" for a fraction of a second he hesitated, wondering what scheme was taking shape under the thatch of brown curls; then with a twinkle in his eyes he answered, "yes, i reckon it is." "but, donald," whispered mrs. campbell in his ear, "they are too young to be intrusted with such a sum." "grandpa," gail interrupted, looking thoughtfully at the check which faith was still studying curiously; "must we do this without help from anyone else? suppose we should all happen to choose the same plan?" "oh, there is no danger of that at all because your tastes are not all the same, so far as i can discover; but i think it might be a good plan to consult with some older or more experienced person--some one outside the family. grandma and i are to be the judges, you know; so it would not be fair for us to know beforehand what you were intending to do." "oh, how splendid to have it all a secret from you two!" cried hope. "but who will help us?" "we shall ask frances sherrar," announced gail after a whispered consultation with her room-mate. "she knows all about such things." "then let's us ask mrs. sherrar," suggested cherry, anxious to have as good authority to back them in their plans. "that's a good idea," hope conceded readily. "whom shall you choose, peace?" they all expected to hear her name mrs. strong, her patron saint, but to their utter amazement she promptly retorted, "gussie!" "but, peace," they protested, "gussie won't know--" "gussie thinks just like i do about colors and such things. that's why i chose her." nor could the sisters change her decision in the matter, but as the time was short and there were many other affairs demanding their attention, the girls soon forgot their concern over gussie's barbaric tastes, and peace and allee were left to their own devices. for the next three days they spent their leisure moments in wandering hand in hand about the house, looking very sober, and listening anxiously to the sound of hammers in the rooms adjoining theirs. then a marked change came over them; there were many conferences with gussie in the kitchen; much prowling about the attic in secret, and even two or three trips to the barn to interview jud, the man of all work. the sound of hammer and saw could be heard at almost any hour of the day, hurried visits were made to the sewing-room when no one else was in sight, and the pungent smell of paint and paste filled the house. but at last all three rooms were in spick-and-span order, and the two judges were summoned to behold the result of the week's labor. at the first door they halted, and the president turned to his wife with a ludicrous grimace as he said, "dora, i am afraid i've got us into trouble. how in this wide world are we going to be able to decide which is the prettiest room! and if it should be easy to decide that question, how shall we ever make our peace with the occupants of the other two? oh, dora!" "open the door!" clamored the laughing girls. "you should have thought of these things before you made such a rash promise." and they pressed about him so relentlessly that he was forced to turn the knob and enter the first bower of loveliness. it was indeed a bower, so refreshingly cool and beautiful with its color scheme of pink and green and brown that it required very little imagination to transport one into the heart of some enchanted woods; and instinctively the four younger girls as well as the judges burst into a long-drawn exclamation of wonder and delight. "oh, i can smell the flowers," cried hope, sniffing the air hungrily as if expecting to find the woodland blossoms there. "and hear the creek," added peace. "i suppose they have won the prize," sighed cherry disconsolately, while behind their backs gail and faith ecstatically hugged each other. "don't decide the question until we have seen the other two," suggested mrs. campbell sagely, and the excited company flocked eagerly into the next room. here everything was in blue and gold, even to the dainty curtains at the windows. the walls were covered with a delicate blue paper, dotted with sprays of cheerful goldenrod; the dresser and table were decorated with blue silk scarfs embroidered with the same flower; gilt-framed pictures hung upon the walls; and from the head of each narrow, gilded bedstead floated soft draperies of blue. "sky and sunshine," murmured gail, quick to feel the perfect harmony of the room. "isn't it lovely?" "yes, and it is fully as pretty as ours," whispered faith, "though i like ours best." "now for the last," cherry urged eagerly, well content with the rapturous exclamations her room and hope's had brought forth. "this will have to be awfully good to beat the other two." "it _is_ awfully good," peace informed her. "_i_ think it is the best." "so do i!" "and i!" came the chorus of surprised voices as the last door swung open and the beauties of the third chamber burst upon their view. "it makes me think of fire-crackers," cherry pensively observed. "nobody but peace would ever have thought of such a thing," faith put in. "a regular fourth of july room," stuttered the president when he had recovered his voice enough to speak. "girlies, how did you do it?" "well," confessed peace, meditatively chewing her finger in her endeavor to appear modest in the midst of such unstinted praise, "at first we didn't know what to do. the other girls kept talking about 'propriate colors for their complexions. faith is all _blunette_ and she looks best in pink. hope is all blonde and blue is her best color, while gail and cherry have _blunette_ hair and blonde eyes, and they chose yellow and green. i didn't know it then, but that is what they did. anyway, they talked about the different colors till i thought we ought to have our rooms fixed up in things that fitted us. that made it hard for allee and me, you see, 'cause she is all blonde and i'm all _blunette_. to fit her, the room would have to be all blue, and to fit me it would be all red. gussie said it wasn't stylish to use red and blue together any more, so we didn't know what to do until one day when we were _rummelging_ through the attic we found heaps and heaps of perfectly whole bunting and two great, big flags. that decided us to make a flag room of ours, and gussie said it was a _splen-did_ idea. so that's how it happened. "allee and me'd rather sleep together so's we can talk when we are awake, instead of having to holler our thoughts clear across the room from one bed to the other whenever we want to talk secrets; so we traded beds with gussie. she said she was willing, and i always did want that bird of a bed after i saw it in her room. but the curtains wouldn't hang from its tail like i thought they would, and we--" "stole my paris doll to hold 'em up with!" cried cherry, spying for the first time the beautiful waxen image dressed to represent the goddess of liberty, which stood on a tiny mantel over the quaint little bed, and held the bunting curtains in one hand. "we _borrowed_ it," peace corrected. "we couldn't very well _ask_ you 'bout it without your teasing to know why, and allee and me didn't have a decent doll among us. besides, you never play with it any more, and like as not grandpa or some other person that's got money will give us one of our own for christmas. then you can have yours back again. i guess you can wait that long, can't you? we wanted the walls striped with red and white, but gussie thought that would look too much like a barber shop, so we just had white paper. it doesn't much matter, for the flags cover most of that wall, and martha and george--we found them in the attic--washington take up all the space on that side under the eagle--we got that out of the glass case that stands in the barn loft. we were going to see if we couldn't find some rugs with flags in them, but gussie said it wasn't nice to _walk_ on our country's flag, so we chose this red carpet that used to be on this floor." "but where did you get such cute, quaint furniture?" asked faith who was trying the white enameled chairs one after another. "oh, that all came from the attic, too. didn't cost us anything. it was a dull, ugly brown--" "mother's mahogany set," whispered mrs. campbell to the amused doctor standing at her side. "--but a little white varnish made it just what we wanted." "did you do the painting?" asked cherry, testing it with her finger to see if it stuck. "no; we tried, but it looked so streaked we thought we sure had spoiled it. gussie didn't have time to do a good job on it, either; so we asked jud to help us out, and he said he would if gussie--" there was a movement at the door, and the company glanced over their shoulders just in time to see gussie's dress whisk out of sight down the hall. "--would give him a kiss. so you see we got that work done dirt cheap, too. altogether, we spent nine dollars and ninety-one cents of the money grandpa gave us. gussie kept the list. that's what the paper and white paint and ribbons for tying back our curtains--oh, yes, and the curtains themselves came to. they are just dotted _swish_ and we got it at a sale, so it didn't cost us much. mrs. grinnell says always watch for sales, 'cause lots of bargains can be picked up that way, and we remembered it this time. we spent the extra nine cents--to make just an even ten dollars--for candy to treat gussie and jud, seeing they wouldn't take any money for their work, but they didn't eat it all; so allee and me had the rest." "did you make the curtains yourselves?" asked cherry, the inquisitive. "well, mostly. gussie cut them for us, and i held them straight in the machine while allee made the pedal go. the seams ain't _very_ crooked, but sometimes the needle would hit a lump in the pattern and teeter out around it, in spite of all i could do. but the made-up curtains at the store cost lots more than the raw cloth and weren't half so pretty, so gussie said she'd help us make our own. didn't we do well?" "you certainly did," was the unanimous verdict. "the prize is yours." "and children," said the president impressively, as they still lingered in the quaintly furnished room; "i hope every time you enter this door, the spirit of patriotism, the love of country, will grow stronger and greater in your hearts." "yes, grandpa, i guess it will," answered peace in all seriousness, "'cause we'll always be thinking of the rest of that check money which we've saved from dec'rating our room so's we could buy fire-crackers and rockets for next fourth of july." chapter iii christmas day with the campbells the days which followed the advent of the orphan sisters in the great house were happy ones. oh, so happy! how can they be described? the two lonely old hearts which had hungered all these long years for the little children who had so early left them thrilled with gladness at every sound of the eager, girlish voices. boundless content reigned in their hearts as they watched each expressive face and studied each different character; and they wondered openly how they had ever managed to live without this precious band of granddaughters, as they insisted upon calling their charges. and the girls were equally happy. gail felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, as if her soul had been suddenly freed from a dark prison. the care-worn look vanished from the thin face; the big, gray-blue eyes sparkled with animation; her heart bubbled over with gratitude and love; and in every possible way she tried to show these new guardians how deeply and tenderly she loved them. and her attitude was that of the other sisters also, except that each took her own method of showing it. the campbells were well satisfied with their experiment and were never tired of saying to each, other, "they are ours now." "yes," peace had answered them once when she had overheard these words; "we are yours now, but it seems to me 'sif we had always belonged to you. some way, we fit in just as slick! 'sif we had only been away on a vacation and just got home again, and you're tickled to see us and we're tickled to see you. only--s'posing we really had been your granddaughters, s'posing you had been our grandpa greenfield, i bet _you'd_ never have named me peace." "no," dr. campbell replied gravely, but with a quick thrill of tenderness in his heart for this little scapegrace who seemed to win from everyone an extra share of love; "no, i don't think i should have named you peace--that is, if i could have foreseen what the blossom was to be when the bud unfolded. i should have called you joy." "joy?" repeated peace. "humph! that sounds like a heathen name. we've got a story book about hop loy, a chinaman who was born on christmas day and never saw a christmas tree until he was older'n cherry. why-ee! ain't that terrible! i used to think i'd like to have my birthday come on christmas, but now i'm glad it doesn't, for then everybody'd make one present do for the two days, and i'd get only half as many pretty things as other children have. it's bad enough as 'tis, being born on new year's day, for by that time most folks have spent all their money on christmas doings." "oho," he mocked, "is that what is bothering you? well, now, don't you worry! you shall have your share of birthday gifts as well as heaps of christmas presents as long as you live with us. this year christmas will be doubly merry, for it is the first holiday season we have had any young folks to help us celebrate since the days when dora's nephew used to spend his vacations with us." "why doesn't he come any more?" asked cherry curiously. "oh, he is a gray-haired man now with children of his own," laughed grandma, then sighed, for the rollicking ned who had been the life of so many vacations with them had married a society dame whose one aim was to see how many social victories she could score, and the poor children of the family fared as best they could in the great, loveless palace which they called home. "do they live in martindale?" asked hope, eager to add to her list of acquaintances any whom the campbells loved. "no, their home is in chicago now. that is a photograph of the children." she pointed to a group picture on the fireplace mantel, and the girls clustered about it with inquisitive eyes. "what a sad-faced child the smaller one is," observed faith. "how old is she?" "six or seven weeks younger than peace, i believe. she was born on valentine day." "how lovely!" peace cried joyfully. "but i'd like it better if it was the boy who was almost my age. he looks the nicest of the bunch. the big girl is homely--" "peace!" "well, it ain't her fault, i know, and i wouldn't mind how homely she was if she looked _sweet_, but she doesn't. she looks 'sif she thought she owned the earth and i never did like a _darnimeering_ person. now tom--his name is tom, isn't it?" "no, dear, it is henderson. henderson meadows." "oh! why, i was sure it was tom; he has such a tom-ish look--" a shout of derision interrupted her, but she stoutly declared, "well, he has! boys named tom are always nice--all i ever knew. i'm sorry his name is henderson. it doesn't sound a bit like him." "you are a queer chick," said the president indulgently, "but i quite agree with you in regard to henderson. he is a splendid fellow, however, in spite of his long name. they ought to have called him ned junior. he is big ned all over again, just as belle the second is the counterpart of her mother. lorene is the odd piece. every family has one odd one, i believe. lorene is like neither her father nor mother." "what funny names! they are as bad as ours. but i should like to know the children--the folks, i mean. i s'pose belle is too old to be called a child any longer, ain't she?" "yes, belle is sixteen and stylish," he answered grimly, as if that told the story, and it really did, for little more could be said of the frivolous, society-loving girl, brought up to follow in the footsteps of her worldly mother. "do they come here often?" ventured gail, still studying the group, none of whom looked really happy. "no, oh no," mrs. campbell answered hastily. "martindale is too quiet for mrs. meadows. ned sent henderson and lorene up here for a month last summer, but belle has never been our guest. grandpa and i have visited them twice in chicago, but that is all we have ever seen them." "i wish they lived nearer," sighed peace. "we never had any cousins of our own, but maybe they'd adopt us too, like you did; then we'd know what it feels like to have real relations." "suppose you write lorene. i think she would enjoy getting letters from a little girl so near her own age." "that _would_ be nice, s'posing i liked to write letters," peace assented, "but i don't. i'll send her a christmas present, though; and a valentine when it comes time, and a birthday gift, too. she will like that, won't she? what street does she live on in chicago? it'll have to go pretty soon if it gets there in time for christmas. that's only a week off. mercy! what a lot of work we'll have to do before then, getting ready for the parties. i do love parties! but i don't see what you wanted to make two for. one would have been a plenty, and not near so much work." mrs. campbell laughed comfortably. "the house isn't large enough to accommodate all we want to invite, so we had to make two parties. besides, the evening party is a sort of 'coming out' affair for my older girls--" "coming out of what?" "oh, introducing them into college society--" "and we littler girls ain't worth coming out for? is that it?" "oh dear no! but _little_ girls don't come out into society. they have to wait until they are grown up. even gail and faith are too young for the social whirl as the world understands that phrase. they must wait until they are through with school and college life before they take up social duties. but they have met so very few of our young people since coming here to martindale to live that we are giving this party to introduce them to their own classmates really. do you understand now?" peace did not, but she vaguely felt that she ought to, so she bobbed her head slowly and fell to puzzling over the queer ways of the world. fortunately for the whole household, the last week of preparation for the holiday season was a very busy one, so peace had little time to think of all these perplexing questions; and when christmas day dawned at length, everyone thought she had forgotten her grievance over not being invited to attend the evening party for the older sisters. but peace remembered, and in the gray of the early dawn before anyone else was awake in the great house, the door of the flag room burst open with a jerk and a joyous voice shrieked through the gloom: "what have you got in your stockings, girls? mine is stuffed so full it fell off the nail, and one chair and half the dresser is loaded with the left-over packages. and allee's got as many as i have. there's a doll for each of us--they beat yours all hollow, cherry. now we've got a goddess of liberty all our own and you can have yours as soon as ever you want it. and i've got seven books. guess santa must have mixed me up with you again, cherry. there are three puzzles and five games and a lot of handkerchiefs and ribbons, two sashes, and oh, the loveliest white dress for winter wear, all trimmed with the softest velvet--just the thing for your party tonight, faith, s'posing i was invited. and there's a plaid dress and a plain red one and a brown one and a dark blue--six in all--and two coats. _two!_ think of that! mercy, ain't we rich now? are you awake, all of you? are you listening? ain't this different from last year?" ah, how well they all remembered that last christmas, and what a hymn of praise and thanksgiving went up from each of those six hearts for the joy and good tidings this christmas had brought them! before peace had finished shouting her catalog of gifts, the other sisters were awake--and indeed, the whole household was astir--examining the generous remembrances loving hands had heaped around their beds as they slept. and what a merry time they made of it! gussie could scarcely prevail upon anyone to touch her tempting breakfast, for excitement had dulled the usually hearty appetites; the young folks found their treasures more alluring than any breakfast table could possibly be, and the president and his wife hovered over them to enjoy the sight of their joy. "a body'd think they had never seen a christmas day before," muttered marie, waiting impatiently in her snowy cap and apron to serve the rapidly cooling breakfast. "it's many a long day since they have seen one like this," said gussie loyally, smiling gratefully as she thought of the liberal number of packages old santa had left hanging to her door during the night. but at length the meal was ended, marie had carried the dishes away, jud appeared with a step-ladder and hammer, and the younger trio were banished upstairs to amuse themselves until the last of the party decorations were put in place. this was not a hard thing to do, fortunately, and for once not one of them raised any objection to being exiled in this fashion. "why, i've enough things of my own to look at and think about to last me a week," cherry breathed ecstatically. "yes, and s'posing you did get tired of that," spoke up peace, "there's all the rest of the girls' bundles to 'xamine. they've each got a hundred 'most near, i sh'd think." so for a long time they fluttered from room to room, admiring the pretty things that were now their own, nibbling chocolate drops, or discussing the party scheduled for two o'clock that afternoon. then gradually conversation flagged; each girl sought a favorite retreat, and surrounded by her pile of belongings, sat down to gloat over them. silence fell upon the rooms, broken only by the sound of rustling ribbons caressed by admiring hands, the opening and shutting of boxes, the fluttering of story-book leaves, the protesting squeak of queen helen's bisque arms and legs, and the rattle of mysterious puzzles. cherry had retired to her own domain to regale herself with certain tempting volumes, and peace and allee were alone in the flag room when the older girl suddenly dropped the book in which she had been lost for a full half hour, and said eagerly, "allee, this is the most interesting story i ever read. it tells how the little swede children give the birds a christmas. think of that! the birds! we tried to make it happy for everyone we knew--jud and gussie and marie and the flirty chimney-sweep who goes by here every morning, and the washwoman who lives in the alley, and the milk-boy who comes so far through the cold to bring us our milk, and caspar dodds' family--and--and--all of them; and we even remembered the canary and the dogs, but we never thought of the birds outdoors." "no, we didn't," allee agreed, pausing in her occupation of undressing the gorgeous queen helen to stare fixedly at her sister as if trying to fathom her thoughts. "we might ask gussie for some crumbs. it ain't too late yet." "crumbs wouldn't do at all. the book says they tie a sheaf of wheat to a tall pole in the yard so the birds will see it and come down and eat. see, there is the picture." "um-hm. but we haven't any tall pole in our yard, 'cept the flag-pole and that's on the roof." "no, we haven't any pole like the book shows, but we could hitch the wheat on our balcony-rail knobs and when the birds came down to get it, we could watch them from this window. see?" "where'll you get the wheat?" "from the barn. jud's got a lot of different kinds of grain out there." "but we can't go downstairs until party time. even lunch is to be brought up here, grandma said." "that's so. but i don't think they'd care if we just slipped down the stairs and straight out of the front door. it wouldn't take us but a minute to get the wheat and come right back again." "grandma said if we went downstairs before she gave us leave, we couldn't go to the party at all." "then how can we feed those birds?" "i guess we can't feed them this year--'nless we do it tomorrow." "tomorrow won't be christmas. we've got to do it today. just think how nice it will be to play we are little swedes and how pleased gussie'll be to think we did something her people do." "why do just swedes feed the birds?" inquired allee, still a trifle dubious about entering into peace's plan, in view of the risk involved. "oh, i s'pose they thought of it first. every kind of people do something queer at christmas which they call a custom. the holland children put out their shoes on christmas eve for santa claus to fill, instead of hanging up their stockings." "their shoes?" allee's eyes were as round as saucers with astonishment. "yes. they wear big, wooden boats for shoes. i guess their feet must be extra big--anyway, their shoes are simply _e-mense_ and will hold a lot. then there's the french people,--_they_ always save up all the fusses and scraps they have had with other folks during the year, and on christmas day they go around and get forgiven. wonder what gail would think of that! and the irish folks stay up all night to hear the horses talk." "peace, you're fooling!" "allee greenfield, do i ever fool you?" "n--o, you never have." "and i ain't beginning now. that is just what this book says." "but horses don't talk!" "only at christmas time." "i don't b'lieve they do then. did you ever hear them!" "n--o, but i'm going to stay up tonight and listen." "oh, we can't. this is party night and what would grandma say?" "we'll never know if they talk unless we do stay up and listen--and i'd like to find out what they say. it's just at midnight. that ain't long. we go to bed at eight, and midnight is only twelve o'clock. we could stay awake easily till then, 'cause the people who are invited will be leaving just about that time. i heard grandma say so. we'll just skip away to the barn and see if duke and charley are talking, and then we'll come back before anyone knows we're gone." the plan was truly very fascinating, but allee still looked very doubtful, and after a silent moment peace broke out in an aggrieved tone, "i don't see what is the matter with you, allee. you are getting to be just like cherry. she always sets down on my plans. you won't help me hang up the wheat for the swedes or listen to the irish horses. you never used to be like that." "i will too help you!" cried allee, hurt at her boon companion's words and tone. "i'll do anything you want me to, only i don't see how we can carry out either one of those. we'll surely get scolded if we go downstairs now, and it would be dreadful if we couldn't go to either party." peace walked to the balcony window and threw up the sash, murmuring, "if only grandpa hadn't made us promise not to slide down the pillars! oh, i've got it, allee! look here!" allee scrambled up from the floor and hurried to her side, shivering in the cold blast that blew in through the open window, bearing with it a few feathery flakes, for it was trying hard to snow. "see that piece of the wall that sticks out there, and--" "but how can you walk on that little mite of a piece?" gasped allee, growing pale at the very thought. "and how would you get down to the ground?" "oh, that's easy! the rain-pipe is fastened just high enough for me to hang onto, and 'sides, the trellis goes part of the way to the porch roof, and jud hasn't taken down the ladder he put up there yesterday." "yes, but s'posing you should fall," wailed allee in sudden terror, for the water-pipe looked like a very frail support even for a child as small and light of foot as was peace, and the corner with the projecting porch roof seemed so far away. "there's snow on the ground. i wouldn't get hurt. but you needn't think i'm going to fall. i've clum lots harder places than that before. you stay here and when i get back you can tack up the wheat on the rail post." carefully she stepped out on the balcony, slipped over the low railing and set out on her perilous journey along the narrow coping, clinging tightly to the rain-trough with one hand, and hanging onto the trellis supports with the other till at last she was safe on the porch roof at the corner. with an exultant shout she turned and waved her hand at rigid, white-lipped allee in the window, then slid lightly down the ladder and out of sight. she was gone a long time, and the small watcher above was becoming alarmed at her stay, fearing that the daring acrobat had been caught at her pranks, and wondering what punishment would befall her in such an event, when the bare, brown head appeared over the low porch roof once more, and peace inquired in a worried tone, "do you know whether birds eat hay? 'cause i can't find any whole wheat out there. it's all shocked." "why, i never watched them long enough to see," began allee, eyeing the great twisted wisp the older child had in her hand. "well, i brought some grain, too, but i don't know how we can tie that to a pole, 'nless we leave it in the bag, and then how can the birds get at it!" "we might throw it along the rail--it's wide enough to hold quite a little--" "course! what a _nijut_ i am not to think of that myself!" slinging the bag of grain over one arm, and still clutching the hay firmly in the other hand, she began her slow creeping along the coping back to the balcony window. the rain-pipe shook threateningly under her weight, and even the trellis supports swayed uncomfortably when once she slipped and almost lost her frail footing. allee gave a low moan of horror and shut her eyes, but the daring climber did not fall, and when next the watcher looked, she beheld the curly, brown head bobbing over the balcony rail, as peace swung up to safety beside her, and dropped the burden--the birds' christmas dinner--into her trembling hands. nor was allee the only one who trembled. on the snowy walk below, approaching the house with rapid strides, came the dignified president, hand in hand with two children, a bright-eyed, black-haired boy of perhaps a dozen years, and an under-sized, gipsy-like little girl, both chattering like magpies as they raced along beside the tall, erect old man, when suddenly the girl screamed faintly, "oh, uncle donald, look!" but he had caught sight of the apparition even before she spoke, and halted abruptly, breathlessly, terror clutching at his heart. the boy followed the gaze of his two petrified companions, and ejaculated in amazed admiration, "golly, but she's got grit! why, uncle donald, that's your house! that must be one of the girls you were telling us about. is it peace?" the president nodded his head mechanically, not knowing that he had heard the question, but the next moment the frozen horror of his face melted. the climber had reached the balcony and was unconcernedly scattering a handful of grain over the narrow railing, while allee securely bound the wisp of hay to the balcony post. a great sigh of relief escaped the watchers below, their hearts began to beat once more and the red blood pounded through their veins. "oh," gasped the girl, "i thought sure she'd fall!" "i didn't," declared the boy with a wise shake of his head. "she's a reg'lar cat. i believe she could climb a wall. she's like that 'human fly' the papers are always telling about. i'd like jolly well to see _him_ do some of his stunts, you better believe!" the president said nothing, but his mouth set in grim lines and a look of determination replaced the fearful pallor of his face. forgetful of the guests he had in tow, he marched into the house and straight up the stairway with the children still at his heels. at the door of the flag room he knocked, then without waiting for a summons from within, he entered. the two scatterers of christmas cheer had finished their work by this time and were now gleefully watching the feathered folk of the air settling about the unexpected repast, so they scarcely heard the steps in the hall or the creak of the opening door. but at the peculiar sound of the voice speaking to them, both girls wheeled quickly, and peace asked in guilty haste, "did you want us, grandpa?" "yes, come here, both of you." they went and stood at his knee, a secret fear tugging at each little heart as they saw the unusually stern look he bent upon them. "is--is--what--why--," stammered peace, wishing he would smile a little to relieve the keenness of his glance. "what were you doing just now?" "feeding the birds like the swedes do on christmas day, only we didn't have a pole to hitch our wheat to, and all our wheat was in kernels anyway, and we were told not to go downstairs until jud and the girls were through dec'rating, so we clum out of the window and i got some hay and grain just as slick! don't the birds look as if they were enjoying their christmas dinner?" peace rattled on, speaking so rapidly that the words fairly tumbled out of her mouth. "didn't i tell you when you chose this room for your own that you would forfeit it the first time you used the window for the stairway?" "no, grandpa," came the astounding reply from both eager little girls. "you said _porch_, _pillars_, and we have _never_ used them for stairways since the time we told you about. we 'membered that _carefully_, and this time we used that wide piece that sticks out of the wall, and then clum down jud's ladder from the back porch roof. that ain't the balcony pillars, grandpa. you never said we couldn't go down that way." in absolute amazement the learned doctor of laws gazed long and silently into the anxious, upturned faces. allee's lips began to tremble, and even peace, remembering the doctor's words in regard to lickings the night of the surprise party in the little brown house, shook in her shoes; but she steadfastly returned his gaze, and quietly repeated, "you know you didn't, grandpa!" "no," he said at last. "i did not forbid your going down that way, but it was only because i never dreamed you or anyone else would ever try such a feat." suddenly his sternness vanished, he stooped quickly and gathered the scared little souls in his arms, choking huskily, "my little girlies, if you knew what a fright you have given your old grandpa--" "oh, grandpa," quavered allee from her retreat on his shoulder, "we'll never do it again, truly!" "and you won't take this darling room away from us this time, will you?" wheedled peace, her equilibrium restored at sight of this unusual display of emotion. "no," he promised, "not this time. we'll try you again, but remember--no more window climbing of _any_ kind." "not even out onto the balcony?" wailed peace in dismay. there was a sound of suppressed laughter from the hall, and as the girls in the flag room whirled about to discover the cause, the president suddenly remembered his new guests and rose hurriedly to his feet. but peace had reached the door in a bound and with a cry of delight dragged forth the embarrassed strangers, exclaiming, "it's henderson and lorene, grandpa! they look 'xactly like their picture, don't they, only not quite so grumpy? grandma said i better write lorene and i did and i invited her to come up for my party. that's how they happen to be here. now we'll get acquainted with our relations, won't we? i invited belle, too. why didn't she come?" "belle and mamma went to evanston last week," lorene explained bashfully. "and they let you come all alone?" "they don't know yet that we aren't in chicago," chuckled henderson. "dad let us come. it's only a twelve-hour ride and we don't change cars at all. pooh! we've gone longer ways than that alone." "but not when mamma knew it," supplemented lorene. "she'd have _insisted_ upon sending nurse with us--if she had let us come at all. where shall we put our wraps? it's hot in here." "oh, i forgot!" cried peace, abruptly recalled to her duties as hostess, for dazed dr. campbell had gone in search of his wife the minute he saw that the children were sufficiently introduced. "hang your coat on the hall-tree, henderson; and lorene, bring your things in here. it's pretty near lunch time already, and then we must dress for the party." so in spite of their very unexpected arrival, the two strangers received a royal welcome, and were soon very much at home with the six merry girls whom they promptly adopted as cousins, just as peace had hoped they would. and how quickly the hours flew by! before anyone realized it, the great clock in the hall struck two, and promptly the small guests began to arrive. happy voices filled the house, happy faces beamed from every corner, happy hearts beat high with christmas cheer; the very air seemed charged with happiness. the four younger sisters made charming hostesses, grandma campbell proved to be a rare entertainer, and the dignified president won everlasting fame as a story-teller and leader in games. "_everything_ was a success," as hope thankfully declared when the last guest had departed, and the happy group had congregated in grandma's room to talk things over while jud and his corps of helpers were setting things to rights for the evening party. "yes," peace reluctantly conceded, "but think how much nicer it would have been if we could have had it in the evening like grown-up folks." "still harping about that?" laughed faith, pausing in the doorway with her arms full of holly wreaths ready to be hung. "daytime is made for children. gail and i didn't intrude at your party." "that ain't 'cause you wasn't invited," peace replied pointedly. "but we couldn't very well come," faith answered hastily. "there were so many things we had to get ready for our tree tonight." "getting things ready for a tree ain't like having to lie in bed and hear all the noise and music and know you can't have any share at _all_ in them," peace persisted; but faith had already vanished down the stairway, and only a tantalizing laugh floated back in reply. a hush fell over the little company in the cosy room, each busy with happy thoughts or rosy day-dreams, as she stared at the glowing embers in the great fireplace or watched the white flakes drifting down through the early twilight outside. then there was a firm step on the stair, a cheery voice from the hallway broke the spell, and six pair of eyes were lifted to greet the busy president as he briskly entered the room and paused to survey the pretty scene. "well, well," he said bluffly, "what's the difficulty? quarrelling?" "no, sir!" they shouted emphatically. "we were just thinking--" henderson began. "how nice it would be if little folks were invited to grown-up parties," finished peace, who seemed possessed of only that one idea. "that's just what i have been thinking, too," was the surprising confession from the tall man on the hearth rug. "wh-at!" "well, when mother and i came to think over the subject seriously, we both agreed that it did not seem exactly fair to put three, no, four such charming little maids to bed--for of course lorene would share your fate, too--when there were to be such festive doings downstairs, although neither one of us believes in late hours for children. i presume we are very old-fashioned in some things--" "no, you aren't," chorused the loyal girls. "no? true patriots! and yet didn't you think grandma and i were just the least teenty bit hard on you to make you go to bed at the regulation hours tonight when it is christmas?" "w-e-ll, we would like awfully much to stay up and see if gail and faith do as good entertaining their comp'ny as we did," confessed peace with unusual hesitation. "supposing i should tell you that we have decided to let you stay up an hour or two longer?" "oh, grandpa, what a darling you are!" "no, you must thank faith. she begged so hard that we have had to give in to satisfy her." "faith?" peace was so completely dumbfounded that they had to laugh at her. "yes, dear, faith. she says you are so dreadfully anxious to see what a grown-up christmas party is like that she is afraid you will die of curiosity if you can't have that wish fulfilled." "grandpa, you are just joking," cherry reproved. "i am thoroughly in earnest, i assure you. to be sure, faith used somewhat different words, but she sympathized so heartily with you that we decided to let you enjoy part of the evening's program. in fact, the only reason we planned _two_ parties in the first place was because the old house wouldn't hold at one time all we wanted to invite; and we thought it would be a great deal easier to entertain our guests if we had the big folks at one party and the little people at another. do you understand now?" "yes, and i'll bet you've been figuring on letting us go all the while we were stewing about it," cried peace, the irrepressible. "maybe you are right," he chuckled. she bounced off the floor with a squeal of delight, clutched allee with one hand and lorene with the other, and rushed out of the room, calling back over her shoulder, "now, i'm _surblimely_ happy! you better go dress, cherry! dinner will soon be ready and there won't be much time after that before the party begins." they had been happy before, but the granting of this one dear wish transported them to such heights of bliss that they seemed to be walking on clouds, and went about in such a state of rapture that it was ludicrous as well as delightful to behold their antics. evening came, the guests arrived, music sounded, carols were sung, and peace, entranced, moved about through the gay, light-hearted throng like one in a dream. to be sure, it was just as the president had prophesied--little attention was paid to the children of the party, but it was glorious fun just to watch the changing scenes and be a part of them, instead of lying tucked away in bed upstairs listening with ever-increasing curiosity and longing to the sounds of merrymaking below. with a happy sigh of content at the realization of her great ambition, peace dropped down upon a pile of cushions by one of the long french windows, leaned her forehead against the cool pane and looked out into the night, where by the flickering light of the street-lamps she could see the white snowflakes drifting slowly, lazily downward. "my, but hasn't this been a happy christmas!" she said aloud, though no one was near enough to hear her words. "who'd ever have thought last christmas that we'd be here tonight? do you s'pose the angels know we don't live in parker any more? we might set a lamp in the window so's they'd see it and be sure. gail says mother always did that when papa was out after night, so he could find his way home all right. i'll tell allee and when we go to bed we'll just remind the angels that we don't need so much looking after now that we're living here. i'll never forget how s'prised hec abbott was when he found out that we'd all been 'dopted together. i wonder what hec is doing about now? he can't brag any more about the good times they have at his house. we are just--what in the world is that coming up the steps?" mechanically she rose to her feet, her nose still pressed flat against the window-pane as she studied the huge, misshapen figure already on the wide veranda. the footman who had ushered in the guests of the evening was at that moment occupied in fastening up a strand of evergreen which had fallen close above a gas-jet; the president was at the furthest corner of the great parlor engaged in an animated discussion with a pale-faced professor of greek; and mrs. campbell was nowhere in sight. with a wildly beating heart, peace seized the door-knob, and not waiting for the queer stranger outside to ring the bell, she flung wide the door and confronted him. "why, it's santa claus!" they heard her say, for the sudden sharp blast of winter air had drawn a crowd to the door to see what had happened. "don't you know, sir, that you can't come in this way? go up to the roof and climb down the _chimbley_, like you do at other houses," she commanded, and in the face of the amazed saint nick she slammed the door. "peace, what have you done?" cried gail aghast, as she caught a glimpse of the fat, knobby pack disappearing down the steps. "it was just that santa claus forgot to go down the _chimbley_," she explained. "he ought to have remembered that!" a shout from the adjoining room cut short her defense, and as the crowd surged forward in that direction, she beheld the jolly old saint shuffling across the floor dragging his heavy pack which certainly looked as sooty and dirty as if he had really plunged down the tall chimney and through the fireplace. straight to her corner he came, and fumbling in his sack, drew forth a tiny statue of the goddess of liberty, which he presented with an elaborate bow, saying in a deep, rumbling voice, "to the defender of all childhood traditions--liberty enlightening the world!" his words were greeted with mad applause, for by this time everyone had heard the story of the flag room and peeped at its quaint furnishings; but the laugh was quickly turned from one to another, for st. nick had remembered well the pet foibles of each guest present, and had brought with him appropriate gifts for all. much too soon the hands of the clock crept around to the hour of half past ten, and with sighs of resignation and disappointment, the four smaller girls, cherry, peace, lorene and allee, slipped quietly away to bed. "i did so want to hear the rest of the carols," murmured cherry, yawning so widely that she nearly swallowed the rest of the exiled group. "we can hear them after we're in bed," said peace, rubbing her eyes which were growing very heavy in spite of her efforts to stay awake. "gussie promised to leave our doors open until time for the folks to go home. it's the charades i wanted to see." "charades?" questioned lorene. "were they going to have charades, too?" "she means tableaux," explained cherry. "she's crazy about them. they make me cough too much--the lights they use, i mean. come on, lorene, sleep with me tonight until hope comes up to bed. do, please! it isn't fair for you three to stick in here and leave me all by myself in the other room." lorene glanced hesitatingly from one sister to the other, and seeing no opposition, answered, "all right, cherry, i'll stay with you till the folks go. you don't care, do you, girls?" "not for that long," peace magnanimously replied, for a daring plan had just popped her eyes wide open, and lorene might hinder its fulfillment. so they separated, and in a few short moments four white-robed figures were tucked snugly under the coverlets, the lights turned out, and the two doors left ajar that the sleepy exiles might hear the strains of music floating up the wide staircase. there was the soft sound of whispered words from bed to bed like the sleepy twitterings of birdlings in their nests, and then silence. cherry and lorene were fast asleep. downstairs the carols ceased, the wail of violin and guitar died away, and the murmur of voices was again borne to the straining ears of the conspirators in the flag room. "do you s'pose they have begun tableauing?" asked allee, after what seemed an eternity of listening. "not yet; they have lights. there, that must be one. see how queer the hall looks through the crack of the door? i guess it's time now. come on, but be awful still." "it's cold after being in that warm bed," protested allee as her bare feet touched the polished floor in the hall. "we'll get some wraps in here," peace answered, inspired by a happy thought to seize upon two beautiful white opera robes belonging to some of the guests below, and with these heavy garments trailing behind them, they stole softly down the wide stairway almost to the landing, where, out of sight from the company massed in the parlor and adjoining rooms, they could still see the tableaux taking place in the reception hall below. fortunately for their health's sake, this part of the program was brief, and had it not been for the very last scene pictured, no one would have dreamed of their presence behind the palings. but it happened that the girls had chosen as a climax for the evening the tableau of the first christmas eve; and hope, arrayed as the angel of good tidings, appeared on the stairs just as jud touched off the weird red light on the landing,--for neither actor nor servant had discovered the hidden culprits until too late to utter any words of warning or reproof. startled beyond measure at the sudden glow almost at their elbow, the two conspirators scrambled to their feet and vanished hastily up the stairway as the chorus below took up the song, "angels ascending and descending, chanted the wond'rous refrain, 'glory to god in the highest, peace and good will toward men.'" the long, fur-lined opera cloaks streamed out behind them like misty clouds in the unearthly glow of the sulphur light, and it seemed as if they were really a part of the beautiful tableau, which brought forth such thunderous applause from the delighted audience that it had to be repeated. this peace and allee did not know, however, for with chattering teeth and trembling limbs, they had fled to the refuge of their room, pausing only long enough to drop their borrowed finery where they had found it; and they were crawling underneath the covers once more when peace hissed sharply in her sister's ear, "what about the horses?" "what's the matter with them?" murmured allee, too confused and sleepy to know what her companion was saying. "we were going out to hear them talk at midnight." "so we were! well, i guess they'll have to talk all to themselves again tonight." "what? ain't you going out with me to listen?" "we'd freeze in our nightgowns and we dahsent take those pussy-cat coats to the barn," protested the younger sister, aroused by peace's surprised exclamation. "we'll dress." "oh, peace, and then have the fun of taking our clothes off again?" "we'll put on our stockings and overshoes and bundle up in grandma's shawls. how'll that do? but first, we better light that candle i told you about to let the angels know where we are tonight. there--i guess they'll see it, even if it isn't as big as a lamp. come on, i heard the clock strike a long time ago." if allee had not been so sleepy she might have remembered one other time just a year before when peace had heard the clock strike; but being too near the land of nod to realize anything but that peace was calling her, she stumbled out of bed once more and allowed herself to be bundled up in wraps of all sorts until she was as shapeless as a mummy. in this fashion they slipped down the back stairs and out to the barn without betraying their presence, though the steps creaked under their weight, and every door they opened squeaked so alarmingly that peace held her breath more than once for fear someone had heard. once inside the dark barn, they had to feel their way about, for not a ray of light penetrated the blackness of the stormy night, and the grim silence of the place filled them with nameless terror. it was not so bad when they had finally found their way into marmaduke's stall and cuddled close to the friendly beast, who nosed them inquiringly, but even there they did not dare speak above a whisper; and so they waited breathlessly for the mystic midnight hour when the animals should break their silence and talk, each secretly wishing she were safely back in bed again. up at the house the merry evening had at length drawn to a close, and the guests had reluctantly departed. the president, returning from the gate where he had escorted the last guest to her sleigh, made a harrowing discovery. there was a light in the balcony window! could it be that burglars had entered the house during the merrymaking and were even now ransacking the rooms? he looked again. it was such a tiny, steady light. was it possible that one of the children was sick and gussie had not told him? the last thought sent him flying up the stairs three steps at a time, and he reached the flag room door so breathless that he could scarcely turn the knob. the bed was empty. only a wee taper from the christmas tree burned faintly on the window sill. in frantic haste he called the family and they searched the house from garret to cellar, but the missing children were not to be found. "do you suppose the tableau scared them to death?" asked hope. "maybe they tried to see if santa claus really came down the chimney and got stuck there themselves," suggested henderson, who regarded the disappearance of the duet as something of a lark. "wake jud," commanded mrs. campbell, and the worried doctor hastily lighted a lantern and went down to the barn to rouse the man of all work, wondering as he did so what good that would do. the horses whinnied as he entered the stable, and in the dim light that flooded the place, the president saw that the door of marmaduke's stall stood open. "what can jud be thinking of?" he muttered somewhat testily, stepping along to slip the bolt in its place, but the next instant his eyes fell upon two dark bundles huddled at the horse's feet, and with a startled exclamation he bent over to examine his find, just as faith burst in through the door behind him, crying, "they must have left the house, grandpa, because the back hall door is unlocked and the storm-door is swinging." "yes, faith, and here they are," he answered, tenderly lifting the smaller warm bundle and depositing it in the girl's arms. "what in creation do you suppose they were doing here?" as if in answer to his question, the brown eyes of the child he was just lifting fluttered slowly open, and peace drowsily drawled, "we fed the swede birds for gussie, and got french forgiveness from grandpa for doing so, and had a german christmas tree, and lots of hung'ry company, and 'merican stockings and a 'merican santa claus, but we didn't hear the irish horses talk, and i b'lieve it's all a joke." in spite of their anxiety, faith and the president gave a boisterous shout, and peace heard as in a dream her sister's voice saying, "it is christmas eve that the animals are supposed to talk. poor peace!" chapter iv a zealous little missionary strange as it may seem, neither child felt any ill effects from that midnight escapade, but the next morning they awoke as chipper and gay as if there were no such thing as after-christmas feelings. they even forgot the lonely vigil in the stable in their dismay at the discovery that lorene had slept all night with cherry instead of returning to their room as she had promised to do. an after-breakfast summons to the president's study brought their pranks vividly to mind again, however, and with considerable trepidation they saw the heavy door close behind them, shutting them in alone with the grave-eyed man, for they stood much in awe of the learned doctor when that stern look replaced the usual bluff kindliness of his face. the conference was exceedingly brief and to the point, judging from the sober, wilted little culprits who pattered up the stairway a few minutes later and silently sought the flag room. henderson and the girls were consumed with curiosity to know the result of the interview, and their amazement knew no bounds when the disgraced duet vanished within their quiet retreat and turned the key in the lock. after waiting in vain fifteen minutes for them to reappear lorene crossed the hall and knocked timidly at the closed door. there was no answer. she tried again, this time with more vim, but with no better success. then she called, but not a sound from within greeted her straining ear. cherry and hope each took a turn, and henderson pounded his fists sore without receiving a single word of reply from the prisoners. "i believe they have climbed out of the window," he cried at last in exasperation. "no, they promised grandpa not to. i guess maybe they've been sent to bed," said cherry, inwardly thankful that she had not been in the latest scrapes. neither was right. but after a time, tiring of their efforts to get some sign from the culprits, the quartette in the hall dispersed to amuse themselves in some more entertaining manner. no sooner had their footsteps died away on the stairs, and peace was convinced in her own mind that they had really gone for good, than a change came over her. she was sitting erect in a stiff-backed chair in one corner of the room, while her companion in misery sat huddled in the opposite corner, staring at the fresco of flags above her head. both looked dreadfully woe-begone, and as if the tears were very near the surface, for punishment sat heavily upon these two light-hearted spirits, particularly as such severe measures did not seem necessary or just to them in view of the smallness of their sin. however, when the racket outside their door finally fell away into silence, peace suddenly gave a little jump of inspiration, twisted her feet about the legs of her chair, and began a slow, laborious hitching process across the red rug toward the tiny dresser. reaching this goal, she jerked open a drawer, rummaged out paper and pencil and began a furious scratching. allee watched with fascinated eyes, but true to her promise to the president in the den below, she never said a word, though she was nearly bursting with curiosity and it was so hard to keep still. after a few moments of rapid scribbling on a page of vivid pink stationery, the brown-eyed plotter again commenced her queer march across the room until she had reached the door, unlocked it, and after a hard struggle managed to pin the slip to the outside panel. then with a sigh of mingled relief at having accomplished her object and resignation at her unjust fate, she closed the door once more, and wriggled back to her place opposite allee, never so much as looking at the eager face questioning hers so mutely. again silence reigned in the pretty room, and both girls fell to wondering what the other members of the household were doing. suppose cherry had taken lorene down to the pond to skate. that was what peace herself had been planning on ever since she had looked into the small dark face of the child who was only six weeks and two days younger than she was. suppose hope had gone with henderson to coast on the hill. he had promised allee the first ride just the night before. suppose jud should choose this morning to take the girls sleighing as he had said he would do when the first heavy snow fell. it had stormed all night and the deep mantle of white lay tempting and inviting in the bright winter sunshine. oh, dear, what a queer world it seemed! some people were in trouble all the time and some were never bothered with scrapes and punishments. there was hope. why was it hope never did such outlandish things to cause anxiety and dismay to those around her? hope never even _thought_ of the freakish pranks that were constantly getting peace into trouble. what was it grandma was always quoting? "thoughtfulness seeks never to add to another's burdens, never to make extra work or care, but always to lighten loads." she said it was because hope was always thinking of beautiful things that made folks love to have her near; that it was the mischievous thoughts which cause the misery of the world. she said--what did she say? the brown eyes winked slower and slower, the brown head bent lower and lower. peace was asleep. an hour passed,--two. the luncheon bell tinkled, the family gathered about the table for the mid-day meal, but the chairs on either side of the president's place were vacant. glances of inquiry flashed from face to face. were the children to be kept in their room all day? "where are peace and allee?" asked the doctor, very much surprised at their absence. "i haven't seen them since you sent them upstairs this morning," answered mrs. campbell, who had been occupied all the forenoon writing a paper for the home missionary society which was to meet at the parsonage that afternoon. a guilty flush overspread the president's fine face, and forgetting to excuse himself from the table, he abruptly pushed back his chair and strode from the room, muttering remorsefully, "i deserve to be licked! that was three hours ago and i promised to call them in an hour." he returned shortly alone, looking very foolish, and holding in his hand a square of brilliant pink. "what is it?" asked his wife, surprised at the look on his face. "where are the little folks?" "asleep. they looked so worn out that i put them on the bed and left them to have their nap out. this is what i found on the door." he dropped the slip of paper into her hands as he resumed his seat, and she read in tipsy, scrawling letters peace's poster: "it won't do enny good to raket or holler to us. we can't talk for an hour. if you want to ask queshuns go to grandpa he is boss of this roost." she smiled a little tremulously as she passed the pathetic scribble to henderson, sitting at her right, but he, being a boy, saw only the funny side of the situation, and let out a lusty howl of joy as he read aloud the words with much gusto to his delighted audience. when the laughter had subsided somewhat, the president asked ruefully, "how can i make my peace with them? i sent them to their room for an hour and promptly forgot all about the affair." "i'll take them to the missionary meeting with me this afternoon," suggested mrs. campbell, "and you can come for us with the sleigh. peace has begged to go over ever since she has been here. it seems that mrs. strong is an enthusiastic missionary worker, and peace's greatest ambition is to be like her saint elspeth." "so she can find another st. john and marry him," giggled faith. "yes. i guess it is hard to decide which one of her saints she thinks the most of," mrs. campbell agreed; "but i am so glad she has chosen such a beautiful couple to pattern her own ideals after. their friendship will do much for our little--" she intended to say "mischief-maker," but this white-haired woman with her mother instincts seemed to understand that peace's mischief was never done for mischief's sake, so she changed the word to "sunshine-maker." thus it happened that when the brown eyes and the blue unclosed after their long nap, they looked up into the dear face of their grandmother-by-adoption, and saw by her tender smile that their punishment was ended. they were surprised to find how long they had slept, but the delight at being allowed to attend a grown-up missionary meeting, as allee called it, overshadowed whatever resentment they might have felt at having been forgotten for so long a time, and they danced away through the snow beside mrs. campbell as happy and carefree as the little birds which they had fed yesterday. the meeting was not as exciting as peace had been led to expect from mrs. strong's enthusiastic recitals regarding missionary work, but some of the words spoken by the different ladies sank very deeply into the children's fertile brains, and both were so silent on the homeward journey behind the flying horses that finally mrs. campbell ventured to ask, "are you tired, girlies? was the meeting a disappointment to you?" "oh, no," peace hastened to assure her. "_i_ liked it lots, and allee likes the same things i do, don't you, allee? the women were pretty slow about doing things--they talked so long each time before they could make up their minds about anything. but it's int'resting to know that at last they decided to send some barrels to the poor ministers in the little places who don't get enough to live on. 'twould have been better if they had done it before christmas, though, so's the children wouldn't have thought santa claus had forgotten them. do--do you think like mrs. mcgowan--that if we have two coats and someone else hasn't any, we ought to give away one of ours? that's what she said, isn't it?" "yes, that is what she said," mrs. campbell agreed; "and in a large measure i believe her doctrine, too. if we have more than we need and there are others less fortunate, i think we ought to share our blessings. but it takes a lot of good sense and tact to do this judicially." "i think so, too," answered peace with such a peculiar thrill in her voice that the president, at whose side she was sitting, turned and looked quizzically at the rapt face. "i don't b'lieve in talking a lot about giving and then when it comes to really _doing_ it, to give just the left-over things that ain't any good to us any longer, and wouldn't be to anyone else, either." "why, what do you mean, child?" the woman asked, taken by surprise at such quaint observations from the fly-away little maid, whose serious thoughts were regarded as jokes even by her own family. "well, there was mrs. waddler in parker. she always talked so big that folks who didn't know her thought she must have millions of money; but when she came to giving, it was usu'ly skim milk or some of her husband's worn-out pants." here the president exploded, but at the same instant the horses turned in at the driveway; and in scrambling down from the sleigh peace forgot to press her argument any further. nor did the older folks remember it again for some days. then mrs. campbell entered the doctor's study one afternoon with a deep frown on her forehead, and a little note in her hand. at the sound of her voice, the busy man paused in his writing and glanced up hastily, asking, "what seems to be the difficulty?" "this letter. i don't understand it. mrs. scofield writes a note of regrets because i found it impossible to be with them at the last missionary meeting, and closes by thanking me for my generous donation. now, it happens that just before christmas, i carefully went through all the closets of the house, sorted out and hunted up all the good, half-worn clothing that we could spare, and sent it to the danbury hospital for distribution among their poor families; so i simply had nothing of value to add to the barrels intended for the frontier ministers--" "why didn't you buy something?" "i did; or, rather, i thought the poor preacher might find the money more acceptable than anything i could purchase, so i selected the family of brother bennet of idaho, and sent him a check. i mailed it to him direct, not wanting to run the risk of the barrel being delayed or destroyed. i also neglected to inform the ladies of what i had done; so i am sure they know nothing about it, for it is yet too early to hear from mr. bennet himself." "maybe it is a case of a little bird's having told the story," laughed the doctor, taking up his pen to resume his writing, and his wife, still musing over the strange occurrence, went away to receive a caller who had just been announced. an hour later she returned to the study looking more perplexed than when she had left him before, and the president banteringly asked, "haven't you found out yet about that generous donation?" "yes, donald. mrs. haynes has just told me the whole story. it was not my donation at all." "ah, the worthy ladies just got mixed in their thanks--" "not at all! it was peace's work, and naturally they thought i had authorized it. that little rascal picked up about half her wardrobe, her christmas doll, several games and story books, and goodness knows what all, and took them over to mrs. scofield's house to be packed in the missionary barrels. not only that, she persuaded allee to do the same with her treasures." "the little sinner!" ejaculated the startled president. "without saying a word to anyone about her intentions?" "she never consulted _me_." "nor me. well, we must just send her back after them, and make her understand she must ask us when she wants to dispose of her belongings." "that is just the trouble. the barrels have already gone." "you don't say so! the monkey! send peace to me when she comes in, dora. we must curb these philanthropic tendencies in their infancy and direct them in the right channels. there is the making of a wonderful woman in that small body." "with the right training." "yes. god grant that we may be able to give her the right training." peace came radiantly in response to the message, dancing lightly down the hall as a hummingbird might flutter along, and the mere sight of her merry face as it popped through the study doorway was like a sudden shaft of sunlight in the great room. the president had determined to meet her gravely, even sternly, and show her that her uncalled-for generosity had displeased them, but in spite of himself, his eyes softened as they rested upon the sweet, round face upturned for a kiss, and he gently drew her into his lap before telling her why he had sent for her. "why, yes, grandpa," she readily confessed. "i did give away some of my clothes and other things, and so did allee, 'cause the children of the ministers on the frontier need them so much more than we do. why, we're rich now and can have anything we want! you said so yourself, you know. we couldn't give the things we didn't want ourselves, grandpa, 'cause that wouldn't be a _sacrilege_; and the pretty lady who talked at the missionary meeting that day said it was the _sacrileges_ we made in this world that put stars in our crowns in the next world." "sacrifice, dear, not sacrilege." "is it? well, i knew it was some kind of a sack. i want lots of stars in my crown when i get to heaven. just think how terrible you'd feel s'posing when st. peter let you inside the gates, he handed you just a plain, blank crown. mercy! i know i'd bawl my eyes out even if it does say there aren't any tears in heaven. so i picked out the things i liked the very best of all i got on christmas--that is, most of them were. i don't care much for dolls, so that wasn't any sacri-_fice_ for me; but allee likes them awfully much yet, and it was a big sacri-_fice_ for her to let hers go. but i sent my dear, beautiful plaid dress that i thought was the prettiest of the bunch, though i let allee keep the one she liked best, seeing she cried so hard about queen helen. she didn't seem to enjoy thinking about the big star she'll get in its place, so i told her i thought likely you or grandma would give her even a prettier doll for her birthday, which isn't very far off now. i sent the book which tells all about the way little children in other lands spend christmas day, but it was pretty hard work to give that one up. i pulled it out of the heap three times, and fin'ly had to run like wild up to mrs. scofield's house with it, so's i wouldn't take it out and put it on the shelf to stay." "but why did you take so many things?" asked the doctor lamely. "there are five children in the family we sent our stuff to, and three of them are girls. there are six girls in our family, and when we lived all alone in the little brown house with just ragged, faded dresses to wear and only plain things to eat, holidays and all, we'd have been tickled to death if someone had given us such pretty things all for our very own. oh, wouldn't it have made _you_ happy if you had been a little girl?" the great, brown eyes shone with such a glorified light and the small, round face looked so blissfully happy that the doctor's lecture was wholly forgotten, and for a long time he held the little form close in his arms while his mind went backward over the long years to the time when he was a homeless orphan and hi allen--hi greenfield--had shared his treasures with him. they made a beautiful picture sitting there in the gathering dusk, the white head bending low over the riotous brown curls, the strong hands intertwined with the supple, childish fingers; and so completely had she captured the great heart of the man that when at length he set her on the floor and sent her away with a kiss, he spoke no chiding word. and peace skipped off well content with the results of her first missionary efforts. a few days later she danced into the house one afternoon from school, wet from head to foot with a damp, clinging snow which was falling, and at sight of her, mrs. campbell threw up her hands and exclaimed, "peace, my child, what have you been doing?" "ted and evelyn smiley and allee and me and some others had a snow-ball battle." "that is expressly forbidden by the school board--" began the gentle little grandmother reprovingly. "oh, we didn't battle with the school board, grandma! we waited until we reached evelyn's house and had it in their back yard. the snow is just right for dandy balls." "i should think as much. come here!" peace obeyed, glancing hastily at her feet as she guiltily remembered a certain pair of new shoes which she was wearing and saw the sharp, black eyes fixed searchingly upon them. "peace greenfield, what have you on your feet?" "shoes." "your new strapped shoes--slippers--for summer wear?" peace nodded. "after i told you not to wear them until warmer weather!" "you didn't say that, grandma," peace expostulated. "you said as long as i had any others, you guessed i had better put these away for party wear until it got warmer." as a rule, peace's excuses rather amused the mistress of the house, but this time she looked sternly at the little culprit, and briefly commanded, "go to your room and put on your other shoes immediately." "i haven't got any others." "no others? what do you mean?" "i--i--gave mine all away." "to whom did you give them?" asked the president, who had entered the room unnoticed. "to a little girl i met on the hill yesterday. her toes were sticking through hers and she looked dreadfully cold, and kept stamping her feet to keep them from freezing." the president swallowed a lump in his throat. "she did not need _two_ pair to keep her feet warm, did she?" "she was twins." "wh-at?" peace jumped. "well, she said she had a sister just her same age at home, who hadn't any shoes at all." he took her by the hand, led her to her room, and after seeing that the wet shoes and stockings were replaced with dry ones, he lectured her kindly about giving away her belongings in such a promiscuous manner without first consulting her elders. and having won her promise for future good behavior, he went down town to purchase new shoes for the shoeless culprit, satisfied that peace would remember his words of caution, and that they should not again be disturbed by the too generous acts of this zealous little home missionary. and peace did remember for a long time, but one day when the two younger children had been left alone with the servants, temptation again invaded this little garden of eden, and the brown-haired eve yielded. it was late in the afternoon and peace and allee were standing by the window watching the sinking sun, when a ragged, stooped, old man trailed down the quiet street with a battered, wheezy, old hand-organ strapped to his back and a wizened, wistful-eyed, peaked-faced child at his heels. seeing the two bright faces in the window and concluding that money was plentiful in that home, the vagabond slipped the organ from its supports, and began grinding out a discordant tune from the protesting instrument, sending the ragged, weary, little girl to the door with her tin cup for contributions. peace saw her approaching, and opened the door before she had a chance to ring the bell, surprising the tiny ragamuffin so completely that she could only stand and mutely hold out her appealing dipper, having forgotten entirely the words she had been taught to speak on such occasions. "you're cold," said peace, a great pity surging through her breast as she saw the swollen, purple hands trying to hide under ragged sleeves of a pitifully thin coat. "ver' col'," repeated the beggar, finding her tongue. "and hungry?" "not'ing to eat today." peace made a sudden dive at the dirty, unkempt creature, jerked her into the warm hall, and calling over her shoulder to the organ-grinder on the walk, "go on playing, old man, she'll be back pretty soon!" she slammed the door shut, pushed the child into a chair by the glowing grate, and turned to allee with the command, "go ask gussie for something to eat. tell her a lunch in a bag will do. she's always good to beggars." "no beggar," remonstrated the little foreigner. "earn money. some days much. little this day. it so col'." "is that all the coat you have?" peace demanded, eyeing the scant attire with horrified eyes. "all," answered the child simply, and she sighed heavily. "i've got two. you can have one of mine," cried peace, forgetting wisdom, discretion, everything, in her great pity for this hapless bit of humanity. "you mean it? no, you fool," was the disconcerting reply. "i'm not a fool!" "no, no, not a fool. you jus' fool,--joke. you no mean it." "i do, too! wait a minute till i get it, and see if it fits. you're thinner'n me, but you're about as tall." she rushed eagerly up the stairway, and soon returned with the pretty, brown coat which she had found on her bed christmas morning. into this she bundled the surprised beggar child, pleased to think it fitted so well, and explained rapidly, "i got two new coats for christmas. grandma said the red one was for best, so i kept that one, but you can have this. keep it on outside your old rag. it will be just that much warmer, and tonight is awfully cold. here's a pair of mittens, too. wear 'em; they're nice and warm." thrusting allee's bag of lunch into the blue-mittened hands, peace opened the door and let the newly-cloaked figure run down the walk to the impatient man stamping back and forth in the street. they watched him minutely examining the child's new treasures, but they could not see the avaricious gleam in his ugly eyes, nor did they dream that the precious brown coat would be stripped off the shivering little form just as soon as they were out of sight around the corner, and bartered for whiskey at the nearest saloon. so happy was peace in thinking of this other child's happiness that she never once thought of her promise made to her grandfather until she saw jud drive up the avenue and help the rest of the family out of the big sleigh. at sight of the erect figure striding up the walk with the gentle little grandmother on one arm and sister gail on the other, she suddenly remembered that he had told her when she gave away her shoes that she must ask permission before disposing of her belongings, or he should be compelled to use drastic measures. "brass-stick" measures, she called it, and visions of a certain brass rule on the desk in the library rose before her in a most disquieting fashion as she recalled that impressive interview. "don't tell him what you have done," whispered a little evil voice in her ear. "tell him at once," commanded her conscience; and acting upon the impulse of the moment, she flew into the old gentleman's arms almost before he had crossed the threshold and panted out, "i 'xpect you'll be _compendled_ to use your _brass-stick_ measures on me this time sure. i guv away my coat!" "you did what?" he cried, pushing her from him that he might look into her face. "gave, i mean. i gave away my brown coat." "peace!" the sorrowful tone of his voice cut her to the heart, but she flew to her own defense with oddly distorted words, "i couldn't help it, grandpa! she was so ragged and cold. s'posing _you_ had to go around begging hand-organs for a squeaky old penny, without anything to eat on your back or vittles to wear. wouldn't _you_ like to have someone with two coats give you one?" "very likely i should, my child. i am not blaming you for the unselfish feeling which prompted you to give away your coat to one more unfortunate than yourself, but you are not yet old enough to know how to give wisely. you will do more harm than good by such giving. no doubt your little brown coat is in the pawn-shop by this time." "but grandpa, she was in _rags_!" "yes, and that is the way that brute of a man will keep her. do you suppose he would get any money for his playing if he sent around a well-dressed child to collect the pennies? no, indeed! that is why he makes her wear rags. he will sell or pawn your coat for liquor, and neither you nor the beggar child will have it to wear." "but i have my red one." "you can't wear that to school." "why not?" "it is not suitable." "then you'll get me another." "no, peace." "you won't?" her grieved surprise almost unmanned him. "no." "but you've got plenty of money!" "i will not have it long if you are going to give it all away." "you bought me some more shoes." "yes." "that took money." "yes." "i--i thought you'd give us anything we wanted." "i have tried to, dear." "but i shall want another coat." he shook his head. "you deliberately gave away the one you had without asking permission. i can't supply you with new clothes continually if that is what you intend to do with them." "then how will i go to school any more?" "you must wear the coat you had when you came here to live." "so you hung onto that old gray parker coat, did you?" she said bitterly. "yes, and now you will have to wear it until spring comes." she was silent a moment, then shrugged her shoulders and airily retorted, "i s'pose you know! but, anyway, it was worth giving the new coat away just to see how glad the dago was to get it." it was the president's turn to look surprised, and for an instant he was at a loss to know what to say; then he took her hand and led her away to the study, with the grave command, "come, peace, i think we will have to see this out by ourselves." she caught her breath sharply, but never having questioned his authority since the days of the little brown house were over, she obediently followed him into the dim library and heard the door click behind them. as the gas flared up when he touched a match to the jet, she looked apprehensively about the room, and shuddered as she saw the brass ruler lying on top of a pile of papers on the desk. he even picked it up and toyed with it for a moment, and she thought her hour of reckoning had surely come. and it had, but not in the way she expected. dropping the ruler at length, he abruptly ordered, "sit down in my lap, peace." usually he lifted her to that throne of honor himself, but this time he made no effort to help her, and when she was seated with her face lifted expectantly toward his, he disengaged the warm arms from about his neck and turned her around on his knee until she was looking at the desk straight in front of them. then he picked up a book and began reading silently. peace was plainly puzzled, for each time she turned her head to look at him, he gently but firmly wheeled her about and went on reading. at last she could be patient no longer, and with an angry little hop, she demanded, "what's the fuss about, grandpa? what are you going to do?" without looking up from his book he laid one finger on his lips and remained silent. "can't i talk?" it was a terrible punishment for peace to keep still, and knowing this, just the faintest glimmer of a smile twitched at his lips, but he merely nodded gravely. "aren't you going to say anything?" gravely he shook his head. peace stared at the chandelier, then surreptitiously stole a peep at the face behind her. a big hand turned the curly head gently from him. she studied the green walls with their delicate frescoing, then cautiously leaned back against the president's broadcloth vest. firmly he righted her. dismay took possession of her. this was the worst punishment that ever had befallen her,--that ever could. she gulped down the big lump which was growing in her throat, and counted the books on the highest shelf around the wall. fifty--sixty--seventy--her heart burst, and with a wail of anguish she kicked the book out of the president's hand and clutched him about the neck with a grip that nearly choked him, as she sobbed, "oh, grandpa, i'll never, never, _never_ forget again! i'll be the most un-missionary person you ever knew,--yes, i'll be a reg'lar heathen if you'll just speak to me! i didn't think i was being bad in trying to help others--" "my precious darling! i don't want you to be a heathen," he cried, straining her to his heart. "i want you to be the best and most enthusiastic little missionary it is possible for you to be, but in order to be a good missionary, one must first learn obedience, and cultivate good judgment. i wouldn't for all the world have my little girl grow up a stingy, miserly woman. i am proud of the sweet, generous, unselfish spirit which prompts you to try to make the burdens of others lighter, but you are too little a girl yet to know how and where to give money and clothes and such things so they will do good and not harm." "i see now what you mean, grandpa. i thought when i gave my coat to the little hand-organ beggar that she would keep it and use it. i never s'posed her father wouldn't let her have it, and now when he takes it away from her she will be sorrier'n she would have been if she had never had it." "yes, dear; and the money the old fellow gets from selling it will undoubtedly be spent for drink, or something equally as bad for him. just out of curiosity, i traced the shoes you gave to the child on the hill not long ago, and i found that she had not told you the truth at all. she had no twin sister, nor did she even need the shoes herself." "is--is--there no one that really is hungry and cold and needs things?" gulped the unhappy child after a long pause of serious thought. "oh, yes, my dear! thousands and thousands of them," he sighed sorrowfully; "and i am deeply thankful that my little girlie wants to make the old world happier. but after all, dear, the greatest need of this world of ours is love. it is not the _money_ we give away which counts; it is the _love_ we have for other people. i remember well a little couplet your great-grandmother was fond of quoting--and she practiced it every day of her life, too,-- 'give, if thou canst, an alms; if not, afford instead of that, a sweet and gentle word.' "she had little of this world's goods to give away, but she was one of the greatest sunshine missionaries i ever knew. my, how every one loved her. and her son, hi, was just like her--one of the biggest-hearted, most lovable people god ever created. he was certainly a power for good during his life, but his only riches were a great love for his fellowmen and his warm, sunny smile." again a deep silence fell over the room, for peace, cuddled in the strong man's arms, with the tears still glistening on the long, curved lashes, was thinking as she had never thought before. suddenly the dinner bell pealed out its summons, and as the president stirred in his chair, the child lifted her head from his shoulder, and looking squarely into the strong, kindly face, she said simply, "i'm going to be like them and you, so's folks will love me, too. and i'm not going to give away any more coats or shoes without you say i can, until i am big enough to grow some sense. i'm just going to smile and talk." he did not laugh at her quaint phrasing of her intentions, but tightening his clasp upon the small body nestling within the circle of his arms, he quoted, "'work a little, sing a little, whistle and be gay; read a little, play a little, busy every day. talk a little, laugh a little, don't forget to pray; be a bit of merry sunshine all the blessed way.'" chapter v an unexpected invitation having a naturally light-hearted, merry disposition, peace did not find it hard work to "smile and talk," but it was hard, very hard, to restrain her generous impulses to give away everything she possessed to those less fortunate than herself, and it soon became a familiar sight to see her fly excitedly into the house straight to the study where the busy president spent many hours each day, exclaiming breathlessly as she ran, "oh, grandpa, there is a little beggar at the door in perfect rags and tatters! just come and look if she doesn't need some clothes. and she is so cold and pinched up with being empty. gussie has fed her, but can't i give her some things to wear? i've more than i need, truly!" then the good man with a patient sigh would leave his work to investigate the case, spending many minutes of his precious time in satisfying himself as to whether or not peace's newly found beggar was genuine and really in need of relief,--for this small maid's thirst for discovering vagabonds seemed insatiable, and the string of tramps which haunted the president's doorstep led poor gussie a strenuous life for a time. but relief came from an unexpected source at length. late one dull spring afternoon, as gail sat with her chum, frances sherrar, in the cosy window-seat of the reception-hall, studying the next day's latin lesson, a shadow fell across the page. looking up in surprise, for neither girl had heard the sound of approaching footsteps, they beheld on the piazza the bent, shriveled, ragged form of what appeared to be a tiny, deformed, old woman. an ancient, faded shawl, patched and darned until it had almost lost its identity, enveloped her from head to foot, and she looked more like an indian squaw than like a civilized white being. her head and hands shook ceaselessly as with the palsy, and the way she tottered about made one fearful every minute last she fall. "oh," cried gail in quick sympathy, "what a feeble old creature! it is a shame she has to beg her living. where is my purse?" "are you going to give her money?" asked frances in surprise. "doesn't she look as if she needed it?" "she is a fake. i've seen her ever since i can remember--always just like this. she wouldn't dare beg in town, but we are so far out--well, if you are really determined to do it, here's a quarter." gail took the proffered coin, added a shining dollar to it, and stepping to the door where the palsied beggar stood mumbling and whining a pitiful hard luck tale, she pressed the silver into the leathery, claw-like hand, smiled a sympathetic smile and bade the old woman a god-speed. frances stayed for dinner that evening, and as the family gathered around the table for this, the merriest hour of the whole day, the president suddenly clapped his hand against his pockets, searched rapidly through them, and finally brought forth a crumpled sheet of paper, daubed with many ink blots and tipsy hieroglyphics, which read, "no more beggars, tramps and vagabuns allowed on these promises. we have already given away enuf to keep a army. there are two dogs and two men in this family--so bewair!" even the presence of peace, the author, did not prevent an explosion of delighted shrieks from the little company, but the child merely fixed her brown eyes, somber with reproof, upon the perfectly grave face of the doctor of laws, and demanded, "now, grandpa, what made you take it down?" "i didn't, child," he defended. "it had blown down, i think, and lodged about the door-knob. i thought it was a hand-bill, and rescued it as i came in." "where had you put it?" asked cherry, grinning superciliously at the distorted characters on the soiled paper. "on the side of the house by the front door," she confessed. "that's where i put that one." "that one! are there more?" laughed frances, whose affection for this original bit of femininity had only increased with the months of their acquaintance. "of course! there had to be one for each door, 'cause the beggars don't all go the back way, and to be sure everyone saw the tag, i stuck one on the corner of the barn nearest the road, and another on each gate. that surely ought' to be enough, oughtn't it?" "i should think so," mrs. campbell agreed, making a wry face at thought of the queer-looking signs scattered so liberally about the property "how did you come to make them?" "'cause of that beggar at the front door this afternoon," allee volunteered unexpectedly. "what beggar?" asked the president with interest, while gail and frances exchanged knowing glances. "a teenty, crooked, old woman came to the house while grandma was out this afternoon," peace began. "she looked as if she might be a witch or old grandmother, tipsy-toe--i never did like that game--" "we thought she _was_ a witch," again allee spoke up, unmindful of the frown on her older sister's face; "and we hid." "but we watched her," peace continued hastily, "and saw gail give her some money. she did look awful forlorny and squizzled up as if she never had enough to eat to make any meat on her bones, and she nearly tumbled over, trying to kiss gail's hand 'cause she gave her some money. so after she was gone, we ran down to the gate to watch her, and what do you think? just as she turned the corner, there was a cop--" "a what, peace?" "i mean a p'liceman, coming along with his club swinging around his hand, and when the beggar woman saw him, she straightened up as stiff and starchy as anybody could be, and hustled off down the street 'most as quick as i can walk. she was a--a fraud, and gail got cheated just like i did when i gave that hole-y shoed girl on the hill my shoes." here frances shot a look of triumph at discomfited gail. "so i made up my mind that grandpa is right--they are all frauds." "why, peace, child, i never said that in the world," the president disclaimed, surprised out of his usual serenity by her words. "that's so,--you said only half were frauds. well, i guess it's the fraud half that come here to beg of us. gussie is tired of feeding them, jud's getting ugly, and if they keep on coming i'm 'fraid they'll really eat grandpa out of house and home. jud says they will. there were seven tramps last week, and already we have had two this week, and one beggar. so i made these signs and stuck them up where everybody'd see them and know they meant business, w'thout jud's having to turn the dogs loose or get his shotgun like he said he ought to. he told me that all hoboes have some way of letting other hoboes know where they can get a square meal, and that's why we have so many. he says they never used to bother so until i came here to tow them along by coaxing gussie to feed 'em. i thought i was being good to 'em. s'posing we had sent grandpa away when he came tramping around to our house in parker--faith wanted to--where would we be now? still grubbing in parker trying to get enough to eat, 'most likely; or maybe in the poorhouse, for 'twas grandpa who paid the mortgage on the farm. i guess i must wait till i'm grown way up to have any missionary sense." she spoke so dejectedly and her face looked so pathetic and utterly discouraged that no one had the heart to laugh, but a sudden feeling of restraint fell upon the group. even the president had no words in which to answer the poor, disheartened little missionary. "do you belong to miss smiley's gleaners?" it was frances who spoke, and though the words themselves signified little, her tone of voice was like an electric thrill, and the faces of the whole company turned expectantly toward her as she waited for peace's answer. "no, not yet. evelyn has been after us ever since we came here to join them, but something has always kept us away from the meetings each month, so we haven't been 'lected yet. evelyn says they don't do much but have a good time, anyway, though it is a missionary society. that's about all our sunshine club in parker ever did, too, 'xcept make comfort powders for the sick and _mained_ in the hospital." "evelyn is right about what the gleaners used to be, but since her aunt has taken up the work, they are doing lots of real missionary work. why, since christmas they have raised enough money to take care of two orphans in india for a year. edith smiley is such a beautiful girl--" "ain't she, though!" peace burst out with customary impetuosity. "i've wanted her for my sunday school teacher ever since we began to go to south avenue church, but she's got a class of _boys_." "and don't they adore her!" "no more'n i would." "it is easier to get teachers for girls' classes; and besides, miss edith has had these boys from the time she started to teach. she certainly has her hands full with her sunday school class, the gleaners missionary band and the young people's society, for she is our president this term. there is no lag about her. she is always planning something beautiful for somebody. _everyone_ loves her. when victor was in the hospital the time he was hurt by the runaway, miss edith took him flowers several times; and the nurse told us that she visits the children's ward twice a month regularly and takes them fruit or flowers or scrap-books or something nice. they always know when to expect her, and she never disappoints them." "she certainly knows how to make sunshine for those around her," said mrs. campbell warmly. "i am so pleased to think she could take charge of the gleaners. we ladies were really afraid the society must die. miss hilliker had neither strength, time nor talent to do justice to the work; but, poor soul, she did try so hard, and she did give the children a good time, whether or not they ever accomplished anything else." "i am glad miss smiley has taken the gleaners, too," said peace meditatively. "me and allee 'xpect to join at next meeting. i guess maybe cherry and hope will, too, though i haven't asked them yet." "i think you have headed them in the right direction, frances," whispered the president in grateful tones, when at last the dinner was ended and the chattering group were filing out of the dining-room. "i was beginning to wonder what in the world to do with our little peace, but i think perhaps miss smiley will help solve the problem for us." "i know she will," frances replied confidently. "i can understand how discouraged poor peace must feel. i've been there myself, only instead of giving away my own things as she does, i gave away other people's belongings. i can never forget the seance i had with mother the day i handed over father's best, go-to-meeting overcoat to a dirty, evil-looking tramp, and gave away victor's velocipede to the ash-man's little boy. i came to the conclusion that the whole world was just a sham and all men--yes, and women--were liars. mrs. smiley came to my rescue, and what missionary spirit there is left in me is due to her good work and untiring efforts. edith is a second edition of her mother." "and i think frances must be second cousin at heart," said the doctor, gently pressing her hand. "i don't deserve such praise," she protested, blushing with pleasure at his compliment. "i have only tried to make the most of the best in me, remembering the little verse we had for a motto: 'no robin but may thrill some heart, his dawnlight gladness voicing. god gives us all some small sweet way to set the world rejoicing.' "we were only children when we took that as our class motto, but we have kept it all these years, and i know there is not one of the girls who considers it childish sentiment even yet." "that is why i am particularly thankful for your words at the table tonight. i want my girls to meet and mingle with and be influenced by such people as miss edith and her mother--and miss frances!" "i shall work hard to keep the reputation you have given me," she laughed gayly, flitting away to join gail in the grove, as the pink and green and brown room was called; but she was secretly much touched and helped by the president's words, and rejoiced openly when a few days later the four younger greenfield girls really did join the gleaners missionary band and became active workers in that field. "it is kind of a queer missionary society," peace reported after one of the meetings. "sometimes we don't say hardly a word about heathen or poor ministers on the frontier all the time we are at the church. we talk about how we can help each other and our families and folks who live close by us. miss edith says first and foremost a good missionary must be cheerful and sunshiny. our motto is "scatter sunshine," and our song is the prettiest music i ever heard. she says it isn't the music that counts, it's the words, but just s'posing we sang: 'in a world where sorrow ever will be known, where are found the needy, and the sad and lone; how much joy and comfort you can all bestow, if you scatter sunshine everywhere you go.' to the tune of 'go tell aunt rhody,' it wouldn't cheer _me_ up very much. "would it you?" "no," laughed mrs. campbell, who chanced to be her confidante on this particular occasion, "i don't think it would; but on the other hand, meaningless words would not cheer anyone, either, no matter how pretty the tune. is that not so?" "yes, i s'pose it is. i guess it takes both together to do the work. this week our verse is: 'can i help another by some word or deed? can i scatter blessings o'er a soul's sore need? if i can, then let me now, within today, help the one who needs me on a little way.' "the next time we tell if we remembered the verse and worked it." "worked it?" mrs. campbell was not yet accustomed to peace's queer speeches, and often did not understand her meaning. "yes. miss edith says just helping gussie carry the dishes away nights, or buttoning marie's dress when she is cross and in a hurry, or getting grandpa's slippers ready for him when he comes home from the university all cold and tired, or holding that squirmy yarn for you when you knit those ugly shawls, or talking nice to jud when he makes me mad, is being a missionary. she says it is the little, everyday things that count; for some of us may never get a chance to do anything real big and splendid, and if we wait all our lives for such a time to come along, we will be just wasting our talents. but all of us have hundreds of little things each day to do, and if we do them cheerfully and sweetly, we are being sunshine missionaries and are making others happier all the time. she says abr'am lincoln's greatest wish was to have it said of him when he died that he had always tried to pull up a thistle and plant a flower wherever he got a chance. thistles mean hard feelings and mean acts, and the flowers are kind words and deeds." "miss edith has found the key to true happiness," murmured mrs. campbell, glancing out of the window at a tall, slender, gray-eyed young lady hurrying down the street, surrounded by a bevy of bright-faced, adoring boys and girls. "yes, she's another saint elspeth, isn't she? how nice it is to have her here as long as i can't have my dear mrs. strong! and do you know, grandma, she and mrs. strong were chums when they went to college? isn't that queer?" "how did you happen to find that out?" "'cause on my list of missionary doings this week i had 'not getting mad when gray chawed up st. elspeth's letter 'fore i had read it more'n three times.' and she asked me who saint elspeth was." "do you make out a list of missionary doings each week?" asked mrs. campbell, amused at peace's version of the occurrence, for the child had been so angry at the destruction of the letter from this beloved friend that she had seized a heavy club and rushed at the cowering pup as if bent on crushing its skull. before the blow descended, however, she dropped her weapon, bounced into a nearby chair, and glared wrathfully at poor gray until he shrank from her almost as if she had struck him. then suddenly the anger died from her eyes, and clutching the surprised animal about the neck she fell to petting him energetically, exclaiming in pitying tones, "poor gray, i don't s'pose you know how near i came to knocking your head off any more'n you know how much i wanted that letter you've just swallowed, but i'm sorry just the same. shake hands and be friends!" peace, not understanding the smile that crept over the gentle face of the dear old lady, hastened to explain, "we write them so's folks won't laugh. we don't mean to laugh at each other, but sometimes children do say the funniest things. there is bernice platte for one. she can't say anything the way she wants to, and it makes her feel bad when we giggle. so miss edith took to having us write our lists. i don't care how much they laugh at me, i get so much of that at home that i am used to it, but some folks ain't brought up that way and i s'pose it hurts." mrs. campbell caught her breath sharply. it had never occurred to her before that peace was sensitive, but the gusty sigh with which these words were spoken told her companion much, and slipping her arm about the little figure crouched at her side, the woman said gently, "would you mind telling grandma some of the bits of sunshine you have been scattering this week?" the wistful round face brightened quickly. "would you care to hear?" "i should love to, dearie." "i didn't _make_ much sunshine, i guess, 'nless 'twas here at home where folks know me, but i tried. you know hope has been taking flowers to one of her teachers at high school, and the other day miss pope told her that she gave them all to her brother who is lame and can't walk, and he spends all his days drawing and painting the pretty things he sees. well, there is a teacher in our school who looks awful turned-down at the mouth, and kind of sour like, and last week minnie herbert told me that it was 'cause the woman had lost her brother in a wreck. so i thought maybe she'd like some flowers, and i took her some. i didn't know her name, but she was sitting in the hall to keep order during recess time, and i carried the bouquet right up to her and laid them in her lap. i 'xpected to see her smile, but instead, she picked them up and looked kind of red as she asked me what made me bring them to her. i meant to tell her i was sorry she looked so lonely and sad, but what i really said was 'homely and bad.' i don't see why it is i always twist things up so, but that made her mad and i couldn't explain it so's she would take the flowers again, and i had to give them to one of the girls whose mother has _delirious tremors_." "oh, peace, you have made a mistake." "what is it, then?" "i presume the poor woman is delirious with a fever of some sort." "_tryfoid_," supplied peace. "stella told teacher so. that same day on my way home from school i saw a little girl lugging a heavy pail, and the handle kept cutting her hands, so she had to set it down every few steps and change to the other side. when i asked her to let me help, she gave me hold, and we carried the bucket down the alley to a chicken-coop, where it had to be dumped, 'cause it was slops for the hens. there was a big box there to stand on, and i lifted the pail to the top of the fence and emptied it, but the woman which owns the chickens was right under where the stuff fell, and she didn't like it a bit, and scolded us both good. "then there was birdie holden who wanted a bite of my apple, and when i turned it around to give her a good chance at it, she bit straight into a worm, and said i did it on purpose, though i never knew the worm was there any more'n she did. "but the worst of all was the day teacher sent me to the office for thumb tacks to fasten up our drawings around the room. she told me to see how quick i could get back, but she never counted on the principal's not being there, which she wasn't. so i had to wait. then all at once i saw a big sign on the wall which said if miss lisk wasn't in and folks were in a hurry, to ring the bell twice. "i was in a _big_ hurry for i had waited so long already that i thought sure miss allen would be after me in a minute to see if i was making the tacks; so i grabbed the cord and jerked the bell hard twice, and then twice again, and then twice the third time. i 'xpected she'd come a-running at that, but what do you think, grandma? everyone in that schoolhouse just got up and hustled out of doors as fast as they could march. we never used to have fire drill in parker and i hadn't heard of such a thing here, either, so i was dreadfully s'prised to find what my gong-ringing had done. maybe miss lisk wasn't mad for a minute, when she saw me hanging out of the window yelling to know what was the matter, 'cause i was in a hurry for my thumb-tacks! but afterwards she laughed like anything and said the children made record time in getting out, 'cause no one, not even she herself, knew whether it was just a fire drill or whether the janitor had rung the gong on account of the school's really being burned up." no one could blame the good dame for smiling at the vivid pictures peace had painted of her missionary efforts, but mrs. campbell knew how sore the little heart must be over these seeming failures, so she pressed the nestling head closer to her shoulder and said comfortingly, "but think of all the smiles you have won from the washerwoman. when i paid her last night, she showed me the big bunch of flowers you had cut from your hyacinths and lilies in the conservatory, and told me how eagerly her poor, sick little girl watched for her home-coming the days she washed here, knowing that you would never forget to send her something. and jud was telling your grandpa only this morning how the ash-man's horse always whinnies when the team stops in the alley, because you never fail to be there with a lump of sugar or a handful of oats. mrs. dodds says it is a real pleasure to make dresses for you, just to hear you praise her work. i was in the kitchen this morning when the grocer brought our order, and after he was gone, gussie showed me a sack of candy he had slipped in for you, because you are so kind to his little girl at school. i don't need jud's words to tell me how the horses and other animals on the place love you. and why? because you love them and never hurt them." "but, grandma," interrupted peace, her eyes wide with amazement at this recital; "you don't call those things scattering sunshine, do you?" "what would you call it, dear?" "but--but--i didn't do those things on purpose, grandma. they--they just did themselves. i like to see mrs. o'flaherty's eyes shine and hear her say, 'may the saints in hivin bliss ye, darlint,' when i give her anything for maggie; and the ash-man's horse doesn't get enough to eat--really, it is 'most starved, i guess; and mrs. dodds does look so tickled when i say anything she makes is pretty. they _are_ pretty, too. and the grocer's little girl is so scared if anyone speaks to her that a lot of the bigger girls got to teasing her dreadfully and i couldn't help lighting into them and telling them they ought to be ashamed of themselves; and--" "that is what _i_ call scattering sunshine, dear. it is these little acts of ours which count, these acts done unconsciously, without any thought of others seeing, done simply because our hearts are so full of love and sympathy that they bubble over without our knowing it, and others are made happy because of our unselfishness." "i guess you're right," said peace thoughtfully; "'cause when folks are watching and i want to be 'specially sweet and nice and helpful, i just make a dreadful bungle of it, and everyone laughs. it's the things we do without thinking that make folks happiest. that is what saint elspeth used to tell me. some way i could understand her better than miss edith, i guess; but maybe it was 'cause i knew her better. when do you s'pose we can go to see her, grandma? saint elspeth, i mean. it has been such a long time since--" "she wants you next week, you and allee." it was the president who spoke, and with a startled cry, peace leaped up to find him in the doorway behind them. "why, grandpa campbell, how did you sneak in here so softly? i never heard you at all, you came so catty. did you hear what we were talking about?" "not much of it. i arrived just in time to catch your remarks about mrs. strong, and as i happen to have a note in my pocket this minute from your saint john, i spoke right out without thinking. i was intending to make you and grandma jump a little." "you made me jump a lot," she retorted, throwing her arms about him and giving him a rapturous hug. "did you really mean that mrs. strong wants me next week? that is our spring vacation here in martindale." "yes, so the letter said. you see, the strongs are living in martindale now, too." "grandpa! you're fooling!" "not this time. i have known for a whole month that there was some prospect of their coming to the city, but i waited until i was sure before saying anything, because i knew you girls would be disappointed if they did not get the place." "what place? how did it happen? what will parker do without him? will he live near us? can we see them often? where did you get the note?" "one question at a time, please," he cried laughingly. "mr. strong dropped in at the university a minute this afternoon. he has been called to fill the vacancy at hill street church, and has accepted, but as his pastorate is about three miles from this part of the city, he will not live very close to us. however, it will be possible for you to see each other more frequently than if they had remained at parker. they moved yesterday into the new parsonage, and mrs. strong wants to borrow our two youngest next week to help her with the baby while they are getting settled. do you want to go?" "oh, i can hardly wait! can we really stay the whole week?" "you ungrateful little vagabond!" he thundered in pretended anger. "you want to leave your old grandpa for a whole week, do you?" "yes," she giggled. "a change would do us both good. besides, we live with you all the time, and i don't get a chance to see saint elspeth and glen very often--but i'd lots rather have my _home_ with you, though i do like to go visiting once in a while, same as you do." "teaser! well, if grandma thinks it wise, you and allee may go next week to visit your patron saints--what is the matter, dora? doesn't the plan please you?" for grandma looked unusually grave and thoughtful, but at his question she merely answered, "peace may accept if she wishes, but unless allee's cold is much better by monday, i don't think it best for her to go. i kept her home from school today." for a moment the brown-haired child stood silent and hesitating on one foot in the middle of the floor. it would be hard to be separated from this golden-haired sister for a whole week, but--it had been _such_ a long time since she had seen these other precious friends; and anyway, elspeth needed someone to help her. besides, allee might be well enough to go by monday, or perhaps she could come later in the week. it would be wisest to accept the invitation at once, so with a little hop of decision, she announced serenely, "tell saint john i'll come, and prob'ly allee will, too. her colds don't usu'ly last long, and she'll be all right by monday." chapter vi peace's spring vacation allee's cold was no better monday morning, but it was decided that peace should go alone to the new parsonage on hill street, with the promise that if possible the younger child should join her before the week's visit was ended. so peace departed. but it was with a heavy heart that she went, for, much as she wanted to see her former pastor's family, she dreaded being separated from this dearest of sisters even for seven days; nor could she shake off the vague feeling of unrest which had gripped her when she saw the sick, sorrowful look in allee's great blue eyes as they said good-bye. "get well quick, dear," she whispered tenderly, holding the tiny, hot hand against her cheek after a quaint fashion they had of saying good-night to each other. "i can't have a good time even with saint elspeth and glen if you are at home sick. take your med'cine like a good girl, and about wednesday i 'xpect saint john will be coming after you if grandpa hasn't brought you before." and allee had promised to do her best, but peace could not forget her last glimpse of the wistful, flushed face, pressed against the window-pane to watch her out of sight around the corner. and so sober was she that jud, who was driving her to the dovecote on the hill, looked around inquiringly more than once, and finally ventured to ask, "have you caught cold, too?" "no, indeed!" she flung back at him. "i'm never sick. why?" "your eyes look pretty red." his ruse was effective, for in trying to see herself in a tiny scrap of a mirror which she carried in her satchel, she forgot her desire to cry, and looked as gay and chipper as usual when the carriage drew up at the parsonage curbing and mr. strong bounded boyishly down the walk to meet her, holding his beautiful year-old boy on one arm, and dragging the sweet girl wife by the other. "oh, but it's good to see you again!" cried peace, vaulting over the wheels to the ground before either jud or the minister could lift her down. "it doesn't seem 'sif you'd really moved to martindale to live. how did it happen? grandpa couldn't make me understand about bishops and preachers and congregations, but i'm glad you've come. did you have a hard time getting out of parker and was there a farewell reception? ain't it too bad faith wasn't there to make you another cake? mercy! how the baby has grown! why, i b'lieve he knows me. he wants to come. oh, he ain't too heavy and i won't break his precious neck, will i, glen? how do you like my new dress and did you get my hand-satchel 'fore jud drove off? i forgot all about it the minute i saw the baby. grandpa was going to bring me, but the faculty had to plan a meeting for this morning, of course, and grandma couldn't come on account of allee's cold. what a cute little house you've got! it looks wholer than the parker parsonage. i'm just dying to see all the little cubby-holes and closets. how many rooms are there?" "it is the same old peace, elizabeth," laughed mr. strong, rescuing his boy and leading the way to the house. "prosperity has not changed her a whit. she has hundreds of questions stored up under that curly wig waiting to be asked. i can see them sticking out all over her. my dear, you are here for a week's visit. don't choke yourself trying to ask everything in one breath, but 'walk into our parlor' and we will show you all we have, and let you rummage to your heart's content." so they initiated her into the mysteries of the new parsonage with its pretty, cheerful rooms, unexpected cosy corners, tiny kitchen and cunning little cupboard, and for a week she fairly revelled in the playhouse, as she immediately named the spandy new cottage, amusing the baby, who promptly attached himself to her with the devotion of a lap-dog, dusting furniture, washing dishes, and causing her usual commotion trying to help where her presence was only a hindrance. but they enjoyed it! oh, dear, yes! her quaint speeches were a constant delight to them, and the sight of her somber brown eyes, so at odds with her merry disposition, and the sound of her gay whistle or rippling little giggle were like the breath of spring to these homesick hearts. so the days slipped happily by in the dovecote on the hill, in spite of peace's vague fears for the little sister at home who did not get well enough to join them; and before anyone was aware of it, the whole week was gone and sunday night had arrived. the evening service was over, peace had said good-night to the pastor and his wife, and the house was in darkness when suddenly there was the sound of hurried steps on the walk, the door-bell jangled harshly, and the brown eyes in the room across the hall flew open just as the front door closed with a bang, and mrs. strong's frightened voice called through the darkness, "what is it, john? a telegram?" "a messenger boy." "oh, what is the trouble? someone hurt or sick at home? here is a light, dear." flickering shadows danced across the walls of peace's room, she heard the tearing of paper, and then mr. strong's quick exclamation, "elizabeth! it is allee!" "_what_ is allee?" a white gown shot out of the door opposite them, and terrified peace threw herself into the woman's arms, demanding again, "what is allee? is she--dead?" "no, dear," he hastily assured her, provoked to think he had frightened the child so badly; "only ill--quarantined for scarlet fever." "scarlet fever!" gasped the girl. "that's what killed myrtle perry. oh, will allee die, too? why didn't i stay at home with her?" "there, there, little girlie, you mustn't cry about it like that," said mrs. strong, stroking the brown head in her arms with comforting touches. "lots of people have scarlet fever and get over it. the letter says allee's case is not at all severe, but she will be quarantined for some weeks and you can't go home until the house has been fumigated. you must be our girl for a month or two longer. will that be hard work?" "n-o, but s'posing she _should_ die! i ought to be there to have it, too." "no, indeed! that would make it only harder for grandma campbell. you must stay here and keep well so they won't be worrying about you, too. allee isn't going to die, but in a few weeks will be as well as ever." "s'posing i've caught it already and give it to glen?" "dr. coates thinks you would have been sick by this time if you were going to have the disease, but he is taking no chances, and has sent some medicine as a preventive." "what about school?" the case was becoming interesting to peace, now that she was assured that allee would not die. "oh, you can have another week of vacation from lessons, and then if everything is all right, you can finish your term at chestnut school. that is only four blocks from here, and miss curtis is a splendid principal. i knew her when i went to college, and i am sure you will like her." this was not exactly what peace had expected or hoped for. she would have preferred no more school at all, as long as the sisters at home were to have an enforced vacation of several weeks, and her face clouded again as she heard elizabeth's plan. "but--i can't--i don't want--i would rather--" she stammered. "remember your motto and 'scatter sunshine,' dear. it will help the home folks to know you are cheerful and happy here, and it will help us, too." she had touched the right chord. peace slowly dried her tears, gave a final gulp or two, and lifted her face once more smiling and serene, saying gravely, "you can bet on me! i won't bawl any more. you folks better get to bed now and not stand here shivering until you catch cold. good-night again!" with a hearty kiss for each, she trailed away to her tiny room and was soon fast asleep among the pillows. in spite of her determination to be brave, however, she often found it hard to wear a smiling face during the week which followed the messenger's coming, for much as she wanted a vacation from her books, time hung heavily on her hands. she could not help fretting about allee lying ill at home, glen took a sleepy spell and spent many hours each day napping when she wanted to play with him, the little house had soon been put in order, everything was unpacked and in its place, the minister and elizabeth were compelled to devote much of their time to making the acquaintance of their new parishioners and becoming familiar with this new field of labor; so peace was necessarily left to her own devices more than was good for her. to make a bad situation worse, a drizzly spring rain set in, which lasted for days and kept the freedom-loving child a prisoner indoors, when she longed to be dancing in the fresh air and exploring a certain inviting grove which she had discovered on the hillside behind the church. "i b'lieve it's raining just to spite me," she exclaimed crossly one afternoon as she stood drumming on the window-sill and watching the pearly drops course down the pane in zigzag rivulets. "it just knows how bad i want to get out to play." elizabeth looked up from a tiny dress which she was mending carefully, and said in sprightly tones, "'is it raining, little flower? be glad of rain. too much sun would wither thee, 'twill shine again. the sky is very black, 'tis true, but just behind it shines the blue.'" "oh, yes, you can say that all right," peace snapped, "cause you ain't just a-dying to get out and dig. why, saint elspeth, the air just fairly smells of angleworms and birds' nests, and i do want to make a garden so bad!" "poor girlie," smiled the woman to herself, "what a hard time she would have in life if she could not run and romp all she wanted." but aloud she merely said, "it is too early to make a garden yet, dear. the ground is so cold that the seeds would rot instead of sprouting, and if any little shoots were brave enough to climb through the soil into open air, they probably would get frozen for their trouble. we are apt to have some hard frosts yet this spring. see, the leaves on the trees have scarcely begun to swell yet. they know it isn't time. be patient a little longer; it can't rain forever." "it's hard to be patient with nothing to do," sighed the child, pressing her nose flatter and flatter against the glass as she looked up and down the dreary, deserted street, vainly hoping for something to distract her dismal thoughts. "have you finished dressing the paper dolls for allee?" "yes, i made ten different suits for every single doll, and there were fifteen, counting in the father and mother and grandma. saint john has already mailed them. i've read till i'm tired and the back fell off of the book--it wasn't a nice story anyway, 'cause the good girl was always getting whaled for what the bad one did. i whistled glen to sleep before i knew it and then couldn't wake him up, though i shook and shook him. i've sewed up all today's squares of patch-work and two of tomorrow's; but it isn't int'resting work when you ain't there to tell me stories about them. and anyway, i _hate_ sewing--patch-work 'specially! when i grow up and get married, my husband will have to buy our quilts already made. i'll never waste my time sewing on little snips to hatch up some bed-clothes. they're always covered up with spreads anyway. rainy days are the dismalest things i know!" "that is very true if we let it rain inside, too," elizabeth agreed quietly. "let it rain inside! whoever heard tell of such a thing--'nless the roof was leaky." peace giggled in spite of her gloom. "you are letting it rain inside now when you frown and sigh instead of trying to be cheerful and happy in spite of the storm outside. one of our poets says: "'whatever the weather may be,' says he, 'whatever the weather may be, it's the songs ye sing, and the smiles ye wear that's a-making the sunshine everywhere!'" peace abruptly ceased her drumming on the window-sill and stared thoughtfully through the wet pane at a row of draggled sparrows chirping blithely on a fence across the muddy street. then she remarked, "what a lot of poetry you know! seems 'sif i'd struck a poetic bunch since we left parker. grandma and grandpa and miss edith and frances, and now you have taken to talking in rhymes--and they are mostly about sunshine, too." "'when the days are gloomy sing some happy song,'" hummed elizabeth, leaning suddenly forward and drawing out a drawer in her desk close by. she rummaged through its contents for a moment, and then laid a dainty brown and gold book in the girl's hands, saying, "that reminds me. when i was a little girl not much older than you are now, my mother was very ill for a long time, and my sister esther and i were sent away from home to live with a lame old aunt in a lonely little house about a mile from the nearest neighbor's. needless to say, we got very homesick with no one to play with or amuse us, and the days were often so long that we were glad when night came so we could sleep and forget our childish troubles. though aunt nancy was not accustomed to children, she soon discovered our loneliness and set about to mend matters as best she could. but the old house had very little in it for us to play with, the books were all too old for us to understand, and like you, we were not overly fond of sewing. so poor old auntie was at her wit's end to know what to do with us when she happened to think of her diary." "did she have many cows?" "cows?" "in her diary." "oh, child, that is dairy you mean. a diary is a record of each day's events--all the little things that happen from week to week--sort of a written history of one's life." "h'm, i shouldn't think that would be fun," peace commented candidly, still holding the unopened volume in her hand, thinking it was another uninteresting story-book. "i don't like writing any better than i do sewing." "neither did i, but esther was rather fond of scribbling, and aunt nancy's diary was one of the brightest, sprightliest histories of common, everyday affairs that we ever read, and we were both greatly amused over it. she had kept a faithful record for years--not every day, or even every week, but just when she happened to feel like writing, so it was no drudgery. "she was quite given to making rhymes, as you call it, and we were astonished to find several very beautiful little poems and stories that she had written just for her own enjoyment; for she had always lived alone a great deal, and these little blank books of hers held the thoughts that she could not speak to other folks because there were no folks to talk with. esther was several years older than i, and she knew a lady who wrote for magazines. so, unbeknown to aunt nancy, she copied a number of the prettiest verses and sent them to this author, who not only had them printed, but begged for more. i never shall forget how pleased aunt nancy was, and i think it was that which decided us girls to try keeping a diary, too. we raced each other good-naturedly, to see who could write the queerest fancies or longest rhymes, and many an hour have we whiled away, scribbling in the dusty attic." "did you ever get anything printed?" peace was becoming interested, for gail had secret ambitions along this line, and such matters as poems, stories and publishers were often discussed in the home circle. "no," sighed elizabeth, a trifle wistfully, perhaps, as she thought of that dear dream of her girlhood days. "i soon came to the conclusion that poets are born and not made. but esther has been quite successful in writing short stories for magazines, and she lays it all to the summer we spent with aunt nancy on that dreary farm." "how long did you write your dairy?" "_diary_, peace. i am still writing it--" "ain't that book full yet?" "oh, yes, a dozen or more, but most of them were burned up in the fire at--" "i thought maybe this was one of them." she held up the brown and gold volume, much disappointed to think it did not contain the record of those early attempts which elizabeth had so charmingly described. "no, dear, that is a notebook which i was intending to send john's youngest brother, jasper, who thinks he wants to be an author, so he might jot down bits of information or interesting anecdotes to help him in his work. however, it just occurred to me that perhaps peace greenfield would like such a book to gather up sunbeams in." "to gather up sunbeams?" "yes, dear. don't you think it would be a nice plan these rainy, dreary days to write down all the cheerful bits of poetry you know or happy thoughts that come to you, or the pretty little fairy tales you and allee love to make up about the moon lady and the brownies in the dell? you see, i have painted little brownies all along the margins of the various pages--" "and they are carrying sunflowers," peace interrupted. "sun-flowers if you wish," and elizabeth made a wry face at her reflection in the mirror. "i called them black-eyed susans, but sun-flower is a better name for them, because this is to be a sunshine book. another coincidence--i have written on the fly-leaf the very verse i just quoted: "it's the songs ye sing, and the smiles ye wear that's a-makin' the sunshine everywhere!'" "and ain't the fly's leaf dec'rations cute!" peace pointed a stubby forefinger at the painted brownie chorus, armed with open song-books and broad grins, who seemed waiting only for the signal of the leader facing them with baton raised and arms extended, to burst into rollicking melody. "i think it's a splendid book and you're a _nangel_ to give it to me when you meant it for someone else. but it ought to have a name. just _dairy_ sounds so milky and barnlike; and i don't like 'sunbeam book' real well, either. what did you call yours?" elizabeth laughed. "esther's was 'happy moments,' but i was more ambitious, and called mine 'golden thoughts.' how would 'sunbeams,' or 'gleams of sunshine' do for yours?" "oh, i like that last one! that's what i'll call it, and i'll begin writing now. shall i use pen and ink?" "ink would be best, wouldn't it? pencil marks soon get rubbed and dingy." "that's what i was thinking," peace answered promptly, for the possibilities of the ink-pot always had held a great charm for her, and at home her privileges in this direction were considerably curtailed, ever since she had dyed tabby's white kittens black to match their mother. so she drew up her chair before the orderly desk, and began her first literary efforts, having first sorted out five blotters, six pen-holders, two erasers, a knife and a whole box of pen-points to assist her. it was a little hard at first to know just what to write, but after a few nibbles at the end of her pen, she seemed to collect her thoughts, and commenced scratching away so busily on the clean, white page that elizabeth smiled and congratulated herself on having so easily solved the problem of what to do with the restless, little chatter-box until she could go back to school the following monday. there were only three days of that week remaining, and if the book would just hold the child's attention until these were ended, she should count her scheme successful, even though she did have to find another present for jasper's birthday. so she smiled with satisfaction, for peace had become so engrossed with her new amusement that she never heard the door-bell ring, nor the voice of the visitor in the adjoining room, but scribbled away energetically until words failed her, and she paused to think of something to rhyme with "bird." then her revery came to a sudden end, for through the open door of the parlor floated the words, "and so we decided to adopt her resolutions." "poor thing," murmured peace under her breath. "i s'pose it's another orphan. beats all how many there are in this world! i am glad she's going to be adopted, though; but if she was mine, i'd change her name to something besides resolutions. that's a whole lot worse'n peace. it sounds like war." she glanced out of the window, and with a subdued shout dropped her pen and rushed for her coat and rubbers. the rain had ceased and the sun was shining! not only that, but trudging down the muddy hill, hand-in-hand and tearful, were two small, fat cherubs, the first children peace had seen while she had been visiting the parsonage, except as she met the boys and girls of the sunday school. elizabeth had told her that this part of the city was still new, and consequently few families had settled there as yet; but she had longed for other companionship than glen could give her, and this was too good an opportunity to miss. so, flinging on her wraps, she hurried out of the back door, so as not to disturb elizabeth and her caller, and ran after the children already at the street crossing, preparing to wade into the rushing torrent of muddy water coursing down the hillside. "oh, wait!" she cried breathlessly, but at the sound of her voice both children started guiltily, and with a snarl of anger and defiance, plunged boldly into the flood, not even glancing behind them at the flying, gray-coated figure in pursuit. however, the water was swift in the gutter, the mud very slippery, and the little tots in too great a hurry. so without any warning, two pair of feet shot out from under their owners, two frightened babies plumped flat in the dirty stream, and two voices rose in protest against such an unhappy fate. nevertheless, when peace waded in to their rescue, they fought and bit like wild-cats, till she dragged them howling back to the sidewalk and safety. then abruptly the wails ceased, two pair of round gray eyes stared blankly up at their rescuer, and two voices demanded aggressively, "who's you?" "are you twins?" asked peace in turn, noticing for the first time how very much alike were the small, snub-nosed, freckled faces of the dirty duet. "yes." "what are your names?" "lewie and loie." "lewie and loie what?" "that's all." "oh, but you must have another name." "that's all," they stubbornly insisted. "where do you live?" "nowhere." "haven't you any mamma?" "she's gone." "but who takes care of you?" "nobody," gulped the one called loie. "mittie did, but she runned away and lef' us," added lewie. "where are you going now?" "to fin' mamma." "but you said she was dead." "she just goned away and lef' us, too," murmured loie, looking very much puzzled. peace was delighted. years and years ago, when her grandfather was a boy, he had adopted a little, homeless orphan and kept him from being taken to the poor-farm. here were two waifs needing love and care. who had a better right to adopt them than she who had found them? grandpa campbell surely would not turn them away, for did he not know what it was to be homeless and friendless? but she could not take them home while allee was in bed with scarlet fever, and perhaps the strongs would not feel that they could open the parsonage doors to two more children, seeing that the house was so very tiny. what could she do with her charges? there was a rush of feet on the walk behind her, someone gave her a violent push, and she sprawled full length in the gutter. surprised, drenched to the skin and dazed by her fall, she staggered to her feet only to be knocked down the second time, while a jeering, mocking voice from the sidewalk taunted, "you're a pretty sight now, you nigger-wool kidnapper! get up and take another dose! i'll teach you to steal children!" blind with rage and half choked with mud, peace shook the water from her eyes and flew at her assailant with vengeance in her heart, pounding right and left with relentless fists wherever she could hit. but the enemy was a larger and stronger child, and it would have gone hard with the brown-eyed maid had not the minister himself arrived unexpectedly upon the scene and separated the two young pugilists, demanding in shocked tones, "why, peace, what does this mean? i thought you were above fighting." "she hit me first!" sputtered peace, trying to wipe the blood from a long scratch on her cheek. "she stole my kids!" "they are orphans, saint john, and i was going to adopt them like my grandfather did grandpa campbell." "they ain't either orphans!" shouted the other. "they said their mother was dead and they had no home." "mamma goned away and locked up the house," volunteered lewie from the parsonage porch where he had taken refuge with his twin sister at the first sign of the fray. "are you their sister?" sternly demanded mr. strong of the older girl. "no, i ain't! they live next door and mrs. hoyt left the kids with me till she got back." "where is your house?" "on top of the hill," she muttered sullenly. "then how does it come they are so far from home?" "they ran away." "she shut us out of hern house," said loie, "and we went to fin' mamma." just at this moment the parsonage door opened, and elizabeth's visitor stepped out on the piazza, almost stumbling over the crouching twins; and at sight of them she exclaimed in surprise, "why, lewis and lois hoyt, what are you doing down here? does your mother know where you are?" "ah, mrs. lane, how do you do?" said the minister, extending his hand in greeting. "are these tots neighbors of yours?" "they live just across the street from us. i often take care of them when the mother is away." then her eye chanced to fall upon the shrinking figure of mittie, and she demanded wrathfully, "have you been up to your tricks again, mittie cole? i shall certainly report you to your father this time sure. i will take the twins home, mr. strong. it is too bad your little guest has been hurt, but you can mark my words, she was not to blame. there is trouble wherever mittie goes. i don't see why mrs. hoyt ever left the children with her in the first place. she might have known what would happen." shooing the little brood ahead of her, she marched out of sight up the hill, and peace followed the minister into the house, wailing disconsolately, "i thought they were orphans and i could adopt them like grandpa did." "but think how nice it is that they have a mother and father and a nice home of their own. aren't you glad they are not friendless waifs?" it was a new thought. peace paused in her lament, and then with a bright smile answered, "it is nicer that way, ain't it? 'cause even if they had been orphans, maybe grandpa would think he had his hands full with the six of us, and couldn't make room for any more. lewie can bite like a badger and i 'magine grandpa wouldn't stand for much of that. anyway _i_ wouldn't. when i grow bigger and have a house of my own, then i can adopt all the children i want to, can't i? just like that lady that was here a minute ago." "mrs. lane? why, she has no adopted children!" exclaimed elizabeth, who had been a silent spectator of part of the scene. "but i heard her tell you so myself," insisted peace. "when?" "this afternoon while i was writing in my book. she said they decided to adopt resol--resol--something." fortunately the minister was lighting the fire in the kitchen stove, so peace could not see the laughter in his face, and elizabeth had long since learned to hide her mirth from the keen childish eyes, so she explained, "it was not a child, peace, which she was talking about. doesn't your missionary band ever adopt resolutions of any sort in their business meetings?" "i never saw any they adopted, though we're s'porting two orphan heathen in india." elizabeth could not refrain from smiling slightly, but she carefully explained to peace the meaning of the perplexing phrase, as she bustled about her preparations for supper, and the incident was apparently forgotten. while she was putting things to rights for the night, long after the children had been tucked away in their beds, she found the preacher seated by her desk chuckling over a little book among the papers before him, and peeping over his shoulder she saw it was the brown and gold volume which she had given peace that afternoon. on the fly-leaf, just above the quaint brownie chorus, in straggling inky letters, peace had penned the title, "glimmers of gladness," this being as near as she could recall the name elizabeth had suggested. then followed the most extraordinarily original diary the woman had ever seen, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks, as she read the words written with such painstaking care and plenty of ink: "this is the first dairy i ever kept. saint elspeth gave me the book which she ment for jasper strong, st. john's brother who wood rather be a writer than a huming boy. he ought to change places with me, cause i'd rather be a live girl any day than a norther which is what gale wants to be and that is one reason i am going to keep a dairy as she may find it usful when she gets to be famus like st. elspeth's sister ester. i should not want to keep a dairy if i had to tend to it every day, but st. elspeth says just to rite when i feel like it which i don't s'pose will be offen as there is usuly something to do which i like better. i am riting today becaus it rains and i cant go out doors. "the sparrow is playing in the mud don't i wish i could, too. he don't need rubbers on his feet, behind the clouds it's blue. he wears feathers stead of close and to him the rain aint wet. i wisht that i wore feathers, too, then i'd stay out doors you bet. "the raindrop fairy is my newest fairy. i'll tell allee all about it when she gets well enough so's i can go home. they are very wet but it aint their fault. if they wuz dry they wouldnt be water. they go about doing lots of good to the trees and flowers which couldnt grow without water, and we mustn't fuss cause there is always sun somewhere and its a cumfert to no it wont rain all the time. when the storm is over the raindrop faries strech a net of red and blue and green and yellow &c akros the sky which means it wont rain any more until the next time. thats the way with huming beings. if we skowl and growl we're making a huming thunder-storm, but just as soon as the smile comes out thats the rainbow and shows the sun is shining, 'cause there is never a rainbow without the sun is in the clouds behind it. i'm going to smile and smile after this and be a reglar sunflour all myself." "dear little peace," murmured elizabeth, as she closed the book and laid it back on the desk. "it's mean to laugh at her precious diary, particularly when she has taken such pains with it and tried her best to please." "she'll make an author yet," chuckled the minister. "i am proud of our little philosopher. she is scattering more sunshine than she dreams of, and some day will harvest a big crop of sunflowers." chapter vii a voice from the lilac bushes it was a glorious morning in may. spring had really come at last with its warm, life-giving sunshine, and the air was heavy with the smell of growing things. overhead the blue sky was clear and cloudless, underfoot the new grass made a thick carpet invitingly cool and refreshing. the trees were sporting fresh garlands of leaves, and in woods and gardens the bright-colored blossoms glowed and blushed. how beautiful it all was! peace paused at elizabeth's side in the open doorway to drink in the rich fragrance of the lilacs, whose purple plumes nodded so temptingly from the hedge across the way. for days it had been part of her morning program to rush out of doors as soon as she was dressed to sniff hungrily at the lilac-laden air, but never before had they smelled so sweet nor looked so beautiful and feathery as they did this morning, for now they had reached the height of their perfection. tomorrow some of their beauty would be gone; they would be growing old. "oh, elspeth, ain't they lovely?" she sighed. "don't they make you feel like heaven? wouldn't you like a great, big bunch of them under your nose always? i wonder why the folks who live there don't give them away. i should if they b'longed to me. think how many people would be glad to get them. may i go over in the field to play? i won't break one of saint john's plants or touch a single lilac, truly, if i can just play where i can smell their smell as it comes fresh from the bush. we only get the wee, ragged edges of it over here." elizabeth came out of her own revery at the sound of peace's gusty sigh of longing, and readily gave her consent, as this was saturday morning and school did not keep. so, like a bird trying its wings after a long imprisonment, the brown-eyed maid with arms flapping and curls bobbing, skipped happily across the road to the field where she had helped the minister plant a little vegetable garden, and which already was lined with irregular rows of pale green shoots where beans and potatoes, turnips and cabbages, had pushed their way up through the black earth. peace was even prouder of the small truck patch than the preacher himself, if such a thing were possible, and it was a favorite pastime of both these gardeners to walk back and forth between the rows each day and count the tender sprouts which had appeared during the night. so this morning from force of habit, peace strolled up and down the length of the garden, counting in a sing-song fashion as she greedily filled nostrils and lungs with the sweet scent of the lilac bushes just beyond, drawing nearer and nearer the hedge with its delicate, dainty sprays. unconsciously her counting changed into the humming refrain of the gleaner's motto song, and she danced lightly down the last row of crisp cornblades, joyously chanting words which fitted into the happy music: "oh, you pretty lilacs, growing by the wall! how i'd like to have you for my very own. i would pick your blossoms, lavender and white, and give them all to sick folks, shut in from the light.--why, that rhymed all of its own self!" she paused abruptly beside the lilac bushes, her arms still uplifted and fingers outstretched as if beckoning to the plumy sprays above her head. "isn't it queer how such things will happen when if i'd been trying to make poetry in my dairy i couldn't have thought of those words for an hour? i guess it was the lilacs that did it. oh, you are so beautiful! you'd make anything rhyme, wouldn't you? what is it that gives you your sweetness? i wish you could tell me the secret. oh, you lovely lilacs, growing up so high; swinging in the sunshine--" again her made-up words came to a sudden end, and she stood motionless, her head cocked to one side, listening intently to a brilliant trill of melody from the other side of the hedge. "there goes my bird again! saint john says it must be a canary which b'longs to the stone house that owns these lilacs, but i don't b'lieve it would sing like that if it was shut up in a cage." she held her breath again to harken to the music, then puckered her lips and mocked its song. the feathered musician broke off in the midst of his rhapsody, surprised at the strange echo of his own notes. there was a moment of silence; then he began again, and once more peace mimicked the warbler. this time there was a stir on the other side of the bushes, and the purple-tasseled branches were cautiously parted where the foliage was thinnest, but peace was too much absorbed in watching the topmost boughs--for the music seemed to come from overhead somewhere--to see the startled eyes looking at her through the tangle of leaves and blossoms. all unconscious of her hidden audience, she joyously trilled the canary bird's chorus. then miracle of miracles--or so it seemed to peace--there was a whir of wings, and a bright-eyed, yellow-coated, saucy, little bird perched on a twig just above her head. peace gasped and was silent. the bird chirped a note of defiance and hopped to the branch below. peace advanced a cautious step; the canary did not retreat, but tipped its dainty head sidewise and eyed the child curiously. a small brown hand shot out unexpectedly, dexterously, and the yellow songster found itself a helpless prisoner in the child's tight grasp. peace was almost as surprised as the bird. she had not really thought to capture the creature so easily, and to find it in her hand sent a thrill of delight through her whole being. she snuggled it close in her neck and crooned: "you little darling! saint john was right, you _are_ a canary! but i was right, too. you ain't caged. i'm mighty glad i've caught you. i always did like pets. i wonder what you will think of muffet, grandma's canary? if i just had these lovely lilacs now, little birdie, i'd be perfectly happy. but a bird in the hand is worth--a whole bushel of blossoms. i guess i'll take you home to elspeth--" "oh, you mustn't!" cried a distressed voice behind the purple tassels. "that is my bird, gypsy. i just let him loose to see if it was really you mocking him. bring him home, won't you? and i'll give you all the lilacs you want." startled at the sound of a human voice almost at her elbow when she could see no sign of the speaker, peace let go her hold on the frightened captive, and with a relieved chirp, it flew out of sight among the thick branches. but she made no attempt to follow its flight, she was too scared. "are--are--was it a real woman which did that talking?" chattered peace, wetting her lips with her tongue. "yes," answered the voice, with just the tinge of a laugh in it. "i live in the stone house this side of the lilac bushes. i saw you through the leaves and heard what you said, but won't you please bring my little gypsy home? i'll give you all the flowers you want. go down to the road and come in through the front gate. i am here in my chair." "your bird has gone home already," peace answered, reassured by this explanation. "but i'll come and get those lilacs you spoke about." she ran nimbly down the length of the lilac hedge, dodged out of sight around the corner, and appeared the next moment at the iron gate which shut out the street from the grand stone house with its wide lawns, great oaks, smooth, flower-bordered walks, and splashing fountain. "oh, how beau-ti-ful!" cried the child in delight, as the gate swung shut behind her. "i've always wanted to know what this place looked like, but the tall hedge all along the fence is too thick to see through and one can get only a teenty peek through the gate. there is your bird on top of its cage now. see, i didn't keep him, though i'd like to. he is a splendid singer. i sh'd think you'd be the happiest lady in the whole world with all these lovely flowers and--are you a lady?" for the first time since entering the great gate, peace turned her big, brown eyes full upon the occupant of the reclining chair in the shade of the lilac bushes, and her lively chatter faltered, for the face pillowed among the silken cushions seemed neither a child's nor yet a woman's. the eyes, intensely blue and clear, the broad, high forehead, the thin cheeks and colorless lips, even the heavy braids of brown hair with their auburn lights, did not seem to belong to a mere mortal. and yet she could not be an angel, for even peace's youthful, untrained mind swiftly read the bitterness and rebellion which lurked in those deep, wonderful eyes. it was as if some doomed soul were looking out through the bars of a prison fortress, without a single ray of hope to break the gloom, without a single thought to cheer or comfort. and so peace, in her childish ignorance, asked, "are you a lady?" "a woman grown," the sweet voice answered, and a faint smile of amusement flitted across the marble-white face. "your--your hair is in braids," stammered peace, unable to put her subtle feelings into words. "it is more restful that way," the speaker sighed; then again that fleeting smile lighted up the beautiful features, and holding out her hand to the puzzled child, she said coaxingly, "tell me about yourself. is it really you who whistles so divinely in the garden each morning? i have heard it so often but never could locate it before. aunt pen thought it must be another canary at the parsonage. it always seemed to come from that direction." "that's 'cause saint john and i live there. he whistles, too, though i do it the best." "saint john?" the flicker of amusement became a genuine smile. "that's the new preacher of hill street church. he used to be our minister in parker and he lets me call him by his front name when we are alone, but it was so easy to forget and do it when we weren't alone that i named him _saint_ john, 'cause faith says he is my pattern--no patron saint. i call elizabeth saint elspeth, too, for the same reason. she is his wife." "but i thought you were their little girl." "mercy, no! they ain't old enough to have a little girl my age yet. glen is their only children. i'm just visiting." "you have been with them ever since they came here, haven't you?" "almost. they were a week ahead of me. they moved in from parker last march, the very week before our spring vacation from school, and they begged grandpa so hard to let me come and help them settle that he said i might. then allee got the scarlet fever, so i had to stay for a time. just as she was getting well so they 'xpected to _fumergate_ 'most any day, cherry went to work and caught it, and now hope is in bed. there are two more yet to have it, 'nless you count me, and i ain't going to get it. i don't think gail and faith will, either, 'cause they have been staying with frances sherrar ever since the doctor decided he knew what ailed allee. anyway, they had it when they were little." "what quaint names!" murmured the lady, softly repeating them one by one. "yes, they are, but as it ain't our fault, we've quit fretting about 'em. our grandfather was a minister, and he named us--all but gail and allee. papa named the oldest, and mamma named the youngest. grandpa fixed up all the rest." the ludicrous look of resignation in the small round face was too much for the questioner, and she burst into a rippling peal of laughter, so hearty that a much older woman popped a surprised face out of the door to see what was the matter. peace caught a glimpse of her as she vanished within doors once more, and demanded, "who is that?" "aunt pen." "that's a quaint name, too. i'd as soon be called 'pencil'," she retaliated. "it isn't very common these days," smiled the woman. "the real name is penelope, but i shortened it to 'pen.' poor aunt pen, she has a hard time of it." "why? i sh'd think it would be easy work living in such a beautiful place as this." "a beautiful place isn't everything in life," came the bitter retort, and the rebellious look clouded the lovely eyes once more. "no, it ain't," peace acknowledged; "but it's a whole lot. just s'posing you had to live in a mite of an ugly house without nice things to eat or wear and with no father or mother to take care of you, and a mortgage you couldn't pay, and an old skinflint of a man ready to slam you outdoors and gobble up the farm, furniture and everything, the minute the mortgage was due. how'd you like that?" "have you no father or mother?" the voice was very soft and sweet again, and the blue eyes glowed tenderly. peace shook her head. "they are both inside the gates." "then who takes care of you?" "grandpa campbell, what was adopted by my own grandpa when he was a boy." "tell me about it, won't you, dear?" so peace related the pathetic story of the two souls who had gone into the great beyond, leaving the helpless orphan band to battle by themselves; of the struggle the little brown house had witnessed; of the tramp who came begging his breakfast, and afterwards proved to be the beloved president of the university; and of the beautiful change which had come in their fortunes when he had adopted the whole flock. when she had finished her recital there were tears in the blue eyes, and the white-faced lady murmured compassionately, "poor little sisters! there are so many orphans in this big world." something in her tone and the far-away expression of her eyes impelled peace to say with conviction, "you are an orphan, too." "yes, child." "since you were a little girl?" "since i was five years old." "oh, as little as allee when mamma died! wasn't there anyone to take care of you? did your aunt pen adopt you?" "aunt pen has always lived with us. i don't remember any other mother." "and did you always live here?" "yes, i was born here. it wasn't part of the city then." "but you don't look real old." "i am not _real_ old. i was twenty-four last november." "and gail was nineteen the same month! you're only four, five years older than she is. that's not much--but there's a bigger difference." "how, dear?" "oh, she looks 'sif she liked to live better'n you do." the woman drew a long, shivering breath and closed her eyes as if a spasm of pain had seized her; and peace, frightened at the death-like pallor of the face, quavered, "oh, don't faint! what is the matter? are you sick? or is it just a chill? maybe you better run around a bit until you get warm." the deep, unfathomable blue eyes opened, and the voice said bitterly, "i can _never_ run again. i must lie in this chair all the rest of my life with nothing to do but think, think, think! do you wonder now that i am not happy? do you understand now why aunt pen has a hard time? do you see the reason for that tall, thick hedge all around the yard?" "no," peace replied bluntly. "i can't see a mite of sense in it! if i had to live in a chair all my days, i'd want it where i could watch the world go by. i'd cut down all the hedges and let the sun shine in. if i couldn't run about myself, i'd just watch the folks that did have good feet. i'd wave my hands at the children and give 'em flowers, and they'd come and talk to me when i was tired of reading. i'd have a bird like you've got, and i'd make a pet of it, too. i'd have more'n one; i'd have a whole m'nagerie of dogs and cats and rabbits and squirrels and--and ponies, maybe, and a monkey or two. and i'd teach them to do tricks, and then i'd call all the poor little children who can't go to the circus to see my animals perform. i'd have gardens of flowers for the sick people and vegetables for those who haven't any place to raise their own and no money to buy them. that's what saint john is going to do with all they don't use at the parsonage. i'd make a park of my back yard and let dirty children play there so's they would not get run over in the street; i'd--oh, there are so many things i'd do to enjoy myself!" peace paused for breath, the well of her imagination run dry, but her face was so radiant that instinctively her listener knew these were not idle words, though she could not keep the hard tone out of her voice as she answered, "ah, that is easy enough to say, but--wait until you are where i am now, and i think you will find it lots harder to practice what you preach. you will turn your face to the wall, say good-bye to those who you thought were your friends, build a high fence around yourself and hide--_hide_ from the world and everything!" "oh, no," peace protested, shuddering at the picture she had drawn. "i should _die_ if i couldn't see the sun and flowers and kind faces of the folks i love. but--it--would be--awfully hard _never_ to walk again." "hard? it is _torture_!" she had forgotten that she was talking to a mere child, one who could not understand what it was to have dearest ambitions thwarted, one who could not even know yet what it was to have ambitions. "i had dreamed of being a great singer some day--" "oh, do you sing?" cried peace, who was passionately fond of music in whatever guise it came. "masters said i could--" "then please sing for me. i can only whistle, and then folks say, "'whistling girls and crowing hens always come to some bad ends.' "i'd like awfully much to hear you sing." "oh, i don't sing any more! that is all past now; but oh, how i loved it! we were going to europe, aunt pen and i, and when we came back after months and years of study, i thought i should be a--jenny lind, perhaps. i thought of it by day, i dreamed of it by night. it was _everything_ to me. and then--my horse fell--and here i am." "was it long ago?" whispered peace, strangely stirred by the passionate words of the girl before her. "five years." "and you've been here ever since?" "ever since." oh, the hopelessness of the words, the bitterness of the face! involuntarily peace turned her eyes away, and as her glance fell upon the delicate bloom of the lilac bushes beside her, she began to hum under her breath, "oh, you lovely lilacs, growing up so high." "sing to me," commanded the lame girl imperiously. "sing? i can't sing! all i can do is whistle." "but you were singing just now." "i was humming." "don't quibble!" a faint smile smoothed away the hard lines about the young mouth. "please sing that little tune for me. i have heard you so often in the garden and that seems quite a favorite of yours, but i can never make out the words." "that's 'cause the words ain't usu'ly alike." "what?" "why, allee and me have always fitted talking words into our song music and--" "i don't understand, i am afraid." "why, we just sing things instead of talking them like other folks would. they don't rhyme, but they fit into tunes which we like, and our gleaners' motto song is our favorite, so that's the one we usu'ly hum, and that's how you hear it so much." "then sing the motto song. the tune is very pretty." "yes, it is pretty, but the reason we like it so well is 'cause it sounds glad. we never can sing it when we're cross or bad. it's made just for sunshine." softly she began to chant the words: "'in a world where sorrow ever will be known where are found the needy and the sad and lone.'" peace was right in saying that she could not sing, and yet her happy voice, warbling out those joyous words, made very sweet music that bright may morning. the lines of weariness gradually left the invalid's face, a feeling of rest stole over her, and with a tired little sigh, she closed her eyes. "'when the days are gloomy, sing some happy song, meet the world's repining with a courage strong; "'go with faith undaunted thro' the ills of life, scatter smiles and sunshine o'er its toil and strife,'" piped peace, staring at the waving plumes of lavender above her head. "'sca-atter sunshine all along your wa-ay, cheer and bless and bri-ighten--'" the song ceased in the midst of the chorus. the big blue eyes flashed open and the lame girl demanded in surprise. "why did you stop?" "oh," breathed peace, a look of great relief passing over her face, "i thought sure you'd gone to sleep and i wouldn't get my lilacs after all." "you little goosie! i don't go to sleep that easily. sing the chorus again for me, and then hicks shall cut all the flowers you can carry." "he better begin now, then, 'cause the chorus ain't long and it sounds 'sif elspeth was calling me. i've been out of sight from the parsonage quite a spell and likely she's getting anxious. besides, glen may be awake and wanting me." "very well," she laughed. "hicks shall begin right away. see, there he comes with his basket and scissors. now sing." so peace repeated the sprightly chorus with a vim, and was rewarded with such a huge bouquet of the fragrant blossoms that she was almost hidden from sight as she stood clasping them tightly in her arms, and exclaiming in rapture, "all for me? oh, dear lilac lady, i didn't 'xpect that many! you better have aunt pen put some of these in the house for you." "no, i don't want them in my house!" exclaimed the girl fiercely. "they are all for you--and saint elspeth." "oh, she'll love you for sending them. can i bring her over to see you? her and saint john?" "no, i don't care to meet them. saint john has already called, but--i sent him away again." "then--i s'pose--you won't care to have me call again either." this beautiful garden seemed like the promised land to peace's childish eyes, and the thought of never being allowed to enter it again was dreadful. "oh, yes, _do_ come again! you _must_ come again! come every day. no, not every day, some days i couldn't see you if you came. i will hang a white cloth on the lilac bushes--see,--on the other side, where you can see it from the parsonage, and you will come then, won't you?" "yes, if elspeth doesn't need me and glen is asleep. he likes flowers, too, even if he is just a baby, and he never tears them to pieces." "i'll have hicks cut you some tulips--" "you better not today. i'll get them next time i come. these are all i can carry now, and they are a lot too many for our little parsonage. but i'm awful glad you gave me such a big bunch, 'cause there are ever so many of the church people sick, and elspeth will be so pleased to have me _distribit_ bouquets amongst 'em. some of 'em it will be like slinging coals of fire at their heads, too. there's old deacon hopper for one. he doesn't like saint john and calls him a meddlesome monkey of a minister. now he's sick, i'll take him a bunch of lilacs and tell him the meddlesome monkey's minister has sent him some flowers and hopes he soon gets onto his feet again. "mittie cole is another that needs some fire on her head. she pushed me into the gutter three times the day i tried to adopt the runaway twins, and we'd have had a grand scrimmage if saint john hadn't happened along to stop it. but she's got lung fever now, and there was days the doctor said she wouldn't live. i reckon she doesn't feel much like fighting any more, but likely she'll enjoy the smell of these lovely lilacs. she seemed awful glad to see me the day i carried her some chicken broth. "the foster baby is sick, and grandma deane, and little freddie james, and mrs. hoover, and dan'l fielding. you see that's quite a bunch, and it will take a big lot of flowers to go around. i'll tell 'em all that you sent 'em--" "no, indeed!" there was real alarm in her voice. "because i did not send them. i gave them to you." "but if you hadn't given them to me, i couldn't share 'em with other folks, so it's really you who is to blame. you--you don't care if i give some away, do you?" "certainly not, dear. you may give them all away if it will make you any happier." "oh, it does! i just love to see sick faces smile when someone brings in flowers to smell or nice things to eat. miss edith sometimes takes us to the hospital with bouquets to _distribit_, and my! how glad the patients are to get them. they say it is almost as good as a breath of real, genuine air. i'm going with saint elspeth tomorrow afternoon--" "then you must come over here and get some more lilacs. hicks will cut all you can carry." "oh, do you mean it? you darling lilac lady--that's what i mean to call you always, 'cause you give away so many lilacs to make other folks happy. i'll bring the biggest basket i can find. there is elspeth calling again. i must hurry home." "you haven't told me your name yet. i forgot to ask it before, but if i am to be your lilac lady, i must know what to call you, too." "peace--peace greenfield. good-bye. i'll be here tomorrow just the minute dinner is over." the blue eyes followed her longingly as she danced away through the fresh clover and disappeared beyond the heavy gates. then the lame girl turned in her chair,--almost against her will, it seemed--and looked up at the fragrant purple plumes nodding above her head. "peace," she murmured. "how odd! 'the peace which passeth understanding.'" chapter viii a picnic in the enchanted garden after that peace came often to the handsome stone house, half hidden from the road by its thick hedges and giant trees. almost daily the white cloth fluttered its summons from the lilac bushes, and elizabeth, having heard the sad story of the young girl mistress, rejoiced that the tumble-haired, merry-hearted little romp could bring even a gleam of sunshine into that darkened life. at first it was the great, beautiful gardens which lured the child through the iron gates, for she could not understand the different moods of the imperious young invalid, and secretly stood somewhat in awe of her. but gradually the natural childish vivacity and quaint philosophy of the smaller maid tore down the barriers behind which the older girl had so long screened herself, and peace found to her great amazement that the white-faced invalid, who could never leave her chair again, was a wonderful story-teller and a perfect witch at inventing new games and planning delightful surprises to make each visit a real event for this guest. so the calls grew more and more frequent and the chance acquaintance blossomed into a deep, tender friendship. of course, peace did not realize how much sweetness and sunshine she was bringing into the garden with her, but in her ignorance supposed that the many visits were all for her own happiness. how could she know that her lively prattle was making the weary days bearable for the frail sufferer? and had anyone tried to tell her what an important part she was playing in that life drama, she would not have believed it. perhaps it was the very unconsciousness of her power which made her such a beautiful comrade for the aching heart imprisoned in the garden. at any rate, peace not only made friends with the lonely lilac lady, but she also captivated gentle aunt pen and the adoring hicks, who met her with beaming faces whenever she entered the garden, and sighed when the brief hours were over. but none of them would listen to her bringing elspeth or the minister, much to her bewilderment. "it isn't because _i_ don't want them," explained aunt pen one day when peace had pleaded with her and had been grieved at her refusal. "your lilac lady isn't ready to receive other callers yet. you can't understand now, dearie. god grant you may _never_ understand. she shut herself up four years ago when she found out that she would never get well enough to walk again, and you are the first person she has ever seen since that time, except her own household and the physician. perhaps you are the opening wedge, child. oh, i trust it may be so!" peace did not understand what an opening wedge was, but it did not sound very appetizing, and she had grave doubts as to whether she had better continue her visits under such conditions. but when she went to elizabeth with the story, that wise little woman answered her by singing: "'slightest actions often meet the sorest needs, for the world wants daily, little kindly deeds; oh, what care and sorrow you may help remove, with your songs and courage, sympathy and love.'" peace was comforted and went back to the shady garden with a deeper desire to brighten the long, dreary, aimless days of the helpless invalid. she said no more about introducing her beloved minister's family, but in secret she still mourned because the lame girl so steadfastly refused to welcome her dearest friends. so the days flew swiftly by and the month of may was gone. summer was early that year, and the first day of june dawned sultry and still over the sweltering city. it was a half-holiday at the chestnut school, so peace returned home at noon, hot, perspiring, but radiant at the thought of no more lessons till the morrow. she came a round-about way in order to pass the great gates of the stone mansion, hoping to catch a glimpse of the well-known chair under the lilac bushes; but the lawn was deserted, and she was disappointed, for she had counted much on spending these unexpected leisure hours in the cool garden with the lame girl. to add to her woe, she found elizabeth lying on the couch in the darkened study, suffering from a nerve-racking headache, and the preacher, looking very droll togged out in his little wife's kitchen-apron, was flying about serving up the scorched, unseasoned dinner for the forlorn family. he was too much concerned over the illness of the mistress and the unfinished condition of his next sunday's sermon to sample his own cooking, and as glen fell asleep over his bowl of bread and milk, peace was left entirely to her own devices when the meal was ended. it was too hot to romp, it was too hot to read, and there was no one to play with. she swung idly in the hammock until the very motion was maddening. she prowled through the grove behind the church, she dug industriously in the small flower garden under the east window, she did everything she could think of to make the time pass quickly, but at length threw herself once more into the hammock with a discouraged sigh. "school might better have kept all day. it is horrid to stay home with nothing to do that's int'resting. i've watched all the afternoon for the lilac lady's table-cloth and haven't had a peek of it yet. but there--i don't s'pose she'd know there was only one session today, so she ain't apt to hang it out until time for school to let out, like she usu'ly does. guess i'll just walk over in that d'rection and see if she ain't under the trees yet. it's been two days since i've seen a glimpse of her. hicks says she's been dreadful bad again. p'raps i better take her some flowers this time--and there is that little strawberry pie elspeth made for my very own. i might take her some sandwiches, too,--yes, i'll do it!" she tiptoed softly into the house, so as not to disturb the two slumberers, and went in search of the minister in order to lay her plan before him; but he, too, had fallen asleep and lay sprawled full length by the open window, beside his half-written manuscript. "if that ain't just the way!" spluttered peace under her breath. "i never did go to tell anyone nice plans but they went to sleep or were too busy to be disturbed. well, i'll do it anyway. i know they won't care a single speck. i'll ask 'em when i get home and they are awake." back to the kitchen she stole, and into the tiny pantry, where for the next few minutes she industriously cut and buttered bread, made sandwiches, sliced cake and packed lunch enough for a dozen in the picnic hamper which she found hanging on a nail in the shed. with this on her arm, she returned to the little garden under the window and dug up her choicest flowers, stacked them in an old shoe-box with plenty of black dirt, as she had often seen hicks do, and departed with her luggage for the stone house across the corner. she paused at the heavy gates, wondering for the first time whether or not she would be welcome at this time, when no signal had fluttered from the lilac bushes, but at sight of the motionless figure under the largest oak, her doubts vanished, and, boldly opening the gate, she marched up the gravel path and across the lawn toward the familiar chair, bearing the lunch-basket on one arm and a huge box of cheerful-faced pansies on the other. hearing the click of the latch and the sound of steps on the walk, the lame girl frowned impatiently, and without opening her eyes, said peevishly, "if you have any errand here, go on to the house. i won't be bothered." "oh, i'm sorry," cried peace in mournful tones. "i brought a picnic with me, but--" the big blue eyes flashed wide in surprise, and their owner demanded sharply, "why did you come this time of day? i have not sent for you." "i didn't say you had. i came 'cause i thought you'd be glad to see me, but if you ain't, i'll go straight home again and eat my picnic all alone, and plant my flowers in my garden again. you don't have to have them if you don't want 'em." she whirled on her heel and stamped angrily across the grass toward the gate, too hurt to keep the tears from her eyes, and too proud to let her companion see how deeply wounded she was. astonished at this flash of gunpowder, the lame girl cried contritely, "oh, don't go away, peace! i didn't mean to be cross to you. this has been _such_ a hard week, dear, i hardly know what i am doing half the time." "is the pain so bad?" whispered peace tenderly, dropping on her knees before the sufferer, having already forgotten her own grievance in her longing to ease and comfort the poor, aching back. "it is better now," answered the girl, smiling wanly at the sympathetic face bending over her. "the heat always makes it worse, but i do believe it is growing cooler now. feel the breeze? what have you brought me? a picnic lunch!" "yes--my strawberry pie--" "did mrs. strong know?" "she made the pie all for my very own self to do just what i please with. don't you like strawberry pie?" peace paused in her task of unpacking the basket to look up questioningly at the face among the pillows. "oh, yes, dear, i am very fond of it, and it is sweet of you to share yours with me. i shall put my half away for tea." "oh, you mustn't do that," protested the ardent little picnicker, passing her a plate of generously thick, ragged looking sandwiches, spread with great chunks of butter fresh from the ice-box, and filled with delicate slices of pink ham. "i want you to eat it with me. this is a 'specially good pie, and elspeth can 'most beat faith when it comes to dough. mrs. deacon hopper sent us the ham--a whole one, all boiled and baked with sugar and cloves. it's simply _fine_! the lilacs i took the deacon did the work all right. he was so tickled that he got over being grumpy, and calls saint john a promising preacher now. please taste the sandwiches. i know you'll like them even if i didn't get the bread cut real even and nice. then after we get through eating, i'll plant the pansies." "pansies!" she stared past the brown head bobbing over the hamper, to the box of nodding blossoms in the grass. "what made you bring me pansies?" "'cause you ain't got any, and no garden looks quite finished without some of those flowers in it. don't you think so?" "i _de-spise_ pansies!" peace eyed her in horrified amazement an instant, then swept the rejected blossoms out of sight beneath the basket cover, saying tartly, "you needn't be ugly about it! i can take them home again. i s'posed of course you liked them. i didn't know the garden was empty of them 'cause you _wouldn't_ have them. _i_ think they are the prettiest flower growing, next to lilacs and roses." "those mocking little faces?" "those darling, giggly smiles!" "what?" "didn't you ever see a giggling pansy?" "no, i can't say i ever did." a faint trace of amusement stole around the corners of the white lips. "well, here's one. oh, i forgot! you _de-spise_ them!" she had half lifted a gorgeous yellow blossom from the hidden box, but at second thought dropped it back in the loose earth. "let me see it!" the lilac lady extended one blue-veined hand with the imperious gesture which peace had learned to know and obey. silently she thrust the moist plant into the outstretched fingers, and gravely watched while the keen blue eyes studied the golden petals which, as peace had declared, seemed fairly teeming with sunshine and laughter. "it does--look rather--cheerful," she conceded at length. "that is just what i thought. i named it hope." "hope! the name is appropriate." "yes, it is very 'propriate. hope is always so sunshiny and smily--" "oh, you named it for your sister." "who did you think it was named for?" "i didn't understand. is it a habit of yours to name all your flowers?" "n-o, not all. but we gener'ly name our pansies, allee and me. see, this beautiful white one with just a tiny speck of yellow in the middle i called my lilac lady." "why?" a queer little choke came in her throat at these unexpected words, and she turned her eyes away that peace might not see the tears which dimmed her sight. "you looked so sweet and like a _nangel_ the first time i saw you, and this pansy has a reg'lar angel face." "don't i look sweet and like an angel any more?" "some days--whenever you want to. but lots of times i guess you don't care how you look," was the reply, as the busy fingers sorted out the different colored blossoms from the box, all unconscious of the stinging arrow she had just shot into the heart of her friend. "this blue one's allee. blue means truth, grandma says, and allee is true blue. red in our flag stands for valor. cherry ain't very brave, but i named this for her anyway, in hopes she'd ask why and i could tell her. then maybe when she found out that folks thought she was a 'fraid cat, she'd get over it. don't you think she would?" "perhaps--if you were her teacher," the older girl answered absently. "who is the black one?" "grandpa. isn't it a whopper? he is real tall but not fat like the flower. he always wears black at the university--that's why i picked that one for him. this one is grandma and here is gail. the striped one is faith. she is good in streaks, but she can be awful cross sometimes, too,--like you. this tiny one is glen, and the big, brown, spotted feller is aunt pen. it makes me think of old cockletop, a mother hen we used to have in parker, which 'dopted everything it could find wandering around loose. that's what aunt pen looks as if she'd like to do." this was too much for the lame girl's risibles, and she laughed outright, long and loud, to peace's secret delight, for when the lilac lady laughed it was a sure sign that she was feeling better. when she had recovered her composure, she said gravely, "speaking of aunt pen reminds me that she told me this morning the cook had made some chicken patties for my special benefit and was hurt to think i refused them. you might run up to the house and ask for them now to go with our picnic lunch. minnie will give them to you--cold, please. some lemonade would taste good, too. aunt pen knows how to make it to perfection." peace was gone almost before she had finished giving her directions, and as she watched the nimble feet skimming through the clover, she smiled tenderly, then sighed and looked sadly down at her own useless limbs which would never bear her weight again. how many years of existence must she endure in her crippled helplessness? oh, the bitterness of it! and yet as she gazed at the slippers which never wore out, and compared her lot with that of the dancing, curly-haired sprite, tumbling eagerly up the kitchen steps after the promised goodies, the old, weary look of utter despair did not quite come back into the deep blue eyes; but through the bitterness of her rebellion flashed a faint gleam of something akin to hope. she was thinking of peace's latest sunshine quotation which had been laboriously entered in the little brown and gold volume and brought to her for her inspection: "'to live in hope, to trust in right, to smile when shadows start, to walk through darkness as through light, with sunshine in the heart.'" below the little stanza, peace had penned her own version of the words in her quaint language: "this means to smile no matter how bad the world goes round and to keep on smiling till the hurt is gone. it don't cost any more to smile than it does to be uggly, and it pays a heep site better." what a dear little philosopher the child was! a sudden desire to meet the other sisters of that happy family sprang up within her heart. why should she stay shut away from the world like a nun in her cloister? what had she gained by it? nothing but bitterness! and think of the joys she had missed! an insistent rustling of the lilac bushes behind her caught her attention, and by carefully raising her head she could see the thick branches close to the ground bending and giving, as a small, dark object twisted and grunted and wriggled its way through the tiny opening it had managed to find in the hedge. the girl's first impulse was to scream for help, but a second glance told her that it was not an animal pushing its way through the twigs, for animals do not wear blue gingham rompers. so she held her breath and waited, and at last she was rewarded by seeing a round, flushed, inquisitive baby face peeping through the leaves at her. she smiled and held out her hands, and with a gurgle of gladness, the little fellow gave a final struggle, scrambled to his feet and toddled unsteadily across the lawn to her chair, jabbering baby lingo, the only word of which she could understand was, "peace." "are you glen?" she demanded, smoothing the soft black hair so like his father's. "g'en," he repeated, parrot fashion. "where is your mamma?" "mamma." he pointed in the direction he had come, and gurgled, "s'eep. papa s'eep. all gone." the baby himself looked as if he had just awakened from a nap. one cheek was rosier than the other, his hair lay in damp rings all over his head, and his feet were bare and earth-stained from his scramble through the vegetable garden on the other side of the hedge. a sudden gust of cool wind blew through the trees overhead, a rattling peal of thunder jarred the earth, a blinding flash of lightning startled both girl and baby, and before either knew what had happened, a torrent of rain dashed down upon them. the storm which had been brewing all that sultry day broke in its fury. hicks came running from the stable to the rescue of his helpless young mistress, aunt pen flew out of the house like a distracted hen, and peace rushed frantically to the garden to save the precious picnic lunch and the box of pansies which were to be planted under the gnarled old oak nearest the lame girl's window. so it happened that baby glen was borne away into the great house to wait until the deluge of rain and hail should cease. in the flurry of getting everything under shelter, no one thought of the mother at home, crazed with anxiety and fright; and the whole group was startled a few moments later to behold a bare-headed, wild-eyed woman, drenched to the skin, dash through the iron gates, up the walk, and straight into the house itself, without ever stopping to knock. "it's elspeth!" cried peace, first to find her voice. "glen, where's glen?" was all the frantic mother could gasp as she stood tottering and dripping in the doorway. "ma-ma," lisped the little runaway, struggling down from aunt pen's lap, where he had been cuddling, and running into elizabeth's arms. "peace, why did you take him without saying a word?" she reproached, sinking into the nearest chair, and hugging her small son close to her breast. "i didn't--" peace began. "i think he must have run away," volunteered the lilac lady, staring fixedly at elizabeth's face with almost frightened eyes. "he squirmed through the hedge while i was alone in the garden. i had not seen the storm approaching, and it broke before i could call peace or--" at the sound of the sweet voice, elizabeth had abruptly risen to her feet, and after one searching glance at the white face among the cushions, cried out with girlish glee, "myra! can it be that peace's lilac lady is my dear old chum?" "you are the same darling beth!" cried the lame girl hysterically, clinging to the wet hand outstretched to hers. "why didn't i guess it before? oh, i have wanted you _so_ often--but i never dreamed of finding you here. and to think i have refused all this while to let peace bring you!" "no, don't think about that. her desire is accomplished, however it came about--and you are going to let me stay?" "i would keep you with me always if i could. i have been learning peace's philosophy and find it very--" "peaceful?" they laughed together, and in that laugh sounded the doom of the hedges which peace had lamented so long. chapter ix giuseppe nicoli and the monkey the next morning dawned bright and clear and cool, and peace, hurrying to school with her nose buried in a great bunch of early roses from the stone house, pranced gaily down the hill chanting under her breath, "roses, roses, yellow, red and white, you are surely lovely, sweet and bright--another rhyme! they always come when i ain't trying to make 'em. i wonder if i'll ever be a big poet like longfellow was. it must be nice to have folks learn the things you write and speak 'em at concerts and school exercises like i'm going to do his 'children's hour' next friday. i've got it so i can say it backwards almost. elizabeth says i know it perfectly. i hope miss peyton will think the same way. she is lots harder to please and i 'most never can do anything to suit her." she sighed dolefully, for her ludicrous mistakes and blunt remarks were the bane of her new teacher's methodical life, and many an hour she had been kept after school as a punishment for her unruly tongue. unfortunately, miss peyton belonged to that great army of teachers who teach because they must, and not because they love the work. to be sure, she was most just and impartial in her treatment of the fifty scholars under her supervision, but, possessed of about as much imagination as a cat, she failed to analyze or understand the dispositions of her charges; and well-meaning peace was usually in disgrace. but her sunny nature could not stay unhappy long, and as she thrust her small nose deeper among the fragrant blossoms, she smilingly added, "i guess she'll like these roses, anyway. they are the prettiest i ever saw, even in greenhouses. there goes the first bell. i 'xpected to be there early this morning, but likely annie simms has beat me again. well, i don't care, there is only one more week of school and then vacation--and p'raps i can go home. why, what a crowd there is on the walk! i wonder if someone is hurt again. where can the principal be?" she broke into a run, forgetful of her cherished bouquet, and dashed heedlessly across the school-grounds to the group of excited, shouting boys and girls, gathered around the tallest linden, throwing stones and missiles of all sorts up into the branches at some object which peace could not see. but as she drew near, she could hear a queer, distressed chattering, which reminded her of the monkeys in the park zoo, and turning to one of her mates, she demanded, "what is it the boys have got treed there?" "a monkey." "a monkey?" shrieked peace in real surprise. "where did they get him?" "i guess he b'longs to a hand-organ man. he's dressed in funny little pants and a red cap. thad depugh found him on his way to school and tried to catch him, but he run up the tree." "and you stand there without saying a word and let them stone a poor little helpless monkey!" "it don't b'long to me," muttered the child, angered by the indignant flash of the brown eyes and the scathing rebuke which seemed directed against her alone. "anyway, i ain't stoning it." "you ain't helping, either. let me through here!" she pushed and elbowed her way into the midst of the throng and boldly confronted the ringleaders of the tormentors, screaming in protest, "don't you throw another stone, you big bullies! ain't you ashamed of yourself, trying to kill that poor little thing!" "we ain't trying to kill it," retorted the nearest chap, pausing with his arm uplifted ready to pitch another pebble. "you mind your own business!" growled another. "this monkey isn't yours. we're trying to make it come down so we can catch it." "you'll quit throwing things at it, or i'll tell miss curtis." "tattle-tale, tattle-tale!" mocked the throng, and another handful of rocks flew up among the branches. "o-h-h-h-h!" shrieked peace, beside herself with rage. "you d'serve to have the stuffing whaled out of you for that!" flinging aside the treasured roses, she seized the biggest boy by the hair and jerked him mercilessly back and forth across the yard, while he sought in vain to loosen the supple fingers, and bawled loudly for help. "teacher, teacher! miss curtis, oh teacher!" shouted the excited children; and at these sounds of strife from the playgrounds, the principal and half a dozen of her staff rushed out of the building to quell the riot. but even then peace did not release her grip on the lad's thick topknot. pulled forcibly from her victim by the long-suffering miss peyton, she collapsed in the middle of the walk and sobbed convulsively, while the rest of the scholars huddled around in scared silence, eager to see what punishment was to be meted out to this small offender, for it was a great disgrace at chestnut school to be caught fighting. the grave-faced principal looked from the pitiful heap of misery at her feet to the blubbering bully who had retreated to a safe distance and stood ruefully rubbing his smarting cranium, minus several tufts of hair; and though inwardly smiling at the spectacle, she demanded sternly, "peace greenfield, aren't you ashamed of yourself for fighting thad--" "yes," hiccoughed peace with amazing promptness and candor; "i'm terribly ashamed to think i _touched_ him--he's so dirty. but i ain't half as ashamed of _myself_ as i am of him." even miss peyton caught her breath in dismay. but the principal had not forgotten her own childhood days, and being still a girl at heart, and secretly in sympathy with the small maid on the ground, she only said, "explain yourself, peace." "it ain't half as bad for a little girl like me to fight a big bully like him, as it is for a big bully like him to fight a little monkey--" "i wasn't fighting the monkey," sullenly muttered the boy, hanging his head in shame. "you were stoning him, and he couldn't hit back, so there!" "what monkey?" demanded the principal, glancing swiftly around the yard for any evidence of such a creature. a dozen hands pointed toward the linden tree, and one small voice piped, "he's up there!" "a real monkey?" "yes, dressed up in hand-organ pants," peace explained, scrambling to her feet and peering up among the thick leaves for a glimpse of the frightened animal, which had ceased its wild chattering and sat huddled close against the tree trunk almost within reach. "see it? poor little jocko, i won't hurt you!" she stretched out her hands at the same moment that unknowingly she had spoken its name, and to the intense amazement of teachers and pupils, the tiny, trembling creature unhesitatingly dropped upon her shoulder, threw its claw-like arms about her neck and hid its face in her curls. "whose monkey is it?" gently asked miss curtis, breaking the silence which fell upon the group watching the strange sight. "i never saw it before," peace answered. "but you called it by name," chorused the children, crowding closer about her. "that was just a guess. there's a story in our reader about jocko, and i happened to think of it. i didn't know it was this monkey's name." "how odd!" murmured the primary teacher. "she's the queerest child i ever saw," confided miss peyton; but the principal had seen the janitor approaching the open door to ring the last bell, and being at loss to know what to do with the unwelcome little animal in peace's arms, she suggested that the child take it home and put it in a box until the owner could be found. this peace was only too delighted to do, for as no one in the neighborhood seemed to know where it came from or whose it was, she had fond hopes that no one would inquire for it, and that she might keep it for a pet. so she joyfully carried it back to the parsonage, and burst in upon the little household with the jumbled explanation, "here's a stone i found monkeying up a tree and miss curtis asked me to bring it home and box it till the owner comes around after it. and if he doesn't come, i can keep it myself, can't i, saint john? he jumped right into my arms and won't let go, but just shakes and shakes 'sif he was still getting hit by those rocks. i pulled thad depugh 'most bald headed, and didn't get scolded a bit hardly. she made him go to the office, though, and i hope he gets licked the way i couldn't do but wanted to." "here, here," laughed the minister, looking much bewildered at the twisted story. "just say that again, please, and say it straight. i haven't the faintest idea yet how you got hold of that little reptile or what thad's hair had to do with it." "it isn't a reptile!" peace indignantly denied. "it's a monkey which hid in the linden tree at the schoolhouse to get away from the boys and they stoned it." little by little the story was untangled, while the monkey still tenaciously clung to peace's neck and wide-eyed glen hung onto her skirts. "so you think there is a chance of your keeping him for a pet?" said the preacher, when at length the tale was ended. "can't i?" "you are hoping too much, little girl. if this animal belongs to an organ-grinder, he will be around for him very soon, you may be sure. it is the monkey's antics that bring in the pennies. he can't afford to lose such a valuable. besides, peace, the poor little thing is almost dead now." "oh, saint john, he is only scared. s'posing you were a monkey and hateful boys stoned you, wouldn't you tremble and shake?" "i don't doubt it, girlie, but it isn't only fear that ails that animal. look here at his back--just a solid mass of sores. elizabeth, isn't that shocking? this is surely a case for the humane society. it is a shame to let the creature live, suffering as it must be suffering from those cruel wounds. his owner ought to be jailed." "oh, saint john, you aren't going to kill jocko, are you?" "no, dear, he is not my property, and i have no legal right to put him out of his misery, but we must call up the humane society and notify them at once. they will be merciful. it is better to have him die now than live and suffer at the hands of a brutal owner, peace. you must not cry." for great tears of pity were coursing down the rosy cheeks, and glen was trying his best to wipe them away with his fat little fists. elizabeth supplied the missing handkerchief, and as peace raised it to her face, the monkey gave a sudden convulsive shudder, the tiny paws loosed their grasp about the warm neck, and jocko lay dead in the child's arms. for a full moment she stared at the pitiful form, and elizabeth expected a storm of grief and protest; but instead, the little maid drew a long, deep breath as of relief, and said soberly, "saint john is right. jocko is better off dead, but i'm glad he died in my arms, knowing i was good to him, 'stead of being stoned to death by those cruel boys in the tree. where is saint john? has he already gone to telephone the human society? he needn't to now. the monkey is dead. i'll run and catch him on my way back to school. good-bye." she was off like a flash down the hill once more, but the preacher had either taken a different route or already reached his goal, for he was nowhere in sight. so peace continued her way to the schoolhouse, racing like mad to make up lost time. as she panted up the steps into the dimness of the cool hall, she stumbled over a trembling figure crouching in the darkest corner by the stairway, and drew back with a startled cry, which was echoed by her victim, a frail, ragged, young urchin with a thatch of jet black curls and great, hollow, dusky eyes. "who are you?" demanded peace, not recognizing him as one of the regular pupils at chestnut school. "and what are you doing here?" "giuseppe nicoli," answered the elf, looking terribly frightened and shrinking further into his corner. "me losa monk'. he come here but gona way. w'en petri fin', he keel me." the thin face worked pathetically as the little fellow bravely tried to stifle the sobs which shook his feeble body; and peace, with childish instinct, understood what the waif's queer, broken english failed to tell her. "is petri your father?" she asked. "no, no, no!" he shook his head vehemently to emphasize his words. "then why are you afraid of him?" "he playa de organ, me seeng, me feedle, de monk' he dance and bring in mon'. monk' los', petri keel me." "the monkey is dead." the words escaped her lips before she thought, but the frozen horror on the boy's face brought her to her senses, and she hastily cried, "but he was _so_ sick and hurt! his back was just a mess of solid sores. it is better that he is dead!" "oh, but petri keel me!" "sh! the teachers will hear you if you screech so loud. come upstairs with me. miss curtis will know what to do. she won't let petri get you. don't be afraid, jessup. i wouldn't hurt you for the world." he did not understand half that she said, but the great brown eyes were filled with sympathy, and with the same instinct which had led the monkey to leap into her arms a few moments before, the ragamuffin laid his grimy fists into hers, and she led him up the winding stairs to the principal's office. when the worthy lady had heard the queer story, she could only stare from one child to the other and gasp for breath. peace was noted for finding all sorts of maimed birds or sick animals on her way to school, but never before had she appeared with a human being, and miss curtis almost doubted now that little giuseppe was a real human. he looked so pitifully like a scarecrow. what could she do with him? it would be criminal to let the brutal organ-player get him again if the lad's story were true, and she did not doubt its truth after the waif had slipped back his ragged sleeves and showed great, ugly, purple welts across his naked arms. "poor little chap," she murmured. "poor little chap!" as she gingerly touched the bony hands, she was seized with a happy inspiration, and bidding the children sit down till she returned, she entered a little inner office, and peace heard her at the telephone. "give me ." there was a pause; then the child grew rigid with horror. the voice from the adjoining room was saying, "is this the humane society?" it was to the humane society that saint john had intended telephoning, in order that they might come up and kill the poor monkey. was miss curtis a murderer? surely giuseppe was not to be killed, too. then why had she telephoned the humane society? tiptoeing across the floor to the italian waif's chair, she clutched him by the hand, dragged him to his feet, and signalling him to be quiet, she stole cautiously from the room with him in tow. down the long stairs they hurried, and out into the bright sunshine, though poor, frightened giuseppe protested volubly in his own tongue and the little broken english which he knew, for once on the streets, he feared that the bold, bad petri would find him and drag him away to dreadful punishments again. but the harder he protested, the faster peace jerked him along, repeating over and over in her frantic efforts to make him understand, "petri shan't get you, jessup. but if we stay there the human society will, and that's just as bad. they killed deacon skinner's old horse in parker, and tim shandy's lame cow, and were coming to finish jocko when he died of his own self. you don't want to go the same way, do you?" poor peace did not know the real mission of the humane society, or she would not have been so shocked at the idea of little giuseppe's falling into their hands; but her fear had its effect upon the struggling urchin, and his feet fairly flew over the ground, as he tried to keep pace with his leader. when only half a block from the parsonage, peace abruptly halted, and the boy's dark eyes looked into hers inquiringly, fearfully. what was the matter now? this was certainly a queer child at his side. perhaps it would have been wiser had he stayed with the gentle-faced lady in the schoolhouse. "run," he urged, tugging at her hand when she continued to stand motionless in the middle of the walk. "petri geta me." "no, no, petri shan't have you, i say!" peace declared savagely. "but if i take you home to saint elspeth, like as not the human society will be right there to nab you; and if they ain't now, miss curtis will send 'em along as soon as she finds we've run away. where can i take you?" anxiously she looked about her for a hiding place, and as if in answer to her question, her glance rested upon the stone house, surrounded by its tall hedges. "sure enough! why didn't i think of that before? my lilac lady will take care of you, i know, until saint john can find some nice place for you to live always. come on this way." she whisked around the corner, threw open the gate, and ushered the trembling waif into the splendid garden, with the announcement, "here is the place i mean, and there is the lilac lady under the trees." the boy surveyed the masses of brilliant flowers, the sparkling fountain, the shifting shadows of the great oaks above him where birds were singing. then he turned and scanned the white, sweet face among the pillows, and clasping his thin hands in rapture, he breathed, "italy! oh, eet iss paradise!" and as if unable to restrain his joy any longer, he burst into a wild, plaintive song, with a voice silvery toned and clear as a bell. peace paused in the midst of a turbulent explanation to listen; aunt pen came to the door with her sewing in her hand; hicks stole around the corner of the house, thinking perhaps the young mistress had broken her long silence; and the lame girl herself lay with parted lips, charmed by the glorious burst of melody. the song won her heart, even before she heard the pitiful story of the wretched little musician, and when peace had finished recounting the morning's events, the mistress of the stone house turned toward her aunt with blazing, wrathful eyes, exclaiming impetuously, "isn't that shocking? oh, how dreadful! we must help him, aunt pen. poor little giuseppe! see the humane society about him at once--now don't look so horrified, peace. they don't kill little boys and girls. they take good care of just such waifs as this, and provide nice homes for them. even if giuseppe were related to petri, the humane society would take the child away from him on account of his brutality. he is worse than a beast to treat the boy so, and giuseppe shall never go back to him as long as i can do anything. he shall go to school like other children and get an education. then we'll make a splendid musician of him; and who knows, peace, but some day he will be a second campanini?" peace had not the faintest idea of what a campanini was, but she did understand that giuseppe nicoli had found a home and friends, and she was content. chapter x the last day of school peace was panic stricken. almost at the last minute miss peyton had changed her mind about the poem which she was to speak, and had given her instead of "the children's hour" which she had so carefully learned, those other lines called "children"; and there were only five days in which to learn them. memorizing poetry, particularly when she could not quite understand its meaning, was not peace's strong forte, and it was small wonder that she was dismayed at this change of program; but it was useless to protest. when miss peyton decided to do a certain thing, "all the king's horses and all the king's men" could not alter her decision. peace had learned this from bitter experience and many hours in the dark closet behind the teacher's desk. so, inwardly raging, though outwardly calm, she accepted her fate, and marched home to air her outraged sense of justice before the little parsonage family, sure of sympathy and help in that quarter. nor was she disappointed. elizabeth recognized the small maid's failings as a student, and was much provoked at miss peyton's want of understanding, but very wisely kept these sentiments to herself, and set about to help peace in her difficult task. at her suggestion, the young elocutionist waited until the following morning before beginning her study of the new lines, and with the teacher's copied words in her hand, went out to the hammock under the trees to be alone with her work. there she sat swinging violently to and fro, gabbling the stanzas line by line, while she ferociously jerked the short curls on her forehead and frowned so fiercely that elizabeth, busy with her saturday baking, could not resist smiling whenever she chanced to pass the door, through which she could see the familiar figure. slower and slower the red lips moved, lower and lower the hammock swung, and finally with a gesture of utter despair, peace cast the paper from her, and dropped her head dejectedly into her hands. "poor youngster," murmured the flushed cook from the window where she sat picking over berries. "john, have you a minute to spare? peace is in trouble--oh, nothing but that new poem, but i thought perhaps you might invent some easy way for her to memorize it. you were always good at such things, and i can't stop until my cake is out of the oven and the pies are made." he assented promptly, and strolling out of the door as if for a breath of fresh air, wandered across the grass to the motionless figure in the hammock. "what seems to be the matter, chick?" he inquired cheerfully, rescuing the discarded paper from the dirt and handing it back to its owner. "oh, saint john, this is a perfectly _dreadful_ poem! i don't b'lieve longfellow ever wrote it, and even if he did, i know i can _never_ learn it. the verses haven't _any_ sense at _all_. just listen to this!" she seized the sheet with an angry little flirt, and read to the amazed man: "'ye open the eastern windows, that look toward the sun, where shots are stinging swallows and the brooks in mourning run. "'what the leaves are to the forest, where light and air are stewed, ere their feet and slender juices have been buttoned into food,-- "'that to the world are children; through them it feels the glow of a brighter and stunnier slimate than scratches the trunks below. "'ye are better than all the ballots that ever were snug and dead; for ye are living poets, and all the blest ate bread.'" with difficulty the preacher controlled his desire to shout, and mutely held out his hand for the paper, which he studied long and carefully, for even to his experienced eyes, the hastily scribbled words were hard to decipher. but when he had finished, all he said was, "you have misread the lines, peace. wait and i will get you the book from the library. then you will see your mistake." shaking with suppressed mirth he went back to his study, found the volume in question, and returned to the discouraged student with it open in his hands. half-heartedly peace reached up for it, but he shook his head, knowing how easy it was for her to misread even printed words and what ludicrous blunders it often led to, and gravely suggested, "suppose i read it to you first. then if there is anything you do not understand, perhaps i can explain it so it will be easier to memorize." "oh, if you just would!" peace exclaimed gratefully. "i never could read miss peyton's writing, and then she marks me down for her own mistakes." so in sonorous tones, the preacher read the poet's beautiful tribute to childhood: "'come to me, o ye children! for i hear you at your play, and the questions that perplexed me have vanished quite away. "'ye open the eastern windows, that look towards the sun, where thoughts are singing swallows and the brooks of morning run. "'in your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, in your thoughts the brooklet's flow, but in mine is the wind of autumn and the first fall of the snow. "'ah! what would the world be to us if the children were no more? we should dread the desert behind us worse than the dark before. "'what the leaves are to the forest, with light and air for food, ere their sweet and tender juices have been hardened into wood,-- "'that to the world are children; through them it feels the glow of a brighter and sunnier climate than reaches the trunks below. "'come to me, o ye children! and whisper in my ear what the birds and the winds are singing in your sunny atmosphere. "'for what are all our contrivings, and the wisdom of our books, when compared with your caresses, and the gladness of your looks? "'ye are better than all the ballads that ever were sung or said; for ye are living poems, and all the rest are dead.'" "well," breathed peace in evident relief, as he lingeringly repeated the last stanza, "that sounds a little more like it. maybe with that book i can learn her old poem now." "those are beautiful verses, peace," he rebuked her. "yes, i 'xpect they are. i haven't got any grudge against the verses, but it takes a beautifully long time for me to learn anything like that, too." she seized the fat volume with both hands, tipped back among the hammock cushions, and with her feet swinging idly back and forth, began an animated study of the right version of the words, while the minister strolled back to the house to enjoy the joke with elizabeth. but though peace studied industriously and faithfully during the remaining days, she could not seem to master the lines in spite of all the minister's coaching, and in spite of miss peyton's struggle with her after school each day. "there is no sense in making such hard work of a simple little poem like that," declared the teacher, closing her lips in a straight line and looking very much exasperated after an hour's battle with the child tuesday afternoon. "you have just made up your mind that you will learn it, and that is where the whole trouble lies." "that's where you are mistaken," sobbed peace forlornly, though her eyes flashed with indignation as she wiped away her tears. "it's you which has got her mind made up, and you and me ain't the same people. i just can't seem to make those words stick, and i might as well give up trying right now." "you will have that poem perfectly learned tomorrow afternoon, or i shall know the reason why." "then i 'xpect you'll have to know the reason why," gulped the unhappy little scholar, who found the hill of knowledge very steep to climb. "you can't make a frog fly if you tried all your life. it takes me a _month_ to learn as big a poem as that, and you never gave it to me until friday afternoon." "nine four-line stanzas!" snapped the weary instructor, privately thinking peace the greatest, trial she had ever had to endure. "it might as well be ninety," sighed the child. "if elizabeth was my teacher, or the lilac lady, i could get it in no time, but i never could learn anything for some people. just the sight of them knocks everything i know clean out of my head." longfellow slammed shut with a terrific bang, and miss peyton rose from her chair, choking with indignation. "you may go now, peace greenfield," she said icily, "but that poem must be perfect by tomorrow afternoon, remember." so with a heavy heart peace trudged home and took up her struggle once more in the hammock; but was at last rewarded by being able to say every line perfectly and without much hesitation. elizabeth and her spouse both heard her repeat it many times that evening and again the next morning, and sent her on her way rejoicing to think the task was conquered. but when it came to the afternoon's rehearsal, poor peace could only stare at the ceiling, and open and shut her lips in agony, waiting for the words which would not come, while miss peyton impatiently tapped the floor with her slippered toe and frowned angrily at the miserable figure. finally peace blurted out, "p'raps if you'd go out of the room, i could say it all right." "you will say it all right with me in the room!" retorted the woman grimly. "then s'posing you look out of the window and quit staring so hard at me. all i can think of is that scowl, and it doesn't help a bit." the dazed teacher shifted her gaze, and peace slowly began, "'come to me, o ye children!'" speaking very distinctly and with more expression than miss peyton had thought possible. "there!" exclaimed the woman, much mollified, when the child had finished. "i knew you could say it if you wanted to. now try it again." so with the teacher staring out of the window, and peace gazing at the ceiling, the poem was recited without a flaw six times in succession, and she was finally excused to put in some more practice at home. elizabeth thought the day was won, but poor peace took little comfort in the knowledge that she had acquitted herself creditably at the last rehearsal. "it would be different if that was tomorrow afternoon," she sighed. "but i just know she'll look at me when i get up to speak, and with her eyes boring holes through me, i'll be sure to forget some part of it. none of my other teachers were like her a bit. miss truesdale and miss olney and miss allen all liked children; but i don't b'lieve miss peyton does. there's lots of the scholars that she ain't going to let pass, and the only reason they didn't have better lessons is 'cause she scares it out of 'em. oh, dear, school is such a funny thing!" "would you like to have me come to visit you tomorrow?" suggested elizabeth, who dreaded the ordeal almost as much as did peace. "no, you needn't mind. s'posing i should make a _frizzle_ of everything, you'd feel just terribly, i know, and i should, too. i guess it will be bad enough with all the other mothers there. but i wish there wasn't _going_ to be any exercises. i'm sick of 'em already. and what do you think now! she told us only this afternoon that we must all have an _antidote_ for some of the presidents to tell tomorrow for general lesson." "a what!" "an _antidote_. a short story about some of the presidents of the united states." "you mean anecdote, child. i didn't suppose you were old enough to be studying history in your room." "oh, this ain't hist'ry! we have a calendar each month telling what big men or women were born and why. then teacher tells us something about their lives. lots of 'em are very int'resting, but i can't remember which were presidents and which were only _manner-fracturers_. that's my trouble." "well, it just happens that i can help you out there, my girlie," smiled elizabeth, smoothing the damp curls back from the flushed cheeks. "john has a book in his library of just such things as that. we'll get it and hunt up some nice, new stories that aren't hoary with age." the volume was quickly found, and several quaint anecdotes were selected for the next day's program, so if by chance other pupils had come prepared with some of them, there would be still others for peace to choose from. and when school-time came the next day, she departed almost happily, with the presidential book tucked under one arm and the well-fingered longfellow under the other; for she meant to make sure that the words were fresh in her mind before her turn came to recite. the session began very auspiciously with some happy songs, and peace's spirits rose. then came the drawing lesson. peace was no more of an artist than she was an elocutionist, but she tried hard, and was working away industriously trying to paint the group of grape leaves miss peyton had arranged on her desk, when one of the little visitors slipped from his seat in his mother's lap and wandered across the room to his sister's desk, which chanced to be directly in front of peace; so he could easily see what she was doing. he watched her in silence a moment, and then demanded in a stage whisper, "what you d'awing?" "grape leaves," peace stopped chewing her tongue long enough to answer. "no, they ain't neither. they's piggies." the brown head was quickly raised from her task, and the would-be artist studied her work critically. the boy was right. they did look somewhat like a litter of curly-tailed pigs. all they needed were eyes and pointed ears. mechanically peace added these little touches, made the snouts a little sharper, drew in two or three legs to make them complete, and sat back in her seat to admire the result of her work. "ah," simpered miss peyton, who had chanced to look up just that minute, "peace has finished her sketch. bring it to the desk, please, so we may all criticize it." peace had just dipped her brush into the hollow of her cake of red paint, intending to make the piggies' noses pink, but at this startling command from the teacher, she seemed suddenly turned to an icicle. what could she do? she glanced around her in an agony of despair, saw no loophole of escape, and gathering up the unlucky sketch, she stumbled up the aisle to the desk, still holding her scarlet-tipped paint brush in her hand. usually miss peyton examined the drawings herself before calling upon the scholars to criticise; but this was the last day of school, and the program was long; so she smiled her prettiest, and said sweetly, "hold it up for inspection, peace." miserably peace faced the roomful of scholars and parents, and extended the drawing with a trembling hand. there was an ominous hush, and then the whole audience broke into a yell of laughter. miss peyton's face flushed scarlet, and holding out her hand she said sharply, "give it to me." peace wheeled about and dropped the sheet of pigs upon the desk, but at that unfortunate moment, the paint-brush slipped from her grasp and spilled a great, scarlet blot on the teacher's fresh white waist. dismayed, peace could only stare at the ruin she had wrought, having forgotten all about her drawing in wondering what punishment would follow this second calamity; and miss peyton had to speak twice before she came to her senses enough to know that she was being ordered to her seat. "oh," she gasped in mingled surprise and relief, "lemon juice and salt will take that stain out, if it won't fade away with just washing." again an audible titter ran around the room, and the teacher, furiously red, repeated for the third time, "take your seat, peace greenfield!" much mortified and confused, the child subsided in her place and tried to hide her burning cheeks behind the covers of her volume of anecdotes, but fate seemed against her, for miss peyton promptly ordered the paint boxes put away, the desks cleared, and the scholars to be prepared to tell the stories they had found. now it happened that generous-hearted peace had lent her book of presidential reminiscences to several of her less lucky mates that noon, and as she was one of the last to be called upon, she listened with dismay as one after another of the tales she had taken so much pains to learn were repeated by other scholars. in order that all might hear what was said, each pupil marched to the front of the room, told his little story and returned noiselessly to his seat; so when it came peace's turn, she stalked bravely up the aisle, faced the throng of scared, perspiring children and beaming mothers, made a profound bow, and said, "george washington was pock-marked." she was well on her way to her seat again, when miss peyton's crisp tones halted her: "peace, you surely have something more than that. have you forgotten?" "no, ma'am. i lent my stories to the rest of the scholars this noon and they have already spoke all i knew, 'xcept those that are _hairy_ with age. everyone knows that george washington was bled to death by over-_jealous_ doctors." the harder peace tried to do her best, the more blundering she became; and now, feeling that the visitors were having great fun at her expense, she sank into her seat and buried her face in her arms, swallowing hard to keep back the tears that stung her eyes. directly, she heard patty fellows reciting, "the psalm of life," and sara gray answer to her name with, "the castle-builder." next, the children sang another song, and then--horror of horrors!--miss peyton called her name. it was too bad! any other teacher would have excused her, but she knew miss peyton never would. so with a final gulp, she struggled to her feet and advanced once more to the platform. her heart beat like a trip-hammer, her breath came in gasps, and her mind seemed an utter blank. "'come to me,'" prompted the teacher, perceiving for the first time the child's panic and distress; but peace did not understand that this was her cue, and with a despairing glance at the immovable face behind the desk, she cried hastily, "oh, not this time! i've thunk of it now. here goes! "'between the dark and the daylight when the night is beginning to lower, comes a pause in the day's occupation, that is known as the children's hour.'" verse after verse she repeated glibly, racing so rapidly that the words fairly tumbled out of her mouth. suddenly the dreadful thought came to her. she had begun the wrong poem! her voice faltered; she turned pleading, glassy eyes toward the teacher; and miss peyton, misunderstanding the cause of her hesitation, again prompted, "'they climb--'" peace was hopelessly lost. "'they climb up onto the target,'" she recited in feverish tones: "'o'er my arms and the back of my hair; if i try to e-scrape, they surround me; they scream to me everywhere,'" someone tittered; the ripple of mirth broke into a peal of laughter; and with a despairing sob, peace cried, "oh, teacher, i've got the stage-_strike_! i can't say another word!" and out of the room she rushed like a wounded bird. usually elizabeth was her comforter, but this day some blind instinct led her to take refuge in the enchanted garden, and she sobbed out her sorrow and humiliation in the skirts of her beloved lilac lady. peace in tears was a new sight for the invalid, and she was alarmed at the wild tempest of grief. but the small philosopher could not be unhappy long, and after a few moments the tears ceased, the storm was spent, a flushed, swollen face peeped up at the anxious eyes above her, and with a familiar, queer little grimace, she giggled, "i made 'em all laugh, anyway, and they did look awful solemn and _funerally_ lined up there against the wall. but i s'pose teacher won't let me pass now, and i'll have to take this term all over again." "tell me about it," said the lame girl gently, stroking the damp curls on the round, brown head in her lap. so peace faithfully recounted the day's events to the amusement and indignation of her lone audience; but when she had finished, she sighed dolefully. "the worst of it is, i've got to go back to school tomorrow for my books and dismissal card. oh, mercy, yes! and miss peyton has got my longfellow. i don't b'lieve i can ever ask her for it, even if it is saint john's." "oh, yes, you can," assured the lilac lady. "by the time tomorrow comes, the teacher will have forgotten all about the mistakes of today." "it's very plain that you don't know miss peyton," was the disconcerting reply. "there's nothing she ever forgets. my one comfort is i won't have to go to school to her next year even if she doesn't let me pass now, 'cause by that time the girls will all be well and i can go home again. there's always a grain of comfort in every bit of trouble, grandma says." "sca-atter sunshine, all along the wa-ay," sang the lame girl, surprised out of her long silence in her anxiety to cajole her little playmate into her happy self again; but peace did not even hear the rich sweetness of the voice, so surprised was she to have her motto turned upon her in that manner, and for a few moments she sat so lost in thought that the lame girl feared she had offended her, and was about to beg her forgiveness when the round face lifted itself again, and peace exclaimed, "that's what i'll do! tomorrow, when i have to go back for my card, i'll offer to kiss her good-bye, and i'll tell her i'm sorry i've been such a bother to her all these weeks. i never thought about it before, but i s'pose she's just been in _ag-o-ny_ over having me upset all her plans like i've managed to do, though i never meant to. the worse i try to follow what she tells us to do, the bigger chase i lead her. my, what a time she must have had! do you think she she'd like to hear i'm sorry?" "what a darling you are!" thought the lame girl. "i don't wonder everyone loves you so much." but aloud she merely answered heartily, "i think it is a beautiful plan, dear. when she understands that you have tried your best to please her, i am sure she will be kind to my little curly-head." so it happened that when peace received her dismissal card from miss peyton the next morning, she lifted her rosy mouth for a kiss, and murmured contritely, "i'm very sorry you have caused me so much bother since i came here to school, but next term i won't be here, for which you bet i'm thankful." she had rehearsed that little speech over and over on her way to school; but, as usual, when she came to say it to this argus-eyed teacher, she juggled her pronouns so thoroughly that no one could have been sure just what she did mean. however, miss peyton had done some hard thinking since the previous afternoon, and a little glimmer of understanding was beginning to penetrate her methodical, order-loving soul, so she stooped and kissed the forgiving lips raised to hers, as she said heartily, "that is all right, my child. i wish i could erase all the troubles that have marred these days for you. i am sorry i did not know as much three months ago as i do now." "i am, too, but folks are never too old to learn, grandpa says," peace answered happily, and departed with beaming countenance, for miss peyton had "passed her" after all. chapter xi peace finds new playmates it had been decided that giuseppe nicoli was to live at the stone house and be educated as the lilac lady's protégé. the humane society had thoroughly investigated the case and found that the poor little waif was an orphan, whom greedy-eyed petri had taken in charge on account of his unusual musical talent. there were no relatives on this side of the water to claim the homeless lad, and those in old italy were too poor to be burdened with his keep; so the society gladly listened to the lame girl's plea, and gave giuseppe into her keeping. it would be hard to tell which was the more jubilant over his good fortune, the child himself, or peace, who was never tired of rehearsing the story of his rescue from the brutal organ-grinder's clutches. so the minute she knew that the big house was to be his future home, she raced off to the corner drug store to telephone the good news to allee and the rest at home, who were much interested in the doings at the little parsonage, and only regretted that the hill street church was not yet able to afford a telephone of its own, for peace could make only one trip daily to the drug store, and often the girls thought of something else they wanted to ask her after she had rung off. also, the drug clerk was sometimes impolite enough to tell peace that she was talking too long, and that does leave one so embarrassed. this day, however, he had no occasion for uttering a word of complaint, for after a surprised exclamation and three or four rapid questions of the speaker at the other end of the line, peace banged the receiver on its hook, and turned rebellious eyes on the idle clerk lolling behind the counter, saying, "now, what do you think of that?" "what?" drawled the man, who was in his element when he could tease someone. "do you take me for a mind reader?" "i sh'd say not!" she answered crossly. "it takes folks with brains to read other folks' minds." "whew!" he whistled, delighted with the encounter. "your claws are out today. what seems to be the matter?" "grandpa has taken grandma and the little girls to the pine woods without so much as saying a word to me about it; and gail and faith have gone to the lake with the sherrars and never invited me." "if the whole family is away, who is keeping house?" "gussie and marie, of course. who'd you s'pose? grandma told gussie that when i called up she was to 'xplain matters to me so's i'd understand how it all happened and not feel bad about their going off. gail and faith went first. i 'xpected that part of it, but none of 'em ever hinted a word to me about the pine woods. i s'pose they've lived so long without me at home that they've got used to it and so don't care any more about me." two tears stole out from under the twitching lids and rolled down the chubby cheeks. the clerk moved uneasily. he did hate to see anyone cry, but had not the slightest idea how to avert the threatened deluge. as his eye roved about the small store for something to divert her attention, it chanced to rest upon the candy cabinet, and hastily diving into the case, he brought forth a handful of tempting chocolates, and presented them with the tactful remark, "aw, you're cross; have some candy to sweeten you up!" the brown eyes winked away the tears and blazed scornfully up at the face above her. "keep it yourself! you need it!" she growled savagely, pushing the extended hand away from her so fiercely that the candy was scattered all about the floor, and without a backward glance, she flounced out of the store. "well, i vum!" exclaimed the astonished clerk. "next time i'll let her bawl." stooping over to collect the hapless chocolate drops before they should be tramped upon, he began to whistle, and the notes followed peace out on the street--just a bar of her sunshine song, but the woe-begone face brightened a bit, although the girl said to herself, "oh, dear, seems 'sif that song chases me wherever i go. i get it sung or whistled or spoke at me a dozen times a day. and it's hard work always to remember it, 'specially when folks go off and forget all about you when you've just been counting the _days_ till 'twas time to go home and see allee and grandpa after being away so long. s'posing i should die 'fore they get back, i wonder how they'll feel. why, peace greenfield, you hateful little tike! ain't you ashamed of yourself? yes, i am. of course they didn't run away a-purpose. grandpa didn't know he had to go until an hour 'fore the train went, and there wasn't time to send for me and get my clo'es ready to go, too. it was awful nice of him to think of taking the girls and grandma to the pine woods to get real well and rested while he did up his business in dolliver. they'll come back lots better than they'd be if they had to stay here through all this hot. "think of being shut up three months in the house so's they couldn't plant gardens or go flower-hunting, or have picnics, or even go to school! i've been doing all those things while they've been sick. i'm truly 'shamed of myself to be so cross about their going off. elizabeth and saint john are just the dearest people to me, and the lilac lady really cried tears in her eyes when she thought i was going to leave here monday. she'll be glad to know that i am to stay two or three weeks longer. and it will be such fun to get letters from the girls in the woods all the while they are gone. after all, i b'lieve i'll have a better time here anyway." the cloud had passed over without the threatened storm, and the round face, though still a little sober, looked quite contented again. but during this silent soliloquy, the young philosopher had been wandering aimlessly through the streets, without any thought of the direction she was taking, and was suddenly roused from her revery by the mingled shouts and laughter of a throng of boys and girls playing noisily in a great yard fenced in by tall iron pickets. "why, school is closed for the summer!" murmured peace to herself, pressing her face against the iron bars in order that she might watch the lively games on the other side of the palings. "elizabeth says all the martindale schools close at the same time. what can these children be doing here then? p'raps this is where the old lady who lived in a shoe had to move to when the shoe got too small for her fambly. do you s'pose it is?" "yup, i guess that's how it happened," answered a voice close beside her, and she jumped almost out of her shoes in her surprise, for unconsciously she had spoken her thoughts aloud, and a merry-faced urchin, sprawled in the shade of a low-limbed box-elder, had answered her. his peal of delight at having startled her so brought another lad and two girls to see the cause of his glee, and peace was shocked to behold in the smaller of the girls her own double, only the stranger child was dressed in a long blue apron, which made her look much older than she really was. as the children stood staring at each other through the close-set pickets, the boy in the grass discovered the likeness of the two faces, and with a startled whoop sat up to ask excitedly of peace, "did you ever have a twin?" "no." "oh, dear, i was sure you must have! you're just the _yimage_ of lottie. she's a _norphan_, and the folks that brought her here didn't even know what her real name was or anything about her, and we've always 'magined that some day her truly people would come and find her and she'd have a mother of her own." "is this a--a school?" asked peace. she wanted to say orphan asylum, but was afraid it would be impolite, and she did not wish to offend any of these friendly appearing children. "it's the children's home." "who owns it?" "why--er--i don't know," stammered the second youth, who seemed the oldest of the quartette inside the fence. "i guess the splintered ladies do," remarked the cherub in the grass. "the wh-at?" "tony's trying to be smart now," said the larger girl scornfully. "the lady board is meeting today, and he always calls them the splintered ladies." "what is a lady board?" inquired mystified peace, thinking this was the queerest home she had ever heard tell of. "why, they are the ladies who say how things shall be done here--" "the number of times we can have butter each week and how much milk each of us can drink, and the number of potatoes the cook shall fix," put in the boy called tony. "don't you have butter every day!" cried peace in shocked surprise. "well, i guess not! we have it sunday noons and sometimes holiday nights." "and we never have sugar on our oatmeal, or sauce to eat with our bread," added lottie, shaking her curls dolefully. "what do you eat, then?" "oh, bread and milk, and mush of some kind, or rice, and potatoes and vegetables and meat once a week and pie or pudding real seldom." "who takes care of you?" asked peace again after a slight pause. "the matron and nurses." "what's a matron?" "the boss of the caboose," grinned tony irreverently. "is she nice?" "that's what we're waiting to find out. she's just come, you see, and we don't know her real well yet. the other one was a holy fright." "but the new one _looks_ nice," said lottie loyally. "she smiles all the time, and miss cooper never did. she always looked froze." "she must be like miss peyton. she was my teacher at chestnut school and i didn't like her a bit till the day school ended. she did get thawed out then, though, and i b'lieve she'll be nicer after this." "do you live near here?" asked tony, thinking it was their turn to ask questions of this debonair little stranger, who evidently belonged to rich people, because her brown curls were tied back with a huge pink ribbon, a dainty white pinafore covered her pretty gingham dress, and her feet were shod in patent leather slippers. "no, grandpa's house is three miles away, but i am staying at the hill street parsonage." briefly she explained how it had all come about, and the story seemed like a fairy tale to the four eager listeners. "then you are an orphan, too," cried tony triumphantly, when she had finished. "how do you know lottie ain't your twin sister?" "'cause there never were any twins in our family, and if there had been, do you s'pose mother'd have let one loose like that, to get put in a children's home? i guess not!" "maybe she's a cousin, then." "we haven't got any. papa was the only child grandpa greenfield had, and mother's only brother died when he was little." "but lottie's just the _yimage_ of you," insisted tony, bent on discovering some tie of relationship between the two. "i can't help that. i guess it's just a queerity, though i'd like to find out i had some sure-enough cousins which i didn't know anything about. besides, lottie is lots darker than me. her hair is black and so are her eyes. least i guess they are what you'd call black. mine are only brown." "you're the same size. ain't they, ethel?" asked the older lad. "yes, that was what i was thinking. i don't believe many folks would know them apart if they changed clothes." "oh, let's do it!" cried peace, charmed with the suggestion. "we've got a book at home that tells how a little beggar boy changed places with a prince, and they had the strangest 'xperiences! it'll be lots of fun to fool the others. they haven't been paying any 'tention to our talking here. where's the gate?" "at the other side of the yard. there's only one--" "but visitors aren't allowed to come and play with us without a permit from the matron," began the larger boy, cautiously. "oh, bother, george," tony cried impatiently. "we can't get a permit now with all the lady boards here, and you know it." "why not?" asked peace. "'cause miss chase is busy with them in the parlors and we can't see her till they are gone." "how long will that be?" "oh, hours, maybe." "then i'll come in now and get my permit later." without waiting to hear what comments they might have to make about this plan, she flew around the corner tony had indicated a moment before, and in through the great iron gates, standing slightly ajar. following the wide walks leading from the front yard to the back, she came to another lower gate, where ethel and lottie met her; and in a jiffy the white apron was exchanged for the long, blue pinafore of the black-eyed child. "you'll have to give her your hair-ribbon, too," said ethel, surveying the two figures critically. "we don't wear ribbons here on common days, and that would give away that you weren't really lottie." peace gleefully jerked off her rampant pink bow, and the older girl deftly tied it among the raven locks of the other orphan. tony and george now came slowly around the corner of the building, to discover whether the visitor had really kept her promise, and were themselves puzzled to know which was their mate and which the stranger child until peace laughed. "that's where you are different," said george, critically. "you don't sound a bit alike. come on and see who will be first to find out the secret." so the masqueraders were led laughingly away to meet the other children, still boisterously playing at games under the trees. it did not take the fifty pair of sharp eyes as long to discover the difference as the five plotters had hoped, but they were all just as charmed with the result, and gave peace a royal time. she was a natural leader and her lively imagination delighted her new playmates. but lottie, in her borrowed finery, received scant attention, and being, unfortunately, rather a spoiled child, she resented the fact that peace had usurped her place. so she retired to the fence and pouted. at first no one noticed her sullen looks, but finally ethel missed her, and finding her standing cross and glum in the corner, she tried to draw her into the lively game of last couple out, which the stranger had organized. "i won't play at all," declared the jealous girl. "no one cares whether i'm here or not, and 's long as you'd rather have _her_, you can just have her!" "but we wouldn't rather," fibbed the older girl. "she's our comp'ny and we have to be nice to her." "'cause you like her better'n you do me," insisted the other. "no such thing! come on and see!" "i won't, either!" "what's the matter?" asked peace, hearing the excited voices and stepping out of line to learn the cause. "oh, lottie's spunky," answered ethel carelessly, turning back to join her companions. "i'm not! you horrid thing, take that!" out shot one little hand and the sharp nails dug vicious, cruel scratches down ethel's cheek. "you cat!" cried peace, horrified at the uncalled-for act, and springing at the white-aproned figure, she caught her by the shoulder, and shook her till her teeth rattled. lottie doubled up like a jack-knife and buried her sharp teeth in the brown hand gripping her so tightly, biting so viciously that the blood ran and peace screamed with pain. frightened at the sight of the two girls clinched in battle, the other children danced excitedly about the yard and shrieked wildly. tony even started for the matron, but remembered the lady board meeting, and flew instead for the new cook, busy preparing refreshments for the distinguished visitors, gasping out as he stumbled into the kitchen, "oh, come quick! there's a strange girl in the yard and lottie's chewing her into shoe-strings!" bridget was new at the business, or she would never have meddled in the affair. glancing out of the window, she saw what looked to be a small riot in the corner, and knowing that the matron and her assistants were engaged with their visitors in the other wing of the building, she dropped her plate of sandwiches, and rushed to the rescue as fast as her avoirdupois would permit. she was familiar enough with the rules of the institution to know that the home children did not wear white aprons and pink hair-ribbons except on special occasions, and also that fighting was severely punished. it never occurred to her that the matron was the proper authority to whom to report trouble. she made a lunge for the two struggling children, jerked them apart, shook them impartially, and blazed out in rich, irish brogue, "ye dirty spalpeens, phwat d'ye mane by sich disorderly conduct? it'll be a long toime afore ye'll iver git inside this fince again to play, ye black-eyed miss! make tracks now or i'll call the p'lice! you, ye little beggar, march straight inter the house! the matron'll settle with ye good and plenty whin she gits toime!" both girls tried to explain, and the frightened, excited home children shouted in vain. irish bridget seized the resisting lottie, thrust her forcibly out through the gate, and hustled poor peace into the dark entry, in spite of her protests and frantic kicking. "i'm not lottie, i'm not lottie!" she wailed. "i don't b'long here, i tell you!" "i don't care if ye're lottie or lillie," screamed the angry cook, pinioning the struggling child and carrying her bodily up a short flight of stairs into a wide hall. "ye've been breaking the rules by fightin' and in that room ye go! the matron'll settle with ye afther a bit. an' ye'll catch it good, too, if ye kape on screeching loike that." peace was dumped into a small, office-like apartment, the key turned in the lock, and she was left alone. frantic with excitement and fear, she let out three or four piercing screams, rattled the knob, and pounded the door until her fists were sore, but no one came to release her, and after a few moments she seemed to realize how useless it was to expect help from that quarter. she looked around her prison hopefully, curiously, for some other avenue of escape. a window stood open across the room, but the screen was fastened so tightly that she could not move it even when she threw her whole weight upon it. besides, it was a long way to the ground below. would she dare jump if the screen were not in her way? then her restless eyes spied the telephone on the desk behind her, and with a shriek of triumph she seized the receiver and called breathlessly over the wire, "hello, central! give me the drug store where i telephone every day. number? i don't know the number. it's on hill street and twenty-ninth avenue. what information do you want? well, i've thunk of the drug store's name now. it's teeter's pharmacy, and it's on the corner--well, i'm giving you the information 's fast as i can. my name is peace greenfield, and the crazy cook's taken me for someone else and shut me in when i don't b'long to this home at all. i changed clothes with--well, what is the matter now? if you'll give me that drug store--teeter's pharmacy, corner of hill street and twenty-ninth avenue,--i'll have them go after saint john, so's he can come and get me out of here. a--what? policeman? are you a p'liceman? no, i ain't one, and i don't want one! do you s'pose i want to be 'rested for getting bit? oh, dear, i don't know what you are trying to say! ain't you central? then why don't you give me teeter's pharmacy, corner of hill street and--now she's clicked her old machine up! oh, how will i ever get out of here?" dismayed to find that central had deserted her, she puckered her face to cry, but at that moment there were hasty steps in the hall, a key grated in the lock, and the door flew open, showing a startled, white-faced woman and frightened tony in the doorway, while a whole string of curious-eyed ladies were gathered in the hall behind them. silently peace stared from one to another, and then as no one offered to speak, she asked, "where's the cook? have you seen her lately?" "no," laughed the matron, very evidently relieved at her reception. "tony tells me that a mistake has been made and that you don't belong to the home." "he is right, i'm thankful to say," returned peace with such a comical, grown-up air that the ladies in the hall giggled and nudged each other, and one of them ventured to ask, "why?" "just think of having to live here day after day without any butter on your bread, or gravy for your potatoes, or sugar in your oatmeal, without any pies or cakes or puddings 'cept on sundays and special holidays,--with only mush, mush, mush all the time, and not even all the milk you wanted, maybe! hm! i'm glad i live in a house where there ain't any lady boards to tell us what we have to do and what we can have to eat. come to think of it, i'm part of a _norphan_ 'sylum, really. there's six of us at grandpa campbell's but he doesn't bring us up on mush. we have all the butter and sugar and gravy and pudding and sauce that we want--" "this isn't an orphan asylum," said the matron kindly, wondering what kind of a creature this queer child was, but already convinced that bridget had blundered, in spite of her startling resemblance to lottie. "it isn't? what do you call it then?" "it is a home for the purpose of taking care of children who have one or both parents living, but who, for some reason, cannot be taken care of in their own homes for a time." "oh! then you take the place of mother to them?" "i try to." "do you like your job?" "very, very much!" "you do sound 'sif you did, but i sh'd think you'd hate to sit all those little children down to butterless bread and gravyless potato and sugarless mush. oh, i forgot! that ain't your fault. it's the lady board which says what you have to feed your children. did you ever ask them--the ladies, i mean--to be common visitors and eat just what the rest of you had? i bet if you'd just try that, they'd soon send you something different! i don't see how you stay so fat and rosy with--but then you've only just come, haven't you? i s'pose there's lots of time to get thin in. i wonder if that's what is the matter with lottie," peace chattered relentlessly on. "she is awfully ugly today; but then i'd be, too, if i had to live on such grub. it's worse than we had at the little brown house in parker--" "if you will slip off that apron and come with me," interrupted the matron desperately, not daring to look at the faces of her dismayed "lady board," "we will find lottie and get your own clothes so you can go home. the next time you come, be sure to get a permit first. then this trouble won't happen again." "oh, will you let me come some more?" "aren't you dr. campbell's granddaughter? tony said you were." "yes, he's my adopted grandpa now." "mrs. campbell is interested in the home--" "is she a splinter?" "a _what_?" tony giggled and dodged behind the matron to hide his tell-tale face, and peace, remembering ethel's explanation, said hastily, "i mean a piece of the lady's board?" "no, she is not one of the board of directors, if that is what you mean; but she often sends the children little treats--candy and nuts at christmas time, or flowers from the greenhouse after the summer blossoms are gone." "oh, i see. she told me one time that she would take us to visit the children's home, but i didn't know it was this. we've got scarlet fever at our house--." "child alive! what are you doing here?" "oh, i ain't got it, and anyway, i haven't been home since our spring vacation in march. i am staying with saint john, the new preacher at hill street church, and i 'xpect if i don't get home pretty soon, he'll think i am lost, sure. i went down to the drug store to telephone grandma, and when gussie told me they had gone to the pine woods, i was so mad for a time that i just boiled over. so i walked on and on till i came to this place. i never have been so far before, and i didn't know there was such a home around here. i know they'll let me come often. there aren't many children up our way to play with and sometimes it gets lonesome. there's lottie now! cook must have found out that i knew what i was talking about. here's your apron, lottie; and say, i'm awful sorry i shook you. will you pretend i didn't do it, and be friends with me again?" "i--i bit you," stammered the child, as much astonished at this greeting as were the matron and the "lady board," who still lingered in the hall, fascinated with this frank creature, who so fearlessly voiced her own opinions of their work. "so you did!" exclaimed peace, in genuine surprise, glancing down at the ugly, purple bruise on her hand, which she had completely forgotten. "well, i won't remember that any more, either. two folks which look so much alike ought to be friends, and i want you to like me." "i--do--like you," faltered the embarrassed child. "i'm sorry i was hateful. here are your apron and ribbon." "keep the ribbon," responded peace generously. "i s'pose i've got to take the apron back, 'cause grandpa says i mustn't give away my clothes without asking him or grandma about it, and i can't now, 'cause they are both gone away. but a hair-ribbon ain't clothes, and, anyway, that's one frances sherrar gave me, so i know you can have it." she pressed the pink bow back into lottie's hand, and throwing both arms around her, kissed her fervently, saying, "i am coming again some time soon, and i'll bring you a bag of sugar and some real butter so's you can have it extra for once, even if the lady boards didn't order it for that p'tic'lar day. good-bye, mrs. matron, and tony, and--all the rest. i've had a good time here--till i run up against the cook, i mean. mercy! she's strong! but i'm glad grandpa adopted us so's i didn't have to come here to live." she waved her hand gaily at them, and danced away down the walk, whistling cheerily. "she's a quaint child!" murmured the lady who had questioned her. "she's a trump!" declared tony to lottie, as they departed together for the playgrounds. and in her heart the matron whispered, "she's a darling!" chapter xii a little child shall lead them "oh, elspeth, you can't guess where i've been!" shrieked peace, puffing with excitement as she stumbled up the steps after her long run home. "why, i thought you were playing with giuseppe and the lilac lady," replied the young mother, looking up in surprise from the little white dress she was hemstitching. "but i went down to the drug store to telephone grandma!" "i know you did, but i thought you stopped to tell the news at the stone house on your way home." "what news?" "that the invalids have run away and left you." "how did you know that?" "the postman came just after you left, and he brought a letter from dr. campbell, explaining all about it." "then he did take time to write, did he? i was pretty hot about it at first," peace admitted candidly, "but i don't care at all now. i've had such a splendid time here with you all the while they've been shut up sick, that no matter how long they stay in the pine woods, it couldn't make up for all they've missed by not being me." "do you really feel that way about it, dear?" cried elizabeth, much pleased and touched at the child's unlooked-for declaration. "you just better b'lieve i do! why, i've had just the nicest time! i 'xpected i'd miss seeing the girls just dreadfully, but gail and faith have come up every single week, and i've telephoned home 'most every day, and the rest of the time has been filled so full that i haven't minded how long i've been away at all. this must be my other home, i guess." "you little sweetheart! i wonder if you have any idea how much we are going to miss you when grandpa takes you away again." "oh, yes, i 'magine i do. i make such a racket wherever i go that when i leave, the stillness seems like a hole. but don't you fret! i'm coming up here real often--just as often as grandma will let me. 'cause i've got not only you to visit now, but the lilac lady and juiceharpie and the home children--oh, that's what i started to tell you about when i first came up. "i've just been there. i never knew there was a home so near here, or i'd have been there before this. and what do you think? there's a girl living in it named lottie, which looks so much like me that when we changed aprons the other children didn't know the difference at first. they think she must be my twin sister or some cousin i don't know anything about, though i kept telling them there weren't any cousins in our family, and if mother'd ever had twins, she'd have kept 'em both and not throwed one away to grow up without knowing who her people were. don't you think so?" "i most assuredly do," elizabeth answered promptly. "gail has often told me that your papa was an only child, and the one brother your mamma had died when he was a little fellow. so there can't be any near cousins, and you are not a twin, so lottie isn't your sister. how did it all come about?" the story was quickly told, to elizabeth's mingled amusement and horror; and peace ended by sagely remarking, "so i'm going to ask allee if she's willing that we should use some of our fourth of july money to buy them a treat of sugar and butter for a whole day--or a week, if it doesn't take too much, and grandpa don't sit down on the plan. i don't think he will, 'cause these children aren't fakes. they really d'serve having some good times 'casionally, and it did make them so happy to have someone extra to play with. i s'pose they get awfully tired of fighting the same children all the time. besides, we've got lots of money in our bank, 'cause we used only about ten dollars of our furnishing money to dec'rate our room with, and the rest we saved for patriotism. i am awful glad there are such places for poor children to go to when their own people can't take care of 'em, but i do wish the lady boards weren't so stingy." elizabeth knew it would do no good to argue the matter, and besides, she was not well posted concerning this particular home, so she merely agreed that peace's plan would no doubt make the little folks happy, but wisely suggested that she say no more about it until she had consulted with the family at home and received their consent. "because, you see, dear, if you make some rash promises which you can't fulfill, it will only make the children unhappy, instead of bringing sunshine into their lives." "but isn't it a good way to spend money? they ain't beggars with bank accounts somewhere, like the old woman which got gail's dollar last spring." "i think it is a very nice way, dearie, and i am sure grandpa will not object a mite; but the best way is not to make any promises that we don't intend to carry out, or that we are not sure we can fulfill. then no one will be disappointed if our plans don't come through the way we hoped they would. do you see what i mean?" "yes; never promise to do _anything_ until you're sure you can. but that would keep me from doing lots of things, elspeth. i could not ever promise to be good, or--" "oh, peace, i didn't mean that!" elizabeth never could get accustomed to this literal streak in the small maiden's character; and, in consequence, her little preachments often received an unexpected shower-bath. "i meant not to promise to do favors for other folks unless we can and will see that they are done." "ain't it a favor to be good when it's easier and naturaler to be bad--not really bad, either, but just yourself?" "no, dear. we ought to _try_ to be good without anyone's asking us to, and just because it is easier to do wrong than right is no excuse for us at all." unconsciously she said this very severely, for she thought she heard saint john chuckling behind the curtains of the study window; but peace interpreted the lecture literally, and hastily jumping up from the step, said, "i think i'll go and tell the lilac lady about the children, and see if she hasn't got more roses than she knows what to do with, 'cause i know they'd like 'em at the home. do you care?" "no, peace. glen is asleep. but don't stay long, for it is nearly five o'clock now, and tea will soon be ready." "all right. i'll bring you some roses for the table if she has any to spare today, and she ought to, 'cause the pink and white bushes have just begun to open." she whisked out of sight around the corner in a twinkling, and was soon perched on the stool beside the lame girl's chair, regaling her with an account of the afternoon's adventures. the white signal fluttering from the lilac bushes had been discarded long ago, and peace was welcome whenever she came now, for with her peculiar childish instinct, she seemed to know when the invalid found her chatter wearisome. at such times she would sit in the grass beside the chair, silently weaving clover chains, or wander quietly about the premises, revelling in the beauty and perfume of the garden flowers, or better still, whistling softly the sweet tunes which the pain-racked body always found so soothing. but this afternoon the young mistress of the stone house was lonely, for aunt pen and giuseppe were in town shopping, and she wished to be amused; so peace was doubly welcome, and felt very much flattered at the attention her lengthy story received. to tell the truth of the matter, the lame girl had just discovered how cunningly the small, round face was dimpled, and in watching these little cupid's love kisses come and go with the child's different expressions and moods, she did not hear a word that was said until peace heaved a great, sympathetic sigh, and closed her tale with the remark, "and so i'm going to see if i can't take them some--enough to last a week maybe--for it must be _dreadful_ to eat bread and potatoes every day without any butter or gravy." the older girl roused herself with a start, and promptly began asking questions in such an adroit fashion that in a moment or two she had the gist of the whole story, and was much interested in the picture peace drew of the home children's life. "why, do you know, i used to go there with aunt pen--years ago--to carry flowers and trinkets, and sometimes to sing. my! how glad they used to be! they would sit and listen with eyes and mouths wide open as if they simply couldn't get enough. aunt pen used to be quite interested in the home. poor aunt pen! she gave up all her pet hobbies when i was hurt." "didn't you like to go?" "oh, it was flattering to have such an appreciative audience, of course; but--my ambitions soared higher than that. they were as well satisfied with a hand-organ." "oh, tony ain't! and neither is ethel! they both just _love_ music, and they kept me whistling until i was tired. and how they do love stories! i 'magined for them till my thinker ran empty. i couldn't help wishing i was you, so's i could tell them all the beau-ti-ful fancies you make up as you lie here under the trees day in and day out. i told 'em about you and pictured this garden for 'em, and the flowers which hicks cuts by the _bushel-basket_, and juiceharpie which plays the fiddle and dances and sings like a cheer-up--" "a cherub, do you mean? giuseppe is inconsolable to think he can't teach you to say his name correctly." "yes, and i'm the same thing to think he's got such a name that won't be said right. he doesn't like jessup any better. but never mind, i know he'd like tony and the other home boys; and i thought maybe you would let him go some day and play for the children there. miss chase is awfully sweet and nice, even if she is fat, and she'd be tickled to pieces to give him a permit any time he could come." the lame girl laid a thin, waxen hand on the curly head bobbing so enthusiastically at her side, and murmured gently, "how do you think up so many beautiful things to do for other people?" "i don't," peace frankly replied. "i guess they just think themselves. you see, i know what it is to be poor and not have nice things like other folks, and now that grandpa's taken us home to live with him in a great, big house where there's always plenty and enough to spare, seems like it was just the proper thing to give some of it away to make the less _forchinit_ a little happier. it takes _such_ a little to make folks smile!" "indeed it does, little philosopher. your name should have been lady bountiful. giuseppe may go with you to the home as often as he wishes with his violin, and help you make them happy." "oh, you're such a darling!" cried peace in ecstasy, hugging the hand between her own pink palms. "i wish you could go, too. tony says they have song services every sunday afternoon, and they are great! i'm to go next sunday and hear them, but i wish you could, too." "you are very generous," murmured the lame girl a trifle huskily. then--perhaps it was because peace's enthusiasm was contagious, perhaps it was due to a growing desire in her own heart for the world from which she had shut herself so long ago--the older girl suddenly electrified her companion by adding, "i should like to hear them myself. do you think the matron would allow them to visit me in my garden, seeing that i can't go to the home as other folks do?" "oh, do you mean that?" "every word!" "miss chase couldn't say no to anything so beautiful, and i don't think the lady boards would object, either; but i'll find out. saint john can tell me, i'm sure. oh, i never dreamed of anything so lovely! i wouldn't have _dared_ dream it!" she hugged herself in rapture, and her eyes beamed like stars. how grand it was to have friends like the lilac lady! so it came about that a few days later fifty shining-faced, bright-eyed boys and girls from the home marched proudly up hill street and in through the great iron gates to the enchanted garden, where the lame girl, with aunt pen and the parsonage household to assist her, waited to greet them. that was a gala day, talked about for weeks afterward, dreamed of in the silent watches of the night, and recorded in memory's treasure book to be lived over again and again in later years,--one of those heart's delights, the fragrance of which never dies. the home children were charmed with the beautiful garden and its cool fountain, just as peace had known they would be, and the frail young hostess was as charmed with her guests. they had games on the wide lawn, they sang their sweet, happy choruses, giuseppe played and danced, peace and the preacher whistled, elizabeth told them stories, and aunt pen surprised them all by serving sparkling frappé with huge slices of fig cake, such as only minnie, the cook, could make. then, as the afternoon drew to a close, and the matron began lining up her charges for the homeward walk, tony and lottie stepped out of the ranks and sang a pretty little verse of thanks for the good time all had enjoyed. so surprised was the lilac lady at this unexpected little turn, that for an instant her eyes grew misty with unshed tears; then she smiled happily, and obeying a sudden impulse, she lifted her voice and carolled, "come again, my little friends, you have brought me joy today; in my heart you've left a hymn that shall linger, live alway." "oh, my!" cried peace, squeezing elizabeth's hand in her astonishment and pleasure, "is it an angel singing?" "your lilac lady, dear. didn't you know she could sing?" "she told me she used to once, but i never heard her before." "at college she was our lark. how we loved that voice! i think, little girl, you have saved a soul." but peace did not hear the words. she was joining in the wild applause that greeted this burst of melody from the long silent throat. everyone had been taken by surprise, the children were dancing with delight, the matron's homely face was beaming, aunt pen's lips worked pathetically, and hicks, still busy filling small arms with the choicest flowers from the garden, could only whisper over and over again, "praise be, praise be, she has found her voice!" the lilac lady herself seemed almost unconscious of the fact that she had torn down this last and strongest barrier between self and the world, and if she noticed the pathetic surprise on the loving faces hovering about her, she did not show it, but smiled serenely and naturally when the applause had died away. she would sing no more that afternoon, however, and the little visitors had to be contented with a promise of another song the next time they came. so they said good-bye to their charming hostess and filed happily down the walk to the street. as the iron gates closed behind the little company homeward bound, peace turned to blow a good-night kiss between the high palings to the young mistress, lying in her chair where they had left her, but paused enraptured by the picture her eyes beheld. a rosy ray of the setting sun filtered through the oak boughs overhanging her couch and fell full upon the white face among the cushions, bringing out the rich auburn tints of the heavy hair till it almost seemed as if a crown of gleaming gold rested upon her head, and the wonderful blue eyes reflected the light like sea-water, clear and deep and--unfathomable. "oh," whispered peace, thrilling with delight, "i ought to have called her my _angel_ lady!" chapter xiii children's day at hill street church "what do you think's happened now?" asked peace, seating herself gloomily upon the footstool beside the invalid, and thrusting a long grass-blade between her teeth. "i am sure i don't know," smiled the older girl. "you look as if it were quite a calamity." "it's worse'n a c'lamity. it's a _capostrophe_. glen's gone and got the croup--" "yes, so his papa told aunt pen this morning. how is the poor little fellow now?" "he's better, doctor says; but his cold is dreadfully bad and may last for days, so elspeth can't hear the children practise for next sunday--i mean a week from tomorrow. that is children's day, you know. and miss kinney has ab-so-lute-ly refused to sing for us, 'cause elspeth asked mildred george to take a solo part, too, and miss kinney doesn't like mildred. why are huming beings so mean and horrid to each other? now, i wouldn't care if i found someone which could sing better'n i,--s'posing i could sing at all. i'd just help her make all the music she could and be glad there was somebody who could beat me." "would you really?" asked the lame girl with a queer little note of doubt in her voice. "why, of course! i sh'd hate to think i was the best singer god knew how to make." this was an idea which the invalid had never heard expressed before; but still somewhat skeptical, she asked, "do you feel that way about whistling, too?" "i sure do! i like to whistle, and it's nice to know i can beat all the boys that go to our school, and even saint john. but you should hear mike o'hara! oh, but he can whistle! it sounds like the woods full of birds. it's--it's--it's--" words failed her--"it's _heaven_ to listen to him. i'm glad i _know_ someone who whistles better than i can, 'cause there's that to work for, to aim at. but if i ever get so i can whistle as well as he does, i s'pose there will be lots better ones still. miss kinney wants to be the very best singer at hill street church, though, and she's afraid if mildred gets to taking solo parts in the exercises folks will want her all the time; so she's just trying to spoil the whole program that saint elspeth has worked so hard over." peace's observations were sometimes positively uncanny, and as she voiced this sentiment, the lilac lady asked curiously, "how do you know that is her reason? did she tell you, or did mildred?" "neither one. i heard mrs. porter tell elspeth yesterday that miss kinney had cold feet; so after she was gone, i asked about it. saint john was there, and elspeth just laughed and said it was a remark i must forget, 'cause it wasn't real kind to speak so about anybody. but when i was in bed and they thought i'd gone to sleep, i heard saint john ask elizabeth about it, and she told him how miss kinney was acting, and how the program would all be spoiled, 'cause there isn't anyone to take her place in the solo parts, and it is too late now to drill the children for anything else. it's even worse now, with glen down sick so's elspeth can't help get up some other program." "what kind of exercises were you going to have, may i ask? you have had such hard work to keep from telling me at different times that i thought perhaps it was a secret." "elspeth wanted it as a surprise, you know, so i thought it would be better not to talk about it even with you. do you care?" "not a bit, dearie, only i had an idea that possibly i might take elizabeth's place for a few days, with aunt pen's help. she used to be a famous driller for children's entertainments, and i know she would be more than pleased to have her finger in this pie, for she admires your young preacher very much, while beth is an old friend of hers. the children could come here to rehearse--" "oh, but wouldn't that be fine! you do have the splendidest thinks! who'd take miss kinney's part? that's the most important of all. would you?" "i? oh, peace, how could _i_ take part--a cripple? i haven't been outside these gardens for years." "it's time you had a change, then. it wouldn't hurt you to be rolled down the street in your chair, would it?" "so everyone could see and pity me?" the voice was full of scathing bitterness. "so everyone could know and love you, my lilac lady! they couldn't _help_ loving you. i wanted to hug you the first time i ever laid eyes on you, and i don't feel any different yet." "all the world is not like you." "no, i reckon it ain't, 'cause there's millions and millions of pig-tailed chinamen and little brown japs, and esquimeaux who take baths in whale oil 'stead of water, which ain't a bit like me. but i'm speaking of 'merican children. they'd love you for the way you sing and tell stories first, most likely; but when they came to know you yourself, they'd like just the bare you. tony and ethel and lottie and george and all the rest of the home children can't talk enough about you, and miss chase says they're 'most wild to think you want 'em to come every week steady this summer. she says a person like you can do 'em more good now than years of sermons after they are older. she calls you the children's 'good angel.' i meant to tell you before, 'cause i thought you'd like to know, but somehow this fuss of elspeth's made me forget everything else. say! why couldn't we get the home children to help us in our choruses? they usu'ly go to the church just across the street from there on account of it being nearer, but i'm sure the matron would let 'em help us this one time, 'specially as tomorrow is their children's sunday. tony told me." "that is a splendid plan, peace. if you think aunt pen and i can take elizabeth's place until glen is better, i'll send hicks over to the home with a note for miss chase, and we will have a rehearsal this very afternoon. can you get me the music?" "yes, elspeth's got the song-books at the parsonage now. there was to be a practise this afternoon for the _corn-tatter_, but she thought she'd just have to send 'em home as fast as they came. i'll run right over and tell her your plans so's she'll have the children come over here instead. it will be ever so nice to have the boys and girls from the home take part, 'cause there didn't begin to be enough lilies or poppies or vi'lets, and so many had dropped out of the rose chorus that only mittie cole is left. she's a good singer, though, if she doesn't get too scared." "well, you run along and get me as many copies of the cantata as you can. tell elizabeth i will be very careful of them." "shall i tell her you'll take miss kinney's part?" "no, indeed," was the hasty answer. "if she asks about it, you might say that it will be taken care of, so she need not fret the least little bit." "oh, and say, what about the flowers for the home children? i guess likely we can't have them after all, 'cause we're to be dressed up in flowers to represent our parts." "flowers? oh, i will attend to that. our french maid is perfection when it comes to getting up costumes of any kind." "it ain't _costumes_. it's just our flowers, but there are daisies and poppies and vi'lets and maybe others that ain't in blossom yet or else are all done for; so's we would either have to buy them at the greenhouses or get artificial ones." "that is easily done, dear. elise can do wonders with crêpe paper and the glue-pot. don't you worry about the home children if miss chase will let us borrow them." so peace skipped joyously home to pour out the good news to the preacher's troubled little wife, who was worrying alternately over the hoarse, sick little man lying in her arms and the program for children's sunday, which now looked as if it must prove a failure in spite of all the time and hard work she had given it. so when the child explained the lilac lady's plans, elizabeth gladly resigned the cantata music, expressed her sincere thanks by kissing peace warmly--for she knew, of course, that whatever beautiful plans the young crippled neighbor might have, they were prompted by the active brain under the bobbing brown curls--and returned with a lighter heart to her vigil over glen. miss chase was glad to lend the children to hill street church, and they were overjoyed at the idea of being loaned. as they proved to be apt pupils, they were already quite familiar with the beautiful songs by the time the original chorus members put in appearance at the parsonage for the afternoon's rehearsal. at first, the regular scholars were inclined to criticize the new plans which dragged in the little home waifs; but aunt pen, who had readily agreed to help, was very tactful, the lame girl very lovable, and in a few minutes all the objections had been swept aside and harmony reigned supreme. then they settled down to hard work, and how they did practise! aunt pen played the piano, giuseppe took up the refrain on his violin, and the great stone house fairly rang with the chorus of the hundred or more voices. indifference melted into interest, and interest into enthusiasm. before the afternoon had drawn to a close, every heart present was fairly aching for the coming of children's sunday with its beautiful service of song, and the lilac lady was triumphant. "but who will take miss kinney's part?" frowned marjorie hopper, the deacon's granddaughter. "she told papa last night that she simply washed her hands of the whole affair." "never you fret," said peace, nodding her head sagely. "let her wash! we've got someone to take it who can sing lots prettier than she ever thought of doing." "not mildred--" "no, mildred's got her own part, but--" there was a sudden movement in the invalid's chair, and the lame girl sat up with a most becoming blush tinting the waxen cheeks. "can you keep a secret, children?" she asked. "of course!" they shouted, gathering around her to hear what the secret might be. "well, i am going to--" "take miss kinney's place," finished tony, with a deep sigh of anticipated pleasure. "i knew she'd do it!" crowed peace, dancing a jig for pure joy. "will you?" asked marjorie. "would you like it?" "like it! well, i guess yes!" they shouted again. "you can beat miss kinney all hollow," added george with blunt, boyish admiration. "i am not figuring on that," smiled the invalid, amused at the thought. "i don't care any more about being 'it,' as you children say. i just want to help hill street church, for it has brought me the sun again when i thought i had lost it forever." they looked at her mystified, uncomprehending, but no one asked her to explain; they were content to know that she was to take the important solo part which miss kinney had thrown down. thus the days flew by, and children's sunday dawned bright and cool. glen was almost well, but elizabeth did not feel that she could leave him in any other hands, and he was still too fretful to attend the service. in her quandary she flew to aunt pen, and that worthy lady smiled happily as she answered, "of course, i can take charge if you wish, and i shall count it a privilege. you have done so much for myra--" "thank peace for that. she is the one who found out her hiding-place." "i do thank peace with all my heart, and it has been a pleasure to help her with her beautiful, generous, impulsive plans. she suggested--well, you must come this morning and hear the children. we simply can't let you off. sit near the door if you like, so you can take the baby out if he frets,--but i don't think he will. he loves music, and we've quite a surprise in store for the congregation." and indeed, it proved a great surprise, for no one saw the wheel-chair which hicks rolled stealthily into the tiny church early that morning and hid so skilfully behind tall banks of fern and great clusters of roses that only the lovely face of the lame girl could be seen by the congregation--she was still very sensitive concerning her sad affliction. and when the happy-hearted children, almost covered with the garlands of flowers they carried, took their places around their queen, the platform looked like some great, wonderful garden, where children's faces were the blossoms. and the music! how can words describe the joyous anthems which filled the sanctuary with praise and thanksgiving, or the gloriously sweet, silvery tones of the garden queen when she lifted her voice and poured out her soul in song that bright june morning. all the bitterness of the long months of anguish, despair and rebellion had been swept forever out of her heart, and in its place reigned the gladness, the rapture, the supreme joy which triumphs even over death. it seemed almost as if some angel choir had opened the gates of heaven and let the strains of celestial music flood the earth. it was inspiring, uplifting, sublime! but that was not all. when the beautiful service had ended, and the congregation was slowly filing out into the sunshine again, there stood the wheel-chair by the door, and the lame girl, her blue eyes alight with happiness, her face wreathed in smiles, greeted one by one the friends of the old days from whom she had so long hidden herself away. chapter xiv how the fourth of july money was spent "just one week more and fourth of july will be here," announced peace from her seat on the grass, as she counted off the days on her fingers. they were all gathered under the trees that warm afternoon, aunt pen and elizabeth with their sewing, the minister with a magazine from which he had been reading aloud, giuseppe with his beloved violin, from which he was seldom separated, the lame girl lying in her accustomed place, and peace and glen gambolling in the grass at their feet. "why, so it will," said the invalid in surprise. "do you s'pose grandpa will get back by that time?" "should you care if he did not?" asked preacher teasingly. "john!" reproved elizabeth, tapping him gently on the head with her thimble. "aren't you ashamed of yourself to ask such a question?" "no offense, ladies, no offense intended, i assure you! i merely wondered if peace could be getting homesick." "me homesick! oh, no, i'm not _homesick_, but i'll bet the other folks are by this time. i've been gone so long. one week of march, all of april and may, and nearly all of june--that's three months already; and i've never been away from the girls more'n a night or two at a time before." there was a wistful look in the brown eyes in spite of her emphatic denial that she was homesick, and elizabeth sought to turn the conversation by saying meditatively, "i wonder what glen will think of the fourth of july celebration? he was almost too young last year to notice anything of that sort, and besides, we had a very quiet day at parker. everyone had gone to the city for their fun." "yes, it was quiet in parker last year. hec abbott was away all day, and i didn't have any fire-crackers," peace observed; then, noting the broad smile that bathed all the faces, she added hastily, "i s'pose it was just as well, 'cause it was an awful dry summer, and like enough we would have set the place on fire. that's why gail wouldn't let us have any, but this year we're going to make up for all we've missed--if grandpa gets home in time. we've got dollars and dollars in our bank--allee and me--left over from dec'rating our room, and we're going to blow it all up celebrating the fourth, so's to be patriotic. grandpa says love of country is something every 'merican needs, so we're beginning young at our house. grandpa says--" "what does grandpa say?" boomed a dear, familiar voice behind her, and she bounced to her feet with a wild shriek of joy, for leaning against the iron gates at the end of the walk stood the genial president, while in the carriage just beyond sat grandma campbell and the three younger sisters, all fidgeting with eagerness to meet the small maid whose face they had not seen for so long a time. "oh, grandpa, grandma, girls, when did you get here? i never so much as heard you drive up!" scarcely touching the gravel with her toes, she fairly flew through the gate into the five pair of arms reaching out to embrace her, hugging and kissing them impartially in her delight to be with them again, and asking questions as fast as her tongue could fly. "how did you like the woods? where are gail and faith? haven't they come in from the lake yet? i haven't seen them for _three weeks_ now. are you perfectly well, allee? what's the matter with cherry's nose, grandma? it looks skinned. does scarlet fever make people grow tall, or what has happened to hope? my, but you've missed it, being _quadrupined_ up in the house all the spring! yes, i'd like to have seen the woods, too, but 's long as you didn't take me, i had a better time here. oh, it's been jolly. there come aunt pen and elspeth. i s'pose they think you've kissed me enough for one time and you better climb out and go speak to my lilac lady. she's been wanting to see you all, 'specially gail and faith which ain't here." they answered her questions as best they could--they had enjoyed their brief sojourn in the pine woods very much, for they had found it more than tiresome to be quarantined all those beautiful weeks, but peace's telephone messages and queer adventures had helped brighten many an hour. they were particularly interested in the lilac lady and the little italian musician, and were anxious to meet the big-hearted aunt pen. so they clambered out of the carriage and were properly introduced by the preacher and his wife, while peace fluttered from one to another of the happy group, too excited to remember such things as introductions. the lame girl was very sorry to lose this little will-o'-wisp neighbor who had brought so much sunshine into her life during her short stay at the parsonage, but elizabeth was to visit her every day, and the campbells promised not only to lend peace often to the stone house, but also to come with her; so they said good-bye at length, and the curly brown head bobbed out of sight down the long avenue, behind prancing marmaduke and charlemagne. peace was glad to get home again, and spent the next few days renewing her acquaintance with the place, philosophizing with gussie, marie and jud, and regaling family and servants alike with accounts of her long stay at the parsonage, for it seemed to her that she had been away three years instead of three months. on the third day she suddenly remembered the approaching fourth and the generous bank account which she and allee had kept for just that occasion. so she sat down on the stairs to plan out the list of fireworks that they should buy with their precious hoard, and was busy trying to add up a lengthy column of figures, when she heard hope in the hall below say, "yes, grandma, it's a letter from gail. they aren't coming home for another week unless you want them particularly, because they have discovered a family of eight children out there by the lake who have never had a real fourth of july celebration in their lives, and frances is planning a picnic for them and wants the girls to help her out." peace heard no more. frances was planning a gala day for a family of eight children who would have no fireworks for the glorious fourth. why could she and allee not do the same thing for the home children? there were more than fifty little folks in that institution who would have no celebration either, unless some good fairy provided it. she and allee would have more than enough fire-crackers for the whole family, even if grandpa did not buy a single bunch himself, and of course he would do his part to make the day a grand success. she went in search of allee, unfolded her new plan, and as usual won her ready consent, for the smallest sister found this other child's quaint ideas delightfully thrilling, and was always willing to join her in any escapade, however daring. "i knew you'd say yes," peace sighed with satisfaction, when they had agreed upon the list of fire-crackers, caps and torpedoes. "now the thing of it is, will grandpa be as easy? he has such very queer thoughts on some things. still, he's usu'ly right, too. i've found out that it is lots better to try to help such folks as the home children 'stead of tramps and hand-organ men, who are only fakes or lazy-bones. there was petri, now,--he made loads of money off of juiceharpie and jocko, but he was mean as dirt to both of them. the home children are different. anything nice you do for them makes them happy and they like you all the better. well, we better go see grandpa about it first, so's he can't kick after we get started real well with our plans. besides, i don't s'pose miss chase would listen to us if grandpa doesn't know what we are up to." hand in hand they descended the stairs to the study and knocked, but the weary president was stretched on his couch fast asleep and did not hear their gentle tapping. "he's here, i know," peace declared. "i saw him when he went in, and he told grandma that he should be home the rest of the day." "p'raps he's upstairs in his room." "but he ain't, i tell you! didn't we just come from upstairs! we'd have heard him moving about if he'd been up there." "maybe he's asleep." "i'm going to see." cautiously she opened the door a little crack and peeped in. the west window curtains were drawn and the room was very dim, but after a few rapid blinks, peace became accustomed to the subdued light, and saw the long figure lying on the davenport beside the fireplace, now filled with summer flowers. "there he is," she whispered triumphantly, and pushing the door further ajar, she stepped across the threshold. "oh, we mustn't 'sturb him!" protested allee, holding back; but peace serenely assured her, "i ain't going to touch him. i'm just going to stay till he wakes up. are you coming?" allee, followed, still a little reluctant, and the door closed noiselessly behind them. with careful hands, they drew up a long roman chair in front of the couch, and sat down together to await the president's awakening. the room was almost gloomy in its dimness, and so quiet that they could hear their own breathing. but not another sound broke the silence, save the ticking of the little french clock on the mantel, which drove peace almost to distraction. then she chanced to remember a discussion she had heard a long time before, and settling herself with elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, she fixed her somber eyes full upon the sleeping face before her, and stared with all her might. "look at him," she commanded allee in a stage whisper. "what for?" "just 'cause. glare for all you're worth!" "but why?" "i'll tell you byme-by." so dutiful allee "glared for all she was worth," and soon the sleeper grew restless. then he opened his eyes. "we did it!" crowed peace shrilly, spatting her hands together so suddenly that he jumped. "did what, you young jackanapes?" he growled, rubbing his sleepy eyes, a trifle vexed at having been disturbed before his nap was out. "woke you up with just looking at you! we never touched you at all--just glared and glowered as hard as ever we could, and you woke up like faith said you would." "faith? did she send you here to wake me up? have she and gail come home?" "oh, no, they ain't coming till after the fourth. they're going to stay and help frances celebrate a family of eight children which have never had any fireworks in all their lives. that's what we came to see you about, but you were asleep and we got tired of waiting, so we tried to see if we could stare you awake, like the girls said folks could do if they looked long and hard enough. it worked." "something did," he smiled grimly. "was it so important that you had to tell it immediately? couldn't it have kept until dinner hour?" "you and grandma are invited out for dinner this evening, and anyway, we wanted to have a private _conflab_ with you all by yourself before we told the others our plan." "plan? another plan! my sakes, peace, where do you keep them all?" the round, eager face grew long. it wasn't like grandpa to make fun of her. what could be the matter? "i guess you're not int'rested," she said in heavy disappointment. "come, allee, we better be going." "indeed you better not!" he cried, thoroughly aroused by her look and tone, and remembering that she was unaccountably sensitive to the moods of her loved ones. "i won't tease you another speck. come and tell grandpa what it is now that you want me to help with." "we don't want your help at all," she answered gravely, letting him draw her down to one knee, while he enthroned allee on the other. "all you've got to do is say yes." knowing from experience what wild-cat schemes were often evolved by that tireless brain, he cautiously replied, "'yes' is an easy word to speak, girlies, but sometimes 'no' is wisest, even if it is hard to learn." "oh, i think you will like this plan, grandpa." peace was warming up to the subject. "it hasn't anything to do with tramps or beggars, and i don't want to give away any more of my clo'es--'nless p'raps that white apron to lottie, 'cause she likes it so well. this is about the home children. you know our fourth of july money?" "did you think i had forgotten that?" inwardly he was shaking with merriment. he never recalled the dedication of the flag room without wanting to shout. "no, but i did think maybe it had skipped your mind just for a minute." "well, it hasn't. what does your fourth of july money have to do with the home children and white aprons?" "white aprons ain't in it--only that one i should like to give lottie, but that can be any day. what we want to do is share our fire-crackers with the home children, 'cause the lady boards don't allow for such things in raising money to take care of the home, and so the children won't have any to celebrate with, 'nless their fathers bring them a few, and mostly the fathers are too hard up for that. allee and me have dollars and dollars in our bank just to _cluttervate_ our love of country with, and we thought this would be a splendid chance to--" "spread the d'sease," finished allee, as peace paused for want of words to express her ideas. "it ain't a _disease_, allee greenfield! to make 'em happy--that's what i meant to say." "a very worthy object, my dear." "then you like it and won't kick?" "if you have considered the matter carefully and want to share your fourth of july with the home children, i am perfectly willing, girlies, and will do all i can to help you succeed." "that's what we wanted to know, grandpa," she cried gleefully. "you'll have all kinds of chances to help, too, 'cause i've just thought of ice-cream and watermelon--if they are ripe by that time--and ice-cream anyway, with a nice picnic dinner to go with the fire-crackers and _roming_ candles. some of 'em have never had but two or three dishes of ice-cream in all their lives. think how tickled they will be! p'raps my lilac lady will invite them all over to her house to celebrate, 'cause it always seems so much nicer to go away somewhere for a picnic, even if 'tis only a few blocks. and the stone house has great wide lawns, bigger'n ours, though i like ours best on account of the river, even if we haven't all the lovely flowers which hicks has planted in his gardens." thoughtfully the president lifted the shade behind the couch and looked out across the smooth velvet turf, sloping gently to the river bank in one long, even stretch, broken by an occasional posy-bed, and liberally dotted with giant oaks and stately lindens. it was an ideal spot for a picnic or lawn social such as peace had described; and japanese lanterns suspended among the branches and hung about the wide verandas would make it a veritable fairyland for the little folks of the home, whose gala days were so few and far between. unconsciously he spoke aloud: "the mis'es would enjoy it as much as the rest; that is the beauty of it." "what _are_ you talking about, grandpa?" cried the children, amazed at the remark which seemed to have no bearing whatever on the subject. "did i speak?" he asked sheepishly. "i was just wondering how they would enjoy coming here for their celebration instead of going to the stone house--" "oh, grandpa! that would be _splendid_! how did it happen that i never thought of it myself?" peace exclaimed in comical surprise. "we'll ask saint elspeth and john and my lilac lady and aunt pen to come and help. hicks took her to church for children's sunday. don't you s'pose he could bring her down here, even if it is three miles?" "if she will come, dear, we will find a way of bringing her," he promised, drawing the little girls closer to him as if to shield them from such sorrow as had darkened that other young life. "and that will mean juiceharpie and glen will come, too," murmured allee, who was much charmed with these two little gentlemen, particularly with the italian waif, whose strange history still seemed like a story-book tale to her. "yes, the children will come, too, of course, and we will even borrow the cook and hicks, if the lilac lady will lend them. do you suppose she will?" "let's go and see this very minute," proposed peace. "the fourth is too near already to let it get any closer before we find out about these things. and we've still to see miss chase about the home folks coming, you know." thoroughly interested now in her project, the president drew forth his watch, glanced at the hour, and rang for jud to harness the horses. of course miss chase accepted the invitation at once, and the home children were jubilant. the little parsonage family was equally charmed with the plan and agreed to help it along all they could. but at the stone house, when the matter was explained, it quite took aunt pen's breath away, and for a moment even the lilac lady looked as if she were about to refuse. but giuseppe was radiant, and seizing his beloved violin, ha capered about the white-faced invalid, crying in delight, "an' i feedle an' ma angel seeng. oh, eet be heaven!" perhaps it was his happy face, perhaps it was peace's wistful entreaty, but at any rate, the lame girl suddenly smiled up at the president beside her and answered heartily, "tell mrs. campbell we shall all be there to help her if the day is clear, and it surely must be when the happiness of so many people depends upon it." the day _was_ clear and delightfully cool, jud had accomplished wonders with flags, bunting and lanterns, and the place looked even more like the haunts of fairies than the girls had dared dream. rustic benches and porch chairs were scattered about under the trees, two immense hammocks hung on the wide veranda, and a strong swing had been fastened among the branches of the tallest oak. the barn chamber, which peace had planned on having for a playhouse, was swept and scrubbed, furbished up with old furniture from the garret, and stocked with toys of all sorts, that the children who might not care for games all day could find other amusement to fill the hours. the boat-house, too, was put in order and decorated with ferns and flowers, for hope was to preside here behind great jars of lemonade and frappé, and it proved to be a very popular resort all day long. it is surprising how thirsty one does get at a picnic! early in the morning, hicks brought the preacher's family, aunt pen and his young mistress in the great red automobile, which was now used so seldom that peace had not even discovered its existence; but when she saw it, she let out a whoop of surprise that startled the rest of the household, and dashed down the driveway to meet it, screaming shrilly, "when you've dumped out that load, hicks, you better begin going after the home children. it will take duke and charley a long time to bring them here alone; and besides, i'll bet none of the boys and girls there have ever ridden in an auto yet. i know i haven't." "that is a good idea, peace," said the lame girl happily. "i never would have thought of it. those who drive down in the carriage can go home in the auto, so they will all get a ride. just put the baskets and traps on that table, hicks, and start as soon as possible." an hour later all the guests had assembled, and the day's program was begun. of course there were some mishaps. was there ever a picnic without them? but no one was badly hurt. it was giuseppe's first celebration of independence day with gunpowder and torpedoes, and in his excitement and delight at the noise he was making, he thoughtlessly thrust a stump of burning punk into his trousers' pocket along with a bunch of fire-crackers, and would have been seriously burned, no doubt, had not cherry promptly turned the hose on him. as it was, he was nearly drowned, and very much frightened, but soon recovered from the shock, and returned with energy to his crackers again. lottie fell through the hay-mow in the barn, trying to escape her pursuer in a lively game of tag. george tumbled into the river and was rescued just in time. tony got hit by the swing-board and lost one tooth as a result. allee sat down in a tub of lemonade, and peace toppled out of a tree into a trayful of ice-cream which jud had just dished up. but these were mere trifles, swallowed up in the greater events of the day--the boisterous games on the smooth lawn, the picnic dinner under the trees, the beautiful music made by the lame girl and the little songbird of italy; the destruction of the sham fort built by the dignified doctor and sedate young minister; the row on the river in the late afternoon; the gorgeous beauty of the place when the lanterns were lighted at dusk; and, fitting climax of that wonderful day, the brilliant display of fireworks which jud set off when finally darkness had fallen over the land. but like all happy days, this fourth of july came to an end at last, the guests departed, and peace, walking slowly up the path from the gate, felt suddenly tired. slipping her hand into the doctor's big one, she sighed, "well, it's all over with! our flag room money has gone up in smoke and down in ice-cream." "are you sorry?" asked the president, a little surprised at her long-drawn sigh and tone of regret. "oh, no, i ain't sorry for that part of it. i'm sorry the day is gone. that's the trouble with having a good time. it always comes to an end." "but the memory of it still lives. think how many hearts you have made happy today." "yes, that's so," she answered, brightening visibly; "and the best of it is, there's at least one more _patriarch_. juiceharpie has always been an italian till today, but after this he's going to be an american. the fire-crackers did it." chapter xv peace gives the lilac lady an idea the home missionary society of the south avenue church was holding its monthly meeting in the campbell parlors, and peace, feeling very forlorn and left out, because grandma had suggested that she better join the sisters in the barn playhouse, wandered down to the gate and stood looking up the street in search of something to occupy her attention. she was tired of playing games in the barn, she had read the latest st. nicholas from cover to cover, and the postman had not yet brought the youth's companion, although this was the regular day for it. anyway, she didn't care to read. she would rather stay and listen to what the women in the house were talking about, but if grandma did not want her, she certainly should not bother them with her presence. likely the meeting would be very dry; it usually was when mrs. roberts stayed away, and she had not put in appearance yet. grandma had half promised that she might visit the lilac lady that afternoon, but for some reason had changed her mind and put off the visit until the morrow. ho, hum! what was a small girl to do to amuse herself this warm day, when she had already done everything she could think of, and had been forbidden to go where she most wanted to go? slowly she unlatched the gate and strolled down the avenue, swinging her white sunbonnet by one string, and whistling plaintively under her breath. the wide street, shaded by immense oaks and maples, felt deliciously cool and restful, but it was also very quiet, and peace had wandered several blocks without meeting a soul, when without warning she stumbled over two mites of tots, almost hidden in the rank grass and weeds in front of a ragged-looking unkempt little cabin of a house, which in its better days had evidently been used for a barn. the children were as much surprised as peace, and after one frightened glance at the intruder, they both buried their heads in their patched aprons and cowered still lower among the weeds. but from the fleeting glimpse peace had caught of the little faces, she knew they had been crying, and her first thought was, "they are lost." impulsively she kneeled on the walk beside them and coaxingly asked, "what is the trouble, little girls? have you run away?" "no, we ain't!" retorted the older child, lifting a streaked, tear-stained face to eye her questioner indignantly. "we ain't girls, either! i am, but he ain't!" "oh," murmured peace, much abashed by her fierce reception, "i took him for a girl on account of his clo'es. he's wearing dresses." "he ain't old enough for pants. he's only two." "oh, mercy! he's lots bigger than glen. but then glen won't be two until next january." "is glen your brother?" asked the other girl, somewhat mollified by the friendliness of the stranger's voice. "no, he's the minister's little boy which we used to have in parker where we lived 'fore we came here. what's your baby's name?" "rivers." "his first name, i mean." "that's his first name. rivers dillon, and i'm fern." "oh! they're as bad as ours, ain't they? i'm always running up against horrid names. gail says it's 'cause i am always looking for them--" "our names ain't horrid!" fern dillon bounced off the grass like an angry hornet, then collapsed beside the baby brother, who evidently was not given much to talking, for he had not said a word, but simply stared in round-eyed surprise at the pretty stranger child. "oh, dear, everybody is so mean!" "fern, what have i done? i didn't mean to be hateful," cried peace remorsefully. "please, i'm sorry i've made you mad. don't mind anything i said. i've always hated my own name so bad that i am always glad when i can find a worse one. that is all i meant." strange to say, fern's wrath was at once appeased, in spite of the explanation, and she smiled faintly as she brushed away the fresh tears. "i thought you was going to be just like mrs. burnett," she explained. "she's always scolding mamma 'cause she won't put rivers and me in a home--" "in a _home_?" cried peace in horrified accents. "what for?" "so's she can get more work to do. lots of people won't give her their washing 'cause she has to take both of us with her, and folks think three is too many to feed, i guess." "is your papa dead?" "he--he's gone. mabel cartwell says he's in jail," her voice dropped to an awed whisper; "but when i asked mamma, she just cried and cried. now she's sick and they are going to take her to a hospital, and i don't know what rivers and me'll do. mrs. burnett says of course we can't go with her, 'cause there ain't any sickness the matter with us, and--and--oh, we can't stay with _her_! she shakes rivers for everything he touches. oh dear, oh dear!" "have they--taken your mamma--away yet?" "no, she's in there--" "in that barn?" "that's where we live since papa--went away." "i'm going to ask her if you can't go home with me. grandma will know--" "you mustn't bother mamma," cried fern, clutching peace about the ankles as she started toward the sagging door of the ramshackle old house. "mrs. burnett will chase you out with the broom like she did us. and 'sides, mamma won't know you. she doesn't even know rivers and me--her own little children." peace pondered. here was an unlooked-for predicament. would she be doing wrong if she took the brother and sister away without saying anything to the mother who did not know her own children any longer? she might speak to mrs. burnett, but how about that broomstick? for a moment she stood irresolute, scratching her head thoughtfully. then with characteristic energy and decision, she grabbed rivers with one hand and fern with the other, and trotted off down the street, saying briefly, "i'm going to show you to grandma. she will know what to do." "will you bring us back again?" "course! you don't think i am a kidnapper, do you? that's what mittie cole called me when i thought i was going to adopt the twins that were only runaways. mittie got to like me afterwards, though." "i like you now." "of course. most folks do, but it takes a longer time with some to make up their minds. i'm glad you are quick at d'ciding. we turn this corner." hurrying them along as fast as rivers' short legs could toddle, she at length reached the big, old-fashioned house, and burst in upon the missionary meeting with a torrent of jumbled explanation. "here's two folks that need home missionarying if anybody does. their mother is so sick she doesn't know people any more, and the father is either in jail or heaven. mrs. burnett chases 'em out of the house with the broomstick, and i borrowed them to show you just how ragged and dirty they really are, so's you will know i ain't got hold of a fake mistake again. they live in a horrid little barn of a house, quite a piece from here, and the hospital is coming after the mother any time. they won't take fern and rivers, of course, 'cause they are both well, but i thought likely mrs. burnett might begin to use the broomstick again if the children were left with her, so i brought 'em along with me until you could decide what to do with them. they don't want to go to a home, and i don't want them to, either." her breath gave out, and the astonished ladies recovered their poise sufficiently to ask questions until the whole pitiful tale had been unravelled. "we'll send a committee at once to investigate," proposed the fat secretary, whom peace disliked for no reason whatever. "then send somebody who's got a heart," suggested the little maid. "this is a truly sick woman which needs help. i'll show you the place. fern, you and rivers stay here with grandma till i get back. ladies, who are the committee?" spurred on by peace's enthusiastic leadership, the society hastily appointed a committee, and they departed on their errand of mercy. the house was even more squalid than peace had pictured it, and the woman's case more desperate. an hour later a subdued, sympathetic trio of ladies, with peace in tow, returned to the campbell residence with their report. "it is worse than we expected," said the chairman in a voice that trembled in spite of her efforts to speak naturally. "the father is in--stillwater. embezzlement. the mother, destitute, without relatives or friends, naturally a frail little woman, and now ill with typhoid, brought on by overwork and anxiety. these two children dependent upon her, and none of the neighbors really situated so they can take care of them. we secured a bed in danbury hospital for the mother, and told the authorities that we would be responsible for the babies. we simply could not think of leaving them there to be buffeted about by unwilling neighbors--no telling how long the mother will be unable to take care of them, if she ever is again. now, the question is, what shall we do with these two tots?" immediately there was a buzz of comment, and an avalanche of theory and advice began to flow from fifty tongues. peace, interested in the controversy, had been banished to the dining-room to amuse rivers, who had developed an unlimited propensity for mischief-making since his arrival at the big house, but through the open door she caught bits of the conversation, and her heart beat quick with fear. "they are trying to _passle_ fern and rivers off among different families," she said with bated breath. "what a shame that would be! mr. dillon in stillwater, the mother in danbury hospital, fern with mrs. york, and rivers at the weston's. oh, they mustn't part fern from her baby! they can't get along without each other. ain't it too bad we don't have a home around here like they've got in kentucky! why didn't i think of that before?" she gathered fern and rivers under her wing once more, and noiselessly departed from the house by way of the kitchen. "where are we going this time? home?" questioned fern, loath to leave the great house so full of beautiful things for one to admire. "not yet. i've just got a think. i b'lieve i know a lady which'll take you both till your mother gets well. she's lame herself, but aunt pen isn't, and they both love children. you'll have to ride on the cars. come on, don't be afraid. i've done it lots of times and i never get lost." somewhat reluctantly, fern allowed herself and brother to be lifted onto the car by the big conductor, who evidently knew peace, for he greeted her with a cheery shout, "hello, my hearty! going to see your lilac lady again?" "yes," peace answered promptly. "i've got another bunch of orphans--that is, they will be until their mother gets well and the father comes back, if he can." she remembered at that moment that she did not yet understand what had actually happened to the breadwinner of this unfortunate family. "and i knew my lilac lady would be glad to take care of them for a little while, so's they wouldn't have to be sep'rated." with that, she ushered the children to seats inside the moving car, and they were quickly whirled away to the corner where stood teeter's pharmacy. here they were helped off by the genial conductor, and peace led the way up the hill to the beautiful stone house which could be plainly seen from the roadway now, because the thick cedar hedges had all been cut down, and only tall iron palings enclosed the lovely gardens. under her favorite oak by the lilac hedge lay the lame girl in her prison-chair, looking whiter and frailer than ever before, and peace stopped in the midst of a rapturous kiss to ask fearfully, "have you been sick again?" "no, dear," smiled the marble lips. "i am a little tired these days, but perfectly well. whom have you here?" "fern and rivers dillon. their mother is dreadfully sick with _tryfoid_ fever and their father is in--well, it's either a jail or a graveyard. i found them crying 'cause mrs. burnett had driven them out of the house with the broomstick, and when i took them home to the lady missionaries who are meeting at our house this afternoon, they began planning right away to divide them up among some families of our church. i couldn't bear to think of that, so i brought them up to you. i knew you'd be glad to keep them till the mother gets well, and they don't want to go to the children's home a bit. rivers can't keep still a minute, but i know how he feels. it's the same way with me. at first i couldn't see how any mother would name her little boy such a name as that, but now i know. he upset three vases of flowers in the reception hall, and spilled a glass of frappé down his dress when i tried to give him some to drink, and pulled over the bird-cage, so's the water was all spilled, and stepped into the dog's drinking trough at the back door while i was trying to get them out of the house without the ladies seeing me. he makes rivers out of every bit of water he comes near." "doesn't your grandmother know where you have gone?" asked the invalid in surprise, not half understanding what peace was trying to tell her. "why, no! she's one of the missionaries herself. she might think i ought to let her s'ciety look after these children as long as they've got hold of the mother already; but i--they'd be sep'rated as sure as fits, and--just look how teenty rivers is to be taken away from _all_ his folks at once." "i don't want him tookened away," fern spoke up. "mamma told me to stay with him all the time, and i said i would. he can't talk much yet and there ain't anybody else can tell what he wants, now that mamma is sick." "come here, dear." the lame girl held out her thin, blue-veined hands, and little, homeless fern ran to her with a desolate cry. peace was satisfied, and dropping down cross-legged in the grass at their feet, she remarked thoughtfully, "i _had_ to bring them here, you see. our house is full already, and grandpa says grandma has all she can 'tend to with the six of us. the parsonage is too small to hold any more, and besides, saint john is away on his vacation, so the house is shut up for a few days. i knew aunt pen could mother a dozen, and i knew you'd want her to if she got the chance, so i brought 'em along. "isn't it too bad there isn't a nice children's home in this state like there is in kentucky or some place down south, where one lady has forty daughters? they ain't any of 'em her very own. she's really just the matron of the home, like miss chase is of our children's home, only they don't call the place a home. the lady is just like a real mother to them, and she won't let any of her girls be adopted away from her. she just takes care of them until they are old enough to look out for themselves or get a husband to look out for them. then she takes some more in their place and keeps on that way. and they just love her to pieces. they wear nice clothes and she teaches 'em music and manners and how to keep house and makes useful wives out of them. oh, that's the kind of a home i'd like to have here! then lottie could live there 'stead of being sent to the 'sylum." "lottie sent to the asylum? why, what do you mean, peace?" cried the startled invalid, sitting almost upright in her chair. "haven't you heard?" it was peace's turn to look surprised. "not a word of that sort." "why, you know lottie is a _norphan_, and when she was a baby somebody adopted her, but her new mother died last winter, and her new father put her in the home 'cause he couldn't take care of her himself. now he's been killed on the railroad, and his people don't want to be bothered with her, so she's to be sent to a norphan 'sylum, 'cause the home takes only children who have somebody who will look after them a little. lottie feels dreadfully bad and has 'most cried her eyes out already. i couldn't get her even to smile when i was up there this week. she is going to leave next wednesday." for a long moment the lame girl lay in deep thought, still holding fern's chubby hand in hers, though she had evidently forgotten all about the little stranger children in her concern for the friendless orphan, lottie. when she spoke, she asked absently, "what was that you were telling me about the kentucky lady? where did you hear about it?" "that girls' home in kentucky? oh, grandma was reading about it in blank's magazine the other day, and grandpa said that's the way all children's homes ought to be carried out. then the boys and girls would be happier and grow up into better men and women. that's what i think, too." "we take blank's magazine," said the lame girl irrelevantly. "here comes aunt pen. we must tell her about fern and rivers, and she will telephone the ladies that they are safe with us. poor little waifs! you are home now--until the dear mother is able to care for you again. then we'll see." that was the beginning of it, but the next time peace visited the lilac lady, she found a crew of noisy carpenters at work on the stone house, and in answer to her surprised questions, the invalid said, "this is to be an orphan asylum, dear. we shall not call it by that ugly name, but that is what it is really to be, and we have already two real orphans, not counting fern and rivers, who may be here for only a few weeks or months." "who are the orphans?" "giuseppe and lottie." "oh, my lilac lady! how did you ever think of such a splendid plan?" "i didn't, peace. it was you." "me?" "yes, dear. when you told me about that kentucky home which all the children love, i wondered why aunt pen would not make a good mother for such a place in this state, and when i asked her, she was _so_ happy!" "but you? where will you live if you turn your lovely house into a _norphan_ 'sylum?" "right here--till the time comes to go home. it won't be long now, but i shall be content if i know the fortune which failed to make me happy is bringing joy and sunshine into the lives of scores of homeless children--hundreds in time, perhaps--and is giving them the education and self-reliance and refinement and love which will make them noble citizens of a noble country." peace only vaguely understood her words, but it was clear to her that the stone mansion was to become a home nest now for helpless little ones whose own parents had been taken from them, and the thought that she had had even a small share in bringing to pass this splendid plan sent a thrill of joy singing through her heart. hugging her knees together with both lithe brown arms, she puckered her lips and began to whistle the refrain: "'sca-atter sunshine all along the wa-ay; cheer and bless and bri-ighten every passing da-ay.'" the lame girl joined in with her rich, sweet tones, and they sang it through to the end. then as silence once more fell upon them, the young mistress of the place dropped her waxen hand lightly upon the brown curls resting against the arm of her chair, and said musingly, "that is to be the motto of our home, dear. the song has brought me more happiness than any other thing in my life, i think. i want to pass it on." "and let me help," eagerly put in peace. chapter xvi the lilac lady falls asleep so the summer swept rapidly on. the remodelled stone mansion was finished at last and daintily furnished to meet every requirement. there were school-rooms and work-rooms and play-rooms. there were parlors and pianos and piazzas. there were long windows and wide doors everywhere. the whole place was filled with sunshine and fresh air. rare flowers and ferns from the conservatory peeped out from every corner; the polished floors were covered with thick, soft carpets; easy chairs and tempting couches were harmoniously arranged about the rooms. a wing of the basement was converted into a gymnasium with a brave array of dumbbells, indian clubs, trapezes and ladders. the great house was complete in every detail, and all martindale was interested in this unique home which the lilac lady was founding. but, though the offers to help were many, the lame girl refused them all and pushed the work with untiring energy. lottie had joined the three waifs already in the palace beautiful, as the greenfield girls called it, although its real name was to be oak knoll; and one other little orphan maid had slipped in through the open doors. aunt pen had been persuaded to take a flying trip to the southern home which peace had so enthusiastically described, and returned fired with zeal for the new work which held so many opportunities. plans were discussed, a board of directors elected, the business routine adjusted, and everything legalized in order that there might be no hitch in proceedings after the institution had been opened to the public. the lame girl developed a surprising business ability, and insisted upon looking after all the details personally, seeming to grow stronger as the work progressed, and she saw her plans nearing completion. even aunt pen was deceived by the delicate flush which tinted the once colorless cheeks, and the keen, alive look in the deep blue eyes; but the girl herself understood, and so hurried carpenters and lawyers alike, until at length everything was done, and oak knoll had been formally dedicated and opened for its noble work. autumn lingered long that year, cool and calm, as if to make up for the fierce heat of the summer months. but at last the frosts came and tipped every leaf and flower with gorgeous colors; the grass grew brown on the hillside; the brilliant foliage of the trees fluttered down with every breath of wind that stirred; and the crisp, hazy air was filled with the smell of fall. then, when the chill of winter seemed upon them, the warm days of indian summer again held it in check and revived the fading flowers for one last bloom before going to sleep under blankets of ice and snow. such a day was it the sunday following gail's twentieth birthday; and after dinner had been served, the family repaired to the wide veranda with books and papers to enjoy the freshness of the air and drink in the glories of the autumn afternoon, while they read or talked together, feeling that this was the last time for many weeks that they could sit in this fashion out-of-doors. but peace was restless. there was a subtle something in the smell of the hazy atmosphere which appealed to her forcefully, and leaving the family gathered about the president on the piazza, she wandered down the driveway to the great bed of chrysanthemums growing in a sheltered nook where the frosts had not yet found them, and stood gloating over their splendid blossoms. "chrysanthemums, chrysanthemums, oh, you dear chrysanthemums," she hummed to herself, then stooped and plucked one long spray, another, a whole armful, and with shining eyes she returned to the porch. "my, what beauties!" exclaimed faith, looking up from her book as peace passed. "why didn't you leave them in the garden? they look so cheerful growing, now that all the other flowers are gone." "hicks is coming after me this afternoon to visit palace beautiful, and the lilac lady loves chrysanthemums." she thrust her head deep into her bouquet, and they laughed at the roguish, round face peeping from between the great yellow and white balls. it was indeed a pretty picture, for both flowers and face seemed radiating sunshine. the chug-chug of an approaching automobile drew their attention to the road, and allee exclaimed, "there's hicks now!" "it's hicks' machine, but that ain't him driving," answered peace, studying the car slowing up in front of the gate. "hicks always comes up the driveway, too. why, it's saint john and elspeth!" they waved their hands at the little group on the porch, and the doctor walked down to the gate to meet the minister, who had leaped to the ground from his place at the wheel. "run, get your hat and jacket, peace," called mrs. campbell, as the child started as if to join her friends in the street, so she darted into the house for her wraps, impatient to be off in the throbbing, red car. she was back in a moment, her jacket thrown over one arm and her hat dangling down her back, but as she leaped onto the step beside elizabeth, she was vaguely conscious that both the preacher and his wife looked strangely exalted, and they greeted her more tenderly and with less boisterous fun than was usual. indeed, saint john hugged her so tightly that it hurt, but she could not rebuke him, because he was speaking to the family gathered at the gate, and she caught the words, "only an hour ago. we have just come from there." she wondered a little what they were talking about, but before she could ask, the preacher sprang to his place, released the wheel, and the car leaped forward as if alive, toppling peace into elizabeth's arms. when she had righted herself, she demanded, "where is glen?" "we left him with mrs. lane." "that's queer. is he sick?" "oh, no, but we thought it best to leave him at the parsonage this time," she answered evasively. "those are beautiful chrysanthemums you have." "ain't they, though? jud does have the best luck with his asters and chrysanthemums. these beat hicks' all hollow. where is hicks? i 'xpected he'd come for me today. i didn't know saint john could drive well enough yet." "hicks was--busy. so we came." "i s'pose that's why you left glen. you didn't want to take the chances with saint john driving the car. is that it?" elizabeth smiled faintly. "no, we never once thought of that, peace. mrs. lane offered to stay with him, and so we let her." "oh! well, i s'pose i would have too, if i'd been you, 'cause 'tain't often mrs. lane makes such an offer," peace chattered on. "allee wanted to come today, but grandma said the lilac lady had asked for only me, so she wouldn't listen to allee's going, too, i should like to have had her." "she can come tuesday." "what's going to happen tuesday?" asked the child, surprised at having so definite a date named. elizabeth caught her breath sharply, but at that moment the auto drew up in front of the iron gates, and there stood aunt pen on the walk waiting for them, smiling her gentle smile of welcome, a little sweeter, perhaps, and infinitely more tender, for, like moses, she had just come from her mount of transfiguration. peace spied her first. "how is my lady, my lilac lady?" she cried, springing into her arms and hugging her warmly. "it's been _so_ long since i've seen her! is she _lots_ better, aunt pen?" "she is perfectly well now, darling," the woman answered, closing her fingers tightly over the little brown hand in her own, and leading the way up the path to the house. "she's not under the trees, and--" "it is november, childie. have you forgotten?" interrupted elizabeth. "so it is! winter is 'most here. but look at the lovely chrysanthemums i've brought her. it isn't too cold for them yet. won't she be pleased?" "i am sure she will," smiled aunt pen, and involuntarily she lifted her eyes to the clear blue sky above. the hall, as they entered its dim coolness, was deserted, and though peace looked inquiringly about her for her small playmates who usually rushed eagerly to meet her, not one was in sight. from the rooms above, however, floated the sweet strains of giuseppe's violin and the unrestrained, riotous melody of the lame girl's pet canary, and peace skipped lightly up the wide stairway, eager to greet each member of this happy family. the door of the invalid's chamber stood open, and beside the window, shaded by the great oak, still hung with autumn colors, lay the beloved form of the lilac lady among her silken cushions. she was clad in simple white, with the heavy bronze braids trailing across her shoulders, and the waxen fingers twined in a familiar pose upon her breast. a soft smile wreathed the colorless lips, but the beautiful blue eyes were closed in slumber, and she looked as if she were resting after a hard-fought battle. so lovely a picture did she present that peace paused on the threshold, and the gay words of greeting bubbling up to her lips died away in a deep breath of awe. the room was flooded with autumn sunshine and banked with the flowers the invalid loved best; a plate of luscious fruit stood on the table beside the wheel-chair, a late magazine lay open on the floor close by, and gypsy sang deliriously from his perch in the big bay window. all this peace saw, and more. the thin fingers clasped a knot of the once-despised, bright-faced pansies, and a single white one nestled in the red-brown waves at the left temple. "oh," breathed peace, scarcely above a whisper, "isn't she beautiful? she got tired of watching and fell asleep while she was waiting for me!" softly she tiptoed across the thick carpet and laid her burden of golden chrysanthemums in the arms of the sleeping girl, and once more repeated the words, "she fell asleep while she was waiting for me! my lilac lady has fallen asleep!" "yes," said aunt pen softly. "'he giveth his beloved sleep.'" the end [illustration: aunt hannah and seth a story of some people and a dog. by james otis] [illustration: "'hi, limpy!' a shrill voice cried."] [illustration: _aunt hannah and seth by james otis author of "how tommy saved the barn" etc. new york thomas y. crowell & co. publishers_] copyright, , by thomas y. crowell & co. contents. chapter page i.--an advertisement, ii.--the country, iii.--aunt hannah, iv.--the flight, v.--an accident, vi.--sunshine, aunt hannah. chapter i. an advertisement. a small boy with a tiny white dog in his arms stood near the new york approach to the brooklyn bridge on a certain june morning not many years since, gazing doubtfully at the living tide which flowed past him, as if questioning whether it might be safe to venture across the street. seth barrows, otherwise known by his acquaintances as limpy seth, because of what they were pleased to speak of as "a pair of legs that weren't mates," was by no means dismayed by the bustle and apparent confusion everywhere around him. such scenes were familiar, he having lived in the city, so far as he knew, from the day of his birth; but, owing to his slight lameness, it was not always a simple matter for him to cross the crowded streets. "hi, limpy!" a shrill voice cried from amid the pedestrians in the distance, and as seth looked quickly toward the direction from which had come the hail, he noted that a boy with hair of such a vivid hue of red as would attract particular attention from any person within whose range of vision he might come, was frantically trying to force a passage. seth stepped back to a partially sheltered position beneath the stairway of the overhead bridge, and awaited the coming of his friend. "out swellin', are you?" the boy with the red hair asked, as he finally approached, panting so heavily that it was with difficulty he could speak. "goin' to give up business?" "i got rid of my stock quite a while ago, an' counted on givin' snip a chance to run in the park. the poor little duffer don't have much fun down at mother hyde's while i'm workin'." "you might sell him for a pile of money, limpy, an' he's a heap of bother for you," the new-comer said reflectively, as he stroked the dog's long, silken hair. "teddy dixon says he's got good blood in him----" "look here, tim, do you think i'd sell snip, no matter how much money i might get for him? why, he's the only relation i've got in all this world!" and the boy buried his face in the dog's white hair. "it costs more to keep him than you put out for yourself." "what of that? he thinks a heap of me, snip does, an' he'd be as sorry as i would if anything happened to one of us." "yes, i reckon you are kind'er stuck on him! it's a pity, limpy, 'cause you can't hustle same's the rest of us do, an' so don't earn as much money." "snip has what milk he needs----" "an' half the time you feed him by goin' hungry yourself." "what of that?" seth cried sharply. "don't i tell you we two are the only friends each other's got! i'd a good deal rather get along without things than let him go hungry, 'cause he wouldn't know why i couldn't feed him." "a dog is only a dog, an' that's all you can make out of it. i ain't countin' but that snip is better'n the general run, 'cause, as teddy dixon says, he's blooded; but just the same it don't stand to reason you should treat him like he was as good as you." "he's a heap better'n i am, tim chandler! snip never did a mean thing in his life, an' he's the same as a whole family to me." as if understanding that he was the subject of the conversation, the dog pressed his cold nose against the boy's neck, and the latter cried triumphantly: "there, look at that! if you didn't have any folks, tim chandler, an' couldn't get 'round same as other fellers do, don't you reckon his snugglin' up like this would make you love him?" "he ain't really yours," tim said after a brief pause, whereat the lame boy cried fiercely: "what's the reason he ain't? didn't i find him 'most froze to death more'n a year ago, an' haven't i kept him in good shape ever since? of course he wasn't mine at first; but i'd like to see the chump who'd dare to say he belonged to anybody else! if you didn't own any more of a home than you could earn sellin' papers, an' if nobody cared the least little bit whether you was cold or hungry, you'd think it was mighty fine to have a chum like snip. you ought'er see him when i come in after he's been shut up in the room all the forenoon! it seems like he'd jump out of his skin, he's so glad to see me! i tell you, tim, snip loves me just like i was his mother!" master chandler shook his head doubtfully, and appeared to be on the point of indulging some disparaging remark, when his attention was diverted by a lad on the opposite side of the street, who was making the most frantic gestures, and, as might be guessed by the movement of his lips, shouting at the full strength of his lungs; but the words were drowned by the rattle of vehicles and other noises of the street. "there's pip smith, an' what do you s'pose he's got in his ear now?" tim said speculatively; but with little apparent interest in the subject. "he's allers botherin' his head 'bout somethin' that ain't any of his business. he allows he'll be a detective when he gets big enough." seth gave more attention to the caresses snip was bestowing upon him than to his acquaintance opposite, until tim exclaimed, with a sudden show of excitement: "he's yellin' for you, seth! what's he swingin' that newspaper 'round his head for?" perhaps tim might have become interested enough to venture across the street, had master smith remained on the opposite side very long; but just at that moment the tide of travel slackened sufficiently to admit of a passage, and the excited pip came toward his acquaintances at full speed. "what kind of a game have you been up to, limpy?" he demanded, waving the newspaper meanwhile. seth looked at the speaker in astonishment, but without making any reply. "anything gone wrong?" tim asked, gazing inquiringly from one to the other. "i don't know what he means," seth replied, and pip shouted wildly: "listen to him! you'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' yet he's been ridin' a mighty high hoss, 'cordin' to all i can find out!" "who?" seth demanded, grown restive under pip's accusing gaze. "you, of course!" "but i haven't been up to any game." "you can't stuff me with that kind of talk, 'cause i've got it down here in black an' white." "got what down?" tim asked impatiently. "if there's anything wrong, why don't you come out with it like a man, an' not stand there like a dummy?" "seth barrows will find there's somethin' wrong when the whole perlice force of this city gets after him," pip replied, in what was very like a threatening tone. "listen to this, tim chandler, an' try to figger out the kind of a game limpy's been playin'!" then, with a tragical air, master smith read slowly from the newspaper he had been brandishing, the following advertisement: "information wanted of a boy calling himself seth barrows. said boy is about eleven years old; his left leg an inch shorter than the right, and is known to have been living in jersey city three years ago. he then sold newspapers for a livelihood, and resided with one richard genet. a liberal reward will be paid for any information concerning him. address symonds & symonds, attorneys-at-law." as he ceased reading, master smith looked at his companions with a certain gleam of triumph in his eyes; but this expression quickly changed to one of severe reproof as he met seth's bewildered gaze. "sellin' papers is good enough for me, though it ain't a business that brings in any too much money," he said sharply. "but i don't keep a fancy dog, so the cost of livin' ain't so high." "what does it mean?" seth asked in a low tone, as he gazed alternately at tim and pip. "mean?" the latter replied scornfully. "i reckon you can answer that better'n we could. when the bank on broadway was broke into there was the same kind of notice in the papers, for i saw it with my own eyes." "but i haven't been breakin' into any bank!" seth wailed, hugging snip yet more tightly to his bosom. "then what's that advertisement there for?" and master smith looked upon his acquaintance with an air of judicial severity. "how do i know?" now it was tim's turn to gaze at seth reproachfully; and as the three stood there one and another of their acquaintances, having heard the startling news, came up eagerly curious and positive that snip's master had committed some terrible crime. the lame boy gave ample token of mental distress, as well he might after hearing that two attorneys-at-law were desirous of finding him, and more than one of the throng set down the expression of trouble on his face as strong proof of guilt. although conscious that he had committed no crime, the boy was thoroughly alarmed at being thus advertised for. he knew that rewards were offered for information which would lead to the apprehension of criminals, and never so much as dreamed that similar methods might be employed in a search for those who were innocent. there was no reason, so he might have said to himself, why any lawyer in the city of new york would care to see him, unless he had been accused of some crime, but as he revolved the matter in his mind terror took possession of him until all power of reflection had departed. the number of alleged friends or acquaintances had increased, until seth and snip were literally surrounded, and every member of the throng knew full well that the gathering would be rudely dispersed by the first policeman who chanced to come that way. therefore it was that each fellow hastened to give his opinion as to the reason why the advertisement had been inserted in the columns of the paper, and, with five or six boys speaking at the same moment, it can well be understood that no one of them succeeded in making any very great impression upon the minds of his neighbors. seth understood, however, that every boy present was agreed upon the supposed fact that a great crime had been committed, although these young merchants might, upon due reflection, come to realize how improbable was such a supposition. when little snip, seeming to understand that his master was in sore distress, licked the boy's cheek, it was to seth almost as if the dog shared in the belief of those who were so ready to accuse him, and he could restrain his feelings no longer. leaning against the iron column which supported the staircase, with his face buried in snip's silky hair, the crippled lad gave way to tears, while his companions gazed at him severely, for to their minds this show of grief was much the same as a confession of guilt. a blue-coated guardian of the peace dispersed the throng before those composing it had had time to make audible comment upon this last evidence of an accusing conscience; but seth was so bowed down by bewilderment, sorrow, and fear as not to know that he stood alone with snip, while a throng of acquaintances gazed at him from the opposite side of the street. once the officer had passed on, and was at a respectful distance, seth's friends returned, and it could be understood from their manner that some definite plan of action had been decided upon during the enforced absence. "see here, seth, we ain't such chumps as to jump on a feller when he's down. if you don't want to tell us what you've been doin'----" "i haven't done a thing, an' you know it, tim chandler," the lad moaned, speaking with difficulty because of his sobs. "then what's the notice about?" tim asked in a severe, yet friendly tone. "i don't know any more'n you do." "where's the lead nickel mickey dowd says somebody shoved on you the other day?" teddy dixon asked sharply. seth raised his head, looked about him for a moment as a shadow of fear passed over his face, and, dropping snip for an instant, plunged both hands deep in his trousers pockets. withdrawing them he displayed a small collection of silver and copper coins, which he turned over eagerly, his companions crowding yet more closely to assure themselves that the examination was thorough. "it's gone!" seth cried shrilly. "it's gone; but i'll cross my throat if i knew i was passin' it!" snip, hearing his young master's cry of fear, stood on his hind feet, scratching and clawing to attract attention, and, hardly conscious of what he did, seth took the little fellow in his arms once more. "that settles the whole business," teddy dixon cried, in the tone of one who has made an important discovery. "you shoved it on somebody who'd been lookin' for counterfeit money, an' now the detectives are after you!" seth glanced quickly and apprehensively around, as if fearing the officers of the law were already close upon him, and the seeming mystery was unravelled. from that moment there was not even the shadow of a doubt in the minds of seth's acquaintances, and, believing that he had not intended to commit such a grave crime, the sympathies of all were aroused. "you've got to skip mighty quick," tim said, after a brief pause, during which each lad had looked at his neighbor as if asking what could be done to rescue the threatened boy. "where'll i go?" seth cried tearfully. "they know what my name is, an' there ain't much use for me to hide." "you can bet i wouldn't hang 'round here many seconds," one of the group said, in a low tone, glancing around to make certain his words were not overheard by the minions of the law. "if we fellers keep our mouths shut, an' you sneak off into the country somewhere, i don't see how anybody could find you!" "but where'd i go?" seth asked, his tears checked by the great fear which came with the supposed knowledge of what he had done. "anywhere. here's snip all ready to take a journey for his health, an' in ten minutes you'll be out of the city; but it ain't safe to hang 'round thinkin' of it very long, for the detectives will be runnin' their legs off tryin' to earn the money that's promised by the advertisement." seth made no reply, and his most intimate friends understood that if he was to be saved from prison the time had arrived when they must act without waiting for his decision. they held a hurried consultation, while seth stood caressing snip, without being really conscious of what he did, and then teddy and tim ranged themselves either side of the culprit who had unwittingly brought himself under the ban of the law. seizing him by the arms they forced the lad forward in the direction of broadway, tim saying hoarsely to those who gave token of their intention to follow: "you fellers must keep away, else the cops will know we're up to somethin' crooked. wait here, an' me an' teddy'll come back as soon as we've taken care of seth." this injunction was not obeyed without considerable grumbling on the part of the more curious, and but for the efforts of two or three of the wiser heads, the fugitive and his accomplices would have aroused the suspicions of the dullest policeman in the city. "you'll get yourselves into a heap of trouble if anybody knows you helped me to run away," seth said, in a tone of faint remonstrance. "it can't be helped," teddy replied firmly, urging the hunted boy to a faster pace. "we ain't goin' to stand by an' see you lugged off to jail while there's a show of our doin' anything. keep your eye on snip so's he won't bark, an' we'll look after the rest of the business." even if seth had been averse to running away from the possible danger which threatened, he would have been forced to continue the flight so lately begun, because of the energy displayed by his friends. tim and teddy literally dragged him along, crossing the street at one point to avoid a policeman, and again dodging into a friendly doorway when the guardians of the peace came upon them suddenly. had any one observed particularly the movements of these three lads, the gravest suspicions must have been awakened, for they displayed a consciousness of guilt in every movement, and showed plainly that their great desire was to escape scrutiny. seth was so enveloped in sorrow and fear as to be ignorant of the direction in which he and snip were being forced. he understood dimly that those who had the business of escape in hand were bent on gaining the river; but to more than that he gave no heed. finally, when they were arrived at a ferry-slip, teddy paid the passage money, and seth was led to the forward end of the boat, in order, as tim explained, that he might be ready to jump ashore instantly the pier on the opposite side was gained, in case the officers of justice had tracked them thus far. now, forced to remain inactive for a certain time, seth's friends took advantage of the opportunity to give him what seemed to be much-needed advice. "the minute the boat strikes the dock you must take a sneak," teddy said impressively, clutching seth vigorously by the shoulder to insure attention. "we'll hang 'round here to make sure the detectives haven't got on to your trail, an' then we'll go back." "but what am i to do afterward?" seth asked helplessly. "there ain't any need of very much guessin' about that. you're bound to get where there'll be a chance of hidin', an' you want to be mighty lively." "snip an' i will have to earn money enough to keep us goin', an' how can it be done while i'm hidin'?" "how much have you got now?" "'bout fifty cents." tim drew from his pocket a handful of coins, mostly pennies, and, retaining only three cents with which to pay his return passage on the ferry-boat, forced them upon the fugitive, saying when the boy remonstrated: "you'll need it all, an' i can hustle a little livelier to-night, or borrow from some of the other fellers if trade don't show up as it ought'er." teddy followed his comrade's example, paying no heed to seth's expostulations, save as he said: "we're bound to give you a lift, old man, so don't say anything more about it. if you was the only feller in this city what had passed a lead nickel, perhaps this thing would look different to me; but the way i reckon it is, that the man what put the advertisement in the paper jest 'cause he'd been done out'er five cents is a mighty poor citizen, an' i stand ready to do all i can towards keepin' you away from him." "look here, fellers," seth cried in what was very like despair as the steamer neared the dock, "i don't know what to do, even after you've put up all your money. where can snip an' i go? we've got to earn our livin', an' i don't see how it's to be done if we're bound to hide all the time." "that's easy enough," and tim spoke hopefully. "the city is a fool alongside the country, an' i'm countin' on your havin' a reg'lar snap after you get settled down. when we land, you're to strike right out, an' keep on goin' till you're where there's nothin' but farms with milk, an' pie, an' stuff to eat layin' 'round loose for the first feller what comes to pick 'em up. pip smith says farmers don't do much of anything but fill theirselves with good things, an' i've allers wanted to try my hand with 'em for one summer." seth shook his head doubtfully. although he had never been in the country, it did not seem reasonable that the picture drawn by pip smith was truthful, otherwise every city boy would turn farmer's assistant, rather than remain where it cost considerable labor to provide themselves with food and a shelter. "you'll strike it rich somewhere," teddy said, with an air of conviction, "an' then you can sneak back long enough to tell us where you're hangin' out. i'll work down 'round the markets for a spell, an' p'rhaps i'll see some of the hayseeders you've run across." the conversation was brought to a close abruptly as the ferry-boat entered the dock with many a bump and reel against the heavy timbers; and seth, with snip hugged tightly to his bosom, pressed forward to the gates that he might be ready to leap ashore instantly they were opened. "keep your upper lip stiff, an' don't stop, once you've started, till you're so far from new york that the detectives can't find you," tim whispered encouragingly, and ten seconds later the fugitive was running at full speed up the gangway, snip barking shrilly at the throng on either side. tim and teddy followed their friend to the street beyond the ticket office, and there stood watching until he had disappeared from view. then the latter said, with a long-drawn sigh: "i wish it had been almost any other feller what passed the lead nickel, for seth hasn't got sand enough to do what's needed, if he counts on keepin' out'er jail." and tim replied sadly: "if a feller stuck me with a counterfeit i'd think i had a right to shove it along; but after all this scrape i'll keep my eyes open mighty wide, else it may be a case of the country for me, an' i ain't hankerin' after livin' on a farm, even if pip smith does think it's sich a soft snap." then the friends of the fugitives returned to the ferry-boat, in order that they might without delay make a report to those acquaintances whom they knew would be eagerly waiting, as to how seth had fared at the outset of his flight. chapter ii. the country. seth had little idea as to the direction he had taken, save that the street led straight away from the water, and surely he must come into the country finally by pursuing such a course. neither time nor distance gave him relief of mind; it was much as if flight served to increase the fear in his mind, and even after having come to the suburbs of the city he looked over his shoulder apprehensively from time to time, almost expecting to see the officers of the law in hot pursuit. if it had been possible for snip to understand the situation fully, he could not have behaved with more discretion, according to his master's views. instead of begging to be let down that he might enjoy a frolic on the green grass, he remained passive in seth's arms, pressing his nose up to the lad's neck now and then as if expressing sympathy. the little fellow did not so much as whine when they passed rapidly by a cool-looking, bubbling stream, even though his tongue was lolling out, red and dripping with perspiration; but seth understood that his pet would have been much refreshed with a drink of the running water, and said, in a soothing, affectionate tone: "i don't dare to stop yet a while, snippey dear, for nobody knows how near the officers may be, and you had better go thirsty a little longer, than be kicked out into the street when i'm locked up in jail." a big lump came into the fugitive's throat at the picture he had drawn, and the brook was left far behind before he could force it down sufficiently to speak. then the two were come to a small shop, in the windows of which were displayed a variety of wares, from slate pencils to mint drops, and here seth halted irresolutely. he had continued at a rapid pace, and fully an hour was passed since he parted from his friends. he was both hungry and weary; there were but few buildings to be seen ahead, and, so he argued with himself, this might be his last opportunity to purchase anything which would serve as food until he was launched into that wilderness known to him as "the country." no person could be seen in either direction, and seth persuaded himself that it might be safe to halt here for so long a time as would be necessary to select something from the varied stock to appease hunger, and at the same time be within his limited means. for the first moment since leaving the ferry-slip he allowed snip to slip out of his arms; but caught him up again very quickly as the dog gave strong evidence of a desire to spend precious time in a frolic. "you must wait a spell longer, snippey dear," he muttered. "we may have to run for it, an' i mightn't have a chance to get you in my arms again. it would be terrible if the officers got hold of you, an' i'm afraid they'd try it for the sake of catchin' me, 'cause everybody knows i wouldn't leave you, no matter what happened." then seth stole softly into the shop, as if fearing to awaken the suspicion of the proprietor by a bold approach, and once inside, gazed quickly around. two or three early, unwholesome-looking apples and a jar of ginger cakes made up the list of eatables, and his decision was quickly made. "how many of them cakes will you sell for five cents?" he asked timidly of the slovenly woman who was embroidering an odd green flower on a small square of soiled and faded red silk. she looked at him listlessly, and then gazed at the cakes meditatively. "i don't know the price of them. this shop isn't mine; i'm tendin' it for a friend." "then you can't sell things?" and seth turned to go, fearing lest he had already loitered too long. "oh, dear, yes, that's what i'm here for; but i never had a customer for cakes, an' to tell the truth i don't believe one of 'em has been sold for a month. do you know what they are worth?" "the bakers sell a doughnut as big as three of them for a cent, an' throw in an extra one if they're stale." the lady deposited her embroidery on a sheet of brown paper which covered one end of the counter, and surveyed the cakes. "it seems to me that a cent for three of them would be a fair price," she said at length, after having broken one in order to gain some idea of its age. "have you got anything else to eat?" "that candy is real good, especially the checkerberry sticks, but perhaps you rather have somethin' more fillin'." "i'll take five cents' worth of cakes," seth said hurriedly, for it seemed as if he had been inside the shop a very long while. the amateur clerk set about counting the stale dainties in a businesslike way; but at that instant snip came into view from behind his master, and she ceased the task at once to cry in delight: "what a dear little dog! did he come with you?" "yes, ma'am," seth replied hesitatingly; and he added as the woman stooped to caress snip: "we're in a big hurry, an' if you'll give me the cakes i'll thank you." "dear me, why didn't you say so at first?" and she resumed her task of counting the cakes, stopping now and then to speak to snip, who was sitting up on his hind legs begging for a bit of the stale pastry. "how far are you going?" "i don't know; you see we can't walk very fast." "got friends out this way, i take it?" "well,--yes--no--that is, i don't know. won't you please hurry?" the woman seemed to think it necessary she should feed snip with a portion of one cake that had already been counted out for seth, and to still further tempt the dog's appetite by giving him an inch or more broken from one of the checkerberry sticks, before attending to her duties as clerk, after which she concluded her portion of the transaction by holding out a not over-cleanly hand for the money. seth hurriedly gave her five pennies, and then, seizing snip in his arms, ran out of the shop regardless of the questions she literally hurled after him. his first care was to gaze down the road in the direction from which he had just come, and the relief of mind was great when he failed to see any signs of life. "they haven't caught up with us yet, snippey," he said, as if certain the officers were somewhere in the rear bent on taking him prisoner. "if they stop at the store, that woman will be sure to say we were here." having thus spurred himself on, he continued the journey half an hour longer, when they had arrived at a grove of small trees and bushes through which ran a tiny brook. "we can hide in here, an' you'll have a chance to run around on the grass till you're tired," he said, as, after making certain there was no one in sight to observe his movements, he darted amid the shrubbery. it was not difficult for a boy tired as was seth, to find a rest-inviting spot by the side of the stream where the bushes hid him from view of any who might chance to pass along the road, and without loss of time snip set himself the task of chasing every butterfly that dared come within his range of vision, ceasing only for a few seconds at a time to lick his master's hand, or take his share of the stale pastry. it was most refreshing to seth, this halt beneath the shade of the bushes where the brook sang such a song as he had never heard before, and despite the age of the cake his hunger was appeased. save for the haunting fear that the officers of the law might be close upon his heels, he would have been very happy, and even under the painful circumstances attending his departure, he enjoyed in a certain degree the unusual scene before him. then snip, wearied with his fruitless pursuit of the butterflies, crept close by his master's side for a nap, and seth yielded to the temptation to stretch himself out at full length on the soft, cool moss. there was in his mind the thought that he must resume the flight within a short time, lest he fail to find a shelter before the night had come; but the dancing waters sang a most entrancing and rest-inviting melody until his eyes closed despite his efforts to hold them open, and master and dog were wrapped in slumber. the birds gathered on the branches above the heads of the sleepers, gazing down curiously and with many an inquiring twitter, as if asking whether this boy was one who would do them a mischief if it lay in his power, and the butterflies flaunted their gaudy wings within an inch of snip's eyes; but the slumber was not broken. the sun had no more than an hour's time remaining before his day's work in that particular section of the country had come to an end, when a brown moth fluttered down upon seth's nose, where he sat pluming his wings in such an energetic manner that the boy suddenly sneezed himself into wakefulness, while snip leaped up with a chorus of shrill barks and yelps which nearly threw the curious birds into hysterics. "it's almost sunset, snippey dear, an' we've been idlin' here when we ought'er been huntin' for a house where we can stay till mornin'. it's fine, i know," he added, as he took the tiny dog in his arms; "but i don't believe it would be very jolly to hang 'round in such a place all night. besides, who knows but there are bears? we must be a terrible long way in the country, an' if the farmers are as good as pip smith tells about, we can get a chance to sleep in a house." the fear that the officers might be close upon his heels had fled; it seemed as if many, many hours had passed since he took leave of tim and teddy, and it was possible the representatives of law would not pursue him so far into the country. he had yet on hand a third of the stale cakes, and with these in his pocket as token that he would not go supperless to bed, and snip on his arm, he resumed the flight once more. after a brisk walk of half an hour, still on a course directly away from the river, as he believed, seth began to look about him for a shelter during the night. "we'll stop at the first house that looks as if the folks who live in it might be willin' to help two fellers like us along, an' ask if we can stay all night," he said to snip, speaking in a more cheery tone than he had indulged in since the fear-inspiring advertisement had been brought to his attention. he did not adhere strictly to this plan, however, for when he was come to a farmhouse which had seemed to give token of sheltering generous people, a big black dog ran out of the yard growling and snapping, much to snippey's alarm, and seth hurried on at full speed. "that wouldn't be any place for you, young man," he said, patting the dog's head. "we'll sleep out of doors rather than have you scared half to death!" ten minutes later he knocked at the door of a house, and, on making his request to a surly-looking man, was told that they "had no use for tramps." seth did not stop to explain that he could not rightly be called a tramp; but ran onward as if fearful lest the farmer might pursue to punish him for daring to ask such a favor. three times within fifteen minutes did he ask in vain for a shelter, and then his courage had oozed out at his fingers' ends. "if pip smith was here he'd see that there ain't much milk an' pie layin' 'round to be picked up, an' it begins to look, snippey, as if we'd better stayed down there by the brook." master snip growled as if to say that he too believed they had made a mistake in pushing on any farther, and the sun hid his face behind the hills as a warning for young boys and small dogs to get under cover. seth was discouraged, and very nearly frightened. he began to fear that he might get himself and snip into serious trouble by any further efforts at finding a charitably disposed farmer, and after the shadows of night had begun to lengthen until every bush and rock was distorted into some hideous or fantastic shape, he was standing opposite a small barn adjoining a yet smaller dwelling. no light could be seen from the building; it was as if the place had been deserted, and such a state of affairs seemed more promising to seth than any he had seen. "if the people are at home, an' we ask them to let us stay all night, we'll be driven away; so s'pose we creep in there, an' at the first show of mornin' we'll be off. it can't do any harm for us to sleep in a barn when the folks don't know it." the barking of a dog in the distance caused him to decide upon a course of action very quickly, and in the merest fraction of time he was inside the building, groping around the main floor on which had been thrown a sufficient amount of hay to provide a dozen boys with a comfortable bed. he could hear some animal munching its supper a short distance away, and this sound robbed the gloomy interior of half its imaginary terrors. promising himself that he would leave the place before the occupants of the house were stirring next morning, seth made his bed by burrowing into the hay, and, with snip nestling close by his side, was soon ready for another nap. the fugitive had taken many steps during his flight, and, despite the slumber indulged in by the side of the brook, his eyes were soon closed in profound sleep. many hours later the shrill barking of snip awakened seth, and he sat bolt upright on the hay, rubbing his sleepy eyes as if trying to prove that those useful members had deceived him in some way. the rays of the morning sun were streaming in through the open door in a golden flood, and with the radiance came sweet odors borne by the gentle breeze. seth gave no heed just at that moment to the wondrous beauties of nature to be seen on every hand, when even the rough barn was gilded and perfumed, for standing in the doorway, as if literally petrified with astonishment, was a motherly looking little woman whose upraised hands told of bewilderment and surprise, while from the expression on her face one could almost have believed that she was really afraid of the tiny snip. "is that animal dangerous, little boy?" she asked nervously after a brief but, to seth, painful pause. "who--what animal? oh, you mean snip? why, he couldn't harm anybody if he tried, an', besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly. he always barks when strange folks come near where i am, so's to make me think he's a watch-dog. do you own this barn?" "yes--that is to say, it has always belonged to the morses, an' there are none left now except gladys an' me." "i hope you won't be mad 'cause i came in here last night. i counted on gettin' away before you waked up; but the bed was so soft that it ain't any wonder i kept right on sleepin'." "have you been here all night?" the little woman asked in surprise, advancing a pace now that snip had decided there was no longer any necessity for him to continue the shrill outcries. "i didn't have any place to sleep; there wasn't a light to be seen in your house. well, to tell the truth, i was afraid i'd be driven away, same's i had been at the other places, so sneaked in----" "aunt hannah! aunt hannah!" it was a sweet, clear, childish voice which thus interrupted the conversation, and the little woman said nervously, as she glanced suspiciously at snip: "i wish you would hold your dog, little boy. that is gladys, an' she's so reckless that i'm in fear of her life every minute she is near strange animals." seth did not have time to comply with this request before a pink-cheeked little miss of about his own age came dancing into the barn like a june wind, which burdens itself with the petals of the early roses. "oh, aunt hannah! why, where in the world did that little boy--what a perfectly lovely dog! oh, you dear!" this last exclamation was called forth by master snip himself, who bounded forward with every show of joy, and stood erect on his hind feet with both forepaws raised as if asking to be taken in her arms. "don't, gladys! you mustn't touch that animal, for nobody knows whether he may not be ferocious." the warning came too late. gladys already had snip in her arms, and as the little fellow struggled to lick her cheek in token of his desire to be on friendly terms, she said laughingly: "you poor, foolish aunt hannah! to think that a mite of a dog like this one could ever be ferocious! isn't he a perfect beauty? i never saw such a dear!" the little woman hovered helplessly around much like a sparrow whose fledglings are in danger. she feared lest the dog should do the child a mischief, and yet dared not come so near as to rescue her from the imaginary danger. there was just a tinge of jealousy in seth's heart as he gazed at snip's demonstrations of affection for this stranger. it seemed as if he had suddenly lost his only friend, and, at that moment, it was the greatest misfortune that could befall him. gladys was so occupied with the dog as to be unconscious of aunt hannah's anxiety. she admired snip's silky hair; declared that he needed a bath, and insisted on knowing how "such a treasure" had come into seth's possession. the boy was not disposed to admit that he had no real claim upon the dog, save such as might result from having found him homeless and friendless in the street; but willing that the girl should admire his pet yet more. "put him on the floor an' see how much he knows," seth said, without replying to her question. then snip was called upon to show his varied accomplishments. he sat bolt upright holding a wisp of straw in his mouth; walked on his hind feet with seth holding him by one paw; whirled around and around on being told to dance; leaped over the handle of the hay-fork, barking and yelping with excitement; and otherwise gave token of being very intelligent. gladys was in an ecstasy of delight, and even the little woman so far overcame her fear of animals as to venture to touch snip's outstretched paw when he gravely offered to "shake hands." not until at least a quarter of an hour had passed was any particular attention paid to seth, and by this time aunt hannah was willing to admit that while dogs in general frightened her, however peaceable they appeared to be, she thought a little fellow like snip might be almost as companionable as a cat. "of course you won't continue your journey until after breakfast," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "and gladys will take you into the kitchen where you can wash your face and hands, while i am milking." then it was that seth observed a bright tin pail and a three-legged stool lying on the ground just outside the big door, as if they had fallen from the little woman's hands when she was alarmed by hearing snip's note of defiance and warning. gladys had the dog in her arms, and nodding to seth as if to say he should follow, she led the way to the house, while aunt hannah disappeared through a doorway opening from the main portion of the barn. "there's the towel, the soap and water," she said, pointing toward a wooden sink in one corner of what was to seth the most wonderful kitchen he had ever seen. "don't you think snippey would like some milk?" "i'm certain he would," seth replied promptly. "he hasn't had anything except dry ginger cake since yesterday mornin'." a moment later master snip had before him a saucer filled with such milk as it is safe to say he had not seen since seth took him in charge, and the eager way in which he lapped it showed that it was appreciated fully. the fugitive did not make his toilet immediately, because of the irresistible temptation to gaze about him. the walls of the kitchen were low; but in the newcomer's eyes this was an added attraction, because it gave to the room such an hospitable appearance. the floor was more cleanly than any table he had ever seen; the bricks of the fireplace, at one side of which stood a small cook-stove, were as red as if newly painted; while on the dresser and the mantel across the broad chimney were tin dishes that shone like newly polished silver. a large rocking-chair, a couch covered with chintz, and half a dozen straight-backed, spider-legged chairs were ranged methodically along the sides of the room, while in the centre of the floor, so placed that the fresh morning breeze which entered by the door would blow straight across it to the window shaded by lilac bushes, was a table covered with a snowy cloth. "well, if this is a farmer's house i wouldn't wonder if a good bit of pip smith's yarn was true," seth muttered to himself, as he turned toward the sink, over which hung a towel so white that he could hardly believe he would be allowed to dry his face and hands with it. he was alone in the kitchen. snip, having had a most satisfactory breakfast of what he must have believed was real cream, had run out of doors to chase a leaf blown by the wind, and gladys was close behind, alternately urging him in the pursuit, and showering praises upon "the sweetest dog that ever lived." "folks that live like this must be mighty rich," seth thought, as he plunged his face into a basin of clear water. "it ain't likely snip an' me will strike it so soft again, an' i expect he'll be terrible sorry to leave. i reckon it'll be all right to hang 'round an hour or so, an' then we must get out lively. i wonder if that little bit of a woman expects i'll pay for breakfast?" chapter iii. aunt hannah. with a broken comb, which he used upon snip's hair as well as his own, seth concluded his toilet, and, neither the little woman nor the girl having returned to the house, stood in the doorway gazing out upon as peaceful a scene as a boy pursued by the officers of the law could well desire to see. on either hand ran the dusty road, not unlike a yellow ribbon upon a cloth of green, and bordering it here and there were clumps of bushes or groves of pine or of oak, as if planted for the especial purpose of affording to the weary traveller a screen from the blinding sun. the little farmhouse stood upon the height of a slight elevation from which could be had a view of the country round about on either hand; and although so near to the great city, there were no settlements, villages, or towns to be seen. surely, the lad said to himself, he had at last arrived at "the country," and if all houses were as hospitable-looking, as cleanly, and as inviting in appearance as was this one, then pip smith's story had in it considerably more than a grain of truth. "it must be mighty nice to have money enough to live in a place like this," seth said to himself. "it would please snip way down to the ground; but i mustn't think of it, 'cause there's no chance for a feller like me to earn a livin' here, an' we can't always count on folks givin' us what we need to eat." then aunt hannah came out from the barn, carrying in one hand a glistening tin pail filled with foaming milk, and in the other the three-legged stool. seth ran toward her and held out his hand as if believing she would readily yield at least a portion of her burden; but she shook her head smiling. "bless your heart, my child, i ought to be able to carry one pail of milk, seeing that i've done as much or more every day since i was gladys's age." "but that's no reason why i shouldn't help along a little to make up for your not bein' mad 'cause snip an' me slept in the barn. besides, i'd like to say to the fellers that i'd carried as much milk as a whole pail full once in my life--that is, if i ever see 'em again," he added with a sigh. "then you came from the city?" "yes, an' i never got so far out in the country before. say, it's mighty fine, ain't it?" and as aunt hannah relinquished her hold on the pail, seth started toward the house without waiting for a reply to his question. after placing the stool bottom up by the side of the broad stone which served as doorstep, the little woman called to gladys: "it's time white-face was taken to pasture, child." "do you mean the cow?" seth asked. "yes, dear." "why can't i take her to the pasture; that is, if you'll tell me where to find it?" "unfasten her chain, and she will show you the way. it's only across the road over yonder." seth ran quickly to the barn, and having arrived at the doorway through which aunt hannah disappeared when she went about the task of milking, he halted in surprise and fear, looking at what seemed to him an enormous beast with long, threatening horns, which she shook now and then in what appeared to be a most vicious fashion. only once before had seth ever seen an animal of this species, and then it was when he and pip smith had travelled over to the erie yards to see a drove of oxen taken from the cars to the abattoir. it surely seemed very dangerous to turn loose such a huge beast; but seth was determined to perform whatsoever labor lay in his power, with the idea that he might not be called upon to pay quite as much for breakfast, and, summing up all his courage, he advanced toward the cow. she shook her head restively, impatient for the breakfast of sweet grass, and he leaped back suddenly, frightened as badly of her as aunt hannah had been of snip. once more he made an attempt, and once more leaped back in alarm, this time to be greeted with a peal of merry laughter, and a volley of shrill barks from snip, who probably fancied seth stood in need of his protection. "why did you jump so?" gladys asked merrily. seth's face reddened, and he stammered not a little in reply: "i reckon that cow would make it kind'er lively for strangers, wouldn't he?" "and you are really afraid of poor old white-face? why, she's as gentle as snippey, though of course you couldn't pet her so much." then gladys stepped boldly forward, and snip whined and barked in a perfect spasm of fear at being carried so near the formidable-looking animal. "now, you are just as foolish as your master," gladys said with a hearty laugh; but she allowed the dog to slip down from her arms, and as he sought safety behind his master, she unloosened the chain from the cow's neck, leading her by the horn out of the barn. then it was that snip plucked up courage to join the girl who had been so kind to him, and seth, thoroughly ashamed at having betrayed so much cowardice, followed his example. "i want to do something toward paying for my breakfast," he said hesitatingly; "but i never saw a cow before, and that one acted as if he was up to mischief. i s'pose they're a good deal like dogs--all right after a feller gets acquainted with 'em." "some cows are ugly, i suppose," gladys replied reflectively, taking snip once more in her arms as the little fellow hung back in alarm when white-face stopped to gather a tempting bunch of clover; "but aunt hannah has had this one ever since she was a calf, and we two are great friends. she's a real well-behaved cow, an' never makes any trouble about going into pasture. there, she's in now, and all we've got to do is to put up the bars. by the time we get back breakfast will be ready. did you walk all the way from the city?" there was no necessity for seth to make a reply, because at this instant an audacious wren flew past within a dozen inches of snip's nose, causing him to spring from the girl's arms in a vain pursuit, which was not ended until the children were at the kitchen door. the morning meal was prepared, and as gladys drew out a chair to show seth where he should sit, aunt hannah asked anxiously: "what does the dog do while you are eating?" "you'll see how well he can behave himself," snip's master replied proudly, as the little fellow laid down on the floor at a respectful distance from the table. much to seth's surprise, instead of immediately beginning the meal, the little woman bowed her head reverentially, gladys following the example, and for the first time in his life did the boy hear a blessing invoked upon the food of which he was about to partake. it caused him just a shade of uneasiness and perhaps awe, this "prayin' before breakfast" as he afterward expressed it while going over the events of the day with snip, and he did not feel wholly at ease until the meal had well nigh come to an end. then the little woman gave free rein to her curiosity, by asking: "where are you going, my boy?" "that's what i don't just know," seth replied, after a short pause. "pip smith, he said the country was a terrible nice place to live in, an' when snip an' i had to come away, i thought perhaps we could find a chance to earn some money." "haven't you any parents, or a home?" aunt hannah asked in surprise. "i don't s'pose i have. i did live over to mr. genet's in jersey city; but he died, an' i had to hustle for myself." "had to what?" aunt hannah asked. "why, shinny 'round for money enough to pay my way. there ain't much of anything a feller like me can do but sell papers, an' i don't cut any big ice at that, 'cause i can't get 'round as fast as the other boys." "did you earn enough to provide you with food, and clothes, an' a place to sleep?" "well, sometimes. you see i ain't flashin' up very strong on clothes, an' snip an' i had a room down to mother hyde's that cost us eighty cents a week. we could most always get along, except sometimes when there was a heavy storm an' trade turned bad." "i suppose you became discouraged with that way of living?" the little woman said reflectively. "well, it ain't so awful swell; but then you can't call it so terrible bad. perhaps some time i could have got money enough to start a news-stand, an' then i'd been all right, you know." "why did you come into the country?" "you see we had to leave mighty sudden, 'cause----" seth checked himself; he had been very near to explaining exactly why he left new york so unceremoniously. perhaps but for the "prayers before breakfast" he might have told this kindly faced little woman all his troubles; now, however, he did not care to do so, believing she would consider he had committed a great crime in passing a lead nickel, even though unwittingly. neither was he willing to tell so good a woman an absolute untruth, and therefore held his peace; but the flush which had come into his cheeks was ample proof to his hostess that in his life was something which caused shame. aunt hannah looked at him for an instant, and then as if realizing that the scrutiny might cause him uneasiness, turned her eyes away as she asked in a low tone: "do you believe it would be possible for you to find such work in the country as would support you and the dog?" "i don't know anything about it, 'cause you see i never was in the country before," seth replied, decidedly relieved by this change in the subject of conversation. "pip smith thought there was milk an' pies layin' 'round to be picked up by anybody, an' accordin' to his talk it seemed as if a feller might squeak along somehow. if i could always have such a bed as i got last night, the rest of it wouldn't trouble a great deal." "but you slept in the barn!" gladys cried. "yes; it was nicer than any room mother hyde's got. don't boys like me do something to earn money out this way?" "the farmers' sons find employment enough 'round home; but i don't think you would be able to earn very much, my boy." "i might strike something," seth said reflectively. "at any rate, snip an' i'll have to keep movin'." "then you have no idea where you're going?" and aunt hannah appeared to be distressed in mind. "i wish i did," seth replied with a sigh, and gladys said quickly: "you can't keep walkin' 'round all the time, for what will you do when it rains?" "perhaps i might come across a barn, same's i did last night." "and grow to be a regular tramp?" "i wouldn't be one if i was willin' to work, would i? that's all snip an' me ask for now, is just a chance to earn what we'll eat, an' a place to sleep." aunt hannah rose from the table quickly in apparently a preoccupied manner, and the conversation was thus brought to an abrupt close. snip, who had already breakfasted most generously, scrambled to his feet for another excursion into the wonderful fields where he might chase butterflies to his heart's content, and seth lingered by the open doorway undecided as to what he should say or do. gladys began removing the dishes from the table, aunt hannah assisting now and then listlessly, as if her mind was far away; and after two or three vain efforts seth managed to ask: "how much will i have to pay for breakfast an' sleepin' in the barn?" "why, bless your heart, my boy, i wouldn't think of chargin' anything for that," the little woman said, almost sharply. "but we must pay our way, you know, though i ain't got such a dreadful pile of money. i don't want folks to think we're regular tramps." "you needn't fear anything of that kind yet a while, but if it would make you feel more comfortable in mind to do something toward payin' for the food which has been freely given, you may try your hand at clearin' up the barn. gladys an' i aim to keep it cleanly; but even at the best it doesn't look as i would like to see it." seth sat about this task with alacrity, although not knowing exactly what ought to be done; but the boy who is willing to work and eager to please will generally succeed in his efforts, even though he be ignorant as to the proper method. it was while working at that end of the barn nearest the house at a time when aunt hannah and gladys were standing at the open window washing the breakfast dishes, that he overheard, without absolutely intending to do so, a certain conversation not meant for his ears. it is true he had no right to listen, and also true that the hum of voices came to his ears several moments before he paid any attention whatsoever, or made an effort to distinguish the words. then that which he heard literally forced him to listen for more. it was aunt hannah who said, evidently in reply to a suggestion from gladys: "it is a pity and a shame to see a child like that poor little lame boy wandering about the country trying to find work, when he isn't fitted for anything of the kind. but how could we give him a home here, my dear?" "i am sure it wouldn't cost you anything, aunt hannah. with three spare rooms in the house and hardly ever a visitor to use one of them, why couldn't he have a bed here?" "he can, my dear, and it's my duty to give him a home, as i see plainly; but you can't imagine what a cross it will be for me to have a boy and a dog around the old place. i have lived here alone so many years, except after you came, that a new face, even though it be a friendly one, disturbs me." "surely you'd get used to him in a few days, and he's a boy who tries to do all he can in the way of helping." "i believe so, my dear, and, therefore, because it seems to be my duty, i'm goin' to ask him to stay, at least until he can find a better home; but at the same time i hold that it will be a dreadful cross for me to bear." seth suddenly became aware that he was playing the part of a sneak by thus listening; and although eager to hear more, turned quickly away, busying himself at the opposite side of the barn, where it would not be possible to play the eavesdropper in even so slight a degree. until now it had never come into his mind that this little woman, whose home was so exceedingly inviting, might give him an opportunity to remain, even for the space of twenty-four hours; but as it was thus suggested, he realized how happy both he and snip would be in such a place, and believed he could ask for nothing more in this world if it should be his good fortune to have an opportunity to stay. there was little probability the officers of the law would find him here, however rigorously the search might be continued, and it seemed as if every day spent in such a household must be filled with unalloyed pleasure. he stopped suddenly in his work as the thought came that it had already been decided he should have an invitation to remain, and a great joy came into his heart just for an instant, after which he forced it back resolutely, saying to himself: "a feller who would bother a good woman like aunt hannah deserves to be kicked. she's made up her mind to give me a chance jest 'cause she thinks it's something that ought'er be done; but i ain't goin' to play mean with her. it's lucky i happened to hear what was said, else i'd have jumped at the chance of stayin' when she told me i might." at that moment snip came into the barn eager to be petted by his master, and wearied with the fruitless chase after foolish and annoying birds. "it's tough on you, little man, 'cause a home like this is jest what you've been achin' for, an' they'd be awful good to you," seth whispered as he took the dog in his arms. "how would it be if i should sneak off an' leave you with 'em? i ought'er do it, snippey dear; but it would most break my heart to give up the only family i've got. an' that's where i'm mighty mean! you'd have a great time here, an' by stickin' to me there ain't much show for fun, unless things take a terribly sudden turn." snip licked his master's chin by way of reply, and seth pressed the little fellow yet more closely, saying with what was very like a sob: "i can't do it, little man, i can't do it! you must stick to me, else i'll be the lonesomest feller in all the world. we'll hold on here a spell, an' then hustle once more. it must be we'll find somebody who'll give us work, providin' the detectives don't nab me." then he turned his attention once more to the task set him by aunt hannah, and snip sat on the threshold of the door watching his master and snapping at the impudent sparrows, until gladys came out with an invitation for the dog to escort her to a neighbor's house, where she was forced to go with a message. "i'll take good care of him," she called to seth, as snip ran on joyously in advance, "and bring him back before you finish sweeping the barn." "i'm not afraid of his comin' to any harm while you keep an eye on him; but i believe he's beginnin' to like you almost better'n he does me," seth replied, with a shade of sorrow in his tone, whereat gladys laughed merrily. then the boy continued his work with a will, and ample evidence of his labor was apparent when aunt hannah came out, looking very much like the fairy godmothers of "once upon a time" stories, despite the wrinkles on her placid face. "it looks very neat," she said approvingly. "i never would have believed a boy could be so handy with a broom! last spring i hired william dean, the son of a neighbor, to tidy up the barn and the yard; but it looked worse when he had finished than before." "have i earned the breakfast snip and i ate?" seth asked, pleased with her praise. "indeed you have, child, although there was no reason for doing anything of the kind. when we share with those who are less fortunate, we are doing no more than our duty, an' i don't like to think that you feel it necessary to pay for a mouthful of food." "it was the very nicest breakfast i ever had, miss--miss----" "you may call me 'aunt hannah,' for i'm an aunt to all the children in the neighborhood, accordin' to their way of thinking. would you be contented to stay here for a while, my dear?" "indeed i would!" was the emphatic reply, and then seth added, remembering the conversation he had overheard: "that is, i would if i could; but snip an' me have got to hunt for a chance to earn our livin', an' it won't do to think of loafin' here, even though it is such a fine place." aunt hannah smiled kindly and said, with a certain show of determination, as if forcing herself to an unwelcome decision: "you an' the little dog shall stay for a while, my boy, and perhaps you can find some kind of work nearabout; but if not, surely it won't increase my cost of living, for we'll have a garden, which is what i'm not able to attend to now i've grown so old. why did you leave the city, my child?" had it not been for that "praying before breakfast" seth would have invented some excuse for his flight; but now he could not bring himself, as he gazed into the kindly eyes, either to utter a deliberate falsehood or to make an equivocal reply. "i'd like to tell you," he said hesitatingly, after a long pause, during which aunt hannah looked out across the meadow rather than at him. "i'd like to tell you, but i can't," he repeated. "i don't believe you are a bad boy, seth," she said mildly, but without glancing toward him. the lad remained silent with downcast eyes, and when it seemed to him as if many minutes had passed, the little woman added: "perhaps you will tell me after we are better acquainted. gladys declares, an' i've come quite to her way of thinking, that you should remain with us for a time. i don't believe you could find work such as would pay for your board and lodging, unless it was with an old woman like me, and so we're to consider you and snip as members of the family." seth shook his head, feebly at first, for the temptation to accept the invitation was very great, and then decidedly, as if the decision he had arrived at could not be changed. "would you rather go away?" aunt hannah asked in surprise. "no, i wouldn't!" seth cried passionately, the tears coming dangerously near his eyelids. "i'd do anything in this world for the sake of havin' such a home as this; but all the same, snip an' i can't stay to bother you. we'll leave when he comes back." "listen to me, my child," and now the little woman spoke with a degree of firmness which sounded strangely from one so mild, "you are not to go away this day, no matter what may be done later. we will talk about my plan after dinner, and then perhaps you'll feel like explaining why you think it necessary to go further in search of work after i have given you a chance to earn what you and the dog may need." then gladys' voice was heard in the distance as she urged snip on in his pursuit of a butterfly, and aunt hannah went quickly into the dwelling, leaving seth gazing after her wistfully as he muttered: "i never believed there was such a good woman in this world!" chapter iv. the flight. neither gladys nor snip came into the barn immediately after their return, probably because the former had some report to make as to the message with which she had been entrusted, and seth was left alone to turn over in his mind all that aunt hannah had said. a very disagreeable half hour he spent in the conflict between what he believed to be his duty and his inclination. it seemed that all his troubles would be at an end if he might remain in that peaceful place, as the little woman had suggested, and he knew full well that he could never hope to find as pleasant an abiding place. as the matter presented itself to his mind, he was not at liberty to accept the generous invitation unless the story of why he left new york was first told; and once aunt hannah was aware that he had transgressed the law by passing counterfeit money, it seemed certain she would look upon him as a sinner too great for pardon. he believed it was better to go without explanations than be utterly cast off by the little woman whom he was rapidly beginning to love, and, in addition, forfeit her friendship forever. so long as she could only guess at the reasons for his flight, she might think of him kindly, and, perhaps, in time, he would be able to prove that he was worthy of confidence. "i'll come back when i'm a man, an' then she'll have to believe i didn't mean to do anything so terrible bad when i passed the lead nickel," he said to himself, in an effort to strengthen the resolution just made. "it would be mighty nice to live here, an' what a good time snip could have!" then he tried to convince himself that his pet should be left behind; but the thought of going away from that charming home--which might have been his but for the carelessness in handling the counterfeit money--leaving behind the only friend he had known for many a long day, brought the tears to his eyes again. "i'll have to take the poor little man with me, an' it'll come mighty rough on him!" he said with a sob. "i reckon he thinks this kind of fun, when he can chase butterflies an' birds to his heart's content, is goin' to last, an' he'll be dreadfully disappointed after we leave; but i couldn't get along without him!" gladys interrupted his mournful train of thought, and perhaps it was well, for the boy was rapidly working himself into a most melancholy frame of mind. she and snip came tearing into the barn as if there was no other aim in this life than enjoyment, and so startled the sorrowing seth that he arose to his feet in something very nearly resembling alarm. "if you jump like that i shall begin to think you are as nervous as aunt hannah," she cried with a merry laugh. "she insists that between snip and me there will no longer be any peace for her, unless we sober down very suddenly; but do you know, seth, that i've lived here with no other companion than the dear old woman so long, it seems as if some good fairy had sent this little fluff of white to make me happy. i had rather have him for a friend than all the children in the neighborhood, which isn't saying very much, in view of the fact that the two dean boys and malvinia stubbs are the only people of nearabout my age in this section of the country." "i believe snip thinks as much of you as you do of him," seth replied gloomily. "i never knew him to make friends with any one before; but perhaps that was because he saw only the fellers who liked to tease him. if i wasn't mighty mean, he'd stay here all the time." "of course he'll stay," gladys cried as she tossed the tiny dog in the air while he gave vent to an imitation growl. "aunt hannah and i have arranged it without so much as asking your permission. you two are to live here; snip's work is to enjoy himself with me, while you're to make a garden, the like of which won't be seen this side of new york. what do you think of settling down to being a farmer?" "i'd like it mighty well, but it can't be done." and seth gazed out through the open door, not daring to meet miss gladys' startled gaze. "wait till you've talked with aunt hannah," she exclaimed after the first burst of surprise had passed. "we've fixed everything, an' you'll find that there isn't a word for you to say." "i have talked with her," seth replied gloomily. "we'd both love to stay mighty well, but we can't." "i'd like to know why"; and now gladys was on her feet, looking sternly at the sorrowful guest. "neither you nor snip have got a home, an' here's one with the best woman who ever lived--that much i know to a certainty." "i believe you, but it can't be done." and the boy walked to the other side of the barn as if to end the conversation. gladys looked after him for a moment in mingled surprise and petulance, and then, taking snip in her arms, she walked straight into the house, leaving him seemingly more alone than ever. during the remainder of the forenoon neither aunt hannah, gladys, nor snip came out of the door, and then the little woman summoned him to dinner. seth entered the house much as a miserable culprit might have done, and, after making a toilet at the kitchen sink, sat down at the table in obedience to aunt hannah's instructions. this time he half expected she would pray, and was not mistaken. not having been taken by surprise, he heard every word, and his cheeks crimsoned with mingled shame and pleasure as she asked her heavenly father to bless and guide the homeless stranger who had come to them, inclining his heart to the right path. aunt hannah did not use many words in asking the blessing; but to seth each one was full of a meaning which could not be mistaken, and he knew she was pleading that he might be willing to confess his sins. perhaps if the good woman had asked at the conclusion of the prayer why he left new york, seth would have told her everything; but no word was spoken on the subject, and by the time dinner had come to an end he was more firmly convinced than ever that she could not forgive him for having passed the counterfeit money. nothing was said regarding his departure or the proposition that he should become a member of the household; but gladys gave the outlines of a journey she proposed making with snip that afternoon, and the heavy-hearted boy understood that it was not her purpose to return until nightfall. then aunt hannah asked if he felt equal to the task of spading up a small piece of ground behind the barn, where she counted on making a garden, and he could do no less than agree to undertake the task. therefore did it seem to him as if he was in duty bound to remain at the farm during the remainder of that day at least; but there was in his mind the fact that he must continue his aimless journey that very night, or be willing to give a detailed account of his wrongdoing. immediately after the meal had been brought to a close seth went out with the little woman to begin the work of making ready for a garden. when she had explained what was necessary to be done he labored at the task with feverish energy, for it seemed to him as if the task must be concluded before he would be at liberty to leave the farm, and go he must, because each moment was it becoming more nearly impossible to bring himself to confess why he and snip were fugitives. some of the neighbors called upon aunt hannah that afternoon, therefore she was forced to leave him alone after having described what must be done in order to make a garden of the unpromising looking land behind the barn; and he knew that gladys and snip would not return until time for supper, because the girl had plainly given him to understand as much during the conversation at the dinner-table. his hands were blistered, and his back ached because of the unaccustomed labor; but the work was completed to the best of his ability before sunset, and then aunt hannah found time to inspect the result of his toil. "i declare you have done as well as any man i could have hired, an' a good deal better than some!" she exclaimed, and a flush of joy overspread seth's face as he arose with difficulty from the grass where he had thrown himself for a much-needed rest. "william dean tried to do the same thing, but when he had finished the ground looked as if it had no more than been teased with a comb. you have turned it up till it is the same as ploughed, an' we'll have a famous garden, even though it is a bit late in the season." "i'm glad you like it," the boy replied. "of course i could do such work quicker after i'd tried my hand at it two or three times." "i didn't expect you'd more than half finish it in one day, an' now there's nothing to be done but put in the seeds. we'll see to that in the morning. i must go after white-face now, or we shall have a late supper. have you seen anything of gladys?" "she hasn't been here. say, why can't i get the cow?" "i suppose you might, for she's gentle as a kitten; but you must be tired." "i reckon it won't hurt me to walk from here to the pasture." and seth started off at full speed, delighted with the opportunity to perform yet more work, for there was in his mind the thought that aunt hannah would think kindly of him after he was gone, if he showed himself willing to do whatsoever came in his way. it did not seem exactly safe to walk deliberately up to that enormous beast of a cow; but since gladys had done so he advanced without any great show of fear, and was surprised at discovering that she willingly obeyed the pressure on her horns. he led her into the cleanly barn, threw some hay into the manger, and then fastened the chain around her neck, all the while wondering at his own bravery. "is there anything more for me to do?" he asked, as aunt hannah came out of the house with the three-legged stool and the glistening tin pail. "you've earned a rest, my dear," the little woman said cheerily. "sit down on the front porch and enjoy the sensation which comes to every one who has done a good day's work. we poor people can have what rich folks can't, or don't, which amounts to much the same thing." seth did not avail himself of this permission; but stood on the threshold of the "tie-up" watching the little woman force out the big streams of milk without apparent effort, until the desire to successfully perform the same task was strong upon him. "don't you think i could do that?" he asked timidly. "i dare say you might, my child; there isn't much of a knack to it." "would you be willin' to let me try?" "of course you shall," and aunt hannah got up quickly from the stool. "be gentle, and you'll have no trouble." seth failed at first; but after a few trials he was able to extract a thin stream of the foaming fluid, although white-face did not appear well pleased with his experiments. then aunt hannah took the matter in hand, and when she had finished seth carried the pail for her, arriving at the kitchen just as gladys and snip entered, both seemingly weary with their afternoon's frolic. bread, baked that forenoon, and warm milk, made up the evening meal, and again aunt hannah prayed for the stranger, much to his secret satisfaction. while they were at the table the little woman said, in a low tone of authority, such as did not seem suited to her lips: "you are to stay here until morning, seth, and then we will have another talk. i'm an old-fashioned old maid, an' believe in early to bed an' early to rise, therefore we don't light lamp or candle in the summer-time, unless some of the neighbors loiter later than usual. you are to sleep in the room over the kitchen, my boy, and when we have finished supper i guess you'll be glad to lie down, for spading up a piece of grass land isn't easy work." understanding from these remarks that he was expected to retire without delay, seth took snip in his arms immediately the meal had come to a close, and said, as he stood waiting to be shown the way to his room: "you've been mighty good to us, miss--aunt hannah, an' i hope we'll have a chance to pay you back some day." "you've done that this afternoon," gladys cried laughingly. "aunt hannah has wanted that garden spot spaded ever since the snow went away, and the boys around here were too lazy to do it. all hands, including snip, will have a share in the planting, and i wouldn't be surprised if we beat our neighbors, even though it is late for such work." seth would have liked to take leave of these two who had been so kind to him, for he was still determined to leave the house secretly as soon as was possible; but he did not dare say all that was in his mind lest his purpose be betrayed, and followed aunt hannah as she led the way to the room above the kitchen. "you won't forget to say your prayers," she said, kissing him good-night, an act which brought the tears to his eyes; and seth shook his head by way of promise, although never did he remember having done such a thing. after undressing, and when snip had been provided with a comfortable bed in the cushioned rocking-chair, seth attempted to do as he had promised, and found it an exceedingly difficult task. there was in his heart both thanksgiving and sorrow, but he could not give words to either, and after several vain efforts he said reverentially: "i hope aunt hannah will have just as snifty a time in this world as she deserves, for she's a dandy, if there ever was one!" then he crept between the lavender-scented sheets and gave himself up to the pleasure of gazing at his surroundings. never before had he seen such a room, so comfort-inviting and cleanly! there were two regular pillows on the bed, and each of them enclosed in a snowy white case which was most pleasing to the cheek, while the fragrant sheets seemed much too fine to be slept on. snip was quite as well satisfied with the surroundings as his master. the chair cushion was particularly soft, and he curled himself into a little ring with a sigh of content which told that if the question of leaving the morse farm might be decided by him, he and his master would remain there all their lives. weary, as seth was, he found it exceedingly difficult to prevent his eyes from closing in slumber; yet sleep was a luxury he could not indulge in at that time, lest he should not awaken at an hour when he might leave the dwelling without arousing the other inmates. perhaps it would have been wiser had he not undressed himself; but the temptation of getting into such a bed as aunt hannah had provided for his benefit was greater than he could withstand, therefore must he be exceedingly careful not to venture even upon the border of dreamland. it is needless to make any attempt at trying to describe seth's condition of mind, for it may readily be understood that his grief was great. more than once did he say to himself it would be better to tell aunt hannah all; but each time he understood, or believed he did, that by such a course he should not only be cutting himself off from all possibility of remaining longer at the farm, but would be forfeiting her friendship. to his mind he would be forced to leave the farm if he told the story, and he could not remain without doing so; therefore it seemed wisest to run away, thus avoiding a most painful scene. then came the time when his eyelids rebelled against remaining open; and in order to save himself from falling asleep it seemed necessary to get out of bed. crouching by the window, after having dressed himself, he gazed out over the broad fields that were bathed by the moonlight, and pictured to himself the pleasure of viewing them night after night with the knowledge that they formed a portion of his home. and then, such a revery being almost painful, he nerved himself for what was to be done by taking snip in his arms. the dog was sleeping soundly, and seth whispered in a voice which was far from being steady: "it's too bad, old man; but we can't help ourselves. you'll be sorry not to see gladys when you wake; but you won't feel half so bad as i shall, 'cause i know what a slim chance there is of our ever strikin' another place like this." then he opened the door softly, still holding snip in his arms. not a sound could be heard; he crept to the head of the stairs and listened intently. it was as if he and snip were the only occupants of the house. seth had no very clear idea as to how long he had been in the chamber; but it seemed as if at least two hours had passed since aunt hannah bade him good-night, and there was no reason why he should not begin the flight at once. with his hand on snip's head as a means of preventing the dog from growling in case any unusual sound was heard, seth began the descent of the stairs, creeping from one to the other with the utmost caution, while the boards creaked and groaned under his weight until it seemed certain both aunt hannah and gladys must be aroused. in trying to move yet more cautiously he staggered against the stair-rail, squeezing snip until the little fellow yelped sharply; and seth stood breathlessly awaiting some token that the mistress of the house had been alarmed. he was surprised because of hearing nothing; it appeared strange that any one could sleep while he was making such a noise, and yet the silence was as profound as before he began to descend. never had he believed a flight of stairs could be so long, and when it seemed as if he should be at the bottom, he had hardly gotten more than half-way down. the descent came to an end, however, as must all things in this world, and he groped his way toward the kitchen door, not so much as daring to breathe. once he fancied it was possible to distinguish a slight, rustling sound; but when he stopped all was silent as before, therefore the fugitive went on until his hand was on the kitchen door. the key was turned noiselessly in the lock; he raised the latch, and the door swung open with never a creak. the moonlight flooded that portion of the kitchen where he stood irresolute, as if even now believing it might be better to confess why he had been forced to come away from new york; and as he turned his head ever so slightly to listen, a sudden fear came upon him. he saw, not more than half a dozen paces distant, a human form advancing. a cry of fear burst from his lips, and he would have leaped out of the open door but that a gentle pressure on his shoulder restrained him. "where are you going, my child?" a kindly voice asked; and he knew that what he had mistaken for an apparition was none other than aunt hannah. seth could not speak; his mouth had suddenly become parched, and his knees trembled beneath him. he had been discovered while seemingly prowling around the house like a thief, and on the instant he realized in what way his actions might be misconstrued. "where are you going, seth dear?" "i wasn't--i had to run away, aunt hannah, an' that's the truth of it!" he cried passionately, suddenly recovering the use of his tongue. "why didn't you tell me at supper-time?" "i was afraid you and gladys would try to stop me, an' perhaps i couldn't stick to what i'd agreed on." "do you really want to leave us, seth?" "indeed i don't, aunt hannah! i'd give anything in this world if i could stay, for this is the very nicest place i ever was in. oh, indeed, i don't want to go away!" "then why not stay?" "i can't! i can't, 'cause i'd have to tell----" seth did not finish the sentence, but buried his face in snip's silky hair. "is it because you can't tell me why you left the city?" and the little woman laid her hand on the boy's shoulder with a motion not unlike a caress. seth nodded, but did not trust himself to speak. "then go right back to bed. you shall stay here, my dear, until the time comes when you can confide in me, and meanwhile i will not believe you have been guilty of any wickedness." chapter v. an accident. filled with shame and confusion, seth made no resistance when aunt hannah ordered him back to bed; but obeyed silently, moving stealthily as when he began the flight. he was trembling as with a sudden chill when he undressed and laid himself down, while snip lost no time in curling his tiny body into a good imitation of a ball, wondering, perhaps, why he had thus been needlessly disturbed in his "beauty sleep." seth was no longer capable of speculating upon the problem in which he had been involved through a lead nickel and an advertisement in the newspapers. he could only realize that aunt hannah had good reason to believe him a thief, or worse, otherwise she would not have been waiting to discover if he attempted to prowl around the house while she was supposed to be asleep, and his cheeks burned with shame at the thought. he wished that the night might never come to an end, and then he would not be forced to meet her face to face, as he must when the sun rose. "of course she'll tell gladys where she found me, an' both of 'em will believe i'm the worst feller that ever lived!" he whispered to himself; and then tears, bitter and scalding, flowed down his cheeks, moistening the spotless linen, but bringing some slight degree of comfort, because sleep quickly followed in their train. seth was awakened next morning by aunt hannah's voice, as she called gently: "it's time to get up, my dear. the sun is out looking for boys an' dogs, an' you mustn't disappoint him." snip ran eagerly down the stairs as if to greet some one for whom he had a great affection, and seth heard the little woman say to him: "i really believe gladys was in the right when she said i would come to like you almost as much as if you were a cat. do you want a saucer of milk?" "she won't talk so pleasantly when i get there," seth said to himself. "i'd rather take a sound flogging than have her look at me as if i was a thief!" the lad soon came to know aunt hannah better than to accuse her of being cruel even in the slightest degree. when he entered the kitchen she greeted him with a kindly smile, and said, much as if the events of the previous night were no more than a disagreeable dream: "you see i'm beginning to depend on you already, seth. gladys isn't up yet, and i've left white-face in the barn thinkin' you'd take her to the pasture. the grass is wet with dew, an' i'm gettin' so old that i don't dare take the chances of wetting my feet." seth did not wait to make his toilet, but ran swiftly to the barn, rejoicing because of the opportunity to perform some task. when the cow had been cared for he loitered around outside, picking up a stick here and a stone there as if it was of the highest importance that the lawn in front of the house be freed from litter of every kind before breakfast. his one desire was to avoid coming face to face with aunt hannah until it should be absolutely necessary, and while he was thus inventing work gladys came out in search of snip. seth understood at once that the girl was yet ignorant of his attempt to run away, and his heart swelled with gratitude toward the little woman who had thus far kept secret what he would have been ashamed to tell. just then snip was of far more importance in the eyes of aunt hannah's niece than was his master, and after a hasty "good-morning" she ran away with the dog at her heels for the accustomed exercise before breakfast. "come in an' wash your face, my dear. breakfast will be cooked by the time you are ready to eat it, and such work as you are doing may as well be left until a more convenient season." seth felt forced to obey this summons promptly; but he did not dare meet the little woman's glance. had he observed her closely, however, it would have been seen that she studiously avoided looking toward him. aunt hannah was averse to causing pain, even to the brutes which came in her way, and at this particular time she understood very much of what was in the boy's mind. seth feared lest in the "prayer before breakfast" some reference might be made to what he had attempted to do during the night; but his fears were groundless. the little woman asked that her father's blessing might fall upon the homeless; but the words were spoken in the same fervent, kindly tone as on the evening previous, and again the boy thanked her in his heart. when the morning meal had come to an end gladys was eager seth should join her and snip on an excursion through the grove where squirrels were said to be "thick as peas," and under almost any other circumstances the guest would have been delighted to accept the invitation; but now he insisted that there was very much work to be done before nightfall, which would force him to remain near the house. "we've only to plant the garden," aunt hannah interrupted, "an' then there's no reason why you shouldn't enjoy a stroll among the trees." seth remained silent, but determined to do all in his power to atone for what seemed to him very nearly a crime, and gladys decided that she must also take part in the sowing of the seeds. until noon the three, with snip as a most interested spectator, worked industriously, and then, as aunt hannah said, "there was nothing to be done save wait patiently until the sun and the rain had performed their portion of the task." seth did not join gladys and snip in their afternoon romp, but continued at his self-imposed tasks until night had come, doing quite as much work with his mind as his hands. twenty times over he resolved to tell the little woman exactly why he was forced to run away from new york, and as often decided he could not confess himself such a criminal as it seemed certain, because of the advertisement, he really was. "i couldn't stand it to have her look at me after she knew everything," he repeated again and again. there was no idea in his mind as to how the matter might end, save when now and then he had the faintest of faint hopes that perhaps she might forget, or learn the truth from some one other than himself. during three days he struggled between what he knew to be duty and his own inclination, and in all that time the little woman never showed by word or look that there was any disagreeable secret between them. seth tried to ease his conscience by working most industriously during every moment of daylight, and then came the time when it was absolutely impossible to find anything more for his hands to do. he had swept the barn floor until it was as clean as a broom could make it; the wood in the shed had been piled methodically; a goodly supply of kindlings were prepared, and not so much as a pebble was to be seen on the velvety lawn. gladys had tried in vain to entice him away from what she declared was useless labor, and snip did all within the power of a dog to coax his master into joining him in the jolly strolls among the trees or across the green fields, and yet seth remained nearabout the little house in a feverish search for something with which to employ his hands. "it's no use, snippey dear," he said on the fourth night of his stay at the farm, after the family had retired, "i can't stay an' not tell aunt hannah, an' it's certain we won't be allowed to stop more'n a minute after she knows the truth. if i could talk to her in the dark, when i couldn't see her face, it wouldn't seem quite so bad; but we go to bed so early there's no chance for that. we must have it out mighty soon, for i can't hang 'round here many hours longer without tellin' all about ourselves." he was not ready for bed, although an hour had passed since he bade aunt hannah and gladys good-night. the moon had gilded the rail fence, the shed, and the barn until they were transformed into fairy handiwork; the road gleamed like gold with an enamel of black marking the position of trees and bushes, and seth had gazed upon the wondrous picture without really being aware of time's flight. having repeated to snip that which was in his mind, the boy was on the point of making himself ready for a visit from the dream elves when he heard, apparently from the room below, what sounded like a fall, a smothered exclamation, and the splintering of glass. only for a single instant did he stand motionless, and then, realizing that some accident must have happened, he ran downstairs, snip following close behind, barking shrilly. once in the kitchen an exclamation of terror burst from his lips. the room was illumined by a line of fire, seemingly extending entirely across the floor, which was fringed by a dense smoke that rose nearly to the ceiling, and, beside the table, where she had evidently fallen, lay aunt hannah, struggling to smother with bare hands the yellow, dancing flames that had fastened upon her clothing. it needed not the fragments of glass and brass to tell seth that the little woman had accidentally fallen, breaking the lamp she carried, and that the fire was fed by oil. like a flash there came into his mind the memory of that night when dud wilson overturned a lamp on the floor of his news-stand, and he had heard it said then that the property might have been saved if the boys had smothered the flames with their coats, or any fabric of woollen, instead of trying to drown it out with water. he pulled off his coat in a twinkling, threw it over the prostrate woman, and added to the covering rag rugs from the floor, pressing them down firmly as he said, in a trembling voice, much as though speaking to a child: "don't get scared! we can't put the fire out with water; but i'll soon smother it." "you needn't bother about me, my child; but attend to the house! it would be dreadful if we should lose the dear old home!" "i'll get the best of this business in a jiffy; but it won't do to give you a chance of bein' burned." "there is no fire here now." and aunt hannah threw back the rugs, despite seth's hold upon them, to show that the flames were really quenched. "for mercy's sake, save the house! it's the only home i ever knew, an' my heart would be wellnigh broken if i lost it!" before she had ceased speaking seth was flinging rug after rug on the burning oil, for aunt hannah, like many another woman living in the country, had an ample supply of such floor coverings. not until he had entirely covered that line of flame, and had danced to and fro over the rugs to stamp out the last spark of fire, did he venture to open the outside door, and it was high time, for the pungent smoke filled the kitchen until it was exceedingly difficult to breathe. the little woman remained upon the floor where seth had first found her, and it was only after the night breeze was blowing through the room, carrying off the stifling vapor, that the boy had time to wonder why she made no effort to rise. "are you hurt?" he cried anxiously, running to her side. "never mind me until the fire is out." "there is no more fire, an' i'm bound to mind you! are you hurt?" "it doesn't seem possible, my dear, an' yet i can't use either ankle or wrist. of course the bones are not broken; but old people like me don't fall harmlessly as do children." seth was more alarmed now than when he saw the flames of the burning oil threatening the destruction of the building, and he dumbly wondered why gladys did not make her appearance. the first excitement was over, and now he had time in which to be frightened. "what can i do? oh, what can i do?" he cried, running to and fro, and then, hardly aware of his movements, he shouted loudly for gladys. "don't waken her!" aunt hannah cried warningly. "if you can't help me there is nothing she can do." "ain't she in the house?" seth asked nervously. he feared aunt hannah might die, and even though she was in no real danger, to stand idly by not knowing how to aid her was terrible. he failed to observe that snip was no longer in the room; but just at that moment his shrill barking was heard in an adjoining apartment, and seth knew the dog had gone to find his little playmate. "you mustn't get frightened after the danger is all over, my dear," aunt hannah said soothingly. "but for you the house would have been destroyed, and now we have nothing to fear." "but you can't get up!" seth wailed. "that wouldn't be a great misfortune compared with losing our home, even if i never got up again," the little woman said quietly. "but i'm not going to lie here. surely you can help me on to the couch." "tell me how to do it," seth cried eagerly, and at that moment gladys appeared in the doorway. "lean over so that i may put my arms around your neck," aunt hannah said, giving no heed to the girl's cry of alarm. "she fell an' hurt herself," seth said hurriedly to gladys, as he obeyed the little woman's injunction. and then, as the latter put her uninjured arm over his neck, he tried to aid the movement by clasping her waist. "if you can help me just a little bit we'll soon have her on the couch," he cried to gladys, who by this time was standing at his side. aunt hannah was a tiny woman, and the children, small though they were, did not find it an exceedingly difficult task to raise her bodily from the floor. then gladys lighted a lamp, and it was seen that, in addition to the injuries received by the fall, aunt hannah had been grievously burned. "yes, i'm in some pain," she said in reply to seth's anxious questioning; "but now that the house has been saved i have no right to complain. get some flour, gladys, and while you are putting it on the worst of the burns, perhaps seth will run over to mrs. dean an' ask if she can come here a few minutes." "where does mis' dean live?" the lad asked hurriedly, starting toward the door; and he was already outside when gladys replied: "it's the first house past the grove where snip and i went this afternoon!" seth gave no heed to his lameness as he ran at full speed down the road; the thought that now was the time when he might in some slight degree repay aunt hannah for having given shelter to him and snip, lending speed to his feet. the dean family had not yet retired when he arrived at the farmhouse, and, stopping only sufficiently long to tell in fewest possible words of what had happened, seth ran back to help gladys care for the invalid, for he was feverishly eager to have some part in the nursing. aunt hannah was on the couch with her wounds partially bandaged when the boy returned, and although her suffering must have been severe, that placid face was as serene as when he bade her good-night. "mis' dean is comin' right away. what can i do?" "nothing more, my dear," the little woman replied quietly. "you have been of such great service to me this night that i can never repay you." "please don't say that, aunt hannah," seth cried, his face flushing with shame as he remembered the past. "if i could only do somethin' real big, then perhaps you wouldn't think i was so awful bad." "i believe you to be a good boy, seth, and shall until you tell me to the contrary. even then," she added with a smile, "i fancy it will be possible to find a reasonable excuse." the arrival of mrs. dean put an end to any further conversation, and seth was called upon to aid in carrying aunt hannah to the foreroom, in which was the best bed, although the little woman protested against anything of the kind. "i am as well off in my own bed, sarah dean. don't treat me as if i was a child who didn't know what was best." "you are goin' into the foreroom, hannah morse, an' that's all there is about it. that bed hasn't been used since the year your brother benjamin was at home, an' i've always said that if anything happened to you, an' i had charge of affairs, you should get some comfort out of the feathers you earned pickin' berries. we'll take her into the foreroom, boy, for it's the most cheerful, an' she deserves the best that's goin'." "you can bet she does!" seth exclaimed with great emphasis; and then he gave all his attention to obeying the many commands which issued from mrs. dean's mouth. when the little woman had been disposed of according to her neighbor's ideas of comfort, seth was directed to build a fire in the kitchen stove; gladys received instructions to bring all the old linen to be found; and snip was ordered into the shed. aunt hannah protested vehemently against this last order, with the result that the dog was banished to gladys' chamber, and then mrs. dean proceeded to attend to the invalid without giving her a voice in any matter, however nearly it might concern herself. seth took up his station in the kitchen when other neighbors arrived, summoned most likely by mr. dean, and here gladys joined him after what had seemed to the boy a very long time. "how is she?" he asked when the girl came softly into the room as if thinking he might be asleep. "her hands and arms are burned very badly. why, seth, there are blisters as big as my hand, and mrs. dean says she suffers terribly; but the dear old woman hasn't made the least little complaint." "that's 'cause she's so good. if i was like her i needn't bother my head 'bout what was goin' to happen after i died. it would be a funny kind of an angel who wasn't glad to see aunt hannah!" "she'd have burned to death but for you." "that ain't so, gladys. i didn't do very much, 'cept throw the rugs an' my coat over her." "she's just been telling mrs. dean that you saved her life, and the house." "did she really?" seth cried excitedly. "did she say it in them very same words?" "aunt hannah made it sound a good deal better than i can. she said god sent you to this house to help her in the time of trouble, an' she's goin' to see that you always have a home here." "wasn't she kind'er out of her head?" seth asked quickly. "i've heard mother hyde say that folks got crazy-like when they ached pretty bad." "aunt hannah knew every word she was saying, and it's true that she might have burned to death if you hadn't been in the house, for i never heard a thing till snippey came into my room barking." "i hope i did do as much; but it don't seem jest true." "don't you think the house would have burned if some one hadn't put out the fire very quickly?" "perhaps so, 'cause the flames jumped up mighty high." "and since she couldn't move, wouldn't she have been burned to death?" "i hope so." "why, seth barrows, how wicked you are!" "no, no, gladys, i didn't mean i hoped she'd have burned to death; but i hoped i really an' truly saved her life, 'cause then she won't jump down on me so hard when i tell her." "tell her what?" "why snip an' i had to run away from new york." "is it something you're ashamed of?" gladys asked quickly and in surprise. seth nodded, while the flush of shame crept up into his cheeks. gladys gazed at him earnestly while one might have counted ten, and then said, speaking slowly and distinctly: "i don't believe it. aunt hannah says you're the best boy she ever saw; an' she knows." "did aunt hannah tell you that, or are you tryin' to stuff me?" and seth rose to his feet excitedly. "i hope you don't think i'd tell a lie?" "of course i don't, gladys; but if you only knew how much it means to me--aunt hannah's sayin' what you claim she did--there wouldn't be any wonder i had hard work to believe it." "she said to me those very same words----" "what ones?" "that you was the best boy she ever saw, an' it was only yesterday afternoon, when you were splitting kindling wood, that she said it." then, suddenly, to gladys' intense surprise, seth dropped his head on his arm and burst into a flood of tears. chapter vi. sunshine. mrs. dean had taken entire charge of the invalid and the house, and so many of the neighbors insisted on aiding her that gladys and seth were pushed aside as if they had been strangers. at midnight, when one of the volunteer nurses announced that aunt hannah was resting as comfortably as could be expected under the circumstances, gladys, in obedience to mrs. dean's peremptory command, went to bed; but seth positively refused to leave the kitchen. "somethin' that i could do might turn up, an' i count on bein' ready for it," he said when the neighbor urged him to lie down. "snip an' i'll stay here; an' if we get sleepy, what's to hinder our takin' a nap on the couch?" so eager was the boy for an opportunity to serve aunt hannah that he resolutely kept his eyes open during the remainder of the night lest the volunteer nurses should fail to waken him if his services were needed; and to accomplish this he made frequent excursions out of doors, where the wind swept the "sand" from his eyes. with the first light of dawn he set about effacing so far as might be possible all traces of fire from the kitchen, and was washing the floor when mrs. dean came out from the foreroom. "well, i do declare!" she exclaimed in surprise. "hannah morse said you was a handy boy 'round the house, but this is a little more'n i expected. i wish my william could take a few lessons from you." "i didn't count on gettin' the floor very clean," seth replied modestly, but secretly delighted with the unequivocal praise. "if the oil and smut is taken off it'll be easier to put things into shape." "you're doin' wonderfully, my boy, an' when i tell hannah morse, she'll be pleased, 'cause a speck of dirt anywhere about the house does fret her mortally bad." seth did not venture to look up lest mrs. dean should see the joy in his eyes, for to his mind the good woman could do him no greater service than give the invalid an account of his desire to be useful in the household. "is aunt hannah burned very much?" he asked, as the nurse set about making herself a cup of tea. "i allow it'll be a full month before she gets around again. at first i was afraid she'd broken some bones; but mrs. stubbs declares it's only a bad sprain. it seems that she had a headache, an' came for the camphor bottle, when she slipped an' fell against the table. the wonder to me is that this house wasn't burned to the ground." then mrs. dean questioned seth as to himself, and his reasons for coming into the country in search of work; but the boy did not consider it necessary to give any more information than pleased him, although the good woman was most searching in her inquiries. then gladys entered the kitchen, and the two children made preparations for breakfast, after seth had brought to an end his self-imposed task of washing the floor. mr. dean came over to milk white-face, and seth insisted that he be allowed to try his hand at the work, claiming that if aunt hannah was to be a helpless invalid during a full month, as mrs. dean had predicted, it was absolutely necessary he be able to care for the cow. the old adage that "a willing pupil is an apt one" was verified in this case, for the lad succeeded so well in his efforts that mr. dean declared it would not be necessary for him to come to the morse farm again, so far as caring for the cow was concerned. very proud was seth when he brought the pail of foaming milk into the kitchen with the announcement that he had done nearly all the work, and gladys ran to tell aunt hannah what she considered exceedingly good news. during the next two days either mrs. dean or mrs. stubbs ruled over the morse household by virtue of their supposed rights as nurses, and in all this time seth had not been allowed to see the invalid. gladys visited the foreroom from time to time, reporting that aunt hannah was "doing as well as could be expected," and seth had reason to believe the little woman's suffering would now abate unless some unexpected change in her condition prevented. the neighbors sent newspapers and books for gladys to read to her aunt during such moments as she was able to listen, and while the girl was thus employed seth busied himself in the kitchen, taking great pride in keeping every article neat and cleanly, as aunt hannah herself would have done. then came the hour which the boy had been looking forward to with mingled hope and fear. he had fully decided to tell all his story to the little woman who had been so kind to him, and was resolved that the unpleasant task should be accomplished at the earliest opportunity. it was nearly noon; the good neighbors were at their own homes for a brief visit, and gladys came from the foreroom, where she had been reading the daily paper aloud, saying to seth: "aunt hannah thinks i ought to run out of doors a little while because i have stayed in the house so long. there isn't the least bit of need; but i must go, else she'll worry herself sick. she says you can sit with her, an' i'll take snippey with me, for he's needing fresh air more than i am." just for a moment seth hesitated; the time had come when he must, if ever, carry his good resolutions into effect, and there was little doubt in his mind but that aunt hannah would insist upon his leaving the farm without delay once she knew all his wickedness. gladys did not give him very much time for reflection. with snip at her heels she hurried down the road, and seth knew he must not leave the invalid alone many moments. aunt hannah's eyes were open when he entered the foreroom, and but for that fact he might almost have believed she was dead, so pale was her face. the bandaged hands were outside the coverings, and seth had been told that she could not move them unaided, except at the cost of most severe pain. "i knew you would be forced to come when gladys went out, and that was why i sent her. we two--you an' i--need to have a quiet chat together, and there is little opportunity unless we are alone in the house." seth's face was flushed crimson; he believed aunt hannah had come to the conclusion that he must not be allowed to remain at the farm any longer unless he confessed why it had been necessary to leave new york, and his one desire was to speak before she should be able to make a demand. "i ought'er----" he stammered and stopped, unable to begin exactly as he desired, and the little woman said quietly, but in a tone which told that the words came from her heart: "you have saved the old home, an' my life as well, seth. even if i had hesitated at making you one of the family, i could not do so now, after owing you so much." "don't talk like that, aunt hannah! don't tell 'bout what you owe me!" seth cried tearfully. "it's the other way, an' snip an' i are mighty lucky, if for no other reason than that we've seen you. wait a minute," he pleaded as the invalid was about to speak. "ever since you got hurt i've wanted to tell everything you asked the other day, an' i promised snip an' myself that i'd do it the very first chance. if it----" "there is no need of your tellin' me, my child, unless you really think it necessary. i have no doubts as to your honesty, and truly hope that your wanderings are over." "we shall have to go; but i'm bound to tell the truth now, 'cause i know you think i was tryin' to steal somethin' when we were only goin' to run away so's you wouldn't know what i've done." "my dear boy," and aunt hannah vainly tried to raise her head, "i never thought for a single minute that you came downstairs for any other purpose than to leave the house secretly." "an' that's jest the truth. now don't say a word till i've told you all about it, an' please not look at me." then, speaking hurriedly lest she should interrupt him in what was an exceedingly difficult task, seth told of the advertisement, of the counterfeit money he had unwittingly passed, and of his flight, aided by teddy and tim. "i didn't mean to do it," he concluded, amid his sobs; "but i reckon i'd tried to get rid of it some time, 'cause i couldn't afford to lose so much money. of course they'll put me in jail, if the detectives catch me, an' if i should be locked up for ever so many years, won't you let gladys take care of poor little snippey?" "come here an' kiss me, seth," aunt hannah said softly. "i wish i could put my hand on your head! and you've been frightened out of your wits because of that counterfeit nickel?" she added when he had obeyed. "you poor little child! if you had told me, your troubles would soon have come to an end; but you must understand that in this world the only honest course is to atone for your faults, rather than run away from them. the good book says that 'your sins shall find you out,' and it is true, my dear, as true as is every word that has come to us from god. but i'm not allowin' that you have committed any grievous sin in this matter. do you know, gladys read your story in the paper before i sent her for a walk, and that is why i wanted to be alone with you." seth looked up in surprise which was almost bewilderment, and aunt hannah continued with a bright smile that was like unto the sunshine after a shower: "take up the newspaper lying on the table. i told gladys to fold it so you might find the article i wanted you to read." seth did as she directed, but without glancing at the printed sheet. "can you read, dear?" "not very well, 'cause i have to spell out the big words." "hold it before my eyes while i make the attempt. there isn't very much of a story; but it will mean a great deal to you, i hope." seth was wholly at a loss to understand the little woman's meaning; but he did as she directed, and listened without any great show of enthusiasm to the following: messrs. symonds & symonds, the well-known attorneys of pine street, are willing to confess that they are not well informed regarding the character of the average newsboy of this city, and by such ignorance have defeated their own ends. several days ago the gentlemen were notified by a professional brother in san francisco that a client of his, lately deceased, had bequeathed to one seth barrows the sum of five thousand dollars. all the information that could be given concerning the heir was that he had been living with a certain family in jersey city, and was now believed to be selling newspapers in this city. his age was stated as about eleven years, and he owed his good fortune to the fact that the dead man was his uncle. "it is not a simple matter to find any particular street merchant in new york city; but messrs. symonds & symonds began their search by advertising in the newspapers for the lad. as has been since learned, the friends of the young heir saw the notice which had been inserted by the attorneys, and straightway believed the lad was wanted because of some crime committed. the boy himself must have had a guilty conscience, for he fled without delay, carrying with him into exile a small white terrier, his only worldly possession. the moral of this incident is, that when you want to find a boy of the streets, be careful to state exactly why you desire to see him, otherwise the game may give you the slip rather than take chances of being brought face to face with the officers of the law." it was not until aunt hannah had concluded that seth appeared to understand he was the boy referred to, and then he asked excitedly: "do you suppose the seth barrows told about there can be me?" "of course, my dear. isn't this your story just as you have repeated it to me?" "but there isn't anybody who'd leave me so much money as that, aunt hannah! there's a big mistake somewhere." "do you remember of ever hearing that you had an uncle in california?" "indeed i don't. i thought snip was all the relation i had in the world." "why did the man in jersey city allow you to live with him?" "i don't know. i had pretty good clothes then, an' didn't have to work, 'cause i was too small." "well," the little woman said with a sigh, as if the exertion of talking had wearied her, "i don't pretend to be able to straighten out the snarl; but i'm certain you are the boy spoken of in the newspaper story, for it isn't reasonable to suppose that two lads of the same age have lately run away from new york because of an advertisement. the money must be yours, my dear, and instead of being a homeless wanderer, you're quite a wealthy gentleman." "i wouldn't take the chances of goin' to see about it," seth said thoughtfully, "'cause what we've read may be only a trap to catch me." "now, don't be too suspicious, my dear. i'm not countin' on your going into that wicked city just yet. i've sent for nathan dean, an' you may be sure he'll get at the bottom of the matter, for he's a master hand at such work." then mrs. dean entered to take up her duties of nurse once more, and seth went into the barn, where he could be alone to think over the strange turn which his affairs appeared to be taking. gladys joined him half an hour later, and asked abruptly: "what did aunt hannah say to you?" "why do you think she counted on talkin' to me?" "because i read that story in the newspaper. then she wanted me to go out for a walk, and said i'd better ask mr. dean to come over this afternoon. i couldn't help knowing it was about you; but didn't say anything to her because mrs. dean thinks she oughtn't to be excited. did you tell her why you and snippey ran away?" "of course i did, an' was countin' on doin' that same thing the first chance i had to speak with her alone, though i made sure she'd send me away." then seth repeated that which he had told aunt hannah, and while he was thus engaged mr. dean entered the house. during the two days which followed, gladys and seth held long conversations regarding the possible good fortune which might come to the latter; but nothing definite was known until the hour when aunt hannah was allowed to sit in an easy-chair for the first time since the accident. then it was that mr. dean returned from new york, and came to make his report. there was no longer any question but that it was really seth's uncle who had lately died in san francisco, or that he had bequeathed the sum of five thousand dollars to his nephew. it appeared, according to mr. dean's story, as learned from messrs. symonds & symonds, that daniel barrows had cared for his brother's child to the extent of paying richard genet of jersey city a certain sum of money each year to provide for and clothe the lad. mr. genet having died suddenly, and without leaving anything to show whom seth had claims upon, the boy was left to his own devices, while his uncle, because of carelessness or indifference, made no effort to learn what might have become of the child. there were certain formalities of law to be complied with before the inheritance would be paid, among which was the naming of a guardian for the heir. aunt hannah declared that it was her duty as well as pleasure to make the lame boy one of her family, and to such end mr. dean had several conferences with symonds & symonds, after which the little woman was duly appointed guardian of the heir. there is little more that can be told regarding those who now live on the morse farm, for the very good reason that all which has been related took place only a few months ago; but at some time in the future, if the readers so please, it shall be the duty of the author to set down what befell aunt hannah, seth, gladys, and snip after the inheritance was paid. that they were a very happy family goes without saying, for who could be discontented or fretful in aunt hannah's home? and in the days to come, when father time lays his hand heavily upon the little woman, seth knows that then, if not before, he can repay her in some degree for the kindness shown when he and snip were fugitives, fleeing from nothing worse than a newspaper advertisement. the end. [illustration: the king had the eyes he longed to see.] the lost prince by frances hodgson burnett with four illustrations by maurice l. bower contents i the new lodgers at no. philibert place ii a young citizen of the world iii the legend of the lost prince iv the rat v "silence is still the order" vi the drill and the secret party vii "the lamp is lighted!" viii an exciting game ix "it is not a game" x the rat--and samavia xi "come with me" xii "only two boys" xiii loristan attends a drill of the squad xiv marco does not answer xv a sound in a dream xvi the rat to the rescue xvii "it is a very bad sign" xviii "cities and faces" xix "that is one!" xx marco goes to the opera xxi "help!" xxii the night vigil xxiii the silver horn xxiv "how shall we find him?" xxv a voice in the night xxvi across the frontier xxvii "it is the lost prince! it is ivor!" xxviii "extra! extra! extra!" xxix 'twixt night and morning xxx the game is at an end xxxi "the son of stefan loristan" the lost prince i the new lodgers at no. philibert place there are many dreary and dingy rows of ugly houses in certain parts of london, but there certainly could not be any row more ugly or dingier than philibert place. there were stories that it had once been more attractive, but that had been so long ago that no one remembered the time. it stood back in its gloomy, narrow strips of uncared-for, smoky gardens, whose broken iron railings were supposed to protect it from the surging traffic of a road which was always roaring with the rattle of busses, cabs, drays, and vans, and the passing of people who were shabbily dressed and looked as if they were either going to hard work or coming from it, or hurrying to see if they could find some of it to do to keep themselves from going hungry. the brick fronts of the houses were blackened with smoke, their windows were nearly all dirty and hung with dingy curtains, or had no curtains at all; the strips of ground, which had once been intended to grow flowers in, had been trodden down into bare earth in which even weeds had forgotten to grow. one of them was used as a stone-cutter's yard, and cheap monuments, crosses, and slates were set out for sale, bearing inscriptions beginning with "sacred to the memory of." another had piles of old lumber in it, another exhibited second-hand furniture, chairs with unsteady legs, sofas with horsehair stuffing bulging out of holes in their covering, mirrors with blotches or cracks in them. the insides of the houses were as gloomy as the outside. they were all exactly alike. in each a dark entrance passage led to narrow stairs going up to bedrooms, and to narrow steps going down to a basement kitchen. the back bedroom looked out on small, sooty, flagged yards, where thin cats quarreled, or sat on the coping of the brick walls hoping that sometime they might feel the sun; the front rooms looked over the noisy road, and through their windows came the roar and rattle of it. it was shabby and cheerless on the brightest days, and on foggy or rainy ones it was the most forlorn place in london. at least that was what one boy thought as he stood near the iron railings watching the passers-by on the morning on which this story begins, which was also the morning after he had been brought by his father to live as a lodger in the back sitting-room of the house no. . he was a boy about twelve years old, his name was marco loristan, and he was the kind of boy people look at a second time when they have looked at him once. in the first place, he was a very big boy--tall for his years, and with a particularly strong frame. his shoulders were broad and his arms and legs were long and powerful. he was quite used to hearing people say, as they glanced at him, "what a fine, big lad!" and then they always looked again at his face. it was not an english face or an american one, and was very dark in coloring. his features were strong, his black hair grew on his head like a mat, his eyes were large and deep set, and looked out between thick, straight, black lashes. he was as un-english a boy as one could imagine, and an observing person would have been struck at once by a sort of _silent_ look expressed by his whole face, a look which suggested that he was not a boy who talked much. this look was specially noticeable this morning as he stood before the iron railings. the things he was thinking of were of a kind likely to bring to the face of a twelve-year-old boy an unboyish expression. he was thinking of the long, hurried journey he and his father and their old soldier servant, lazarus, had made during the last few days--the journey from russia. cramped in a close third-class railway carriage, they had dashed across the continent as if something important or terrible were driving them, and here they were, settled in london as if they were going to live forever at no. philibert place. he knew, however, that though they might stay a year, it was just as probable that, in the middle of some night, his father or lazarus might waken him from his sleep and say, "get up--dress yourself quickly. we must go at once." a few days later, he might be in st. petersburg, berlin, vienna, or budapest, huddled away in some poor little house as shabby and comfortless as no. philibert place. he passed his hand over his forehead as he thought of it and watched the busses. his strange life and his close association with his father had made him much older than his years, but he was only a boy, after all, and the mystery of things sometimes weighed heavily upon him, and set him to deep wondering. in not one of the many countries he knew had he ever met a boy whose life was in the least like his own. other boys had homes in which they spent year after year; they went to school regularly, and played with other boys, and talked openly of the things which happened to them, and the journeys they made. when he remained in a place long enough to make a few boy-friends, he knew he must never forget that his whole existence was a sort of secret whose safety depended upon his own silence and discretion. this was because of the promises he had made to his father, and they had been the first thing he remembered. not that he had ever regretted anything connected with his father. he threw his black head up as he thought of that. none of the other boys had such a father, not one of them. his father was his idol and his chief. he had scarcely ever seen him when his clothes had not been poor and shabby, but he had also never seen him when, despite his worn coat and frayed linen, he had not stood out among all others as more distinguished than the most noticeable of them. when he walked down a street, people turned to look at him even oftener than they turned to look at marco, and the boy felt as if it was not merely because he was a big man with a handsome, dark face, but because he looked, somehow, as if he had been born to command armies, and as if no one would think of disobeying him. yet marco had never seen him command any one, and they had always been poor, and shabbily dressed, and often enough ill-fed. but whether they were in one country or another, and whatsoever dark place they seemed to be hiding in, the few people they saw treated him with a sort of deference, and nearly always stood when they were in his presence, unless he bade them sit down. "it is because they know he is a patriot, and patriots are respected," the boy had told himself. he himself wished to be a patriot, though he had never seen his own country of samavia. he knew it well, however. his father had talked to him about it ever since that day when he had made the promises. he had taught him to know it by helping him to study curious detailed maps of it--maps of its cities, maps of its mountains, maps of its roads. he had told him stories of the wrongs done its people, of their sufferings and struggles for liberty, and, above all, of their unconquerable courage. when they talked together of its history, marco's boy-blood burned and leaped in his veins, and he always knew, by the look in his father's eyes, that his blood burned also. his countrymen had been killed, they had been robbed, they had died by thousands of cruelties and starvation, but their souls had never been conquered, and, through all the years during which more powerful nations crushed and enslaved them, they never ceased to struggle to free themselves and stand unfettered as samavians had stood centuries before. "why do we not live there," marco had cried on the day the promises were made. "why do we not go back and fight? when i am a man, i will be a soldier and die for samavia." "we are of those who must _live_ for samavia--working day and night," his father had answered; "denying ourselves, training our bodies and souls, using our brains, learning the things which are best to be done for our people and our country. even exiles may be samavian soldiers--i am one, you must be one." "are we exiles?" asked marco. "yes," was the answer. "but even if we never set foot on samavian soil, we must give our lives to it. i have given mine since i was sixteen. i shall give it until i die." "have you never lived there?" said marco. a strange look shot across his father's face. "no," he answered, and said no more. marco watching him, knew he must not ask the question again. the next words his father said were about the promises. marco was quite a little fellow at the time, but he understood the solemnity of them, and felt that he was being honored as if he were a man. "when you are a man, you shall know all you wish to know," loristan said. "now you are a child, and your mind must not be burdened. but you must do your part. a child sometimes forgets that words may be dangerous. you must promise never to forget this. wheresoever you are; if you have playmates, you must remember to be silent about many things. you must not speak of what i do, or of the people who come to see me. you must not mention the things in your life which make it different from the lives of other boys. you must keep in your mind that a secret exists which a chance foolish word might betray. you are a samavian, and there have been samavians who have died a thousand deaths rather than betray a secret. you must learn to obey without question, as if you were a soldier. now you must take your oath of allegiance." he rose from his seat and went to a corner of the room. he knelt down, turned back the carpet, lifted a plank, and took something from beneath it. it was a sword, and, as he came back to marco, he drew it out from its sheath. the child's strong, little body stiffened and drew itself up, his large, deep eyes flashed. he was to take his oath of allegiance upon a sword as if he were a man. he did not know that his small hand opened and shut with a fierce understanding grip because those of his blood had for long centuries past carried swords and fought with them. loristan gave him the big bared weapon, and stood erect before him. "repeat these words after me sentence by sentence!" he commanded. and as he spoke them marco echoed each one loudly and clearly. "the sword in my hand--for samavia! "the heart in my breast--for samavia! "the swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of my life--for samavia. "here grows a man for samavia. "god be thanked!" then loristan put his hand on the child's shoulder, and his dark face looked almost fiercely proud. "from this hour," he said, "you and i are comrades at arms." and from that day to the one on which he stood beside the broken iron railings of no. philibert place, marco had not forgotten for one hour. ii a young citizen of the world he had been in london more than once before, but not to the lodgings in philibert place. when he was brought a second or third time to a town or city, he always knew that the house he was taken to would be in a quarter new to him, and he should not see again the people he had seen before. such slight links of acquaintance as sometimes formed themselves between him and other children as shabby and poor as himself were easily broken. his father, however, had never forbidden him to make chance acquaintances. he had, in fact, told him that he had reasons for not wishing him to hold himself aloof from other boys. the only barrier which must exist between them must be the barrier of silence concerning his wanderings from country to country. other boys as poor as he was did not make constant journeys, therefore they would miss nothing from his boyish talk when he omitted all mention of his. when he was in russia, he must speak only of russian places and russian people and customs. when he was in france, germany, austria, or england, he must do the same thing. when he had learned english, french, german, italian, and russian he did not know. he had seemed to grow up in the midst of changing tongues which all seemed familiar to him, as languages are familiar to children who have lived with them until one scarcely seems less familiar than another. he did remember, however, that his father had always been unswerving in his attention to his pronunciation and method of speaking the language of any country they chanced to be living in. "you must not seem a foreigner in any country," he had said to him. "it is necessary that you should not. but when you are in england, you must not know french, or german, or anything but english." once, when he was seven or eight years old, a boy had asked him what his father's work was. "his own father is a carpenter, and he asked me if my father was one," marco brought the story to loristan. "i said you were not. then he asked if you were a shoemaker, and another one said you might be a bricklayer or a tailor--and i didn't know what to tell them." he had been out playing in a london street, and he put a grubby little hand on his father's arm, and clutched and almost fiercely shook it. "i wanted to say that you were not like their fathers, not at all. i knew you were not, though you were quite as poor. you are not a bricklayer or a shoemaker, but a patriot--you could not be only a bricklayer--you!" he said it grandly and with a queer indignation, his black head held up and his eyes angry. loristan laid his hand against his mouth. "hush! hush!" he said. "is it an insult to a man to think he may be a carpenter or make a good suit of clothes? if i could make our clothes, we should go better dressed. if i were a shoemaker, your toes would not be making their way into the world as they are now." he was smiling, but marco saw his head held itself high, too, and his eyes were glowing as he touched his shoulder. "i know you did not tell them i was a patriot," he ended. "what was it you said to them?" "i remembered that you were nearly always writing and drawing maps, and i said you were a writer, but i did not know what you wrote--and that you said it was a poor trade. i heard you say that once to lazarus. was that a right thing to tell them?" "yes. you may always say it if you are asked. there are poor fellows enough who write a thousand different things which bring them little money. there is nothing strange in my being a writer." so loristan answered him, and from that time if, by any chance, his father's means of livelihood were inquired into, it was simple enough and true enough to say that he wrote to earn his bread. in the first days of strangeness to a new place, marco often walked a great deal. he was strong and untiring, and it amused him to wander through unknown streets, and look at shops, and houses, and people. he did not confine himself to the great thoroughfares, but liked to branch off into the side streets and odd, deserted-looking squares, and even courts and alleyways. he often stopped to watch workmen and talk to them if they were friendly. in this way he made stray acquaintances in his strollings, and learned a good many things. he had a fondness for wandering musicians, and, from an old italian who had in his youth been a singer in opera, he had learned to sing a number of songs in his strong, musical boy-voice. he knew well many of the songs of the people in several countries. it was very dull this first morning, and he wished that he had something to do or some one to speak to. to do nothing whatever is a depressing thing at all times, but perhaps it is more especially so when one is a big, healthy boy twelve years old. london as he saw it in the marylebone road seemed to him a hideous place. it was murky and shabby-looking, and full of dreary-faced people. it was not the first time he had seen the same things, and they always made him feel that he wished he had something to do. suddenly he turned away from the gate and went into the house to speak to lazarus. he found him in his dingy closet of a room on the fourth floor at the back of the house. "i am going for a walk," he announced to him. "please tell my father if he asks for me. he is busy, and i must not disturb him." lazarus was patching an old coat as he often patched things--even shoes sometimes. when marco spoke, he stood up at once to answer him. he was very obstinate and particular about certain forms of manner. nothing would have obliged him to remain seated when loristan or marco was near him. marco thought it was because he had been so strictly trained as a soldier. he knew that his father had had great trouble to make him lay aside his habit of saluting when they spoke to him. "perhaps," marco had heard loristan say to him almost severely, once when he had forgotten himself and had stood at salute while his master passed through a broken-down iron gate before an equally broken-down-looking lodging-house--"perhaps you can force yourself to remember when i tell you that it is not safe--_it is not safe_! you put us in danger!" it was evident that this helped the good fellow to control himself. marco remembered that at the time he had actually turned pale, and had struck his forehead and poured forth a torrent of samavian dialect in penitence and terror. but, though he no longer saluted them in public, he omitted no other form of reverence and ceremony, and the boy had become accustomed to being treated as if he were anything but the shabby lad whose very coat was patched by the old soldier who stood "at attention" before him. "yes, sir," lazarus answered. "where was it your wish to go?" marco knitted his black brows a little in trying to recall distinct memories of the last time he had been in london. "i have been to so many places, and have seen so many things since i was here before, that i must begin to learn again about the streets and buildings i do not quite remember." "yes, sir," said lazarus. "there _have_ been so many. i also forget. you were but eight years old when you were last here." "i think i will go and find the royal palace, and then i will walk about and learn the names of the streets," marco said. "yes, sir," answered lazarus, and this time he made his military salute. marco lifted his right hand in recognition, as if he had been a young officer. most boys might have looked awkward or theatrical in making the gesture, but he made it with naturalness and ease, because he had been familiar with the form since his babyhood. he had seen officers returning the salutes of their men when they encountered each other by chance in the streets, he had seen princes passing sentries on their way to their carriages, more august personages raising the quiet, recognizing hand to their helmets as they rode through applauding crowds. he had seen many royal persons and many royal pageants, but always only as an ill-clad boy standing on the edge of the crowd of common people. an energetic lad, however poor, cannot spend his days in going from one country to another without, by mere every-day chance, becoming familiar with the outer life of royalties and courts. marco had stood in continental thoroughfares when visiting emperors rode by with glittering soldiery before and behind them, and a populace shouting courteous welcomes. he knew where in various great capitals the sentries stood before kingly or princely palaces. he had seen certain royal faces often enough to know them well, and to be ready to make his salute when particular quiet and unattended carriages passed him by. "it is well to know them. it is well to observe everything and to train one's self to remember faces and circumstances," his father had said. "if you were a young prince or a young man training for a diplomatic career, you would be taught to notice and remember people and things as you would be taught to speak your own language with elegance. such observation would be your most practical accomplishment and greatest power. it is as practical for one man as another--for a poor lad in a patched coat as for one whose place is to be in courts. as you cannot be educated in the ordinary way, you must learn from travel and the world. you must lose nothing--forget nothing." it was his father who had taught him everything, and he had learned a great deal. loristan had the power of making all things interesting to fascination. to marco it seemed that he knew everything in the world. they were not rich enough to buy many books, but loristan knew the treasures of all great cities, the resources of the smallest towns. together he and his boy walked through the endless galleries filled with the wonders of the world, the pictures before which through centuries an unbroken procession of almost worshiping eyes had passed uplifted. because his father made the pictures seem the glowing, burning work of still-living men whom the centuries could not turn to dust, because he could tell the stories of their living and laboring to triumph, stories of what they felt and suffered and were, the boy became as familiar with the old masters--italian, german, french, dutch, english, spanish--as he was with most of the countries they had lived in. they were not merely old masters to him, but men who were great, men who seemed to him to have wielded beautiful swords and held high, splendid lights. his father could not go often with him, but he always took him for the first time to the galleries, museums, libraries, and historical places which were richest in treasures of art, beauty, or story. then, having seen them once through his eyes, marco went again and again alone, and so grew intimate with the wonders of the world. he knew that he was gratifying a wish of his father's when he tried to train himself to observe all things and forget nothing. these palaces of marvels were his school-rooms, and his strange but rich education was the most interesting part of his life. in time, he knew exactly the places where the great rembrandts, vandykes, rubens, raphaels, tintorettos, or frans hals hung; he knew whether this masterpiece or that was in vienna, in paris, in venice, or munich, or rome. he knew stories of splendid crown jewels, of old armor, of ancient crafts, and of roman relics dug up from beneath the foundations of old german cities. any boy wandering to amuse himself through museums and palaces on "free days" could see what he saw, but boys living fuller and less lonely lives would have been less likely to concentrate their entire minds on what they looked at, and also less likely to store away facts with the determination to be able to recall at any moment the mental shelf on which they were laid. having no playmates and nothing to play with, he began when he was a very little fellow to make a sort of game out of his rambles through picture-galleries, and the places which, whether they called themselves museums or not, were storehouses or relics of antiquity. there were always the blessed "free days," when he could climb any marble steps, and enter any great portal without paying an entrance fee. once inside, there were plenty of plainly and poorly dressed people to be seen, but there were not often boys as young as himself who were not attended by older companions. quiet and orderly as he was, he often found himself stared at. the game he had created for himself was as simple as it was absorbing. it was to try how much he could remember and clearly describe to his father when they sat together at night and talked of what he had seen. these night talks filled his happiest hours. he never felt lonely then, and when his father sat and watched him with a certain curious and deep attention in his dark, reflective eyes, the boy was utterly comforted and content. sometimes he brought back rough and crude sketches of objects he wished to ask questions about, and loristan could always relate to him the full, rich story of the thing he wanted to know. they were stories made so splendid and full of color in the telling that marco could not forget them. iii the legend of the lost prince as he walked through the streets, he was thinking of one of these stories. it was one he had heard first when he was very young, and it had so seized upon his imagination that he had asked often for it. it was, indeed, a part of the long-past history of samavia, and he had loved it for that reason. lazarus had often told it to him, sometimes adding much detail, but he had always liked best his father's version, which seemed a thrilling and living thing. on their journey from russia, during an hour when they had been forced to wait in a cold wayside station and had found the time long, loristan had discussed it with him. he always found some such way of making hard and comfortless hours easier to live through. "fine, big lad--for a foreigner," marco heard a man say to his companion as he passed them this morning. "looks like a pole or a russian." it was this which had led his thoughts back to the story of the lost prince. he knew that most of the people who looked at him and called him a "foreigner" had not even heard of samavia. those who chanced to recall its existence knew of it only as a small fierce country, so placed upon the map that the larger countries which were its neighbors felt they must control and keep it in order, and therefore made incursions into it, and fought its people and each other for possession. but it had not been always so. it was an old, old country, and hundreds of years ago it had been as celebrated for its peaceful happiness and wealth as for its beauty. it was often said that it was one of the most beautiful places in the world. a favorite samavian legend was that it had been the site of the garden of eden. in those past centuries, its people had been of such great stature, physical beauty, and strength, that they had been like a race of noble giants. they were in those days a pastoral people, whose rich crops and splendid flocks and herds were the envy of less fertile countries. among the shepherds and herdsmen there were poets who sang their own songs when they piped among their sheep upon the mountain sides and in the flower-thick valleys. their songs had been about patriotism and bravery, and faithfulness to their chieftains and their country. the simple courtesy of the poorest peasant was as stately as the manner of a noble. but that, as loristan had said with a tired smile, had been before they had had time to outlive and forget the garden of eden. five hundred years ago, there had succeeded to the throne a king who was bad and weak. his father had lived to be ninety years old, and his son had grown tired of waiting in samavia for his crown. he had gone out into the world, and visited other countries and their courts. when he returned and became king, he lived as no samavian king had lived before. he was an extravagant, vicious man of furious temper and bitter jealousies. he was jealous of the larger courts and countries he had seen, and tried to introduce their customs and their ambitions. he ended by introducing their worst faults and vices. there arose political quarrels and savage new factions. money was squandered until poverty began for the first time to stare the country in the face. the big samavians, after their first stupefaction, broke forth into furious rage. there were mobs and riots, then bloody battles. since it was the king who had worked this wrong, they would have none of him. they would depose him and make his son king in his place. it was at this part of the story that marco was always most deeply interested. the young prince was totally unlike his father. he was a true royal samavian. he was bigger and stronger for his age than any man in the country, and he was as handsome as a young viking god. more than this, he had a lion's heart, and before he was sixteen, the shepherds and herdsmen had already begun to make songs about his young valor, and his kingly courtesy, and generous kindness. not only the shepherds and herdsmen sang them, but the people in the streets. the king, his father, had always been jealous of him, even when he was only a beautiful, stately child whom the people roared with joy to see as he rode through the streets. when he returned from his journeyings and found him a splendid youth, he detested him. when the people began to clamor and demand that he himself should abdicate, he became insane with rage, and committed such cruelties that the people ran mad themselves. one day they stormed the palace, killed and overpowered the guards, and, rushing into the royal apartments, burst in upon the king as he shuddered green with terror and fury in his private room. he was king no more, and must leave the country, they vowed, as they closed round him with bared weapons and shook them in his face. where was the prince? they must see him and tell him their ultimatum. it was he whom they wanted for a king. they trusted him and would obey him. they began to shout aloud his name, calling him in a sort of chant in unison, "prince ivor--prince ivor--prince ivor!" but no answer came. the people of the palace had hidden themselves, and the place was utterly silent. the king, despite his terror, could not help but sneer. "call him again," he said. "he is afraid to come out of his hole!" a savage fellow from the mountain fastnesses struck him on the mouth. "he afraid!" he shouted. "if he does not come, it is because thou hast killed him--and thou art a dead man!" this set them aflame with hotter burning. they broke away, leaving three on guard, and ran about the empty palace rooms shouting the prince's name. but there was no answer. they sought him in a frenzy, bursting open doors and flinging down every obstacle in their way. a page, found hidden in a closet, owned that he had seen his royal highness pass through a corridor early in the morning. he had been softly singing to himself one of the shepherd's songs. and in this strange way out of the history of samavia, five hundred years before marco's day, the young prince had walked--singing softly to himself the old song of samavia's beauty and happiness. for he was never seen again. in every nook and cranny, high and low, they sought for him, believing that the king himself had made him prisoner in some secret place, or had privately had him killed. the fury of the people grew to frenzy. there were new risings, and every few days the palace was attacked and searched again. but no trace of the prince was found. he had vanished as a star vanishes when it drops from its place in the sky. during a riot in the palace, when a last fruitless search was made, the king himself was killed. a powerful noble who headed one of the uprisings made himself king in his place. from that time, the once splendid little kingdom was like a bone fought for by dogs. its pastoral peace was forgotten. it was torn and worried and shaken by stronger countries. it tore and worried itself with internal fights. it assassinated kings and created new ones. no man was sure in his youth what ruler his maturity would live under, or whether his children would die in useless fights, or through stress of poverty and cruel, useless laws. there were no more shepherds and herdsmen who were poets, but on the mountain sides and in the valleys sometimes some of the old songs were sung. those most beloved were songs about a lost prince whose name had been ivor. if he had been king, he would have saved samavia, the verses said, and all brave hearts believed that he would still return. in the modern cities, one of the jocular cynical sayings was, "yes, that will happen when prince ivor comes again." in his more childish days, marco had been bitterly troubled by the unsolved mystery. where had he gone--the lost prince? had he been killed, or had he been hidden away in a dungeon? but he was so big and brave, he would have broken out of any dungeon. the boy had invented for himself a dozen endings to the story. "did no one ever find his sword or his cap--or hear anything or guess anything about him ever--ever--ever?" he would say restlessly again and again. one winter's night, as they sat together before a small fire in a cold room in a cold city in austria, he had been so eager and asked so many searching questions, that his father gave him an answer he had never given him before, and which was a sort of ending to the story, though not a satisfying one: "everybody guessed as you are guessing. a few very old shepherds in the mountains who like to believe ancient histories relate a story which most people consider a kind of legend. it is that almost a hundred years after the prince was lost, an old shepherd told a story his long-dead father had confided to him in secret just before he died. the father had said that, going out in the early morning on the mountain side, he had found in the forest what he at first thought to be the dead body of a beautiful, boyish, young huntsman. some enemy had plainly attacked him from behind and believed he had killed him. he was, however, not quite dead, and the shepherd dragged him into a cave where he himself often took refuge from storms with his flocks. since there was such riot and disorder in the city, he was afraid to speak of what he had found; and, by the time he discovered that he was harboring the prince, the king had already been killed, and an even worse man had taken possession of his throne, and ruled samavia with a blood-stained, iron hand. to the terrified and simple peasant the safest thing seemed to get the wounded youth out of the country before there was any chance of his being discovered and murdered outright, as he would surely be. the cave in which he was hidden was not far from the frontier, and while he was still so weak that he was hardly conscious of what befell him, he was smuggled across it in a cart loaded with sheepskins, and left with some kind monks who did not know his rank or name. the shepherd went back to his flocks and his mountains, and lived and died among them, always in terror of the changing rulers and their savage battles with each other. the mountaineers said among themselves, as the generations succeeded each other, that the lost prince must have died young, because otherwise he would have come back to his country and tried to restore its good, bygone days." "yes, he would have come," marco said. "he would have come if he had seen that he could help his people," loristan answered, as if he were not reflecting on a story which was probably only a kind of legend. "but he was very young, and samavia was in the hands of the new dynasty, and filled with his enemies. he could not have crossed the frontier without an army. still, i think he died young." [illustration: he was the man who had spoken to him in samavian.] it was of this story that marco was thinking as he walked, and perhaps the thoughts that filled his mind expressed themselves in his face in some way which attracted attention. as he was nearing buckingham palace, a distinguished-looking well-dressed man with clever eyes caught sight of him, and, after looking at him keenly, slackened his pace as he approached him from the opposite direction. an observer might have thought he saw something which puzzled and surprised him. marco didn't see him at all, and still moved forward, thinking of the shepherds and the prince. the well-dressed man began to walk still more slowly. when he was quite close to marco, he stopped and spoke to him--in the samavian language. "what is your name?" he asked. marco's training from his earliest childhood had been an extraordinary thing. his love for his father had made it simple and natural to him, and he had never questioned the reason for it. as he had been taught to keep silence, he had been taught to control the expression of his face and the sound of his voice, and, above all, never to allow himself to look startled. but for this he might have started at the extraordinary sound of the samavian words suddenly uttered in a london street by an english gentleman. he might even have answered the question in samavian himself. but he did not. he courteously lifted his cap and replied in english: "excuse me?" the gentleman's clever eyes scrutinized him keenly. then he also spoke in english. "perhaps you do not understand? i asked your name because you are very like a samavian i know," he said. "i am marco loristan," the boy answered him. the man looked straight into his eyes and smiled. "that is not the name," he said. "i beg your pardon, my boy." he was about to go on, and had indeed taken a couple of steps away, when he paused and turned to him again. "you may tell your father that you are a very well-trained lad. i wanted to find out for myself." and he went on. marco felt that his heart beat a little quickly. this was one of several incidents which had happened during the last three years, and made him feel that he was living among things so mysterious that their very mystery hinted at danger. but he himself had never before seemed involved in them. why should it matter that he was well-behaved? then he remembered something. the man had not said "well-behaved," he had said "well-_trained_." well-trained in what way? he felt his forehead prickle slightly as he thought of the smiling, keen look which set itself so straight upon him. had he spoken to him in samavian for an experiment, to see if he would be startled into forgetting that he had been trained to seem to know only the language of the country he was temporarily living in? but he had not forgotten. he had remembered well, and was thankful that he had betrayed nothing. "even exiles may be samavian soldiers. i am one. you must be one," his father had said on that day long ago when he had made him take his oath. perhaps remembering his training was being a soldier. never had samavia needed help as she needed it to-day. two years before, a rival claimant to the throne had assassinated the then reigning king and his sons, and since then, bloody war and tumult had raged. the new king was a powerful man, and had a great following of the worst and most self-seeking of the people. neighboring countries had interfered for their own welfare's sake, and the newspapers had been full of stories of savage fighting and atrocities, and of starving peasants. marco had late one evening entered their lodgings to find loristan walking to and fro like a lion in a cage, a paper crushed and torn in his hands, and his eyes blazing. he had been reading of cruelties wrought upon innocent peasants and women and children. lazarus was standing staring at him with huge tears running down his cheeks. when marco opened the door, the old soldier strode over to him, turned him about, and led him out of the room. "pardon, sir, pardon!" he sobbed. "no one must see him, not even you. he suffers so horribly." he stood by a chair in marco's own small bedroom, where he half pushed, half led him. he bent his grizzled head, and wept like a beaten child. "dear god of those who are in pain, assuredly it is now the time to give back to us our lost prince!" he said, and marco knew the words were a prayer, and wondered at the frenzied intensity of it, because it seemed so wild a thing to pray for the return of a youth who had died five hundred years before. when he reached the palace, he was still thinking of the man who had spoken to him. he was thinking of him even as he looked at the majestic gray stone building and counted the number of its stories and windows. he walked round it that he might make a note in his memory of its size and form and its entrances, and guess at the size of its gardens. this he did because it was part of his game, and part of his strange training. when he came back to the front, he saw that in the great entrance court within the high iron railings an elegant but quiet-looking closed carriage was drawing up before the doorway. marco stood and watched with interest to see who would come out and enter it. he knew that kings and emperors who were not on parade looked merely like well-dressed private gentlemen, and often chose to go out as simply and quietly as other men. so he thought that, perhaps, if he waited, he might see one of those well-known faces which represent the highest rank and power in a monarchical country, and which in times gone by had also represented the power over human life and death and liberty. "i should like to be able to tell my father that i have seen the king and know his face, as i know the faces of the czar and the two emperors." there was a little movement among the tall men-servants in the royal scarlet liveries, and an elderly man descended the steps attended by another who walked behind him. he entered the carriage, the other man followed him, the door was closed, and the carriage drove through the entrance gates, where the sentries saluted. marco was near enough to see distinctly. the two men were talking as if interested. the face of the one farthest from him was the face he had often seen in shop-windows and newspapers. the boy made his quick, formal salute. it was the king; and, as he smiled and acknowledged his greeting, he spoke to his companion. "that fine lad salutes as if he belonged to the army," was what he said, though marco could not hear him. his companion leaned forward to look through the window. when he caught sight of marco, a singular expression crossed his face. "he does belong to an army, sir," he answered, "though he does not know it. his name is marco loristan." then marco saw him plainly for the first time. he was the man with the keen eyes who had spoken to him in samavian. iv the rat marco would have wondered very much if he had heard the words, but, as he did not hear them, he turned toward home wondering at something else. a man who was in intimate attendance on a king must be a person of importance. he no doubt knew many things not only of his own ruler's country, but of the countries of other kings. but so few had really known anything of poor little samavia until the newspapers had begun to tell them of the horrors of its war--and who but a samavian could speak its language? it would be an interesting thing to tell his father--that a man who knew the king had spoken to him in samavian, and had sent that curious message. later he found himself passing a side street and looked up it. it was so narrow, and on either side of it were such old, tall, and sloping-walled houses that it attracted his attention. it looked as if a bit of old london had been left to stand while newer places grew up and hid it from view. this was the kind of street he liked to pass through for curiosity's sake. he knew many of them in the old quarters of many cities. he had lived in some of them. he could find his way home from the other end of it. another thing than its queerness attracted him. he heard a clamor of boys' voices, and he wanted to see what they were doing. sometimes, when he had reached a new place and had had that lonely feeling, he had followed some boyish clamor of play or wrangling, and had found a temporary friend or so. half-way to the street's end there was an arched brick passage. the sound of the voices came from there--one of them high, and thinner and shriller than the rest. marco tramped up to the arch and looked down through the passage. it opened on to a gray flagged space, shut in by the railings of a black, deserted, and ancient graveyard behind a venerable church which turned its face toward some other street. the boys were not playing, but listening to one of their number who was reading to them from a newspaper. marco walked down the passage and listened also, standing in the dark arched outlet at its end and watching the boy who read. he was a strange little creature with a big forehead, and deep eyes which were curiously sharp. but this was not all. he had a hunch back, his legs seemed small and crooked. he sat with them crossed before him on a rough wooden platform set on low wheels, on which he evidently pushed himself about. near him were a number of sticks stacked together as if they were rifles. one of the first things that marco noticed was that he had a savage little face marked with lines as if he had been angry all his life. "hold your tongues, you fools!" he shrilled out to some boys who interrupted him. "don't you want to know anything, you ignorant swine?" he was as ill-dressed as the rest of them, but he did not speak in the cockney dialect. if he was of the riffraff of the streets, as his companions were, he was somehow different. then he, by chance, saw marco, who was standing in the arched end of the passage. "what are you doing there listening?" he shouted, and at once stooped to pick up a stone and threw it at him. the stone hit marco's shoulder, but it did not hurt him much. what he did not like was that another lad should want to throw something at him before they had even exchanged boy-signs. he also did not like the fact that two other boys promptly took the matter up by bending down to pick up stones also. he walked forward straight into the group and stopped close to the hunchback. "what did you do that for?" he asked, in his rather deep young voice. he was big and strong-looking enough to suggest that he was not a boy it would be easy to dispose of, but it was not that which made the group stand still a moment to stare at him. it was something in himself--half of it a kind of impartial lack of anything like irritation at the stone-throwing. it was as if it had not mattered to him in the least. it had not made him feel angry or insulted. he was only rather curious about it. because he was clean, and his hair and his shabby clothes were brushed, the first impression given by his appearance as he stood in the archway was that he was a young "toff" poking his nose where it was not wanted; but, as he drew near, they saw that the well-brushed clothes were worn, and there were patches on his shoes. "what did you do that for?" he asked, and he asked it merely as if he wanted to find out the reason. "i'm not going to have you swells dropping in to my club as if it was your own," said the hunchback. "i'm not a swell, and i didn't know it was a club," marco answered. "i heard boys, and i thought i'd come and look. when i heard you reading about samavia, i wanted to hear." he looked at the reader with his silent-expressioned eyes. "you needn't have thrown a stone," he added. "they don't do it at men's clubs. i'll go away." he turned about as if he were going, but, before he had taken three steps, the hunchback hailed him unceremoniously. "hi!" he called out. "hi, you!" "what do you want?" said marco. "i bet you don't know where samavia is, or what they're fighting about." the hunchback threw the words at him. "yes, i do. it's north of beltrazo and east of jiardasia, and they are fighting because one party has assassinated king maran, and the other will not let them crown nicola iarovitch. and why should they? he's a brigand, and hasn't a drop of royal blood in him." "oh!" reluctantly admitted the hunchback. "you do know that much, do you? come back here." marco turned back, while the boys still stared. it was as if two leaders or generals were meeting for the first time, and the rabble, looking on, wondered what would come of their encounter. "the samavians of the iarovitch party are a bad lot and want only bad things," said marco, speaking first. "they care nothing for samavia. they only care for money and the power to make laws which will serve them and crush everybody else. they know nicola is a weak man, and that, if they can crown him king, they can make him do what they like." the fact that he spoke first, and that, though he spoke in a steady boyish voice without swagger, he somehow seemed to take it for granted that they would listen, made his place for him at once. boys are impressionable creatures, and they know a leader when they see him. the hunchback fixed glittering eyes on him. the rabble began to murmur. "rat! rat!" several voices cried at once in good strong cockney. "arst 'im some more, rat!" "is that what they call you?" marco asked the hunchback. "it's what i called myself," he answered resentfully. "'the rat.' look at me! crawling round on the ground like this! look at me!" he made a gesture ordering his followers to move aside, and began to push himself rapidly, with queer darts this side and that round the inclosure. he bent his head and body, and twisted his face, and made strange animal-like movements. he even uttered sharp squeaks as he rushed here and there--as a rat might have done when it was being hunted. he did it as if he were displaying an accomplishment, and his followers' laughter was applause. "wasn't i like a rat?" he demanded, when he suddenly stopped. "you made yourself like one on purpose," marco answered. "you do it for fun." "not so much fun," said the rat. "i feel like one. every one's my enemy. i'm vermin. i can't fight or defend myself unless i bite. i can bite, though." and he showed two rows of fierce, strong, white teeth, sharper at the points than human teeth usually are. "i bite my father when he gets drunk and beats me. i've bitten him till he's learned to remember." he laughed a shrill, squeaking laugh. "he hasn't tried it for three months--even when he was drunk--and he's always drunk." then he laughed again still more shrilly. "he's a gentleman," he said. "i'm a gentleman's son. he was a master at a big school until he was kicked out--that was when i was four and my mother died. i'm thirteen now. how old are you?" "i'm twelve," answered marco. the rat twisted his face enviously. "i wish i was your size! are you a gentleman's son? you look as if you were." "i'm a very poor man's son," was marco's answer. "my father is a writer." "then, ten to one, he's a sort of gentleman," said the rat. then quite suddenly he threw another question at him. "what's the name of the other samavian party?" "the maranovitch. the maranovitch and the iarovitch have been fighting with each other for five hundred years. first one dynasty rules, and then the other gets in when it has killed somebody as it killed king maran," marco answered without hesitation. "what was the name of the dynasty that ruled before they began fighting? the first maranovitch assassinated the last of them," the rat asked him. "the fedorovitch," said marco. "the last one was a bad king." "his son was the one they never found again," said the rat. "the one they call the lost prince." marco would have started but for his long training in exterior self-control. it was so strange to hear his dream-hero spoken of in this back alley in a slum, and just after he had been thinking of him. "what do you know about him?" he asked, and, as he did so, he saw the group of vagabond lads draw nearer. "not much. i only read something about him in a torn magazine i found in the street," the rat answered. "the man that wrote about him said he was only part of a legend, and he laughed at people for believing in him. he said it was about time that he should turn up again if he intended to. i've invented things about him because these chaps like to hear me tell them. they're only stories." "we likes 'im," a voice called out, "becos 'e wos the right sort; 'e'd fight, 'e would, if 'e was in samavia now." marco rapidly asked himself how much he might say. he decided and spoke to them all. "he is not part of a legend. he's part of samavian history," he said. "i know something about him too." "how did you find it out?" asked the rat. "because my father's a writer, he's obliged to have books and papers, and he knows things. i like to read, and i go into the free libraries. you can always get books and papers there. then i ask my father questions. all the newspapers are full of things about samavia just now." marco felt that this was an explanation which betrayed nothing. it was true that no one could open a newspaper at this period without seeing news and stories of samavia. the rat saw possible vistas of information opening up before him. "sit down here," he said, "and tell us what you know about him. sit down, you fellows." there was nothing to sit on but the broken flagged pavement, but that was a small matter. marco himself had sat on flags or bare ground often enough before, and so had the rest of the lads. he took his place near the rat, and the others made a semicircle in front of them. the two leaders had joined forces, so to speak, and the followers fell into line at "attention." then the new-comer began to talk. it was a good story, that of the lost prince, and marco told it in a way which gave it reality. how could he help it? he knew, as they could not, that it was real. he who had pored over maps of little samavia since his seventh year, who had studied them with his father, knew it as a country he could have found his way to any part of if he had been dropped in any forest or any mountain of it. he knew every highway and byway, and in the capital city of melzarr could almost have made his way blindfolded. he knew the palaces and the forts, the churches, the poor streets and the rich ones. his father had once shown him a plan of the royal palace which they had studied together until the boy knew each apartment and corridor in it by heart. but this he did not speak of. he knew it was one of the things to be silent about. but of the mountains and the emerald velvet meadows climbing their sides and only ending where huge bare crags and peaks began, he could speak. he could make pictures of the wide fertile plains where herds of wild horses fed, or raced and sniffed the air; he could describe the fertile valleys where clear rivers ran and flocks of sheep pastured on deep sweet grass. he could speak of them because he could offer a good enough reason for his knowledge of them. it was not the only reason he had for his knowledge, but it was one which would serve well enough. "that torn magazine you found had more than one article about samavia in it," he said to the rat. "the same man wrote four. i read them all in a free library. he had been to samavia, and knew a great deal about it. he said it was one of the most beautiful countries he had ever traveled in--and the most fertile. that's what they all say of it." the group before him knew nothing of fertility or open country. they only knew london back streets and courts. most of them had never traveled as far as the public parks, and in fact scarcely believed in their existence. they were a rough lot, and as they had stared at marco at first sight of him, so they continued to stare at him as he talked. when he told of the tall samavians who had been like giants centuries ago, and who had hunted the wild horses and captured and trained them to obedience by a sort of strong and gentle magic, their mouths fell open. this was the sort of thing to allure any boy's imagination. "blimme, if i wouldn't 'ave liked ketchin' one o' them 'orses," broke in one of the audience, and his exclamation was followed by a dozen of like nature from the others. who wouldn't have liked "ketchin' one"? when he told of the deep endless-seeming forests, and of the herdsmen and shepherds who played on their pipes and made songs about high deeds and bravery, they grinned with pleasure without knowing they were grinning. they did not really know that in this neglected, broken-flagged inclosure, shut in on one side by smoke-blackened, poverty-stricken houses, and on the other by a deserted and forgotten sunken graveyard, they heard the rustle of green forest boughs where birds nested close, the swish of the summer wind in the river reeds, and the tinkle and laughter and rush of brooks running. they heard more or less of it all through the lost prince story, because prince ivor had loved lowland woods and mountain forests and all out-of-door life. when marco pictured him tall and strong-limbed and young, winning all the people when he rode smiling among them, the boys grinned again with unconscious pleasure. "wisht 'e 'adn't got lost!" some one cried out. when they heard of the unrest and dissatisfaction of the samavians, they began to get restless themselves. when marco reached the part of the story in which the mob rushed into the palace and demanded their prince from the king, they ejaculated scraps of bad language. "the old geezer had got him hidden somewhere in some dungeon, or he'd killed him out an' out--that's what he'd been up to!" they clamored. "wisht the lot of us had been there then--wisht we 'ad. we'd 'ave give' 'im wot for, anyway!" "an' 'im walkin' out o' the place so early in the mornin' just singin' like that! 'e 'ad 'im follered an' done for!" they decided with various exclamations of boyish wrath. somehow, the fact that the handsome royal lad had strolled into the morning sunshine singing made them more savage. their language was extremely bad at this point. but if it was bad here, it became worse when the old shepherd found the young huntsman's half-dead body in the forest. he _had_ "bin 'done for' _in the back_! 'e'd bin give' no charnst. g-r-r-r!" they groaned in chorus. "wisht" _they'd_ "bin there when 'e'd bin 'it!" they'd "'ave done fur somebody" themselves. it was a story which had a queer effect on them. it made them think they saw things; it fired their blood; it set them wanting to fight for ideals they knew nothing about--adventurous things, for instance, and high and noble young princes who were full of the possibility of great and good deeds. sitting upon the broken flagstones of the bit of ground behind the deserted graveyard, they were suddenly dragged into the world of romance, and noble young princes and great and good deeds became as real as the sunken gravestones, and far more interesting. and then the smuggling across the frontier of the unconscious prince in the bullock cart loaded with sheepskins! they held their breaths. would the old shepherd get him past the line! marco, who was lost in the recital himself, told it as if he had been present. he felt as if he had, and as this was the first time he had ever told it to thrilled listeners, his imagination got him in its grip, and his heart jumped in his breast as he was sure the old man's must have done when the guard stopped his cart and asked him what he was carrying out of the country. he knew he must have had to call up all his strength to force his voice into steadiness. and then the good monks! he had to stop to explain what a monk was, and when he described the solitude of the ancient monastery, and its walled gardens full of flowers and old simples to be used for healing, and the wise monks walking in the silence and the sun, the boys stared a little helplessly, but still as if they were vaguely pleased by the picture. and then there was no more to tell--no more. there it broke off, and something like a low howl of dismay broke from the semicircle. "aw!" they protested, "it 'adn't ought to stop there! ain't there no more? is that all there is?" "it's all that was ever known really. and that last part might only be a sort of story made up by somebody. but i believe it myself." the rat had listened with burning eyes. he had sat biting his finger-nails, as was a trick of his when he was excited or angry. "tell you what!" he exclaimed suddenly. "this was what happened. it was some of the maranovitch fellows that tried to kill him. they meant to kill his father and make their own man king, and they knew the people wouldn't stand it if young ivor was alive. they just stabbed him in the back, the fiends! i dare say they heard the old shepherd coming, and left him for dead and ran." "right, oh! that was it!" the lads agreed. "yer right there, rat!" "when he got well," the rat went on feverishly, still biting his nails, "he couldn't go back. he was only a boy. the other fellow had been crowned, and his followers felt strong because they'd just conquered the country. he could have done nothing without an army, and he was too young to raise one. perhaps he thought he'd wait till he was old enough to know what to do. i dare say he went away and had to work for his living as if he'd never been a prince at all. then perhaps sometime he married somebody and had a son, and told him as a secret who he was and all about samavia." the rat began to look vengeful. "if i'd bin him i'd have told him not to forget what the maranovitch had done to me. i'd have told him that if i couldn't get back the throne, he must see what he could do when he grew to be a man. and i'd have made him swear, if he got it back, to take it out of them or their children or their children's children in torture and killing. i'd have made him swear not to leave a maranovitch alive. and i'd have told him that, if he couldn't do it in his life, he must pass the oath on to his son and his son's son, as long as there was a fedorovitch on earth. wouldn't you?" he demanded hotly of marco. marco's blood was also hot, but it was a different kind of blood, and he had talked too much to a very sane man. "no," he said slowly. "what would have been the use? it wouldn't have done samavia any good, and it wouldn't have done him any good to torture and kill people. better keep them alive and make them do things for the country. if you're a patriot, you think of the country." he wanted to add "that's what my father says," but he did not. "torture 'em first and then attend to the country," snapped the rat. "what would you have told your son if you'd been ivor?" "i'd have told him to learn everything about samavia--and all the things kings have to know--and study things about laws and other countries--and about keeping silent--and about governing himself as if he were a general commanding soldiers in battle--so that he would never do anything he did not mean to do or could be ashamed of doing after it was over. and i'd have asked him to tell his son's sons to tell their sons to learn the same things. so, you see, however long the time was, there would always be a king getting ready for samavia--when samavia really wanted him. and he would be a real king." he stopped himself suddenly and looked at the staring semicircle. "i didn't make that up myself," he said. "i have heard a man who reads and knows things say it. i believe the lost prince would have had the same thoughts. if he had, and told them to his son, there has been a line of kings in training for samavia for five hundred years, and perhaps one is walking about the streets of vienna, or budapest, or paris, or london now, and he'd be ready if the people found out about him and called him." "wisht they would!" some one yelled. "it would be a queer secret to know all the time when no one else knew it," the rat communed with himself as it were, "that you were a king and you ought to be on a throne wearing a crown. i wonder if it would make a chap look different?" he laughed his squeaky laugh, and then turned in his sudden way to marco: "but he'd be a fool to give up the vengeance. what is your name?" "marco loristan. what's yours? it isn't the rat really." "it's jem _rat_cliffe. that's pretty near. where do you live?" "no. philibert place." "this club is a soldiers' club," said the rat. "it's called the squad. i'm the captain. 'tention, you fellows! let's show him." the semicircle sprang to its feet. there were about twelve lads altogether, and, when they stood upright, marco saw at once that for some reason they were accustomed to obeying the word of command with military precision. "form in line!" ordered the rat. they did it at once, and held their backs and legs straight and their heads up amazingly well. each had seized one of the sticks which had been stacked together like guns. the rat himself sat up straight on his platform. there was actually something military in the bearing of his lean body. his voice lost its squeak and its sharpness became commanding. he put the dozen lads through the drill as if he had been a smart young officer. and the drill itself was prompt and smart enough to have done credit to practiced soldiers in barracks. it made marco involuntarily stand very straight himself, and watch with surprised interest. "that's good!" he exclaimed when it was at an end. "how did you learn that?" the rat made a savage gesture. "if i'd had legs to stand on, i'd have been a soldier!" he said. "i'd have enlisted in any regiment that would take me. i don't care for anything else." suddenly his face changed, and he shouted a command to his followers. "turn your backs!" he ordered. and they did turn their backs and looked through the railings of the old churchyard. marco saw that they were obeying an order which was not new to them. the rat had thrown his arm up over his eyes and covered them. he held it there for several moments, as if he did not want to be seen. marco turned his back as the rest had done. all at once he understood that, though the rat was not crying, yet he was feeling something which another boy would possibly have broken down under. "all right!" he shouted presently, and dropped his ragged-sleeved arm and sat up straight again. "i want to go to war!" he said hoarsely. "i want to fight! i want to lead a lot of men into battle! and i haven't got any legs. sometimes it takes the pluck out of me." "you've not grown up yet!" said marco. "you might get strong." no one knows what is going to happen. how did you learn to drill the club?" "i hang about barracks. i watch and listen. i follow soldiers. if i could get books, i'd read about wars. i can't go to libraries as you can. i can do nothing but scuffle about like a rat." "i can take you to some libraries," said marco. "there are places where boys can get in. and i can get some papers from my father." "can you?" said the rat. "do you want to join the club?" "yes!" marco answered. "i'll speak to my father about it." he said it because the hungry longing for companionship in his own mind had found a sort of response in the queer hungry look in the rat's eyes. he wanted to see him again. strange creature as he was, there was attraction in him. scuffling about on his low wheeled platform, he had drawn this group of rough lads to him and made himself their commander. they obeyed him; they listened to his stories and harangues about war and soldiering; they let him drill them and give them orders. marco knew that, when he told his father about him, he would be interested. the boy wanted to hear what loristan would say. "i'm going home now," he said. "if you're going to be here to-morrow, i will try to come." "we shall be here," the rat answered. "it's our barracks." marco drew himself up smartly and made his salute as if to a superior officer. then he wheeled about and marched through the brick archway, and the sound of his boyish tread was as regular and decided as if he had been a man keeping time with his regiment. "he's been drilled himself," said the rat. "he knows as much as i do." and he sat up and stared down the passage with new interest. v "silence is still the order" they were even poorer than usual just now, and the supper marco and his father sat down to was scant enough. lazarus stood upright behind his master's chair and served him with strictest ceremony. their poor lodgings were always kept with a soldierly cleanliness and order. when an object could be polished it was forced to shine, no grain of dust was allowed to lie undisturbed, and this perfection was not attained through the ministrations of a lodging house slavey. lazarus made himself extremely popular by taking the work of caring for his master's rooms entirely out of the hands of the overburdened maids of all work. he had learned to do many things in his young days in barracks. he carried about with him coarse bits of table-cloths and towels, which he laundered as if they had been the finest linen. he mended, he patched, he darned, and in the hardest fight the poor must face--the fight with dirt and dinginess--he always held his own. they had nothing but dry bread and coffee this evening, but lazarus had made the coffee and the bread was good. as marco ate, he told his father the story of the rat and his followers. loristan listened, as the boy had known he would, with the far-off, intently-thinking smile in his dark eyes. it was a look which always fascinated marco because it meant that he was thinking so many things. perhaps he would tell some of them and perhaps he would not. his spell over the boy lay in the fact that to him he seemed like a wonderful book of which one had only glimpses. it was full of pictures and adventures which were true, and one could not help continually making guesses about them. yes, the feeling that marco had was that his father's attraction for him was a sort of spell, and that others felt the same thing. when he stood and talked to commoner people, he held his tall body with singular quiet grace which was like power. he never stirred or moved himself as if he were nervous or uncertain. he could hold his hands (he had beautiful slender and strong hands) quite still; he could stand on his fine arched feet without shuffling them. he could sit without any ungrace or restlessness. his mind knew what his body should do, and gave it orders without speaking, and his fine limbs and muscles and nerves obeyed. so he could stand still and at ease and look at the people he was talking to, and they always looked at him and listened to what he said, and somehow, courteous and uncondescending as his manner unfailingly was, it used always to seem to marco as if he were "giving an audience" as kings gave them. he had often seen people bow very low when they went away from him, and more than once it had happened that some humble person had stepped out of his presence backward, as people do when retiring before a sovereign. and yet his bearing was the quietest and least assuming in the world. "and they were talking about samavia? and he knew the story of the lost prince?" he said ponderingly. "even in that place!" "he wants to hear about wars--he wants to talk about them," marco answered. "if he could stand and were old enough, he would go and fight for samavia himself." "it is a blood-drenched and sad place now!" said loristan. "the people are mad when they are not heartbroken and terrified." suddenly marco struck the table with a sounding slap of his boy's hand. he did it before he realized any intention in his own mind. "why should either one of the iarovitch or one of the maranovitch be king!" he cried. "they were only savage peasants when they first fought for the crown hundreds of years ago. the most savage one got it, and they have been fighting ever since. only the fedorovitch were born kings. there is only one man in the world who has the right to the throne--and i don't know whether he is in the world or not. but i believe he is! i do!" loristan looked at his hot twelve-year-old face with a reflective curiousness. he saw that the flame which had leaped up in him had leaped without warning--just as a fierce heart-beat might have shaken him. "you mean--?" he suggested softly. "ivor fedorovitch. king ivor he ought to be. and the people would obey him, and the good days would come again." "it is five hundred years since ivor fedorovitch left the good monks." loristan still spoke softly. "but, father," marco protested, "even the rat said what you said--that he was too young to be able to come back while the maranovitch were in power. and he would have to work and have a home, and perhaps he is as poor as we are. but when he had a son he would call him ivor and _tell_ him--and his son would call _his_ son ivor and tell _him_--and it would go on and on. they could never call their eldest sons anything but ivor. and what you said about the training would be true. there would always be a king being trained for samavia, and ready to be called." in the fire of his feelings he sprang from his chair and stood upright. "why! there may be a king of samavia in some city now who knows he is king, and, when he reads about the fighting among his people, his blood gets red-hot. they're his own people--his very own! he ought to go to them--he ought to go and tell them who he is! don't you think he ought, father?" "it would not be as easy as it seems to a boy," loristan answered. "there are many countries which would have something to say--russia would have her word, and austria, and germany; and england never is silent. but, if he were a strong man and knew how to make strong friends in silence, he might sometime be able to declare himself openly." "but if he is anywhere, some one--some samavian--ought to go and look for him. it ought to be a samavian who is very clever and a patriot--" he stopped at a flash of recognition. "father!" he cried out. "father! you--you are the one who could find him if any one in the world could. but perhaps--" and he stopped a moment again because new thoughts rushed through his mind. "have _you_ ever looked for him?" he asked hesitating. perhaps he had asked a stupid question--perhaps his father had always been looking for him, perhaps that was his secret and his work. but loristan did not look as if he thought him stupid. quite the contrary. he kept his handsome eyes fixed on him still in that curious way, as if he were studying him--as if he were much more than twelve years old, and he were deciding to tell him something. "comrade at arms," he said, with the smile which always gladdened marco's heart, "you have kept your oath of allegiance like a man. you were not seven years old when you took it. you are growing older. silence is still the order, but you are man enough to be told more." he paused and looked down, and then looked up again, speaking in a low tone. "i have not looked for him," he said, "because--i believe i know where he is." marco caught his breath. "father!" he said only that word. he could say no more. he knew he must not ask questions. "silence is still the order." but as they faced each other in their dingy room at the back of the shabby house on the side of the roaring common road--as lazarus stood stock-still behind his father's chair and kept his eyes fixed on the empty coffee cups and the dry bread plate, and everything looked as poor as things always did--there was a king of samavia--an ivor fedorovitch with the blood of the lost prince in his veins--alive in some town or city this moment! and marco's own father knew where he was! he glanced at lazarus, but, though the old soldier's face looked as expressionless as if it were cut out of wood, marco realized that he knew this thing and had always known it. he had been a comrade at arms all his life. he continued to stare at the bread plate. loristan spoke again and in an even lower voice. "the samavians who are patriots and thinkers," he said, "formed themselves into a secret party about eighty years ago. they formed it when they had no reason for hope, but they formed it because one of them discovered that an ivor fedorovitch was living. he was head forester on a great estate in the austrian alps. the nobleman he served had always thought him a mystery because he had the bearing and speech of a man who had not been born a servant, and his methods in caring for the forests and game were those of a man who was educated and had studied his subject. but he never was familiar or assuming, and never professed superiority over any of his fellows. he was a man of great stature, and was extraordinarily brave and silent. the nobleman who was his master made a sort of companion of him when they hunted together. once he took him with him when he traveled to samavia to hunt wild horses. he found that he knew the country strangely well, and that he was familiar with samavian hunting and customs. before he returned to austria, the man obtained permission to go to the mountains alone. he went among the shepherds and made friends among them, asking many questions. "one night around a forest fire he heard the songs about the lost prince which had not been forgotten even after nearly five hundred years had passed. the shepherds and herdsmen talked about prince ivor, and told old stories about him, and related the prophecy that he would come back and bring again samavia's good days. he might come only in the body of one of his descendants, but it would be his spirit which came, because his spirit would never cease to love samavia. one very old shepherd tottered to his feet and lifted his face to the myriad stars bestrewn like jewels in the blue sky above the forest trees, and he wept and prayed aloud that the great god would send their king to them. and the stranger huntsman stood upright also and lifted his face to the stars. and, though he said no word, the herdsman nearest to him saw tears on his cheeks--great, heavy tears. the next day, the stranger went to the monastery where the order of good monks lived who had taken care of the lost prince. when he had left samavia, the secret society was formed, and the members of it knew that an ivor fedorovitch had passed through his ancestors' country as the servant of another man. but the secret society was only a small one, and, though it has been growing ever since and it has done good deeds and good work in secret, the huntsman died an old man before it was strong enough even to dare to tell samavia what it knew." "had he a son?" cried marco. "had he a son?" "yes. he had a son. his name was ivor. and he was trained as i told you. that part i knew to be true, though i should have believed it was true even if i had not known. there has _always_ been a king ready for samavia--even when he has labored with his hands and served others. each one took the oath of allegiance." "as i did?" said marco, breathless with excitement. when one is twelve years old, to be so near a lost prince who might end wars is a thrilling thing. "the same," answered loristan. marco threw up his hand in salute. "'here grows a man for samavia! god be thanked!'" he quoted. "and _he_ is somewhere? and you know?" loristan bent his head in acquiescence. "for years much secret work has been done, and the fedorovitch party has grown until it is much greater and more powerful than the other parties dream. the larger countries are tired of the constant war and disorder in samavia. their interests are disturbed by them, and they are deciding that they must have peace and laws which can be counted on. there have been samavian patriots who have spent their lives in trying to bring this about by making friends in the most powerful capitals, and working secretly for the future good of their own land. because samavia is so small and uninfluential, it has taken a long time but when king maran and his family were assassinated and the war broke out, there were great powers which began to say that if some king of good blood and reliable characteristics were given the crown, he should be upheld." "_his_ blood,"--marco's intensity made his voice drop almost to a whisper,--"_his_ blood has been trained for five hundred years, father! if it comes true--" though he laughed a little, he was obliged to wink his eyes hard because suddenly he felt tears rush into them, which no boy likes--"the shepherds will have to make a new song--it will have to be a shouting one about a prince going away and a king coming back!" "they are a devout people and observe many an ancient rite and ceremony. they will chant prayers and burn altar-fires on their mountain sides," loristan said. "but the end is not yet--the end is not yet. sometimes it seems that perhaps it is near--but god knows!" then there leaped back upon marco the story he had to tell, but which he had held back for the last--the story of the man who spoke samavian and drove in the carriage with the king. he knew now that it might mean some important thing which he could not have before suspected. "there is something i must tell you," he said. he had learned to relate incidents in few but clear words when he related them to his father. it had been part of his training. loristan had said that he might sometime have a story to tell when he had but few moments to tell it in--some story which meant life or death to some one. he told this one quickly and well. he made loristan see the well-dressed man with the deliberate manner and the keen eyes, and he made him hear his voice when he said, "tell your father that you are a very well-trained lad." "i am glad he said that. he is a man who knows what training is," said loristan. "he is a person who knows what all europe is doing, and almost all that it will do. he is an ambassador from a powerful and great country. if he saw that you are a well-trained and fine lad, it might--it might even be good for samavia." "would it matter that _i_ was well-trained? _could_ it matter to samavia?" marco cried out. loristan paused for a moment--watching him gravely--looking him over--his big, well-built boy's frame, his shabby clothes, and his eagerly burning eyes. he smiled one of his slow wonderful smiles. "yes. it might even matter to samavia!" he answered. vi the drill and the secret party loristan did not forbid marco to pursue his acquaintance with the rat and his followers. "you will find out for yourself whether they are friends for you or not," he said. "you will know in a few days, and then you can make your own decision. you have known lads in various countries, and you are a good judge of them, i think. you will soon see whether they are going to be _men_ or mere rabble. the rat now--how does he strike you?" and the handsome eyes held their keen look of questioning. "he'd be a brave soldier if he could stand," said marco, thinking him over. "but he might be cruel." "a lad who might make a brave soldier cannot be disdained, but a man who is cruel is a fool. tell him that from me," loristan answered. "he wastes force--his own and the force of the one he treats cruelly. only a fool wastes force." "may i speak of you sometimes?" asked marco. "yes. you will know how. you will remember the things about which silence is the order." "i never forget them," said marco. "i have been trying not to, for such a long time." "you have succeeded well, comrade!" returned loristan, from his writing-table, to which he had gone and where he was turning over papers. a strong impulse overpowered the boy. he marched over to the table and stood very straight, making his soldierly young salute, his whole body glowing. "father!" he said, "you don't know how i love you! i wish you were a general and i might die in battle for you. when i look at you, i long and long to do something for you a boy could not do. i would die of a thousand wounds rather than disobey you--or samavia!" he seized loristan's hand, and knelt on one knee and kissed it. an english or american boy could not have done such a thing from unaffected natural impulse. but he was of warm southern blood. "i took my oath of allegiance to you, father, when i took it to samavia. it seems as if you were samavia, too," he said, and kissed his hand again. loristan had turned toward him with one of the movements which were full of dignity and grace. marco, looking up at him, felt that there was always a certain remote stateliness in him which made it seem quite natural that any one should bend the knee and kiss his hand. a sudden great tenderness glowed in his father's face as he raised the boy and put his hand on his shoulder. "comrade," he said, "you don't know how much i love you--and what reason there is that we should love each other! you don't know how i have been watching you, and thanking god each year that here grew a man for samavia. that i know you are--a _man_, though you have lived but twelve years. twelve years may grow a man--or prove that a man will never grow, though a human thing he may remain for ninety years. this year may be full of strange things for both of us. we cannot know _what_ i may have to ask you to do for me--and for samavia. perhaps such a thing as no twelve-year-old boy has ever done before." "every night and every morning," said marco, "i shall pray that i may be called to do it, and that i may do it well." "you will do it well, comrade, if you are called. that i could make oath," loristan answered him. the squad had collected in the inclosure behind the church when marco appeared at the arched end of the passage. the boys were drawn up with their rifles, but they all wore a rather dogged and sullen look. the explanation which darted into marco's mind was that this was because the rat was in a bad humor. he sat crouched together on his platform biting his nails fiercely, his elbows on his updrawn knees, his face twisted into a hideous scowl. he did not look around, or even look up from the cracked flagstone of the pavement on which his eyes were fixed. marco went forward with military step and stopped opposite to him with prompt salute. "sorry to be late, sir," he said, as if he had been a private speaking to his colonel. "it's 'im, rat! 'e's come, rat!" the squad shouted. "look at 'im!" but the rat would not look, and did not even move. "what's the matter?" said marco, with less ceremony than a private would have shown. "there's no use in my coming here if you don't want me." "'e's got a grouch on 'cos you're late!" called out the head of the line. "no doin' nothin' when 'e's got a grouch on." "i sha'n't try to do anything," said marco, his boy-face setting itself into good stubborn lines. "that's not what i came here for. i came to drill. i've been with my father. he comes first. i can't join the squad if he doesn't come first. we're not on active service, and we're not in barracks." then the rat moved sharply and turned to look at him. "i thought you weren't coming at all!" he snapped and growled at once. "my father said you wouldn't. he said you were a young swell for all your patched clothes. he said your father would think he was a swell, even if he was only a penny-a-liner on newspapers, and he wouldn't let you have anything to do with a vagabond and a nuisance. nobody begged you to join. your father can go to blazes!" "don't you speak in that way about my father," said marco, quite quietly, "because i can't knock you down." "i'll get up and let you!" began the rat, immediately white and raging. "i can stand up with two sticks. i'll get up and let you!" "no, you won't," said marco. "if you want to know what my father said, i can tell you. he said i could come as often as i liked--till i found out whether we should be friends or not. he says i shall find that out for myself." it was a strange thing the rat did. it must always be remembered of him that his wretched father, who had each year sunk lower and lower in the under-world, had been a gentleman once, a man who had been familiar with good manners and had been educated in the customs of good breeding. sometimes when he was drunk, and sometimes when he was partly sober, he talked to the rat of many things the boy would otherwise never have heard of. that was why the lad was different from the other vagabonds. this, also, was why he suddenly altered the whole situation by doing this strange and unexpected thing. he utterly changed his expression and voice, fixing his sharp eyes shrewdly on marco's. it was almost as if he were asking him a conundrum. he knew it would have been one to most boys of the class he appeared outwardly to belong to. he would either know the answer or he wouldn't. "i beg your pardon," the rat said. that was the conundrum. it was what a gentleman and an officer would have said, if he felt he had been mistaken or rude. he had heard that from his drunken father. "i beg yours--for being late," said marco. that was the right answer. it was the one another officer and gentleman would have made. it settled the matter at once, and it settled more than was apparent at the moment. it decided that marco was one of those who knew the things the rat's father had once known--the things gentlemen do and say and think. not another word was said. it was all right. marco slipped into line with the squad, and the rat sat erect with his military bearing and began his drill: "squad! "'tention! "number! "slope arms! "form fours! "right! "quick march! "halt! "left turn! "order arms! "stand at ease! "stand easy!" they did it so well that it was quite wonderful when one considered the limited space at their disposal. they had evidently done it often, and the rat had been not only a smart, but a severe, officer. this morning they repeated the exercise a number of times, and even varied it with review drill, with which they seemed just as familiar. "where did you learn it?" the rat asked, when the arms were stacked again and marco was sitting by him as he had sat the previous day. "from an old soldier. and i like to watch it, as you do." "if you were a young swell in the guards, you couldn't be smarter at it," the rat said. "the way you hold yourself! the way you stand! you've got it! wish i was you! it comes natural to you." "i've always liked to watch it and try to do it myself. i did when i was a little fellow," answered marco. "i've been trying to kick it into these chaps for more than a year," said the rat. "a nice job i had of it! it nearly made me sick at first." the semicircle in front of him only giggled or laughed outright. the members of it seemed to take very little offense at his cavalier treatment of them. he had evidently something to give them which was entertaining enough to make up for his tyranny and indifference. he thrust his hand into one of the pockets of his ragged coat, and drew out a piece of newspaper. "my father brought home this, wrapped round a loaf of bread," he said. "see what it says there!" he handed it to marco, pointing to some words printed in large letters at the head of a column. marco looked at it and sat very still. the words he read were: "the lost prince." "silence is still the order," was the first thought which flashed through his mind. "silence is still the order." "what does it mean?" he said aloud. "there isn't much of it. i wish there was more," the rat said fretfully. "read and see. of course they say it mayn't be true--but i believe it is. they say that people think some one knows where he is--at least where one of his descendants is. it'd be the same thing. he'd be the real king. if he'd just show himself, it might stop all the fighting. just read." marco read, and his skin prickled as the blood went racing through his body. but his face did not change. there was a sketch of the story of the lost prince to begin with. it had been regarded by most people, the article said, as a sort of legend. now there was a definite rumor that it was not a legend at all, but a part of the long past history of samavia. it was said that through the centuries there had always been a party secretly loyal to the memory of this worshiped and lost fedorovitch. it was even said that from father to son, generation after generation after generation, had descended the oath of fealty to him and his descendants. the people had made a god of him, and now, romantic as it seemed, it was beginning to be an open secret that some persons believed that a descendant had been found--a fedorovitch worthy of his young ancestor--and that a certain secret party also held that, if he were called back to the throne of samavia, the interminable wars and bloodshed would reach an end. the rat had begun to bite his nails fast. "do you believe he's found?" he asked feverishly. "_don't you_? i do!" "i wonder where he is, if it's true? i wonder! where?" exclaimed marco. he could say that, and he might seem as eager as he felt. the squad all began to jabber at once. "yus, where wos'e? there is no knowin'. it'd be likely to be in some o' these furrin places. england'd be too far from samavia. 'ow far off wos samavia? wos it in roosha, or where the frenchies were, or the germans? but wherever 'e wos, 'e'd be the right sort, an' 'e'd be the sort a chap'd turn and look at in the street." the rat continued to bite his nails. "he might be anywhere," he said, his small fierce face glowing. "that's what i like to think about. he might be passing in the street outside there; he might be up in one of those houses," jerking his head over his shoulder toward the backs of the inclosing dwellings. "perhaps he knows he's a king, and perhaps he doesn't. he'd know if what you said yesterday was true--about the king always being made ready for samavia." "yes, he'd know," put in marco. "well, it'd be finer if he did," went on the rat. "however poor and shabby he was, he'd know the secret all the time. and if people sneered at him, he'd sneer at them and laugh to himself. i dare say he'd walk tremendously straight and hold his head up. if i was him, i'd like to make people suspect a bit that i wasn't like the common lot o' them." he put out his hand and pushed marco excitedly. "let's work out plots for him!" he said. "that'd be a splendid game! let's pretend we're the secret party!" he was tremendously excited. out of the ragged pocket he fished a piece of chalk. then he leaned forward and began to draw something quickly on the flagstones closest to his platform. the squad leaned forward also, quite breathlessly, and marco leaned forward. the chalk was sketching a roughly outlined map, and he knew what map it was, before the rat spoke. "that's a map of samavia," he said. "it was in that piece of magazine i told you about--the one where i read about prince ivor. i studied it until it fell to pieces. but i could draw it myself by that time, so it didn't matter. i could draw it with my eyes shut. that's the capital city," pointing to a spot. "it's called melzarr. the palace is there. it's the place where the first of the maranovitch killed the last of the fedorovitch--the bad chap that was ivor's father. it's the palace ivor wandered out of singing the shepherds' song that early morning. it's where the throne is that his descendant would sit upon to be crowned--that he's _going_ to sit upon. i believe he is! let's swear he shall!" he flung down his piece of chalk and sat up. "give me two sticks. help me to get up." two of the squad sprang to their feet and came to him. each snatched one of the sticks from the stacked rifles, evidently knowing what he wanted. marco rose too, and watched with sudden, keen curiosity. he had thought that the rat could not stand up, but it seemed that he could, in a fashion of his own, and he was going to do it. the boys lifted him by his arms, set him against the stone coping of the iron railings of the churchyard, and put a stick in each of his hands. they stood at his side, but he supported himself. "'e could get about if 'e 'ad the money to buy crutches!" said one whose name was cad, and he said it quite proudly. the queer thing that marco had noticed was that the ragamuffins were proud of the rat, and regarded him as their lord and master. "--'e could get about an' stand as well as any one," added the other, and he said it in the tone of one who boasts. his name was ben. "i'm going to stand now, and so are the rest of you," said the rat. "squad! 'tention! you at the head of the line," to marco. they were in line in a moment--straight, shoulders back, chins up. and marco stood at the head. "we're going to take an oath," said the rat. "it's an oath of allegiance. allegiance means faithfulness to a thing--a king or a country. ours means allegiance to the king of samavia. we don't know where he is, but we swear to be faithful to him, to fight for him, to plot for him, to _die_ for him, and to bring him back to his throne!" the way in which he flung up his head when he said the word "die" was very fine indeed. "we are the secret party. we will work in the dark and find out things--and run risks--and collect an army no one will know anything about until it is strong enough to suddenly rise at a secret signal, and overwhelm the maranovitch and iarovitch, and seize their forts and citadels. no one even knows we are alive. we are a silent, secret thing that never speaks aloud!" silent and secret as they were, however, they spoke aloud at this juncture. it was such a grand idea for a game, and so full of possible larks, that the squad broke into a howl of an exultant cheer. "hooray!" they yelled. "hooray for the oath of 'legiance! 'ray! 'ray! 'ray!" "shut up, you swine!" shouted the rat. "is that the way you keep yourself secret? you'll call the police in, you fools! look at _him_!" pointing to marco. "he's got some sense." marco, in fact, had not made any sound. "come here, you cad and ben, and put me back on my wheels," raged the squad's commander. "i'll not make up the game at all. it's no use with a lot of fat-head, raw recruits like you." the line broke and surrounded him in a moment, pleading and urging. "aw, rat! we forgot. it's the primest game you've ever thought out! rat! rat! don't get a grouch on! we'll keep still, rat! primest lark of all 'll be the sneakin' about an' keepin' quiet. aw, rat! keep it up!" "keep it up yourselves!" snarled the rat. "not another cove of us could do it but you! not one! there's no other cove could think it out. you're the only chap that can think out things. you thought out the squad! that's why you're captain!" this was true. he was the one who could invent entertainment for them, these street lads who had nothing. out of that nothing he could create what excited them, and give them something to fill empty, useless, often cold or wet or foggy, hours. that made him their captain and their pride. the rat began to yield, though grudgingly. he pointed again to marco, who had not moved, but stood still at attention. "look at _him_!" he said. "he knows enough to stand where he's put until he's ordered to break line. he's a soldier, he is--not a raw recruit that don't know the goose-step. he's been in barracks before." but after this outburst, he deigned to go on. "here's the oath," he said. "we swear to stand any torture and submit in silence to any death rather than betray our secret and our king. we will obey in silence and in secret. we will swim through seas of blood and fight our way through lakes of fire, if we are ordered. nothing shall bar our way. all we do and say and think is for our country and our king. if any of you have anything to say, speak out before you take the oath." he saw marco move a little, and he made a sign to him. "you," he said. "have you something to say?" marco turned to him and saluted. "here stand ten men for samavia. god be thanked!" he said. he dared say that much, and he felt as if his father himself would have told him that they were the right words. the rat thought they were. somehow he felt that they struck home. he reddened with a sudden emotion. "squad!" he said. "i'll let you give three cheers on that. it's for the last time. we'll begin to be quiet afterward." and to the squad's exultant relief he led the cheer, and they were allowed to make as much uproar as they liked. they liked to make a great deal, and when it was at an end, it had done them good and made them ready for business. the rat opened the drama at once. never surely had there ever before been heard a conspirator's whisper as hollow as his. "secret ones," he said, "it is midnight. we meet in the depths of darkness. we dare not meet by day. when we meet in the daytime, we pretend not to know each other. we are meeting now in a samavian city where there is a fortress. we shall have to take it when the secret sign is given and we make our rising. we are getting everything ready, so that, when we find the king, the secret sign can be given." "what is the name of the city we are in?" whispered cad. "it is called larrina. it is an important seaport. we must take it as soon as we rise. the next time we meet i will bring a dark lantern and draw a map and show it to you." it would have been a great advantage to the game if marco could have drawn for them the map he could have made, a map which would have shown every fortress--every stronghold and every weak place. being a boy, he knew what excitement would have thrilled each breast, how they would lean forward and pile question on question, pointing to this place and to that. he had learned to draw the map before he was ten, and he had drawn it again and again because there had been times when his father had told him that changes had taken place. oh, yes! he could have drawn a map which would have moved them to a frenzy of joy. but he sat silent and listened, only speaking when he asked a question, as if he knew nothing more about samavia than the rat did. what a secret party they were! they drew themselves together in the closest of circles; they spoke in unearthly whispers. "a sentinel ought to be posted at the end of the passage," marco whispered. "ben, take your gun!" commanded the rat. ben rose stealthily, and, shouldering his weapon, crept on tiptoe to the opening. there he stood on guard. "my father says there's been a secret party in samavia for a hundred years," the rat whispered. "who told him?" asked marco. "a man who has been in samavia," answered the rat. "he said it was the most wonderful secret party in the world, because it has worked and waited so long, and never given up, though it has had no reason for hoping. it began among some shepherds and charcoal-burners who bound themselves by an oath to find the lost prince and bring him back to the throne. there were too few of them to do anything against the maranovitch, and when the first lot found they were growing old, they made their sons take the same oath. it has been passed on from generation to generation, and in each generation the band has grown. no one really knows how large it is now, but they say that there are people in nearly all the countries in europe who belong to it in dead secret, and are sworn to help it when they are called. they are only waiting. some are rich people who will give money, and some are poor ones who will slip across the frontier to fight or to help to smuggle in arms. they even say that for all these years there have been arms made in caves in the mountains, and hidden there year after year. there are men who are called forgers of the sword, and they, and their fathers, and grandfathers, and great-grandfathers have always made swords and stored them in caverns no one knows of, hidden caverns underground." marco spoke aloud the thought which had come into his mind as he listened, a thought which brought fear to him. "if the people in the streets talk about it, they won't be hidden long." "it isn't common talk, my father says. only very few have guessed, and most of them think it is part of the lost prince legend," said the rat. "the maranovitch and iarovitch laugh at it. they have always been great fools. they're too full of their own swagger to think anything can interfere with them." "do you talk much to your father?" marco asked him. the rat showed his sharp white teeth in a grin. "i know what you're thinking of," he said. "you're remembering that i said he was always drunk. so he is, except when he's only _half_ drunk. and when he's _half_ drunk, he's the most splendid talker in london. he remembers everything he has ever learned or read or heard since he was born. i get him going and listen. he wants to talk and i want to hear. i found out almost everything i know in that way. he didn't know he was teaching me, but he was. he goes back into being a gentleman when he's half drunk." "if--if you care about the samavians, you'd better ask him not to tell people about the secret party and the forgers of the sword," suggested marco. the rat started a little. "that's true!" he said. "you're sharper than i am. it oughtn't to be blabbed about, or the maranovitch might hear enough to make them stop and listen. i'll get him to promise. there's one queer thing about him," he added very slowly, as if he were thinking it over, "i suppose it's part of the gentleman that's left in him. if he makes a promise, he never breaks it, drunk or sober." "ask him to make one," said marco. the next moment he changed the subject because it seemed the best thing to do. "go on and tell us what our own secret party is to do. we're forgetting," he whispered. the rat took up his game with renewed keenness. it was a game which attracted him immensely because it called upon his imagination and held his audience spellbound, besides plunging him into war and strategy. "we're preparing for the rising," he said. "it must come soon. we've waited so long. the caverns are stacked with arms. the maranovitch and the iarovitch are fighting and using all their soldiers, and now is our time." he stopped and thought, his elbows on his knees. he began to bite his nails again. "the secret signal must be given," he said. then he stopped again, and the squad held its breath and pressed nearer with a softly shuffling sound. "two of the secret ones must be chosen by lot and sent forth," he went on; and the squad almost brought ruin and disgrace upon itself by wanting to cheer again, and only just stopping itself in time. "must be chosen _by lot_," the rat repeated, looking from one face to another. "each one will take his life in his hand when he goes forth. he may have to die a thousand deaths, but he must go. he must steal in silence and disguise from one country to another. wherever there is one of the secret party, whether he is in a hovel or on a throne, the messengers must go to him in darkness and stealth and give him the sign. it will mean, 'the hour has come. god save samavia!'" "god save samavia!" whispered the squad, excitedly. and, because they saw marco raise his hand to his forehead, every one of them saluted. they all began to whisper at once. "let's draw lots now. let's draw lots, rat. don't let's 'ave no waitin'." the rat began to look about him with dread anxiety. he seemed to be examining the sky. "the darkness is not as thick as it was," he whispered. "midnight has passed. the dawn of day will be upon us. if any one has a piece of paper or a string, we will draw the lots before we part." cad had a piece of string, and marco had a knife which could be used to cut it into lengths. this the rat did himself. then, after shutting his eyes and mixing them, he held them in his hand ready for the drawing. "the secret one who draws the longest lot is chosen. the secret one who draws the shortest is chosen," he said solemnly. the drawing was as solemn as his tone. each boy wanted to draw either the shortest lot or the longest one. the heart of each thumped somewhat as he drew his piece of string. when the drawing was at an end, each showed his lot. the rat had drawn the shortest piece of string, and marco had drawn the longest one. "comrade!" said the rat, taking his hand. "we will face death and danger together!" "god save samavia!" answered marco. and the game was at an end for the day. the primest thing, the squad said, the rat had ever made up for them. "'e wos a wonder, he wos!" vii "the lamp is lighted!" on his way home, marco thought of nothing but the story he must tell his father, the story the stranger who had been to samavia had told the rat's father. he felt that it must be a true story and not merely an invention. the forgers of the sword must be real men, and the hidden subterranean caverns stacked through the centuries with arms must be real, too. and if they were real, surely his father was one of those who knew the secret. his thoughts ran very fast. the rat's boyish invention of the rising was only part of a game, but how natural it would be that sometime--perhaps before long--there would be a real rising! surely there would be one if the secret party had grown so strong, and if many weapons and secret friends in other countries were ready and waiting. during all these years, hidden work and preparation would have been going on continually, even though it was preparation for an unknown day. a party which had lasted so long--which passed its oath on from generation to generation--must be of a deadly determination. what might it not have made ready in its caverns and secret meeting-places! he longed to reach home and tell his father, at once, all he had heard. he recalled to mind, word for word, all that the rat had been told, and even all he had added in his game, because--well, because that seemed so real too, so real that it actually might be useful. but when he reached no. philibert place, he found loristan and lazarus very much absorbed in work. the door of the back sitting-room was locked when he first knocked on it, and locked again as soon as he had entered. there were many papers on the table, and they were evidently studying them. several of them were maps. some were road maps, some maps of towns and cities, and some of fortifications; but they were all maps of places in samavia. they were usually kept in a strong box, and when they were taken out to be studied, the door was always kept locked. before they had their evening meal, these were all returned to the strong box, which was pushed into a corner and had newspapers piled upon it. "when he arrives," marco heard loristan say to lazarus, "we can show him clearly what has been planned. he can see for himself." his father spoke scarcely at all during the meal, and, though it was not the habit of lazarus to speak at such times unless spoken to, this evening it seemed to marco that he _looked_ more silent than he had ever seen him look before. they were plainly both thinking anxiously of deeply serious things. the story of the stranger who had been to samavia must not be told yet. but it was one which would keep. loristan did not say anything until lazarus had removed the things from the table and made the room as neat as possible. while that was being done, he sat with his forehead resting on his hand, as if absorbed in thought. then he made a gesture to marco. "come here, comrade," he said. marco went to him. "to-night some one may come to talk with me about grave things," he said. "i think he will come, but i cannot be quite sure. it is important that he should know that, when he comes, he will find me quite alone. he will come at a late hour, and lazarus will open the door quietly that no one may hear. it is important that no one should see him. some one must go and walk on the opposite side of the street until he appears. then the one who goes to give warning must cross the pavement before him and say in a low voice, 'the lamp is lighted!' and at once turn quietly away." what boy's heart would not have leaped with joy at the mystery of it! even a common and dull boy who knew nothing of samavia would have felt jerky. marco's voice almost shook with the thrill of his feeling. "how shall i know him?" he said at once. without asking at all, he knew he was the "some one" who was to go. "you have seen him before," loristan answered. "he is the man who drove in the carriage with the king." "i shall know him," said marco. "when shall i go?" "not until it is half-past one o'clock. go to bed and sleep until lazarus calls you." then he added, "look well at his face before you speak. he will probably not be dressed as well as he was when you saw him first." marco went up-stairs to his room and went to bed as he was told, but it was hard to go to sleep. the rattle and roaring of the road did not usually keep him awake, because he had lived in the poorer quarter of too many big capital cities not to be accustomed to noise. but to-night it seemed to him that, as he lay and looked out at the lamplight, he heard every bus and cab which went past. he could not help thinking of the people who were in them, and on top of them, and of the people who were hurrying along on the pavement outside the broken iron railings. he was wondering what they would think if they knew that things connected with the battles they read of in the daily papers were going on in one of the shabby houses they scarcely gave a glance to as they went by them. it must be something connected with the war, if a man who was a great diplomat and the companion of kings came in secret to talk alone with a patriot who was a samavian. whatever his father was doing was for the good of samavia, and perhaps the secret party knew he was doing it. his heart almost beat aloud under his shirt as he lay on the lumpy mattress thinking it over. he must indeed look well at the stranger before he even moved toward him. he must be sure he was the right man. the game he had amused himself with so long--the game of trying to remember pictures and people and places clearly and in detail--had been a wonderful training. if he could draw, he knew he could have made a sketch of the keen-eyed, clever, aquiline face with the well-cut and delicately close mouth, which looked as if it had been shut upon secrets always--always. if he could draw, he found himself saying again. he _could_ draw, though perhaps only roughly. he had often amused himself by making sketches of things he wanted to ask questions about. he had even drawn people's faces in his untrained way, and his father had said that he had a crude gift for catching a likeness. perhaps he could make a sketch of this face which would show his father that he knew and would recognize it. he jumped out of bed and went to a table near the window. there was paper and a pencil lying on it. a street lamp exactly opposite threw into the room quite light enough for him to see by. he half knelt by the table and began to draw. he worked for about twenty minutes steadily, and he tore up two or three unsatisfactory sketches. the poor drawing would not matter if he could catch that subtle look which was not slyness but something more dignified and important. it was not difficult to get the marked, aristocratic outline of the features. a common-looking man with less pronounced profile would have been less easy to draw in one sense. he gave his mind wholly to the recalling of every detail which had photographed itself on his memory through its trained habit. gradually he saw that the likeness was becoming clearer. it was not long before it was clear enough to be a striking one. any one who knew the man would recognize it. he got up, drawing a long and joyful breath. he did not put on his shoes, but crossed his room as noiselessly as possible, and as noiselessly opened the door. he made no ghost of a sound when he went down the stairs. the woman who kept the lodging-house had gone to bed, and so had the other lodgers and the maid of all work. all the lights were out except the one he saw a glimmer of under the door of his father's room. when he had been a mere baby, he had been taught to make a special sign on the door when he wished to speak to loristan. he stood still outside the back sitting-room and made it now. it was a low scratching sound--two scratches and a soft tap. lazarus opened the door and looked troubled. "it is not yet time, sir," he said very low. "i know," marco answered. "but i must show something to my father." lazarus let him in, and loristan turned round from his writing-table questioningly. marco went forward and laid the sketch down before him. "look at it," he said. "i remember him well enough to draw that. i thought of it all at once--that i could make a sort of picture. do you think it is like him?" loristan examined it closely. "it is very like him," he answered. "you have made me feel entirely safe. thanks, comrade. it was a good idea." there was relief in the grip he gave the boy's hand, and marco turned away with an exultant feeling. just as he reached the door, loristan said to him: "make the most of this gift. it is a gift. and it is true your mind has had good training. the more you draw, the better. draw everything you can." neither the street lamps, nor the noises, nor his thoughts kept marco awake when he went back to bed. but before he settled himself upon his pillow he gave himself certain orders. he had both read, and heard loristan say, that the mind can control the body when people once find out that it can do so. he had tried experiments himself, and had found out some curious things. one was that if he told himself to remember a certain thing at a certain time, he usually found that he _did_ remember it. something in his brain seemed to remind him. he had often tried the experiment of telling himself to awaken at a particular hour, and had awakened almost exactly at the moment by the clock. "i will sleep until one o'clock," he said as he shut his eyes. "then i will awaken and feel quite fresh. i shall not be sleepy at all." he slept as soundly as a boy can sleep. and at one o'clock exactly he awakened, and found the street lamp still throwing its light through the window. he knew it was one o'clock, because there was a cheap little round clock on the table, and he could see the time. he was quite fresh and not at all sleepy. his experiment had succeeded again. he got up and dressed. then he went down-stairs as noiselessly as before. he carried his shoes in his hands, as he meant to put them on only when he reached the street. he made his sign at his father's door, and it was loristan who opened it. "shall i go now?" marco asked. "yes. walk slowly to the other side of the street. look in every direction. we do not know where he will come from. after you have given him the sign, then come in and go to bed again." marco saluted as a soldier would have done on receiving an order. then, without a second's delay, he passed noiselessly out of the house. loristan turned back into the room and stood silently in the center of it. the long lines of his handsome body looked particularly erect and stately, and his eyes were glowing as if something deeply moved him. "there grows a man for samavia," he said to lazarus, who watched him. "god be thanked!" lazarus's voice was low and hoarse, and he saluted quite reverently. "your--sir!" he said. "god save the prince!" "yes," loristan answered, after a moment's hesitation,--"when he is found." and he went back to his table smiling his beautiful smile. * * * * * the wonder of silence in the deserted streets of a great city, after midnight has hushed all the roar and tumult to rest, is an almost unbelievable thing. the stillness in the depths of a forest or on a mountain top is not so strange. a few hours ago, the tumult was rushing past; in a few hours more, it will be rushing past again. but now the street is a naked thing; a distant policeman's tramp on the bare pavement has a hollow and almost fearsome sound. it seemed especially so to marco as he crossed the road. had it ever been so empty and deadly silent before? was it so every night? perhaps it was, when he was fast asleep on his lumpy mattress with the light from a street lamp streaming into the room. he listened for the step of the policeman on night-watch, because he did not wish to be seen. there was a jutting wall where he could stand in the shadow while the man passed. a policeman would stop to look questioningly at a boy who walked up and down the pavement at half-past one in the morning. marco could wait until he had gone by, and then come out into the light and look up and down the road and the cross streets. he heard his approaching footsteps in a few minutes, and was safely in the shadows before he could be seen. when the policeman passed, he came out and walked slowly down the road, looking on each side, and now and then looking back. at first no one was in sight. then a late hansom-cab came tinkling along. but the people in it were returning from some festivity, and were laughing and talking, and noticed nothing but their own joking. then there was silence again, and for a long time, as it seemed to marco, no one was to be seen. it was not really so long as it appeared, because he was anxious. then a very early vegetable-wagon on the way from the country to covent garden market came slowly lumbering by with its driver almost asleep on his piles of potatoes and cabbages. after it had passed, there was stillness and emptiness once more, until the policeman showed himself again on his beat, and marco slipped into the shadow of the wall as he had done before. when he came out into the light, he had begun to hope that the time would not seem long to his father. it had not really been long, he told himself, it had only seemed so. but his father's anxiousness would be greater than his own could be. loristan knew all that depended on the coming of this great man who sat side by side with a king in his carriage and talked to him as if he knew him well. "it might be something which all samavia is waiting to know--at least all the secret party," marco thought. "the secret party is samavia,"--he started at the sound of footsteps. "some one is coming!" he said. "it is a man." it was a man who was walking up the road on the same side of the pavement as his own. marco began to walk toward him quietly but rather rapidly. he thought it might be best to appear as if he were some boy sent on a midnight errand--perhaps to call a doctor. then, if it was a stranger he passed, no suspicion would be aroused. was this man as tall as the one who had driven with the king? yes, he was about the same height, but he was too far away to be recognizable otherwise. he drew nearer, and marco noticed that he also seemed slightly to hasten his footsteps. marco went on. a little nearer, and he would be able to make sure. yes, now he was near enough. yes, this man was the same height and not unlike in figure, but he was much younger. he was not the one who had been in the carriage with his majesty. he was not more than thirty years old. he began swinging his cane and whistling a music-hall song softly as marco passed him without changing his pace. it was after the policeman had walked round his beat and disappeared for the third time, that marco heard footsteps echoing at some distance down a cross street. after listening to make sure that they were approaching instead of receding in another direction, he placed himself at a point where he could watch the length of the thoroughfare. yes, some one was coming. it was a man's figure again. he was able to place himself rather in the shadow so that the person approaching would not see that he was being watched. the solitary walker reached a recognizable distance in about two minutes' time. he was dressed in an ordinary shop-made suit of clothes which was rather shabby and quite unnoticeable in its appearance. his common hat was worn so that it rather shaded his face. but even before he had crossed to marco's side of the road, the boy had clearly recognized him. it was the man who had driven with the king! chance was with marco. the man crossed at exactly the place which made it easy for the boy to step lightly from behind him, walk a few paces by his side, and then pass directly before him across the pavement, glancing quietly up into his face as he said in a low voice but distinctly, the words "the lamp is lighted," and without pausing a second walk on his way down the road. he did not slacken his pace or look back until he was some distance away. then he glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the figure had crossed the street and was inside the railings. it was all right. his father would not be disappointed. the great man had come. he walked for about ten minutes, and then went home and to bed. but he was obliged to tell himself to go to sleep several times before his eyes closed for the rest of the night. viii an exciting game loristan referred only once during the next day to what had happened. "you did your errand well. you were not hurried or nervous," he said. "the prince was pleased with your calmness." no more was said. marco knew that the quiet mention of the stranger's title had been made merely as a designation. if it was necessary to mention him again in the future, he could be referred to as "the prince." in various continental countries there were many princes who were not royal or even serene highnesses--who were merely princes as other nobles were dukes or barons. nothing special was revealed when a man was spoken of as a prince. but though nothing was said on the subject of the incident, it was plain that much work was being done by loristan and lazarus. the sitting-room door was locked, and the maps and documents, usually kept in the iron box, were being used. marco went to the tower of london and spent part of the day in living again the stories which, centuries past, had been inclosed within its massive and ancient stone walls. in this way, he had throughout boyhood become intimate with people who to most boys seemed only the unreal creatures who professed to be alive in school-books of history. he had learned to know them as men and women because he had stood in the palaces they had been born in and had played in as children, had died in at the end. he had seen the dungeons they had been imprisoned in, the blocks on which they had laid their heads, the battlements on which they had fought to defend their fortressed towers, the thrones they had sat upon, the crowns they had worn, and the jeweled scepters they had held. he had stood before their portraits and had gazed curiously at their "robes of investiture," sewn with tens of thousands of seed-pearls. to look at a man's face and feel his pictured eyes follow you as you move away from him, to see the strangely splendid garments he once warmed with his living flesh, is to realize that history is not a mere lesson in a school-book, but is a relation of the life stories of men and women who saw strange and splendid days, and sometimes suffered strange and terrible things. there were only a few people who were being led about sight-seeing. the man in the ancient beef-eaters' costume, who was their guide, was good-natured, and evidently fond of talking. he was a big and stout man, with a large face and a small, merry eye. he was rather like pictures of henry the eighth, himself, which marco remembered having seen. he was specially talkative when he stood by the tablet that marks the spot where stood the block on which lady jane grey had laid her young head. one of the sightseers who knew little of english history had asked some questions about the reasons for her execution. "if her father-in-law, the duke of northumberland, had left that young couple alone--her and her husband, lord guildford dudley--they'd have kept their heads on. he was bound to make her a queen, and mary tudor was bound to be queen herself. the duke wasn't clever enough to manage a conspiracy and work up the people. these samavians we're reading about in the papers would have done it better. and they're half-savages." "they had a big battle outside melzarr yesterday," the sight-seer standing next to marco said to the young woman who was his companion. "thousands of 'em killed. i saw it in big letters on the boards as i rode on the top of the bus. they're just slaughtering each other, that's what they're doing." the talkative beef-eater heard him. "they can't even bury their dead fast enough," he said. "there'll be some sort of plague breaking out and sweeping into the countries nearest them. it'll end by spreading all over europe as it did in the middle ages. what the civilized countries have got to do is to make them choose a decent king and begin to behave themselves." "i'll tell my father that too," marco thought. "it shows that everybody is thinking and talking of samavia, and that even the common people know it must have a real king. this must be _the time_!" and what he meant was that this must be the time for which the secret party had waited and worked so long--the time for the rising. but his father was out when he went back to philibert place, and lazarus looked more silent than ever as he stood behind his chair and waited on him through his insignificant meal. however plain and scant the food they had to eat, it was always served with as much care and ceremony as if it had been a banquet. "a man can eat dry bread and drink cold water as if he were a gentleman," his father had said long ago. "and it is easy to form careless habits. even if one is hungry enough to feel ravenous, a man who has been well bred will not allow himself to look so. a dog may, a man may not. just as a dog may howl when he is angry or in pain and a man may not." it was only one of the small parts of the training which had quietly made the boy, even as a child, self-controlled and courteous, had taught him ease and grace of boyish carriage, the habit of holding his body well and his head erect, and had given him a certain look of young distinction which, though it assumed nothing, set him apart from boys of carelessly awkward bearing. "is there a newspaper here which tells of the battle, lazarus?" he asked, after he had left the table. "yes, sir," was the answer. "your father said that you might read it. it is a black tale!" he added, as he handed him the paper. it was a black tale. as he read, marco felt as if he could scarcely bear it. it was as if samavia swam in blood, and as if the other countries must stand aghast before such furious cruelties. "lazarus," he said, springing to his feet at last, his eyes burning, "something must stop it! there must be something strong enough. the time has come. the time has come." and he walked up and down the room because he was too excited to stand still. how lazarus watched him! what a strong and glowing feeling there was in his own restrained face! "yes, sir. surely the time has come," he answered. but that was all he said, and he turned and went out of the shabby back sitting-room at once. it was as if he felt it were wiser to go before he lost power over himself and said more. marco made his way to the meeting-place of the squad, to which the rat had in the past given the name of the barracks. the rat was sitting among his followers, and he had been reading the morning paper to them, the one which contained the account of the battle of melzarr. the squad had become the secret party, and each member of it was thrilled with the spirit of dark plot and adventure. they all whispered when they spoke. "this is not the barracks now," the rat said. "it is a subterranean cavern. under the floor of it thousands of swords and guns are buried, and it is piled to the roof with them. there is only a small place left for us to sit and plot in. we crawl in through a hole, and the hole is hidden by bushes." to the rest of the boys this was only an exciting game, but marco knew that to the rat it was more. though the rat knew none of the things he knew, he saw that the whole story seemed to him a real thing. the struggles of samavia, as he had heard and read of them in the newspapers, had taken possession of him. his passion for soldiering and warfare and his curiously mature brain had led him into following every detail he could lay hold of. he had listened to all he had heard with remarkable results. he remembered things older people forgot after they had mentioned them. he forgot nothing. he had drawn on the flagstones a map of samavia which marco saw was actually correct, and he had made a rough sketch of melzarr and the battle which had had such disastrous results. "the maranovitch had possession of melzarr," he explained with feverish eagerness. "and the iarovitch attacked them from here," pointing with his finger. "that was a mistake. i should have attacked them from a place where they would not have been expecting it. they expected attack on their fortifications, and they were ready to defend them. i believe the enemy could have stolen up in the night and rushed in here," pointing again. marco thought he was right. the rat had argued it all out, and had studied melzarr as he might have studied a puzzle or an arithmetical problem. he was very clever, and as sharp as his queer face looked. "i believe you would make a good general if you were grown up," said marco. "i'd like to show your maps to my father and ask him if he doesn't think your stratagem would have been a good one." "does he know much about samavia?" asked the rat. "he has to read the newspapers because he writes things," marco answered. "and every one is thinking about the war. no one can help it." the rat drew a dingy, folded paper out of his pocket and looked it over with an air of reflection. "i'll make a clean one," he said. "i'd like a grown-up man to look at it and see if it's all right. my father was more than half-drunk when i was drawing this, so i couldn't ask him questions. he'll kill himself before long. he had a sort of fit last night." "tell us, rat, wot you an' marco'll 'ave ter do. let's 'ear wot you've made up," suggested cad. he drew closer, and so did the rest of the circle, hugging their knees with their arms. "this is what we shall have to do," began the rat, in the hollow whisper of a secret party. "_the hour has come_. to all the secret ones in samavia, and to the friends of the secret party in every country, the sign must be carried. it must be carried by some one who could not be suspected. who would suspect two boys--and one of them a cripple? the best thing of all for us is that i am a cripple. who would suspect a cripple? when my father is drunk and beats me, he does it because i won't go out and beg in the streets and bring him the money i get. he says that people will nearly always give money to a cripple. i won't be a beggar for him--the swine--but i will be one for samavia and the lost prince. marco shall pretend to be my brother and take care of me. i say," speaking to marco with a sudden change of voice, "can you sing anything? it doesn't matter how you do it." "yes, i can sing," marco replied. "then marco will pretend he is singing to make people give him money. i'll get a pair of crutches somewhere, and part of the time i will go on crutches and part of the time on my platform. we'll live like beggars and go wherever we want to. i can whiz past a man and give the sign and no one will know. some times marco can give it when people are dropping money into his cap. we can pass from one country to another and rouse everybody who is of the secret party. we'll work our way into samavia, and we'll be only two boys--and one a cripple--and nobody will think we could be doing anything. we'll beg in great cities and on the highroad." "where'll you get the money to travel?" said cad. "the secret party will give it to us, and we sha'n't need much. we could beg enough, for that matter. we'll sleep under the stars, or under bridges, or archways, or in dark corners of streets. i've done it myself many a time when my father drove me out of doors. if it's cold weather, it's bad enough but if it's fine weather, it's better than sleeping in the kind of place i'm used to. comrade," to marco, "are you ready?" he said "comrade" as loristan did, and somehow marco did not resent it, because he was ready to labor for samavia. it was only a game, but it made them comrades--and was it really only a game, after all? his excited voice and his strange, lined face made it singularly unlike one. "yes, comrade, i am ready," marco answered him. "we shall be in samavia when the fighting for the lost prince begins." the rat carried on his story with fire. "we may see a battle. we might do something to help. we might carry messages under a rain of bullets--a rain of bullets!" the thought so elated him that he forgot his whisper and his voice rang out fiercely. "boys have been in battles before. we might find the lost king--no, the found king--and ask him to let us be his servants. he could send us where he couldn't send bigger people. i could say to him, 'your majesty, i am called "the rat," because i can creep through holes and into corners and dart about. order me into any danger and i will obey you. let me die like a soldier if i can't live like one.'" suddenly he threw his ragged coat sleeve up across his eyes. he had wrought himself up tremendously with the picture of the rain of bullets. and he felt as if he saw the king who had at last been found. the next moment he uncovered his face. "that's what we've got to do," he said. "just that, if you want to know. and a lot more. there's no end to it!" marco's thoughts were in a whirl. it ought not to be nothing but a game. he grew quite hot all over. if the secret party wanted to send messengers no one would think of suspecting, who could be more harmless-looking than two vagabond boys wandering about picking up their living as best they could, not seeming to belong to any one? and one a cripple. it was true--yes, it was true, as the rat said, that his being a cripple made him look safer than any one else. marco actually put his forehead in his hands and pressed his temples. "what's the matter?" exclaimed the rat. "what are you thinking about?" "i'm thinking what a general you would make. i'm thinking that it might all be real--every word of it. it mightn't be a game at all," said marco. "no, it mightn't," the rat answered. "if i knew where the secret party was, i'd like to go and tell them about it. what's that!" he said, suddenly turning his head toward the street. "what are they calling out?" some newsboy with a particularly shrill voice was shouting out something at the topmost of his lungs. tense and excited, no member of the circle stirred or spoke for a few seconds. the rat listened, marco listened, the whole squad listened, pricking up their ears. "startling news from samavia," the newsboy was shrilling out. "amazing story! descendant of the lost prince found! descendant of the lost prince found!" "any chap got a penny?" snapped the rat, beginning to shuffle toward the arched passage. "i have!" answered marco, following him. "come on!" the rat yelled. "let's go and get a paper!" and he whizzed down the passage with his swiftest rat-like dart, while the squad followed him, shouting and tumbling over each other. ix "it is not a game" loristan walked slowly up and down the back sitting-room and listened to marco, who sat by the small fire and talked. "go on," he said, whenever the boy stopped. "i want to hear it all. he's a strange lad, and it's a splendid game." marco was telling him the story of his second and third visits to the inclosure behind the deserted church-yard. he had begun at the beginning, and his father had listened with a deep interest. a year later, marco recalled this evening as a thrilling memory, and as one which would never pass away from him throughout his life. he would always be able to call it all back. the small and dingy back room, the dimness of the one poor gas-burner, which was all they could afford to light, the iron box pushed into the corner with its maps and plans locked safely in it, the erect bearing and actual beauty of the tall form, which the shabbiness of worn and mended clothes could not hide or dim. not even rags and tatters could have made loristan seem insignificant or undistinguished. he was always the same. his eyes seemed darker and more wonderful than ever in their remote thoughtfulness and interest as he spoke. "go on," he said. "it is a splendid game. and it is curious. he has thought it out well. the lad is a born soldier." "it is not a game to him," marco said. "and it is not a game to me. the squad is only playing, but with him it's quite different. he knows he'll never really get what he wants, but he feels as if this was something near it. he said i might show you the map he made. father, look at it." he gave loristan the clean copy of the rat's map of samavia. the city of melzarr was marked with certain signs. they were to show at what points the rat--if he had been a samavian general--would have attacked the capital. as marco pointed them out, he explained the rat's reasons for his planning. loristan held the paper for some minutes. he fixed his eyes on it curiously, and his black brows drew themselves together. "this is very wonderful!" he said at last. "he is quite right. they might have got in there, and for the very reasons he hit on. how did he learn all this?" "he thinks of nothing else now," answered marco. "he has always thought of wars and made plans for battles. he's not like the rest of the squad. his father is nearly always drunk, but he is very well educated, and, when he is only half drunk, he likes to talk. the rat asks him questions then, and leads him on until he finds out a great deal. then he begs old newspapers, and he hides himself in corners and listens to what people are saying. he says he lies awake at night thinking it out, and he thinks about it all the day. that was why he got up the squad." loristan had continued examining the paper. "tell him," he said, when he refolded and handed it back, "that i studied his map, and he may be proud of it. you may also tell him--" and he smiled quietly as he spoke--"that in my opinion he is right. the iarovitch would have held melzarr to-day if he had led them." marco was full of exultation. "i thought you would say he was right. i felt sure you would. that is what makes me want to tell you the rest," he hurried on. "if you think he is right about the rest too--" he stopped awkwardly because of a sudden wild thought which rushed upon him. "i don't know what you will think," he stammered. "perhaps it will seem to you as if the game--as if that part of it could--could only be a game." he was so fervent in spite of his hesitation that loristan began to watch him with sympathetic respect, as he always did when the boy was trying to express something he was not sure of. one of the great bonds between them was that loristan was always interested in his boyish mental processes--in the way in which his thoughts led him to any conclusion. "go on," he said again. "i am like the rat and i am like you. it has not seemed quite like a game to me, so far." he sat down at the writing-table and marco, in his eagerness, drew nearer and leaned against it, resting on his arms and lowering his voice, though it was always their habit to speak at such a pitch that no one outside the room they were in could distinguish what they said. "it is the rat's plan for giving the signal for a rising," he said. loristan made a slight movement. "does he think there will be a rising?" he asked. "he says that must be what the secret party has been preparing for all these years. and it must come soon. the other nations see that the fighting must be put an end to even if they have to stop it themselves. and if the real king is found--but when the rat bought the newspaper there was nothing in it about where he was. it was only a sort of rumor. nobody seemed to know anything." he stopped a few seconds, but he did not utter the words which were in his mind. he did not say: "but _you_ know." "and the rat has a plan for giving the signal?" loristan said. marco forgot his first feeling of hesitation. he began to see the plan again as he had seen it when the rat talked. he began to speak as the rat had spoken, forgetting that it was a game. he made even a clearer picture than the rat had made of the two vagabond boys--one of them a cripple--making their way from one place to another, quite free to carry messages or warnings where they chose, because they were so insignificant and poor-looking that no one could think of them as anything but waifs and strays, belonging to nobody and blown about by the wind of poverty and chance. he felt as if he wanted to convince his father that the plan was a possible one. he did not quite know why he felt so anxious to win his approval of the scheme--as if it were real--as if it could actually be done. but this feeling was what inspired him to enter into new details and suggest possibilities. "a boy who was a cripple and one who was only a street singer and a sort of beggar could get almost anywhere," he said. "soldiers would listen to a singer if he sang good songs--and they might not be afraid to talk before him. a strolling singer and a cripple would perhaps hear a great many things it might be useful for the secret party to know. they might even hear important things. don't you think so?" before he had gone far with his story, the faraway look had fallen upon loristan's face--the look marco had known so well all his life. he sat turned a little sidewise from the boy, his elbow resting on the table and his forehead on his hand. he looked down at the worn carpet at his feet, and so he looked as he listened to the end. it was as if some new thought were slowly growing in his mind as marco went on talking and enlarging on the rat's plan. he did not even look up or change his position as he answered, "yes. i think so." but, because of the deep and growing thought in his face, marco's courage increased. his first fear that this part of the planning might seem so bold and reckless that it would only appear to belong to a boyish game, gradually faded away for some strange reason. his father had said that the first part of the rat's imaginings had not seemed quite like a game to him, and now--even now--he was not listening as if he were listening to the details of mere exaggerated fancies. it was as if the thing he was hearing was not wildly impossible. marco's knowledge of continental countries and of methods of journeying helped him to enter into much detail and give realism to his plans. "sometimes we could pretend we knew nothing but english," he said. "then, though the rat could not understand, i could. i should always understand in each country. i know the cities and the places we should want to go to. i know how boys like us live, and so we should not do anything which would make the police angry or make people notice us. if any one asked questions, i would let them believe that i had met the rat by chance, and we had made up our minds to travel together because people gave more money to a boy who sang if he was with a cripple. there was a boy who used to play the guitar in the streets of rome, and he always had a lame girl with him, and every one knew it was for that reason. when he played, people looked at the girl and were sorry for her and gave her soldi. you remember." "yes, i remember. and what you say is true," loristan answered. marco leaned forward across the table so that he came closer to him. the tone in which the words were said made his courage leap like a flame. to be allowed to go on with this boldness was to feel that he was being treated almost as if he were a man. if his father had wished to stop him, he could have done it with one quiet glance, without uttering a word. for some wonderful reason he did not wish him to cease talking. he was willing to hear what he had to say--he was even interested. "you are growing older," he had said the night he had revealed the marvelous secret. "silence is still the order, but you are man enough to be told more." was he man enough to be thought worthy to help samavia in any small way--even with boyish fancies which might contain a germ of some thought which older and wiser minds might make useful? was he being listened to because the plan, made as part of a game, was not an impossible one--if two boys who could be trusted could be found? he caught a deep breath as he went on, drawing still nearer and speaking so low that his tone was almost a whisper. "if the men of the secret party have been working and thinking for so many years--they have prepared everything. they know by this time exactly what must be done by the messengers who are to give the signal. they can tell them where to go and how to know the secret friends who must be warned. if the orders could be written and given to--to some one who has--who has learned to remember things!" he had begun to breathe so quickly that he stopped for a moment. loristan looked up. he looked directly into his eyes. "some one who has been _trained_ to remember things?" he said. "some one who has been trained," marco went on, catching his breath again. "some one who does not forget--who would never forget--never! that one, even if he were only twelve--even if he were only ten--could go and do as he was told." loristan put his hand on his shoulder. "comrade," he said, "you are speaking as if you were ready to go yourself." marco's eyes looked bravely straight into his, but he said not one word. "do you know what it would mean, comrade?" his father went on. "you are right. it is not a game. and you are not thinking of it as one. but have you thought how it would be if something betrayed you--and you were set up against a wall to be _shot_?" marco stood up quite straight. he tried to believe he felt the wall against his back. "if i were shot, i should be shot for samavia," he said. "and for _you_, father." even as he was speaking, the front door-bell rang and lazarus evidently opened it. he spoke to some one, and then they heard his footsteps approaching the back sitting-room. "open the door," said loristan, and marco opened it. "there is a boy who is a cripple here, sir," the old soldier said. "he asked to see master marco." "if it is the rat," said loristan, "bring him in here. i wish to see him." marco went down the passage to the front door. the rat was there, but he was not upon his platform. he was leaning upon an old pair of crutches, and marco thought he looked wild and strange. he was white, and somehow the lines of his face seemed twisted in a new way. marco wondered if something had frightened him, or if he felt ill. "rat," he began, "my father--" "i've come to tell you about _my_ father," the rat broke in without waiting to hear the rest, and his voice was as strange as his pale face. "i don't know why i've come, but i--i just wanted to. he's dead!" "your father?" marco stammered. "he's--" "he's dead," the rat answered shakily. "i told you he'd kill himself. he had another fit and he died in it. i knew he would, one of these days. i told him so. he knew he would himself. i stayed with him till he was dead--and then i got a bursting headache and i felt sick--and i thought about you." marco made a jump at him because he saw he was suddenly shaking as if he were going to fall. he was just in time, and lazarus, who had been looking on from the back of the passage, came forward. together they held him up. "i'm not going to faint," he said weakly, "but i felt as if i was. it was a bad fit, and i had to try and hold him. i was all by myself. the people in the other attic thought he was only drunk, and they wouldn't come in. he's lying on the floor there, dead." "come and see my father," marco said. "he'll tell us what do do. lazarus, help him." "i can get on by myself," said the rat. "do you see my crutches? i did something for a pawnbroker last night, and he gave them to me for pay." but though he tried to speak carelessly, he had plainly been horribly shaken and overwrought. his queer face was yellowish white still, and he was trembling a little. marco led the way into the back sitting-room. in the midst of its shabby gloom and under the dim light loristan was standing in one of his still, attentive attitudes. he was waiting for them. "father, this is the rat," the boy began. the rat stopped short and rested on his crutches, staring at the tall, reposeful figure with widened eyes. "is that your father?" he said to marco. and then added, with a jerky half-laugh, "he's not much like mine, is he?" x the rat--and samavia what the rat thought when loristan began to speak to him, marco wondered. suddenly he stood in an unknown world, and it was loristan who made it so because its poverty and shabbiness had no power to touch him. he looked at the boy with calm and clear eyes, he asked him practical questions gently, and it was plain that he understood many things without asking questions at all. marco thought that perhaps he had, at some time, seen drunken men die, in his life in strange places. he seemed to know the terribleness of the night through which the rat had passed. he made him sit down, and he ordered lazarus to bring him some hot coffee and simple food. "haven't had a bite since yesterday," the rat said, still staring at him. "how did you know i hadn't?" "you have not had time," loristan answered. afterward he made him lie down on the sofa. "look at my clothes," said the rat. "lie down and sleep," loristan replied, putting his hand on his shoulder and gently forcing him toward the sofa. "you will sleep a long time. you must tell me how to find the place where your father died, and i will see that the proper authorities are notified." "what are you doing it for?" the rat asked, and then he added, "sir." "because i am a man and you are a boy. and this is a terrible thing," loristan answered him. he went away without saying more, and the rat lay on the sofa staring at the wall and thinking about it until he fell asleep. but, before this happened, marco had quietly left him alone. so, as loristan had told him he would, he slept deeply and long; in fact, he slept through all the night. * * * * * when he awakened it was morning, and lazarus was standing by the side of the sofa looking down at him. "you will want to make yourself clean," he said. "it must be done." "clean!" said the rat, with his squeaky laugh. "i couldn't keep clean when i had a room to live in, and now where am i to wash myself?" he sat up and looked about him. "give me my crutches," he said. "i've got to go. they've let me sleep here all night. they didn't turn me into the street. i don't know why they didn't. marco's father--he's the right sort. he looks like a swell." "the master," said lazarus, with a rigid manner, "the master is a great gentleman. he would turn no tired creature into the street. he and his son are poor, but they are of those who give. he desires to see and talk to you again. you are to have bread and coffee with him and the young master. but it is i who tell you that you cannot sit at table with them until you are clean. come with me," and he handed him his crutches. his manner was authoritative, but it was the manner of a soldier; his somewhat stiff and erect movements were those of a soldier, also, and the rat liked them because they made him feel as if he were in barracks. he did not know what was going to happen, but he got up and followed him on his crutches. lazarus took him to a closet under the stairs where a battered tin bath was already full of hot water, which the old soldier himself had brought in pails. there were soap and coarse, clean towels on a wooden chair, and also there was a much worn but clean suit of clothes. "put these on when you have bathed," lazarus ordered, pointing to them. "they belong to the young master and will be large for you, but they will be better than your own." and then he went out of the closet and shut the door. it was a new experience for the rat. so long as he remembered, he had washed his face and hands--when he had washed them at all--at an iron tap set in the wall of a back street or court in some slum. his father and himself had long ago sunk into the world where to wash one's self is not a part of every-day life. they had lived amid dirt and foulness, and when his father had been in a maudlin state, he had sometimes cried and talked of the long-past days when he had shaved every morning and put on a clean shirt. to stand even in the most battered of tin baths full of clean hot water and to splash and scrub with a big piece of flannel and plenty of soap was a marvelous thing. the rat's tired body responded to the novelty with a curious feeling of freshness and comfort. "i dare say swells do this every day," he muttered. "i'd do it myself if i was a swell. soldiers have to keep themselves so clean they shine." when, after making the most of his soap and water, he came out of the closet under the stairs, he was as fresh as marco himself; and, though his clothes had been built for a more stalwart body, his recognition of their cleanliness filled him with pleasure. he wondered if by any effort he could keep himself clean when he went out into the world again and had to sleep in any hole the police did not order him out of. he wanted to see marco again, but he wanted more to see the tall man with the soft dark eyes and that queer look of being a swell in spite of his shabby clothes and the dingy place he lived in. there was something about him which made you keep on looking at him, and wanting to know what he was thinking of, and why you felt as if you'd take orders from him as you'd take orders from your general, if you were a soldier. he looked, somehow, like a soldier, but as if he were something more--as if people had taken orders from him all his life, and always would take orders from him. and yet he had that quiet voice and those fine, easy movements, and he was not a soldier at all, but only a poor man who wrote things for papers which did not pay him well enough to give him and his son a comfortable living. through all the time of his seclusion with the battered bath and the soap and water, the rat thought of him, and longed to have another look at him and hear him speak again. he did not see any reason why he should have let him sleep on his sofa or why he should give him a breakfast before he turned him out to face the world. it was first-rate of him to do it. the rat felt that when he was turned out, after he had had the coffee, he should want to hang about the neighborhood just on the chance of seeing him pass by sometimes. he did not know what he was going to do. the parish officials would by this time have taken his dead father, and he would not see him again. he did not want to see him again. he had never seemed like a father. they had never cared anything for each other. he had only been a wretched outcast whose best hours had been when he had drunk too much to be violent and brutal. perhaps, the rat thought, he would be driven to going about on his platform on the pavements and begging, as his father had tried to force him to do. could he sell newspapers? what could a crippled lad do unless he begged or sold papers? lazarus was waiting for him in the passage. the rat held back a little. "perhaps they'd rather not eat their breakfast with me," he hesitated. "i'm not--i'm not the kind they are. i could swallow the coffee out here and carry the bread away with me. and you could thank him for me. i'd want him to know i thanked him." lazarus also had a steady eye. the rat realized that he was looking him over as if he were summing him up. "you may not be the kind they are, but you may be of a kind the master sees good in. if he did not see something, he would not ask you to sit at his table. you are to come with me." the squad had seen good in the rat, but no one else had. policemen had moved him on whenever they set eyes on him, the wretched women of the slums had regarded him as they regarded his darting, thieving namesake; loafing or busy men had seen in him a young nuisance to be kicked or pushed out of the way. the squad had not called "good" what they saw in him. they would have yelled with laughter if they had heard any one else call it so. "goodness" was not considered an attraction in their world. the rat grinned a little and wondered what was meant, as he followed lazarus into the back sitting-room. it was as dingy and gloomy as it had looked the night before, but by the daylight the rat saw how rigidly neat it was, how well swept and free from any speck of dust, how the poor windows had been cleaned and polished, and how everything was set in order. the coarse linen cloth on the table was fresh and spotless, so was the cheap crockery, the spoons shone with brightness. loristan was standing on the hearth and marco was near him. they were waiting for their vagabond guest as if he had been a gentleman. the rat hesitated and shuffled at the door for a moment, and then it suddenly occurred to him to stand as straight as he could and salute. when he found himself in the presence of loristan, he felt as if he ought to do something, but he did not know what. loristan's recognition of his gesture and his expression as he moved forward lifted from the rat's shoulders a load which he himself had not known lay there. somehow he felt as if something new had happened to him, as if he were not mere "vermin," after all, as if he need not be on the defensive--even as if he need not feel so much in the dark, and like a thing there was no place in the world for. the mere straight and far-seeing look of this man's eyes seemed to make a place somewhere for what he looked at. and yet what he said was quite simple. "this is well," he said. "you have rested. we will have some food, and then we will talk together." he made a slight gesture in the direction of the chair at the right hand of his own place. the rat hesitated again. what a swell he was! with that wave of the hand he made you feel as if you were a fellow like himself, and he was doing you some honor. "i'm not--" the rat broke off and jerked his head toward marco. "he knows--" he ended, "i've never sat at a table like this before." "there is not much on it." loristan made the slight gesture toward the right-hand seat again and smiled. "let us sit down." the rat obeyed him and the meal began. there were only bread and coffee and a little butter before them. but lazarus presented the cups and plates on a small japanned tray as if it were a golden salver. when he was not serving, he stood upright behind his master's chair, as though he wore royal livery of scarlet and gold. to the boy who had gnawed a bone or munched a crust wheresoever he found them, and with no thought but of the appeasing of his own wolfish hunger, to watch the two with whom he sat eat their simple food was a new thing. he knew nothing of the every-day decencies of civilized people. the rat liked to look at them, and he found himself trying to hold his cup as loristan did, and to sit and move as marco was sitting and moving--taking his bread or butter, when it was held at his side by lazarus, as if it were a simple thing to be waited upon. marco had had things handed to him all his life, and it did not make him feel awkward. the rat knew that his own father had once lived like this. he himself would have been at ease if chance had treated him fairly. it made him scowl to think of it. but in a few minutes loristan began to talk about the copy of the map of samavia. then the rat forgot everything else and was ill at ease no more. he did not know that loristan was leading him on to explain his theories about the country and the people and the war. he found himself telling all that he had read, or overheard, or _thought_ as he lay awake in his garret. he had thought out a great many things in a way not at all like a boy's. his strangely concentrated and over-mature mind had been full of military schemes which loristan listened to with curiosity and also with amazement. he had become extraordinarily clever in one direction because he had fixed all his mental powers on one thing. it seemed scarcely natural that an untaught vagabond lad should know so much and reason so clearly. it was at least extraordinarily interesting. there had been no skirmish, no attack, no battle which he had not led and fought in his own imagination, and he had made scores of rough queer plans of all that had been or should have been done. lazarus listened as attentively as his master, and once marco saw him exchange a startled, rapid glance with loristan. it was at a moment when the rat was sketching with his finger on the cloth an attack which _ought_ to have been made but was not. and marco knew at once that the quickly exchanged look meant "he is right! if it had been done, there would have been victory instead of disaster!" it was a wonderful meal, though it was only of bread and coffee. the rat knew he should never be able to forget it. afterward, loristan told him of what he had done the night before. he had seen the parish authorities and all had been done which a city government provides in the case of a pauper's death. his father would be buried in the usual manner. "we will follow him," loristan said in the end. "you and i and marco and lazarus." the rat's mouth fell open. "you--and marco--and lazarus!" he exclaimed, staring. "and me! why should any of us go? i don't want to. he wouldn't have followed me if i'd been the one." loristan remained silent for a few moments. "when a life has counted for nothing, the end of it is a lonely thing," he said at last. "if it has forgotten all respect for itself, pity is all that one has left to give. one would like to give _something_ to anything so lonely." he said the last brief sentence after a pause. "let us go," marco said suddenly; and he caught the rat's hand. the rat's own movement was sudden. he slipped from his crutches to a chair, and sat and gazed at the worn carpet as if he were not looking at it at all, but at something a long way off. after a while he looked up at loristan. "do you know what i thought of, all at once?" he said in a shaky voice. "i thought of that 'lost prince' one. he only lived once. perhaps he didn't live a long time. nobody knows. but it's five hundred years ago, and, just because he was the kind he was, every one that remembers him thinks of something fine. it's queer, but it does you good just to hear his name. and if he has been training kings for samavia all these centuries--they may have been poor and nobody may have known about them, but they've been _kings_. that's what _he_ did--just by being alive a few years. when i think of him and then think of--the other--there's such an awful difference that--yes--i'm sorry. for the first time. i'm his son and i can't care about him; but he's too lonely--i want to go." * * * * * so it was that when the forlorn derelict was carried to the graveyard where nameless burdens on the city were given to the earth, a curious funeral procession followed him. there were two tall and soldierly looking men and two boys, one of whom walked on crutches, and behind them were ten other boys who walked two by two. these ten were a queer, ragged lot; but they had respectfully sober faces, held their heads and their shoulders well, and walked with a remarkably regular marching step. it was the squad; but they had left their "rifles" at home. xi "come with me" when they came back from the graveyard, the rat was silent all the way. he was thinking of what had happened and of what lay before him. he was, in fact, thinking chiefly that nothing lay before him--nothing. the certainty of that gave his sharp, lined face new lines and sharpness which made it look pinched and hard. he had nothing before but a corner in a bare garret in which he could find little more than a leaking roof over his head--when he was not turned out into the street. but, if policemen asked him where he lived, he could say he lived in bone court with his father. now he couldn't say it. he got along very well on his crutches, but he was rather tired when they reached the turn in the street which led in the direction of his old haunts. at any rate, they were haunts he knew, and he belonged to them more than he belonged elsewhere. the squad stopped at this particular corner because it led to such homes as they possessed. they stopped in a body and looked at the rat, and the rat stopped also. he swung himself to loristan's side, touching his hand to his forehead. "thank you, sir," he said. "line and salute, you chaps!" and the squad stood in line and raised their hands also. "thank you, sir. thank you, marco. good-by." "where are you going?" loristan asked. "i don't know yet," the rat answered, biting his lips. he and loristan looked at each other a few moments in silence. both of them were thinking very hard. in the rat's eyes there was a kind of desperate adoration. he did not know what he should do when this man turned and walked away from him. it would be as if the sun itself had dropped out of the heavens--and the rat had not thought of what the sun meant before. but loristan did not turn and walk away. he looked deep into the lad's eyes as if he were searching to find some certainty. then he said in a low voice, "you know how poor i am." "i--i don't care!" said the rat. "you--you're like a king to me. i'd stand up and be shot to bits if you told me to do it." "i am so poor that i am not sure i can give you enough dry bread to eat--always. marco and lazarus and i are often hungry. sometimes you might have nothing to sleep on but the floor. but i can find a _place_ for you if i take you with me," said loristan. "do you know what i mean by a _place_?" "yes, i do," answered the rat. "it's what i've never had before--sir." what he knew was that it meant some bit of space, out of all the world, where he would have a sort of right to stand, howsoever poor and bare it might be. "i'm not used to beds or to food enough," he said. but he did not dare to insist too much on that "place." it seemed too great a thing to be true. loristan took his arm. "come with me," he said. "we won't part. i believe you are to be trusted." the rat turned quite white in a sort of anguish of joy. he had never cared for any one in his life. he had been a sort of young cain, his hand against every man and every man's hand against him. and during the last twelve hours he had plunged into a tumultuous ocean of boyish hero-worship. this man seemed like a sort of god to him. what he had said and done the day before, in what had been really the rat's hours of extremity, after that appalling night--the way he had looked into his face and understood it all, the talk at the table when he had listened to him seriously, comprehending and actually respecting his plans and rough maps; his silent companionship as they followed the pauper hearse together--these things were enough to make the lad longingly ready to be any sort of servant or slave to him if he might see and be spoken to by him even once or twice a day. the squad wore a look of dismay for a moment, and loristan saw it. "i am going to take your captain with me," he said. "but he will come back to barracks. so will marco." "will yer go on with the game?" asked cad, as eager spokesman. "we want to go on being the 'secret party.'" "yes, i'll go on," the rat answered. "i won't give it up. there's a lot in the papers to-day." so they were pacified and went on their way, and loristan and lazarus and marco and the rat went on theirs also. "queer thing is," the rat thought as they walked together, "i'm a bit afraid to speak to him unless he speaks to me first. never felt that way before with any one." he had jeered at policemen and had impudently chaffed "swells," but he felt a sort of secret awe of this man, and actually liked the feeling. "it's as if i was a private and he was commander-in-chief," he thought. "that's it." loristan talked to him as they went. he was simple enough in his statements of the situation. there was an old sofa in marco's bedroom. it was narrow and hard, as marco's bed itself was, but the rat could sleep upon it. they would share what food they had. there were newspapers and magazines to be read. there were papers and pencils to draw new maps and plans of battles. there was even an old map of samavia of marco's which the two boys could study together as an aid to their game. the rat's eyes began to have points of fire in them. "if i could see the papers every morning, i could fight the battles on paper by night," he said, quite panting at the incredible vision of splendor. were all the kingdoms of the earth going to be given to him? was he going to sleep without a drunken father near him? was he going to have a chance to wash himself and to sit at a table and hear people say "thank you," and "i beg pardon," as if they were using the most ordinary fashion of speech? his own father, before he had sunk into the depths, had lived and spoken in this way. "when i have time, we will see who can draw up the best plans," loristan said. "do you mean that you'll look at mine then--when you have time?" asked the rat, hesitatingly. "i wasn't expecting that." "yes," answered loristan, "i'll look at them, and we'll talk them over." as they went on, he told him that he and marco could do many things together. they could go to museums and galleries, and marco could show him what he himself was familiar with. "my father said you wouldn't let him come back to barracks when you found out about it," the rat said, hesitating again and growing hot because he remembered so many ugly past days. "but--but i swear i won't do him any harm, sir. i won't!" "when i said i believed you could be trusted, i meant several things," loristan answered him. "that was one of them. you're a new recruit. you and marco are both under a commanding officer." he said the words because he knew they would elate him and stir his blood. xii "only two boys" the words did elate him, and his blood was stirred by them every time they returned to his mind. he remembered them through the days and nights that followed. he sometimes, indeed, awakened from his deep sleep on the hard and narrow sofa in marco's room, and found that he was saying them half aloud to himself. the hardness of the sofa did not prevent his resting as he had never rested before in his life. by contrast with the past he had known, this poor existence was comfort which verged on luxury. he got into the battered tin bath every morning, he sat at the clean table, and could look at loristan and speak to him and hear his voice. his chief trouble was that he could hardly keep his eyes off him, and he was a little afraid he might be annoyed. but he could not bear to lose a look or a movement. at the end of the second day, he found his way, at some trouble, to lazarus's small back room at the top of the house. "will you let me come in and talk a bit?" he said. when he went in, he was obliged to sit on the top of lazarus's wooden box because there was nothing else for him. "i want to ask you," he plunged into his talk at once, "do you think he minds me looking at him so much? i can't help it--but if he hates it--well--i'll try and keep my eyes on the table." "the master is used to being looked at," lazarus made answer. "but it would be well to ask himself. he likes open speech." "i want to find out everything he likes and everything he doesn't like," the rat said. "i want--isn't there anything--anything you'd let me do for him? it wouldn't matter what it was. and he needn't know you are not doing it. i know you wouldn't be willing to give up anything particular. but you wait on him night and day. couldn't you give up something to me?" lazarus pierced him with keen eyes. he did not answer for several seconds. "now and then," he said gruffly at last, "i'll let you brush his boots. but not every day--perhaps once a week." "when will you let me have my first turn?" the rat asked. lazarus reflected. his shaggy eyebrows drew themselves down over his eyes as if this were a question of state. "next saturday," he conceded. "not before. i'll tell him when you brush them." "you needn't," said the rat. "it's not that i want him to know. i want to know myself that i'm doing something for him. i'll find out things that i can do without interfering with you. i'll think them out." "anything any one else did for him would be interfering with me," said lazarus. it was the rat's turn to reflect now, and his face twisted itself into new lines and wrinkles. "i'll tell you before i do anything," he said, after he had thought it over. "you served him first." "i have served him ever since he was born," said lazarus. "he's--he's yours," said the rat, still thinking deeply. "i am his," was lazarus's stern answer. "i am his--and the young master's." "that's it," the rat said. then a squeak of a half-laugh broke from him. "i've never been anybody's," he added. his sharp eyes caught a passing look on lazarus's face. such a queer, disturbed, sudden look. could he be rather sorry for him? perhaps the look meant something like that. "if you stay near him long enough--and it needn't be long--you will be his too. everybody is." the rat sat up as straight as he could. "when it comes to that," he blurted out, "i'm his now, in my way. i was his two minutes after he looked at me with his queer, handsome eyes. they're queer because they get you, and you want to follow him. i'm going to follow." that night lazarus recounted to his master the story of the scene. he simply repeated word for word what had been said, and loristan listened gravely. "we have not had time to learn much of him yet," he commented. "but that is a faithful soul, i think." a few days later, marco missed the rat soon after their breakfast hour. he had gone out without saying anything to the household. he did not return for several hours, and when he came back he looked tired. in the afternoon he fell asleep on his sofa in marco's room and slept heavily. no one asked him any questions as he volunteered no explanation. the next day he went out again in the same mysterious manner, and the next and the next. for an entire week he went out and returned with the tired look; but he did not explain until one morning, as he lay on his sofa before getting up, he said to marco: "i'm practicing walking with my crutches. i don't want to go about like a rat any more. i mean to be as near like other people as i can. i walk farther every morning. i began with two miles. if i practice every day, my crutches will be like legs." "shall i walk with you?" asked marco. "wouldn't you mind walking with a cripple?" "don't call yourself that," said marco. "we can talk together, and try to remember everything we see as we go along." "i want to learn to remember things. i'd like to train myself in that way too," the rat answered. "i'd give anything to know some of the things your father taught you. i've got a good memory. i remember a lot of things i don't want to remember. will you go this morning?" that morning they went, and loristan was told the reason for their walk. but though he knew one reason, he did not know all about it. when the rat was allowed his "turn" of the boot-brushing, he told more to lazarus. "what i want to do," he said, "is not only walk as fast as other people do, but faster. acrobats train themselves to do anything. it's training that does it. there might come a time when he might need some one to go on an errand quickly, and i'm going to be ready. i'm going to train myself until he needn't think of me as if i were only a cripple who can't do things and has to be taken care of. i want him to know that i'm really as strong as marco, and where marco can go i can go." "he" was what he always said, and lazarus always understood without explanation. "'the master' is your name for him," he had explained at the beginning. "and i can't call him just 'mister' loristan. it sounds like cheek. if he was called 'general' or 'colonel' i could stand it--though it wouldn't be quite right. some day i shall find a name. when i speak to him, i say 'sir.'" the walks were taken every day, and each day were longer. marco found himself silently watching the rat with amazement at his determination and endurance. he knew that he must not speak of what he could not fail to see as they walked. he must not tell him that he looked tired and pale and sometimes desperately fatigued. he had inherited from his father the tact which sees what people do not wish to be reminded of. he knew that for some reason of his own the rat had determined to do this thing at any cost to himself. sometimes his face grew white and worn and he breathed hard, but he never rested more than a few minutes, and never turned back or shortened a walk they had planned. "tell me something about samavia, something to remember," he would say, when he looked his worst. "when i begin to try to remember, i forget--other things." so, as they went on their way, they talked, and the rat committed things to memory. he was quick at it, and grew quicker every day. they invented a game of remembering faces they passed. both would learn them by heart, and on their return home marco would draw them. they went to the museums and galleries and learned things there, making from memory lists and descriptions which at night they showed to loristan, when he was not too busy to talk to them. as the days passed, marco saw that the rat was gaining strength. this exhilarated him greatly. they often went to hampstead heath and walked in the wind and sun. there the rat would go through curious exercises which he believed would develop his muscles. he began to look less tired during and after his journey. there were even fewer wrinkles on his face, and his sharp eyes looked less fierce. the talks between the two boys were long and curious. marco soon realized that the rat wanted to learn--learn--learn. "your father can talk to you almost as if you were twenty years old," he said once. "he knows you can understand what he's saying. if he were to talk to me, he'd always have to remember that i was only a rat that had lived in gutters and seen nothing else." they were talking in their room, as they nearly always did after they went to bed and the street lamp shone in and lighted their bare little room. they often sat up clasping their knees, marco on his poor bed, the rat on his hard sofa, but neither of them conscious either of the poorness or hardness, because to each one the long unknown sense of companionship was such a satisfying thing. neither of them had ever talked intimately to another boy, and now they were together day and night. they revealed their thoughts to each other; they told each other things it had never before occurred to either to think of telling any one. in fact, they found out about themselves, as they talked, things they had not quite known before. marco had gradually discovered that the admiration the rat had for his father was an impassioned and curious feeling which possessed him entirely. it seemed to marco that it was beginning to be like a sort of religion. he evidently thought of him every moment. so when he spoke of loristan's knowing him to be only a rat of the gutter, marco felt he himself was fortunate in remembering something he could say. "my father said yesterday that you had a big brain and a strong will," he answered from his bed. "he said that you had a wonderful memory which only needed exercising. he said it after he looked over the list you made of the things you had seen in the tower." the rat shuffled on his sofa and clasped his knees tighter. "did he? did he?" he said. he rested his chin upon his knees for a few minutes and stared straight before him. then he turned to the bed. "marco," he said, in a rather hoarse voice, a queer voice; "are you jealous?" "jealous," said marco; "why?" "i mean, have you ever been jealous? do you know what it is like?" "i don't think i do," answered marco, staring a little. "are you ever jealous of lazarus because he's always with your father--because he's with him oftener than you are--and knows about his work--and can do things for him you can't? i mean, are you jealous of--your father?" marco loosed his arms from his knees and lay down flat on his pillow. "no, i'm not. the more people love and serve him, the better," he said. "the only thing i care for is--is him. i just care for _him_. lazarus does too. don't you?" the rat was greatly excited internally. he had been thinking of this thing a great deal. the thought had sometimes terrified him. he might as well have it out now if he could. if he could get at the truth, everything would be easier. but would marco really tell him? "don't you mind?" he said, still hoarse and eager--"don't you mind how much i care for him? could it ever make you feel savage? could it ever set you thinking i was nothing but--what i am--and that it was cheek of me to push myself in and fasten on to a gentleman who only took me up for charity? here's the living truth," he ended in an outburst; "if i were you and you were me, that's what i should be thinking. i know it is. i couldn't help it. i should see every low thing there was in you, in your manners and your voice and your looks. i should see nothing but the contrast between you and me and between you and him. i should be so jealous that i should just rage. i should _hate_ you--and i should _despise_ you!" he had wrought himself up to such a passion of feeling that he set marco thinking that what he was hearing meant strange and strong emotions such as he himself had never experienced. the rat had been thinking over all this in secret for some time, it was evident. marco lay still a few minutes and thought it over. then he found something to say, just as he had found something before. "you might, if you were with other people who thought in the same way," he said, "and if you hadn't found out that it is such a mistake to think in that way, that it's even stupid. but, you see, if you were i, you would have lived with my father, and he'd have told you what he knows--what he's been finding out all his life." "what's he found out?" "oh!" marco answered, quite casually, "just that you can't set savage thoughts loose in the world, any more than you can let loose savage beasts with hydrophobia. they spread a sort of rabies, and they always tear and worry you first of all." "what do you mean?" the rat gasped out. "it's like this," said marco, lying flat and cool on his hard pillow and looking at the reflection of the street lamp on the ceiling. "that day i turned into your barracks, without knowing that you'd think i was spying, it made you feel savage, and you threw the stone at me. if it had made me feel savage and i'd rushed in and fought, what would have happened to all of us?" the rat's spirit of generalship gave the answer. "i should have called on the squad to charge with fixed bayonets. they'd have half killed you. you're a strong chap, and you'd have hurt a lot of them." a note of terror broke into his voice. "what a fool i should have been!" he cried out. "i should never have come here! i should never have known _him_!" even by the light of the street lamp marco could see him begin to look almost ghastly. "the squad could easily have half killed me," marco added. "they could have quite killed me, if they had wanted to do it. and who would have got any good out of it? it would only have been a street-lads' row--with the police and prison at the end of it." "but because you'd lived with him," the rat pondered, "you walked in as if you didn't mind, and just asked why we did it, and looked like a stronger chap than any of us--and different--different. i wondered what was the matter with you, you were so cool and steady. i know now. it was because you were like him. he'd taught you. he's like a wizard." "he knows things that wizards think they know, but he knows them better," marco said. "he says they're not queer and unnatural. they're just simple laws of nature. you have to be either on one side or the other, like an army. you choose your side. you either build up or tear down. you either keep in the light where you can see, or you stand in the dark and fight everything that comes near you, because you can't see and you think it's an enemy. no, you wouldn't have been jealous if you'd been i and i'd been you." "and you're _not_?" the rat's sharp voice was almost hollow. "you'll swear you're not?" "i'm not," said marco. the rat's excitement even increased a shade as he poured forth his confession. "i was afraid," he said. "i've been afraid every day since i came here. i'll tell you straight out. it seemed just natural that you and lazarus wouldn't stand me, just as i wouldn't have stood you. it seemed just natural that you'd work together to throw me out. i knew how i should have worked myself. marco--i said i'd tell you straight out--i'm jealous of you. i'm jealous of lazarus. it makes me wild when i see you both knowing all about him, and fit and ready to do anything he wants done. i'm not ready and i'm not fit." "you'd do anything he wanted done, whether you were fit and ready or not," said marco. "he knows that." "does he? do you think he does?" cried the rat. "i wish he'd try me. i wish he would." marco turned over on his bed and rose up on his elbow so that he faced the rat on his sofa. "let us _wait_," he said in a whisper. "let us _wait_." there was a pause, and then the rat whispered also. "for what?" "for him to find out that we're fit to be tried. don't you see what fools we should be if we spent our time in being jealous, either of us. we're only two boys. suppose he saw we were only two silly fools. when you are jealous of me or of lazarus, just go and sit down in a still place and think of _him_. don't think about yourself or about us. he's so quiet that to think about him makes you quiet yourself. when things go wrong or when i'm lonely, he's taught me to sit down and make myself think of things i like--pictures, books, monuments, splendid places. it pushes the other things out and sets your mind going properly. he doesn't know i nearly always think of him. he's the best thought himself. you try it. you're not really jealous. you only _think_ you are. you'll find that out if you always stop yourself in time. any one can be such a fool if he lets himself. and he can always stop it if he makes up his mind. i'm not jealous. you must let that thought alone. you're not jealous yourself. kick that thought into the street." the rat caught his breath and threw his arms up over his eyes. "oh, lord! oh, lord!" he said; "if i'd lived near him always as you have. if i just had." "we're both living near him now," said marco. "and here's something to think of," leaning more forward on his elbow. "the kings who were being made ready for samavia have waited all these years; _we_ can make ourselves ready and wait so that, if just two boys are wanted to do something--just two boys--we can step out of the ranks when the call comes and say 'here!' now let's lie down and think of it until we go to sleep." xiii loristan attends a drill of the squad, and marco meets a samavian the squad was not forgotten. it found that loristan himself would have regarded neglect as a breach of military duty. "you must remember your men," he said, two or three days after the rat became a member of his household. "you must keep up their drill. marco tells me it was very smart. don't let them get slack." "his men!" the rat felt what he could not have put into words. he knew he had worked, and that the squad had worked, in their hidden holes and corners. only hidden holes and corners had been possible for them because they had existed in spite of the protest of their world and the vigilance of its policemen. they had tried many refuges before they found the barracks. no one but resented the existence of a troop of noisy vagabonds. but somehow this man knew that there had evolved from it something more than mere noisy play, that he, the rat, had _meant_ order and discipline. "his men!" it made him feel as if he had had the victoria cross fastened on his coat. he had brain enough to see many things, and he knew that it was in this way that loristan was finding him his "place." he knew how. when they went to the barracks, the squad greeted them with a tumultuous welcome which expressed a great sense of relief. privately the members had been filled with fears which they had talked over together in deep gloom. marco's father, they decided, was too big a swell to let the two come back after he had seen the sort the squad was made up of. he might be poor just now, toffs sometimes lost their money for a bit, but you could see what he was, and fathers like him weren't going to let their sons make friends with "such as us." he'd stop the drill and the "secret society" game. that's what he'd do! but the rat came swinging in on his secondhand crutches looking as if he had been made a general, and marco came with him; and the drill the squad was put through was stricter and finer than any drill they had ever known. "i wish my father could have seen that," marco said to the rat. the rat turned red and white and then red again, but he said not a single word. the mere thought was like a flash of fire passing through him. but no fellow could hope for a thing as big as that. the secret party, in its subterranean cavern, surrounded by its piled arms, sat down to read the morning paper. the war news was bad to read. the maranovitch held the day for the moment, and while they suffered and wrought cruelties in the capital city, the iarovitch suffered and wrought cruelties in the country outside. so fierce and dark was the record that europe stood aghast. the rat folded his paper when he had finished, and sat biting his nails. having done this for a few minutes, he began to speak in his dramatic and hollow secret party whisper. "the hour has come," he said to his followers. "the messengers must go forth. they know nothing of what they go for; they only know that they must obey. if they were caught and tortured, they could betray nothing because they know nothing but that, at certain places, they must utter a certain word. they carry no papers. all commands they must learn by heart. when the sign is given, the secret party will know what to do--where to meet and where to attack." he drew plans of the battle on the flagstones, and he sketched an imaginary route which the two messengers were to follow. but his knowledge of the map of europe was not worth much, and he turned to marco. "you know more about geography that i do. you know more about everything," he said. "i only know italy is at the bottom and russia is at one side and england's at the other. how would the secret messengers go to samavia? can you draw the countries they'd have to pass through?" because any school-boy who knew the map could have done the same thing, marco drew them. he also knew the stations the secret two would arrive at and leave by when they entered a city, the streets they would walk through and the very uniforms they would see; but of these things he said nothing. the reality his knowledge gave to the game was, however, a thrilling thing. he wished he could have been free to explain to the rat the things he knew. together they could have worked out so many details of travel and possible adventure that it would have been almost as if they had set out on their journey in fact. as it was, the mere sketching of the route fired the rat's imagination. he forged ahead with the story of adventure, and filled it with such mysterious purport and design that the squad at times gasped for breath. in his glowing version the secret two entered cities by midnight and sang and begged at palace gates where kings driving outward paused to listen and were given the sign. "though it would not always be kings," he said. "sometimes it would be the poorest people. sometimes they might seem to be beggars like ourselves, when they were only secret ones disguised. a great lord might wear poor clothes and pretend to be a workman, and we should only know him by the signs we had learned by heart. when we were sent to samavia, we should be obliged to creep in through some back part of the country where no fighting was being done and where no one would attack. their generals are not clever enough to protect the parts which are joined to friendly countries, and they have not forces enough. two boys could find a way in if they thought it out." he became possessed by the idea of thinking it out on the spot. he drew his rough map of samavia on the flagstones with his chalk. "look here," he said to marco, who, with the elated and thrilled squad, bent over it in a close circle of heads. "beltrazo is here and carnolitz is here--and here is jiardasia. beltrazo and jiardasia are friendly, though they don't take sides. all the fighting is going on in the country about melzarr. there is no reason why they should prevent single travelers from coming in across the frontiers of friendly neighbors. they're not fighting with the countries outside, they are fighting with themselves." he paused a moment and thought. "the article in that magazine said something about a huge forest on the eastern frontier. that's here. we could wander into a forest and stay there until we'd planned all we wanted to do. even the people who had seen us would forget about us. what we have to do is to make people feel as if we were nothing--nothing." they were in the very midst of it, crowded together, leaning over, stretching necks and breathing quickly with excitement, when marco lifted his head. some mysterious impulse made him do it in spite of himself. "there's my father!" he said. the chalk dropped, everything dropped, even samavia. the rat was up and on his crutches as if some magic force had swung him there. how he gave the command, or if he gave it at all, not even he himself knew. but the squad stood at salute. loristan was standing at the opening of the archway as marco had stood that first day. he raised his right hand in return salute and came forward. "i was passing the end of the street and remembered the barracks was here," he explained. "i thought i should like to look at your men, captain." he smiled, but it was not a smile which made his words really a joke. he looked down at the chalk map drawn on the flagstones. "you know that map well," he said. "even i can see that it is samavia. what is the secret party doing?" "the messengers are trying to find a way in," answered marco. "we can get in there," said the rat, pointing with a crutch. "there's a forest where we could hide and find out things." "reconnoiter," said loristan, looking down. "yes. two stray boys could be very safe in a forest. it's a good game." that he should be there! that he should, in his own wonderful way, have given them such a thing as this. that he should have cared enough even to look up the barracks, was what the rat was thinking. a batch of ragamuffins they were and nothing else, and he standing looking at them with his fine smile. there was something about him which made him seem even splendid. the rat's heart thumped with startled joy. "father," said marco, "will you watch the rat drill us? i want you to see how well it is done." "captain, will you do me that honor?" loristan said to the rat, and to even these words he gave the right tone, neither jesting nor too serious. because it was so right a tone, the rat's pulses beat only with exultation. this god of his had looked at his maps, he had talked of his plans, he had come to see the soldiers who were his work! the rat began his drill as if he had been reviewing an army. what loristan saw done was wonderful in its mechanical exactness. the squad moved like the perfect parts of a perfect machine. that they could so do it in such space, and that they should have accomplished such precision, was an extraordinary testimonial to the military efficiency and curious qualities of this one hunchbacked, vagabond officer. "that is magnificent!" the spectator said, when it was over. "it could not be better done. allow me to congratulate you." he shook the rat's hand as if it had been a man's, and, after he had shaken it, he put his own hand lightly on the boy's shoulder and let it rest there as he talked a few minutes to them all. he kept his talk within the game, and his clear comprehension of it added a flavor which even the dullest member of the squad was elated by. sometimes you couldn't understand toffs when they made a shy at being friendly, but you could understand him, and he stirred up your spirits. he didn't make jokes with you, either, as if a chap had to be kept grinning. after the few minutes were over, he went away. then they sat down again in their circle and talked about him, because they could talk and think about nothing else. they stared at marco furtively, feeling as if he were a creature of another world because he had lived with this man. they stared at the rat in a new way also. the wonderful-looking hand had rested on his shoulder, and he had been told that what he had done was magnificent. "when you said you wished your father could have seen the drill," said the rat, "you took my breath away. i'd never have had the cheek to think of it myself--and i'd never have dared to let you ask him, even if you wanted to do it. and he came himself! it struck me dumb." "if he came," said marco, "it was because he wanted to see it." when they had finished talking, it was time for marco and the rat to go on their way. loristan had given the rat an errand. at a certain hour he was to present himself at a certain shop and receive a package. "let him do it alone," loristan said to marco. "he will be better pleased. his desire is to feel that he is trusted to do things alone." so they parted at a street corner, marco to walk back to no. philibert place, the rat to execute his commission. marco turned into one of the better streets, through which he often passed on his way home. it was not a fashionable quarter, but it contained some respectable houses in whose windows here and there were to be seen neat cards bearing the word "apartments," which meant that the owner of the house would let to lodgers his drawing-room or sitting-room suite. as marco walked up the street, he saw some one come out of the door of one of the houses and walk quickly and lightly down the pavement. it was a young woman wearing an elegant though quiet dress, and a hat which looked as if it had been bought in paris or vienna. she had, in fact, a slightly foreign air, and it was this, indeed, which made marco look at her long enough to see that she was also a graceful and lovely person. he wondered what her nationality was. even at some yards' distance he could see that she had long dark eyes and a curved mouth which seemed to be smiling to itself. he thought she might be spanish or italian. he was trying to decide which of the two countries she belonged to, as she drew near to him, but quite suddenly the curved mouth ceased smiling as her foot seemed to catch in a break in the pavement, and she so lost her balance that she would have fallen if he had not leaped forward and caught her. she was light and slender, and he was a strong lad and managed to steady her. an expression of sharp momentary anguish crossed her face. "i hope you are not hurt," marco said. she bit her lip and clutched his shoulder very hard with her slim hand. "i have twisted my ankle," she answered. "i am afraid i have twisted it badly. thank you for saving me. i should have had a bad fall." her long, dark eyes were very sweet and grateful. she tried to smile, but there was such distress under the effort that marco was afraid she must have hurt herself very much. "can you stand on your foot at all?" he asked. "i can stand a little now," she said, "but i might not be able to stand in a few minutes. i must get back to the house while i can bear to touch the ground with it. i am so sorry. i am afraid i shall have to ask you to go with me. fortunately it is only a few yards away." "yes," marco answered. "i saw you come out of the house. if you will lean on my shoulder, i can soon help you back. i am glad to do it. shall we try now?" she had a gentle and soft manner which would have appealed to any boy. her voice was musical and her enunciation exquisite. whether she was spanish or italian, it was easy to imagine her a person who did not always live in london lodgings, even of the better class. "if you please," she answered him. "it is very kind of you. you are very strong, i see. but i am glad to have only a few steps to go." she rested on his shoulder as well as on her umbrella, but it was plain that every movement gave her intense pain. she caught her lip with her teeth, and marco thought she turned white. he could not help liking her. she was so lovely and gracious and brave. he could not bear to see the suffering in her face. "i am so sorry!" he said, as he helped her, and his boy's voice had something of the wonderful sympathetic tone of loristan's. the beautiful lady herself remarked it, and thought how unlike it was to the ordinary boy-voice. "i have a latch-key," she said, when they stood on the low step. she found the latch-key in her purse and opened the door. marco helped her into the entrance-hall. she sat down at once in a chair near the hat-stand. the place was quite plain and old-fashioned inside. "shall i ring the front-door bell to call some one?" marco inquired. "i am afraid that the servants are out," she answered. "they had a holiday. will you kindly close the door? i shall be obliged to ask you to help me into the sitting-room at the end of the hall. i shall find all i want there--if you will kindly hand me a few things. some one may come in presently--perhaps one of the other lodgers--and, even if i am alone for an hour or so, it will not really matter." "perhaps i can find the landlady," marco suggested. the beautiful person smiled. "she has gone to her sister's wedding. that is why i was going out to spend the day myself. i arranged the plan to accommodate her. how good you are! i shall be quite comfortable directly, really. i can get to my easy-chair in the sitting-room now i have rested a little." marco helped her to her feet, and her sharp, involuntary exclamation of pain made him wince internally. perhaps it was a worse sprain than she knew. the house was of the early-victorian london order. a "front lobby" with a dining-room on the right hand, and a "back lobby," after the foot of the stairs was passed, out of which opened the basement kitchen staircase and a sitting-room looking out on a gloomy flagged back yard inclosed by high walls. the sitting-room was rather gloomy itself, but there were a few luxurious things among the ordinary furnishings. there was an easy-chair with a small table near it, and on the table were a silver lamp and some rather elegant trifles. marco helped his charge to the easy-chair and put a cushion from the sofa under her foot. he did it very gently, and, as he rose after doing it, he saw that the long, soft dark eyes were looking at him in a curious way. "i must go away now," he said, "but i do not like to leave you. may i go for a doctor?" "how dear you are!" she exclaimed. "but i do not want one, thank you. i know exactly what to do for a sprained ankle. and perhaps mine is not really a sprain. i am going to take off my shoe and see." "may i help you?" marco asked, and he kneeled down again and carefully unfastened her shoe and withdrew it from her foot. it was a slender and delicate foot in a silk stocking, and she bent and gently touched and rubbed it. "no," she said, when she raised herself, "i do not think it is a sprain. now that the shoe is off and the foot rests on the cushion, it is much more comfortable, much more. thank you, thank you. if you had not been passing i might have had a dangerous fall." "i am very glad to have been able to help you," marco answered, with an air of relief. "now i must go, if you think you will be all right." "don't go yet," she said, holding out her hand. "i should like to know you a little better, if i may. i am so grateful. i should like to talk to you. you have such beautiful manners for a boy," she ended, with a pretty, kind laugh, "and i believe i know where you got them from." "you are very kind to me," marco answered, wondering if he did not redden a little. "but i must go because my father will--" "your father would let you stay and talk to me," she said, with even a prettier kindliness than before. "it is from him you have inherited your beautiful manner. he was once a friend of mine. i hope he is my friend still, though perhaps he has forgotten me." all that marco had ever learned and all that he had ever trained himself to remember, quickly rushed back upon him now, because he had a clear and rapidly working brain, and had not lived the ordinary boy's life. here was a beautiful lady of whom he knew nothing at all but that she had twisted her foot in the street and he had helped her back into her house. if silence was still the order, it was not for him to know things or ask questions or answer them. she might be the loveliest lady in the world and his father her dearest friend, but, even if this were so, he could best serve them both by obeying her friend's commands with all courtesy, and forgetting no instruction he had given. "i do not think my father ever forgets any one," he answered. "no, i am sure he does not," she said softly. "has he been to samavia during the last three years?" marco paused a moment. "perhaps i am not the boy you think i am," he said. "my father has never been to samavia." "he has not? but--you are marco loristan?" "yes. that is my name." suddenly she leaned forward and her long lovely eyes filled with fire. "then you are a samavian, and you know of the disasters overwhelming us. you know all the hideousness and barbarity of what is being done. your father's son must know it all!" "every one knows it," said marco. "but it is your country--your own! your blood must burn in your veins!" marco stood quite still and looked at her. his eyes told whether his blood burned or not, but he did not speak. his look was answer enough, since he did not wish to say anything. "what does your father think? i am a samavian myself, and i think night and day. what does he think of the rumor about the descendant of the lost prince? does he believe it?" marco was thinking very rapidly. her beautiful face was glowing with emotion, her beautiful voice trembled. that she should be a samavian, and love samavia, and pour her feeling forth even to a boy, was deeply moving to him. but howsoever one was moved, one must remember that silence was still the order. when one was very young, one must remember orders first of all. "it might be only a newspaper story," he said. "he says one cannot trust such things. if you know him, you know he is very calm." "has he taught you to be calm too?" she said pathetically. "you are only a boy. boys are not calm. neither are women when their hearts are wrung. oh, my samavia! oh, my poor little country! my brave, tortured country!" and with a sudden sob she covered her face with her hands. a great lump mounted to marco's throat. boys could not cry, but he knew what she meant when he said her heart was wrung. when she lifted her head, the tears in her eyes made them softer than ever. "if i were a million samavians instead of one woman, i should know what to do!" she cried. "if your father were a million samavians, he would know, too. he would find ivor's descendant, if he is on the earth, and he would end all this horror!" "who would not end it if they could?" cried marco, quite fiercely. "but men like your father, men who are samavians, must think night and day about it as i do," she impetuously insisted. "you see, i cannot help pouring my thoughts out even to a boy--because he is a samavian. only samavians care. samavia seems so little and unimportant to other people. they don't even seem to know that the blood she is pouring forth pours from human veins and beating human hearts. men like your father must think, and plan, and feel that they must--must find a way. even a woman feels it. even a boy must. stefan loristan cannot be sitting quietly at home, knowing that samavian hearts are being shot through and samavian blood poured forth. he cannot think and say _nothing_!" marco started in spite of himself. he felt as if his father had been struck in the face. how dare she say such words! big as he was, suddenly he looked bigger, and the beautiful lady saw that he did. "he is my father," he said slowly. she was a clever, beautiful person, and saw that she had made a great mistake. "you must forgive me," she exclaimed. "i used the wrong words because i was excited. that is the way with women. you must see that i meant that i knew he was giving his heart and strength, his whole being, to samavia, even though he must stay in london." she started and turned her head to listen to the sound of some one using the latch-key and opening the front door. the some one came in with the heavy step of a man. "it is one of the lodgers," she said. "i think it is the one who lives in the third floor sitting-room." "then you won't be alone when i go," said marco. "i am glad some one has come. i will say good-morning. may i tell my father your name?" "tell me that you are not angry with me for expressing myself so awkwardly," she said. "you couldn't have meant it. i know that," marco answered boyishly. "you couldn't." "no, i couldn't," she repeated, with the same emphasis on the words. she took a card from a silver case on the table and gave it to him. "your father will remember my name," she said. "i hope he will let me see him and tell him how you took care of me." she shook his hand warmly and let him go. but just as he reached the door she spoke again. "oh, may i ask you to do one thing more before you leave me?" she said suddenly. "i hope you won't mind. will you run up-stairs into the drawing-room and bring me the purple book from the small table? i shall not mind being alone if i have something to read." "a purple book? on a small table?" said marco. "between the two long windows," she smiled back at him. the drawing-room of such houses as these is always to be reached by one short flight of stairs. marco ran up lightly. xiv marco does not answer by the time he turned the corner of the stairs, the beautiful lady had risen from her seat in the back room and walked into the dining-room at the front. a heavily-built, dark-bearded man was standing inside the door as if waiting for her. "i could do nothing with him," she said at once, in her soft voice, speaking quite prettily and gently, as if what she said was the most natural thing in the world. "i managed the little trick of the sprained foot really well, and got him into the house. he is an amiable boy with perfect manners, and i thought it might be easy to surprise him into saying more than he knew he was saying. you can generally do that with children and young things. but he either knows nothing or has been trained to hold his tongue. he's not stupid, and he's of a high spirit. i made a pathetic little scene about samavia, because i saw he could be worked up. it did work him up. i tried him with the lost prince rumor; but, if there is truth in it, he does not or will not know. i tried to make him lose his temper and betray something in defending his father, whom he thinks a god, by the way. but i made a mistake. i saw that. it's a pity. boys can sometimes be made to tell anything." she spoke very quickly under her breath. the man spoke quickly too. "where is he?" he asked. "i sent him up to the drawing-room to look for a book. he will look for a few minutes. listen. he's an innocent boy. he sees me only as a gentle angel. nothing will _shake_ him so much as to hear me tell him the truth suddenly. it will be such a shock to him that perhaps you can do something with him then. he may lose his hold on himself. he's only a boy." "you're right," said the bearded man. "and when he finds out he is not free to go, it may alarm him and we may get something worth while." "if we could find out what is true, or what loristan thinks is true, we should have a clue to work from," she said. "we have not much time," the man whispered. "we are ordered to bosnia at once. before midnight we must be on the way." "let us go into the other room. he is coming." when marco entered the room, the heavily-built man with the pointed dark beard was standing by the easy-chair. "i am sorry i could not find the book," he apologized. "i looked on all the tables." "i shall be obliged to go and search for it myself," said the lovely person. she rose from her chair and stood up smiling. and at her first movement marco saw that she was not disabled in the least. "your foot!" he exclaimed. "it's better?" "it wasn't hurt," she answered, in her softly pretty voice and with her softly pretty smile. "i only made you think so." it was part of her plan to spare him nothing of shock in her sudden transformation. marco felt his breath leave him for a moment. "i made you believe i was hurt because i wanted you to come into the house with me," she added. "i wished to find out certain things i am sure you know." "they were things about samavia," said the man. "your father knows them, and you must know something of them at least. it is necessary that we should hear what you can tell us. we shall not allow you to leave the house until you have answered certain questions i shall ask you." then marco began to understand. he had heard his father speak of political spies, men and women who were paid to trace the people that certain governments or political parties desired to have followed and observed. he knew it was their work to search out secrets, to disguise themselves and live among innocent people as if they were merely ordinary neighbors. they must be spies who were paid to follow his father because he was a samavian and a patriot. he did not know that they had taken the house two months before, and had accomplished several things during their apparently innocent stay in it. they had discovered loristan and had learned to know his outgoings and incomings, and also the outgoings and incomings of lazarus, marco, and the rat. but they meant, if possible, to learn other things. if the boy could be startled and terrified into unconscious revelations, it might prove well worth their while to have played this bit of melodrama before they locked the front door behind them and hastily crossed the channel, leaving their landlord to discover for himself that the house had been vacated. in marco's mind strange things were happening. they were spies! but that was not all. the lovely person had been right when she said that he would receive a shock. his strong young chest swelled. in all his life, he had never come face to face with black treachery before. he could not grasp it. this gentle and friendly being with the grateful soft voice and grateful soft eyes had betrayed--_betrayed_ him! it seemed impossible to believe it, and yet the smile on her curved mouth told him that it was true. when he had sprung to help her, she had been playing a trick! when he had been sorry for her pain and had winced at the sound of her low exclamation, she had been deliberately laying a trap to harm him. for a few seconds he was stunned--perhaps, if he had not been his father's son, he might have been stunned only. but he was more. when the first seconds had passed, there arose slowly within him a sense of something like high, remote disdain. it grew in his deep boy's eyes as he gazed directly into the pupils of the long soft dark ones. his body felt as if it were growing taller. "you are very clever," he said slowly. then, after a second's pause, he added, "i was too young to know that there was any one so--clever--in the world." the lovely person laughed, but she did not laugh easily. she spoke to her companion. "a _grand seigneur_!" she said. "as one looks at him, one half believes it is true." the man with the beard was looking very angry. his eyes were savage and his dark skin reddened. marco thought that he looked at him as if he hated him, and was made fierce by the mere sight of him, for some mysterious reason. "two days before you left moscow," he said, "three men came to see your father. they looked like peasants. they talked to him for more than an hour. they brought with them a roll of parchment. is that not true?" "i know nothing," said marco. "before you went to moscow, you were in budapest. you went there from vienna. you were there for three months, and your father saw many people. some of them came in the middle of the night." "i know nothing," said marco. "you have spent your life in traveling from one country to another," persisted the man. "you know the european languages as if you were a courier, or the __portier__ in a viennese hotel. do you not?" marco did not answer. the lovely person began to speak to the man rapidly in russian. "a spy and an adventurer stefan loristan has always been and always will be," she said. "we know what he is. the police in every capital in europe know him as a sharper and a vagabond, as well as a spy. and yet, with all his cleverness, he does not seem to have money. what did he do with the bribe the maranovitch gave him for betraying what he knew of the old fortress? the boy doesn't even suspect him. perhaps it's true that he knows nothing. or perhaps it is true that he has been so ill-treated and flogged from his babyhood that he dare not speak. there is a cowed look in his eyes in spite of his childish swagger. he's been both starved and beaten." the outburst was well done. she did not look at marco as she poured forth her words. she spoke with the abruptness and impetuosity of a person whose feelings had got the better of her. if marco was sensitive about his father, she felt sure that his youth would make his face reveal something if his tongue did not--if he understood russian, which was one of the things it would be useful to find out, because it was a fact which would verify many other things. marco's face disappointed her. no change took place in it, and the blood did not rise to the surface of his skin. he listened with an uninterested air, blank and cold and polite. let them say what they chose. the man twisted his pointed beard and shrugged his shoulders. "we have a good little wine-cellar downstairs," he said. "you are going down into it, and you will probably stay there for some time if you do not make up your mind to answer my questions. you think that nothing can happen to you in a house in a london street where policemen walk up and down. but you are mistaken. if you yelled now, even if any one chanced to hear you, they would only think you were a lad getting a thrashing he deserved. you can yell as much as you like in the black little wine-cellar, and no one will hear at all. we only took this house for three months, and we shall leave it to-night without mentioning the fact to any one. if we choose to leave you in the wine-cellar, you will wait there until somebody begins to notice that no one goes in and out, and chances to mention it to the landlord--which few people would take the trouble to do. did you come here from moscow?" "i know nothing," said marco. "you might remain in the good little black cellar an unpleasantly long time before you were found," the man went on, quite coolly. "do you remember the peasants who came to see your father two nights before you left?" "i know nothing," said marco. "by the time it was discovered that the house was empty and people came in to make sure, you might be too weak to call out and attract their attention. did you go to budapest from vienna, and were you there for three months?" asked the inquisitor. "i know nothing," said marco. "you are too good for the little black cellar," put in the lovely person. "i like you. don't go into it!" "i know nothing," marco answered, but the eyes which were like loristan's gave her just such a look as loristan would have given her, and she felt it. it made her uncomfortable. "i don't believe you were ever ill-treated or beaten," she said. "i tell you, the little black cellar will be a hard thing. don't go there!" and this time marco said nothing, but looked at her still as if he were some great young noble who was very proud. he knew that every word the bearded man had spoken was true. to cry out would be of no use. if they went away and left him behind them, there was no knowing how many days would pass before the people of the neighborhood would begin to suspect that the place had been deserted, or how long it would be before it occurred to some one to give warning to the owner. and in the meantime, neither his father nor lazarus nor the rat would have the faintest reason for guessing where he was. and he would be sitting alone in the dark in the wine-cellar. he did not know in the least what to do about this thing. he only knew that silence was still the order. "it is a jet-black little hole," the man said. "you might crack your throat in it, and no one would hear. did men come to talk with your father in the middle of the night when you were in vienna?" "i know nothing," said marco. "he won't tell," said the lovely person. "i am sorry for this boy." "he may tell after he has sat in the good little black wine-cellar for a few hours," said the man with the pointed beard. "come with me!" he put his powerful hand on marco's shoulder and pushed him before him. marco made no struggle. he remembered what his father had said about the game not being a game. it wasn't a game now, but somehow he had a strong haughty feeling of not being afraid. he was taken through the hallway, toward the rear, and down the commonplace flagged steps which led to the basement. then he was marched through a narrow, ill-lighted, flagged passage to a door in the wall. the door was not locked and stood a trifle ajar. his companion pushed it farther open and showed part of a wine-cellar which was so dark that it was only the shelves nearest the door that marco could faintly see. his captor pushed him in and shut the door. it was as black a hole as he had described. marco stood still in the midst of darkness like black velvet. his guard turned the key. "the peasants who came to your father in moscow spoke samavian and were big men. do you remember them?" he asked from outside. "i know nothing," answered marco. "you are a young fool," the voice replied. "and i believe you know even more than we thought. your father will be greatly troubled when you do not come home. i will come back to see you in a few hours, if it is possible. i will tell you, however, that i have had disturbing news which might make it necessary for us to leave the house in a hurry. i might not have time to come down here again before leaving." marco stood with his back against a bit of wall and remained silent. there was stillness for a few minutes, and then there was to be heard the sound of footsteps marching away. when the last distant echo died all was quite silent, and marco drew a long breath. unbelievable as it may appear, it was in one sense almost a breath of relief. in the rush of strange feeling which had swept over him when he found himself facing the astounding situation up-stairs, it had not been easy to realize what his thoughts really were; there were so many of them and they came so fast. how could he quite believe the evidence of his eyes and ears? a few minutes, only a few minutes, had changed his prettily grateful and kindly acquaintance into a subtle and cunning creature whose love for samavia had been part of a plot to harm it and to harm his father. what did she and her companion want to do--what could they do if they knew the things they were trying to force him to tell? marco braced his back against the wall stoutly. "what will it be best to think about first?" this he said because one of the most absorbingly fascinating things he and his father talked about together was the power of the thoughts which human beings allow to pass through their minds--the strange strength of them. when they talked of this, marco felt as if he were listening to some marvelous eastern story of magic which was true. in loristan's travels, he had visited the far oriental countries, and he had seen and learned many things which seemed marvels, and they had taught him deep thinking. he had known, and reasoned through days with men who believed that when they desired a thing, clear and exalted thought would bring it to them. he had discovered why they believed this, and had learned to understand their profound arguments. what he himself believed, he had taught marco quite simply from his childhood. it was this: he himself--marco, with the strong boy-body, the thick mat of black hair, and the patched clothes--was the magician. he held and waved his wand himself--and his wand was his own thought. when special privation or anxiety beset them, it was their rule to say, "what will it be best to think about first?" which was marco's reason for saying it to himself now as he stood in the darkness which was like black velvet. he waited a few minutes for the right thing to come to him. "i will think of the very old hermit who lived on the ledge of the mountains in india and who let my father talk to him through all one night," he said at last. this had been a wonderful story and one of his favorites. loristan had traveled far to see this ancient buddhist, and what he had seen and heard during that one night had made changes in his life. the part of the story which came back to marco now was these words: "_let pass through thy mind, my son, only the image thou wouldst desire to see a truth. meditate only upon the wish of thy heart, seeing first that it can injure no man and is not ignoble. then will it take earthly form and draw near to thee. this is the law of that which creates._" "i am not afraid," marco said aloud. "i shall not be afraid. in some way i shall get out." this was the image he wanted most to keep steadily in his mind--that nothing could make him afraid, and that in some way he would get out of the wine-cellar. he thought of this for some minutes, and said the words over several times. he felt more like himself when he had done it. "when my eyes are accustomed to the darkness, i shall see if there is any little glimmer of light anywhere," he said next. he waited with patience, and it seemed for some time that he saw no glimmer at all. he put out his hands on either side of him, and found that, on the side of the wall against which he stood, there seemed to be no shelves. perhaps the cellar had been used for other purposes than the storing of wine, and, if that was true, there might be somewhere some opening for ventilation. the air was not bad, but then the door had not been shut tightly when the man opened it. "i am not afraid," he repeated. "i shall not be afraid. in some way i shall get out." he would not allow himself to stop and think about his father waiting for his return. he knew that would only rouse his emotions and weaken his courage. he began to feel his way carefully along the wall. it reached farther than he had thought it would. the cellar was not so very small. he crept round it gradually, and, when he had crept round it, he made his way across it, keeping his hands extended before him and setting down each foot cautiously. then he sat down on the stone floor and thought again, and what he thought was of the things the old buddhist had told his father, and that there was a way out of this place for him, and he should somehow find it, and, before too long a time had passed, be walking in the street again. it was while he was thinking in this way that he felt a startling thing. it seemed almost as if something touched him. it made him jump, though the touch was so light and soft that it was scarcely a touch at all, in fact he could not be sure that he had not imagined it. he stood up and leaned against the wall again. perhaps the suddenness of his movement placed him at some angle he had not reached before, or perhaps his eyes had become more completely accustomed to the darkness, for, as he turned his head to listen, he made a discovery: above the door there was a place where the velvet blackness was not so dense. there was something like a slit in the wall, though, as it did not open upon daylight but upon the dark passage, it was not light it admitted so much as a lesser shade of darkness. but even that was better than nothing, and marco drew another long breath. "that is only the beginning. i shall find a way out," he said. "i _shall_." he remembered reading a story of a man who, being shut by accident in a safety vault, passed through such terrors before his release that he believed he had spent two days and nights in the place when he had been there only a few hours. "his thoughts did that. i must remember. i will sit down again and begin thinking of all the pictures in the cabinet rooms of the art history museum in vienna. it will take some time, and then there are the others," he said. it was a good plan. while he could keep his mind upon the game which had helped him to pass so many dull hours, he could think of nothing else, as it required close attention--and perhaps, as the day went on, his captors would begin to feel that it was not safe to run the risk of doing a thing as desperate as this would be. they might think better of it before they left the house at least. in any case, he had learned enough from loristan to realize that only harm could come from letting one's mind run wild. "a mind is either an engine with broken and flying gear, or a giant power under control," was the thing they knew. he had walked in imagination through three of the cabinet rooms and was turning mentally into a fourth, when he found himself starting again quite violently. this time it was not at a touch but at a sound. surely it was a sound. and it was in the cellar with him. but it was the tiniest possible noise, a ghost of a squeak and a suggestion of a movement. it came from the opposite side of the cellar, the side where the shelves were. he looked across in the darkness, and in the darkness saw a light which there could be no mistake about. it _was_ a light, two lights indeed, two round phosphorescent greenish balls. they were two eyes staring at him. and then he heard another sound. not a squeak this time, but something so homely and comfortable that he actually burst out laughing. it was a cat purring, a nice warm cat! and she was curled up on one of the lower shelves purring to some new-born kittens. he knew there were kittens because it was plain now what the tiny squeak had been, and it was made plainer by the fact that he heard another much more distinct one and then another. they had all been asleep when he had come into the cellar. if the mother had been awake, she had probably been very much afraid. afterward she had perhaps come down from her shelf to investigate, and had passed close to him. the feeling of relief which came upon him at this queer and simple discovery was wonderful. it was so natural and comfortable an every-day thing that it seemed to make spies and criminals unreal, and only natural things possible. with a mother cat purring away among her kittens, even a dark wine-cellar was not so black. he got up and kneeled by the shelf. the greenish eyes did not shine in an unfriendly way. he could feel that the owner of them was a nice big cat, and he counted four round little balls of kittens. it was a curious delight to stroke the soft fur and talk to the mother cat. she answered with purring, as if she liked the sense of friendly human nearness. marco laughed to himself. "it's queer what a difference it makes!" he said. "it is almost like finding a window." the mere presence of these harmless living things was companionship. he sat down close to the low shelf and listened to the motherly purring, now and then speaking and putting out his hand to touch the warm fur. the phosphorescent light in the green eyes was a comfort in itself. "we shall get out of this--both of us," he said. "we shall not be here very long, puss-cat." he was not troubled by the fear of being really hungry for some time. he was so used to eating scantily from necessity, and to passing long hours without food during his journeys, that he had proved to himself that fasting is not, after all, such a desperate ordeal as most people imagine. if you begin by expecting to feel famished and by counting the hours between your meals, you will begin to be ravenous. but he knew better. the time passed slowly; but he had known it would pass slowly, and he had made up his mind not to watch it nor ask himself questions about it. he was not a restless boy, but, like his father, could stand or sit or lie still. now and then he could hear distant rumblings of carts and vans passing in the street. there was a certain degree of companionship in these also. he kept his place near the cat and his hand where he could occasionally touch her. he could lift his eyes now and then to the place where the dim glimmer of something like light showed itself. perhaps the stillness, perhaps the darkness, perhaps the purring of the mother cat, probably all three, caused his thoughts to begin to travel through his mind slowly and more slowly. at last they ceased and he fell asleep. the mother cat purred for some time, and then fell asleep herself. xv a sound in a dream marco slept peacefully for several hours. there was nothing to awaken him during that time. but at the end of it, his sleep was penetrated by a definite sound. he had dreamed of hearing a voice at a distance, and, as he tried in his dream to hear what it said, a brief metallic ringing sound awakened him outright. it was over by the time he was fully conscious, and at once he realized that the voice of his dream had been a real one, and was speaking still. it was the lovely person's voice, and she was speaking rapidly, as if she were in the greatest haste. she was speaking through the door. "you will have to search for it," was all he heard. "i have not a moment!" and, as he listened to her hurriedly departing feet, there came to him with their hastening echoes the words, "you are too good for the cellar. i like you!" he sprang to the door and tried it, but it was still locked. the feet ran up the cellar steps and through the upper hall, and the front door closed with a bang. the two people had gone away, as they had threatened. the voice had been excited as well as hurried. something had happened to frighten them, and they had left the house in great haste. marco turned and stood with his back against the door. the cat had awakened and she was gazing at him with her green eyes. she began to purr encouragingly. she really helped marco to think. he was thinking with all his might and trying to remember. "what did she come for? she came for something," he said to himself. "what did she say? i only heard part of it, because i was asleep. the voice in the dream was part of it. the part i heard was, 'you will have to search for it. i have not a moment.' and as she ran down the passage, she called back, 'you are too good for the cellar. i like you.'" he said the words over and over again and tried to recall exactly how they had sounded, and also to recall the voice which had seemed to be part of a dream but had been a real thing. then he began to try his favorite experiment. as he often tried the experiment of commanding his mind to go to sleep, so he frequently experimented on commanding it to work for him--to help him to remember, to understand, and to argue about things clearly. "reason this out for me," he said to it now, quite naturally and calmly. "show me what it means." what did she come for? it was certain that she was in too great a hurry to be able, without a reason, to spare the time to come. what was the reason? she had said she liked him. then she came because she liked him. if she liked him, she came to do something which was not unfriendly. the only good thing she could do for him was something which would help him to get out of the cellar. she had said twice that he was too good for the cellar. if he had been awake, he would have heard all she said and have understood what she wanted him to do or meant to do for him. he must not stop even to think of that. the first words he had heard--what had they been? they had been less clear to him than her last because he had heard them only as he was awakening. but he thought he was sure that they had been, "you will have to search for it." search for it. for what? he thought and thought. what must he search for? he sat down on the floor of the cellar and held his head in his hands, pressing his eyes so hard that curious lights floated before them. "tell me! tell me!" he said to that part of his being which the buddhist anchorite had said held all knowledge and could tell a man everything if he called upon it in the right spirit. and in a few minutes, he recalled something which seemed so much a part of his sleep that he had not been sure that he had not dreamed it. the ringing sound! he sprang up on his feet with a little gasping shout. the ringing sound! it had been the ring of metal, striking as it fell. anything made of metal might have sounded like that. she had thrown something made of metal into the cellar. she had thrown it through the slit in the bricks near the door. she liked him, and said he was too good for his prison. she had thrown to him the only thing which could set him free. she had thrown him the _key_ of the cellar! for a few minutes the feelings which surged through him were so full of strong excitement that they set his brain in a whirl. he knew what his father would say--that would not do. if he was to think, he must hold himself still and not let even joy overcome him. the key was in the black little cellar, and he must find it in the dark. even the woman who liked him enough to give him a chance of freedom knew that she must not open the door and let him out. there must be a delay. he would have to find the key himself, and it would be sure to take time. the chances were that they would be at a safe enough distance before he could get out. "i will kneel down and crawl on my hands and knees," he said. "i will crawl back and forth and go over every inch of the floor with my hands until i find it. if i go over every inch, i shall find it." so he kneeled down and began to crawl, and the cat watched him and purred. "we shall get out, puss-cat," he said to her. "i told you we should." he crawled from the door to the wall at the side of the shelves, and then he crawled back again. the key might be quite a small one, and it was necessary that he should pass his hands over every inch, as he had said. the difficulty was to be sure, in the darkness, that he did not miss an inch. sometimes he was not sure enough, and then he went over the ground again. he crawled backward and forward, and he crawled forward and backward. he crawled crosswise and lengthwise, he crawled diagonally, and he crawled round and round. but he did not find the key. if he had had only a little light, but he had none. he was so absorbed in his search that he did not know he had been engaged in it for several hours, and that it was the middle of the night. but at last he realized that he must stop for a rest, because his knees were beginning to feel bruised, and the skin of his hands was sore as a result of the rubbing on the flags. the cat and her kittens had gone to sleep and awakened again two or three times. "but it is somewhere!" he said obstinately. "it is inside the cellar. i heard something fall which was made of metal. that was the ringing sound which awakened me." when he stood up, he found his body ached and he was very tired. he stretched himself and exercised his arms and legs. "i wonder how long i have been crawling about," he thought. "but the key is in the cellar. it is in the cellar." he sat down near the cat and her family, and, laying his arm on the shelf above her, rested his head on it. he began to think of another experiment. "i am so tired, i believe i shall go to sleep again. 'thought which knows all' "--he was quoting something the hermit had said to loristan in their midnight talk--"thought which knows all! show me this little thing. lead me to it when i awake." and he did fall asleep, sound and fast. * * * * * he did not know that he slept all the rest of the night. but he did. when he awakened, it was daylight in the streets, and the milk-carts were beginning to jingle about, and the early postmen were knocking big double-knocks at front doors. the cat may have heard the milk-carts, but the actual fact was that she herself was hungry and wanted to go in search of food. just as marco lifted his head from his arm and sat up, she jumped down from her shelf and went to the door. she had expected to find it ajar as it had been before. when she found it shut, she scratched at it and was disturbed to find this of no use. because she knew marco was in the cellar, she felt she had a friend who would assist her, and she miaued appealingly. this reminded marco of the key. "i will when i have found it," he said. "it is inside the cellar." the cat miaued again, this time very anxiously indeed. the kittens heard her and began to squirm and squeak piteously. "lead me to this little thing," said marco, as if speaking to something in the darkness about him, and he got up. he put his hand out toward the kittens, and it touched something lying not far from them. it must have been lying near his elbow all night while he slept. it was the key! it had fallen upon the shelf, and not on the floor at all. marco picked it up and then stood still a moment. he made the sign of the cross. then he found his way to the door and fumbled until he found the keyhole and got the key into it. then he turned it and pushed the door open--and the cat ran out into the passage before him. xvi the rat to the rescue marco walked through the passage and into the kitchen part of the basement. the doors were all locked, and they were solid doors. he ran up the flagged steps and found the door at the top shut and bolted also, and that too was a solid door. his jailers had plainly made sure that it should take time enough for him to make his way into the world, even after he got out of the wine-cellar. the cat had run away to some part of the place where mice were plentiful. marco was by this time rather gnawingly hungry himself. if he could get into the kitchen, he might find some fragments of food left in a cupboard; but there was no moving the locked door. he tried the outlet into the area, but that was immovable. then he saw near it a smaller door. it was evidently the entrance to the coal-cellar under the pavement. this was proved by the fact that trodden coal-dust marked the flagstones, and near it stood a scuttle with coal in it. this coal-scuttle was the thing which might help him! above the area door was a small window which was supposed to light the entry. he could not reach it, and, if he reached it, he could not open it. he could throw pieces of coal at the glass and break it, and then he could shout for help when people passed by. they might not notice or understand where the shouts came from at first, but, if he kept them up, some one's attention would be attracted in the end. he picked a large-sized solid piece of coal out of the heap in the scuttle, and threw it with all his force against the grimy glass. it smashed through and left a big hole. he threw another, and the entire pane was splintered and fell outside into the area. then he saw it was broad daylight, and guessed that he had been shut up a good many hours. there was plenty of coal in the scuttle, and he had a strong arm and a good aim. he smashed pane after pane, until only the framework remained. when he shouted, there would be nothing between his voice and the street. no one could see him, but if he could do something which would make people slacken their pace to listen, then he could call out that he was in the basement of the house with the broken window. "hallo!" he shouted. "hallo! hallo! hallo! hallo!" but vehicles were passing in the street, and the passers-by were absorbed in their own business. if they heard a sound, they did not stop to inquire into it. "hallo! hallo! i am locked in!" yelled marco, at the topmost power of his lungs. "hallo! hallo!" after half an hour's shouting, he began to think that he was wasting his strength. "they only think it is a boy shouting," he said. "some one will notice in time. at night, when the streets are quiet, i might make a policeman hear. but my father does not know where i am. he will be trying to find me--so will lazarus--so will the rat. one of them might pass through this very street, as i did. what can i do!" a new idea flashed light upon him. "i will begin to sing a samavian song, and i will sing it very loud. people nearly always stop a moment to listen to music and find out where it comes from. and if any of my own people came near, they would stop at once--and now and then i will shout for help." once when they had stopped to rest on hampstead heath, he had sung a valiant samavian song for the rat. the rat had wanted to hear how he would sing when they went on their secret journey. he wanted him to sing for the squad some day, to make the thing seem real. the rat had been greatly excited, and had begged for the song often. it was a stirring martial thing with a sort of trumpet call of a chorus. thousands of samavians had sung it together on their way to the battle-field, hundreds of years ago. he drew back a step or so, and, putting his hands on his hips, began to sing, throwing his voice upward that it might pass through the broken window. he had a splendid and vibrant young voice, though he knew nothing of its fine quality. just now he wanted only to make it loud. in the street outside very few people were passing. an irritable old gentleman who was taking an invalid walk quite jumped with annoyance when the song suddenly trumpeted forth. boys had no right to yell in that manner. he hurried his step to get away from the sound. two or three other people glanced over their shoulders, but had not time to loiter. a few others listened with pleasure as they drew near and passed on. "there's a boy with a fine voice," said one. "what's he singing?" said his companion. "it sounds foreign." "don't know," was the reply as they went by. but at last a young man who was a music-teacher, going to give a lesson, hesitated and looked about him. the song was very loud and spirited just at this moment. the music-teacher could not understand where it came from, and paused to find out. the fact that he stopped attracted the attention of the next comer, who also paused. "who's singing?" he asked. "where is he singing?" "i can't make out," the music-teacher laughed. "sounds as if it came out of the ground." and, because it was queer that a song should seem to be coming out of the ground, a costermonger stopped, and then a little boy, and then a workingwoman, and then a lady. there was quite a little group when another person turned the corner of the street. he was a shabby boy on crutches, and he had a frantic look on his face. and marco actually heard, as he drew near to the group, the tap-tap-tap of crutches. "it might be," he thought. "it might be!" and he sang the trumpet-call of the chorus as if it were meant to reach the skies, and he sang it again and again. and at the end of it shouted, "hallo! hallo! hallo! hallo! hallo!" [illustration: the rat swung himself into the group. "where is he!" "where is he!" he cried.] the rat swung himself into the group and looked as if he had gone crazy. he hurled himself against the people. "where is he! where is he!" he cried, and he poured out some breathless words; it was almost as if he sobbed them out. "we've been looking for him all night!" he shouted. "where is he! marco! marco! no one else sings it but him. marco! marco!" and out of the area, as it seemed, came a shout of answer. "rat! rat! i'm here in the cellar--locked in. i'm here!" and a big piece of coal came hurtling through the broken window and fell crashing on the area flags. the rat got down the steps into the area as if he had not been on crutches but on legs, and banged on the door, shouting back: "marco! marco! here i am! who locked you in? how can i get the door open?" marco was close against the door inside. it was the rat! it was the rat! and he would be in the street again in a few minutes. "call a policeman!" he shouted through the keyhole. "the people locked me in on purpose and took away the keys." then the group of lookers-on began to get excited and press against the area railings and ask questions. they could not understand what had happened to cause the boy with the crutches to look as if he were crazy with terror and relief at the same time. and the little boy ran delightedly to fetch a policeman, and found one in the next street, and, with some difficulty, persuaded him that it was his business to come and get a door open in an empty house where a boy who was a street singer had got locked up in a cellar. xvii "it is a very bad sign" the policeman was not so much excited as out of temper. he did not know what marco knew or what the rat knew. some common lad had got himself locked up in a house, and some one would have to go to the landlord and get a key from him. he had no intention of laying himself open to the law by breaking into a private house with his truncheon, as the rat expected him to do. "he got himself in through some of his larks, and he'll have to wait till he's got out without smashing locks," he growled, shaking the area door. "how did you get in there?" he shouted. it was not easy for marco to explain through a keyhole that he had come in to help a lady who had met with an accident. the policeman thought this mere boy's talk. as to the rest of the story, marco knew that it could not be related at all without saying things which could not be explained to any one but his father. he quickly made up his mind that he must let it be believed that he had been locked in by some queer accident. it must be supposed that the people had not remembered, in their haste, that he had not yet left the house. when the young clerk from the house agency came with the keys, he was much disturbed and bewildered after he got inside. "they've made a bolt of it," he said. "that happens now and then, but there's something queer about this. what did they lock these doors in the basement for, and the one on the stairs? what did they say to you?" he asked marco, staring at him suspiciously. "they said they were obliged to go suddenly," marco answered. "what were you doing in the basement?" "the man took me down." "and left you there and bolted? he must have been in a hurry." "the lady said they had not a moment's time." "her ankle must have got well in short order," said the young man. "i knew nothing about them," answered marco. "i had never seen them before." "the police were after them," the young man said. "that's what i should say. they paid three months' rent in advance, and they have only been here two. some of these foreign spies lurking about london; that's what they were." * * * * * the rat had not waited until the keys arrived. he had swung himself at his swiftest pace back through the streets to no. philibert place. people turned and stared at his wild pale face as he almost shot past them. he had left himself barely breath enough to speak with when he reached the house and banged on the door with his crutch to save time. both loristan and lazarus came to answer. the rat leaned against the door gasping. "he's found! he's all right!" he panted. "some one had locked him in a house and left him. they've sent for the keys. i'm going back. brandon terrace, no. ." loristan and lazarus exchanged glances. both of them were at the moment as pale as the rat. "help him into the house," said loristan to lazarus. "he must stay here and rest. we will go." the rat knew it was an order. he did not like it, but he obeyed. "this is a bad sign, master," said lazarus, as they went out together. "it is a very bad one," answered loristan. "god of the right, defend us!" lazarus groaned. "amen!" said loristan. "amen!" the group had become a small crowd by the time they reached brandon terrace. marco had not found it easy to leave the place because he was being questioned. neither the policeman nor the agent's clerk seemed willing to relinquish the idea that he could give them some information about the absconding pair. the entrance of loristan produced its usual effect. the agent's clerk lifted his hat, and the policeman stood straight and made salute. neither of them realized that the tall man's clothes were worn and threadbare. they felt only that a personage was before them, and that it was not possible to question his air of absolute and serene authority. he laid his hand on marco's shoulder and held it there as he spoke. when marco looked up at him and felt the closeness of his touch, it seemed as if it were an embrace--as if he had caught him to his breast. "my boy knew nothing of these people," he said. "that i can guarantee. he had seen neither of them before. his entering the house was the result of no boyish trick. he has been shut up in this place for nearly twenty-four hours and has had no food. i must take him home. this is my address." he handed the young man a card. then they went home together, and all the way to philibert place loristan's firm hand held closely to his boy's shoulder as if he could not endure to let him go. but on the way they said very little. "father," marco said, rather hoarsely, when they first got away from the house in the terrace, "i can't talk well in the street. for one thing, i am so glad to be with you again. it seemed as if--it might turn out badly." "beloved one," loristan said the words in their own samavian, "until you are fed and at rest, you shall not talk at all." afterward, when he was himself again and was allowed to tell his strange story, marco found that both his father and lazarus had at once had suspicions when he had not returned. they knew no ordinary event could have kept him. they were sure that he must have been detained against his will, and they were also sure that, if he had been so detained, it could only have been for reasons they could guess at. "this was the card that she gave me," marco said, and he handed it to loristan. "she said you would remember the name." loristan looked at the lettering with an ironic half-smile. "i never heard it before," he replied. "she would not send me a name i knew. probably i have never seen either of them. but i know the work they do. they are spies of the maranovitch, and suspect that i know something of the lost prince. they believed they could terrify you into saying things which would be a clue. men and women of their class will use desperate means to gain their end." "might they--have left me as they threatened?" marco asked him. "they would scarcely have dared, i think. too great a hue and cry would have been raised by the discovery of such a crime. too many detectives would have been set at work to track them." but the look in his father's eyes as he spoke, and the pressure of the hand he stretched out to touch him, made marco's heart thrill. he had won a new love and trust from his father. when they sat together and talked that night, they were closer to each other's souls than they had ever been before. they sat in the firelight, marco upon the worn hearth-rug, and they talked about samavia--about the war and its heart-rending struggles, and about how they might end. "do you think that some time we might be exiles no longer?" the boy said wistfully. "do you think we might go there together--and see it--you and i, father?" there was a silence for a while. loristan looked into the sinking bed of red coal. "for years--for years i have made for my soul that image," he said slowly. "when i think of my friend on the side of the himalayan mountains, i say, 'the thought which thought the world may give us that also!'" xviii "cities and faces" the hours of marco's unexplained absence had been terrible to loristan and to lazarus. they had reason for fears which it was not possible for them to express. as the night drew on, the fears took stronger form. they forgot the existence of the rat, who sat biting his nails in the bedroom, afraid to go out lest he might lose the chance of being given some errand to do but also afraid to show himself lest he should seem in the way. "i'll stay upstairs," he had said to lazarus. "if you just whistle, i'll come." the anguish he passed through as the day went by and lazarus went out and came in and he himself received no orders, could not have been expressed in any ordinary words. he writhed in his chair, he bit his nails to the quick, he wrought himself into a frenzy of misery and terror by recalling one by one all the crimes his knowledge of london police-courts supplied him with. he was doing nothing, yet he dare not leave his post. it was his post after all, though they had not given it to him. he must do something. in the middle of the night loristan opened the door of the back sitting-room, because he knew he must at least go upstairs and throw himself upon his bed even if he could not sleep. he started back as the door opened. the rat was sitting huddled on the floor near it with his back against the wall. he had a piece of paper in his hand and his twisted face was a weird thing to see. "why are you here?" loristan asked. "i've been here three hours, sir. i knew you'd have to come out sometime and i thought you'd let me speak to you. will you--will you?" "come into the room," said loristan. "i will listen to anything you want to say. what have you been drawing on that paper?" as the rat got up in the wonderful way he had taught himself. the paper was covered with lines which showed it to be another of his plans. "please look at it," he begged. "i daren't go out lest you might want to send me somewhere. i daren't sit doing nothing. i began remembering and thinking things out. i put down all the streets and squares he _might_ have walked through on his way home. i've not missed one. if you'll let me start out and walk through every one of them and talk to the policemen on the beat and look at the houses--and think out things and work at them--i'll not miss an inch--i'll not miss a brick or a flagstone--i'll--" his voice had a hard sound but it shook, and he himself shook. loristan touched his arm gently. "you are a good comrade," he said. "it is well for us that you are here. you have thought of a good thing." "may i go now?" said the rat. "this moment, if you are ready," was the answer. the rat swung himself to the door. loristan said to him a thing which was like the sudden lighting of a great light in the very center of his being. "you are one of us. now that i know you are doing this i may even sleep. you are one of us." and it was because he was following this plan that the rat had turned into brandon terrace and heard the samavian song ringing out from the locked basement of number . "yes, he is one of us," loristan said, when he told this part of the story to marco as they sat by the fire. "i had not been sure before. i wanted to be very sure. last night i saw into the depths of him and _knew_. he may be trusted." from that day the rat held a new place. lazarus himself, strangely enough, did not resent his holding it. the boy was allowed to be near loristan as he had never dared to hope to be near. it was not merely that he was allowed to serve him in many ways, but he was taken into the intimacy which had before enclosed only the three. loristan talked to him as he talked to marco, drawing him within the circle which held so much that was comprehended without speech. the rat knew that he was being trained and observed and he realized it with exaltation. his idol had said that he was "one of them" and he was watching and putting him to tests so that he might find out how much he was one of them. and he was doing it for some grave reason of his own. this thought possessed the rat's whole mind. perhaps he was wondering if he should find out that he was to be trusted, as a rock is to be trusted. that he should even think that perhaps he might find that he was like a rock, was inspiration enough. "sir," he said one night when they were alone together, because the rat had been copying a road-map. his voice was very low--"do you think that--sometime--you could trust me as you trust marco? could it ever be like that--ever?" "the time has come," and loristan's voice was almost as low as his own, though strong and deep feeling underlay its quiet--"the time has come when i can trust you with marco--to be his companion--to care for him, to stand by his side at any moment. and marco is--marco is my son." that was enough to uplift the rat to the skies. but there was more to follow. "it may not be long before it may be his part to do work in which he will need a comrade who can be trusted--as a rock can be trusted." he had said the very words the rat's own mind had given to him. "a rock! a rock!" the boy broke out. "let me show you, sir. send me with him for a servant. the crutches are nothing. you've seen that they're as good as legs, haven't you? i've trained myself." "i know, i know, dear lad." marco had told him all of it. he gave him a gracious smile which seemed as if it held a sort of fine secret. "you shall go as his aide-de-camp. it shall be part of the game." he had always encouraged "the game," and during the last weeks had even found time to help them in their plannings for the mysterious journey of the secret two. he had been so interested that once or twice he had called on lazarus as an old soldier and samavian to give his opinions of certain routes--and of the customs and habits of people in towns and villages by the way. here they would find simple pastoral folk who danced, sang after their day's work, and who would tell all they knew; here they would find those who served or feared the maranovitch and who would not talk at all. in one place they would meet with hospitality, in another with unfriendly suspicion of all strangers. through talk and stories the rat began to know the country almost as marco knew it. that was part of the game too--because it was always "the game," they called it. another part was the rat's training of his memory, and bringing home his proofs of advance at night when he returned from his walk and could describe, or recite, or roughly sketch all he had seen in his passage from one place to another. marco's part was to recall and sketch faces. loristan one night gave him a number of photographs of people to commit to memory. under each face was written the name of a place. "learn these faces," he said, "until you would know each one of them at once wheresoever you met it. fix them upon your mind, so that it will be impossible for you to forget them. you must be able to sketch any one of them and recall the city or town or neighborhood connected with it." even this was still called "the game," but marco began to know in his secret heart that it was so much more, that his hand sometimes trembled with excitement as he made his sketches over and over again. to make each one many times was the best way to imbed it in his memory. the rat knew, too, though he had no reason for knowing, but mere instinct. he used to lie awake in the night and think it over and remember what loristan had said of the time coming when marco might need a comrade in his work. what was his work to be? it was to be something like "the game." and they were being prepared for it. and though marco often lay awake on his bed when the rat lay awake on his sofa, neither boy spoke to the other of the thing his mind dwelt on. and marco worked as he had never worked before. the game was very exciting when he could prove his prowess. the four gathered together at night in the back sitting-room. lazarus was obliged to be with them because a second judge was needed. loristan would mention the name of a place, perhaps a street in paris or a hotel in vienna, and marco would at once make a rapid sketch of the face under whose photograph the name of the locality had been written. it was not long before he could begin his sketch without more than a moment's hesitation. and yet even when this had become the case, they still played the game night after night. there was a great hotel near the place de la concorde in paris, of which marco felt he should never hear the name during all his life without there starting up before his mental vision a tall woman with fierce black eyes and a delicate high-bridged nose across which the strong eyebrows almost met. in vienna there was a palace which would always bring back at once a pale cold-faced man with a heavy blonde lock which fell over his forehead. a certain street in munich meant a stout genial old aristocrat with a sly smile; a village in bavaria, a peasant with a vacant and simple countenance. a curled and smoothed man who looked like a hair-dresser brought up a place in an austrian mountain town. he knew them all as he knew his own face and no. philibert place. but still night after night the game was played. then came a night when, out of a deep sleep, he was awakened by lazarus touching him. he had so long been secretly ready to answer any call that he sat up straight in bed at the first touch. "dress quickly and come down stairs," lazarus said. "the prince is here and wishes to speak with you." marco made no answer but got out of bed and began to slip on his clothes. lazarus touched the rat. the rat was as ready as marco and sat upright as he had done. "come down with the young master," he commanded. "it is necessary that you should be seen and spoken to." and having given the order he went away. no one heard the shoeless feet of the two boys as they stole down the stairs. an elderly man in ordinary clothes, but with an unmistakable face, was sitting quietly talking to loristan who with a gesture called both forward. "the prince has been much interested in what i have told him of your game," he said in his lowest voice. "he wishes to see you make your sketches, marco." marco looked very straight into the prince's eyes which were fixed intently on him as he made his bow. "his highness does me honor," he said, as his father might have said it. he went to the table at once and took from a drawer his pencils and pieces of cardboard. "i should know he was your son and a samavian," the prince remarked. then his keen and deep-set eyes turned themselves on the boy with the crutches. "this," said loristan, "is the one who calls himself the rat. he is one of us." the rat saluted. "please tell him, sir," he whispered, "that the crutches don't matter." "he has trained himself to an extraordinary activity," loristan said. "he can do anything." the keen eyes were still taking the rat in. "they are an advantage," said the prince at last. lazarus had nailed together a light, rough easel which marco used in making his sketches when the game was played. lazarus was standing in state at the door, and he came forward, brought the easel from its corner, and arranged the necessary drawing materials upon it. marco stood near it and waited the pleasure of his father and his visitor. they were speaking together in low tones and he waited several minutes. what the rat noticed was what he had noticed before--that the big boy could stand still in perfect ease and silence. it was not necessary for him to say things or to ask questions--to look at people as if he felt restless if they did not speak to or notice him. he did not seem to require notice, and the rat felt vaguely that, young as he was, this very freedom from any anxiety to be looked at or addressed made him somehow look like a great gentleman. loristan and the prince advanced to where he stood. "l'hotel de marigny," loristan said. marco began to sketch rapidly. he began the portrait of the handsome woman with the delicate high-bridged nose and the black brows which almost met. as he did it, the prince drew nearer and watched the work over his shoulder. it did not take very long and, when it was finished, the inspector turned, and after giving loristan a long and strange look, nodded twice. "it is a remarkable thing," he said. "in that rough sketch she is not to be mistaken." loristan bent his head. then he mentioned the name of another street in another place--and marco sketched again. this time it was the peasant with the simple face. the prince bowed again. then loristan gave another name, and after that another and another; and marco did his work until it was at an end, and lazarus stood near with a handful of sketches which he had silently taken charge of as each was laid aside. "you would know these faces wheresoever you saw them?" said the prince. "if you passed one in bond street or in the marylebone road, you would recognize it at once?" "as i know yours, sir," marco answered. then followed a number of questions. loristan asked them as he had often asked them before. they were questions as to the height and build of the originals of the pictures, of the color of their hair and eyes, and the order of their complexions. marco answered them all. he knew all but the names of these people, and it was plainly not necessary that he should know them, as his father had never uttered them. after this questioning was at an end the prince pointed to the rat who had leaned on his crutches against the wall, his eyes fiercely eager like a ferret's. "and he?" the prince said. "what can he do?" "let me try," said the rat. "marco knows." marco looked at his father. "may i help him to show you?" he asked. "yes," loristan answered, and then, as he turned to the prince, he said again in his low voice: "_he is one of us_." then marco began a new form of the game. he held up one of the pictured faces before the rat, and the rat named at once the city and place connected with it, he detailed the color of eyes and hair, the height, the build, all the personal details as marco himself had detailed them. to these he added descriptions of the cities, and points concerning the police system, the palaces, the people. his face twisted itself, his eyes burned, his voice shook, but he was amazing in his readiness of reply and his exactness of memory. "i can't draw," he said at the end. "but i can remember. i didn't want any one to be bothered with thinking i was trying to learn it. so only marco knew." this he said to loristan with appeal in his voice. "it was he who invented 'the game,'" said loristan. "i showed you his strange maps and plans." "it is a good game," the prince answered in the manner of a man extraordinarily interested and impressed. "they know it well. they can be trusted." "no such thing has ever been done before," loristan said. "it is as new as it is daring and simple." "therein lies its safety," the prince answered. "perhaps only boyhood," said loristan, "could have dared to imagine it." "the prince thanks you," he said after a few more words spoken aside to his visitor. "we both thank you. you may go back to your beds." and the boys went. xix "that is one!" a week had not passed before marco brought to the rat in their bedroom an envelope containing a number of slips of paper on each of which was written something. "this is another part of the game," he said gravely. "let us sit down together by the table and study it." they sat down and examined what was written on the slips. at the head of each was the name of one of the places with which marco had connected a face he had sketched. below were clear and concise directions as to how it was to be reached and the words to be said when each individual was encountered. "this person is to be found at his stall in the market," was written of the vacant-faced peasant. "you will first attract his attention by asking the price of something. when he is looking at you, touch your left thumb lightly with the forefinger of your right hand. then utter in a low distinct tone the words 'the lamp is lighted.' that is all you are to do." sometimes the directions were not quite so simple, but they were all instructions of the same order. the originals of the sketches were to be sought out--always with precaution which should conceal that they were being sought at all, and always in such a manner as would cause an encounter to appear to be mere chance. then certain words were to be uttered, but always without attracting the attention of any bystander or passer-by. the boys worked at their task through the entire day. they concentrated all their powers upon it. they wrote and re-wrote--they repeated to each other what they committed to memory as if it were a lesson. marco worked with the greater ease and more rapidly, because exercise of this order had been his practice and entertainment from his babyhood. the rat, however, almost kept pace with him, as he had been born with a phenomenal memory and his eagerness and desire were a fury. but throughout the entire day neither of them once referred to what they were doing as anything but "the game." at night, it is true, each found himself lying awake and thinking. it was the rat who broke the silence from his sofa. "it is what the messengers of the secret party would be ordered to do when they were sent out to give the sign for the rising," he said. "i made that up the first day i invented the party, didn't i?" "yes," answered marco. * * * * * after a third day's concentration they knew by heart everything given to them to learn. that night loristan put them through an examination. "can you write these things?" he asked, after each had repeated them and emerged safely from all cross-questioning. each boy wrote them correctly from memory. "write yours in french--in german--in russian--in samavian," loristan said to marco. "all you have told me to do and to learn is part of myself, father," marco said in the end. "it is part of me, as if it were my hand or my eyes--or my heart." "i believe that is true," answered loristan. he was pale that night and there was a shadow on his face. his eyes held a great longing as they rested on marco. it was a yearning which had a sort of dread in it. lazarus also did not seem quite himself. he was red instead of pale, and his movements were uncertain and restless. he cleared his throat nervously at intervals and more than once left his chair as if to look for something. it was almost midnight when loristan, standing near marco, put his arm round his shoulders. "the game"--he began, and then was silent a few moments while marco felt his arm tighten its hold. both marco and the rat felt a hard quick beat in their breasts, and, because of this and because the pause seemed long, marco spoke. "the game--yes, father?" he said. "the game is about to give you work to do--both of you," loristan answered. lazarus cleared his throat and walked to the easel in the corner of the room. but he only changed the position of a piece of drawing-paper on it and then came back. "in two days you are to go to paris--as you," to the rat, "planned in the game." "as i planned?" the rat barely breathed the words. "yes," answered loristan. "the instructions you have learned you will carry out. there is no more to be done than to manage to approach certain persons closely enough to be able to utter certain words to them." "only two young strollers whom no man could suspect," put in lazarus in an astonishingly rough and shaky voice. "they could pass near the emperor himself without danger. the young master--" his voice became so hoarse that he was obligated to clear it loudly--"the young master must carry himself less finely. it would be well to shuffle a little and slouch as if he were of the common people." "yes," said the rat hastily. "he must do that. i can teach him. he holds his head and his shoulders like a gentleman. he must look like a street lad." "i will look like one," said marco, with determination. "i will trust you to remind him," loristan said to the rat, and he said it with gravity. "that will be your charge." as he lay upon his pillow that night, it seemed to marco as if a load had lifted itself from his heart. it was the load of uncertainty and longing. he had so long borne the pain of feeling that he was too young to be allowed to serve in any way. his dreams had never been wild ones--they had in fact always been boyish and modest, howsoever romantic. but now no dream which could have passed through his brain would have seemed so wonderful as this--that the hour had come--the hour had come--and that he, marco, was to be its messenger. he was to do no dramatic deed and be announced by no flourish of heralds. no one would know what he did. what he achieved could only be attained if he remained obscure and unknown and seemed to every one only a common ordinary boy who knew nothing whatever of important things. but his father had given to him a gift so splendid that he trembled with awe and joy as he thought of it. the game had become real. he and the rat were to carry with them the sign, and it would be like carrying a tiny lamp to set aflame lights which would blaze from one mountain-top to another until half the world seemed on fire. as he had awakened out of his sleep when lazarus touched him, so he awakened in the middle of the night again. but he was not aroused by a touch. when he opened his eyes he knew it was a look which had penetrated his sleep--a look in the eyes of his father who was standing by his side. in the road outside there was the utter silence he had noticed the night of the prince's first visit--the only light was that of the lamp in the street, but he could see loristan's face clearly enough to know that the mere intensity of his gaze had awakened him. the rat was sleeping profoundly. loristan spoke in samavian and under his breath. "beloved one," he said. "you are very young. because i am your father--just at this hour i can feel nothing else. i have trained you for this through all the years of your life. i am proud of your young maturity and strength but--beloved--you are a child! can i do this thing!" for the moment, his face and his voice were scarcely like his own. he kneeled by the bedside, and, as he did it, marco half sitting up caught his hand and held it hard against his breast. "father, i know!" he cried under his breath also. "it is true. i am a child but am i not a man also? you yourself said it. i always knew that you were teaching me to be one--for some reason. it was my secret that i knew it. i learned well because i never forgot it. and i learned. did i not?" he was so eager that he looked more like a boy than ever. but his young strength and courage were splendid to see. loristan knew him through and through and read every boyish thought of his. "yes," he answered slowly. "you did your part--and now if i--drew back--you would feel that i _had failed you--failed you_." "you!" marco breathed it proudly. "you _could_ not fail even the weakest thing in the world." there was a moment's silence in which the two pairs of eyes dwelt on each other with the deepest meaning, and then loristan rose to his feet. "the end will be all that our hearts most wish," he said. "to-morrow you may begin the new part of 'the game.' you may go to paris." * * * * * when the train which was to meet the boat that crossed from dover to calais steamed out of the noisy charing cross station, it carried in a third-class carriage two shabby boys. one of them would have been a handsome lad if he had not carried himself slouchingly and walked with a street lad's careless shuffling gait. the other was a cripple who moved slowly, and apparently with difficulty, on crutches. there was nothing remarkable or picturesque enough about them to attract attention. they sat in the corner of the carriage and neither talked much nor seemed to be particularly interested in the journey or each other. when they went on board the steamer, they were soon lost among the commoner passengers and in fact found for themselves a secluded place which was not advantageous enough to be wanted by any one else. "what can such a poor-looking pair of lads be going to paris for?" some one asked his companion. "not for pleasure, certainly; perhaps to get work," was the casual answer. in the evening they reached paris, and marco led the way to a small café in a side-street where they got some cheap food. in the same side-street they found a bed they could share for the night in a tiny room over a baker's shop. the rat was too much excited to be ready to go to bed early. he begged marco to guide him about the brilliant streets. they went slowly along the broad avenue des champs elysees under the lights glittering among the horse-chestnut trees. the rat's sharp eyes took it all in--the light of the cafés among the embowering trees, the many carriages rolling by, the people who loitered and laughed or sat at little tables drinking wine and listening to music, the broad stream of life which flowed on to the arc de triomphe and back again. "it's brighter and clearer than london," he said to marco. "the people look as if they were having more fun than they do in england." the place de la concorde spreading its stately spaces--a world of illumination, movement, and majestic beauty--held him as though by a fascination. he wanted to stand and stare at it, first from one point of view and then from another. it was bigger and more wonderful than he had been able to picture it when marco had described it to him and told him of the part it had played in the days of the french revolution when the guillotine had stood in it and the tumbrils had emptied themselves at the foot of its steps. he stood near the obelisk a long time without speaking. "i can see it all happening," he said at last, and he pulled marco away. before they returned home, they found their way to a large house which stood in a courtyard. in the iron work of the handsome gates which shut it in was wrought a gilded coronet. the gates were closed and the house was not brightly lighted. they walked past it and round it without speaking, but, when they neared the entrance for the second time, the rat said in a low tone: "she is five feet seven, has black hair, a nose with a high bridge, her eyebrows are black and almost meet across it, she has a pale olive skin and holds her head proudly." "that is the one," marco answered. they were a week in paris and each day passed this big house. there were certain hours when great ladies were more likely to go out and come in than they were at others. marco knew this, and they managed to be within sight of the house or to pass it at these hours. for two days they saw no sign of the person they wished to see, but one morning the gates were thrown open and they saw flowers and palms being taken in. "she has been away and is coming back," said marco. the next day they passed three times--once at the hour when fashionable women drive out to do their shopping, once at the time when afternoon visiting is most likely to begin, and once when the streets were brilliant with lights and the carriages had begun to roll by to dinner-parties and theaters. then, as they stood at a little distance from the iron gates, a carriage drove through them and stopped before the big open door which was thrown open by two tall footmen in splendid livery. "she is coming out," said the rat. they would be able to see her plainly when she came, because the lights over the entrance were so bright. marco slipped from under his coat sleeve a carefully made sketch. he looked at it and the rat looked at it. a footman stood erect on each side of the open door. the footman who sat with the coachman had got down and was waiting by the carriage. marco and the rat glanced again with furtive haste at the sketch. a handsome woman appeared upon the threshold. she paused and gave some order to the footman who stood on the right. then she came out in the full light and got into the carriage which drove out of the courtyard and quite near the place where the two boys waited. when it was gone, marco drew a long breath as he tore the sketch into very small pieces indeed. he did not throw them away but put them into his pocket. the rat drew a long breath also. "yes," he said positively. "yes," said marco. when they were safely shut up in their room over the baker's shop, they discussed the chances of their being able to pass her in such a way as would seem accidental. two common boys could not enter the courtyard. there was a back entrance for tradespeople and messengers. when she drove, she would always enter her carriage from the same place. unless she sometimes walked, they could not approach her. what should be done? the thing was difficult. after they had talked some time, the rat sat and gnawed his nails. "to-morrow afternoon," he broke out at last, "we'll watch and see if her carriage drives in for her--then, when she comes to the door, i'll go in and begin to beg. the servant will think i'm a foreigner and don't know what i'm doing. you can come after me to tell me to come away, because you know better than i do that i shall be ordered out. she may be a good-natured woman and listen to us--and you might get near her." "we might try it," marco answered. "it might work. we will try it." the rat never failed to treat him as his leader. he had begged loristan to let him come with marco as his servant, and his servant he had been more than willing to be. when loristan had said he should be his aide-de-camp, he had felt his trust lifted to a military dignity which uplifted him with it. as his aide-de-camp he must serve him, watch him, obey his lightest wish, make everything easy for him. sometimes, marco was troubled by the way in which he insisted on serving him, this queer, once dictatorial and cantankerous lad who had begun by throwing stones at him. "you must not wait on me," he said to him. "i must wait upon myself." the rat rather flushed. "he told me that he would let me come with you as your aide-de camp," he said. "it--it's part of the game. it makes things easier if we keep up the game." it would have attracted attention if they had spent too much time in the vicinity of the big house. so it happened that the next afternoon the great lady evidently drove out at an hour when they were not watching for her. they were on their way to try if they could carry out their plan, when, as they walked together along the rue royale, the rat suddenly touched marco's elbow. "the carriage stands before the shop with lace in the windows," he whispered hurriedly. marco saw and recognized it at once. the owner had evidently gone into the shop to buy something. this was a better chance than they had hoped for, and, when they approached the carriage itself, they saw that there was another point in their favor. inside were no less than three beautiful little pekingese spaniels that looked exactly alike. they were all trying to look out of the window and were pushing against each other. they were so perfect and so pretty that few people passed by without looking at them. what better excuse could two boys have for lingering about a place? they stopped and, standing a little distance away, began to look at and discuss them and laugh at their excited little antics. through the shop-window marco caught a glimpse of the great lady. "she does not look much interested. she won't stay long," he whispered, and added aloud, "that little one is the master. see how he pushes the others aside! he is stronger than the other two, though he is so small." "he can snap, too," said the rat. "she is coming now," warned marco, and then laughed aloud as if at the pekingese, which, catching sight of their mistress at the shop-door, began to leap and yelp for joy. their mistress herself smiled, and was smiling as marco drew near her. "may we look at them, madame?" he said in french, and, as she made an amiable gesture of acquiescence and moved toward the carriage with him, he spoke a few words, very low but very distinctly, in russian. "the lamp is lighted," he said. the rat was looking at her keenly, but he did not see her face change at all. what he noticed most throughout their journey was that each person to whom they gave the sign had complete control over his or her countenance, if there were bystanders, and never betrayed by any change of expression that the words meant anything unusual. the great lady merely went on smiling, and spoke only of the dogs, allowing marco and himself to look at them through the window of the carriage as the footman opened the door for her to enter. "they are beautiful little creatures," marco said, lifting his cap, and, as the footman turned away, he uttered his few russian words once more and moved off without even glancing at the lady again. "that is _one_!" he said to the rat that night before they went to sleep, and with a match he burned the scraps of the sketch he had torn and put into his pocket. xx marco goes to the opera their next journey was to munich, but the night before they left paris an unexpected thing happened. to reach the narrow staircase which led to their bedroom it was necessary to pass through the baker's shop itself. the baker's wife was a friendly woman who liked the two boy lodgers who were so quiet and gave no trouble. more than once she had given them a hot roll or so or a freshly baked little tartlet with fruit in the center. when marco came in this evening, she greeted him with a nod and handed him a small parcel as he passed through. "this was left for you this afternoon," she said. "i see you are making purchases for your journey. my man and i are very sorry you are going." "thank you, madame. we also are sorry," marco answered, taking the parcel. "they are not large purchases, you see." but neither he nor the rat had bought anything at all, though the ordinary-looking little package was plainly addressed to him and bore the name of one of the big cheap shops. it felt as if it contained something soft. when he reached their bedroom, the rat was gazing out of the window watching every living thing which passed in the street below. he who had never seen anything but london was absorbed by the spell of paris and was learning it by heart. "something has been sent to us. look at this," said marco. the rat was at his side at once. "what is it? where did it come from?" they opened the package and at first sight saw only several pairs of quite common woolen socks. as marco took up the sock in the middle of the parcel, he felt that there was something inside it--something laid flat and carefully. he put his hand in and drew out a number of five-franc notes--not new ones, because new ones would have betrayed themselves by crackling. these were old enough to be soft. but there were enough of them to amount to a substantial sum. "it is in small notes because poor boys would have only small ones. no one will be surprised when we change these," the rat said. each of them believed the package had been sent by the great lady, but it had been done so carefully that not the slightest clue was furnished. to the rat, part of the deep excitement of "the game" was the working out of the plans and methods of each person concerned. he could not have slept without working out some scheme which might have been used in this case. it thrilled him to contemplate the difficulties the great lady might have found herself obliged to overcome. "perhaps," he said, after thinking it over for some time, "she went to a big common shop dressed as if she were an ordinary woman and bought the socks and pretended she was going to carry them home herself. she would do that so that she could take them into some corner and slip the money in. then, as she wanted to have them sent from the shop, perhaps she bought some other things and asked the people to deliver the packages to different places. the socks were sent to us and the other things to some one else. she would go to a shop where no one knew her and no one would expect to see her and she would wear clothes which looked neither rich nor too poor." he created the whole episode with all its details and explained them to marco. it fascinated him for the entire evening and he felt relieved after it and slept well. even before they had left london, certain newspapers had swept out of existence the story of the descendant of the lost prince. this had been done by derision and light handling--by treating it as a romantic legend. at first, the rat had resented this bitterly, but one day at a meal, when he had been producing arguments to prove that the story must be a true one, loristan somehow checked him by his own silence. "if there is such a man," he said after a pause, "it is well for him that his existence should not be believed in--for some time at least." the rat came to a dead stop. he felt hot for a moment and then felt cold. he saw a new idea all at once. he had been making a mistake in tactics. no more was said but, when they were alone afterwards, he poured himself forth to marco. "i was a fool!" he cried out. "why couldn't i see it for myself! shall i tell you what i believe has been done? there is some one who has influence in england and who is a friend to samavia. they've got the newspapers to make fun of the story so that it won't be believed. if it was believed, both the iarovitch and the maranovitch would be on the lookout, and the secret party would lose their chances. what a fool i was not to think of it! there's some one watching and working here who is a friend to samavia." "but there is some one in samavia who has begun to suspect that it might be true," marco answered. "if there were not, i should not have been shut in the cellar. some one thought my father knew something. the spies had orders to find out what it was." "yes. yes. that's true, too!" the rat answered anxiously. "we shall have to be very careful." in the lining of the sleeve of marco's coat there was a slit into which he could slip any small thing he wished to conceal and also wished to be able to reach without trouble. in this he had carried the sketch of the lady which he had torn up in paris. when they walked in the streets of munich, the morning after their arrival, he carried still another sketch. it was the one picturing the genial-looking old aristocrat with the sly smile. one of the things they had learned about this one was that his chief characteristic was his passion for music. he was a patron of musicians and he spent much time in munich because he loved its musical atmosphere and the earnestness of its opera-goers. "the military band plays in the feldherrn-halle at midday. when something very good is being played, sometimes people stop their carriages so that they can listen. we will go there," said marco. "it's a chance," said the rat. "we mustn't lose anything like a chance." the day was brilliant and sunny, the people passing through the streets looked comfortable and homely, the mixture of old streets and modern ones, of ancient corners and shops and houses of the day was picturesque and cheerful. the rat swinging through the crowd on his crutches was full of interest and exhilaration. he had begun to grow, and the change in his face and expression which had begun in london had become more noticeable. he had been given his "place," and a work to do which entitled him to hold it. no one could have suspected them of carrying a strange and vital secret with them as they strolled along together. they seemed only two ordinary boys who looked in at shop windows and talked over their contents, and who loitered with upturned faces in the marien-platz before the ornate gothic rathaus to hear the eleven o'clock chimes play and see the painted figures of the king and queen watch from their balcony the passing before them of the automatic tournament procession with its trumpeters and tilting knights. when the show was over and the automatic cock broke forth into his lusty farewell crow, they laughed just as any other boys would have laughed. sometimes it would have been easy for the rat to forget that there was anything graver in the world than the new places and new wonders he was seeing, as if he were a wandering minstrel in a story. but in samavia bloody battles were being fought, and bloody plans were being wrought out, and in anguished anxiety the secret party and the forgers of the sword waited breathlessly for the sign for which they had waited so long. and inside the lining of marco's coat was hidden the sketched face, as the two unnoticed lads made their way to the feldherrn-halle to hear the band play and see who might chance to be among the audience. because the day was sunny, and also because the band was playing a specially fine programme, the crowd in the square was larger than usual. several vehicles had stopped, and among them were one or two which were not merely hired cabs but were the carriages of private persons. one of them had evidently arrived early, as it was drawn up in a good position when the boys reached the corner. it was a big open carriage and a grand one, luxuriously upholstered in green. the footman and coachman wore green and silver liveries and seemed to know that people were looking at them and their master. he was a stout, genial-looking old aristocrat with a sly smile, though, as he listened to the music, it almost forgot to be sly. in the carriage with him were a young officer and a little boy, and they also listened attentively. standing near the carriage door were several people who were plainly friends or acquaintances, as they occasionally spoke to him. marco touched the rat's coat sleeve as the two boys approached. "it would not be easy to get near him," he said. "let us go and stand as close to the carriage as we can get without pushing. perhaps we may hear some one say something about where he is going after the music is over." yes, there was no mistaking him. he was the right man. each of them knew by heart the creases on his stout face and the sweep of his gray moustache. but there was nothing noticeable in a boy looking for a moment at a piece of paper, and marco sauntered a few steps to a bit of space left bare by the crowd and took a last glance at his sketch. his rule was to make sure at the final moment. the music was very good and the group about the carriage was evidently enthusiastic. there was talk and praise and comment, and the old aristocrat nodded his head repeatedly in applause. "the chancellor is music mad," a looker-on near the boys said to another. "at the opera every night unless serious affairs keep him away! there you may see him nodding his old head and bursting his gloves with applauding when a good thing is done. he ought to have led an orchestra or played a 'cello. he is too big for first violin." there was a group about the carriage to the last, when the music came to an end and it drove away. there had been no possible opportunity of passing close to it even had the presence of the young officer and the boy not presented an insurmountable obstacle. marco and the rat went on their way and passed by the hof-theater and read the bills. "tristan and isolde" was to be presented at night and a great singer would sing _isolde_. "he will go to hear that," both boys said at once. "he will be sure to go." it was decided between them that marco should go on his quest alone when night came. one boy who hung around the entrance of the opera would be observed less than two. "people notice crutches more than they notice legs," the rat said. "i'd better keep out of the way unless you need me. my time hasn't come yet. even if it doesn't come at all i've--i've been on duty. i've gone with you and i've been ready--that's what an aide-de-camp does." he stayed at home and read such english papers as he could lay hands on and he drew plans and re-fought battles on paper. marco went to the opera. even if he had not known his way to the square near the place where the hof-theater stood, he could easily have found it by following the groups of people in the streets who all seemed walking in one direction. there were students in their odd caps walking three or four abreast, there were young couples and older ones, and here and there whole families; there were soldiers of all ages, officers and privates; and, when talk was to be heard in passing, it was always talk about music. for some time marco waited in the square and watched the carriages roll up and pass under the huge pillared portico to deposit their contents at the entrance and at once drive away in orderly sequence. he must make sure that the grand carriage with the green and silver liveries rolled up with the rest. if it came, he would buy a cheap ticket and go inside. it was rather late when it arrived. people in munich are not late for the opera if it can be helped, and the coachman drove up hurriedly. the green and silver footman leaped to the ground and opened the carriage door almost before it stopped. the chancellor got out looking less genial than usual because he was afraid that he might lose some of the overture. a rosy-cheeked girl in a white frock was with him and she was evidently trying to soothe him. "i do not think we are really late, father," she said. "don't feel cross, dear. it will spoil the music for you." this was not a time in which a man's attention could be attracted quietly. marco ran to get the ticket which would give him a place among the rows of young soldiers, artists, male and female students, and musicians who were willing to stand four or five deep throughout the performance of even the longest opera. he knew that, unless they were in one of the few boxes which belonged only to the court, the chancellor and his rosy-cheeked daughter would be in the best seats in the front curve of the balcony which were the most desirable of the house. he soon saw them. they had secured the central places directly below the large royal box where two quiet princesses and their attendants were already seated. when he found he was not too late to hear the overture, the chancellor's face become more genial than ever. he settled himself down to an evening of enjoyment and evidently forgot everything else in the world. marco did not lose sight of him. when the audience went out between acts to promenade in the corridors, he might go also and there might be a chance to pass near to him in the crowd. he watched him closely. sometimes his fine old face saddened at the beautiful woe of the music, sometimes it looked enraptured, and it was always evident that every note reached his soul. the pretty daughter who sat beside him was attentive but not so enthralled. after the first act two glittering young officers appeared and made elegant and low bows, drawing their heels together as they kissed her hand. they looked sorry when they were obliged to return to their seats again. after the second act the chancellor sat for a few minutes as if he were in a dream. the people in the seats near him began to rise from their seats and file out into the corridors. the young officers were to be seen rising also. the rosy daughter leaned forward and touched her father's arm gently. "she wants him to take her out," marco thought. "he will take her because he is good-natured." he saw him recall himself from his dream with a smile and then he rose and, after helping to arrange a silvery blue scarf round the girl's shoulders, gave her his arm just as marco skipped out of his fourth-row standing-place. it was a rather warm night and the corridors were full. by the time marco had reached the balcony floor, the pair had issued from the little door and were temporarily lost in the moving numbers. marco quietly made his way among the crowd trying to look as if he belonged to somebody. once or twice his strong body and his dense black eyes and lashes made people glance at him, but he was not the only boy who had been brought to the opera so he felt safe enough to stop at the foot of the stairs and watch those who went up and those who passed by. such a miscellaneous crowd as it was made up of--good unfashionable music-lovers mixed here and there with grand people of the court and the gay world. suddenly he heard a low laugh and a moment later a hand lightly touched him. "you _did_ get out, then?" a soft voice said. when he turned he felt his muscles stiffen. he ceased to slouch and did not smile as he looked at the speaker. what he felt was a wave of fierce and haughty anger. it swept over him before he had time to control it. a lovely person who seemed swathed in several shades of soft violet drapery was smiling at him with long, lovely eyes. it was the woman who had trapped him into no. brandon terrace. xxi "help!" "did it take you so long to find it?" asked the lovely person with the smile. "of course i knew you would find it in the end. but we had to give ourselves time. how long did it take?" marco removed himself from beneath the touch of her hand. it was quietly done, but there was a disdain in his young face which made her wince though she pretended to shrug her shoulders amusedly. "you refuse to answer?" she laughed. "i refuse." at that very moment he saw at the curve of the corridor the chancellor and his daughter approaching slowly. the two young officers were talking gaily to the girl. they were on their way back to their box. was he going to lose them? was he? the delicate hand was laid on his shoulder again, but this time he felt that it grasped him firmly. "naughty boy!" the soft voice said. "i am going to take you home with me. if you struggle i shall tell these people that you are my bad boy who is here without permission. what will you answer? my escort is coming down the staircase and will help me. do you see?" and in fact there appeared in the crowd at the head of the staircase the figure of the man he remembered. he did see. a dampness broke out on the palms of his hands. if she did this bold thing, what could he say to those she told her lie to? how could he bring proof or explain who he was--and what story dare he tell? his protestations and struggles would merely amuse the lookers-on, who would see in them only the impotent rage of an insubordinate youngster. there swept over him a wave of remembrance which brought back, as if he were living through it again, the moment when he had stood in the darkness of the wine cellar with his back against the door and heard the man walk away and leave him alone. he felt again as he had done then--but now he was in another land and far away from his father. he could do nothing to help himself unless something showed him a way. he made no sound, and the woman who held him saw only a flame leap under his dense black lashes. but something within him called out. it was as if he heard it. it was that strong self--the self that was marco, and it called--it called as if it shouted. "help!" it called--to that unknown stranger thing which had made worlds and which he and his father so often talked of and in whose power they so believed. "help!" the chancellor was drawing nearer. perhaps! should he--? "you are too proud to kick and shout," the voice went on. "and people would only laugh. do you see?" the stairs were crowded and the man who was at the head of them could only move slowly. but he had seen the boy. marco turned so that he could face his captor squarely as if he were going to say something in answer to her. but he was not. even as he made the movement of turning, the help he had called for came and he knew what he should do. and he could do two things at once--save himself and give his sign--because, the sign once given, the chancellor would understand. "he will be here in a moment. he has recognized you," the woman said. as he glanced up the stairs, the delicate grip of her hand unconsciously slackened. marco whirled away from her. the bell rang which was to warn the audience that they must return to their seats and he saw the chancellor hasten his pace. a moment later, the old aristocrat found himself amazedly looking down at the pale face of a breathless lad who spoke to him in german and in such a manner that he could not but pause and listen. "sir," he was saying, "the woman in violet at the foot of the stairs is a spy. she trapped me once and she threatens to do it again. sir, may i beg you to protect me?" he said it low and fast. no one else could hear his words. "what! what!" the chancellor exclaimed. and then, drawing a step nearer and quite as low and rapidly but with perfect distinctness, marco uttered four words: "the lamp is lighted." the help cry had been answered instantly. marco saw it at once in the old man's eyes, notwithstanding that he turned to look at the woman at the foot of the staircase as if she only concerned him. "what! what!" he said again, and made a movement toward her, pulling his large moustache with a fierce hand. then marco recognized that a curious thing happened. the lovely person saw the movement and the gray moustache, and that instant her smile died away and she turned quite white--so white, that under the brilliant electric light she was almost green and scarcely looked lovely at all. she made a sign to the man on the staircase and slipped through the crowd like an eel. she was a slim flexible creature and never was a disappearance more wonderful in its rapidity. between stout matrons and their thin or stout escorts and families she made her way and lost herself--but always making toward the exit. in two minutes there was no sight of her violet draperies to be seen. she was gone and so, evidently, was her male companion. it was plain to marco that to follow the profession of a spy was not by any means a safe thing. the chancellor had recognized her--she had recognized the chancellor who turned looking ferociously angry and spoke to one of the young officers. "she and the man with her are two of the most dangerous spies in europe. she is a rumanian and he is a russian. what they wanted of this innocent lad i don't pretend to know. what did she threaten?" to marco. marco was feeling rather cold and sick and had lost his healthy color for the moment. "she said she meant to take me home with her and would pretend i was her son who had come here without permission," he answered. "she believes i know something i do not." he made a hesitating but grateful bow. "the third act, sir--i must not keep you. thank you! thank you!" the chancellor moved toward the entrance door of the balcony seats, but he did it with his hand on marco's shoulder. "see that he gets home safely," he said to the younger of the two officers. "send a messenger with him. he's young to be attacked by creatures of that kind." polite young officers naturally obey the commands of chancellors and such dignitaries. this one found without trouble a young private who marched with marco through the deserted streets to his lodgings. he was a stolid young bavarian peasant and seemed to have no curiosity or even any interest in the reason for the command given him. he was in fact thinking of his sweetheart who lived near konigsee and who had skated with him on the frozen lake last winter. he scarcely gave a glance to the schoolboy he was to escort, he neither knew nor wondered why. the rat had fallen asleep over his papers and lay with his head on his folded arms on the table. but he was awakened by marco's coming into the room and sat up blinking his eyes in the effort to get them open. "did you see him? did you get near enough?" he drowsed. "yes," marco answered. "i got near enough." the rat sat upright suddenly. "it's not been easy," he exclaimed. "i'm sure something happened--something went wrong." "something nearly went wrong--_very_ nearly," answered marco. but as he spoke he took the sketch of the chancellor out of the slit in his sleeve and tore it and burned it with a match. "but i did get near enough. and that's _two_." * * * * * they talked long, before they went to sleep that night. the rat grew pale as he listened to the story of the woman in violet. "i ought to have gone with you!" he said. "i see now. an aide-de-camp must always be in attendance. it would have been harder for her to manage two than one. i must always be near to watch, even if i am not close by you. if you had not come back--if you had not come back!" he struck his clenched hands together fiercely. "what should i have done!" when marco turned toward him from the table near which he was standing, he looked like his father. "you would have gone on with the game just as far as you could," he said. "you could not leave it. you remember the places, and the faces, and the sign. there is some money; and when it was all gone, you could have begged, as we used to pretend we should. we have not had to do it yet; and it was best to save it for country places and villages. but you could have done it if you were obliged to. the game would have to go on." the rat caught at his thin chest as if he had been struck breathless. "without you?" he gasped. "without you?" "yes," said marco. "and we must think of it, and plan in case anything like that should happen." he stopped himself quite suddenly, and sat down, looking straight before him, as if at some far away thing he saw. "nothing will happen," he said. "nothing can." "what are you thinking of?" the rat gulped, because his breath had not quite come back. "why will nothing happen?" "because--" the boy spoke in an almost matter-of-fact tone--in quite an unexalted tone at all events, "you see i can always make a strong call, as i did tonight." "did you shout?" the rat asked. "i didn't know you shouted." "i didn't. i said nothing aloud. but i--the myself that is in me," marco touched himself on the breast, "called out, 'help! help!' with all its strength. and help came." the rat regarded him dubiously. "what did it call to?" he asked. "to the power--to the strength-place--to the thought that does things. the buddhist hermit, who told my father about it, called it 'the thought that thought the world.'" a reluctant suspicion betrayed itself in the rat's eyes. "do you mean you prayed?" he inquired, with a slight touch of disfavor. marco's eyes remained fixed upon him in vague thoughtfulness for a moment or so of pause. "i don't know," he said at last. "perhaps it's the same thing--when you need something so much that you cry out loud for it. but it's not words, it's a strong thing without a name. i called like that when i was shut in the wine-cellar. i remembered some of the things the old buddhist told my father." the rat moved restlessly. "the help came that time," he admitted. "how did it come to-night?" "in that thought which flashed into my mind almost the next second. it came like lightning. all at once i knew if i ran to the chancellor and said the woman was a spy, it would startle him into listening to me; and that then i could give him the sign; and that when i gave him the sign, he would know i was speaking the truth and would protect me." "it was a splendid thought!" the rat said. "and it was quick. but it was you who thought of it." "all thinking is part of the big thought," said marco slowly. "it _knows_--it _knows_. and the outside part of us somehow broke the chain that linked us to it. and we are always trying to mend the chain, without knowing it. that is what our thinking is--trying to mend the chain. but we shall find out how to do it sometime. the old buddhist told my father so--just as the sun was rising from behind a high peak of the himalayas." then he added hastily, "i am only telling you what my father told me, and he only told me what the old hermit told him." "does your father believe what he told him?" the rat's bewilderment had become an eager and restless thing. "yes, he believes it. he always thought something like it, himself. that is why he is so calm and knows so well how to wait." "is _that_ it!" breathed the rat. "is that why? has--has he mended the chain?" and there was awe in his voice, because of this one man to whom he felt any achievement was possible. "i believe he has," said marco. "don't you think so yourself?" "he has done something," the rat said. he seemed to be thinking things over before he spoke again--and then even more slowly than marco. "if he could mend the chain," he said almost in a whisper, "he could find out where the descendant of the lost prince is. he would know what to do for samavia!" he ended the words with a start, and his whole face glowed with a new, amazed light. "perhaps he does know!" he cried. "if the help comes like thoughts--as yours did--perhaps his thought of letting us give the sign was part of it. we--just we two every-day boys--are part of it!" "the old buddhist said--" began marco. "look here!" broke in the rat. "tell me the whole story. i want to hear it." it was because loristan had heard it, and listened and believed, that the rat had taken fire. his imagination seized upon the idea, as it would have seized on some theory of necromancy proved true and workable. with his elbows on the table and his hands in his hair, he leaned forward, twisting a lock with restless fingers. his breath quickened. "tell it," he said, "i want to hear it all!" "i shall have to tell it in my own words," marco said. "and it won't be as wonderful as it was when my father told it to me. this is what i remember: "my father had gone through much pain and trouble. a great load was upon him, and he had been told he was going to die before his work was done. he had gone to india, because a man he was obliged to speak to had gone there to hunt, and no one knew when he would return. my father followed him for months from one wild place to another, and, when he found him, the man would not hear or believe what he had come so far to say. then he had jungle-fever and almost died. once the natives left him for dead in a bungalow in the forest, and he heard the jackals howling round him all the night. through all the hours he was only alive enough to be conscious of two things--all the rest of him seemed gone from his body: his thought knew that his work was unfinished--and his body heard the jackals howl!" "was the work for samavia?" the rat put in quickly. "if he had died that night, the descendant of the lost prince never would have been found--never!" the rat bit his lip so hard that a drop of blood started from it. "when he was slowly coming alive again, a native, who had gone back and stayed to wait upon him, told him that near the summit of a mountain, about fifty miles away, there was a ledge which jutted out into space and hung over the valley, which was thousands of feet below. on the ledge there was a hut in which there lived an ancient buddhist, who was a holy man, as they called him, and who had been there during time which had not been measured. they said that their grandparents and great-grandparents had known of him, though very few persons had ever seen him. it was told that the most savage beast was tame before him. they said that a man-eating tiger would stop to salute him, and that a thirsty lioness would bring her whelps to drink at the spring near his hut." "that was a lie," said the rat promptly. marco neither laughed nor frowned. "how do we _know_?" he said. "it was a native's story, and it might be anything. my father neither said it was true nor false. he listened to all that was told him by natives. they said that the holy man was the brother of the stars. he knew all things past and to come, and could heal the sick. but most people, especially those who had sinful thoughts, were afraid to go near him." "i'd like to have seen--" the rat pondered aloud, but he did not finish. "before my father was well, he had made up his mind to travel to the ledge if he could. he felt as if he must go. he thought that if he were going to die, the hermit might tell him some wise thing to do for samavia." "he might have given him a message to leave to the secret ones," said the rat. "he was so weak when he set out on his journey that he wondered if he would reach the end of it. part of the way he traveled by bullock cart, and part, he was carried by natives. but at last the bearers came to a place more than halfway up the mountain, and would go no further. then they went back and left him to climb the rest of the way himself. they had traveled slowly and he had got more strength, but he was weak yet. the forest was more wonderful than anything he had ever seen. there were tropical trees with foliage like lace, and some with huge leaves, and some of them seemed to reach the sky. sometimes he could barely see gleams of blue through them. and vines swung down from their high branches, and caught each other, and matted together; and there were hot scents, and strange flowers, and dazzling birds darting about, and thick moss, and little cascades bursting out. the path grew narrower and steeper, and the flower scents and the sultriness made it like walking in a hothouse. he heard rustlings in the undergrowth, which might have been made by any kind of wild animal; once he stepped across a deadly snake without seeing it. but it was asleep and did not hurt him. he knew the natives had been convinced that he would not reach the ledge; but for some strange reason he believed he should. he stopped and rested many times, and he drank some milk he had brought in a canteen. the higher he climbed, the more wonderful everything was, and a strange feeling began to fill him. he said his body stopped being tired and began to feel very light. and his load lifted itself from his heart, as if it were not his load any more but belonged to something stronger. even samavia seemed to be safe. as he went higher and higher, and looked down the abyss at the world below, it appeared as if it were not real but only a dream he had wakened from--only a dream." the rat moved restlessly. "perhaps he was light-headed with the fever," he suggested. "the fever had left him, and the weakness had left him," marco answered. "it seemed as if he had never really been ill at all--as if no one could be ill, because things like that were only dreams, just as the world was." "i wish i'd been with him! perhaps i could have thrown these away--down into the abyss!" and the rat shook his crutches which rested against the table. "i feel as if i was climbing, too. go on." marco had become more absorbed than the rat. he had lost himself in the memory of the story. "i felt that _i_ was climbing, when he told me," he said. "i felt as if i were breathing in the hot flower-scents and pushing aside the big leaves and giant ferns. there had been a rain, and they were wet and shining with big drops, like jewels, that showered over him as he thrust his way through and under them. and the stillness and the height--the stillness and the height! i can't make it real to you as he made it to me! i can't! i was there. he took me. and it was so high--and so still--and so beautiful that i could scarcely bear it." but the truth was, that with some vivid boy-touch he had carried his hearer far. the rat was deadly quiet. even his eyes had not moved. he spoke almost as if he were in a sort of trance. "it's real," he said. "i'm there now. as high as you--go on--go on. i want to climb higher." and marco, understanding, went on. "the day was over and the stars were out when he reached the place were the ledge was. he said he thought that during the last part of the climb he never looked on the earth at all. the stars were so immense that he could not look away from them. they seemed to be drawing him up. and all overhead was like violet velvet, and they hung there like great lamps of radiance. can you see them? you must see them. my father saw them all night long. they were part of the wonder." "i see them," the rat answered, still in his trance-like voice and without stirring, and marco knew he did. "and there, with the huge stars watching it, was the hut on the ledge. and there was no one there. the door was open. and outside it was a low bench and table of stone. and on the table was a meal of dates and rice, waiting. not far from the hut was a deep spring, which ran away in a clear brook. my father drank and bathed his face there. then he went out on the ledge, and sat down and waited, with his face turned up to the stars. he did not lie down, and he thought he saw the stars all the time he waited. he was sure he did not sleep. he did not know how long he sat there alone. but at last he drew his eyes from the stars, as if he had been commanded to do it. and he was not alone any more. a yard or so away from him sat the holy man. he knew it was the hermit because his eyes were different from any human eyes he had ever beheld. they were as still as the night was, and as deep as the shadows covering the world thousands of feet below, and they had a far, far look, and a strange light was in them." "what did he say?" asked the rat hoarsely. "he only said, 'rise, my son. i awaited thee. go and eat the food i prepared for thee, and then we will speak together.' he didn't move or speak again until my father had eaten the meal. he only sat on the moss and let his eyes rest on the shadows over the abyss. when my father went back, he made a gesture which meant that he should sit near him. "then he sat still for several minutes, and let his eyes rest on my father, until he felt as if the light in them were set in the midst of his own body and his soul. then he said, 'i cannot tell thee all thou wouldst know. that i may not do.' he had a wonderful gentle voice, like a deep soft bell. 'but the work will be done. thy life and thy son's life will set it on its way.' "they sat through the whole night together. and the stars hung quite near, as if they listened. and there were sounds in the bushes of stealthy, padding feet which wandered about as if the owners of them listened too. and the wonderful, low, peaceful voice of the holy man went on and on, telling of wonders which seemed like miracles but which were to him only the 'working of the law.'" "what is the law?" the rat broke in. "there were two my father wrote down, and i learned them. the first was the law of the one. i'll try to say that," and he covered his eyes and waited through a moment of silence. it seemed to the rat as if the room held an extraordinary stillness. "listen!" came next. "this is it: "'_there are a myriad worlds. there is but one thought out of which they grew. its law is order which cannot swerve. its creatures are free to choose. only they can create disorder, which in itself is pain and woe and hate and fear. these they alone can bring forth. the great one is a golden light. it is not remote but near. hold thyself within its glow and thou wilt behold all things clearly. first, with all thy breathing being, know one thing! that thine own thought--when so thou standest--is one with that which thought the worlds!_'" "what?" gasped the rat. "_my_ thought--the things _i_ think!" "your thoughts--boys' thoughts--anybody's thoughts." "you're giving me the jim-jams!" "he said it," answered marco. "and it was then he spoke about the broken link--and about the greatest books in the world--that in all their different ways, they were only saying over and over again one thing thousands of times. just this thing--'hate not, fear not, love.' and he said that was order. and when it was disturbed, suffering came--poverty and misery and catastrophe and wars." "wars!" the rat said sharply. "the world couldn't do without war--and armies and defences! what about samavia?" "my father asked him that. and this is what he answered. i learned that too. let me think again," and he waited as he had waited before. then he lifted his head. "listen! this is it: "_'out of the blackness of disorder and its outpouring of human misery, there will arise the order which is peace. when man learns that he is one with the thought which itself creates all beauty, all power, all splendor, and all repose, he will not fear that his brother can rob him of his heart's desire. he will stand in the light and draw to himself his own.'_" "draw to himself?" the rat said. "draw what he wants? i don't believe it!" "nobody does," said marco. "we don't know. he said we stood in the dark of the night--without stars--and did not know that the broken chain swung just above us." "i don't believe it!" said the rat. "it's too big!" marco did not say whether he believed it or not. he only went on speaking. "my father listened until he felt as if he had stopped breathing. just at the stillest of the stillness the buddhist stopped speaking. and there was a rustling of the undergrowth a few yards away, as if something big was pushing its way through--and there was the soft pad of feet. the buddhist turned his head and my father heard him say softly: 'come forth, sister.' "and a huge leopardess with two cubs walked out on to the ledge and came to him and threw herself down with a heavy lunge near his feet." "your father saw that!" cried out the rat. "you mean the old fellow knew something that made wild beasts afraid to touch him or any one near him?" "not afraid. they knew he was their brother, and that he was one with the law. he had lived so long with the great thought that all darkness and fear had left him forever. he had mended the chain." the rat had reached deep waters. he leaned forward--his hands burrowing in his hair, his face scowling and twisted, his eyes boring into space. he had climbed to the ledge at the mountain-top; he had seen the luminous immensity of the stars, and he had looked down into the shadows filling the world thousands of feet below. was there some remote deep in him from whose darkness a slow light was rising? all that loristan had said he knew must be true. but the rest of it--? marco got up and came over to him. he looked like his father again. "if the descendant of the lost prince is brought back to rule samavia, he will teach his people the law of the one. it was for that the holy man taught my father until the dawn came." "who will--who will teach the lost prince--the new king--when he is found?" the rat cried. "who will teach him?" "the hermit said my father would. he said he would also teach his son--and that son would teach his son--and he would teach his. and through such as they were, the whole world would come to know the order and the law." never had the rat looked so strange and fierce a thing. a whole world at peace! no tactics--no battles--no slaughtered heroes--no clash of arms, and fame! it made him feel sick. and yet--something set his chest heaving. "and your father would teach him that--when he was found! so that he could teach his sons. your father _believes_ in it?" "yes," marco answered. he said nothing but "yes." the rat threw himself forward on the table, face downward. "then," he said, "he must make me believe it. he must teach me--if he can." they heard a clumping step upon the staircase, and, when it reached the landing, it stopped at their door. then there was a solid knock. when marco opened the door, the young soldier who had escorted him from the hof-theater was standing outside. he looked as uninterested and stolid as before, as he handed in a small flat package. "you must have dropped it near your seat at the opera," he said. "i was to give it into your own hands. it is your purse." after he had clumped down the staircase again, marco and the rat drew a quick breath at one and the same time. "i had no seat and i had no purse," marco said. "let us open it." there was a flat limp leather note-holder inside. in it was a paper, at the head of which were photographs of the lovely person and her companion. beneath were a few lines which stated that they were the well known spies, eugenia karovna and paul varel, and that the bearer must be protected against them. it was signed by the chief of the police. on a separate sheet was written the command: "carry this with you as protection." "that is help," the rat said. "it would protect us, even in another country. the chancellor sent it--but you made the strong call--and it's here!" there was no street lamp to shine into their windows when they went at last to bed. when the blind was drawn up, they were nearer the sky than they had been in the marylebone road. the last thing each of them saw, as he went to sleep, was the stars--and in their dreams, they saw them grow larger and larger, and hang like lamps of radiance against the violet-velvet sky above a ledge of a himalayan mountain, where they listened to the sound of a low voice going on and on and on. xxii the night vigil on a hill in the midst of a great austrian plain, around which high alps wait watching through the ages, stands a venerable fortress, almost more beautiful than anything one has ever seen. perhaps, if it were not for the great plain flowering broadly about it with its wide-spread beauties of meadow-land, and wood, and dim toned buildings gathered about farms, and its dream of a small ancient city at its feet, it might--though it is to be doubted--seem something less a marvel of medieval picturesqueness. but out of the plain rises the low hill, and surrounding it at a stately distance stands guard the giant majesty of alps, with shoulders in the clouds and god-like heads above them, looking on--always looking on--sometimes themselves ethereal clouds of snow-whiteness, some times monster bare crags which pierce the blue, and whose unchanging silence seems to know the secret of the everlasting. and on the hill which this august circle holds in its embrace, as though it enclosed a treasure, stands the old, old, towered fortress built as a citadel for the prince archbishops, who were kings in their domain in the long past centuries when the splendor and power of ecclesiastical princes was among the greatest upon earth. and as you approach the town--and as you leave it--and as you walk through its streets, the broad calm empty-looking ones, or the narrow thoroughfares whose houses seem so near to each other, whether you climb or descend--or cross bridges, or gaze at churches, or step out on your balcony at night to look at the mountains and the moon--always it seems that from some point you can see it gazing down at you--the citadel of hohen-salzburg. it was to salzburg they went next, because at salzburg was to be found the man who looked like a hair-dresser and who worked in a barber's shop. strange as it might seem, to him also must be carried the sign. "there may be people who come to him to be shaved--soldiers, or men who know things," the rat worked it out, "and he can speak to them when he is standing close to them. it will be easy to get near him. you can go and have your hair cut." the journey from munich was not a long one, and during the latter part of it they had the wooden-seated third-class carriage to themselves. even the drowsy old peasant who nodded and slept in one corner got out with his bundles at last. to marco the mountains were long-known wonders which could never grow old. they had always and always been so old! surely they had been the first of the world! surely they had been standing there waiting when it was said "let there be light." the light had known it would find them there. they were so silent, and yet it seemed as if they said some amazing thing--something which would take your breath from you if you could hear it. and they never changed. the clouds changed, they wreathed them, and hid them, and trailed down them, and poured out storm torrents on them, and thundered against them, and darted forked lightnings round them. but the mountains stood there afterwards as if such things had not been and were not in the world. winds roared and tore at them, centuries passed over them--centuries of millions of lives, of changing of kingdoms and empires, of battles and world-wide fame which grew and died and passed away; and temples crumbled, and kings' tombs were forgotten, and cities were buried and others built over them after hundreds of years--and perhaps a few stones fell from a mountain side, or a fissure was worn, which the people below could not even see. and that was all. there they stood, and perhaps their secret was that they had been there for ever and ever. that was what the mountains said to marco, which was why he did not want to talk much, but sat and gazed out of the carriage window. the rat had been very silent all the morning. he had been silent when they got up, and he had scarcely spoken when they made their way to the station at munich and sat waiting for their train. it seemed to marco that he was thinking so hard that he was like a person who was far away from the place he stood in. his brows were drawn together and his eyes did not seem to see the people who passed by. usually he saw everything and made shrewd remarks on almost all he saw. but to-day he was somehow otherwise absorbed. he sat in the train with his forehead against the window and stared out. he moved and gasped when he found himself staring at the alps, but afterwards he was even strangely still. it was not until after the sleepy old peasant had gathered his bundles and got out at a station that he spoke, and he did it without turning his head. "you only told me one of the two laws," he said. "what was the other one?" marco brought himself back from his dream of reaching the highest mountain-top and seeing clouds float beneath his feet in the sun. he had to come back a long way. "are you thinking of that? i wondered what you had been thinking of all the morning," he said. "i couldn't stop thinking of it. what was the second one?" said the rat, but he did not turn his head. "it was called the law of earthly living. it was for every day," said marco. "it was for the ordering of common things--the small things we think don't matter, as well as the big ones. i always remember that one without any trouble. this was it: "_'let pass through thy mind, my son, only the image thou wouldst desire to see become a truth. meditate only upon the wish of thy heart--seeing first that it is such as can wrong no man and is not ignoble. then will it take earthly form and draw near to thee._ "_'this is the law of that which creates.'_" then the rat turned round. he had a shrewdly reasoning mind. "that sounds as if you could get anything you wanted, if you think about it long enough and in the right way," he said. "but perhaps it only means that, if you do it, you'll be happy after you're dead. my father used to shout with laughing when he was drunk and talked about things like that and looked at his rags." he hugged his knees for a few minutes. he was remembering the rags, and the fog-darkened room in the slums, and the loud, hideous laughter. "what if you want something that will harm somebody else?" he said next. "what if you hate some one and wish you could kill him?" "that was one of the questions my father asked that night on the ledge. the holy man said people always asked it," marco answered. "this was the answer: "_'let him who stretcheth forth his hand to draw the lightning to his brother recall that through his own soul and body will pass the bolt.'_" "wonder if there's anything in it?" the rat pondered. "it'd make a chap careful if he believed it! revenging yourself on a man would be like holding him against a live wire to kill him and getting all the volts through yourself." a sudden anxiety revealed itself in his face. "does your father believe it?" he asked. "does he?" "he knows it is true," marco said. "i'll own up," the rat decided after further reflection--"i'll own up i'm glad that there isn't any one left that i've a grudge against. there isn't any one--now." then he fell again into silence and did not speak until their journey was at an end. as they arrived early in the day, they had plenty of time to wander about the marvelous little old city. but through the wide streets and through the narrow ones, under the archways into the market gardens, across the bridge and into the square where the "glockenspiel" played its old tinkling tune, everywhere the citadel looked down and always the rat walked on in his dream. they found the hair-dresser's shop in one of the narrow streets. there were no grand shops there, and this particular shop was a modest one. they walked past it once, and then went back. it was a shop so humble that there was nothing remarkable in two common boys going into it to have their hair cut. an old man came forward to receive them. he was evidently glad of their modest patronage. he undertook to attend to the rat himself, but, having arranged him in a chair, he turned about and called to some one in the back room. "heinrich," he said. in the slit in marco's sleeve was the sketch of the man with smooth curled hair, who looked like a hair-dresser. they had found a corner in which to take their final look at it before they turned back to come in. heinrich, who came forth from the small back room, had smooth curled hair. he looked extremely like a hair-dresser. he had features like those in the sketch--his nose and mouth and chin and figure were like what marco had drawn and committed to memory. but-- he gave marco a chair and tied the professional white covering around his neck. marco leaned back and closed his eyes a moment. "that is _not_ the man!" he was saying to himself. "he is _not_ the man." how he knew he was not, he could not have explained, but he felt sure. it was a strong conviction. but for the sudden feeling, nothing would have been easier than to give the sign. and if he could not give it now, where was the one to whom it must be spoken, and what would be the result if that one could not be found? and if there were two who were so much alike, how could he be sure? each owner of each of the pictured faces was a link in a powerful secret chain; and if a link were missed, the chain would be broken. each time heinrich came within the line of his vision, he recorded every feature afresh and compared it with the remembered sketch. each time the resemblance became more close, but each time some persistent inner conviction repeated, "no; the sign is not for him!" it was disturbing, also, to find that the rat was all at once as restless as he had previously been silent and preoccupied. he moved in his chair, to the great discomfort of the old hair-dresser. he kept turning his head to talk. he asked marco to translate divers questions he wished him to ask the two men. they were questions about the citadel--about the monchsberg--the residenz--the glockenspiel--the mountains. he added one query to another and could not sit still. "the young gentleman will get an ear snipped," said the old man to marco. "and it will not be my fault." "what shall i do?" marco was thinking. "he is not the man." he did not give the sign. he must go away and think it out, though where his thoughts would lead him he did not know. this was a more difficult problem than he had ever dreamed of facing. there was no one to ask advice of. only himself and the rat, who was nervously wriggling and twisting in his chair. "you must sit still," he said to him. "the hair-dresser is afraid you will make him cut you by accident." "but i want to know who lives at the residenz?" said the rat. "these men can tell us things if you ask them." "it is done now," said the old hair-dresser with a relieved air. "perhaps the cutting of his hair makes the young gentleman nervous. it is sometimes so." the rat stood close to marco's chair and asked questions until heinrich also had done his work. marco could not understand his companion's change of mood. he realized that, if he had wished to give the sign, he had been allowed no opportunity. he could not have given it. the restless questioning had so directed the older man's attention to his son and marco that nothing could have been said to heinrich without his observing it. "i could not have spoken if he had been the man," marco said to himself. their very exit from the shop seemed a little hurried. when they were fairly in the street, the rat made a clutch at marco's arm. "you didn't give it?" he whispered breathlessly. "i kept talking and talking to prevent you." marco tried not to feel breathless, and he tried to speak in a low and level voice with no hint of exclamation in it. "why did you say that?" he asked. the rat drew closer to him. "that was not the man!" he whispered. "it doesn't matter how much he looks like him, he isn't the right one." he was pale and swinging along swiftly as if he were in a hurry. "let's get into a quiet place," he said. "those queer things you've been telling me have got hold of me. how did i know? how could i know--unless it's because i've been trying to work that second law? i've been saying to myself that we should be told the right things to do--for the game and for your father--and so that i could be the right sort of aide-de-camp. i've been working at it, and, when he came out, i knew he was not the man in spite of his looks. and i couldn't be sure you knew, and i thought, if i kept on talking and interrupting you with silly questions, you could be prevented from speaking." "there's a place not far away where we can get a look at the mountains. let's go there and sit down," said marco. "i knew it was not the right one, too. it's the help over again." "yes, it's the help--it's the help--it must be," muttered the rat, walking fast and with a pale, set face. "it could not be anything else." they got away from the streets and the people and reached the quiet place where they could see the mountains. there they sat down by the wayside. the rat took off his cap and wiped his forehead, but it was not only the quick walking which had made it damp. "the queerness of it gave me a kind of fright," he said. "when he came out and he was near enough for me to see him, a sudden strong feeling came over me. it seemed as if i knew he wasn't the man. then i said to myself--'but he looks like him'--and i began to get nervous. and then i was sure again--and then i wanted to try to stop you from giving him the sign. and then it all seemed foolishness--and the next second all the things you had told me rushed back to me at once--and i remembered what i had been thinking ever since--and i said--'perhaps it's the law beginning to work,' and the palms of my hands got moist." marco was very quiet. he was looking at the farthest and highest peaks and wondering about many things. "it was the expression of his face that was different," he said. "and his eyes. they are rather smaller than the right man's are. the light in the shop was poor, and it was not until the last time he bent over me that i found out what i had not seen before. his eyes are gray--the other ones are brown." "did you see that!" the rat exclaimed. "then we're sure! we're safe!" "we're not safe till we've found the right man," marco said. "where is he? where is he? where is he?" he said the words dreamily and quietly, as if he were lost in thought--but also rather as if he expected an answer. and he still looked at the far-off peaks. the rat, after watching him a moment or so, began to look at them also. they were like a loadstone to him too. there was something stilling about them, and when your eyes had rested upon them a few moments they did not want to move away. "there must be a ledge up there somewhere," he said at last. "let's go up and look for it and sit there and think and think--about finding the right man." there seemed nothing fantastic in this to marco. to go into some quiet place and sit and think about the thing he wanted to remember or to find out was an old way of his. to be quiet was always the best thing, his father had taught him. it was like listening to something which could speak without words. "there is a little train which goes up the gaisberg," he said. "when you are at the top, a world of mountains spreads around you. lazarus went once and told me. and we can lie out on the grass all night. let us go, aide-de-camp." so they went, each one thinking the same thought, and each boy-mind holding its own vision. marco was the calmer of the two, because his belief that there was always help to be found was an accustomed one and had ceased to seem to partake of the supernatural. he believed quite simply that it was the working of a law, not the breaking of one, which gave answer and led him in his quests. the rat, who had known nothing of laws other than those administered by police-courts, was at once awed and fascinated by the suggestion of crossing some borderland of the unknown. the law of the one had baffled and overthrown him, with its sweeping away of the enmities of passions which created wars and called for armies. but the law of earthly living seemed to offer practical benefits if you could hold on to yourself enough to work it. "you wouldn't get everything for nothing, as far as i can make out," he had said to marco. "you'd have to sweep all the rubbish out of your mind--sweep it as if you did it with a broom--and then keep on thinking straight and believing you were going to get things--and working for them--and they'd come." then he had laughed a short ugly laugh because he recalled something. "there was something in the bible that my father used to jeer about--something about a man getting what he prayed for if he believed it," he said. "oh, yes, it's there," said marco. "that if a man pray believing he shall receive what he asks it shall be given him. all the books say something like it. it's been said so often it makes you believe it." "he didn't believe it, and i didn't," said the rat. "nobody does--really," answered marco, as he had done once before. "it's because we don't know." they went up the gaisberg in the little train, which pushed and dragged and panted slowly upward with them. it took them with it stubbornly and gradually higher and higher until it had left salzburg and the citadel below and had reached the world of mountains which rose and spread and lifted great heads behind each other and beside each other and beyond each other until there seemed no other land on earth but that on mountain sides and backs and shoulders and crowns. and also one felt the absurdity of living upon flat ground, where life must be an insignificant thing. there were only a few sight-seers in the small carriages, and they were going to look at the view from the summit. they were not in search of a ledge. the rat and marco were. when the little train stopped at the top, they got out with the rest. they wandered about with them over the short grass on the treeless summit and looked out from this viewpoint and the other. the rat grew more and more silent, and his silence was not merely a matter of speechlessness but of expression. he _looked_ silent and as if he were no longer aware of the earth. they left the sight-seers at last and wandered away by themselves. they found a ledge where they could sit or lie and where even the world of mountains seemed below them. they had brought some simple food with them, and they laid it behind a jutting bit of rock. when the sight-seers boarded the laboring little train again and were dragged back down the mountain, their night of vigil would begin. that was what it was to be. a night of stillness on the heights, where they could wait and watch and hold themselves ready to hear any thought which spoke to them. the rat was so thrilled that he would not have been surprised if he had heard a voice from the place of the stars. but marco only believed that in this great stillness and beauty, if he held his boy-soul quiet enough, he should find himself at last thinking of something that would lead him to the place which held what it was best that he should find. the people returned to the train and it set out upon its way down the steepness. they heard it laboring on its way, as though it was forced to make as much effort to hold itself back as it had made to drag itself upward. then they were alone, and it was a loneness such as an eagle might feel when it held itself poised high in the curve of blue. and they sat and watched. they saw the sun go down and, shade by shade, deepen and make radiant and then draw away with it the last touches of color--rose-gold, rose-purple, and rose-gray. one mountain-top after another held its blush a few moments and lost it. it took long to gather them all but at length they were gone and the marvel of night fell. the breath of the forests below was sweet about them, and soundlessness enclosed them which was of unearthly peace. the stars began to show themselves, and presently the two who waited found their faces turned upward to the sky and they both were speaking in whispers. "the stars look large here," the rat said. "yes," answered marco. "we are not as high as the buddhist was, but it seems like the top of the world." "there is a light on the side of the mountain yonder which is not a star," the rat whispered. "it is a light in a hut where the guides take the climbers to rest and to spend the night," answered marco. "it is so still," the rat whispered again after a silence, and marco whispered back: "it is so still." they had eaten their meal of black bread and cheese after the setting of the sun, and now they lay down on their backs and looked up until the first few stars had multiplied themselves into myriads. they began a little low talk, but the soundlessness was stronger than themselves. "how am i going to hold on to that second law?" the rat said restlessly. "'let pass through thy mind only the image thou wouldst see become a truth.' the things that are passing through my mind are not the things i want to come true. what if we don't find him--don't find the right one, i mean!" "lie still--still--and look up at the stars," whispered marco. "they give you a _sure_ feeling." there was something in the curious serenity of him which calmed even his aide-de-camp. the rat lay still and looked--and looked--and thought. and what he thought of was the desire of his heart. the soundlessness enwrapped him and there was no world left. that there was a spark of light in the mountain-climbers' rest-hut was a thing forgotten. they were only two boys, and they had begun their journey on the earliest train and had been walking about all day and thinking of great and anxious things. "it is so still," the rat whispered again at last. "it is so still," whispered marco. and the mountains rising behind each other and beside each other and beyond each other in the night, and also the myriads of stars which had so multiplied themselves, looking down knew that they were asleep--as sleep the human things which do not watch forever. * * * * * "some one is smoking," marco found himself saying in a dream. after which he awakened and found that the smoke was not part of a dream at all. it came from the pipe of a young man who had an alpenstock and who looked as if he had climbed to see the sun rise. he wore the clothes of a climber and a green hat with a tuft at the back. he looked down at the two boys, surprised. "good day," he said. "did you sleep here so that you could see the sun get up?" "yes," answered marco. "were you cold?" "we slept too soundly to know. and we brought our thick coats." "i slept half-way down the mountains," said the smoker. "i am a guide in these days, but i have not been one long enough to miss a sunrise it is no work to reach. my father and brother think i am mad about such things. they would rather stay in their beds. oh! he is awake, is he?" turning toward the rat, who had risen on one elbow and was staring at him. "what is the matter? you look as if you were afraid of me." marco did not wait for the rat to recover his breath and speak. "i know why he looks at you so," he answered for him. "he is startled. yesterday we went to a hair-dresser's shop down below there, and we saw a man who was almost exactly like you--only--" he added, looking up, "his eyes were gray and yours are brown." "he was my twin brother," said the guide, puffing at his pipe cheerfully. "my father thought he could make hair-dressers of us both, and i tried it for four years. but i always wanted to be climbing the mountains and there were not holidays enough. so i cut my hair, and washed the pomade out of it, and broke away. i don't look like a hair-dresser now, do i?" he did not. not at all. but marco knew him. he was the man. there was no one on the mountain-top but themselves, and the sun was just showing a rim of gold above the farthest and highest giant's shoulders. one need not be afraid to do anything, since there was no one to see or hear. marco slipped the sketch out of the slit in his sleeve. he looked at it and he looked at the guide, and then he showed it to him. "that is not your brother. it is you!" he said. the man's face changed a little--more than any other face had changed when its owner had been spoken to. on a mountain-top as the sun rises one is not afraid. "the lamp is lighted," said marco. "the lamp is lighted." "god be thanked!" burst forth the man. and he took off his hat and bared his head. then the rim behind the mountain's shoulder leaped forth into a golden torrent of splendor. and the rat stood up, resting his weight on his crutches in utter silence, and stared and stared. "that is three!" said marco. xxiii the silver horn during the next week, which they spent in journeying towards vienna, they gave the sign to three different persons at places which were on the way. in a village across the frontier in bavaria they found a giant of an old man sitting on a bench under a tree before his mountain "gasthaus" or inn; and when the four words were uttered, he stood up and bared his head as the guide had done. when marco gave the sign in some quiet place to a man who was alone, he noticed that they all did this and said their "god be thanked" devoutly, as if it were part of some religious ceremony. in a small town a few miles away he had to search some hours before he found a stalwart young shoemaker with bright red hair and a horseshoe-shaped scar on his forehead. he was not in his workshop when the boys first passed it, because, as they found out later, he had been climbing a mountain the day before, and had been detained in the descent because his companion had hurt himself. when marco went in and asked him to measure him for a pair of shoes, he was quite friendly and told them all about it. "there are some good fellows who should not climb," he said. "when they find themselves standing on a bit of rock jutting out over emptiness, their heads begin to whirl round--and then, if they don't turn head over heels a few thousand feet, it is because some comrade is near enough to drag them back. there can be no ceremony then and they sometimes get hurt--as my friend did yesterday." "did you never get hurt yourself?" the rat asked. "when i was eight years old i did that," said the young shoemaker, touching the scar on his forehead. "but it was not much. my father was a guide and took me with him. he wanted me to begin early. there is nothing like it--climbing. i shall be at it again. this won't do for me. i tried shoemaking because i was in love with a girl who wanted me to stay at home. she married another man. i am glad of it. once a guide, always a guide." he knelt down to measure marco's foot, and marco bent a little forward. "the lamp is lighted," he said. there was no one in the shop, but the door was open and people were passing in the narrow street; so the shoemaker did not lift his red head. he went on measuring. "god be thanked!" he said, in a low voice. "do you want these shoes really, or did you only want me to take your measure?" "i cannot wait until they are made," marco answered. "i must go on." "yes, you must go on," answered the shoemaker. "but i'll tell you what i'll do--i'll make them and keep them. some great day might come when i shall show them to people and swagger about them." he glanced round cautiously, and then ended, still bending over his measuring. "they will be called the shoes of the bearer of the sign. and i shall say, 'he was only a lad. this was the size of his foot.'" then he stood up with a great smile. "there'll be climbing enough to be done now," he said, "and i look to see you again somewhere." when the boys went away, they talked it over. "the hair-dresser didn't want to be a hair-dresser, and the shoemaker didn't want to make shoes," said the rat. "they both wanted to be mountain-climbers. there are mountains in samavia and mountains on the way to it. you showed them to me on the map. "yes; and secret messengers who can climb anywhere, and cross dangerous places, and reconnoiter from points no one else can reach, can find out things and give signals other men cannot," said marco. "that's what i thought out," the rat answered. "that was what he meant when he said, 'there will be climbing enough to be done now.'" strange were the places they went to and curiously unlike each other were the people to whom they carried their message. the most singular of all was an old woman who lived in so remote a place that the road which wound round and round the mountain, wound round it for miles and miles. it was not a bad road and it was an amazing one to travel, dragged in a small cart by a mule, when one could be dragged, and clambering slowly with rests between when one could not: the tree-covered precipices one looked down, the tossing whiteness of waterfalls, or the green foaming of rushing streams, and the immensity of farm- and village-scattered plains spreading themselves to the feet of other mountains shutting them in were breath-taking beauties to look down on, as the road mounted and wound round and round and higher and higher. "how can any one live higher than this?" said the rat as they sat on the thick moss by the wayside after the mule and cart had left them. "look at the bare crags looming up above there. let us look at her again. her picture looked as if she were a hundred years old." marco took out his hidden sketch. it seemed surely one of the strangest things in the world that a creature as old as this one seemed could reach such a place, or, having reached it, could ever descend to the world again to give aid to any person or thing. her old face was crossed and recrossed with a thousand wrinkles. her profile was splendid yet and she had been a beauty in her day. her eyes were like an eagle's--and not an old eagle's. and she had a long neck which held her old head high. "how could she get here?" exclaimed the rat. "those who sent us know, though we don't," said marco. "will you sit here and rest while i go on further?" "no!" the rat answered stubbornly. "i didn't train myself to stay behind. but we shall come to bare-rock climbing soon and then i shall be obliged to stop," and he said the last bitterly. he knew that, if marco had come alone, he would have ridden in no cart but would have trudged upward and onward sturdily to the end of his journey. but they did not reach the crags, as they had thought must be inevitable. suddenly half-way to the sky, as it seemed, they came to a bend in the road and found themselves mounting into a new green world--an astonishing marvel of a world, with green velvet slopes and soft meadows and thick woodland, and cows feeding in velvet pastures, and--as if it had been snowed down from the huge bare mountain crags which still soared above into heaven--a mysterious, ancient, huddled village which, being thus snowed down, might have caught among the rocks and rested there through all time. there it stood. there it huddled itself. and the monsters in the blue above it themselves looked down upon it as if it were an incredible thing--this ancient, steep-roofed, hanging-balconied, crumbling cluster of human nests, which seemed a thousand miles from the world. marco and the rat stood and stared at it. then they sat down and stared at it. "how did it get here?" the rat cried. marco shook his head. he certainly could see no explanation of its being there. perhaps some of the oldest villagers could tell stories of how its first chalets had gathered themselves together. an old peasant driving a cow came down a steep path. he looked with a dull curiosity at the rat and his crutches; but when marco advanced and spoke to him in german, he did not seem to understand, but shook his head saying something in a sort of dialect marco did not know. "if they all speak like that, we shall have to make signs when we want to ask anything," the rat said. "what will she speak?" "she will know the german for the sign or we should not have been sent here," answered marco. "come on." they made their way to the village, which huddled itself together evidently with the object of keeping itself warm when through the winter months the snows strove to bury it and the winds roared down from the huge mountain crags and tried to tear it from among its rocks. the doors and windows were few and small, and glimpses of the inside of the houses showed earthen floors and dark rooms. it was plain that it was counted a more comfortable thing to live without light than to let in the cold. it was easy enough to reconnoiter. the few people they saw were evidently not surprised that strangers who discovered their unexpected existence should be curious and want to look at them and their houses. the boys wandered about as if they were casual explorers, who having reached the place by chance were interested in all they saw. they went into the little gasthaus and got some black bread and sausage and some milk. the mountaineer owner was a brawny fellow who understood some german. he told them that few strangers knew of the village but that bold hunters and climbers came for sport. in the forests on the mountain sides were bears and, in the high places, chamois. now and again, some great gentlemen came with parties of the daring kind--very great gentlemen indeed, he said, shaking his head with pride. there was one who had castles in other mountains, but he liked best to come here. marco began to wonder if several strange things might not be true if great gentlemen sometimes climbed to the mysterious place. but he had not been sent to give the sign to a great gentleman. he had been sent to give it to an old woman with eyes like an eagle which was young. he had a sketch in his sleeve, with that of her face, of her steep-roofed, black-beamed, balconied house. if they walked about a little, they would be sure to come upon it in this tiny place. then he could go in and ask her for a drink of water. they roamed about for an hour after they left the gasthaus. they went into the little church and looked at the graveyard and wondered if it was not buried out of all sight in the winter. after they had done this, they sauntered out and walked through the huddled clusters of houses, examining each one as they drew near it and passed. "i see it!" the rat exclaimed at last. "it is that very old-looking one standing a little way from the rest. it is not as tumbled down as most of them. and there are some red flowers on the balcony." "yes! that's it!" said marco. they walked up to the low black door and, as he stopped on the threshold, marco took off his cap. he did this because, sitting in the doorway on a low wooden chair, the old, old woman with the eagle eyes was sitting knitting. there was no one else in the room and no one anywhere within sight. when the old, old woman looked up at him with her young eagle's eyes, holding her head high on her long neck, marco knew he need not ask for water or for anything else. "the lamp is lighted," he said, in his low but strong and clear young voice. she dropped her knitting upon her knees and gazed at him a moment in silence. she knew german it was clear, for it was in german she answered him. "god be thanked!" she said. "come in, young bearer of the sign, and bring your friend in with you. i live alone and not a soul is within hearing." she was a wonderful old woman. neither marco nor the rat would live long enough to forget the hours they spent in her strange dark house. she kept them and made them spend the night with her. "it is quite safe," she said. "i live alone since my man fell into the crevasse and was killed because his rope broke when he was trying to save his comrade. so i have two rooms to spare and sometimes climbers are glad to sleep in them. mine is a good warm house and i am well known in the village. you are very young," she added shaking her head. "you are very young. you must have good blood in your veins to be trusted with this." "i have my father's blood," answered marco. "you are like some one i once saw," the old woman said, and her eagle eyes set themselves hard upon him. "tell me your name." there was no reason why he should not tell it to her. "it is marco loristan," he said. "what! it is that!" she cried out, not loud but low. to marco's amazement she got up from her chair and stood before him, showing what a tall old woman she really was. there was a startled, even an agitated, look in her face. and suddenly she actually made a sort of curtsey to him--bending her knee as peasants do when they pass a shrine. "it is that!" she said again. "and yet they dare let you go on a journey like this! that speaks for your courage and for theirs." but marco did not know what she meant. her strange obeisance made him feel awkward. he stood up because his training had told him that when a woman stands a man also rises. "the name speaks for the courage," he said, "because it is my father's." she watched him almost anxiously. "you do not even know!" she breathed--and it was an exclamation and not a question. "i know what i have been told to do," he answered. "i do not ask anything else." "who is that?" she asked, pointing to the rat. "he is the friend my father sent with me," said marco smiling. "he called him my aide-de-camp. it was a sort of joke because we had played soldiers together." it seemed as if she were obliged to collect her thoughts. she stood with her hand at her mouth, looking down at the earth floor. "god guard you!" she said at last. "you are very--very young!" "but all his years," the rat broke in, "he has been in training for just this thing. he did not know it was training, but it was. a soldier who had been trained for thirteen years would know his work." he was so eager that he forgot she could not understand english. marco translated what he said into german and added: "what he says is true." she nodded her head, still with questioning and anxious eyes. "yes. yes," she muttered. "but you are very young." then she asked in a hesitating way: "will you not sit down until i do?" "no," answered marco. "i would not sit while my mother or grandmother stood." "then i must sit--and forget," she said. she passed her hand over her face as though she were sweeping away the sudden puzzled trouble in her expression. then she sat down, as if she had obliged herself to become again the old peasant she had been when they entered. "all the way up the mountain you wondered why an old woman should be given the sign," she said. "you asked each other how she could be of use." neither marco nor the rat said anything. "when i was young and fresh," she went on. "i went to a castle over the frontier to be foster-mother to a child who was born a great noble--one who was near the throne. he loved me and i loved him. he was a strong child and he grew up a great hunter and climber. when he was not ten years old, my man taught him to climb. he always loved these mountains better than his own. he comes to see me as if he were only a young mountaineer. he sleeps in the room there," with a gesture over her shoulder into the darkness. "he has great power and, if he chooses to do a thing, he will do it--just as he will attack the biggest bear or climb the most dangerous peak. he is one who can bring things about. it is very safe to talk in this room." then all was quite clear. marco and the rat understood. no more was said about the sign. it had been given and that was enough. the old woman told them that they must sleep in one of her bedrooms. the next morning one of her neighbors was going down to the valley with a cart and he would help them on their way. the rat knew that she was thinking of his crutches and he became restless. "tell her," he said to marco, "how i have trained myself until i can do what any one else can. and tell her i am growing stronger every day. tell her i'll show her what i can do. your father wouldn't have let me come as your aide if i hadn't proved to him that i wasn't a cripple. tell her. she thinks i'm no use." marco explained and the old woman listened attentively. when the rat got up and swung himself about up and down the steep path near her house she seemed relieved. his extraordinary dexterity and firm swiftness evidently amazed her and gave her a confidence she had not felt at first. "if he has taught himself to be like that just for love of your father, he will go to the end," she said. "it is more than one could believe, that a pair of crutches could do such things." the rat was pacified and could afterwards give himself up to watching her as closely as he wished to. he was soon "working out" certain things in his mind. what he watched was her way of watching marco. it was as if she were fascinated and could not keep her eyes from him. she told them stories about the mountains and the strangers who came to climb with guides or to hunt. she told them about the storms, which sometimes seemed about to put an end to the little world among the crags. she described the winter when the snow buried them and the strong ones were forced to dig out the weak and some lived for days under the masses of soft whiteness, glad to keep their cows or goats in their rooms that they might share the warmth of their bodies. the villages were forced to be good neighbors to each other, for the man who was not ready to dig out a hidden chimney or buried door to-day might be left to freeze and starve in his snow tomb next week. through the worst part of the winter no creature from the world below could make way to them to find out whether they were all dead or alive. while she talked, she watched marco as if she were always asking herself some question about him. the rat was sure that she liked him and greatly admired his strong body and good looks. it was not necessary for him to carry himself slouchingly in her presence and he looked glowing and noble. there was a sort of reverence in her manner when she spoke to him. she reminded him of lazarus more than once. when she gave them their evening meal, she insisted on waiting on him with a certain respectful ceremony. she would not sit at table with him, and the rat began to realize that she felt that he himself should be standing to serve him. "she thinks i ought to stand behind your chair as lazarus stands behind your father's," he said to marco. "perhaps an aide ought to do it. shall i? i believe it would please her." "a bearer of the sign is not a royal person," answered marco. "my father would not like it--and i should not. we are only two boys." it was very wonderful when, after their supper was over, they all three sat together before the fire. the red glow of the bed of wood-coal and the orange yellow of the flame from the big logs filled the room with warm light, which made a mellow background for the figure of the old woman as she sat in her low chair and told them more and more enthralling stories. her eagle eyes glowed and her long neck held her head splendidly high as she described great feats of courage and endurance or almost superhuman daring in aiding those in awesome peril, and, when she glowed most in the telling, they always knew that the hero of the adventure had been her foster-child who was the baby born a great noble and near the throne. to her, he was the most splendid and adorable of human beings. almost an emperor, but so warm and tender of heart that he never forgot the long-past days when she had held him on her knee and told him tales of chamois- and bear-hunting, and of the mountain-tops in midwinter. he was her sun-god. "yes! yes!" she said. "'good mother,' he calls me. and i bake him a cake on the hearth, as i did when he was ten years old and my man was teaching him to climb. and when he chooses that a thing shall be done--done it is! he is a great lord." the flames had died down and only the big bed of red coal made the room glow, and they were thinking of going to bed when the old woman started very suddenly, turning her head as if to listen. marco and the rat heard nothing, but they saw that she did and they sat so still that each held his breath. so there was utter stillness for a few moments. utter stillness. then they did hear something--a clear silver sound, piercing the pure mountain air. the old woman sprang upright with the fire of delight in her eyes. "it is his silver horn!" she cried out striking her hands together. "it is his own call to me when he is coming. he has been hunting somewhere and wants to sleep in his good bed here. help me to put on more faggots," to the rat, "so that he will see the flame of them through the open door as he comes." "shall we be in the way?" said marco. "we can go at once." she was going towards the door to open it and she stopped a moment and turned. "no, no!" she said. "he must see your face. he will want to see it. i want him to see--how young you are." she threw the door wide open and they heard the silver horn send out its gay call again. the brushwood and faggots the rat had thrown on the coals crackled and sparkled and roared into fine flames, which cast their light into the road and threw out in fine relief the old figure which stood on the threshold and looked so tall. and in but a few minutes her great lord came to her. and in his green hunting-suit with its green hat and eagle's feather he was as splendid as she had said he was. he was big and royal-looking and laughing and he bent and kissed her as if he had been her own son. "yes, good mother," they heard him say. "i want my warm bed and one of your good suppers. i sent the others to the gasthaus." he came into the redly glowing room and his head almost touched the blackened rafters. then he saw the two boys. "who are these, good mother?" he asked. she lifted his hand and kissed it. "they are the bearers of the sign," she said rather softly. "'the lamp is lighted.'" then his whole look changed. his laughing face became quite grave and for a moment looked even anxious. marco knew it was because he was startled to find them only boys. he made a step forward to look at them more closely. "the lamp is lighted! and you two bear the sign!" he exclaimed. marco stood out in the fire glow that he might see him well. he saluted with respect. "my name is marco loristan, highness," he said. "and my father sent me." the change which came upon his face then was even greater than at first. for a second, marco even felt that there was a flash of alarm in it. but almost at once that passed. "loristan is a great man and a great patriot," he said. "if he sent you, it is because he knows you are the one safe messenger. he has worked too long for samavia not to know what he does." marco saluted again. he knew what it was right to say next. "if we have your highness's permission to retire," he said, "we will leave you and go to bed. we go down the mountain at sunrise." "where next?" asked the hunter, looking at him with curious intentness. "to vienna, highness," marco answered. his questioner held out his hand, still with the intent interest in his eyes. "good night, fine lad," he said. "samavia has need to vaunt itself on its sign-bearer. god go with you." he stood and watched him as he went toward the room in which he and his aide-de-camp were to sleep. the rat followed him closely. at the little back door the old, old woman stood, having opened it for them. as marco passed and bade her good night, he saw that she again made the strange obeisance, bending the knee as he went by. xxiv "how shall we find him?" in vienna they came upon a pageant. in celebration of a century-past victory the emperor drove in state and ceremony to attend at the great cathedral and to do honor to the ancient banners and laurel-wreathed statue of a long-dead soldier-prince. the broad pavements of the huge chief thoroughfare were crowded with a cheering populace watching the martial pomp and splendor as it passed by with marching feet, prancing horses, and glitter of scabbard and chain, which all seemed somehow part of music in triumphant bursts. the rat was enormously thrilled by the magnificence of the imperial place. its immense spaces, the squares and gardens, reigned over by statues of emperors, and warriors, and queens made him feel that all things on earth were possible. the palaces and stately piles of architecture, whose surmounting equestrian bronzes ramped high in the air clear cut and beautiful against the sky, seemed to sweep out of his world all atmosphere but that of splendid cities down whose broad avenues emperors rode with waving banners, tramping, jangling soldiery before and behind, and golden trumpets blaring forth. it seemed as if it must always be like this--that lances and cavalry and emperors would never cease to ride by. "i should like to stay here a long time," he said almost as if he were in a dream. "i should like to see it all." he leaned on his crutches in the crowd and watched the glitter of the passing pageant. now and then he glanced at marco, who watched also with a steady eye which, the rat saw, nothing would escape: how absorbed he always was in the game! how impossible it was for him to forget it or to remember it only as a boy would! often it seemed that he was not a boy at all. and the game, the rat knew in these days, was a game no more but a thing of deep and deadly earnest--a thing which touched kings and thrones, and concerned the ruling and swaying of great countries. and they--two lads pushed about by the crowd as they stood and stared at the soldiers--carried with them that which was even now lighting the lamp. the blood in the rat's veins ran quickly and made him feel hot as he remembered certain thoughts which had forced themselves into his mind during the past weeks. as his brain had the trick of "working things out," it had, during the last fortnight at least, been following a wonderful even if rather fantastic and feverish fancy. a mere trifle had set it at work, but, its labor once begun, things which might have once seemed to be trifles appeared so no longer. when marco was asleep, the rat lay awake through thrilled and sometimes almost breathless midnight hours, looking backward and recalling every detail of their lives since they had known each other. sometimes it seemed to him that almost everything he remembered--the game from first to last above all--had pointed to but one thing. and then again he would all at once feel that he was a fool and had better keep his head steady. marco, he knew, had no wild fancies. he had learned too much and his mind was too well balanced. he did not try to "work out things." he only thought of what he was under orders to do. "but," said the rat more than once in these midnight hours, "if it ever comes to a draw whether he is to be saved or i am, he is the one that must come to no harm. killing can't take long--and his father sent me with him." this thought passed through his mind as the tramping feet went by. as a sudden splendid burst of approaching music broke upon his ear, a queer look twisted his face. he realized the contrast between this day and that first morning behind the churchyard, when he had sat on his platform among the squad and looked up and saw marco in the arch at the end of the passage. and because he had been good-looking and had held himself so well, he had thrown a stone at him. yes--blind gutter-bred fool that he'd been:--his first greeting to marco had been a stone, just because he was what he was. as they stood here in the crowd in this far-off foreign city, it did not seem as if it could be true that it was he who had done it. he managed to work himself closer to marco's side. "isn't it splendid?" he said, "i wish i was an emperor myself. i'd have these fellows out like this every day." he said it only because he wanted to say something, to speak, as a reason for getting closer to him. he wanted to be near enough to touch him and feel that they were really together and that the whole thing was not a sort of magnificent dream from which he might awaken to find himself lying on his heap of rags in his corner of the room in bone court. the crowd swayed forward in its eagerness to see the principal feature of the pageant--the emperor in his carriage. the rat swayed forward with the rest to look as it passed. a handsome white-haired and mustached personage in splendid uniform decorated with jeweled orders and with a cascade of emerald-green plumes nodding in his military hat gravely saluted the shouting people on either side. by him sat a man uniformed, decorated, and emerald-plumed also, but many years younger. marco's arm touched the rat's almost at the same moment that his own touched marco. under the nodding plumes each saw the rather tired and cynical pale face, a sketch of which was hidden in the slit in marco's sleeve. "is the one who sits with the emperor an archduke?" marco asked the man nearest to him in the crowd. the man answered amiably enough. no, he was not, but he was a certain prince, a descendant of the one who was the hero of the day. he was a great favorite of the emperor's and was also a great personage, whose palace contained pictures celebrated throughout europe. "he pretends it is only pictures he cares for," he went on, shrugging his shoulders and speaking to his wife, who had begun to listen, "but he is a clever one, who amuses himself with things he professes not to concern himself about--big things. it's his way to look bored, and interested in nothing, but it's said he's a wizard for knowing dangerous secrets." "does he live at the hofburg with the emperor?" asked the woman, craning her neck to look after the imperial carriage. "no, but he's often there. the emperor is lonely and bored too, no doubt, and this one has ways of making him forget his troubles. it's been told me that now and then the two dress themselves roughly, like common men, and go out into the city to see what it's like to rub shoulders with the rest of the world. i daresay it's true. i should like to try it myself once in a while, if i had to sit on a throne and wear a crown." the two boys followed the celebration to its end. they managed to get near enough to see the entrance to the church where the service was held and to get a view of the ceremonies at the banner-draped and laurel-wreathed statue. they saw the man with the pale face several times, but he was always so enclosed that it was not possible to get within yards of him. it happened once, however, that he looked through a temporary break in the crowding people and saw a dark strong-featured and remarkably intent boy's face, whose vivid scrutiny of him caught his eye. there was something in the fixedness of its attention which caused him to look at it curiously for a few seconds, and marco met his gaze squarely. "look at me! look at me!" the boy was saying to him mentally. "i have a message for you. a message!" the tired eyes in the pale face rested on him with a certain growing light of interest and curiosity, but the crowding people moved and the temporary break closed up, so that the two could see each other no more. marco and the rat were pushed backward by those taller and stronger than themselves until they were on the outskirts of the crowd. "let us go to the hofburg," said marco. "they will come back there, and we shall see him again even if we can't get near." to the hofburg they made their way through the less crowded streets, and there they waited as near to the great palace as they could get. they were there when, the ceremonies at an end, the imperial carriages returned, but, though they saw their man again, they were at some distance from him and he did not see them. then followed four singular days. they were singular days because they were full of tantalizing incidents. nothing seemed easier than to hear talk of, and see the emperor's favorite, but nothing was more impossible than to get near to him. he seemed rather a favorite with the populace, and the common people of the shopkeeping or laboring classes were given to talking freely of him--of where he was going and what he was doing. to-night he would be sure to be at this great house or that, at this ball or that banquet. there was no difficulty in discovering that he would be sure to go to the opera, or the theatre, or to drive to schönbrunn with his imperial master. marco and the rat heard casual speech of him again and again, and from one part of the city to the other they followed and waited for him. but it was like chasing a will-o'-the-wisp. he was evidently too brilliant and important a person to be allowed to move about alone. there were always people with him who seemed absorbed in his languid cynical talk. marco thought that he never seemed to care much for his companions, though they on their part always seemed highly entertained by what he was saying. it was noticeable that they laughed a great deal, though he himself scarcely even smiled. "he's one of those chaps with the trick of saying witty things as if he didn't see the fun in them himself," the rat summed him up. "chaps like that are always cleverer than the other kind." "he's too high in favor and too rich not to be followed about," they heard a man in a shop say one day, "but he gets tired of it. sometimes, when he's too bored to stand it any longer, he gives it out that he's gone into the mountains somewhere, and all the time he's shut up alone with his pictures in his own palace." that very night the rat came in to their attic looking pale and disappointed. he had been out to buy some food after a long and arduous day in which they had covered much ground, had seen their man three times, and each time under circumstances which made him more inaccessible than ever. they had come back to their poor quarters both tired and ravenously hungry. the rat threw his purchase on to the table and himself into a chair. "he's gone to budapest," he said. "_now_ how shall we find him?" marco was rather pale also, and for a moment he looked paler. the day had been a hard one, and in their haste to reach places at a long distance from each other they had forgotten their need of food. they sat silent for a few moments because there seemed to be nothing to say. "we are too tired and hungry to be able to think well," marco said at last. "let us eat our supper and then go to sleep. until we've had a rest, we must 'let go.'" "yes. there's no good in talking when you're tired," the rat answered a trifle gloomily. "you don't reason straight. we must 'let go.'" their meal was simple but they ate well and without words. even when they had finished and undressed for the night, they said very little. "where do our thoughts go when we are asleep?" the rat inquired casually after he was stretched out in the darkness. "they must go somewhere. let's send them to find out what to do next." "it's not as still as it was on the gaisberg. you can hear the city roaring," said marco drowsily from his dark corner. "we must make a ledge--for ourselves." sleep made it for them--deep, restful, healthy sleep. if they had been more resentful of their ill luck and lost labor, it would have come less easily and have been less natural. in their talks of strange things they had learned that one great secret of strength and unflagging courage is to know how to "let go"--to cease thinking over an anxiety until the right moment comes. it was their habit to "let go" for hours sometimes, and wander about looking at places and things--galleries, museums, palaces, giving themselves up with boyish pleasure and eagerness to all they saw. marco was too intimate with the things worth seeing, and the rat too curious and feverishly wide-awake to allow of their missing much. the rat's image of the world had grown until it seemed to know no boundaries which could hold its wealth of wonders. he wanted to go on and on and see them all. when marco opened his eyes in the morning, he found the rat lying looking at him. then they both sat up in bed at the same time. "i believe we are both thinking the same thing," marco said. they frequently discovered that they were thinking the same things. "so do i," answered the rat. "it shows how tired we were that we didn't think of it last night." "yes, we are thinking the same thing," said marco. "we have both remembered what we heard about his shutting himself up alone with his pictures and making people believe he had gone away." "he's in his palace now," the rat announced. "do you feel sure of that, too?" asked marco. "did you wake up and feel sure of it the first thing?" "yes," answered the rat. "as sure as if i'd heard him say it himself." "so did i," said marco. "that's what our thoughts brought back to us," said the rat, "when we 'let go' and sent them off last night." he sat up hugging his knees and looking straight before him for some time after this, and marco did not interrupt his meditations. the day was a brilliant one, and, though their attic had only one window, the sun shone in through it as they ate their breakfast. after it, they leaned on the window's ledge and talked about the prince's garden. they talked about it because it was a place open to the public and they had walked round it more than once. the palace, which was not a large one, stood in the midst of it. the prince was good-natured enough to allow quiet and well-behaved people to saunter through. it was not a fashionable promenade but a pleasant retreat for people who sometimes took their work or books and sat on the seats placed here and there among the shrubs and flowers. "when we were there the first time, i noticed two things," marco said. "there is a stone balcony which juts out from the side of the palace which looks on the fountain garden. that day there were chairs on it as if the prince and his visitors sometimes sat there. near it, there was a very large evergreen shrub and i saw that there was a hollow place inside it. if some one wanted to stay in the gardens all night to watch the windows when they were lighted and see if any one came out alone upon the balcony, he could hide himself in the hollow place and stay there until the morning." "is there room for two inside the shrub?" the rat asked. "no. i must go alone," said marco. xxv a voice in the night late that afternoon there wandered about the gardens two quiet, inconspicuous, rather poorly dressed boys. they looked at the palace, the shrubs, and the flower-beds, as strangers usually did, and they sat on the seats and talked as people were accustomed to seeing boys talk together. it was a sunny day and exceptionally warm, and there were more saunterers and sitters than usual, which was perhaps the reason why the ___portier___ at the entrance gates gave such slight notice to the pair that he did not observe that, though two boys came in, only one went out. he did not, in fact, remember, when he saw the rat swing by on his crutches at closing-time, that he had entered in company with a dark-haired lad who walked without any aid. it happened that, when the rat passed out, the ___portier___ at the entrance was much interested in the aspect of the sky, which was curiously threatening. there had been heavy clouds hanging about all day and now and then blotting out the sunshine entirely, but the sun had refused to retire altogether. just now, however, the clouds had piled themselves in thunderous, purplish mountains, and the sun had been forced to set behind them. "it's been a sort of battle since morning," the ___portier___ said. "there will be some crashes and cataracts to-night." that was what the rat had thought when they had sat in the fountain garden on a seat which gave them a good view of the balcony and the big evergreen shrub, which they knew had the hollow in the middle, though its circumference was so imposing. "if there should be a big storm, the evergreen will not save you much, though it may keep off the worst," the rat said. "i wish there was room for two." he would have wished there was room for two if he had seen marco marching to the stake. as the gardens emptied, the boys rose and walked round once more, as if on their way out. by the time they had sauntered toward the big evergreen, nobody was in the fountain garden, and the last loiterers were moving toward the arched stone entrance to the streets. when they drew near one side of the evergreen, the two were together. when the rat swung out on the other side of it, he was alone! no one noticed that anything had happened; no one looked back. so the rat swung down the walks and round the flower-beds and passed into the street. and the ___portier___ looked at the sky and made his remark about the "crashes" and "cataracts." as the darkness came on, the hollow in the shrub seemed a very safe place. it was not in the least likely that any one would enter the closed gardens; and if by rare chance some servant passed through, he would not be in search of people who wished to watch all night in the middle of an evergreen instead of going to bed and to sleep. the hollow was well inclosed with greenery, and there was room to sit down when one was tired of standing. marco stood for a long time because, by doing so, he could see plainly the windows opening on the balcony if he gently pushed aside some flexible young boughs. he had managed to discover in his first visit to the gardens that the windows overlooking the fountain garden were those which belonged to the prince's own suite of rooms. those which opened on to the balcony lighted his favorite apartment, which contained his best-loved books and pictures and in which he spent most of his secluded leisure hours. marco watched these windows anxiously. if the prince had not gone to budapest,--if he were really only in retreat, and hiding from his gay world among his treasures,--he would be living in his favorite rooms and lights would show themselves. and if there were lights, he might pass before a window because, since he was inclosed in his garden, he need not fear being seen. the twilight deepened into darkness and, because of the heavy clouds, it was very dense. faint gleams showed themselves in the lower part of the palace, but none was lighted in the windows marco watched. he waited so long that it became evident that none was to be lighted at all. at last he loosed his hold on the young boughs and, after standing a few moments in thought, sat down upon the earth in the midst of his embowered tent. the prince was not in his retreat; he was probably not in vienna, and the rumor of his journey to budapest had no doubt been true. so much time lost through making a mistake--but it was best to have made the venture. not to have made it would have been to lose a chance. the entrance was closed for the night and there was no getting out of the gardens until they were opened for the next day. he must stay in his hiding-place until the time when people began to come and bring their books and knitting and sit on the seats. then he could stroll out without attracting attention. but he had the night before him to spend as best he could. that would not matter at all. he could tuck his cap under his head and go to sleep on the ground. he could command himself to waken once every half-hour and look for the lights. he would not go to sleep until it was long past midnight--so long past that there would not be one chance in a hundred that anything could happen. but the clouds which made the night so dark were giving forth low rumbling growls. at intervals a threatening gleam of light shot across them and a sudden swish of wind rushed through the trees in the garden. this happened several times, and then marco began to hear the patter of raindrops. they were heavy and big drops, but few at first, and then there was a new and more powerful rush of wind, a jagged dart of light in the sky, and a tremendous crash. after that the clouds tore themselves open and poured forth their contents in floods. after the protracted struggle of the day it all seemed to happen at once, as if a horde of huge lions had at one moment been let loose: flame after flame of lightning, roar and crash and sharp reports of thunder, shrieks of hurricane wind, torrents of rain, as if some tidal-wave of the skies had gathered and rushed and burst upon the earth. it was such a storm as people remember for a lifetime and which in few lifetimes is seen at all. marco stood still in the midst of the rage and flooding, blinding roar of it. after the first few minutes he knew he could do nothing to shield himself. down the garden paths he heard cataracts rushing. he held his cap pressed against his eyes because he seemed to stand in the midst of darting flames. the crashes, cannon reports and thunderings, and the jagged streams of light came so close to one another that he seemed deafened as well as blinded. he wondered if he should ever be able to hear human voices again when it was over. that he was drenched to the skin and that the water poured from his clothes as if he were himself a cataract was so small a detail that he was scarcely aware of it. he stood still, bracing his body, and waited. if he had been a samavian soldier in the trenches and such a storm had broken upon him and his comrades, they could only have braced themselves and waited. this was what he found himself thinking when the tumult and downpour were at their worst. there were men who had waited in the midst of a rain of bullets. it was not long after this thought had come to him that there occurred the first temporary lull in the storm. its fury perhaps reached its height and broke at that moment. a yellow flame had torn its jagged way across the heavens, and an earth-rending crash had thundered itself into rumblings which actually died away before breaking forth again. marco took his cap from his eyes and drew a long breath. he drew two long breaths. it was as he began drawing a third and realizing the strange feeling of the almost stillness about him that he heard a new kind of sound at the side of the garden nearest his hiding-place. it sounded like the creak of a door opening somewhere in the wall behind the laurel hedge. some one was coming into the garden by a private entrance. he pushed aside the young boughs again and tried to see, but the darkness was too dense. yet he could hear if the thunder would not break again. there was the sound of feet on the wet gravel, the footsteps of more than one person coming toward where he stood, but not as if afraid of being heard; merely as if they were at liberty to come in by what entrance they chose. marco remained very still. a sudden hope gave him a shock of joy. if the man with the tired face chose to hide himself from his acquaintances, he might choose to go in and out by a private entrance. the footsteps drew near, crushing the wet gravel, passed by, and seemed to pause somewhere near the balcony; and them flame lit up the sky again and the thunder burst forth once more. but this was its last great peal. the storm was at an end. only fainter and fainter rumblings and mutterings and paler and paler darts followed. even they were soon over, and the cataracts in the paths had rushed themselves silent. but the darkness was still deep. it was deep to blackness in the hollow of the evergreen. marco stood in it, streaming with rain, but feeling nothing because he was full of thought. he pushed aside his greenery and kept his eyes on the place in the blackness where the windows must be, though he could not see them. it seemed that he waited a long time, but he knew it only seemed so really. he began to breathe quickly because he was waiting for something. suddenly he saw exactly where the windows were--because they were all lighted! his feeling of relief was great, but it did not last very long. it was true that something had been gained in the certainty that his man had not left vienna. but what next? it would not be so easy to follow him if he chose only to go out secretly at night. what next? to spend the rest of the night watching a lighted window was not enough. to-morrow night it might not be lighted. but he kept his gaze fixed upon it. he tried to fix all his will and thought-power on the person inside the room. perhaps he could reach him and make him listen, even though he would not know that any one was speaking to him. he knew that thoughts were strong things. if angry thoughts in one man's mind will create anger in the mind of another, why should not sane messages cross the line? "i must speak to you. i must speak to you!" he found himself saying in a low intense voice. "i am outside here waiting. listen! i must speak to you!" he said it many times and kept his eyes fixed upon the window which opened on to the balcony. once he saw a man's figure cross the room, but he could not be sure who it was. the last distant rumblings of thunder had died away and the clouds were breaking. it was not long before the dark mountainous billows broke apart, and a brilliant full moon showed herself sailing in the rift, suddenly flooding everything with light. parts of the garden were silver white, and the tree shadows were like black velvet. a silvery lance pierced even into the hollow of marco's evergreen and struck across his face. perhaps it was this sudden change which attracted the attention of those inside the balconied room. a man's figure appeared at the long windows. marco saw now that it was the prince. he opened the windows and stepped out on to the balcony. "it is all over," he said quietly. and he stood with his face lifted, looking at the great white sailing moon. he stood very still and seemed for the moment to forget the world and himself. it was a wonderful, triumphant queen of a moon. but something brought him back to earth. a low, but strong and clear, boy-voice came up to him from the garden path below. "the lamp is lighted. the lamp is lighted," it said, and the words sounded almost as if some one were uttering a prayer. they seemed to call to him, to arrest him, to draw him. he stood still a few seconds in dead silence. then he bent over the balustrade. the moonlight had not broken the darkness below. "that is a boy's voice," he said in a low tone, "but i cannot see who is speaking." "yes, it is a boy's voice," it answered, in a way which somehow moved him, because it was so ardent. "it is the son of stefan loristan. the lamp is lighted." [illustration: "it is the son of stefan loristan. the lamp is lighted!"] "wait. i am coming down to you," the prince said. in a few minutes marco heard a door open gently not far from where he stood. then the man he had been following so many days appeared at his side. "how long have you been here?" he asked. "before the gates closed. i hid myself in the hollow of the big shrub there, highness," marco answered. "then you were out in the storm?" "yes, highness." the prince put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "i cannot see you--but it is best to stand in the shadow. you are drenched to the skin." "i have been able to give your highness--the sign," marco whispered. "a storm is nothing." there was a silence. marco knew that his companion was pausing to turn something over in his mind. "so-o?" he said slowly, at length. "the lamp is lighted. and _you_ are sent to bear the sign." something in his voice made marco feel that he was smiling. "what a race you are! what a race--you samavian loristans!" he paused as if to think the thing over again. "i want to see your face," he said next. "here is a tree with a shaft of moonlight striking through the branches. let us step aside and stand under it." marco did as he was told. the shaft of moonlight fell upon his uplifted face and showed its young strength and darkness, quite splendid for the moment in a triumphant glow of joy in obstacles overcome. raindrops hung on his hair, but he did not look draggled, only very wet and picturesque. he had reached his man. he had given the sign. the prince looked him over with interested curiosity. "yes," he said in his cool, rather dragging voice. "you are the son of stefan loristan. also you must be taken care of. you must come with me. i have trained my household to remain in its own quarters until i require its service. i have attached to my own apartments a good safe little room where i sometimes keep people. you can dry your clothes and sleep there. when the gardens are opened again, the rest will be easy." but though he stepped out from under the trees and began to move towards the palace in the shadow, marco noticed that he moved hesitatingly, as if he had not quite decided what he should do. he stopped rather suddenly and turned again to marco, who was following him. "there is some one in the room i just now left," he said, "an old man--whom it might interest to see you. it might also be a good thing for him to feel interest in you. i choose that he shall see you--as you are." "i am at your command, highness," marco answered. he knew his companion was smiling again. "you have been in training for more centuries than you know," he said; "and your father has prepared you to encounter the unexpected without surprise." they passed under the balcony and paused at a low stone doorway hidden behind shrubs. the door was a beautiful one, marco saw when it was opened, and the corridor disclosed was beautiful also, though it had an air of quiet and aloofness which was not so much secret as private. a perfect though narrow staircase mounted from it to the next floor. after ascending it, the prince led the way through a short corridor and stopped at the door at the end of it. "we are going in here," he said. it was a wonderful room--the one which opened on to the balcony. each piece of furniture in it, the hangings, the tapestries, and pictures on the wall were all such as might well have found themselves adorning a museum. marco remembered the common report of his escort's favorite amusement of collecting wonders and furnishing his house with the things others exhibited only as marvels of art and handicraft. the place was rich and mellow with exquisitely chosen beauties. in a massive chair upon the hearth sat a figure with bent head. it was a tall old man with white hair and moustache. his elbows rested upon the arm of his chair and he leaned his forehead on his hand as if he were weary. marco's companion crossed the room and stood beside him, speaking in a lowered voice. marco could not at first hear what he said. he himself stood quite still, waiting. the white-haired man lifted his head and listened. it seemed as though almost at once he was singularly interested. the lowered voice was slightly raised at last and marco heard the last two sentences: "the only son of stefan loristan. look at him." the old man in the chair turned slowly and looked, steadily, and with questioning curiosity touched with grave surprise. he had keen and clear blue eyes. then marco, still erect and silent, waited again. the prince had merely said to him, "an old man whom it might interest to see you." he had plainly intended that, whatsoever happened, he must make no outward sign of seeing more than he had been told he would see--"an old man." it was for him to show no astonishment or recognition. he had been brought here not to see but to be seen. the power of remaining still under scrutiny, which the rat had often envied him, stood now in good stead because he had seen the white head and tall form not many days before, surmounted by brilliant emerald plumes, hung with jeweled decorations, in the royal carriage, escorted by banners, and helmets, and following troops whose tramping feet kept time to bursts of military music while the populace bared their heads and cheered. "he is like his father," this personage said to the prince. "but if any one but loristan had sent him--his looks please me." then suddenly to marco, "you were waiting outside while the storm was going on?" "yes, sir," marco answered. then the two exchanged some words still in the lowered voice. "you read the news as you made your journey?" he was asked. "you know how samavia stands?" "she does not stand," said marco. "the iarovitch and the maranovitch have fought as hyenas fight, until each has torn the other into fragments--and neither has blood or strength left." the two glanced at each other. "a good simile," said the older person. "you are right. if a strong party rose--and a greater power chose not to interfere--the country might see better days." he looked at him a few moments longer and then waved his hand kindly. "you are a fine samavian," he said. "i am glad of that. you may go. good night." marco bowed respectfully and the man with the tired face led him out of the room. it was just before he left him in the small quiet chamber in which he was to sleep that the prince gave him a final curious glance. "i remember now," he said. "in the room, when you answered the question about samavia, i was sure that i had seen you before. it was the day of the celebration. there was a break in the crowd and i saw a boy looking at me. it was you." "yes," said marco, "i have followed you each time you have gone out since then, but i could never get near enough to speak. to-night seemed only one chance in a thousand." "you are doing your work more like a man than a boy," was the next speech, and it was made reflectively. "no man could have behaved more perfectly than you did just now, when discretion and composure were necessary." then, after a moment's pause, "he was deeply interested and deeply pleased. good night." * * * * * when the gardens had been thrown open the next morning and people were passing in and out again, marco passed out also. he was obliged to tell himself two or three times that he had not wakened from an amazing dream. he quickened his pace after he had crossed the street, because he wanted to get home to the attic and talk to the rat. there was a narrow side-street it was necessary for him to pass through if he wished to make a short cut. as he turned into it, he saw a curious figure leaning on crutches against a wall. it looked damp and forlorn, and he wondered if it could be a beggar. it was not. it was the rat, who suddenly saw who was approaching and swung forward. his face was pale and haggard and he looked worn and frightened. he dragged off his cap and spoke in a voice which was hoarse as a crow's. "god be thanked!" he said. "god be thanked!" as people always said it when they received the sign, alone. but there was a kind of anguish in his voice as well as relief. "aide-de-camp!" marco cried out--the rat had begged him to call him so. "what have you been doing? how long have you been here?" "ever since i left you last night," said the rat clutching tremblingly at his arm as if to make sure he was real. "if there was not room for two in the hollow, there was room for one in the street. was it my place to go off duty and leave you alone--was it?" "you were out in the storm?" "weren't you?" said the rat fiercely. "i huddled against the wall as well as i could. what did i care? crutches don't prevent a fellow waiting. i wouldn't have left you if you'd given me orders. and that would have been mutiny. when you did not come out as soon as the gates opened, i felt as if my head got on fire. how could i know what had happened? i've not the nerve and backbone you have. i go half mad." for a second or so marco did not answer. but when he put his hand on the damp sleeve, the rat actually started, because it seemed as though he were looking into the eyes of stefan loristan. "you look just like your father!" he exclaimed, in spite of himself. "how tall you are!" "when you are near me," marco said, in loristan's own voice, "when you are near me, i feel--i feel as if i were a royal prince attended by an army. you _are_ my army." and he pulled off his cap with quick boyishness and added, "god be thanked!" the sun was warm in the attic window when they reached their lodging, and the two leaned on the rough sill as marco told his story. it took some time to relate; and when he ended, he took an envelope from his pocket and showed it to the rat. it contained a flat package of money. "he gave it to me just before he opened the private door," marco explained. "and he said to me, 'it will not be long now. after samavia, go back to london as quickly as you can--_as quickly as you can_!'" "i wonder--what he meant?" the rat said, slowly. a tremendous thought had shot through his mind. but it was not a thought he could speak of to marco. "i cannot tell. i thought that it was for some reason he did not expect me to know," marco said. "we will do as he told us. as quickly as we can." they looked over the newspapers, as they did every day. all that could be gathered from any of them was that the opposing armies of samavia seemed each to have reached the culmination of disaster and exhaustion. which party had the power left to take any final step which could call itself a victory, it was impossible to say. never had a country been in a more desperate case. "it is the time!" said the rat, glowering over his map. "if the secret party rises suddenly now, it can take melzarr almost without a blow. it can sweep through the country and disarm both armies. they're weakened--they're half starved--they're bleeding to death; they _want_ to be disarmed. only the iarovitch and the maranovitch keep on with the struggle because each is fighting for the power to tax the people and make slaves of them. if the secret party does not rise, the people will, and they'll rush on the palaces and kill every maranovitch and iarovitch they find. and serve them right!" "let us spend the rest of the day in studying the road-map again," said marco. "to-night we must be on the way to samavia!" xxvi across the frontier that one day, a week later, two tired and travel-worn boy-mendicants should drag themselves with slow and weary feet across the frontier line between jiardasia and samavia, was not an incident to awaken suspicion or even to attract attention. war and hunger and anguish had left the country stunned and broken. since the worst had happened, no one was curious as to what would befall them next. if jiardasia herself had become a foe, instead of a friendly neighbor, and had sent across the border galloping hordes of soldiery, there would only have been more shrieks, and home-burnings, and slaughter which no one dare resist. but, so far, jiardasia had remained peaceful. the two boys--one of them on crutches--had evidently traveled far on foot. their poor clothes were dusty and travel-stained, and they stopped and asked for water at the first hut across the line. the one who walked without crutches had some coarse bread in a bag slung over his shoulder, and they sat on the roadside and ate it as if they were hungry. the old grandmother who lived alone in the hut sat and stared at them without any curiosity. she may have vaguely wondered why any one crossed into samavia in these days. but she did not care to know their reason. her big son had lived in a village which belonged to the maranovitch and he had been called out to fight for his lords. he had not wanted to fight and had not known what the quarrel was about, but he was forced to obey. he had kissed his handsome wife and four sturdy children, blubbering aloud when he left them. his village and his good crops and his house must be left behind. then the iarovitch swept through the pretty little cluster of homesteads which belonged to their enemy. they were mad with rage because they had met with great losses in a battle not far away, and, as they swooped through, they burned and killed, and trampled down fields and vineyards. the old woman's son never saw either the burned walls of his house or the bodies of his wife and children, because he had been killed himself in the battle for which the iarovitch were revenging themselves. only the old grandmother who lived in the hut near the frontier line and stared vacantly at the passers-by remained alive. she wearily gazed at people and wondered why she did not hear news from her son and her grandchildren. but that was all. when the boys were over the frontier and well on their way along the roads, it was not difficult to keep out of sight if it seemed necessary. the country was mountainous and there were deep and thick forests by the way--forests so far-reaching and with such thick undergrowth that full-grown men could easily have hidden themselves. it was because of this, perhaps, that this part of the country had seen little fighting. there was too great opportunity for secure ambush for a foe. as the two travelers went on, they heard of burned villages and towns destroyed, but they were towns and villages nearer melzarr and other fortress-defended cities, or they were in the country surrounding the castles and estates of powerful nobles and leaders. it was true, as marco had said to the white-haired personage, that the maranovitch and iarovitch had fought with the savageness of hyenas until at last the forces of each side lay torn and bleeding, their strength, their resources, their supplies exhausted. each day left them weaker and more desperate. europe looked on with small interest in either party but with growing desire that the disorder should end and cease to interfere with commerce. all this and much more marco and the rat knew, but, as they made their cautious way through byways of the maimed and tortured little country, they learned other things. they learned that the stories of its beauty and fertility were not romances. its heaven-reaching mountains, its immense plains of rich verdure on which flocks and herds might have fed by thousands, its splendor of deep forest and broad clear rushing rivers had a primeval majesty such as the first human creatures might have found on earth in the days of the garden of eden. the two boys traveled through forest and woodland when it was possible to leave the road. it was safe to thread a way among huge trees and tall ferns and young saplings. it was not always easy but it was safe. sometimes they saw a charcoal-burner's hut or a shelter where a shepherd was hiding with the few sheep left to him. each man they met wore the same look of stony suffering in his face; but, when the boys begged for bread and water, as was their habit, no one refused to share the little he had. it soon became plain to them that they were thought to be two young fugitives whose homes had probably been destroyed and who were wandering about with no thought but that of finding safety until the worst was over. that one of them traveled on crutches added to their apparent helplessness, and that he could not speak the language of the country made him more an object of pity. the peasants did not know what language he spoke. sometimes a foreigner came to find work in this small town or that. the poor lad might have come to the country with his father and mother and then have been caught in the whirlpool of war and tossed out on the world parent-less. but no one asked questions. even in their desolation they were silent and noble people who were too courteous for curiosity. "in the old days they were simple and stately and kind. all doors were open to travelers. the master of the poorest hut uttered a blessing and a welcome when a stranger crossed his threshold. it was the custom of the country," marco said. "i read about it in a book of my father's. about most of the doors the welcome was carved in stone. it was this--'the blessing of the son of god, and rest within these walls.'" "they are big and strong," said the rat. "and they have good faces. they carry themselves as if they had been drilled--both men and women." it was not through the blood-drenched part of the unhappy land their way led them, but they saw hunger and dread in the villages they passed. crops which should have fed the people had been taken from them for the use of the army; flocks and herds had been driven away, and faces were gaunt and gray. those who had as yet only lost crops and herds knew that homes and lives might be torn from them at any moment. only old men and women and children were left to wait for any fate which the chances of war might deal out to them. when they were given food from some poor store, marco would offer a little money in return. he dare not excite suspicion by offering much. he was obliged to let it be imagined that in his flight from his ruined home he had been able to snatch at and secrete some poor hoard which might save him from starvation. often the women would not take what he offered. their journey was a hard and hungry one. they must make it all on foot and there was little food to be found. but each of them knew how to live on scant fare. they traveled mostly by night and slept among the ferns and undergrowth through the day. they drank from running brooks and bathed in them. moss and ferns made soft and sweet-smelling beds, and trees roofed them. sometimes they lay long and talked while they rested. and at length a day came when they knew they were nearing their journey's end. "it is nearly over now," marco said, after they had thrown themselves down in the forest in the early hours of one dewy morning. "he said 'after samavia, go back to london as quickly as you can--_as quickly as you can_.' he said it twice. as if--something were going to happen." "perhaps it will happen more suddenly than we think--the thing he meant," answered the rat. suddenly he sat up on his elbow and leaned towards marco. "we are in samavia!" he said "we two are in samavia! and we are near the end!" marco rose on his elbow also. he was very thin as a result of hard travel and scant feeding. his thinness made his eyes look immense and black as pits. but they burned and were beautiful with their own fire. "yes," he said, breathing quickly. "and though we do not know what the end will be, we have obeyed orders. the prince was next to the last one. there is only one more. the old priest." "i have wanted to see him more than i have wanted to see any of the others," the rat said. "so have i," marco answered. "his church is built on the side of this mountain. i wonder what he will say to us." both had the same reason for wanting to see him. in his youth he had served in the monastery over the frontier--the one which, till it was destroyed in a revolt, had treasured the five-hundred-year-old story of the beautiful royal lad brought to be hidden among the brotherhood by the ancient shepherd. in the monastery the memory of the lost prince was as the memory of a saint. it had been told that one of the early brothers, who was a decorator and a painter, had made a picture of him with a faint halo shining about his head. the young acolyte who had served there must have heard wonderful legends. but the monastery had been burned, and the young acolyte had in later years crossed the frontier and become the priest of a few mountaineers whose little church clung to the mountain side. he had worked hard and faithfully and was worshipped by his people. only the secret forgers of the sword knew that his most ardent worshippers were those with whom he prayed and to whom he gave blessings in dark caverns under the earth, where arms piled themselves and men with dark strong faces sat together in the dim light and laid plans and wrought schemes. this marco and the rat did not know as they talked of their desire to see him. "he may not choose to tell us anything," said marco. "when we have given him the sign, he may turn away and say nothing as some of the others did. he may have nothing to say which we should hear. silence may be the order for him, too." it would not be a long or dangerous climb to the little church on the rock. they could sleep or rest all day and begin it at twilight. so after they had talked of the old priest and had eaten their black bread, they settled themselves to sleep under cover of the thick tall ferns. it was a long and deep sleep which nothing disturbed. so few human beings ever climbed the hill, except by the narrow rough path leading to the church, that the little wild creatures had not learned to be afraid of them. once, during the afternoon, a hare hopping along under the ferns to make a visit stopped by marco's head, and, after looking at him a few seconds with his lustrous eyes, began to nibble the ends of his hair. he only did it from curiosity and because he wondered if it might be a new kind of grass, but he did not like it and stopped nibbling almost at once, after which he looked at it again, moving the soft sensitive end of his nose rapidly for a second or so, and then hopped away to attend to his own affairs. a very large and handsome green stag-beetle crawled from one end of the rat's crutches to the other, but, having done it, he went away also. two or three times a bird, searching for his dinner under the ferns, was surprised to find the two sleeping figures, but, as they lay so quietly, there seemed nothing to be frightened about. a beautiful little field mouse running past discovered that there were crumbs lying about and ate all she could find on the moss. after that she crept into marco's pocket and found some excellent ones and had quite a feast. but she disturbed nobody and the boys slept on. it was a bird's evening song which awakened them both. the bird alighted on the branch of a tree near them and her trill was rippling clear and sweet. the evening air had freshened and was fragrant with hillside scents. when marco first rolled over and opened his eyes, he thought the most delicious thing on earth was to waken from sleep on a hillside at evening and hear a bird singing. it seemed to make exquisitely real to him the fact that he was in samavia--that the lamp was lighted and his work was nearly done. the rat awakened when he did, and for a few minutes both lay on their backs without speaking. at last marco said, "the stars are coming out. we can begin to climb, aide-de-camp." then they both got up and looked at each other. "the last one!" the rat said. "to-morrow we shall be on our way back to london--number philibert place. after all the places we've been to--what will it look like?" "it will be like wakening out of a dream," said marco. "it's not beautiful--philibert place. but _he_ will be there," and it was as if a light lighted itself in his face and shone through the very darkness of it. and the rat's face lighted in almost exactly the same way. and he pulled off his cap and stood bare-headed. "we've obeyed orders," he said. "we've not forgotten one. no one has noticed us, no one has thought of us. we've blown through the countries as if we had been grains of dust." marco's head was bared, too, and his face was still shining. "god be thanked!" he said. "let us begin to climb." they pushed their way through the ferns and wandered in and out through trees until they found the little path. the hill was thickly clothed with forest and the little path was sometimes dark and steep; but they knew that, if they followed it, they would at last come out to a place where there were scarcely any trees at all, and on a crag they would find the tiny church waiting for them. the priest might not be there. they might have to wait for him, but he would be sure to come back for morning mass and for vespers, wheresoever he wandered between times. there were many stars in the sky when at last a turn of the path showed them the church above them. it was little and built of rough stone. it looked as if the priest himself and his scattered flock might have broken and carried or rolled bits of the hill to put it together. it had the small, round, mosque-like summit the turks had brought into europe in centuries past. it was so tiny that it would hold but a very small congregation--and close to it was a shed-like house, which was of course the priest's. the two boys stopped on the path to look at it. "there is a candle burning in one of the little windows," said marco. "there is a well near the door--and some one is beginning to draw water," said the rat, next. "it is too dark to see who it is. listen!" they listened and heard the bucket descend on the chains, and splash in the water. then it was drawn up, and it seemed some one drank long. then they saw a dim figure move forward and stand still. then they heard a voice begin to pray aloud, as if the owner, being accustomed to utter solitude, did not think of earthly hearers. "come," marco said. and they went forward. because the stars were so many and the air so clear, the priest heard their feet on the path, and saw them almost as soon as he heard them. he ended his prayer and watched them coming. a lad on crutches, who moved as lightly and easily as a bird--and a lad who, even yards away, was noticeable for a bearing of his body which was neither haughty nor proud but set him somehow aloof from every other lad one had ever seen. a magnificent lad--though, as he drew near, the starlight showed his face thin and his eyes hollow as if with fatigue or hunger. "and who is this one?" the old priest murmured to himself. "_who_?" marco drew up before him and made a respectful reverence. then he lifted his black head, squared his shoulders and uttered his message for the last time. "the lamp is lighted, father," he said. "the lamp is lighted." the old priest stood quite still and gazed into his face. the next moment he bent his head so that he could look at him closely. it seemed almost as if he were frightened and wanted to make sure of something. at the moment it flashed through the rat's mind that the old, old woman on the mountain-top had looked frightened in something the same way. "i am an old man," he said. "my eyes are not good. if i had a light"--and he glanced towards the house. it was the rat who, with one whirl, swung through the door and seized the candle. he guessed what he wanted. he held it himself so that the flare fell on marco's face. the old priest drew nearer and nearer. he gasped for breath. "you are the son of stefan loristan!" he cried. "it is _his son_ who brings the sign." he fell upon his knees and hid his face in his hands. both the boys heard him sobbing and praying--praying and sobbing at once. they glanced at each other. the rat was bursting with excitement, but he felt a little awkward also and wondered what marco would do. an old fellow on his knees, crying, made a chap feel as if he didn't know what to say. must you comfort him or must you let him go on? marco only stood quite still and looked at him with understanding and gravity. "yes, father," he said. "i am the son of stefan loristan, and i have given the sign to all. you are the last one. the lamp is lighted. i could weep for gladness, too." the priest's tears and prayers ended. he rose to his feet--a rugged-faced old man with long and thick white hair which fell on his shoulders--and smiled at marco while his eyes were still wet. "you have passed from one country to another with the message?" he said. "you were under orders to say those four words?" "yes, father," answered marco. "that was all? you were to say no more?" "i know no more. silence has been the order since i took my oath of allegiance when i was a child. i was not old enough to fight, or serve, or reason about great things. all i could do was to be silent, and to train myself to remember, and be ready when i was called. when my father saw i was ready, he trusted me to go out and give the sign. he told me the four words. nothing else." the old man watched him with a wondering face. "if stefan loristan does not know best," he said, "who does?" "he always knows," answered marco proudly. "always." he waved his hand like a young king toward the rat. he wanted each man they met to understand the value of the rat. "he chose for me this companion," he added. "i have done nothing alone." "he let me call myself his aide-de-camp!" burst forth the rat. "i would be cut into inch-long strips for him." marco translated. then the priest looked at the rat and slowly nodded his head. "yes," he said. "he knew best. he always knows best. that i see." "how did you know i was my father's son?" asked marco. "you have seen him?" "no," was the answer; "but i have seen a picture which is said to be his image--and you are the picture's self. it is, indeed, a strange thing that two of god's creatures should be so alike. there is a purpose in it." he led them into his bare small house and made them rest, and drink goat's milk, and eat food. as he moved about the hut-like place, there was a mysterious and exalted look on his face. "you must be refreshed before we leave here," he said at last. "i am going to take you to a place hidden in the mountains where there are men whose hearts will leap at the sight of you. to see you will give them new power and courage and new resolve. to-night they meet as they or their ancestors have met for centuries, but now they are nearing the end of their waiting. and i shall bring them the son of stefan loristan, who is the bearer of the sign!" they ate the bread and cheese and drank the goat's milk he gave them, but marco explained that they did not need rest as they had slept all day. they were prepared to follow him when he was ready. the last faint hint of twilight had died into night and the stars were at their thickest when they set out together. the white-haired old man took a thick knotted staff in his hand and led the way. he knew it well, though it was a rugged and steep one with no track to mark it. sometimes they seemed to be walking around the mountain, sometimes they were climbing, sometimes they dragged themselves over rocks or fallen trees, or struggled through almost impassable thickets; more than once they descended into ravines and, almost at the risk of their lives, clambered and drew themselves with the aid of the undergrowth up the other side. the rat was called upon to use all his prowess, and sometimes marco and the priest helped him across obstacles with the aid of his crutch. "haven't i shown to-night whether i'm a cripple or not?" he said once to marco. "you can tell _him_ about this, can't you? and that the crutches helped instead of being in the way?" they had been out nearly two hours when they came to a place where the undergrowth was thick and a huge tree had fallen crashing down among it in some storm. not far from the tree was an outcropping rock. only the top of it was to be seen above the heavy tangle. they had pushed their way through the jungle of bushes and young saplings, led by their companion. they did not know where they would be led next and were supposed to push forward further when the priest stopped by the outcropping rock. he stood silent a few minutes--quite motionless--as if he were listening to the forest and the night. but there was utter stillness. there was not even a breeze to stir a leaf, or a half-wakened bird to sleepily chirp. he struck the rock with his staff--twice, and then twice again. marco and the rat stood with bated breath. they did not wait long. presently each of them found himself leaning forward, staring with almost unbelieving eyes, not at the priest or his staff, but at _the rock itself_! it was moving! yes, it moved. the priest stepped aside and it slowly turned, as if worked by a lever. as it turned, it gradually revealed a chasm of darkness dimly lighted, and the priest spoke to marco. "there are hiding-places like this all through samavia," he said. "patience and misery have waited long in them. they are the caverns of the forgers of the sword. come!" xxvii "it is the lost prince! it is ivor!" many times since their journey had begun the boys had found their hearts beating with the thrill and excitement of things. the story of which their lives had been a part was a pulse-quickening experience. but as they carefully made their way down the steep steps leading seemingly into the bowels of the earth, both marco and the rat felt as though the old priest must hear the thudding in their young sides. "'the forgers of the sword.' remember every word they say," the rat whispered, "so that you can tell it to me afterwards. don't forget anything! i wish i knew samavian." at the foot of the steps stood the man who was evidently the sentinel who worked the lever that turned the rock. he was a big burly peasant with a good watchful face, and the priest gave him a greeting and a blessing as he took from him the lantern he held out. they went through a narrow and dark passage, and down some more steps, and turned a corner into another corridor cut out of rock and earth. it was a wider corridor, but still dark, so that marco and the rat had walked some yards before their eyes became sufficiently accustomed to the dim light to see that the walls themselves seemed made of arms stacked closely together. "the forgers of the sword!" the rat was unconsciously mumbling to himself, "the forgers of the sword!" it must have taken years to cut out the rounding passage they threaded their way through, and longer years to forge the solid, bristling walls. but the rat remembered the story the stranger had told his drunken father, of the few mountain herdsmen who, in their savage grief and wrath over the loss of their prince, had banded themselves together with a solemn oath which had been handed down from generation to generation. the samavians were a long-memoried people, and the fact that their passion must be smothered had made it burn all the more fiercely. five hundred years ago they had first sworn their oath; and kings had come and gone, had died or been murdered, and dynasties had changed, but the forgers of the sword had not changed or forgotten their oath or wavered in their belief that some time--some time, even after the long dark years--the soul of their lost prince would be among them once more, and that they would kneel at the feet and kiss the hands of him for whose body that soul had been reborn. and for the last hundred years their number and power and their hiding places had so increased that samavia was at last honeycombed with them. and they only waited, breathless,--for the lighting of the lamp. the old priest knew how breathlessly, and he knew what he was bringing them. marco and the rat, in spite of their fond boy-imaginings, were not quite old enough to know how fierce and full of flaming eagerness the breathless waiting of savage full-grown men could be. but there was a tense-strung thrill in knowing that they who were being led to them were the bearers of the sign. the rat went hot and cold; he gnawed his fingers as he went. he could almost have shrieked aloud, in the intensity of his excitement, when the old priest stopped before a big black door! marco made no sound. excitement or danger always made him look tall and quite pale. he looked both now. the priest touched the door, and it opened. they were looking into an immense cavern. its walls and roof were lined with arms--guns, swords, bayonets, javelins, daggers, pistols, every weapon a desperate man might use. the place was full of men, who turned towards the door when it opened. they all made obeisance to the priest, but marco realized almost at the same instant that they started on seeing that he was not alone. they were a strange and picturesque crowd as they stood under their canopy of weapons in the lurid torchlight. marco saw at once that they were men of all classes, though all were alike roughly dressed. they were huge mountaineers, and plainsmen young and mature in years. some of the biggest were men with white hair but with bodies of giants, and with determination in their strong jaws. there were many of these, marco saw, and in each man's eyes, whether he were young or old, glowed a steady unconquered flame. they had been beaten so often, they had been oppressed and robbed, but in the eyes of each one was this unconquered flame which, throughout all the long tragedy of years had been handed down from father to son. it was this which had gone on through centuries, keeping its oath and forging its swords in the caverns of the earth, and which to-day was--waiting. the old priest laid his hand on marco's shoulder, and gently pushed him before him through the crowd which parted to make way for them. he did not stop until the two stood in the very midst of the circle, which fell back gazing wonderingly. marco looked up at the old man because for several seconds he did not speak. it was plain that he did not speak because he also was excited, and could not. he opened his lips and his voice seemed to fail him. then he tried again and spoke so that all could hear--even the men at the back of the gazing circle. "my children," he said, "this is the son of stefan loristan, and he comes to bear the sign. my son," to marco, "speak!" then marco understood what he wished, and also what he felt. he felt it himself, that magnificent uplifting gladness, as he spoke, holding his black head high and lifting his right hand. "the lamp is lighted, brothers!" he cried. "the lamp is lighted!" then the rat, who stood apart, watching, thought that the strange world within the cavern had gone mad! wild smothered cries broke forth, men caught each other in passionate embrace, they fell upon their knees, they clutched one another sobbing, they wrung each other's hands, they leaped into the air. it was as if they could not bear the joy of hearing that the end of their waiting had come at last. they rushed upon marco, and fell at his feet. the rat saw big peasants kissing his shoes, his hands, every scrap of his clothing they could seize. the wild circle swayed and closed upon him until the rat was afraid. he did not know that, overpowered by this frenzy of emotion, his own excitement was making him shake from head to foot like a leaf, and that tears were streaming down his cheeks. the swaying crowd hid marco from him, and he began to fight his way towards him because his excitement increased with fear. the ecstasy-frenzied crowd of men seemed for the moment to have almost ceased to be sane. marco was only a boy. they did not know how fiercely they were pressing upon him and keeping away the very air. "don't kill him! don't kill him!" yelled the rat, struggling forward. "stand back, you fools! i'm his aide-de-camp! let me pass!" and though no one understood his english, one or two suddenly remembered they had seen him enter with the priest and so gave way. but just then the old priest lifted his hand above the crowd, and spoke in a voice of stern command. "stand back, my children!" he cried. "madness is not the homage you must bring to the son of stefan loristan. obey! obey!" his voice had a power in it that penetrated even the wildest herdsmen. the frenzied mass swayed back and left space about marco, whose face the rat could at last see. it was very white with emotion, and in his eyes there was a look which was like awe. the rat pushed forward until he stood beside him. he did not know that he almost sobbed as he spoke. "i'm your aide-de-camp," he said. "i'm going to stand here! your father sent me! i'm under orders! i thought they'd crush you to death." he glared at the circle about them as if, instead of worshippers distraught with adoration, they had been enemies. the old priest seeing him, touched marco's arm. "tell him he need not fear," he said. "it was only for the first few moments. the passion of their souls drove them wild. they are your slaves." "those at the back might have pushed the front ones on until they trampled you under foot in spite of themselves!" the rat persisted. "no," said marco. "they would have stopped if i had spoken." * * * * * 	 "why didn't you speak then?" snapped the rat. "all they felt was for samavia, and for my father," marco said, "and for the sign. i felt as they did." the rat was somewhat softened. it was true, after all. how could he have tried to quell the outbursts of their worship of loristan--of the country he was saving for them--of the sign which called them to freedom? he could not. then followed a strange and picturesque ceremonial. the priest went about among the encircling crowd and spoke to one man after another--sometimes to a group. a larger circle was formed. as the pale old man moved about, the rat felt as if some religious ceremony were going to be performed. watching it from first to last, he was thrilled to the core. at the end of the cavern a block of stone had been cut out to look like an altar. it was covered with white, and against the wall above it hung a large picture veiled by a curtain. from the roof there swung before it an ancient lamp of metal suspended by chains. in front of the altar was a sort of stone dais. there the priest asked marco to stand, with his aide-de-camp on the lower level in attendance. a knot of the biggest herdsmen went out and returned. each carried a huge sword which had perhaps been of the earliest made in the dark days gone by. the bearers formed themselves into a line on either side of marco. they raised their swords and formed a pointed arch above his head and a passage twelve men long. when the points first clashed together the rat struck himself hard upon his breast. his exultation was too keen to endure. he gazed at marco standing still--in that curiously splendid way in which both he and his father _could_ stand still--and wondered how he could do it. he looked as if he were prepared for any strange thing which could happen to him--because he was "under orders." the rat knew that he was doing whatsoever he did merely for his father's sake. it was as if he felt that he was representing his father, though he was a mere boy; and that because of this, boy as he was, he must bear himself nobly and remain outwardly undisturbed. at the end of the arch of swords, the old priest stood and gave a sign to one man after another. when the sign was given to a man he walked under the arch to the dais, and there knelt and, lifting marco's hand to his lips, kissed it with passionate fervor. then he returned to the place he had left. one after another passed up the aisle of swords, one after another knelt, one after the other kissed the brown young hand, rose and went away. sometimes the rat heard a few words which sounded almost like a murmured prayer, sometimes he heard a sob as a shaggy head bent, again and again he saw eyes wet with tears. once or twice marco spoke a few samavian words, and the face of the man spoken to flamed with joy. the rat had time to see, as marco had seen, that many of the faces were not those of peasants. some of them were clear cut and subtle and of the type of scholars or nobles. it took a long time for them all to kneel and kiss the lad's hand, but no man omitted the ceremony; and when at last it was at an end, a strange silence filled the cavern. they stood and gazed at each other with burning eyes. the priest moved to marco's side, and stood near the altar. he leaned forward and took in his hand a cord which hung from the veiled picture--he drew it and the curtain fell apart. there seemed to stand gazing at them from between its folds a tall kingly youth with deep eyes in which the stars of god were stilly shining, and with a smile wonderful to behold. around the heavy locks of his black hair the long dead painter of missals had set a faint glow of light like a halo. "son of stefan loristan," the old priest said, in a shaken voice, "it is the lost prince! it is ivor!" then every man in the room fell on his knees. even the men who had upheld the archway of swords dropped their weapons with a crash and knelt also. he was their saint--this boy! dead for five hundred years, he was their saint still. "ivor! ivor!" the voices broke into a heavy murmur. "ivor! ivor!" as if they chanted a litany. marco started forward, staring at the picture, his breath caught in his throat, his lips apart. "but--but--" he stammered, "but if my father were as young as he is--he would be _like_ him!" "when you are as old as he is, _you_ will be like him--_you_!" said the priest. and he let the curtain fall. the rat stood staring with wide eyes from marco to the picture and from the picture to marco. and he breathed faster and faster and gnawed his finger ends. but he did not utter a word. he could not have done it, if he tried. then marco stepped down from the dais as if he were in a dream, and the old man followed him. the men with swords sprang to their feet and made their archway again with a new clash of steel. the old man and the boy passed under it together. now every man's eyes were fixed on marco. at the heavy door by which he had entered, he stopped and turned to meet their glances. he looked very young and thin and pale, but suddenly his father's smile was lighted in his face. he said a few words in samavian clearly and gravely, saluted, and passed out. "what did you say to them?" gasped the rat, stumbling after him as the door closed behind them and shut in the murmur of impassioned sound. "there was only one thing to say," was the answer. "they are men--i am only a boy. i thanked them for my father, and told them he would never--never forget." xxviii "extra! extra! extra!" it was raining in london--pouring. it had been raining for two weeks, more or less, generally more. when the train from dover drew in at charing cross, the weather seemed suddenly to have considered that it had so far been too lenient and must express itself much more vigorously. so it had gathered together its resources and poured them forth in a deluge which surprised even londoners. the rain so beat against and streamed down the windows of the third-class carriage in which marco and the rat sat that they could not see through them. they had made their homeward journey much more rapidly than they had made the one on which they had been outward bound. it had of course taken them some time to tramp back to the frontier, but there had been no reason for stopping anywhere after they had once reached the railroads. they had been tired sometimes, but they had slept heavily on the wooden seats of the railway carriages. their one desire was to get home. no. philibert place rose before them in its noisy dinginess as the one desirable spot on earth. to marco it held his father. and it was loristan alone that the rat saw when he thought of it. loristan as he would look when he saw him come into the room with marco, and stand up and salute, and say: "i have brought him back, sir. he has carried out every single order you gave him--every single one. so have i." so he had. he had been sent as his companion and attendant, and he had been faithful in every thought. if marco would have allowed him, he would have waited upon him like a servant, and have been proud of the service. but marco would never let him forget that they were only two boys and that one was of no more importance than the other. he had secretly even felt this attitude to be a sort of grievance. it would have been more like a game if one of them had been the mere servitor of the other, and if that other had blustered a little, and issued commands, and demanded sacrifices. if the faithful vassal could have been wounded or cast into a dungeon for his young commander's sake, the adventure would have been more complete. but though their journey had been full of wonders and rich with beauties, though the memory of it hung in the rat's mind like a background of tapestry embroidered in all the hues of the earth with all the splendors of it, there had been no dungeons and no wounds. after the adventure in munich their unimportant boyishness had not even been observed by such perils as might have threatened them. as the rat had said, they had "blown like grains of dust" through europe and had been as nothing. and this was what loristan had planned, this was what his grave thought had wrought out. if they had been men, they would not have been so safe. from the time they had left the old priest on the hillside to begin their journey back to the frontier, they both had been given to long silences as they tramped side by side or lay on the moss in the forests. now that their work was done, a sort of reaction had set in. there were no more plans to be made and no more uncertainties to contemplate. they were on their way back to no. philibert place--marco to his father, the rat to the man he worshipped. each of them was thinking of many things. marco was full of longing to see his father's face and hear his voice again. he wanted to feel the pressure of his hand on his shoulder--to be sure that he was real and not a dream. this last was because during this homeward journey everything that had happened often seemed to be a dream. it had all been so wonderful--the climber standing looking down at them the morning they awakened on the gaisburg; the mountaineer shoemaker measuring his foot in the small shop; the old, old woman and her noble lord; the prince with his face turned upward as he stood on the balcony looking at the moon; the old priest kneeling and weeping for joy; the great cavern with the yellow light upon the crowd of passionate faces; the curtain which fell apart and showed the still eyes and the black hair with the halo about it! now that they were left behind, they all seemed like things he had dreamed. but he had not dreamed them; he was going back to tell his father about them. and how _good_ it would be to feel his hand on his shoulder! the rat gnawed his finger ends a great deal. his thoughts were more wild and feverish than marco's. they leaped forward in spite of him. it was no use to pull himself up and tell himself that he was a fool. now that all was over, he had time to be as great a fool as he was inclined to be. but how he longed to reach london and stand face to face with loristan! the sign was given. the lamp was lighted. what would happen next? his crutches were under his arms before the train drew up. "we're there! we're there!" he cried restlessly to marco. they had no luggage to delay them. they took their bags and followed the crowd along the platform. the rain was rattling like bullets against the high glassed roof. people turned to look at marco, seeing the glow of exultant eagerness in his face. they thought he must be some boy coming home for the holidays and going to make a visit at a place he delighted in. the rain was dancing on the pavements when they reached the entrance. "a cab won't cost much," marco said, "and it will take us quickly." they called one and got into it. each of them had flushed cheeks, and marco's eyes looked as if he were gazing at something a long way off--gazing at it, and wondering. "we've come back!" said the rat, in an unsteady voice. "we've been--and we've come back!" then suddenly turning to look at marco, "does it ever seem to you as if, perhaps, it--it wasn't true?" "yes," marco answered, "but it was true. and it's done." then he added after a second or so of silence, just what the rat had said to himself, "what next?" he said it very low. the way to philibert place was not long. when they turned into the roaring, untidy road, where the busses and drays and carts struggled past each other with their loads, and the tired-faced people hurried in crowds along the pavement, they looked at them all feeling that they had left their dream far behind indeed. but they were at home. it was a good thing to see lazarus open the door and stand waiting before they had time to get out of the cab. cabs stopped so seldom before houses in philibert place that the inmates were always prompt to open their doors. when lazarus had seen this one stop at the broken iron gate, he had known whom it brought. he had kept an eye on the windows faithfully for many a day--even when he knew that it was too soon, even if all was well, for any travelers to return. he bore himself with an air more than usually military and his salute when marco crossed the threshold was formal stateliness itself. but his greeting burst from his heart. "god be thanked!" he said in his deep growl of joy. "god be thanked!" when marco put forth his hand, he bent his grizzled head and kissed it devoutly. "god be thanked!" he said again. "my father?" marco began, "my father is out?" if he had been in the house, he knew he would not have stayed in the back sitting-room. "sir," said lazarus, "will you come with me into his room? you, too, sir," to the rat. he had never said "sir" to him before. he opened the door of the familiar room, and the boys entered. the room was empty. marco did not speak; neither did the rat. they both stood still in the middle of the shabby carpet and looked up at the old soldier. both had suddenly the same feeling that the earth had dropped from beneath their feet. lazarus saw it and spoke fast and with tremor. he was almost as agitated as they were. "he left me at your service--at your command"--he began. "left you?" said marco. "he left us, all three, under orders--to _wait_," said lazarus. "the master has gone." the rat felt something hot rush into his eyes. he brushed it away that he might look at marco's face. the shock had changed it very much. its glowing eager joy had died out, it had turned paler and his brows were drawn together. for a few seconds he did not speak at all, and, when he did speak, the rat knew that his voice was steady only because he willed that it should be so. "if he has gone," he said, "it is because he had a strong reason. it was because he also was under orders." "he said that you would know that," lazarus answered. "he was called in such haste that he had not a moment in which to do more than write a few words. he left them for you on his desk there." marco walked over to the desk and opened the envelope which was lying there. there were only a few lines on the sheet of paper inside and they had evidently been written in the greatest haste. they were these: "the life of my life--for samavia." "he was called--to samavia," marco said, and the thought sent his blood rushing through his veins. "he has gone to samavia!" lazarus drew his hand roughly across his eyes and his voice shook and sounded hoarse. "there has been great disaffection in the camps of the maranovitch," he said. "the remnant of the army has gone mad. sir, silence is still the order, but who knows--who knows? god alone." he had not finished speaking before he turned his head as if listening to sounds in the road. they were the kind of sounds which had broken up the squad, and sent it rushing down the passage into the street to seize on a newspaper. there was to be heard a commotion of newsboys shouting riotously some startling piece of news which had called out an "extra." the rat heard it first and dashed to the front door. as he opened it a newsboy running by shouted at the topmost power of his lungs the news he had to sell: "assassination of king michael maranovitch by his own soldiers! assassination of the maranovitch! extra! extra! extra!" when the rat returned with a newspaper, lazarus interposed between him and marco with great and respectful ceremony. "sir," he said to marco, "i am at your command, but the master left me with an order which i was to repeat to you. he requested you _not_ to read the newspapers until he himself could see you again." both boys fell back. "not read the papers!" they exclaimed together. lazarus had never before been quite so reverential and ceremonious. "your pardon, sir," he said. "i may read them at your orders, and report such things as it is well that you should know. there have been dark tales told and there may be darker ones. he asked that you would not read for yourself. if you meet again--when you meet again"--he corrected himself hastily--"when you meet again, he says you will understand. i am your servant. i will read and answer all such questions as i can." the rat handed him the paper and they returned to the back room together. "you shall tell us what he would wish us to hear," marco said. the news was soon told. the story was not a long one as exact details had not yet reached london. it was briefly that the head of the maranovitch party had been put to death by infuriated soldiers of his own army. it was an army drawn chiefly from a peasantry which did not love its leaders, or wish to fight, and suffering and brutal treatment had at last roused it to furious revolt. "what next?" said marco. "if i were a samavian--" began the rat and then he stopped. lazarus stood biting his lips, but staring stonily at the carpet. not the rat alone but marco also noted a grim change in him. it was grim because it suggested that he was holding himself under an iron control. it was as if while tortured by anxiety he had sworn not to allow himself to look anxious and the resolve set his jaw hard and carved new lines in his rugged face. each boy thought this in secret, but did not wish to put it into words. if he was anxious, he could only be so for one reason, and each realized what the reason must be. loristan had gone to samavia--to the torn and bleeding country filled with riot and danger. if he had gone, it could only have been because its danger called him and he went to face it at its worst. lazarus had been left behind to watch over them. silence was still the order, and what he knew he could not tell them, and perhaps he knew little more than that a great life might be lost. because his master was absent, the old soldier seemed to feel that he must comfort himself with a greater ceremonial reverance than he had ever shown before. he held himself within call, and at marco's orders, as it had been his custom to hold himself with regard to loristan. the ceremonious service even extended itself to the rat, who appeared to have taken a new place in his mind. he also seemed now to be a person to be waited upon and replied to with dignity and formal respect. when the evening meal was served, lazarus drew out loristan's chair at the head of the table and stood behind it with a majestic air. "sir," he said to marco, "the master requested that you take his seat at the table until--while he is not with you." marco took the seat in silence. * * * * * at two o'clock in the morning, when the roaring road was still, the light from the street lamp, shining into the small bedroom, fell on two pale boy faces. the rat sat up on his sofa bed in the old way with his hands clasped round his knees. marco lay flat on his hard pillow. neither of them had been to sleep and yet they had not talked a great deal. each had secretly guessed a good deal of what the other did not say. "there is one thing we must remember," marco had said, early in the night. "we must not be afraid." "no," answered the rat, almost fiercely, "we must not be afraid." "we are tired; we came back expecting to be able to tell it all to him. we have always been looking forward to that. we never thought once that he might be gone. and he _was_ gone. did you feel as if--" he turned towards the sofa, "as if something had struck you on the chest?" "yes," the rat answered heavily. "yes." "we weren't ready," said marco. "he had never gone before; but we ought to have known he might some day be--called. he went because he was called. he told us to wait. we don't know what we are waiting for, but we know that we must not be afraid. to let ourselves be _afraid_ would be breaking the law." "the law!" groaned the rat, dropping his head on his hands, "i'd forgotten about it." "let us remember it," said marco. "this is the time. 'hate not. _fear_ not!'" he repeated the last words again and again. "fear not! fear not," he said. "_nothing_ can harm him." the rat lifted his head, and looked at the bed sideways. "did you think--" he said slowly--"did you _ever_ think that perhaps _he_ knew where the descendant of the lost prince was?" marco answered even more slowly. "if any one knew--surely he might. he has known so much," he said. "listen to this!" broke forth the rat. "i believe he has gone to _tell_ the people. if he does--if he could show them--all the country would run mad with joy. it wouldn't be only the secret party. all samavia would rise and follow any flag he chose to raise. they've prayed for the lost prince for five hundred years, and if they believed they'd got him once more, they'd fight like madmen for him. but there would not be any one to fight. they'd _all_ want the same thing! if they could see the man with ivor's blood in his veins, they'd feel he had come back to them--risen from the dead. they'd believe it!" he beat his fists together in his frenzy of excitement. "it's the time! it's the time!" he cried. "no man could let such a chance go by! he _must_ tell them--he _must_. that _must_ be what he's gone for. he knows--he knows--he's always known!" and he threw himself back on his sofa and flung his arms over his face, lying there panting. "if it is the time," said marco in a low, strained voice--"if it is, and he knows--he will tell them." and he threw his arms up over his own face and lay quite still. neither of them said another word, and the street lamp shone in on them as if it were waiting for something to happen. but nothing happened. in time they were asleep. xxix 'twixt night and morning after this, they waited. they did not know what they waited for, nor could they guess even vaguely how the waiting would end. all that lazarus could tell them he told. he would have been willing to stand respectfully for hours relating to marco the story of how the period of their absence had passed for his master and himself. he told how loristan had spoken each day of his son, how he had often been pale with anxiousness, how in the evenings he had walked to and fro in his room, deep in thought, as he looked down unseeingly at the carpet. "he permitted me to talk of you, sir," lazarus said. "i saw that he wished to hear your name often. i reminded him of the times when you had been so young that most children of your age would have been in the hands of nurses, and yet you were strong and silent and sturdy and traveled with us as if you were not a child at all--never crying when you were tired and were not properly fed. as if you understood--as if you understood," he added, proudly. "if, through the power of god a creature can be a man at six years old, you were that one. many a dark day i have looked into your solemn, watching eyes, and have been half afraid; because that a child should answer one's gaze so gravely seemed almost an unearthly thing." "the chief thing i remember of those days," said marco, "is that he was with me, and that whenever i was hungry or tired, i knew he must be, too." the feeling that they were "waiting" was so intense that it filled the days with strangeness. when the postman's knock was heard at the door, each of them endeavored not to start. a letter might some day come which would tell them--they did not know what. but no letters came. when they went out into the streets, they found themselves hurrying on their way back in spite of themselves. something might have happened. lazarus read the papers faithfully, and in the evening told marco and the rat all the news it was "well that they should hear." but the disorders of samavia had ceased to occupy much space. they had become an old story, and after the excitement of the assassination of michael maranovitch had died out, there seemed to be a lull in events. michael's son had not dared to try to take his father's place, and there were rumors that he also had been killed. the head of the iarovitch had declared himself king but had not been crowned because of disorders in his own party. the country seemed existing in a nightmare of suffering, famine and suspense. "samavia is 'waiting' too," the rat broke forth one night as they talked together, "but it won't wait long--it can't. if i were a samavian and in samavia--" "my father is a samavian and he is in samavia," marco's grave young voice interposed. the rat flushed red as he realized what he had said. "what a fool i am!" he groaned. "i--i beg your pardon--sir." he stood up when he said the last words and added the "sir" as if he suddenly realized that there was a distance between them which was something akin to the distance between youth and maturity--but yet was not the same. "you are a good samavian but--you forget," was marco's answer. lazarus' intense grimness increased with each day that passed. the ceremonious respectfulness of his manner toward marco increased also. it seemed as if the more anxious he felt the more formal and stately his bearing became. it was as though he braced his own courage by doing the smallest things life in the back sitting-room required as if they were of the dignity of services performed in a much larger place and under much more imposing circumstances. the rat found himself feeling almost as if he were an equerry in a court, and that dignity and ceremony were necessary on his own part. he began to experience a sense of being somehow a person of rank, for whom doors were opened grandly and who had vassals at his command. the watchful obedience of fifty vassals embodied itself in the manner of lazarus. "i am glad," the rat said once, reflectively, "that, after all my father was once--different. it makes it easier to learn things perhaps. if he had not talked to me about people who--well, who had never seen places like bone court--this might have been harder for me to understand." when at last they managed to call the squad together, and went to spend a morning at the barracks behind the churchyard, that body of armed men stared at their commander in great and amazed uncertainty. they felt that something had happened to him. they did not know what had happened, but it was some experience which had made him mysteriously different. he did not look like marco, but in some extraordinary way he seemed more akin to him. they only knew that some necessity in loristan's affairs had taken the two away from london and the game. now they had come back, and they seemed older. at first, the squad felt awkward and shuffled its feet uncomfortably. after the first greetings it did not know exactly what to say. it was marco who saved the situation. "drill us first," he said to the rat, "then we can talk about the game." "'tention!" shouted the rat, magnificently. and then they forgot everything else and sprang into line. after the drill was ended, and they sat in a circle on the broken flags, the game became more resplendent than it had ever been. "i've had time to read and work out new things," the rat said. "reading is like traveling." marco himself sat and listened, enthralled by the adroitness of the imagination he displayed. without revealing a single dangerous fact he built up, of their journeyings and experiences, a totally new structure of adventures which would have fired the whole being of any group of lads. it was safe to describe places and people, and he so described them that the squad squirmed in its delight at feeling itself marching in a procession attending the emperor in vienna; standing in line before palaces; climbing, with knapsacks strapped tight, up precipitous mountain roads; defending mountain-fortresses; and storming samavian castles. the squad glowed and exulted. the rat glowed and exulted himself. marco watched his sharp-featured, burning-eyed face with wonder and admiration. this strange power of making things alive was, he knew, what his father would call "genius." "let's take the oath of 'legiance again," shouted cad, when the game was over for the morning. "the papers never said nothin' more about the lost prince, but we are all for him yet! let's take it!" so they stood in line again, marco at the head, and renewed their oath. "the sword in my hand--for samavia! "the heart in my breast--for samavia! "the swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of my life--for samavia. "here grow twelve men--for samavia. "god be thanked!" it was more solemn than it had been the first time. the squad felt it tremendously. both cad and ben were conscious that thrills ran down their spines into their boots. when marco and the rat left them, they first stood at salute and then broke out into a ringing cheer. on their way home, the rat asked marco a question. "did you see mrs. beedle standing at the top of the basement steps and looking after us when we went out this morning?" mrs. beedle was the landlady of the lodgings at no. philibert place. she was a mysterious and dusty female, who lived in the "cellar kitchen" part of the house and was seldom seen by her lodgers. "yes," answered marco, "i have seen her two or three times lately, and i do not think i ever saw her before. my father has never seen her, though lazarus says she used to watch him round corners. why is she suddenly so curious about us?" "i'd like to know," said the rat. "i've been trying to work it out. ever since we came back, she's been peeping round the door of the kitchen stairs, or over balustrades, or through the cellar-kitchen windows. i believe she wants to speak to you, and knows lazarus won't let her if he catches her at it. when lazarus is about, she always darts back." "what does she want to say?" said marco. "i'd like to know," said the rat again. when they reached no. philibert place, they found out, because when the door opened they saw at the top of cellar-kitchen stairs at the end of the passage, the mysterious mrs. beedle, in her dusty black dress and with a dusty black cap on, evidently having that minute mounted from her subterranean hiding-place. she had come up the steps so quickly that lazarus had not yet seen her. "young master loristan!" she called out authoritatively. lazarus wheeled about fiercely. "silence!" he commanded. "how dare you address the young master?" she snapped her fingers at him, and marched forward folding her arms tightly. "you mind your own business," she said. "it's young master loristan i'm speaking to, not his servant. it's time he was talked to about this." "silence, woman!" shouted lazarus. "let her speak," said marco. "i want to hear. what is it you wish to say, madam? my father is not here." "that's just what i want to find out about," put in the woman. "when is he coming back?" "i do not know," answered marco. "that's it," said mrs. beedle. "you're old enough to understand that two big lads and a big fellow like that can't have food and lodgin's for nothing. you may say you don't live high--and you don't--but lodgin's are lodgin's and rent is rent. if your father's coming back and you can tell me when, i mayn't be obliged to let the rooms over your heads; but i know too much about foreigners to let bills run when they are out of sight. your father's out of sight. he," jerking her head towards lazarus, "paid me for last week. how do i know he will pay me for this week!" "the money is ready," roared lazarus. the rat longed to burst forth. he knew what people in bone court said to a woman like that; he knew the exact words and phrases. but they were not words and phrases an aide-de-camp might deliver himself of in the presence of his superior officer; they were not words and phrases an equerry uses at court. he dare not _allow_ himself to burst forth. he stood with flaming eyes and a flaming face, and bit his lips till they bled. he wanted to strike with his crutches. the son of stefan loristan! the bearer of the sign! there sprang up before his furious eyes the picture of the luridly lighted cavern and the frenzied crowd of men kneeling at this same boy's feet, kissing them, kissing his hands, his garments, the very earth he stood upon, worshipping him, while above the altar the kingly young face looked on with the nimbus of light like a halo above it. if he dared speak his mind now, he felt he could have endured it better. but being an aide-de-camp he could not. "do you want the money now?" asked marco. "it is only the beginning of the week and we do not owe it to you until the week is over. is it that you want to have it now?" lazarus had become deadly pale. he looked huge in his fury, and he looked dangerous. "young master," he said slowly, in a voice as deadly as his pallor, and he actually spoke low, "this woman--" mrs. beedle drew back towards the cellar-kitchen steps. "there's police outside," she shrilled. "young master loristan, order him to stand back." "no one will hurt you," said marco. "if you have the money here, lazarus, please give it to me." lazarus literally ground his teeth. but he drew himself up and saluted with ceremony. he put his hand in his breast pocket and produced an old leather wallet. there were but a few coins in it. he pointed to a gold one. "i obey you, sir--since i must--" he said, breathing hard. "that one will pay her for the week." marco took out the sovereign and held it out to the woman. "you hear what he says," he said. "at the end of this week if there is not enough to pay for the next, we will go." lazarus looked so like a hyena, only held back from springing by chains of steel, that the dusty mrs. beedle was afraid to take the money. "if you say that i shall not lose it, i'll wait until the week's ended," she said. "you're nothing but a lad, but you're like your father. you've got a way that a body can trust. if he was here and said he hadn't the money but he'd have it in time, i'd wait if it was for a month. he'd pay it if he said he would. but he's gone; and two boys and a fellow like that one don't seem much to depend on. but i'll trust _you_." "be good enough to take it," said marco. and he put the coin in her hand and turned into the back sitting-room as if he did not see her. the rat and lazarus followed him. "is there so little money left?" said marco. "we have always had very little. when we had less than usual, we lived in poorer places and were hungry if it was necessary. we know how to go hungry. one does not die of it." the big eyes under lazarus' beetling brows filled with tears. "no, sir," he said, "one does not die of hunger. but the insult--the insult! that is not endurable." "she would not have spoken if my father had been here," marco said. "and it is true that boys like us have no money. is there enough to pay for another week?" "yes, sir," answered lazarus, swallowing hard as if he had a lump in his throat, "perhaps enough for two--if we eat but little. if--if the master would accept money from those who would give it, he would always have had enough. but how could such a one as he? how could he? when he went away, he thought--he thought that--" but there he stopped himself suddenly. "never mind," said marco. "never mind. we will go away the day we can pay no more." "i can go out and sell newspapers," said the rat's sharp voice. "i've done it before. crutches help you to sell them. the platform would sell 'em faster still. i'll go out on the platform." "i can sell newspapers, too," said marco. lazarus uttered an exclamation like a groan. "sir," he cried, "no, no! am i not here to go out and look for work? i can carry loads. i can run errands." "we will all three begin to see what we can do," marco said. then--exactly as had happened on the day of their return from their journey--there arose in the road outside the sound of newsboys shouting. this time the outcry seemed even more excited than before. the boys were running and yelling and there seemed more of them than usual. and above all other words was heard "samavia! samavia!" but to-day the rat did not rush to the door at the first cry. he stood still--for several seconds they all three stood still--listening. afterwards each one remembered and told the others that he had stood still because some strange, strong feeling held him _waiting_ as if to hear some great thing. * * * * * 	 it was lazarus who went out of the room first and the rat and marco followed him. one of the upstairs lodgers had run down in haste and opened the door to buy newspapers and ask questions. the newsboys were wild with excitement and danced about as they shouted. the piece of news they were yelling had evidently a popular quality. the lodger bought two papers and was handing out coppers to a lad who was talking loud and fast. "here's a go!" he was saying. "a secret party's risen up and taken samavia! 'twixt night and mornin' they done it! that there lost prince descendant 'as turned up, an' they've _crowned_ him--'twixt night and mornin' they done it! clapt 'is crown on 'is 'ead, so's they'd lose no time." and off he bolted, shouting, "'cendant of lost prince! 'cendant of lost prince made king of samavia!" it was then that lazarus, forgetting even ceremony, bolted also. he bolted back to the sitting-room, rushed in, and the door fell to behind him. marco and the rat found it shut when, having secured a newspaper, they went down the passage. at the closed door, marco stopped. he did not turn the handle. from the inside of the room there came the sound of big convulsive sobs and passionate samavian words of prayer and worshipping gratitude. "let us wait," marco said, trembling a little. "he will not want any one to see him. let us wait." his black pits of eyes looked immense, and he stood at his tallest, but he was trembling slightly from head to foot. the rat had begun to shake, as if from an ague. his face was scarcely human in its fierce unboyish emotion. "marco! marco!" his whisper was a cry. "that was what he went for--_because he knew_!" "yes," answered marco, "that was what he went for." and his voice was unsteady, as his body was. presently the sobs inside the room choked themselves back suddenly. lazarus had remembered. they had guessed he had been leaning against the wall during his outburst. now it was evident that he stood upright, probably shocked at the forgetfulness of his frenzy. so marco turned the handle of the door and went into the room. he shut the door behind him, and they all three stood together. when the samavian gives way to his emotions, he is emotional indeed. lazarus looked as if a storm had swept over him. he had choked back his sobs, but tears still swept down his cheeks. "sir," he said hoarsely, "your pardon! it was as if a convulsion seized me. i forgot everything--even my duty. pardon, pardon!" and there on the worn carpet of the dingy back sitting-room in the marylebone road, he actually went on one knee and kissed the boy's hand with adoration. "you mustn't ask pardon," said marco. "you have waited so long, good friend. you have given your life as my father has. you have known all the suffering a boy has not lived long enough to understand. your big heart--your faithful heart--" his voice broke and he stood and looked at him with an appeal which seemed to ask him to remember his boyhood and understand the rest. "don't kneel," he said next. "you mustn't kneel." and lazarus, kissing his hand again, rose to his feet. "now--we shall _hear_!" said marco. "now the waiting will soon be over." "yes, sir. now, we shall receive commands!" lazarus answered. the rat held out the newspapers. "may we read them yet?" he asked. "until further orders, sir," said lazarus hurriedly and apologetically --"until further orders, it is still better that i should read them first." xxx the game is at an end so long as the history of europe is written and read, the unparalleled story of the rising of the secret party in samavia will stand out as one of its most startling and romantic records. every detail connected with the astonishing episode, from beginning to end, was romantic even when it was most productive of realistic results. when it is related, it always begins with the story of the tall and kingly samavian youth who walked out of the palace in the early morning sunshine singing the herdsmen's song of beauty of old days. then comes the outbreak of the ruined and revolting populace; then the legend of the morning on the mountain side, and the old shepherd coming out of his cave and finding the apparently dead body of the beautiful young hunter. then the secret nursing in the cavern; then the jolting cart piled with sheepskins crossing the frontier, and ending its journey at the barred entrance of the monastery and leaving its mysterious burden behind. and then the bitter hate and struggle of dynasties, and the handful of shepherds and herdsmen meeting in their cavern and binding themselves and their unborn sons and sons' sons by an oath never to be broken. then the passing of generations and the slaughter of peoples and the changing of kings,--and always that oath remembered, and the forgers of the sword, at their secret work, hidden in forests and caves. then the strange story of the uncrowned kings who, wandering in other lands, lived and died in silence and seclusion, often laboring with their hands for their daily bread, but never forgetting that they must be kings, and ready,--even though samavia never called. perhaps the whole story would fill too many volumes to admit of it ever being told fully. but history makes the growing of the secret party clear,--though it seems almost to cease to be history, in spite of its efforts to be brief and speak only of dull facts, when it is forced to deal with the bearing of the sign by two mere boys, who, being blown as unremarked as any two grains of dust across europe, lit the lamp whose flame so flared up to the high heavens that as if from the earth itself there sprang forth samavians by the thousands ready to feed it--iarovitch and maranovitch swept aside forever and only samavians remaining to cry aloud in ardent praise and worship of the god who had brought back to them their lost prince. the battle-cry of his name had ended every battle. swords fell from hands because swords were not needed. the iarovitch fled in terror and dismay; the maranovitch were nowhere to be found. between night and morning, as the newsboy had said, the standard of ivor was raised and waved from palace and citadel alike. from mountain, forest and plain, from city, village and town, its followers flocked to swear allegiance; broken and wounded legions staggered along the roads to join and kneel to it; women and children followed, weeping with joy and chanting songs of praise. the powers held out their scepters to the lately prostrate and ignored country. train-loads of food and supplies of all things needed began to cross the frontier; the aid of nations was bestowed. samavia, at peace to till its land, to raise its flocks, to mine its ores, would be able to pay all back. samavia in past centuries had been rich enough to make great loans, and had stored such harvests as warring countries had been glad to call upon. the story of the crowning of the king had been the wildest of all--the multitude of ecstatic people, famished, in rags, and many of them weak with wounds, kneeling at his feet, praying, as their one salvation and security, that he would go attended by them to their bombarded and broken cathedral, and at its high altar let the crown be placed upon his head, so that even those who perhaps must die of their past sufferings would at least have paid their poor homage to the king ivor who would rule their children and bring back to samavia her honor and her peace. "ivor! ivor!" they chanted like a prayer,--"ivor! ivor!" in their houses, by the roadside, in the streets. "the story of the coronation in the shattered cathedral, whose roof had been torn to fragments by bombs," said an important london paper, "reads like a legend of the middle ages. but, upon the whole, there is in samavia's national character, something of the mediaeval, still." * * * * * lazarus, having bought and read in his top floor room every newspaper recording the details which had reached london, returned to report almost verbatim, standing erect before marco, the eyes under his shaggy brows sometimes flaming with exultation, sometimes filled with a rush of tears. he could not be made to sit down. his whole big body seemed to have become rigid with magnificence. meeting mrs. beedle in the passage, he strode by her with an air so thunderous that she turned and scuttled back to her cellar kitchen, almost falling down the stone steps in her nervous terror. in such a mood, he was not a person to face without something like awe. in the middle of the night, the rat suddenly spoke to marco as if he knew that he was awake and would hear him. "he has given all his life to samavia!" he said. "when you traveled from country to country, and lived in holes and corners, it was because by doing it he could escape spies, and see the people who must be made to understand. no one else could have made them listen. an emperor would have begun to listen when he had seen his face and heard his voice. and he could be silent, and wait for the right time to speak. he could keep still when other men could not. he could keep his face still--and his hands--and his eyes. now all samavia knows what he has done, and that he has been the greatest patriot in the world. we both saw what samavians were like that night in the cavern. they will go mad with joy when they see his face!" "they have seen it now," said marco, in a low voice from his bed. then there was a long silence, though it was not quite silence because the rat's breathing was so quick and hard. "he--must have been at that coronation!" he said at last. "the king--what will the king do to--repay him?" marco did not answer. his breathing could be heard also. his mind was picturing that same coronation--the shattered, roofless cathedral, the ruins of the ancient and magnificent high altar, the multitude of kneeling, famine-scourged people, the battle-worn, wounded and bandaged soldiery! and the king! and his father! where had his father stood when the king was crowned? surely, he had stood at the king's right hand, and the people had adored and acclaimed them equally! "king ivor!" he murmured as if he were in a dream. "king ivor!" the rat started up on his elbow. "you will see him," he cried out. "he's not a dream any longer. the game is not a game now--and it is ended--it is won! it was real--_he_ was real! marco, i don't believe you hear." "yes, i do," answered marco, "but it is almost more a dream than when it was one." "the greatest patriot in the world is like a king himself!" raved the rat. "if there is no bigger honor to give him, he will be made a prince--and commander-in-chief--and prime minister! can't you hear those samavians shouting, and singing, and praying? you'll see it all! do you remember the mountain climber who was going to save the shoes he made for the bearer of the sign? he said a great day might come when one could show them to the people. it's come! he'll show them! i know how they'll take it!" his voice suddenly dropped--as if it dropped into a pit. "you'll see it all. but i shall not." then marco awoke from his dream and lifted his head. "why not?" he demanded. it sounded like a demand. "because i know better than to expect it!" the rat groaned. "you've taken me a long way, but you can't take me to the palace of a king. i'm not such a fool as to think that, even if your father--" he broke off because marco did more than lift his head. he sat upright. "you bore the sign as much as i did," he said. "we bore it together." "who would have listened to _me_?" cried the rat. "_you_ were the son of stefan loristan." "you were the friend of his son," answered marco. "you went at the command of stefan loristan. you were the _army_ of the son of stefan loristan. that i have told you. where i go, you will go. we will say no more of this--not one word." and he lay down again in the silence of a prince of the blood. and the rat knew that he meant what he said, and that stefan loristan also would mean it. and because he was a boy, he began to wonder what mrs. beedle would do when she heard what had happened--what had been happening all the time a tall, shabby "foreigner" had lived in her dingy back sitting-room, and been closely watched lest he should go away without paying his rent, as shabby foreigners sometimes did. the rat saw himself managing to poise himself very erect on his crutches while he told her that the shabby foreigner was--well, was at least the friend of a king, and had given him his crown--and would be made a prince and a commander-in-chief--and a prime minister--because there was no higher rank or honor to give him. and his son--whom she had insulted--was samavia's idol because he had borne the sign. and also that if she were in samavia, and marco chose to do it he could batter her wretched lodging-house to the ground and put her in a prison--"and serve her jolly well right!" the next day passed, and the next; and then there came a letter. it was from loristan, and marco turned pale when lazarus handed it to him. lazarus and the rat went out of the room at once, and left him to read it alone. it was evidently not a long letter, because it was not many minutes before marco called them again into the room. "in a few days, messengers--friends of my father's--will come to take us to samavia. you and i and lazarus are to go," he said to the rat. "god be thanked!" said lazarus. "god be thanked!" before the messengers came, it was the end of the week. lazarus had packed their few belongings, and on saturday mrs. beedle was to be seen hovering at the top of the cellar steps, when marco and the rat left the back sitting-room to go out. "you needn't glare at me!" she said to lazarus, who stood glowering at the door which he had opened for them. "young master loristan, i want to know if you've heard when your father is coming back?" "he will not come back," said marco. "he won't, won't he? well, how about next week's rent?" said mrs. beedle. "your man's been packing up, i notice. he's not got much to carry away, but it won't pass through that front door until i've got what's owing me. people that can pack easy think they can get away easy, and they'll bear watching. the week's up to-day." lazarus wheeled and faced her with a furious gesture. "get back to your cellar, woman," he commanded. "get back under ground and stay there. look at what is stopping before your miserable gate." a carriage was stopping--a very perfect carriage of dark brown. the coachman and footman wore dark brown and gold liveries, and the footman had leaped down and opened the door with respectful alacrity. "they are friends of the master's come to pay their respects to his son," said lazarus. "are their eyes to be offended by the sight of you?" "your money is safe," said marco. "you had better leave us." mrs. beedle gave a sharp glance at the two gentlemen who had entered the broken gate. they were of an order which did not belong to philibert place. they looked as if the carriage and the dark brown and gold liveries were every-day affairs to them. "at all events, they're two grown men, and not two boys without a penny," she said. "if they're your father's friends, they'll tell me whether my rent's safe or not." the two visitors were upon the threshold. they were both men of a certain self-contained dignity of type; and when lazarus opened wide the door, they stepped into the shabby entrance hall as if they did not see it. they looked past its dinginess, and past lazarus, and the rat, and mrs. beedle--_through_ them, as it were,--at marco. he advanced towards them at once. "you come from my father!" he said, and gave his hand first to the elder man, then to the younger. "yes, we come from your father. i am baron rastka--and this is the count vorversk," said the elder man, bowing. "if they're barons and counts, and friends of your father's, they are well-to-do enough to be responsible for you," said mrs. beedle, rather fiercely, because she was somewhat over-awed and resented the fact. "it's a matter of next week's rent, gentlemen. i want to know where it's coming from." the elder man looked at her with a swift cold glance. he did not speak to her, but to lazarus. "what is she doing here?" he demanded. marco answered him. "she is afraid we cannot pay our rent," he said. "it is of great importance to her that she should be sure." "take her away," said the gentleman to lazarus. he did not even glance at her. he drew something from his coat-pocket and handed it to the old soldier. "take her away," he repeated. and because it seemed as if she were not any longer a person at all, mrs. beedle actually shuffled down the passage to the cellar-kitchen steps. lazarus did not leave her until he, too, had descended into the cellar kitchen, where he stood and towered above her like an infuriated giant. "to-morrow he will be on his way to samavia, miserable woman!" he said. "before he goes, it would be well for you to implore his pardon." but mrs. beedle's point of view was not his. she had recovered some of her breath. "i don't know where samavia is," she raged, as she struggled to set her dusty, black cap straight. "i'll warrant it's one of these little foreign countries you can scarcely see on the map--and not a decent english town in it! he can go as soon as he likes, so long as he pays his rent before he does it. samavia, indeed! you talk as if he was buckingham palace!" xxxi "the son of stefan loristan" when a party composed of two boys attended by a big soldierly man-servant and accompanied by two distinguished-looking, elderly men, of a marked foreign type, appeared on the platform of charing cross station they attracted a good deal of attention. in fact, the good looks and strong, well-carried body of the handsome lad with the thick black hair would have caused eyes to turn towards him even if he had not seemed to be regarded as so special a charge by those who were with him. but in a country where people are accustomed to seeing a certain manner and certain forms observed in the case of persons--however young--who are set apart by the fortune of rank and distinction, and where the populace also rather enjoys the sight of such demeanor, it was inevitable that more than one quick-sighted looker-on should comment on the fact that this was not an ordinary group of individuals. "see that fine, big lad over there!" said a workman, whose head, with a pipe in its mouth, stuck out of a third-class smoking carriage window. "he's some sort of a young swell, i'll lay a shillin'! take a look at him," to his mate inside. the mate took a look. the pair were of the decent, polytechnic-educated type, and were shrewd at observation. "yes, he's some sort of young swell," he summed him up. "but he's not english by a long chalk. he must be a young turk, or russian, sent over to be educated. his suite looks like it. all but the ferret-faced chap on crutches. wonder what he is!" a good-natured looking guard was passing, and the first man hailed him. "have we got any swells traveling with us this morning?" he asked, jerking his head towards the group. "that looks like it. any one leaving windsor or sandringham to cross from dover to-day?" the man looked at the group curiously for a moment and then shook his head. "they do look like something or other," he answered, "but no one knows anything about them. everybody's safe in buckingham palace and marlborough house this week. no one either going or coming." no observer, it is true, could have mistaken lazarus for an ordinary attendant escorting an ordinary charge. if silence had not still been strictly the order, he could not have restrained himself. as it was, he bore himself like a grenadier, and stood by marco as if across his dead body alone could any one approach the lad. "until we reach melzarr," he had said with passion to the two gentlemen,--"until i can stand before my master and behold him embrace his son--_behold_ him--i implore that i may not lose sight of him night or day. on my knees, i implore that i may travel, armed, at his side. i am but his servant, and have no right to occupy a place in the same carriage. but put me anywhere. i will be deaf, dumb, blind to all but himself. only permit me to be near enough to give my life if it is needed. let me say to my master, 'i never left him.'" "we will find a place for you," the elder man said, "and if you are so anxious, you may sleep across his threshold when we spend the night at a hotel." "i will not sleep!" said lazarus. "i will watch. suppose there should be demons of maranovitch loose and infuriated in europe? who knows!" "the maranovitch and iarovitch who have not already sworn allegiance to king ivor are dead on battlefields. the remainder are now fedorovitch and praising god for their king," was the answer baron rastka made him. but lazarus kept his guard unbroken. when he occupied the next compartment to the one in which marco traveled, he stood in the corridor throughout the journey. when they descended at any point to change trains, he followed close at the boy's heels, his fierce eyes on every side at once and his hand on the weapon hidden in his broad leather belt. when they stopped to rest in some city, he planted himself in a chair by the bedroom door of his charge, and if he slept he was not aware that nature had betrayed him into doing so. if the journey made by the young bearers of the sign had been a strange one, this was strange by its very contrast. throughout that pilgrimage, two uncared-for waifs in worn clothes had traveled from one place to another, sometimes in third- or fourth-class continental railroad carriages, sometimes in jolting diligences, sometimes in peasants' carts, sometimes on foot by side roads and mountain paths, and forest ways. now, two well-dressed boys in the charge of two men of the class whose orders are obeyed, journeyed in compartments reserved for them, their traveling appurtenances supplying every comfort that luxury could provide. the rat had not known that there were people who traveled in such a manner; that wants could be so perfectly foreseen; that railroad officials, porters at stations, the staff of restaurants, could be by magic transformed into active and eager servants. to lean against the upholstered back of a railway carriage and in luxurious ease look through the window at passing beauties, and then to find books at your elbow and excellent meals appearing at regular hours, these unknown perfections made it necessary for him at times to pull himself together and give all his energies to believing that he was quite awake. awake he was, and with much on his mind "to work out,"--so much, indeed, that on the first day of the journey he had decided to give up the struggle, and wait until fate made clear to him such things as he was to be allowed to understand of the mystery of stefan loristan. what he realized most clearly was that the fact that the son of stefan loristan was being escorted in private state to the country his father had given his life's work to, was never for a moment forgotten. the baron rastka and count vorversk were of the dignity and courteous reserve which marks men of distinction. marco was not a mere boy to them, he was the son of stefan loristan; and they were samavians. they watched over him, not as lazarus did, but with a gravity and forethought which somehow seemed to encircle him with a rampart. without any air of subservience, they constituted themselves his attendants. his comfort, his pleasure, even his entertainment, were their private care. the rat felt sure they intended that, if possible, he should enjoy his journey, and that he should not be fatigued by it. they conversed with him as the rat had not known that men ever conversed with boys,--until he had met loristan. it was plain that they knew what he would be most interested in, and that they were aware he was as familiar with the history of samavia as they were themselves. when he showed a disposition to hear of events which had occurred, they were as prompt to follow his lead as they would have been to follow the lead of a man. that, the rat argued with himself, was because marco had lived so intimately with his father that his life had been more like a man's than a boy's and had trained him in mature thinking. he was very quiet during the journey, and the rat knew he was thinking all the time. the night before they reached melzarr, they slept at a town some hours distant from the capital. they arrived at midnight and went to a quiet hotel. "to-morrow," said marco, when the rat had left him for the night, "to-morrow, we shall see him! god be thanked!" "god be thanked!" said the rat, also. and each saluted the other before they parted. in the morning, lazarus came into the bedroom with an air so solemn that it seemed as if the garments he carried in his hands were part of some religious ceremony. "i am at your command, sir," he said. "and i bring you your uniform." he carried, in fact, a richly decorated samavian uniform, and the first thing marco had seen when he entered was that lazarus himself was in uniform also. his was the uniform of an officer of the king's body guard. "the master," he said, "asks that you wear this on your entrance to melzarr. i have a uniform, also, for your aide-de-camp." when rastka and vorversk appeared, they were in uniforms also. it was a uniform which had a touch of the orient in its picturesque splendor. a short fur-bordered mantle hung by a jeweled chain from the shoulders, and there was much magnificent embroidery of color and gold. "sir, we must drive quickly to the station," baron rastka said to marco. "these people are excitable and patriotic, and his majesty wishes us to remain incognito, and avoid all chance of public demonstration until we reach the capital." they passed rather hurriedly through the hotel to the carriage which awaited them. the rat saw that something unusual was happening in the place. servants were scurrying round corners, and guests were coming out of their rooms and even hanging over the balustrades. as marco got into his carriage, he caught sight of a boy about his own age who was peeping from behind a bush. suddenly he darted away, and they all saw him tearing down the street towards the station as fast as his legs would carry him. but the horses were faster than he was. the party reached the station, and was escorted quickly to its place in a special saloon-carriage which awaited it. as the train made its way out of the station, marco saw the boy who had run before them rush on to the platform, waving his arms and shouting something with wild delight. the people who were standing about turned to look at him, and the next instant they had all torn off their caps and thrown them up in the air and were shouting also. but it was not possible to hear what they said. "we were only just in time," said vorversk, and baron rastka nodded. the train went swiftly, and stopped only once before they reached melzarr. this was at a small station, on the platform of which stood peasants with big baskets of garlanded flowers and evergreens. they put them on the train, and soon both marco and the rat saw that something unusual was taking place. at one time, a man standing on the narrow outside platform of the carriage was plainly seen to be securing garlands and handing up flags to men who worked on the roof. "they are doing something with samavian flags and a lot of flowers and green things!" cried the rat, in excitement. "sir, they are decorating the outside of the carriage," vorversk said. "the villagers on the line obtained permission from his majesty. the son of stefan loristan could not be allowed to pass their homes without their doing homage." "i understand," said marco, his heart thumping hard against his uniform. "it is for my father's sake." * * * * * at last, embowered, garlanded, and hung with waving banners, the train drew in at the chief station at melzarr. "sir," said rastka, as they were entering, "will you stand up that the people may see you? those on the outskirts of the crowd will have the merest glimpse, but they will never forget." marco stood up. the others grouped themselves behind him. there arose a roar of voices, which ended almost in a shriek of joy which was like the shriek of a tempest. then there burst forth the blare of brazen instruments playing the national hymn of samavia, and mad voices joined in it. if marco had not been a strong boy, and long trained in self-control, what he saw and heard might have been almost too much to be borne. when the train had come to a full stop, and the door was thrown open, even rastka's dignified voice was unsteady as he said, "sir, lead the way. it is for us to follow." and marco, erect in the doorway, stood for a moment, looking out upon the roaring, acclaiming, weeping, singing and swaying multitude--and saluted just as he had saluted the squad, looking just as much a boy, just as much a man, just as much a thrilling young human being. then, at the sight of him standing so, it seemed as if the crowd went mad--as the forgers of the sword had seemed to go mad on the night in the cavern. the tumult rose and rose, the crowd rocked, and leapt, and, in its frenzy of emotion, threatened to crush itself to death. but for the lines of soldiers, there would have seemed no chance for any one to pass through it alive. "i am the son of stefan loristan," marco said to himself, in order to hold himself steady. "i am on my way to my father." afterward, he was moving through the line of guarding soldiers to the entrance, where two great state-carriages stood; and there, outside, waited even a huger and more frenzied crowd than that left behind. he saluted there again, and again, and again, on all sides. it was what they had seen the emperor do in vienna. he was not an emperor, but he was the son of stefan loristan who had brought back the king. "you must salute, too," he said to the rat, when they got into the state carriage. "perhaps my father has told them. it seems as if they knew you." the rat had been placed beside him on the carriage seat. he was inwardly shuddering with a rapture of exultation which was almost anguish. the people were looking at him--shouting at him--surely it seemed like it when he looked at the faces nearest in the crowd. perhaps loristan-- "listen!" said marco suddenly, as the carriage rolled on its way. "they are shouting to us in samavian, 'the bearers of the sign!' that is what they are saying now. 'the bearers of the sign.'" they were being taken to the palace. that baron rastka and count vorversk had explained in the train. his majesty wished to receive them. stefan loristan was there also. the city had once been noble and majestic. it was somewhat oriental, as its uniforms and national costumes were. there were domed and pillared structures of white stone and marble, there were great arches, and city gates, and churches. but many of them were half in ruins through war, and neglect, and decay. they passed the half-unroofed cathedral, standing in the sunshine in its great square, still in all its disaster one of the most beautiful structures in europe. in the exultant crowd were still to be seen haggard faces, men with bandaged limbs and heads or hobbling on sticks and crutches. the richly colored native costumes were most of them worn to rags. but their wearers had the faces of creatures plucked from despair to be lifted to heaven. "ivor! ivor!" they cried; "ivor! ivor!" and sobbed with rapture. the palace was as wonderful in its way as the white cathedral. the immensely wide steps of marble were guarded by soldiers. the huge square in which it stood was filled with people whom the soldiers held in check. "i am his son," marco said to himself, as he descended from the state carriage and began to walk up the steps which seemed so enormously wide that they appeared almost like a street. up he mounted, step by step, the rat following him. and as he turned from side to side, to salute those who made deep obeisance as he passed, he began to realize that he had seen their faces before. "these who are guarding the steps," he said, quickly under his breath to the rat, "are the forgers of the sword!" there were rich uniforms everywhere when he entered the palace, and people who bowed almost to the ground as he passed. he was very young to be confronted with such an adoring adulation and royal ceremony; but he hoped it would not last too long, and that after he had knelt to the king and kissed his hand, he would see his father and hear his voice. just to hear his voice again, and feel his hand on his shoulder! through the vaulted corridors, to the wide-opened doors of a magnificent room he was led at last. the end of it seemed a long way off as he entered. there were many richly dressed people who stood in line as he passed up toward the canopied dais. he felt that he had grown pale with the strain of excitement, and he had begun to feel that he must be walking in a dream, as on each side people bowed low and curtsied to the ground. he realized vaguely that the king himself was standing, awaiting his approach. but as he advanced, each step bearing him nearer to the throne, the light and color about him, the strangeness and magnificence, the wildly joyous acclamation of the populace outside the palace, made him feel rather dazzled, and he did not clearly see any one single face or thing. "his majesty awaits you," said a voice behind him which seemed to be baron rastka's. "are you faint, sir? you look pale." he drew himself together, and lifted his eyes. for one full moment, after he had so lifted them, he stood quite still and straight, looking into the deep beauty of the royal face. then he knelt and kissed the hands held out to him--kissed them both with a passion of boy love and worship. the king had the eyes he had longed to see--the king's hands were those he had longed to feel again upon his shoulder--the king was his father! the "stefan loristan" who had been the last of those who had waited and labored for samavia through five hundred years, and who had lived and died kings, though none of them till now had worn a crown! his father was the king! * * * * * it was not that night, nor the next, nor for many nights that the telling of the story was completed. the people knew that their king and his son were rarely separated from each other; that the prince's suite of apartments were connected by a private passage with his father's. the two were bound together by an affection of singular strength and meaning, and their love for their people added to their feeling for each other. in the history of what their past had been, there was a romance which swelled the emotional samavian heart near to bursting. by mountain fires, in huts, under the stars, in fields and in forests, all that was known of their story was told and retold a thousand times, with sobs of joy and prayer breaking in upon the tale. but none knew it as it was told in a certain quiet but stately room in the palace, where the man once known only as "stefan loristan," but whom history would call the first king ivor of samavia, told his share of it to the boy whom samavians had a strange and superstitious worship for, because he seemed so surely their lost prince restored in body and soul--almost the kingly lad in the ancient portrait--some of them half believed when he stood in the sunshine, with the halo about his head. it was a wonderful and intense story, that of the long wanderings and the close hiding of the dangerous secret. among all those who had known that a man who was an impassioned patriot was laboring for samavia, and using all the power of a great mind and the delicate ingenuity of a great genius to gain friends and favor for his unhappy country, there had been but one who had known that stefan loristan had a claim to the samavian throne. he had made no claim, he had sought--not a crown--but the final freedom of the nation for which his love had been a religion. "not the crown!" he said to the two young bearers of the sign as they sat at his feet like schoolboys--"not a throne. 'the life of my life--for samavia.' that was what i worked for--what we have all worked for. if there had risen a wiser man in samavia's time of need, it would not have been for me to remind them of their lost prince. i could have stood aside. but no man arose. the crucial moment came--and the one man who knew the secret, revealed it. then--samavia called, and i answered." he put his hand on the thick, black hair of his boy's head. "there was a thing we never spoke of together," he said. "i believed always that your mother died of her bitter fears for me and the unending strain of them. she was very young and loving, and knew that there was no day when we parted that we were sure of seeing each other alive again. when she died, she begged me to promise that your boyhood and youth should not be burdened by the knowledge she had found it so terrible to bear. i should have kept the secret from you, even if she had not so implored me. i had never meant that you should know the truth until you were a man. if i had died, a certain document would have been sent to you which would have left my task in your hands and made my plans clear. you would have known then that you also were a prince ivor, who must take up his country's burden and be ready when samavia called. i tried to help you to train yourself for any task. you never failed me." "your majesty," said the rat, "i began to work it out, and think it must be true that night when we were with the old woman on the top of the mountain. it was the way she looked at--at his highness." "say 'marco,'" threw in prince ivor. "it's easier. he was my army, father." stefan loristan's grave eyes melted. "say 'marco,'" he said. "you were his army--and more--when we both needed one. it was you who invented the game!" "thanks, your majesty," said the rat, reddening scarlet. "you do me great honor! but he would never let me wait on him when we were traveling. he said we were nothing but two boys. i suppose that's why it's hard to remember, at first. but my mind went on working until sometimes i was afraid i might let something out at the wrong time. when we went down into the cavern, and i saw the forgers of the sword go mad over him--i _knew_ it must be true. but i didn't dare to speak. i knew you meant us to wait; so i waited." "you are a faithful friend," said the king, "and you have always obeyed orders!" a great moon was sailing in the sky that night--just such a moon as had sailed among the torn rifts of storm clouds when the prince at vienna had come out upon the balcony and the boyish voice had startled him from the darkness of the garden below. the clearer light of this night's splendor drew them out on a balcony also--a broad balcony of white marble which looked like snow. the pure radiance fell upon all they saw spread before them--the lovely but half-ruined city, the great palace square with its broken statues and arches, the splendid ghost of the unroofed cathedral whose high altar was bare to the sky. they stood and looked at it. there was a stillness in which all the world might have ceased breathing. "what next?" said prince ivor, at last speaking quietly and low. "what next, father?" "great things which will come, one by one," said the king, "if we hold ourselves ready." prince ivor turned his face from the lovely, white, broken city, and put his brown hand on his father's arm. "upon the ledge that night--" he said, "father, you remember--?" the king was looking far away, but he bent his head: "yes. that will come, too," he said. "can you repeat it?" "yes," said ivor, "and so can the aide-de-camp. we've said it a hundred times. we believe it's true. 'if the descendant of the lost prince is brought back to rule in samavia, he will teach his people the law of the one, from his throne. he will teach his son, and that son will teach his son, and he will teach his. and through such as these, the whole world will learn the order and the law.'" transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. dialect spellings, contractions and discrepancies have been retained. ted and the telephone by sara ware bassett _the invention series_ paul and the printing press steve and the steam engine ted and the telephone [illustration: "would you like to go to college if you could?" persisted the elder man. frontispiece. _see page_ .] the invention series ted and the telephone by sara ware bassett with illustrations by william f. stecher boston little, brown, and company _copyright, _, by little, brown, and company. _all rights reserved_ published april, printed in the united states of america to the memory of edwin t. holmes who played a part in the wonderful telephone story, this book is affectionately inscribed. s. w. b. it gives me much pleasure to acknowledge the generosity of mr. thomas augustus watson, the associate of and co-worker with mr. alexander graham bell, who has placed at my disposal his "birth and babyhood of the telephone." also the courtesy of mrs. edwin t. holmes who has kindly allowed me to make use of her husband's book: "a wonderful fifty years." the author. contents chapter page i an unheralded champion ii ted renews old times iii going to housekeeping iv the first night in the shack v a visitor vi more guests vii mr. laurie viii diplomacy and its results ix the story of the first telephone x what came afterward xi the rest of the story xii conspirators xiii what ted heard xiv the fernalds win their point xv what came of the plot xvi another calamity xvii surprises illustrations "would you like to go to college if you could?" persisted the elder man _frontispiece_ "you can't be spreadin' wires an' jars an' things round my room!" protested mr. turner page soon he came within sight of the shack which stood at the water's edge " he heard an answering shout and a second later saw ted turner dash through the pines " ted and the telephone chapter i an unheralded champion ted turner lived at freeman's falls, a sleepy little town on the bank of a small new hampshire river. there were cotton mills in the town; in fact, had there not been probably no town would have existed. the mills had not been attracted to the town; the town had arisen because of the mills. the river was responsible for the whole thing, for its swift current and foaming cascades had brought the mills, and the mills in turn had brought the village. ted's father was a shipping clerk in one of the factories and his two older sisters were employed there also. some day ted himself expected to enter the great brick buildings, as the boys of the town usually did, and work his way up. perhaps in time he might become a superintendent or even one of the firm. who could tell? such miracles did happen. not that ted turner preferred a life in the cotton mills to any other career. not at all. deep down in his soul he detested the humming, panting, noisy place with its clatter of wheels, its monotonous piecework, and its limited horizon. but what choice had he? the mills were there and the only alternative before him. it was the mills or nothing for people seldom came to live at freeman's falls if they did not intend to enter the factories of fernald and company. it was fernald and company that had led his father to sell the tumble-down farm in vermont and move with his family to new hampshire. "there is no money in farming," announced he, after the death of ted's mother. "suppose we pull up stakes and go to some mill town where we can all find work." and therefore, without consideration for personal preferences, they had looked up mill towns and eventually settled on freeman's falls, not because they particularly liked its location but because labor was needed there. a very sad decision it was for ted who had passionately loved the old farm on which he had been born, the half-blind gray horse, the few hens, and the lean jersey cattle that his father asserted ate more than they were worth. to be cooped up in a manufacturing center after having had acres of open country to roam over was not an altogether joyous prospect. would there be any chestnut, walnut, or apple trees at freeman's falls, he wondered. alas, the question was soon answered. within the village there were almost no trees at all except a few sickly elms and maples whose foliage was pale for want of sunshine and grimy with smoke. in fact, there was not much of anything in the town save the long dingy factories that bordered the river; the group of cheap and gaudy shops on the main street; and rows upon rows of wooden houses, all identical in design, walling in the highway. it was not a spot where green things flourished. there was not room for anything to grow and if there had been the soot from the towering chimneys would soon have settled upon any venturesome leaf or flower and quickly shrivelled it beneath a cloak of cinders. even the river was coated with a scum of oil and refuse that poured from the waste pipes of the factories into the stream and washed up along the shores which might otherwise have been fair and verdant. of course, if one could get far enough away there was beauty in plenty for in the outlying country stretched vistas of splendid pines, fields lush with ferns and flowers, and the unsullied span of the river, where in all its mountain-born purity it rushed gaily down toward the village. here, well distant from the manufacturing atmosphere, were the homes of the fernalds who owned the mills, the great estates of mr. lawrence fernald and mr. clarence fernald who every day rolled to their offices in giant limousines. everybody in freeman's falls knew them by sight,--the big boss, as he was called, and his married son; and everybody thought how lucky they were to own the mills and take the money instead of doing the work. at least, that was what gossip said they did. unquestionably it was much nicer to live at aldercliffe, the stately colonial mansion of mr. lawrence fernald; or at pine lea, the home of mr. clarence fernald, where sweeping lawns, bright awnings, gardens, conservatories, and flashing fountains made a wonderland of the place. troupes of laughing guests seemed always to be going and coming at both houses and there were horses and motor-cars, tennis courts, a golf course, and canoes and launches moored at the edge of the river. freeman's falls was a very stupid spot when contrasted with all this jollity. it must be far pleasanter, too, when winter came to hurry off to new york for the holidays or to florida or california, as mr. clarence fernald frequently did. with money enough to do whatever one pleased, how could a person help being happy? and yet there were those who declared that both mr. lawrence and mr. clarence fernald would have bartered their fortunes to have had the crippled heir to the fernald millions strong like other boys. occasionally ted had caught a glimpse of this laurie fernald, a fourteen-year-old lad with thin, colorless face and eyes that were haunting with sadness. in the village he passed as "the poor little chap" or as "poor master laurie" and the employees always doffed their caps to him because they pitied him. whether one liked mr. fernald or mr. clarence or did not, every one united in being sorry for mr. laurie. perhaps the invalid realized this; at any rate, he never failed to return the greetings accorded him with a smile so gentle and sweet that it became a pleasure in the day of whomsoever received it. it was said at the factories that the reason the fernalds went to new york and florida and california was because of mr. laurie; that was the reason, too, why so many celebrated doctors kept coming to pine lea, and why both mr. fernald and mr. clarence were often so sharp and unreasonable. in fact, almost everything the fernalds did or did not do, said or did not say, could be traced back to mr. laurie. from the moment the boy was born--nay, long before--both mr. lawrence fernald for whom he was named, and his father, mr. clarence fernald, had planned how he should inherit the great mills and carry on the business they had founded. for years they had talked and talked of what should happen when mr. laurie grew up. and then had come the sudden and terrible illness, and after weeks of anxiety everybody realized that if mr. laurie lived he would be fortunate, and that he would never be able to carry on any business at all. in what hushed tones the townspeople talked of the tragedy and how they speculated on what the fernalds would do _now_. and how surprised the superintendent of one of the mills (who, by the way, had six husky boys of his own) had been to have mr. lawrence fernald bridle with rage when he said he was sorry for him. a proud old man was mr. fernald, senior. he did not fancy being pitied, as his employees soon found out. possibly mr. clarence fernald did not like it any better but whether he did or not he at least had the courtesy not to show his feelings. thus the years had passed and mr. laurie had grown from childhood to boyhood. he could now ride about in a motor-car if lifted into it; but he could still walk very little, although specialists had not given up hope that perhaps in time he might be able to do so. there was a rumor that he was strapped into a steel jacket which he was forced to wear continually, and the mill hands commented on its probable discomfort and wondered how the boy could always keep so even-tempered. for it was unavoidable that the large force of servants from aldercliffe and pine lea should neighbor back and forth with the townsfolk and in this way many a tale of mr. laurie's rare disposition reached the village. and even had not these stories been rife, anybody could easily have guessed the patience and sweetness of mr. laurie's nature from his smile. among the employees of fernald and company he was popularly known as the little master and between him and them there existed a friendliness which neither his father nor his grandfather had ever been able to call out. the difference was that for mr. lawrence fernald the men did only what they were paid to do; for mr. clarence they did fully what they were paid to do; and for mr. laurie they would gladly have done what they were paid to do and a great deal more. "the poor lad!" they murmured one to another. "the poor little chap!" of course it followed that no one envied mr. laurie his wealth. how could they? one might perhaps envy mr. fernald, senior, or mr. clarence; but never mr. laurie even though the fernald fortune and all the houses and gardens, with their miles of acreage, as well as the vast cotton mills would one day be his. even ted turner, poor as he was, and having only the prospect of the factories ahead of him, never thought of wishing to exchange his lot in life for that of mr. laurie. he would rather toil for fernald and company to his dying day than be this weak, dependent creature who was compelled to be carried about by those stronger than himself. nevertheless, in spite of this, there were intervals when ted did wish he might exchange houses with mr. laurie. not that ted turner coveted the big colonial mansion, or its fountains, its pergolas, its wide lawns; but he did love gardens, flowers, trees, and sky, and of these he had very little. he was, to be sure, fortunate in living on the outskirts of the village where he had more green and blue than did most of the mill workers. still, it was not like vermont and the unfenced miles of country to which he had been accustomed. a small tenement in freeman's falls, even though it had steam heat and running water, was in his opinion a poor substitute for all that had been left behind. but ted's father liked the new home better, far better, and so did ruth and nancy, his sisters. many a time the boy heard his father congratulating himself that he was clear of the farm and no longer had to get up in the cold of the early morning to feed and water the stock and do the milking. and ruth and nancy echoed these felicitations and rejoiced that now there was neither butter to churn nor hens to care for. even ted was forced to confess that freeman's falls had its advantages. certainly the school was better, and as his father had resolved to keep him in it at least a part of the high-school term, ted felt himself to be a lucky boy. he liked to study. he did not like all studies, of course. for example, he detested latin, french, and history; but he revelled in shop-work, mathematics, and the sciences. there was nothing more to his taste than putting things together, especially electrical things; and already he had tried at home several crude experiments with improvised telegraphs, telephones, and wireless contrivances. doubtless he would have had many more such playthings had not materials cost so much, money been so scarce, and ruth and nancy so timid. they did not like mysterious sparks and buzzings in the pantry and about the kitchen and told him so in no uncertain terms. "the next thing you know you'll be setting the house afire!" ruth had asserted. "besides, we've no room for wires and truck around here. you'll have to take your clutter somewhere else." and so ted had obediently bundled his precious possessions into the room where he slept with his father only to be as promptly ejected from that refuge also. "you can't be spreadin' wires an' jars an' things round my room!" protested mr. turner with annoyance. [illustration: "you can't be spreadin' wires an' jars an' things round my room!" protested mr. turner. _page_ .] it did not seem to occur to him that it was ted's room as well,--the only room the boy had. altogether, his treasures found no welcome anywhere in the tiny apartment, and at length convinced of this, ted took everything down and stowed it away in a box beneath the bed, henceforth confining his scientific adventures to the school laboratories where they might possibly have remained forever but for mr. wharton, the manager of the farms at aldercliffe and pine lea. chapter ii ted renews old times mr. wharton was about the last person on earth one would have connected with boxes of strings and wires hidden away beneath beds. he was a graduate of a massachusetts agricultural college; a keen-eyed, quick, impatient creature toward whom people in general stood somewhat in awe. he had the reputation of being a top-notch farmer and those who knew him declared with zest that there was nothing he did not know about soils, fertilizers, and crops. there was no nonsense when mr. wharton appeared on the scene. the men who worked for him soon found that out. you didn't lean on your hoe, light your pipe, and hazard the guess that there would be rain to-morrow; you just hoed as hard as you could and did not stop to guess anything. now it happened that it was haying time both at aldercliffe and pine lea and the rumor got abroad that the crop was an unusually heavy one; that mr. wharton was short of help and ready to hire at a good wage extra men from the adjoining village. mr. turner brought the tidings home from the mill one june night when he returned from work. "why don't you try for a job up at aldercliffe, my lad?" concluded he, after stating the case. "ever since you were knee-high to a grasshopper you had a knack for pitching hay. besides, you'd make a fine bit of money and the work would be no heavier than handling freight down at the mills. you've got to work somewhere through your summer vacation." he made the latter statement as a matter of course for a matter of course it had long since become. ted always worked when he was not studying. vacations, holidays, saturdays, he was always busy earning money for if he had not been, there would have been no chance of his going to school the rest of the time. sometimes he did errands for one of the dry-goods stores; sometimes, if there were a vacancy, he helped in fernald and company's shipping rooms; sometimes he worked at the town market or rode about on the grocer's wagon, delivering orders. by one means or another he had usually contrived, since he was quite a small boy, to pick up odd sums that went toward his clothes and "keep." as he grew older, these sums had increased until now they had become a recognized part of the family income. for it was understood that ted would turn in toward the household expenses all that he earned. his father had never believed in a boy having money to spend and even if he had every cent which the turners could scrape together was needed at home. ted knew well how much sugar and butter cost and therefore without demur he cheerfully placed in the hands of his sister ruth, who ran the house, every farthing that was given him. from childhood this sense of responsibility had always been in his background. he had known what it was to go hungry that he might have shoes and go without shoes that he might have underwear. money had been very scarce on the vermont farm, and although there was now more of it than there ever had been in the past, nevertheless it was not plentiful. therefore, as vacation was approaching and he must get a job anyway, he decided to present himself before mr. wharton and ask for a chance to help in harvesting the hay crops at aldercliffe and pine lea. "you are younger than the men i am hiring," mr. wharton said, after he had scanned the lad critically. "how old are you?" "fourteen." "i thought as much. what i want is men." "but i have farmed all my life," protested ted with spirit. "indeed!" the manager exclaimed not unkindly. "where?" "in vermont." "you don't say so! i was born in the green mountains," was the quick retort. "where did you live?" "newfane." instantly the man's face lighted. "i know that place well. and you came from newfane here? how did you happen to do that?" "my father could not make the farm pay and we needed money." "humph! were you sorry to give up farming?" "yes, sir. i didn't want to come to freeman's falls. but," added the boy brightening, "i like the school here." the manager paused, studying the sharp, eager face, the spare figure, and the fine carriage of the lad before him. "do you like haying?" asked he presently. "not particularly," ted owned with honesty. mr. wharton laughed. "i see you are a human boy," he said. "if you don't like it, why are you so anxious to do it now?" "i've got to earn some money or give up going to school in the fall." "oh, so that's it! and what are you working at in school that is so alluring?" demanded the man with a quizzical glance. "electricity." "electricity!" "wireless, telegraphs, telephones, and things like that," put in ted. for comment mr. wharton tipped back in his chair and once more let his eye wander over the boy's face; then he wheeled abruptly around to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a yellow card across which he scrawled a line with his fountain pen. "you may begin work to-morrow morning," he remarked curtly. "if it is pleasant, stevens will be cutting the further meadow with a gang of men. come promptly at eight o'clock, prepared to stay all day, and bring this card with you." he waved the bit of pasteboard to and fro in the air an instant to be certain that the ink on it was dry and afterward handed it to ted. instinctively the boy's gaze dropped to the message written upon it and before he realized it he had read the brief words: "ted turner. he says he has farmed in vermont. if he shows any evidence of it keep him. if not turn him off. wharton." the man in the chair watched him as he read. "well?" said he. "i beg your pardon, sir. i did not mean to read it," ted replied with a start. "i'm very much obliged to you for giving me the job." "i don't see that you've got it yet." "but i shall have," asserted the lad confidently. "all i asked was a chance." "that's all the world gives any of us," responded the manager gruffly, as he drew forth a sheet of paper and began to write. "nobody can develop our brains, train our muscles, or save our souls but ourselves." with this terse observation he turned his back on the boy, and after loitering a moment to make sure that he had nothing more to say, the lad slipped away, triumphantly bearing with him the coveted morsel of yellow pasteboard. that its import was noncommittal and even contained a tang of skepticism troubled him not a whit. the chief thing was that he had wrested from the manager an opportunity, no matter how grudgingly accorded, to show what he was worth. he could farm and he knew it and he had no doubt that he could demonstrate the fact to any boss he might encounter. therefore with high courage he was promptly on hand the next morning and even before the time assigned he approached stevens, the superintendent. "what do you want, youngster?" demanded the man sharply. he was in a hurry and it was obvious that something had nettled him and that he was in no humor to be delayed. "i came to help with the haying." "we don't want any boys as young as you," stevens returned, moving away. "i've a card from mr. wharton." "a card, eh? why didn't you say so in the first place? shell it out." shyly ted produced his magic fragment of paper which the overseer read with disapproval in his glance. "well, since wharton wants you tried out, you can pitch in with the crowd," grumbled he. "but i still think you're too young. i've had boys your age before and never found them any earthly use. however, you won't be here long if you're not--that's one thing. you'll find a pitchfork in the barn. follow along behind the men who are mowing and spread the grass out." "i know." "oh, you do, do you! trust people your size for knowing everything." to the final remark the lad vouchsafed no reply. instead he moved away and soon returned, fork in hand. what a flood of old memories came surging back with the touch of the implement! again he was in vermont in the stretch of mowings that fronted the old white house where he was born. the scent of the hay in his nostrils stirred him like an elixir, and with a thrill of pleasure he set to work. he had not anticipated toiling out there in the hot sunshine at a task which he had always disliked; but to-day, by a strange miracle, it did not seem to be a task so much as a privilege. how familiar the scene was! as he approached the group of older men it took him only a second to see where he was needed and he thrust his pitchfork into the swath at his feet with a swing of easy grace. "guess you've done this job before," called a man behind him after he had worked for an interval. "yes, i have." "you show it," was the brief observation. they moved on in silence up the field. "where'd you learn to handle that fork, sonny?" another voice shouted, as they neared the farther wall. "in vermont," laughed ted. "i judged as much," grunted the speaker. "they don't train up farmers of your size in this part of the world." ted flushed with pleasure and for the first time he stopped work and mopped the perspiration from his forehead. he was hot and thirsty but he found himself strangely exhilarated by the exercise and the sweet morning air and sunshine. again he took up his fork and tossed the newly cut grass up into the light, spreading it on the ground with a methodical sweep of his young arm. the sun had risen higher now and its dazzling brilliance poured all about him. up and down the meadow he went and presently he was surprised to find himself alone near the point from which he had started. his fellow-laborers were no longer in sight. the field was very still and because it was, ted began to whistle softly to himself. he was startled to hear a quiet laugh at his elbow. "don't you ever eat anything, kid?" mr. wharton was standing beside him, a flicker of amusement in his gray eyes. "i didn't know it was noon," gasped ted. "we'll have to tie an alarm clock on you," chuckled the manager. "the gang stopped work a quarter of an hour ago." "i didn't notice they had." the boy flushed. he felt very foolish to have been discovered working there all by himself in this ridiculous fashion. "i wanted to finish this side of the field and i forgot about the time," he stammered apologetically. "have you done it to your satisfaction?" "yes, i'm just through." for the life of him ted could not tell whether the manager was laughing at him or not. he kicked the turf sheepishly. "aren't you tired?" inquired mr. wharton at length. "no--at least--well, i haven't thought about it. perhaps i am a little." "and well you may be. you've put in a stiff morning's work. you'd better go and wash up now and eat your lunch. take your full hour of rest. no matter if the others do get back here before you. stevens says you are worth any two of them, anyway." "it's just that i'm used to it," was the modest reply. "we'll let it go at that," mr. wharton returned ambiguously. "and one thing more before you go. you needn't worry about staying on. we can use you one way or another all summer. there'll always be work for a boy who knows how to do a job well." chapter iii going to housekeeping thus it came about that ted turner began the long, golden days of his summer vacation at the great estates of the fernalds, and soon he had made himself such an indispensable part of the farming staff that both mr. wharton and mr. stevens came to rely on him for many services outside of those usually turned over to the men. "just step over to the south lot at pine lea, ted, and see if those fellows are thinning the beets properly," mr. wharton would say. "i gave them their orders but they may not have taken them in. you know how the thing should be done. sing out to them if they are not doing the job right." or: "mr. stevens and i shall be busy this morning checking up the pay roll. suppose you have an eye on the hilling up of the potatoes, ted. show the men how you want it done and start them at it. i'll be over later to see how it's going." frequently, instead of working, the boy was called in to give an opinion on some agricultural matter with which he had had experience. "we are finding white grubs in the corner of the pine lea garden. they are gnawing off the roots of the plants and making no end of trouble. what did you do to get rid of them when you were up in vermont?" "salt and wood ashes worked better than anything else," ted would reply modestly. "it might not be any good here but we had luck with it at home." "we can try it, at least. you tell mr. stevens what the proportions are and how you applied it." and because the advice was followed by a successful extermination of the plague, the lad's prestige increased and he was summoned to future conclaves when troublesome conditions arose. now and then there was a morning when mr. stevens would remark to mr. wharton: "i've got to go to the falls to-day to see about some freight. ted turner will be round here, though, and i guess things will be all right. the men can ask him if they want anything." and so it went. first ted filled one corner, then another. he did errands for mr. wharton, very special errands, that required thought and care, and which the manager would not have entrusted to every one. sometimes he ventured valuable suggestions which mr. stevens, who really had had far less farming experience than he, was only too grateful to follow. if the boy felt at all puffed up by the dependence placed upon him, he certainly failed to show it. on the contrary he did his part enthusiastically, faithfully, generously, and without a thought of praise or reward. although he was young to direct others, when he did give orders to the men he was tactful and retiring enough to issue his commands in the form of wishes and immediately they were heeded without protest. he never shirked the hard work he asked others to perform but was always ready to roll up the sleeves of his blue jeans and pitch with vigor into any task, no matter how menial it was. had he been arrogant and made an overbearing use of his authority, the men would quickly have rated him as a conceited little popinjay, the pet of the boss, and made his life miserable; but as he remained quite unspoiled by the preference shown him and exhibited toward every one he encountered a kindly sympathy and consideration, the workmen soon accepted him as a matter of course and even began to turn to him whenever a dilemma confronted them. perhaps ted was too genuinely interested in what he was doing to think much about himself or realize that the place he held was an unusual one. at home he and his father had threshed out many a problem together and each given to it the best his brain had to offer, without thought of the difference in their ages. sometimes ted's way proved the better, sometimes mr. turner's. whichever plan promised to bring the more successful results was followed without regard for the years of him who had sponsored it. they were working together and for the same goal and what did it matter which of them had proposed the scheme they finally followed? to get the work completed and lay low the obstacles in their path were the only issues of importance. so it was now. things at aldercliffe and pine lea must be done and done well, and only what furthered that end counted. nevertheless, ted would not have been a human boy had he not been pleased when some idea of his was adopted and found to be of use; this triumph, however, was less because the programme followed was his own than because it put forward the enterprise in hand. there was a satisfaction in finding the key to a balking problem and see it cease to be a problem. it was fun, for example, to think about the potatoes and then say to mr. wharton: "do you know, mr. wharton, i believe if we tried a different spray on that crop that isn't doing well it might help matters." and when the new concoction was tried and it did help matters, what a glow of happiness came with the success! what wonder that as the days passed, the niche awarded the lad grew bigger and bigger! "there is no way you could come up here and live, is there, ted?" mr. wharton inquired one day. "i'd give a good deal to have you here on the spot. sometimes i want to talk with you outside working hours and i can't for the life of me lay hands on you. it's the deuce of a way to freeman's falls and you have no telephone. if you were here----" he paused meditatively, then continued, "there's a little shack down by the river which isn't in use. you may remember seeing it. it was started years ago as a boathouse for mr. laurie's canoes and then--well, it was never finished. it came to me the other day that we might clean it up, get some furnishings, and let you have it. how would the notion strike you?" ted's eyes sparkled. "i'd like it of all things, sir!" returned he instantly. "you wouldn't be timid about sleeping off there by yourself?" "no, indeed!" "well, well! i had no idea you would listen to such a plan, much less like it. suppose you go down there to-day and overhaul the place. find out what would be required to make you comfortable and we will see what we can do about it. i should want you fixed up so you would be all right, you know. while we could not afford to go into luxuries, there would be no need for you to put up with makeshifts." "but i am quite used to roughing it," protested ted. "i've often camped out." "camping is all very well for a while but after a time it ceases to be a joke. no, if you move up here to accommodate us, you must have decent quarters. both mr. fernald and mr. clarence would insist on that, i am certain. so make sure that the cabin is tight and write down what you think it would be necessary for you to have. then we'll see about getting the things for you." "you are mighty good, sir." "nonsense! it is for our own convenience," mr. wharton replied gruffly. "shall i--do you mean that i am to go over there after work to-night?" "no. go now. cut along right away." "but i was to help mr. stevens with the----" "stevens will have to get on without you. tell him so from me. you can say i've set you at another job." with springing step ted hurried away. he was not sorry to exchange the tedious task of hoeing corn for the delightful one of furnishing a domicile for himself. what sport it would be to have at last a place which he could call his own! he could bring his books from home, his box of electrical things--all his treasures--and settle down in his kingdom like a young lord. he did not care at all if he had only a hammock to sleep in. the great satisfaction would be to be his own master and monarch of his own realm, no matter how tiny it was. like lightning his imagination sped from one dream to another. if only mr. wharton would let him run some wires from the barn to the shack, what electrical contrivances he could rig up! he could then light the room and heat it, too; he could even cook by electricity. probably, however, mr. wharton would consider such a notion out of the question and much too ambitious. even though the fernalds had an electrical plant of their own, such a luxury was not to be thought of. a candle would do for lighting, of course. [illustration: soon he came within sight of the shack which stood at the water's edge. _page_ .] busy with these thoughts and others like them he sped across the meadow and through the woods toward the river. he was not content to walk the distance but like a child leaped and ran with an impatience not to be curbed. soon he came within sight of the shack which stood at the water's edge, mid-way between aldercliffe and pine lea, and was sheltered from view by a grove of thick pines. its bare, boarded walls had silvered from exposure to the weather until it was scarcely noticeable against the gray tree trunks. nevertheless, its crude, rough sides, its staring windows, and its tarred roof looked cheerless and deserted enough. but for ted turner it possessed none of these forbidding qualities. instead of being a hermitage it seemed a paradise, a fairy kingdom, the castle of a knight's tale! thrusting the key which mr. wharton had given him into the padlock, he rolled open the sliding door and intermingled odors of cedar, tar, and paint greeted him. the room was of good size and was neatly sheathed as an evident preparation for receiving a finish of stain which, however, had never been put on. there were four large windows closed in by lights of glass, a rough board floor, and a fireplace of field stone. everywhere was dirt, cobwebs, sawdust, and shavings; and scattered about so closely there was scarcely space to step was a litter of nails, fragments of boards, and a conglomeration of tin cans of various sizes. almost any one who beheld the chaos would have turned away discouraged. but not so ted! the disorder was of no consequence in his eyes. through all its dinginess and confusion he saw that the roof was tight, the windows whole, and the interior quite capable of being swept out, scrubbed and put in order. that was all he wanted to know. why, the place could be made into a little heaven! already he could see it transformed into a dwelling of the utmost comfort. he had remodelled many a worse spot,--the barn loft in vermont, for example, and made it habitable. one had only to secure a table, a chair or two, build a bunk and get a mattress, and the trick was turned. how proud he should be to have such a dwelling for his own! he could hardly restrain himself from rolling up his sleeves and going to work then and there. fearing, however, that mr. wharton might be awaiting his report, he reluctantly closed the door again, turned the key in it, and hurried back to the manager's office. "well," inquired the elder man, spinning around in his desk chair as the boy entered and noting the glow in the youthful face, "how did you find things at the shack? any hope in the place?" "hope!" repeated ted. "why, sir, the house is corking! of course, it is dirty now but i could clean it up and put it in bully shape. all i'd need would be to build a bunk, get a few pieces of furniture, and the place would be cosy as anything. if you'll say the word, i'll start right in to-night after work and----" "why wait until to-night?" came drily from the manager. "why--er--i thought perhaps--you see there is the corn----" "never mind the corn," mr. wharton interrupted. "you mean i could go right ahead now?" asked ted eagerly. "certainly. you are doing this for our accommodation, not for your own, and there is no earthly reason why you should perform the work outside your regular hours." "but it is for my accommodation, too," put in the lad with characteristic candor. "i am very glad if it happens to be," nodded mr. wharton. "so much the better. but at any rate, you are not going to take your recreation time for the job. now before you go, tell me your ideas as to furnishings. you will need some things, of course." "not much," ted answered quickly. "as i said, i can knock together a bunk and rough table myself. if i could just have a couple of chairs----" mr. wharton smiled at the modesty of the request. "suppose we leave the furnishing until later," said he, turning back to his desk with a gesture of dismissal. "i may drop round there some time to-day while you're working. we can then decide more fully upon what is necessary. you'll find brooms, mops, rags, and water in the barn, you know. now be off. i'm busy." away went ted, only too eager to obey. in no time he was laden with all the paraphernalia he desired. he stopped at stevens' cottage only long enough to add to his equipment a pail of steaming water and then, staggering under the weight of his burden of implements, made his way to the shack. once there he threw off his coat, removed his collar and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work. first he cleared the bulk of rubbish from the room and set it outside; then he swept up the floor and mopped it with hot suds; afterwards he washed the windows and rubbed them until they shone. often he had watched his mother and sisters, who were well trained new england housekeepers, perform similar offices and therefore he knew exactly how such things should be done. it took him a solid morning to render the interior spotless and just as he was pausing to view his handiwork with weary satisfaction mr. wharton came striding in at the door. "mercy on us!" gasped the newcomer with amazement. "you have been busy! why, i had no idea there were such possibilities in this place. the room is actually a pretty one, isn't it? we shall be able to fix you up snug as a bug in a rug here." he ran his eye quickly about. "if you put your bunk between the windows, you will get plenty of air. you'll need window shades, some comfortable chairs, a bureau, a table----" "i think i can make a table myself," ted put in timidly. "that is, if i can have some boards." "no, no, no! there are boards enough. but you don't want a makeshift thing like that. if you are going to have books and perhaps read or study, you must have something that will stand solidly on four legs. i may be able to root a table out of some corner. then there will be bedding----" "i can bring that from home." "all right. we'll count on you to supply that if you are sure you have it to spare. i'll be responsible for the rest." he stopped an instant to glance into the boy's face then added kindly, "so you think you are going to like your new quarters, eh?" "you bet i am!" "that's good! and by the by, i have arranged for you to have your meals with stevens and his wife. they like you and were glad to take you in. only you must be prompt and not make them wait for you. should you prove yourself a bother they might turn you out." "i'll be on hand, sir." "see that you are. they have breakfast at seven, dinner at twelve, and supper at six. whenever you decide to spend sunday with your family, or take any meals elsewhere, you must, of course, be thoughtful enough to announce beforehand that you are to be away." "yes, sir." ted waited a few moments and then, as mr. wharton appeared to be on the point of leaving, he asked with hesitancy: "how--how--much will my meals cost?" an intonation of anxiety rang in the question. "your meals are our hunt," mr. wharton replied instantly. "we shall see to those." "but--but----" "you'll be worth your board to the fernald estates, never fear, my lad; so put it all out of your mind and don't think of it any more. all is, should we ask of you some little extra service now and then, i am sure you will willingly perform it, won't you?" "sure!" came with emphatic heartiness. "then i don't see but everything is settled," the manager declared, as he started back through the grove of pines. "i gave orders up at the toolhouse that you were to have whatever boards, nails, and tools you wanted, so don't hesitate to sail in and hunt up anything you need." "you are mighty kind, sir." "pooh, pooh. nonsense! aren't you improving the fernald property, i'd like to know?" mr. wharton laughed. "this boathouse has been an eyesore for years. we shall be glad enough to have it fixed up and used for something." chapter iv the first night in the shack throughout the long summer afternoon ted worked on, fitting up his new quarters. not only did he make a comfortable bunk for himself such as he had frequently constructed when at logging or sugaring-off camps in vermont, but having several boards left he built along the racks originally intended for canoes some shelves for the books he meant to bring from home. by late afternoon he had finished all it was possible for him to do and he decided to go to freeman's falls and join his own family at supper, and while there collect the possessions he wished to transfer to the shack. accordingly he washed up and started out. it was a little late when he reached the house and already his father and sisters were at table. "mercy on us, ted, what under the sun have you been doing until this time of night?" demanded mr. turner. "i should call from seven in the morning until seven at night a pretty long day." "oh, i haven't been working all this time," laughed the boy. "or at least, if i have, i have been having the time of my life doing it." eagerly, and with youthful enthusiasm, he poured out the tale of the day's happenings while the others listened. "so you are starting out housekeeping, are you?" chuckled mr. turner, when the narrative was finished. "it certainly ain't a bad idea. not that we're glad to get rid of you--although i will admit we ain't got the room here that i wish we had. it is the amount of time you'll save and the strength, too, that i'm thinking of. it must be a good three miles up to aldercliffe and pine lea is at least two miles farther. being on the spot is going to make a lot of difference. but how are you going to get along? what will you do for food? i ain't going to have you eating stuff out of tin cans." "oh, you needn't worry about me, dad. mr. wharton has arranged for me to take my meals with mr. and mrs. stevens who have a cottage on the place. stevens is the head farmer, you know." "a pretty penny that will cost you! what does the man think you are--a millionaire?" "mr. wharton told me the fernalds would see to the bill." "oh! that's another matter," ejaculated mr. turner, entirely mollified. "i will say it's pretty decent of mr. wharton. seems to me he is doing a good deal for you." "yes, he is." "well, all is you must do your full share in return so he won't lose anything by it." the elder man paused thoughtfully. "ain't there anything we could do to help out? perhaps we could donate something toward your furnishings." "mr. wharton said if i could supply my own bedding----" "we certainly can do that," put in ruth quickly. "there is a trunkful of extra comforters and blankets in the back room that i should be thankful enough to ship off somewhere else. and wouldn't you like some curtains? seems to me they'd make it cosy and homelike. i've a piece of old chintz we've never used. why not make it into curtains and do away with buying window shades?" "that would be great!" "it would be lots more cheerful," remarked nancy. "what kind of a bed have you got?" "i've built a wooden bunk-two bunks, in fact--one over the other like the berths in a ship. i thought perhaps sometime dad might want to come up and visit me; and while i was at it, it was no more work to make two beds than one." mr. turner smiled in friendly fashion into his son's eyes. the two were great pals and it pleased him that the lad should have included him in his plans. "beds like that will do all very well for a night or two; but for a steady thing they will be darned uncomfortable. cover 'em with pine boughs after a long tramp through the woods and they seem like heaven; but try 'em day after day and they cease to be a joke. wasn't there a wire spring round here somewhere, ruth? seems to me i remember it standing up against something. why wouldn't that be the very thing? you could fasten it in place and have a bed good as you have at home." "that's a corking idea, dad!" "i wish we could go up and see the place," ruth suggested. "i am crazy to know what it looks like. besides, i want to measure the windows." "maybe we could run up there to-night," her father replied rising. "it is not late and the maguires said they would take us out for a little spin in their ford before dark. they might enjoy riding up to aldercliffe and be quite willing we should take along the spring bed. mat is a kind soul and i haven't a doubt he'd be glad to do us a favor. run down and ask him, ted; or wait--i'll go myself." the maguires had the apartment just below the turner's and mat, a thrifty and good-humored irishman, was one of the night watchmen at the fernald mills. he had a plump little wife, but as there were no children he had been able to save more money than had some of his neighbors, and in consequence had purchased a small car which it was his delight to use for the benefit of his friends. in fact, he often called it the maguire jitney, and the joke never became threadbare to his simple mind, for every time he made it he laughed as heartily as if he had never heard it before, and so did everybody else. therefore no sooner had mr. turner proposed his plan than mat was all eagerness to further the project. "sure i'll take you--as many of you as can pile in, and the spring bed, too! if you don't mind the inconvenience of the luggage, i don't. and tell ted to bring along anything else he'd like to carry. we can pack you all in and the stuff on top of you. 'twill be easy enough. just make ready as soon as you can, so the dark won't catch us." you may be sure the turners needed no second bidding. ruth and nancy scrambled the supper dishes out of the way while ted and his father hauled the wire spring out, brushed it, and dragged it downstairs. afterward ted collected his box of electrical treasures, his books, and clothing. what he would do with all these things he did not stop to inquire. the chance to transfer them was at hand and he seized it with avidity. his belongings might as well be stored in the shack as anywhere else,--better, far better, for the space they left behind would be very welcome to the turner household. therefore with many a laugh, the party crowded into the waiting car and set out for aldercliffe; and when at length they arrived at the house in the pines and ted unlocked the sliding doors and pushed them wide open, ushering in his guests, what a landholder he felt! "my, but this is a tidy little place!" maguire ejaculated. "and it's not so little, either. why, it's a regular palace! look at the fireplace and the four windows! my eye! and the tier of bunks is neat as a ship's cabin. bear a hand here with the spring. i'm all of a quaver to see if it fits," cried the man. "i made the bunks regulation size, so i guess there won't be any trouble about that," ted answered. "the head on the lad!" the irishman cried. "ain't he the brainy one, though? you don't catch him wool-gathering! not he!" nevertheless he was not content until the spring had been hoisted into place and he saw with his own eyes that it was exactly the proper size. "could anything be cuter!" observed he with satisfaction. "now with a good mattress atop of that you will have a bed fit for a king. you'll be comfortable as if you were in a solid gold bedstead, laddie!" "i'm afraid i may be too comfortable," laughed ted. "what if i should oversleep and not get to breakfast, or to work, on time!" "that would never do," mr. turner said promptly. "you must have an alarm clock. 'twould be but a poor return for mr. wharton's kindness were you to come dawdling to work." "i guess you can trust ted to be on time," put in ruth soothingly. "he is seldom late--especially to _meals_. even if he were to be late at other places, i should always be sure he would show up when there was anything to eat." "you bet i would," announced the boy, with a good-humored grin. "i shall have enough chintz for curtains for all your windows," interrupted nancy, who had been busy taking careful measurements during the conversation. "we'll get some brass rods and make the hangings so they will slip back and forth easily; they will be much nicer than window shades." "ain't there nothin' i can donate?" inquired mat maguire anxiously. "a rag rug, now--why wouldn't that be a good thing? the missus makes 'em by the dozen and our house is full of 'em. we're breakin' our necks mornin', noon, and night on 'em. a couple to lay down here wouldn't be so bad, i'm thinking. you could put one beside your bed and another before the door to wipe your feet on. they'd cheer the room up as well as help keep you warm. just say the word, sonny, and you shall have 'em." "i'd like them tremendously." the kind-hearted irishman beamed with pleasure. "sure, they'll be better out of our house than in it," remarked he, trying to conceal his gratification. "you can try stumbling over 'em a spell instead of me. 'twill be interesting to see which of us breaks his neck first." it was amazing to see how furniture came pouring in at ted's bachelor quarters during the next few days. the chintz curtains were finished and hung; the maguire rugs made their appearance; mr. turner produced a shiny alarm clock; and nancy a roll of colored prints which she had cut from the magazines. "you'll be wanting some pictures," said she. "tack these up somewhere. they'll brighten up the room and cover the bare walls." thus it was that day by day the wee shack in the woods became more cheery and homelike. "i've managed to hunt up a few trap's for you," called mr. wharton one morning, as he met the boy going to work. "if you want to run over to the cabin now and unlock the door, i'll send a man over with them." want to! ted was off in a second, impatient to see what new treasures he was to receive. he had not long to wait, for soon one of the farm trucks came into sight, and the driver began to deposit its contents on the wooden platform which sloped from the door down to the river. as ted helped the man unload, his eyes shone with delight. could any gifts be rarer? to be sure the furniture was not new. in fact, some of it was old and even shabby with wear. but the things were all whole, and although they were simple they were serviceable and perhaps looked more in harmony with the old-fashioned curtains and the quaint rugs than if they had come fresh from the shop. there was a chest of drawers; a rocking chair, a leather armchair, and a straight wooden chair; a mirror with frame of faded gilt; a good-sized wooden table; and, best of all, a much scarred, flat-topped desk. ted had never owned a desk in all his life. often he had dreamed of sitting behind one when he grew to be a man. but to have it now--here! to have it for his own! how it thrilled him! after the furniture was in place and the teamster had gone, he arranged his few papers and pencils in the desk drawers a score of times, trying them first in one spot and then in another. it was marvelous how much room there was in such an article of furniture. what did men use to fill up such a mighty receptacle, anyway? stretch his possessions as he would, they only made a scattered showing at the bottom of three of the drawers. he laughed to see them lying there and hear them rattle about when he brought the drawers to with a click. however, it was very splendid to have a desk, whether one had anything to put in it or not, and perhaps in time he would be able to collect more pencils, rulers and blocks of paper. the contrast between not having any room at all for his things and then so much that he did not know what to do with it was amusing. now at last he was fully equipped to take up residence in his new abode and every instant he could snatch from his duties that day he employed in settling his furniture, making up his bed, filling his water pitcher from the river and completing his final preparations for residence at the boathouse. that night he moved in. nothing had been omitted that would contribute to his comfort. mr. wharton had given him screens for the windows and across the broad door he had tacked a curtain of netting that could be dropped or pushed aside at will. the candlelight glowing from a pair of old brass candlesticks on the shelf above the fireplace contributed rather than took away from the effect and to his surprise the room assumed under the mellow radiance a quality actually æsthetic and beautiful. "i don't believe aldercliffe or pine lea have anything better than this to offer," the boy murmured aloud, as he looked about him with pride. "i'd give anything to have mr. wharton see it now that it's done!" strangely enough, the opportunity to exhibit his kingdom followed on the very heels of his desire, for while he was arranging the last few books he had brought from home on the shelf above his desk he heard a tap at the door. "are you in bed, son?" called the manager. "i saw your light and just dropped round to see if you had everything you wanted." rushing to the door, ted threw it open. "i haven't begun to go to bed yet," returned he. "i've been too excited. how kind of you to come!" "curiosity! curiosity!" responded the man hastily. although ted knew well that the comment was a libel, he laughed as mr. wharton came in, drawing the door together behind him. "by jove!" burst out the manager, glancing about the room. "you like it?" "why--what in goodness have you done to the place? i--i--mercy on us!" "you do like it then?" the boy insisted eagerly. "like it! why, you've made it into a regular little palace. i'd no idea such a thing was possible. where did you get your candlesticks and your andirons?" "from home. we have radiators in the apartment and so my sisters had stored them away and were only too glad to have me take them." "humph! and your curtains came from home, too?" "yes, sir." "well, you've missed your calling, is all i can say. you belong in the interior decorating business," asserted mr. wharton. "wait until mr. clarence sees this place." again the elder man looked critically round the interior. "i wouldn't mind living here myself--hanged if i would. the only thing i don't like is those candles. there is a good deal of a draught here and you are too near the pines to risk a fire. electricity would be safer." whistling softly to himself, he began to walk thoughtfully about. "i suppose," he presently went on, "it would be a simple enough matter to run wires over here from the barn." "wouldn't that be bully!" "you'd like it?" "yes, siree!" the manager took up his hat. "well, we'll see what can be done," he answered, moving toward the door. but on the threshold he stopped once more and looked about. "i'm going to bring some of the fernalds over here to see the place," observed he. "for some time mr. clarence has been complaining that this shack was a blot on the estate and threatening to pull it down. he'd better have a peep at it now. you may find he'll be taking it away from you." he saw a startled look leap into the boy's eyes. "no, no, sonny! have no fears. i was only joking," he added. "nevertheless, the house will certainly be a surprise to anybody who saw it a week ago. i wouldn't have believed such a transformation was possible." then as he disappeared with his flash-light through the windings of the pine woods he called: "we'll see about that electric wiring. i imagine it won't be much of a job, and i should breathe easier to eliminate those candles, pretty as they are. until something is done, just be careful not to set yourself and us afire!" with that he was gone. ted dropped the screen and loitered a moment in the doorway, looking out into the night. before him stretched the river; so near was it that he could hear the musical lappings of its waters among the tall grasses that bordered the stream. from the ground, matted thickly with pine needles, rose a warm, sun-scorched fragrance heavy with sleep. the boy stretched his arms and yawned. then he rolled the doors together and began to undress. suddenly he paused with one shoe in his hand. a thought had come to him. if mr. wharton ran the electric wires over to the shack, what was to prevent him from utilizing the current for some of his own contrivances? why, he could, perhaps, put his wireless instruments into operation and rig up a telephone in his little dwelling. what fun it would be to unearth his treasures from the big wooden box in which they had been so long packed away and set them up here where they would interfere with no one but himself! he hoped with all his heart the manager would continue to be nervous about those candles. chapter v a visitor fervent as this wish was, it was several days before ted saw mr. wharton again and in the meantime the boy began to adapt himself to his new mode of living with a will. his alarm clock got him up in the morning in time for a plunge in the river and after a brisk rub-down he was off to breakfast with the stevens's, whose cottage was one of a tiny colony of bungalows where lived the chauffeurs, head gardener, electricians, and others who held important positions on the two estates. it did not take many days for ted to become thoroughly at home in the pretty cement house where he discovered many slight services he could perform for mrs. stevens during the scraps of leisure left him after meals. his farm training had rendered him very handy with tools and he was quick to see little things which needed to be done. moreover, the willingness to help, which from the moment of his advent to aldercliffe and pine lea had made him a favorite with mr. wharton and the men, speedily won for him a place with the kindly farmer's wife. had ted known it, she had been none too well pleased at the prospect of adopting into her home a ravenous young lad who might, nay, probably would be untidy and troublesome; but she did not dare oppose mr. wharton when the plan was suggested. nevertheless, although she consented, she grumbled not a little to her husband about the inconvenience of the scheme. the money offered her by the manager had been the only redeeming factor in the case. quite ignorant of these conditions, ted had made his advent into the house and she soon found to her amazement that the daily coming of her cheery boarder became an event which she anticipated with motherly interest. "he is such a well-spoken boy and so nice to have round," asserted she to mr. wharton. "not a mite of trouble, either. in fact, he's a hundred times handier than my own man, who although he can make a garden thrive can't drive a nail straight to save his life. and there's never any fussing about his food. he eats everything and enjoys it. i believe stevens and i were getting dreadful pokey all alone here by ourselves. the lad has brightened us up no end. we wouldn't part with him now for anything." thus it was that ted turner made his way. his password was usefulness. he never measured the hours he worked by the clock, never was too busy or too tired to fill in a gap; and although he was popular with everybody, and a favorite with those in authority, he never took advantage of his position to escape toil or obtain privileges. in fact, he worked harder if anything than did the other men, and as soon as his associates saw that the indulgence granted him did not transform him into a pig, they ceased any jealousy they cherished and accorded him their cordial goodwill. for ted was always modestly respectful toward older persons; and if he knew more about farming and some other things than did a good many of the laborers on the place, he did not push himself forward or boast of his superiority. consequently when he ventured to say, "i wonder if somebody would help me with this harrow?" he would receive a dozen eager responses, the men never suspecting that mr. wharton had given this little chap authority to order them to aid with the harrowing of the field. instead each workman thought his cooperation a free-will offering and enjoyed giving it. thus a fortnight passed and no one could have been happier than was ted turner on a certain clear june evening. he had finished his saturday night supper of baked beans and brown bread and after it was over had lingered to feed the stevens's hens, in order to let mr. stevens go early to freeman's falls to purchase the sunday dinner. as a result, it was later than usual when he started out for his camp on the river's brink. the long, busy day was over; he was tired and the prospect of his comfortable bed was very alluring. it was some distance to the shack, and before he was halfway through the pine woods that separated aldercliffe from pine lea darkness had fallen, and he was compelled to move cautiously along the narrow, curving trail. how black the night was! a storm must be brewing, thought he, as he glanced up into the starless heavens. stumbling over the rough and slippery ground on he went. then suddenly he rounded a turn in the path and stood arrested with terror. not more than a rod away, half concealed in the denseness of the sweeping branches rose his little shack, a blaze of light! a wave of consternation turned him cold and two solutions of the mystery immediately flashed into his mind--fire and marauders. either something had ignited in the interior of the house; or, since it was isolated and had long been known to be vacant, strolling mischief-makers had broken in and were ransacking it. he remembered now that he had left a window open when he had gone off in the morning. doubtless thieves were at this moment busy appropriating his possessions. of course it could not be any of the fernald workmen. they were too friendly and honorable to commit such a dastardly deed. no, it was some one from outside. was it not possible men had come down the river in a boat from melton, the village above, and spying the house had made a landing and encamped there for the night? well, live or die, he must know who his unwelcome guests were. it would be cowardly to leave them in possession of the place and make no attempt to discover their identity. for that invaders were inside the shack he was now certain. it was not a fire. there was neither smoke nor flame. softly he crept nearer, the thick matting of pine needles muffling his footsteps. but how his heart beat! suppose a twig should crack beneath his feet and warn the vandals of his approach? and suppose they rushed out, caught him, and--for a moment he halted with fear; then, summoning every particle of courage he possessed, he tiptoed on and contrived to reach one of the windows. there he halted, staring, his knees weak from surging reaction. instead of the company of bandits his mind had pictured, there in the rocker sat mr. wharton and opposite him, in the great leather armchair, was mr. clarence fernald. the latter fact would have been astounding enough. but the marvel did not cease there. the light suffusing the small room came from no flickering candles but glowed steadily from two strong, unblinking electric lights, one of which had been connected with a low lamp on his desk, and the other with a fixture in the ceiling. ted could scarcely believe his eyes. all day, during his absence, electricians must have been busy. how carefully they had guarded their secret. why, he had talked with tim toyer that very morning on his way to work and tim had breathed no word, although he was the head electrician and had charge of the dynamo which generated the current both for aldercliffe and pine lea. the fernalds had never depended on freeman's falls for their electricity; on the contrary, they maintained a small plant of their own and used the power for a score of purposes on the two estates. evidently either mr. wharton or mr. clarence fernald himself must have given the order which had with such aladdin-like magic been so promptly and mysteriously fulfilled. it certainly was kind of them to do this and ted determined they should not find him wanting in gratitude. pocketing his shyness, he opened the door and stepped into the room. "well, youngster, i thought it was about time the host made his appearance," exclaimed mr. wharton. "we could not have waited much longer. mr. fernald, this is ted turner, the lad i have been telling you about." ted waited. the mill-owner nodded, let his eye travel over the boy's flushed face, and then, as if satisfied by what he saw there, he put out his hand. "i have been hearing very excellent reports of you, turner," said he, "and i wished to investigate for myself the quarters they have given you to live in. you've made a mighty shipshape little den of this place." "it didn't need very much done to it," protested ted, blushing under the fixed gaze of the great man. "i just cleaned it up and arranged the furniture. mr. wharton was kind enough to give me most of it." "i can't claim any thanks," laughed the manager. "the traps i gave you were all cast-offs and not in use. it is what you have done with them that is the marvel." "you certainly have turned your donations to good purpose," mr. fernald observed. "i've been noticing your books in your absence and see that most of them are textbooks on electricity. i judge you are interested in that sort of thing." "yes, sir, i am." "humph!" the financier drummed reflectively on the arm of his chair. "how did you happen to go into that?" he asked presently. "i have been studying it at school. my father is letting me go through the high school--at least he hopes to let me finish my course there. i have been two years already. that is why i am working during the summer." "i see. and so you have been taking up electricity at school, eh?" "yes, sir. i really am taking a business course. the science work in the laboratory is an extra that i just run in because i like it. my father wanted me to fit myself for business. he thought it would be better for me," explained ted. "but you prefer the science?" "i am afraid i do, sir," smiled ted, with ingratiating honesty. "but i don't mean to let it interfere with my regular work. i try to remember it is only a side issue." mr. clarence fernald did not answer and during his interval of silence ted fell to speculating on what he was thinking. probably the magnate was disapproving of his still going to school and was saying to himself how much better it would have been had he been put into the mill and trained up there instead of having his head stuffed with stenography and electrical knowledge. "what did you do in electricity?" the elder man asked at length. "oh, i fussed around some with telephones, wireless, and telegraph instruments." mr. fernald smiled. "did you get where you could take messages?" inquired he with real interest. "by telegraph?" the financier nodded. "i did a little at it," replied ted. "of course i was slow." "and what about wireless?" "i got on better with that. i rigged up a small receiving station at home but when the war came i had to take it down." "so that outfit was yours, was it?" commented mr. fernald. "i noticed it one day when i was in the village. what luck did you have with it?" "oh, i contrived to pick up messages within a short radius. my outfit wasn't very powerful." "i suppose not. and the telephone?" they saw an eager light leap into the lad's eyes. "i've worked more at that than anything else," replied he. "you see one of the instruments at the school gave out and they set me to tinkering at it. in that way i got tremendously interested in it. afterward some of us fellows did some experimenting and managed to concoct a crude one in the laboratory. it wasn't much of a telephone but we finally got it to work." "they tell me you are a good farmer as well as an electrician," mr. fernald said. "oh, i was brought up on a farm, sir." the great man rose. "well, mind you don't let your electricity make you forget your farming," cautioned he, not unkindly. "we need you right where you are. still i will own electricity is a pleasant pastime. you will have a current to work with now whenever you want to play with it. just be sure you don't get a short circuit and blow out my dynamo." "do--do--you really mean i may use the current for experiments?" demanded ted. whether mr. fernald had made his remarks in jest or expected them to be taken seriously was not apparent; and if he were surprised at having the boy catch him up and hold him to account, he at least displayed not a trace of being taken unawares. for only an instant was he thoughtful, and that was while he paused and studied the countenance of the lad before him. "why, i don't know that i see any harm in your using the current for reasonable purposes," he answered slowly, after an interval of meditation. "you understand the dangers of running too many volts through your body and of crossing wires, don't you?" "oh, yes, sir," laughed ted. "i must confess i should not trust every boy with such a plaything," continued the magnate, "but you seem to have a good head on your shoulders and i guess we can take a chance on you." he moved silently across the room but on the threshold he turned and added with self-conscious hesitancy, "by the way my--my--son, mr. laurie, chances to be interested in electricity, too. perhaps some day he might drop in here and have a talk about this sort of thing." "i wish he would." with a quiet glance the father seemed to thank the lad for his simple and natural reply. both of them knew but too well that such an event could never be a casual happening, and that if poor mr. laurie ever _dropped in_ at the shack it would be only when he was brought there, either in his wheel-chair or in the arms of some of the servants from pine lea. nevertheless it was obvious that mr. fernald appreciated the manner in which ted ignored these facts and suppressed his surprise at the unusual suggestion. had mr. laurie's dropping in been an ordinary occurrence no one could have treated it with less ceremony than did ted. an echo of the gratitude the capitalist felt lingered in his voice when he said good night. it was both gentle and husky with emotion and the lad fell asleep marvelling that the men employed at the mills should assert that the fernalds were frigid and snobby. chapter vi more guests when with shining eyes ted told his father about mr. fernald's visit to the shack, mr. turner simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled indulgently. "likely mr. clarence's curiosity got the better of him," said he, "and he wanted to look your place over and see that it warn't too good; or mebbe he just happened to be going by. he never would have taken the trouble to go that far out of his way if he hadn't had something up his sleeve. when men like him are too pleasant, i'm afraid of 'em. and as for mr. laurie _dropping in_--why, his father and grandfather would no more let him associate with folks like us than they'd let him jump headfirst into the river. we ain't good enough for the fernalds. probably almost nobody on earth is. and when it comes to mr. laurie, why, in their opinion the boy doesn't live who is fit to sit in the same room with him." ted's bright face clouded with disappointment. "i never thought of mr. laurie feeling like that," answered he. "oh, i ain't saying mr. laurie himself is so high and mighty. he ain't. the poor chap has nothing to be high and mighty about and he knows it. anybody who is as dependent on others as he is can't afford to tilt his nose up in the air and put on lugs. for all i know to the contrary he may be simple as a baby. it's his folks that think he's the king-pin and keep him in cotton wool." mr. turner paused, his lip curling with scorn. "you'll never see mr. laurie at your shack, mark my words. his people would not let him come even if he wanted to." the light of eagerness in his son's countenance died entirely. "i suppose you're right," admitted he slowly and with evident reluctance. although he would not have confessed it, he had been anticipating, far more than he would have been willing to own, the coming of mr. laurie. over and over again he had lived in imagination his meeting with this fairy prince whose grave, wistful face and pleasant smile had so strongly attracted him. he had speculated to himself as to what the other boy was like and had coveted the chance to speak to him, never realizing that they were not on an equal plane. mr. fernald's suggestion of laurie visiting the shack seemed the most natural thing in the world, and immediately after it had been made ted's fancy had run riot, and he had leaped beyond the first formal preliminaries to a time when he and laurie fernald would really know one another, even come to be genuine friends, perhaps. what sport two lads, interested in the same things, could have together! ted had few companions who followed the bent of thought that he did. the fellows he knew either at school or in the town were ready enough to play football and baseball but almost none of them, for example, wanted to sacrifice a pleasant saturday to constructing a wireless outfit. one or two of them, it is true, had begun the job but they soon tired of it and either sat down to watch him work or had deserted him altogether. the only congenial companion he had been able to count on had been the young assistant in the laboratory at school who, although he was not at all aged, was nevertheless years older than ted. but with the mention of mr. laurie myriad dreams had flashed into his mind. here was no prim old scholar but a lad like himself, who probably did not know much more about electrical matters than he. you wouldn't feel ashamed to admit your ignorance before such a person, or own that you either did not know, or did not understand. you could blunder along with such a companion to your heart's content. such had been his belief until now, with a dozen words, ted saw his father shatter the illusion. no, of course mr. laurie would never come to the shack. it had been absurd to think it for a moment. and even if he did, it would only be as a lofty and unapproachable spectator. mr. fernald's words were a subtly designed flattery intended to put him in good humor because he wanted something of him. what could it be? perhaps he meant to oust him out of the boathouse and rebuild it, or possibly tear it down; or maybe he had taken a fancy to use it as it was and desired to be rid of ted in some sort of pleasant fashion. unquestionably the building belonged to mr. fernald and if he chose to reclaim it he had a perfect right to do so. poor ted! with a crash his air castles tumbled about his ears and the ecstasy of his mood gave way to apprehension and unhappiness. each day he waited, expecting to hear through mr. wharton that mr. clarence fernald had decided to use the shack for other purposes. time slipped along, however, and no such tidings came. in the meanwhile mr. wharton made no further mention of the fernalds and gradually ted's fears calmed down sufficiently for him to gain confidence enough to unpack his boxes of wire, his tools, and instruments. nevertheless, in spite of this, his first enthusiasm had seeped away and he did not attempt to go farther than to take the things out and look at them. before his father had withered his ambitions by his pessimism, a score of ideas had danced through his brain. he had thought of running a buzzer over to the stevens's bungalow in order that mrs. stevens might ring for him when she wanted him; and he had thought of connecting mr. wharton's office with the shack by telephone. he felt sure he could do both these things and would have liked nothing better than try them. but now what was the use? if a little later on mr. fernald intended to take the shack away from him, it would be foolish to waste toil and material for nothing. for the present, at least, he much better hold off and see what happened. yet notwithstanding this resolve, he did continue to improve the appearance of the boathouse. just why, he could not have told. perhaps it was a vent for his disquietude. at any rate, having some scraps of board left and hearing the gardener say there were more geraniums in the greenhouse than he knew what to do with, ted made some windowboxes for the stevens's and himself, painted them green, and filled them with flowering plants. they really were very pretty and added a surprising touch of beauty to the dull, weather-stained little dwelling in the woods. mr. wharton was delighted and said so frankly. "your camp looks as attractive as a teahouse," said he. "you have no idea how gay the red flowers look among these dark pine trees. how came you to think of window-boxes?" "oh, i don't know," was ted's reply. "the bits of board suggested it, i guess. then collins said the greenhouses were overstocked, and he seemed only too glad to get rid of his plants." "i'll bet he was," responded mr. wharton. "if there is anything he hates, it is to raise plants and not have them used. he always has to start more slips than he needs in case some of them do not root; when they do, he is swamped. evidently you have helped him solve his problem for no sooner did the owners of the other bungalows see stevens's boxes than everybody wanted them. they all are pestering the carpenter for boards. it made old mr. fernald chuckle, for he likes flowers and is delighted to have the cottages on the place made attractive. he asked who started the notion; and when i told him it was you he said he had heard about you and wanted to see you some time." this time ted was less thrilled by the remark than he would have been a few days before. a faint degree of his father's scepticism had crept into him and the only reply he vouchsafed was a polite smile. it was absurd to fancy for an instant that the senior member of the fernald company, the head of the firm, the owner of aldercliffe, the great and rich mr. lawrence fernald, would ever trouble himself to hunt up a boy who worked on the place. ridiculous! yet it was on the very day that he made these positive and scornful assertions to himself that he found this same mighty mr. lawrence fernald on his doorstep. it was early saturday afternoon, a time ted always had for a holiday. he had not been to see his family for some time and he had made up his mind to start out directly after luncheon and go to freeman's falls, where he would, perhaps, remain overnight. therefore he came swinging through the trees, latchkey in hand, and hurriedly rounding the corner of the shack, he almost jostled into the river mr. lawrence fernald who was loitering on the platform before the door. "i beg your pardon, sir!" he gasped. "i did not know any one was here." "nor did i, young man," replied the ruffled millionaire. "you came like a thief in the night." "it is the pine needles, sir," explained the boy simply. "unless you happen to step on a twig that cracks you don't hear a sound." the directness of the lad evidently pleased the elder man for he answered more kindly: "it is quiet here, isn't it? i did not know there was a spot within a radius of five miles that was so still. i was almost imagining myself in the heart of the maine woods before you came." "i never was in the maine woods," ventured ted timidly, "but if it is finer than this i'd like to see it." "you like your quarters then?" "indeed i do, sir." "and you're not afraid to stay way off here by yourself?" "oh, no!" mr. fernald peered over the top of his glasses at the boy before him. "would you--would you care to come inside the shack?" ted inquired after an interval of silence, during which mr. fernald had not taken his eyes from his face. "it is very cosy indoors--at least i think so." "since i am here i suppose i might just glance into the house," was the capitalist's rather magnificent retort. "i don't often get around to this part of the estate. to-day i followed the river and came farther away from aldercliffe than i intended. when i got to this point the sun was so pleasant here on the float that i lingered." nodding, ted fitted the key into the padlock, turned it, and rolled the doors apart, allowing mr. fernald to pass within. the mill owner was a large man and as he stalked about, peering at the fireplace with its andirons of wrought metal, examining the chintz hangings, and casting his eye over the books on the shelf, he seemed to fill the entire room. then suddenly, having completed his circuit of the interior, he failed to bow himself out as ted expected and instead dropped into the big leather armchair and proceeded to draw out a cigar. "i suppose you don't mind if i smoke," said he, at the same instant lighting a match. "oh, no. dad always smokes," replied the boy. "your father is in our shipping room, they tell me." "yes, sir." "where did you live before you came here?" "vermont." "vermont, eh?" commented the older man with interest. "i was born in vermont." "were you?" ted ejaculated. "i didn't know that." "yes, i was born in vermont," mused mr. fernald slowly. "born on a farm, as you no doubt were, and helped with the haying, milking, and other chores." "there were plenty of them," put in the boy, forgetting for the moment whom he was addressing. "that's right!" was the instant and hearty response. "there was precious little time left afterward for playing marbles or flying kites." the lad standing opposite chuckled understandingly and the capitalist continued to puff at his cigar. "spring was the best time," observed he after a moment, "to steal off after the plowing and planting were done and wade up some brook----" "where the water foamed over the rocks," interrupted the boy, with sparkling eyes. "we had a brook behind our house. there were great flat rocks in it and further up in the woods some fine, deep trout holes. all you had to do was to toss a line in there and the next you knew----" "something would jump for it," cried the millionaire, breaking in turn into the conversation and rubbing his hands. "i remember hauling a two-pounder out of just such a spot. jove, but he was a fighter! i can see him now, thrashing about in the water. i wasn't equipped with a rod of split bamboo, a reel, and scores of flies in those days. a hook, a worm, and a stick you'd cut yourself was your outfit. nevertheless i managed to land my fish for all that." lured by the subject ted came nearer. "any pickerel holes where you lived?" inquired mr. fernald boyishly. "you bet there were!" replied the lad. "we had a black, scraggy pond two miles away, dotted with stumps and rotting tree trunks. about sundown we fellows would steal a leaky old punt anchored there and pole along the water's edge until we reached a place where the water was deep, and then we'd toss a line in among the roots. it wasn't long before there would be something doing," concluded he, with a merry laugh. "how gamey those fish are!" observed mr. fernald reminiscently. "and bass are sporty, too." "i'd rather fish for bass than anything else!" asserted ted. "ever tried landlocked salmon?" "n--o. we didn't get those." "that's what you get in maine and new brunswick," explained mr. fernald. "i don't know, though, that they are any more fun to land than a good, spirited bass. i often think that all these fashionable camps with their guides, and canoes, and fishing tackles of the latest variety can't touch a vermont brook just after the ice has thawed. i'd give all i own to live one of those days of my boyhood over again!" "so would i!" echoed ted. "pooh, nonsense!" objected mr. fernald. "you are young and will probably scramble over the rocks for years to come. but i'm an old chap, too stiff in the joints now to wade a brook. still it is a pleasure to go back to it in your mind." his face became grave, then lighted with a quick smile. "i'll wager the material for those curtains of yours never was bought round here. didn't that come from vermont? and the andirons, too?" "yes, sir." "ah, i knew it! we had some of that old shiny chintz at home for curtains round my mother's four-poster bed." he rose and began to pace the room thoughtfully. "some day my son is going to bring his boy over here," he remarked. "he is interested in electricity and knows quite a bit about it. i was always attracted to science when i was a youngster. i----" he got no further for there was a stir outside, a sound of voices, and a snapping of dry twigs; and as ted glanced through the broad frame of the doorway he saw to his amazement mr. clarence fernald wheel up the incline just outside a rubber-tired chair in which sat laurie. "i declare if here isn't my grandson now!" exclaimed mr. fernald, bustling toward the entrance of the shack. ah, it needed no great perception on ted's part to interpret the pride, affection, and eagerness of the words; in the tones of the elder man's voice rang echoes of adoration, hope, fear, and disappointment. the millowner, however, speedily put them all to rout by crying heartily: "well, well! this seems to be a fernald reunion!" "grandfather! are you here?" cried the boy in the chair, extending his thin hand with the vivid smile ted so well remembered. "indeed i am! young turner and i were just speaking of you. i told him you were coming to see him some day." laurie glanced toward ted. "it is nice of you to let me come and visit you," he said, with easy friendliness. "what a pretty place you have and how gay the flowers are! and the river is beautiful! our view of it from pine lea is not half so lovely as this." "perhaps you might like to sit here on the platform for a while," suggested ted, coming forward rather shyly and smiling down into the lad's eyes. laurie returned the smile with delightful candor. "you're ted turner, aren't you?" inquired he. "they've told me about you and how many things you can do. i could not rest until i had seen the shack. besides, dad says you have some books on electricity; i want to see them. and i've brought you some of mine. they're in a package somewhere under my feet." "that was mighty kind of you," answered ted, as he stooped to secure the volumes. "not a bit. my tutor, mr. hazen, got them for me and some of them are corking--not at all dry and stupid as books often are. if you haven't seen them already, i know you'll like them." how easily and naturally it all came about! before they knew it, mr. fernald was talking, mr. clarence fernald was talking, laurie was talking, and ted himself was talking. sitting there so idly in the sunshine they joked, told stories, and watched the river as it crept lazily along, reflecting on its smooth surface the gold and azure of the june day. during the pauses they listened to the whispering music of the pines and drank in their sleepy fragrance. more than once ted pinched himself to make certain that he was really awake. it all seemed so unbelievable; and yet, withal, there was something so simple and suitable about it. by and by mr. clarence rose, stretched his arms, and began boyishly to skip stones across the stream; then ted tried his skill; and presently, not to be outdone by the others, grandfather fernald cast aside his dignity and peeling off his coat joined in the sport. how laurie laughed, and how he clapped his hands when one of his grandfather's pebbles skimmed the surface of the water six times before it disappeared amid a series of widening ripples. after this they all were simply boys together, calling, shouting, and jesting with one another in good-humored rivalry. what use was it then ever again to attempt to be austere and unapproachable fernalds? no use in the world! although mr. fernald, senior, mopped his brow and slipped back into his coat with a shadow of surprise when he came to and realized what he had been doing, he did not seem to mind greatly having lapsed from seventy years to seven. the fact that he had furnished laurie with amusement was worth a certain loss of dignity. ah, it would have taken an outsider days, weeks, months, perhaps years to have broken through the conventionalities and beheld the fernalds as ted saw them that day. it was the magic of the sunshine, the sparkle of the creeping river, the mysterious spell of the pines that had wrought the enchantment. perhaps, too, the memory of his vermont boyhood had risen freshly to grandfather fernald's mind. when the shadows lengthened and the glint of gold faded from the river, they went indoors and mr. laurie was wheeled about that he might inspect every corner of the little house of which he had heard so much. this he did with the keenest delight and it was only after both his father and his grandfather had promised to bring him again that he could be persuaded to be carried back to pine lea. as he disappeared among the windings of the trees, he waved his hand to ted and called: "i'll see you some day next week, ted. mr. hazen, my tutor, shall bring me round here some afternoon when you have finished work. i suppose you don't get through much before five, do you?" "no, i don't." "oh, any time you want to see ted i guess he can be let off early," cried both mr. fernald and mr. clarence in one breath. then as mr. clarence pushed the wheel-chair farther into the dusk of the pines, mr. fernald turned toward ted and added in an undertone: "it's done the lad good to come. i haven't seen him in such high spirits for days. we'll fix things up with wharton so that whenever he fancies to come here you can be on hand. the poor boy hasn't many pleasures and he sees few persons of his own age." chapter vii mr. laurie the visits of laurie during the following two weeks became very frequent; and such pleasure did they afford him that orders were issued for ted turner to knock off work each day at four o'clock and return to the shack, where almost invariably he found his new acquaintance awaiting him. it was long since laurie fernald had had a person of his own age to talk with. in fact, he had never before seen a lad whose friendship he desired. most boys were so well and strong that they had no conception of what it meant not to be so, and their very robustness and vitality overwhelmed a personality as sensitively attuned as was that of laurie fernald. he shrank from their pity, their blundering sympathy, their patronage. but in ted turner he immediately felt he had nothing to dread. he might have been a marathon athlete, so far as any hint to the contrary went. ted appeared never to notice his disability or to be conscious of any difference in their physical equipment; and when, as sometimes happened, he stooped to arrange a pillow, or lift the wheel-chair over the threshold, he did it so gently and yet in such a matter-of-fact manner that one scarcely noticed it. they were simply eager, alert, bubbling, interested boys together, and as the effect of the friendship showed itself in laurie's shining eyes, all the fernalds encouraged it. "why, that young turner is doing laurie more good than a dozen doctors!" asserted grandfather fernald. "if he did no work on the farm at all, ted would be worth his wages. money can't pay for what he has done already. i'm afraid laurie has been missing young friends more than we realized. he never complains and perhaps we did not suspect how lonely he was." mr. clarence nodded. "older people are pretty stupid about children sometimes, i guess," said he sadly. "well, he has ted turner now and certainly he is a splendid boy for him to be with. laurie's tutor, mr. hazen, likes him tremendously. what a blessing it is that wharton stumbled on him and brought him up here. had we searched the countryside i doubt if we could have found any one laurie would have liked so much. he doesn't care especially for strangers." with the fernald's sanction behind the friendship, and both laurie's tutor and his doctor urging it on, you may be sure it thrived vigorously. the boys were naturally companionable and now, with every barrier out of the way, and every fostering influence provided, the two soon found themselves on terms of genuine affection. if laurie went for a motor ride saturday afternoon, ted must go, too; if he had a new book, ted must share it, and when he was not as well as usual, or it was too stormy for him to be carried to the shack, nothing would do but ted turner must be summoned to pine lea to brighten the dreariness of the day. soon the servants came to know the newcomer and understand that he was a privileged person in the household. laurie's mother, a pretty southern woman, welcomed him kindly and it was not long before the two were united in a deep and affectionate conspiracy which placed them on terms of the greatest intimacy. "laurie isn't quite so well this afternoon, ted," mrs. fernald would say. "don't let him get too excited or talk too much." or sometimes it was, "laurie had a bad night last night and is dreadfully discouraged to-day. do try and cheer him up." not infrequently mr. hazen would voice an appeal: "i haven't been able to coax laurie to touch his french lesson this morning. don't you want to see if you can't get him started on it? he'll do anything for you." and when ted did succeed in getting the lesson learned, and not only that but actually made an amusing game out of it, how grateful mr. hazen was! for with all his sweetness laurie fernald had a stubborn streak in his nature which the volume of attention he had received had only served to accentuate. he was not really spoiled but there were times when he would do as he pleased, whether or no; and when such a mood came to the surface, no one but ted turner seemed to have any power against it. therefore, when it occasionally chanced that laurie refused to see the doctor, or would not take his medicine, or insisted on getting up when told to lie in bed, ted was made an ally and urged to promote the thing that made for the invalid's health and well-being. after being admitted into the family circle on such confidential terms, it followed that absolute equality was accorded ted and he came and went freely, both at aldercliffe and pine lea. he read with laurie, lunched with him, followed his lessons; and listened to his plans, his pleasures, and his disappointments. perhaps, too, laurie fernald liked and respected him the more that he had duties to perform and therefore was not always free to come at his beck and call as did everybody else. "i shan't be able to get round to see you to-day, old chap," ted would explain over the telephone. "there is a second crop of peas to plant in the further lot and as mr. stevens is short of men, i'm going to duff in and help, even if it isn't my job. of course i want to do my bit when they are in a pinch. i'll see you to-morrow." and although laurie grumbled a good deal, he recognized the present need, and becoming interested in the matter in spite of himself, wished to hear the following day all about the planting. that he should inquire greatly delighted both his father and his grandfather who had always been anxious that he should come into touch with the management of the estates. often they had tried to talk to him of crops and gardens, plowing and planting, but to the subject the heir had lent merely a deaf ear. now with ted turner's advent had come a new influence, the testimony of one who was practically interested in agricultural problems and thought farming anything but dull. the boy was genuinely eager that the work of the men should be a success and therefore when he hoped for fair weather for the haying and it seemed to make a real difference to him whether it was pleasant or not, how could laurie help being eager that it should not rain until the fields were mowed and the crop garnered into the great barns? or when ted was worrying about the pests that invaded the garden, one wouldn't have been a true friend not to ask how the warfare was progressing. before laurie knew it, he had learned much about the affairs of the estates and had become awake to the obstacles good farmers encounter in their strife with soil and weather conditions. as a result his outlook broadened, he became less introspective and more alive to the concerns of those about him; and he gained a new respect for his father's and grandfather's employees. one had much less time to be depressed and discouraged when one had so many things to think of. sometimes ted brought in seeds and showed them; and afterward a slender plant that had sprouted; and then mr. hazen would join in and tell the two boys of other plants,--strange ones that grew in novel ways. or perhaps the talk led to the chemicals the gardeners were mixing with the soil and wandered off into science. every topic seemed to reach so far and led into such fascinating mazes of knowledge! what a surprising place the world was! of course, had the fernalds so desired they could have relieved ted of all his farming duties, and indeed they were sorely tempted at times to do so; but when they saw how much better it was to keep the boy's visits a novelty instead of making of them a commonplace event, and sensed how much knowledge he was bringing into the invalid's room, they decided to let matters progress as they were going. they did, however, arrange occasional holidays for the lad and many a jolly outing did ted have in consequence. had they displayed less wisdom they might have wrecked the friendship altogether. as it was they strengthened it daily and the little shack among the pines became to both ted and to laurie the most loved spot in the world. frequently the servants from pine lea surprised the boys by bringing them their luncheon there; and sometimes mrs. fernald herself came hither with her tea-basket, and the entire family sat about before the great stone fireplace and enjoyed a picnic supper. it was after one of these camping teas that mr. clarence fernald bought for laurie a comfortable adirondack canoe luxuriously fitted up with cushions. the stream before the boathouse was broad and contained little or no current except down toward pine lea, where it narrowed into rapids that swept over the dam at freeman's falls. therefore if one kept along the edges of the upper part of the river, there was no danger and the canoe afforded a delightful recreation. both the elder fernalds and mr. hazen rowed well and ted pulled an exceptionally strong oar for a boy of his years. hence they took turns at propelling the boat and soon laurie was as much at home on the pillows in the stern as he was in his wheel-chair. he greatly enjoyed the smooth, jarless motion of the craft; and often, even when it was anchored at the float, he liked to be lifted into it and lie there rocking with the wash of the river. it made a change which he declared rested him, and it was through this simple and apparently harmless pleasure that a terrible catastrophe took place. on a fine warm afternoon mr. hazen and laurie went over to the shack to meet ted who usually returned from work shortly after four o'clock. the door of the little camp was wide open when they arrived but their host was nowhere to be seen. this circumstance did not trouble them, however, for on the days when laurie was expected ted always left the boathouse unlocked. what did disconcert them and make laurie impatient was to discover that through some error in reckoning they were almost an hour too early. "our clocks must have been ahead of time," fretted the boy. "we shall have to hang round here the deuce of a while." "wouldn't you like me to wheel you back through the grove?" questioned the tutor. "oh, there's no use in that. suppose you get out the pillows and help me into the boat. i'll lie there a while and rest." "all right." with a ready smile mr. hazen plunged into the shack and soon returned laden with the crimson cushions, which he arranged in the stern of the canoe with greatest care. afterward he picked laurie up in his arms as if he had been a feather and carried him to the boat. "how's that?" he asked, when the invalid was settled. "fine! great, thanks! you're a wonder with pillows, mr. hazen; you always get them just right," replied the lad. "now if i only had my book----" "i could go and get it." "oh, no. don't bother. ted will be here before long, won't he? what time is it?" "about half-past three." "only half-past three! great scott! i thought it must be nearly four by this time. then i have quite a while to wait, don't i? i don't see why you got me over here so early." "i don't either," returned mr. hazen pleasantly. "i'm afraid my watch must have been wrong." laurie moved restlessly on the pillows. he had passed a wretched night and was worn and nervous in consequence. "i guess perhaps you'd better run back to the house for my book," remarked he presently. "i shall be having a fit of the blues if i have to hang round here so long with nothing to do." "i'm perfectly willing to go back," mr. hazen said. "but are you sure----" "oh, i'm all right," cut in the boy sharply. "i guess i can sit in a boat by myself for a little while." "still, i'm not certain that i ought to----" "leave me? nonsense! what do you think i am, hazen? a baby? what on earth is going to happen to me, i'd like to know?" "nevertheless i don't like to----" "oh, do stop arguing. it makes me tired. cut along and get the book, can't you? why waste all this time fussing?" burst out the invalid fretfully. "how am i ever going to get well, or think i am well, if you keep reminding me every minute that i am a helpless wreck? it is enough to discourage anybody. why can't you treat me like other people? if you chose to sit in a boat alone for half an hour nobody'd throw a fit. why can't i?" "i suppose you can," retorted the tutor unwillingly. "only you know we never do----" "leave me? don't i know it? the way people tag at my heels drives me almost crazy sometimes. you wouldn't like to have some one dogging your footsteps from morning until night, would you?" "i'm afraid i shouldn't," admitted mr. hazen. for an interval laurie was silent; then he glanced up with one of his swift, appealing smiles. "there, there, mr. hazen!" he said with winning sincerity. "forgive me. i didn't mean to be cross. i do get so fiendishly impatient sometimes. how you can keep on being so kind to me i don't see. do please go and get the book, like a good chap. it's on the chair in my room or else on the library table. you'll find it somewhere. 'treasure island,' you know. i had to leave it in the middle of a most exciting chapter and i am crazy to know how it came out." reluctantly mr. hazen moved away. it was very hard to resist laurie fernald when he was in his present mood; besides, the young tutor was genuinely fond of his charge and would far rather gratify his wishes than refuse him anything. therefore he hurried off through the grove, resolving to return as fast as ever he could. in the meantime laurie threw his head back on the pillows and looked up at the sky. how blue it was and how lazily the clouds drifted by! was any spot on earth so still as this? why, you could not hear a sound! he yawned and closed his eyes, the fatigue of his sleepless night overcoming him. soon he was lost in dreams. * * * * * he never could tell just what it was that aroused him; perhaps it was a premonition of danger, perhaps the rocking of the boat. at any rate he was suddenly broad awake to find himself drifting out into the middle of the stream. in some way the boat must have become unfastened and the rising breeze carried it away from shore. not that it mattered very much now. the thing that was of consequence was that he was helplessly drifting down the river with no means of staying his progress. soon he would be caught in the swirl of the current and then there would be no help for him. what was he to do? must he lie there and be borne along until he was at last carried over the dam at his father's mills? he saw no escape from such a fate! there was not a soul in sight. the banks of the river were entirely deserted, for the workmen were far away, toiling in the fields and gardens, and they could not hear him even were he to shout his loudest. as for mr. hazen, he was probably still at pine lea searching for the book and wouldn't be back for some time. the boy's heart sank and he quivered with fear. must he be drowned there all alone? was there no one to aid him? thoroughly terrified, he began to scream. but his screams only reëchoed from the silent river banks. no one heard and no one came. he was in the current of the stream now and moving rapidly along. faster and faster he went. yes, he was going to be swept on to freeman's falls, going to be carried over the dam and submerged beneath that hideous roar of water that foamed down on the jagged rocks in a boiling torrent of noise and spray. nobody would know his plight until the catastrophe was over; and even should any of the mill hands catch sight of his frail craft as it sped past it would be too late for them to help him. before a boat could be launched and rescuers summoned he would be over the falls. yes, he was going to die, _to die_! again he screamed, this time less with a thought of calling for help than as a protest against the fate awaiting him. to his surprise he heard an answering shout and a second later saw ted turner dash through the pines, pause on the shore, and scan the stream. another instant and the boy had thrown off his coat and shoes and was in the water, swimming toward the boat with quick, overhand strokes. [illustration: he heard an answering shout and a second later saw ted turner dash through the pines. _page_ .] "keep perfectly still, laurie!" he panted. "you're all right. just don't get fussed." yet cheering as were the words, they could not conceal the fact that ted was frightened, terribly frightened. the canoe gained headway with the increasing current. it seemed now to leap along. and in just the proportion that its progress was accelerated, the speed of the pursuer lessened. it seemed as if ted would never overtake his prize. how they raced one another, the bobbing craft and the breathless boy! ted turner was a strong swimmer but the canoe with its solitary occupant was so light that it shot over the surface of the water like a feather. was the contest to be a losing one, after all? laurie, looking back at the wake of the boat, saw ted's arm move slower and slower and suddenly a wave of realization of the other's danger came upon him. they might both be drowned,--two of them instead of one! "give it up, old man!" he called bravely. "don't try any more. you may go down yourself and i should have to die with that misery on my soul. you've done your best. it's all right. just let me go! i'm not afraid." there was no answer from the swimmer but he did not stop. on the contrary, he kept stubbornly on, plowing with mechanical persistence through the water. then at length he, too, was in the current and was gaining surely and speedily. presently he was only a length away from the boat--he was nearer--nearer! his arm touched the stern and laurie fernald caught his hand in a firm grip. there he hung, breathing heavily. "i've simply got to stop a second or two and get my wind," said he. "then we'll start back." "ted!" "there are no oars, of course, but i can tie the rope around my body or perhaps catch it between my teeth. the canoe isn't heavy, you know. after we get out of the current and into quiet water, we shall have no trouble. we can cut straight across the stream and the distance to shore won't be great. i can do it all right." and do it he did, just how neither of the lads could have told. nevertheless he did contrive to bring the boat and laurie with it to a place of safety. shoulder-deep in the water stood the frenzied mr. hazen who had plunged in to meet them and drag them to land. they had come so far down the river that when the canoe was finally beached they found themselves opposite the sweeping lawns of pine lea. ted and the tutor were chilled and exhausted and laurie was weak from fright and excitement. it did not take long, you may be sure, to summon help and bundle the three into a motor car which carried them to pine lea. once there the invalid was put to bed and mr. hazen and ted equipped with dry garments. "i shall get the deuce from the fernalds for this!" commented the young tutor gloomily to ted. "if it had not been for you, that boy would certainly have been drowned. ugh! it makes me shudder to think of it! had anything happened to him, i believe his father and grandfather would have lynched me." "oh, laurie is going to take all the blame," replied ted, making an attempt to comfort the dejected young man. "he told me so himself." "that's all very well," rejoined mr. hazen, "but it won't help much. i shouldn't have left him. i had no right to do it, no matter what he said. i suppose the boat wasn't securely tied. it couldn't have been. then the breeze came up. goodness knows how the thing actually happened. i can't understand it now. but the point is, it did. jove! i'm weak as a rag! i guess there can't be much left of you, ted." "oh, i'm all right now," protested ted. "what got me was the fright of it. i didn't mind the swimming, for i've often crossed the river and back during my morning plunge. my work keeps me in pretty good training. but to-day i got panicky and my breath gave out. i was so afraid i wouldn't overtake the boat before----" "i know!" interrupted the tutor with a shiver. "well, it is all over now, thank god! you were a genuine hero and i shall tell the fernalds so." "stuff! don't tell them at all. what's the use of harrowing their feelings all up now that the thing is past and done with?" "but laurie--he is all done up and they will be at a loss to account for it," objected mr. hazen. "besides, the servants saw us come ashore and have probably already spread the story all over the place. and anyhow, i believe in being perfectly aboveboard. you do yourself, you know that. so i shall tell them the whole thing precisely as it happened. afterward they'll probably fire me." "no, they won't! cheer up!" "i deserve to be fired, too," went on the young tutor without heeding the interruption. "i ought not to have left laurie an instant." "perhaps not. but you won't do it again." "you bet i won't!" cried mr. hazen boyishly. it subsequently proved that mr. hazen knew far more of his employers than did ted, for after the story was told only the pleas of the young rescuer availed to soften the sentence imposed. "he's almighty sorry, mr. fernald," asserted ted turner. "don't tip him out. give him a second try. he won't ever do it again." "w--e--ll, for your sake i will," mr. clarence said, yielding reluctantly to the pleading of the lad who sat opposite. "it would be hard for me to deny you anything after what you've done. you've saved our boy's life. we never shall forget it, never. but hazen can thank you for his job--not me." and so, as a result of ted's intercession, mr. hazen stayed on. in fact, as mr. clarence said, they could deny the lad nothing. it seemed as if the fernalds never could do enough for him. grandfather fernald gave him a new watch with an illuminated face; and quite unknown to any one, laurie's father opened a bank account to his credit, depositing a substantial sum as a "starter." but the best of the whole thing was that laurie turned to ted with a deeper and more earnest affection and the foundation was laid for a strong and enduring friendship. chapter viii diplomacy and its results laurie, ted, and mr. hazen were in the shack on a saturday afternoon not long after the adventure on the river. a hard shower had driven them ashore and forced them to scramble into the shelter of the camp at the water's edge. how the rain pelted down on the low roof! it seemed as if an army were bombarding the little hut! within doors, however, all was tight, warm, and cosy and on the hearth before a roaring fire the damp coats were drying. in the meantime the two boys and the young tutor had dragged out some coils of wire and a pair of amateur telephone transmitters which ted had concocted while in school and for amusement were trying to run from one end of the room to the other a miniature telephone. thus far their attempts had not been successful and ted was becoming impatient. "we got quite a fair result at the laboratory after the things were adjusted," commented he. "i don't see why we can't work the same stunt here." "i'm afraid we haven't put time enough into it yet," replied mr. hazen. "don't you remember how long alexander graham bell, the inventor of the telephone, experimented before he got results?" laurie, who was busy shortening a bit of wire, glanced up with interest. "i can't for the life of me understand how he knew what he wanted to do, can you?" he mused. "think of starting out to make something perfectly new--a machine for which you had no pattern! i can imagine working out improvements on something already on the market. but to produce something nobody had ever seen before--that beats me! how did he ever get the idea in the first place?" the tutor smiled. "mr. bell did not set out to make a telephone, laurie," he answered. "what he was aiming to do was to perfect a harmonic telegraph, a scheme to which he had been devoting a good deal of his time. he and his father had studied carefully the miracle of speech--how the sounds of the human voice were produced and carried to others--and as a result of this training mr. bell had become an expert teacher of the deaf. he was also professor of vocal physiology at boston university where he had courses in lip reading, or a system of visible speech, which his father had evolved. this work kept him busy through the day so whatever experimenting he did with sounds and their vibrations had to be done at night." "so he stole time for electrical work, too, did he?" observed ted. "i'm afraid that his interest in sound vibration caused him a sorry loss of sleep," said the tutor. "but certainly his later results were worth the amount of rest he sacrificed. one of the first agencies he employed to work upon was a piano. have you ever tried singing a note into this instrument when the sustaining pedal is depressed? do it some time and notice what happens. you will find that the string tuned to the pitch of your voice will start vibrating while all the others remain quiet. you can even go farther and try the experiment of uttering several different pitches, if you want to, and the corresponding strings will give back your notes, each one singling out its own particular vibration from the air. now the results reached in these experiments with the piano strings meant a great deal more to alexander graham bell than they would have meant to you or to me. in the first place, his training had given him a very acute ear; and in the next place, he was able to see in the facts presented a significance which an unskilled listener would not have detected. he found that this law of sympathetic vibration could be repeated electrically and, if desired, from a distance by means of electromagnets placed under a group of piano strings; and if afterward a circuit was made by connecting the magnets with an electric battery, you immediately had the same singing of the keys and a similar searching of each for its own pitch." "i'd like to try that trick some time," exclaimed ted, leaning forward eagerly. "so should i!" echoed laurie. "i think we could quite easily make the experiment if laurie's mother would not object to our rigging up an attachment to her piano," mr. hazen responded. "oh, mater wouldn't mind," answered laurie confidently. "she never minds anything i want to do." "i know she is a very long-suffering person," smiled the tutor. "do you recall the white mice you had once, laurie, and how they got loose and ran all over the house?" "and the chameleons! and the baby alligator!" chuckled laurie. "mother did get her back up over that alligator. she didn't like meeting him in the hall unexpectedly. but she wouldn't mind a thing that wasn't alive." "you call an electric wire dead then," said ted with irony. "well, no--not precisely," grinned laurie. "still i'm certain mater would be less scared of it than she would of a mouse, even if the wire could kill her and the mouse couldn't." "let's return to mr. bell and his piano strings," ted remarked, after the laughter had subsided. mr. hazen's brow contracted thoughtfully and in his leisurely fashion he presently replied: "you can see, can't you, that if an interrupter caused the electric current to be made and broken at intervals, the number of times it interrupted per second would, for example, correspond to the rate of vibration in one of the strings? in other words, that would be the only string that would answer. now if you sang into the piano, you would have the rhythmic impulse that set the piano strings vibrating coming directly through the air, while with the battery the impulse would come through the wire and the electromagnets instead. in each case, however, the principle involved would be the same." "i can see that," said ted quickly. "can't you, laurie?" his chum nodded. "now," continued mr. hazen, "just as it was possible to start two or more different notes of the piano echoing varying pitches, so it is possible to have several sets of these _make-and-break_ or intermittent currents start their corresponding strings to answering. in this way one could send several messages at once, each message being toned to a different pitch. all that would be necessary would be to have differently keyed interrupters. this was the principle of the harmonic telegraph at which mr. bell was toiling outside the hours of his regular work and through which he hoped to make himself rich and famous. his intention was to break up the various sounds into the dots and dashes of the morse code and make one wire do what it had previously taken several wires to perform." "it seems simple enough," speculated laurie. "it was not so simple to carry out," declared mr. hazen. "of course, as i told you, mr. bell could not give his entire time to it. he had his teaching both at boston university and elsewhere to do. nor was he wholly free at the saunders's, with whom he boarded at salem, for he was helping the saunders's nephew, who was deaf, to study." "and in return poor mrs. saunders had to offer up her piano for experiments, i suppose," ted observed. "well, perhaps at first--but not for long," was mr. hazen's reply. "mr. bell soon abandoned piano strings and in their place resorted to flat strips of springy steel, keying them to different pitches by varying their length. one end of these strips he fastened to a pole of an electromagnet and the other he extended over the other pole and left free." "and the current interrupters?" queried ted. "those current interrupters are the things which have since become known as transmitters," explained mr. hazen. "those mr. bell made all alike except that in each one of them were springs kept in constant vibration by a magnet or point of metal placed above each spring so that the spring would touch it at every vibration, thus making and breaking the electric current the same number of times per second that corresponded to the pitch of the piece of steel. by tuning the springs of the receivers to the same pitch with the transmitters and running a wire between them equipped with signalling keys and a battery, bell reasoned he could send as many messages at one time as there were pitches." "did he get it to work?" laurie asked. "mr. bell didn't, no," replied the tutor. "what sounded logical enough on paper was not so easy to put into practise. the idea has been carried out successfully, however, since then. but mr. bell unfortunately had no end of troubles with his scheme, and we all may thank these difficulties for the telephone, for had his harmonic telegraph gone smoothly we might not and probably would not have had bell's other and far more important invention." "the discovery of the telephone was a 'happen,' then," ted ventured. "more or less of a happen," was the reply. "of course, the intelligent recognition of the law behind it was not a happen; nor was the patient and persistent toil that went into the perfecting of the instrument a matter of chance. alexander graham bell had the genius to recognize the value and significance of the truth on which he stumbled and turn it to practical purposes. many another might perhaps have heard the self-same sounds that came to him over that reach of wire and, detecting nothing unusual in the whining vibrations, have passed them by. but to mr. bell they were magic music, the sesame to a new country. strangely enough, too, it was the good luck of a boy not much older than ted to share with the discoverer the wonderful secret." "how?" demanded both laurie and ted in a breath. "i can't tell you that story to-day," mr. hazen expostulated. "it would take much too long. we must give over talking and put our minds on this telephone of our own which does not seem to be making any great progress. i begin to be afraid we haven't the proper outfit." as he spoke, a shadow crossed the window and in another instant mr. clarence fernald poked his head in at the door. "what are you three conspirators up to?" inquired he. "you look as if you were making bombs or some other deadly thing." "we are making a telephone, dad, and it won't work," was laurie's answer. mr. fernald smiled with amusement. "you seem to have plenty of wire," he said. "in fact, if i were permitted to offer a criticism, i should say you had more wire than anything else. how lengthy a circuit do you expect to cover?" "oh, we're not ambitious," laurie replied. "if we can cross the room we shall be satisfied, although now that you mention it, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing if it could run from my room at home over here." he eyed his father furtively. "then when i happened to have to stay in bed i could talk to ted and he could cheer me up." "so he could!" echoed mr. fernald in noncommittal fashion. "it would be rather nice, too, for mr. wharton," went on the diplomat with his sidelong glance still fixed on his father. "he must sometimes wish he could reach ted without bothering to send a man way over here. and then there are the turners! of course a telephone to the shack would give them no end of pleasure. they must miss ted and often want to speak with him." he waited but there was no response from mr. fernald. "ted might be sick, too; or have an accident and wish to get help and----" at last the speaker was rewarded by having the elder man turn quickly upon him. "in other words, you young scoundrel, you want me to install a telephone in this shack for the joy and delight of you two electricians who can't seem to do it for yourselves," said mr. fernald gruffly. "now however do you suppose he guessed it?" exclaimed laurie delightedly, as he turned with mock gravity to ted. "isn't he the mind reader?" it was evident that laurie fernald thoroughly understood his father and that the two were on terms of the greatest affection. "did i say i wanted a telephone?" he went on meekly. "you said everything else," was the grim retort. "did i? well, well!" commented the boy mischievously. "i needn't have taken so much trouble after all, need i? but every one isn't such a sherlock holmes as you are, dad." mr. fernald's scowl vanished and he laughed. "what a young wheedler you are!" observed he, playfully rumpling up his son's fair hair. "you could coax every cent i have away from me if i did not lock my money up in the bank. i really think, though, that a telephone here in the hut would be an excellent idea. but what i don't see is why you don't do the job yourselves." "oh, we could do the work all right if there wasn't danger of our infringing the patent of the telephone company," was laurie's impish reply. "if we should get into a lawsuit there would be no end of trouble, you know. i guess we'd much better have the thing installed in the regular way." "i guess so too!" came from his father. "you'll really have it put in, dad?" cried laurie. "sure!" "that will be bully, corking!" laurie declared. "you're mighty good, dad." "pooh! nonsense!" his father protested, as he shot a quick glance of tenderness toward the boy. "a telephone over here will be a useful thing for us all. i may want to call ted up myself sometimes. we never can tell when an emergency may arise." within the following week the telephone was in place and although ted had not minded his seclusion, or thought he had not, he suddenly found that the instrument gave him a very comfortable sense of nearness to his family and to the household at pine lea. he and laurie chattered like magpies over the wire and were far worse, mrs. fernald asserted, than any two gossipy boarding-school girls. moreover, ted was now able to speak each day with his father at the fernald shipping rooms and by this means keep in closer touch with his family. as for mr. wharton, he marvelled that a telephone to the shack had not been put in at the outset. "it is not a luxury," he insisted. "it's a necessity! an indispensable part of the farm equipment!" certainly in the days to come it proved its worth! chapter ix the story of the first telephone "i am going down to freeman's falls this afternoon to get some rubber tape," ted remarked to laurie, as the two boys and the tutor were eating a picnic lunch in ted's cabin one saturday. "oh, make somebody else do your errand and stay here," laurie begged. "anybody can buy that stuff. some of the men must be going to the falls. ask wharton to make them do your shopping." "perhaps ted had other things to attend to," ventured mr. hazen. "no, i hadn't," was the prompt reply. "in that case i am sure any of the men would be glad to get whatever you please," the tutor declared. "save your energy, old man," put in laurie. "electrical supplies are easy enough to buy when you know what you want." "they are now," mr. hazen remarked, with a quiet smile, "but they have not always been. in fact, it was not so very long ago that it was almost impossible to purchase either books on electricity or electrical stuff of any sort. people's knowledge of such matters was so scanty that little was written about them; and as for shops of this type--why, they were practically unknown." "where did persons get what they wanted?" asked ted with surprise. "nobody wanted electrical materials," laughed mr. hazen. "there was no call for them. even had the shops supplied them, nobody would have known what to do with them." "but there must have been some who would," the boy persisted. "where, for example, did mr. bell get his things?" "practically all mr. bell's work was done at a little shop on court street, boston," answered mr. hazen. "this shop, however, was nothing like the electrical supply shops we have now. had alexander graham bell entered its doors and asked, for instance, for a telephone transmitter, he would have found no such thing in stock. on the contrary, the shop consisted of a number of benches where men or boys experimented or made crude electrical contrivances that had previously been ordered by customers. the shop was owned by charles williams, a clever mechanical man, who was deeply interested in electrical problems of all sorts. in a tiny showcase in the front part of the store were displayed what few textbooks on electricity he had been able to gather together and these he allowed the men in his employ to read at lunch time and to use freely in connection with their work. he was a person greatly beloved by those associated with him and he had the rare wisdom to leave every man he employed unhampered, thereby making individual initiative the law of his business." the tutor paused, then noticing that both the boys were listening intently, he continued: "if a man had an idea that had been carefully thought out, he was given free rein to execute it. tom watson, one of the boys at the shop, constructed a miniature electric engine, and although the feat took both time and material, there was no quarrel because of that. the place was literally a workshop, and so long as there were no drones in it and the men toiled intelligently, mr. williams had no fault to find. you can imagine what valuable training such a practical environment furnished. nobody nagged at the men, nobody drove them on. each of the thirty or forty employees pegged away at his particular task, either doing work for a specific customer or trying to perfect some notion of his own. if you were a person of ideas, it was an ideal conservatory in which to foster them." "gee! i'd have liked the chance to work in a place like that!" ted sighed. "it would not have been a bad starter, i assure you," agreed mr. hazen. "at that time there were, as i told you, few such shops in the country; and this one, simple and crude as it was, was one of the largest. there was another in chicago which was bigger and perhaps more perfectly organized; but williams's shop was about as good as any and certainly gave its men an excellent all-round education in electrical matters. many of them went out later and became leaders in the rapidly growing world of science and these few historic little shops thus became the ancestors of our vast electrical plants." "it seems funny to think it all started from such small beginnings, doesn't it," mused laurie thoughtfully. "it certainly is interesting," mr. hazen replied. "and if it interests us in this far-away time, think what it must have meant to the pioneers to witness the marvels half a century brought forth and look back over the trail they had blazed. for it was a golden era of discovery, that period when the new-born power of electricity made its appearance; and because williams's shop was known to be a nursery for ideas, into it flocked every variety of dreamer. there were those who dreamed epoch-making dreams and eventually made them come true; and there were those who merely saw visions too impractical ever to become realities. to work amid this mecca of minds must have been not only an education in science but in human nature as well. every sort of crank who had gathered a wild notion out of the blue meandered into williams's shop in the hope that somebody could be found there who would provide either the money or the labor to further his particular scheme. "now in this shop," went on mr. hazen, "there was, as i told you, a young neophyte by the name of thomas watson. tom had not found his niche in life. he had tried being a clerk, a bookkeeper, and a carpenter and none of these several occupations had seemed to fit him. then one fortunate day he happened in at williams's shop and immediately he knew this was the place where he belonged. he was a boy of mechanical tastes who had a real genius for tools and machinery. he was given a chance to turn castings by hand at five dollars a week and he took the job eagerly." "think how a boy would howl at working for that now," laurie exclaimed. "no doubt there were boys who would have howled then," answered mr. hazen, "although in those days young fellows expected to work hard and receive little pay until they had learned their trade. perhaps the youthful mr. watson had the common sense to cherish this creed; at any rate, there was not a lazy bone in his body, and as there were no such things to be had as automatic screw machines, he went vigorously to work making the castings by hand, trying as he did so not to blind his eyes with the flying splinters of metal." "then what happened?" demanded laurie. "well, watson stuck at his job and in the meantime gleaned right and left such scraps of practical knowledge as a boy would pick up in such a place. by the end of his second year he had had his finger in many pies and had worked on about every sort of electrical contrivance then known: call bells, annunciators, galvanometers; telegraph keys, sounders, relays, registers, and printing telegraph instruments. think what a rich experience his two years of apprenticeship had given him!" "you bet!" ejaculated ted appreciatively. "now as tom watson was not only clever but was willing to take infinite pains with whatever he set his hand to, never stinting nor measuring his time or strength, he became a great favorite with those who came to the shop to have different kinds of experimental apparatus made. many of the ideas brought to him to be worked out came from visionaries who had succeeded in capturing the financial backing of an unwary believer and convinced themselves and him that here was an idea that was to stir the universe. but too many of these schemes, alas, proved worthless and as their common fate was the rubbish heap, it is strange that the indefatigable thomas watson did not have his faith in pioneer work entirely destroyed. but youth is buoyed up by perpetual hope; and paradoxical as it may seem, his enthusiasm never lagged. each time he felt, with the inventor, that they might be standing on the brink of gigantic unfoldings and he toiled with energy to bring something practical out of the chaos. and when at length it became evident beyond all question that the idea was never to unfold into anything practical, he would, with the same zealous spirit, attack another seer's problem." "didn't he ever meet any successful inventors?" questioned ted. "yes, indeed," the tutor answered. "scattered among the cranks and castle builders were several brilliant, solid-headed men. there was moses g. farmer, for example, one of the foremost electricians of that time, who had many an excellent and workable idea and who taught young watson no end of valuable lessons. then one day into the workshop came alexander graham bell. in his hand he carried a mechanical contrivance watson had previously made for him and on espying tom in the distance he made a direct line for the workman's bench. after explaining that the device did not do the thing he was desirous it should, he told watson that it was the receiver and transmitter of his harmonic telegraph." "and that was the beginning of mr. watson's work with mr. bell?" asked ted breathlessly. "yes, that was the real beginning." "think of working with a man like that!" the boy cried with sparkling eyes. "it must have been tremendously interesting." "it was interesting," responded mr. hazen, "but nevertheless much of the time it must have been inexpressibly tedious work. a young man less patient and persistent than watson would probably have tired of the task. just why he did not lose his courage through the six years of struggle that followed i do not understand. for how was he to know but that this idea would eventually prove as hopeless and unprofitable as had so many others to which he had devoted his energy? beyond mr. bell's own magnetic personality there was only slender foundation for his faith for in spite of the efforts of both men the harmonic telegraph failed to take form. instead, like a tantalizing sprite, it danced before them, always beckoning, never materializing. in theory it was perfectly consistent but in practise it could not be coaxed into behaving as it logically should. had it but been possible for those working on it to realize that beyond their temporary failure lay a success glorious past all belief, think what the knowledge would have meant. but to always be following the gleam and never overtaking it, ah, that might well have discouraged prophets of stouter heart!" "were these transmitters and receivers made from electromagnets and strips of flat steel, as you told us the other day?" asked ted. "yes, their essential parts comprised just those elements--an electromagnet and a scrap of flattened clock spring which, as i have explained, was clamped by one end to the pole of the magnet and left free at the other to vibrate over the opposite pole. in addition the transmitter had make-and-break points such as an ordinary telephone bell has, and when these came in contact with the current, the springs inside continually gave out a sort of wail keyed to correspond with the pitch of the spring. as mr. bell had six of these instruments tuned to as many different pitches--and six receivers to answer them--you may picture to yourself the hideousness of the sounds amid which the experimenters labored." "i suppose when each transmitter sent out its particular whine its own similarly tuned receiver spring would wriggle in response," laurie said. "exactly so." "there must have been lovely music when all six of them began to sing!" laughed ted. "mr. watson wrote once that it was as if all the miseries of the world were concentrated in that workroom, and i can imagine it being true," answered the tutor. "well, young watson certainly did all he could to make the harmonic telegraph a reality. he made the receivers and transmitters exactly as mr. bell requested; but on testing them out, great was the surprise of the inventor to find that his idea, so feasible in theory, refused to work. nevertheless, his faith was not shaken. he insisted on trying to discover the flaw in his logic and correct it, and as watson had now completed some work that he had been doing for moses farmer, the two began a series of experiments that lasted all winter." "jove!" ejaculated laurie. "marvels of science are not born in a moment," answered mr. hazen. "yet i do not wonder that you gasp, for think of what it must have meant to toil for weeks and months at those wailing instruments! it is a miracle the men did not go mad. they were not always able to work together for mr. bell had his living to earn and therefore was compelled to devote a good measure of his time to his college classes and his deaf pupils. in consequence, he did a portion of his experimental work at salem while watson carried on his at the shop, fitting it in with other odd jobs that came his way. frequently mr. bell remained in boston in the evening and the two worked at the williams's shop until late into the night." "wasn't it lucky there were no labor unions in those days?" put in ted mischievously. "indeed it was!" responded mr. hazen. "the shop would then have been barred and bolted at five o'clock, i suppose, and alexander graham bell might have had a million bright ideas for all the good they would have done him. but at that golden period of our history, if an ambitious fellow like watson wished to put in extra hours of work, the more slothful ones had no authority to stand over him with a club and say he shouldn't. therefore the young apprentice toiled on with mr. bell, unmolested; and charles williams, the proprietor of the shop, was perfectly willing he should. one evening, when the two were alone, mr. bell remarked, 'if i could make a current of electricity vary in intensity precisely as the air varies in density during the production of sound, i should be able to transmit speech telegraphically.' this was his first allusion to the telephone but that the idea of such an instrument had been for some time in his mind was evident by the fact that he sketched in for watson the kind of apparatus he thought necessary for such a device and they speculated concerning its construction. the project never went any farther, however, because mr. thomas saunders and mr. gardiner hubbard, who were financing mr. bell's experiments, felt the chances of this contrivance working satisfactorily were too uncertain. already much time and money had been spent on the harmonic telegraph and they argued this scheme should be completed before a new venture was tried." "i suppose that point of view was quite justifiable," mused ted. "but wasn't it a pity?" "yes, it was," agreed mr. hazen. "yet here again we realize how man moves inch by inch, never knowing what is just around the turn of the road. he can only go it blindly and do the best he knows at the time. naturally neither mr. hubbard nor mr. saunders wanted to swamp any more money until they had received results for what they had spent already; and those results, alas, were not forthcoming. over and over again poor watson blamed himself lest some imperceptible defect in his part of the work was responsible for mr. bell's lack of success. the spring of came and still no light glimmered on the horizon. the harmonic telegraph seemed as far away from completion as ever. patiently the men plodded on. then on a june day, a day that began even less auspiciously than had other days, the heavens suddenly opened and alexander graham bell had his vision!" "what was it?" "tell us about it!" cried both boys in a breath. "it was a warm, close afternoon in the loft over the williams's shop and the transmitters and receivers were whining there more dolefully than usual. several of them, sensitive to the weather, were out of tune, and as mr. bell had trained his ear to sounds until it was abnormally acute, he was tuning the springs of the receivers to the pitch of the transmitters, a service he always preferred to perform himself. to do this he placed the receiver against his ear and called to watson, who was in the adjoining room, to start the current through the electromagnet of the corresponding transmitter. when this was done, mr. bell was able to turn a screw and adjust the instrument to the pitch desired. watson admits in a book he has himself written that he was out of spirits that day and feeling irritable and impatient. the whiners had got on his nerves, i fancy. one of the springs that he was trying to start appeared to stick and in order to force it to vibrate he gave it a quick snap with his finger. still it would not go and he snapped it sharply several times. immediately there was a cry from mr. bell who rushed into the hall, exclaiming, 'what did you do then? don't change anything. let me see.' "watson was alarmed. had he knocked out the entire circuit or what had he done in his fit of temper? well, there was no escape from confession now; no pretending he had not vented his nervousness on the mechanism before him. with honesty he told the truth and even illustrated his hasty action. the thing was simple enough. in some way the make-and-break points of the transmitter spring had become welded together so that even when watson snapped the instrument the circuit had remained unbroken, while by means of the piece of magnetized steel vibrating over the pole of the magnet an electric current was generated, the type of current that did exactly what mr. bell had dreamed of a current doing--a current of electricity that varied in intensity precisely as the air within the radius of that particular spring was varying in density. and not only did that undulatory current pass through the wire to the receiver mr. bell was holding, but as good luck would have it the mechanism was such that it transformed that current back into a faint but unmistakable echo of the sound issuing from the vibrating spring that generated it. but a fact more fortunate than all this was that the one man to whom the incident carried significance had the instrument at his ear at that particular moment. that was pure chance--a heaven-sent, miraculous coincidence! but that mr. bell recognized the value and importance of that whispered echo that reached him over the wire and knew, when he heard it, that it was the embodiment of the idea that had been haunting him--that was not chance; it was genius!" the room had been tensely still and now both boys drew a sigh of relief. "how strange!" murmured ted in an awed tone. "yes, it was like magic, was it not?" replied the tutor. "for the speaking telephone was born at that moment. whatever practical work was necessary to make the invention perfect (and there were many, many details to be solved) was done afterward. but on june , , the telephone as bell had dreamed it came into the world. that single demonstration on that hot morning in williams's shop proved myriad facts to the inventor. one was that if a mechanism could transmit the many complex vibrations of one sound it could do the same for any sound, even human speech. he saw now that the intricate paraphernalia he had supposed necessary to achieve his long-imagined result was not to be needed, for did not the simple contrivance in his hand do the trick? the two men in the stuffy little loft could scarcely contain their delight. for hours they went on repeating the experiment in order to make sure they were really awake. they verified their discovery beyond all shadow of doubt. one spring and then another was tried and always the same great law acted with invariable precision. heat, fatigue, even the dingy garret itself was forgotten in the flight of those busy, exultant hours. before they separated that night, alexander graham bell had given to thomas watson directions for making the first electric speaking telephone in the world!" chapter x what came afterward "was that first telephone like ours?" inquired ted later as, their lunch finished, they sat idly looking out at the river. "not wholly. time has improved the first crude instrument," mr. hazen replied. "the initial principle of the telephone, however, has never varied from mr. bell's primary idea. before young watson tumbled into bed on that epoch-making night, he had finished the instrument bell had asked him to have ready, every part of it being made by the eager assistant who probably only faintly realized the mammoth importance of his task. yet whether he realized it or not, he had caught a sufficient degree of the inventor's excitement to urge him forward. over one of the receivers, as mr. bell directed, he mounted a small drumhead of goldbeater's skin, joined the center of it to the free end of the receiver spring, and arranged a mouthpiece to talk into. the plan was to force the steel spring to answer the vibrations of the voice and at the same time generate a current of electricity that should vary in intensity just as the air varies in density during the utterance of speech sounds. not only did watson make this instrument as specified, but in his interest he went even farther, and as the rooms in the loft seemed too near together, the tireless young man ran a special wire from the attic down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor of the shop and ended it near his workbench at the rear of the building, thus constructing the first telephone line in history. "then the next day mr. bell came to test out his invention and, as you can imagine, there was great excitement." "i hope it worked," put in laurie. "it worked all right although at this early stage of the game it was hardly to be expected that the instrument produced was perfect. nevertheless, the demonstration proved that the principle behind it was sound and that was all mr. bell really wanted to make sure of. watson, as it chanced, got far more out of this initial performance than did mr. bell himself for because of the inventor's practical work in phonics the vibrations of his voice carried more successfully than did those of the assistant. yet the youthful watson was not without his compensations. nature had blessed him with unusually acute hearing and as a result he could catch bell's tones perfectly as they came over the wire and could almost distinguish his words; but shout as he would, poor mr. bell could not hear _him_. this dilemma nevertheless discouraged neither of them for watson had plenty of energy and was quite willing to leap up the two flights of stairs and repeat what he had heard; and this report greatly reassured mr. bell, who outlined a list of other improvements for another telephone that should be ready on the following day." "i suppose they kept remodelling the telephones all the time after that, didn't they?" inquired ted. "you may be sure they did," was mr. hazen's response. "the harmonic telegraph was entirely sidetracked and the interest of both men turned into this newer channel. mr. bell, in the meantime, was giving less and less energy to his teaching and more and more to his inventing. before many days the two could talk back and forth and hear one another's voices without difficulty, although ten full months of hard work was necessary before they were able to understand what was said. it was not until after this long stretch of patient toil that watson unmistakably heard mr. bell say one day, '_mr. watson, please come here, i want you._' the message was a very ordinary, untheatrical one for a moment so significant but neither of the enthusiasts heeded that. the thrilling fact was that the words had come clear-cut over the wire." "gee!" broke in laurie. "it certainly must have been a dramatic moment," mr. hazen agreed. "mr. bell, now convinced beyond all doubt of the value of his idea, hired two rooms at a cheap boarding-house situated at number exeter place, boston. in one of these he slept and in the other he equipped a laboratory. watson connected these rooms by a wire and afterward all mr. bell's experimenting was done here instead of at the williams's shop. it was at the exeter place rooms that this first wonderful message came to watson's ears. from this period on the telephone took rapid strides forward. by the summer of , it had been improved until a simple sentence was understandable if carefully repeated three or four times." "repeated three or four times!" gasped laurie in dismay. the tutor smiled at the boy's incredulousness. "you forget we are not dealing with a finished product," said he gently. "i am a little afraid you would have been less patient with the imperfections of an infant invention than were bell and watson." "i know i should," was the honest retort. "the telephone was a very delicate instrument to perfect," explained mr. hazen. "always remember that. an inventor must not only be a man who has unshaken faith in his idea but he must also have the courage to cling stubbornly to his belief through every sort of mechanical vicissitude. this mr. bell did. june of was the year of the great centennial at philadelphia, the year that marked the first century of our country's progress. as the exhibition was to be one symbolic of our national development in every line, mr. bell decided to show his telephone there; to this end he set watson, who was still at the williams's shop, to making exhibition telephones of the two varieties they had thus far worked out." "i'll bet watson was almighty proud of his job," ted interrupted. "i fancy he was and certainly he had a right to be," answered mr. hazen. "i have always been glad, too, that it fell to his lot to have this honor; for he had worked long and faithfully, and if there were glory to be had, he should share it. to his unflagging zeal and intelligence mr. bell owed a great deal. few men could so whole-heartedly have effaced their own personality and thrown themselves with such zest into the success of another as did thomas watson." the tutor paused. "up to this time," he presently went on, "the telephones used by bell and watson in their experiments had been very crude affairs; but those designed for the centennial were glorified objects. watson says that you could see your face in them. the williams's shop outdid itself and more splendid instruments never went forth from its doors. you can therefore imagine watson's chagrin when, after highly commending mr. bell's invention, sir william thompson added, '_this, perhaps, greatest marvel hitherto achieved by electric telegraph has been obtained by appliances of quite a homespun and rudimentary character._'" both ted and laurie joined in the laughter of the tutor. "and now the telephone was actually launched?" ted asked. "well, it was not really in clear waters," mr. hazen replied, with a dubious shrug of his shoulders, "but at least there was no further question as to which of his schemes mr. bell should perfect. both mr. hubbard and mr. saunders, who were assisting him financially, agreed that for the present it must be the telephone; and recognizing the value of watson's services, they offered him an interest in mr. bell's patents if he would give up his work at williams's shop and put in all his time on this device. nevertheless they did not entirely abandon the harmonic telegraph for bell's success with the other invention had only served to strengthen their confidence in his ability and genius. it was also decided that mr. bell should move from salem to boston, take an additional room at the exeter place house (which would give him the entire floor where his laboratory was), and unhampered by further teaching plunge into the inventive career for which heaven had so richly endowed him and which he loved with all his heart. you can picture to yourselves the joy these decisions gave him and the eagerness with which he and watson took up their labors together. "they made telephones of every imaginable size in their attempts to find out whether there was anything that would work more satisfactorily than the type they now had. but in spite of their many experiments they came back to the kind of instrument with which they had started, discovering nothing that was superior to their original plan. except that they compelled the transmitter to do double duty and act also as a receiver, the telephone that emerged from these many tests was practically similar in principle to the one of to-day." "had they made any long-distance trials up to this time?" questioned laurie. "no," mr. hazen admitted. "they had lacked opportunity to make such tests since no great span of wires was accessible to them. but on october , , the walworth manufacturing company gave them permission to try out their device on the company's private telegraph line that ran from boston to cambridge. the distance to be sure was only two miles but it might as well have been two thousand so far as the excitement of the two workers went. their baby had never been out of doors. now at last it was to take the air! fancy how thrilling the prospect was! as the wire over which they were to make the experiment was in use during the day, they were forced to wait until the plant was closed for the night. then watson, with his tools and his telephone under his arm, went to the cambridge office where he impatiently listened for mr. bell's signal to come over the morse sounder. when he had heard this and thereby made certain that bell was at the other end of the line, he cut out the sounder, connected the telephone he had brought with him, and put his ear to the transmitter." the hut was so still one could almost hear the breathing of the lads, who were listening intently. "go on!" laurie said quickly. "tell us what happened." "_nothing happened!_" answered the tutor. "watson listened but there was not a sound." "great scott!" "the poor assistant was aghast," went on mr. hazen. "he was at a complete loss to understand what was the matter. could it be that the contrivance which worked so promisingly in the boston rooms would not work under these other conditions? perhaps an electric current was too delicate a thing to carry sound very far. or was it that the force of the vibration filtered off at each insulator along the line until it became too feeble to be heard? all these possibilities flashed into watson's mind while at his post two miles away from mr. bell he struggled to readjust the instrument. then suddenly an inspiration came to his alert brain. might there not be another morse sounder somewhere about? if there were, that would account for the whole difficulty. springing up, he began to search the room and after following the wires, sure enough, he traced them to a relay with a high resistance coil in the circuit. feverishly he cut this out and rushed back to his telephone. plainly over the wire came bell's voice, '_ahoy! ahoy!_' for a few seconds both of them were too delighted to say much of anything else. then they sobered down and began this first long-distance conversation. now one of the objections mr. bell had constantly been forced to meet from the skeptical public was that while the telegraph delivered messages that were of unchallenged accuracy telephone conversations were liable to errors of misunderstanding. one could not therefore rely so completely on the trustworthiness of the latter as on that of the former. to refute this charge mr. bell had insisted that both he and watson carefully write out whatever they heard that the two records might afterward be compared and verified. '_that is_,' mr. bell had added with the flicker of a smile, '_if we succeed in talking at all_!' well, they did succeed, as you have heard. at first they held only a stilted dialogue and conscientiously jotted it down; but afterward their exuberance got the better of them and in sheer joy they chattered away like magpies until long past midnight. then, loath to destroy the connection, watson detached his telephone, replaced the company's wires, and set out for boston. in the meantime mr. bell, who had previously made an arrangement with the _boston advertiser_ to publish on the following morning an account of the experiment, together with the recorded conversations, had gone to the newspaper office to carry his material to the press. hence he was not at the exeter place rooms when the jubilant watson arrived. but the early morning hour did not daunt the young electrician; and when, after some delay, mr. bell came in, the two men rushed toward one another and regardless of everything else executed what mr. watson has since characterized as a _war dance_. certainly they were quite justified in their rejoicings and perhaps if their landlady had understood the cause of their exultations she might have joined in the dance herself. unluckily she had only a scant sympathy with inventive genius and since the victory celebration not only aroused her, but also wakened most of her boarders from their slumbers, her ire was great and the next morning she informed the two men that if they could not be more quiet at night they would have to leave her house." an appreciative chuckle came from the listeners. "if she had known what she was sheltering, i suppose she would have been proud as a peacock and promptly told all her neighbors," grinned ted. "undoubtedly! but she did not know, poor soul!" returned mr. hazen. "after this mr. bell and mr. watson must have shot ahead by leaps and bounds," commented laurie. "there is no denying that that two-mile test did give them both courage and assurance," responded the tutor. "they got chances to try out the invention on longer telegraph wires; and in spite of the fact that no such thing as hard-drawn copper wire was in existence they managed to get results even over rusty wires with their unsoldered joinings. through such experiments an increasingly wider circle of outside persons heard of the telephone and the marvel began to attract greater attention. mr. bell's modest little laboratory became the mecca of scientists and visitors of every imaginable type. moses g. farmer, well known in the electrical world, came to view the wonder and confessed to mr. bell that more than once he had lingered on the threshold of the same mighty discovery but had never been able to step across it into success. it amused both mr. bell and mr. watson to see how embarrassed persons were when allowed to talk over the wire. standing up and speaking into a box has long since become too much a matter of course with us to appear ridiculous; but those experiencing the novelty for the first time were so overwhelmed by self-consciousness that they could think of nothing to say. one day when mr. watson called from his end of the line, 'how do you do?' a dignified lawyer who was trying the instrument answered with a foolish giggle, 'rig-a-jig-jig and away we go!' the psychological reaction was too much for many a well-poised individual and i do not wonder it was, do you?" "it must have been almost as good as a vaudeville show to watch the people," commented ted. "better! lots better!" echoed laurie. "in april, , the first out-of-door telephone line running on its own private wires was installed in the shop of charles williams at number court street and carried from there out to his house at somerville. quite a little ceremony marked the event. both mr. bell and mr. watson attended the christening and the papers chronicled the circumstance in bold headlines the following day. immediately patrons who wanted telephones began to pop up right and left like so many mushrooms. but alas, where was the money to come from that should enable mr. bell and his associates to branch out and grasp the opportunities that now beckoned them? the inventor's own resources were at a low ebb; watson, like many another young man, had more brains than fortune; and neither mr. hubbard nor mr. saunders felt they could provide the necessary capital. already the western union had refused mr. hubbard's offer to sell all mr. bell's patents for one hundred thousand dollars, the company feeling that the price asked was much too high. two years later, however, they would willingly have paid twenty-five million dollars for the privilege they had so summarily scorned. what was to be done? money must be secured for without it all further progress was at a standstill. was success to be sacrificed now that the goal was well within sight? and must the telephone be shut away from the public and never take its place of service in the great world? why, if a thing was not to be used it might almost as well never have been invented! the spirits of the telephone pioneers sank lower and lower. the only way to raise money seemed to be to sell the telephone instruments outright and this mr. bell, who desired simply to lease them, was unwilling to do. then an avenue of escape from this dilemma presented itself to him." "what was it?" asked laurie. "he would give lectures, accompanying them with practical demonstrations of the telephone. this would bring in money and banish for a time, at least, the possibility of having to sell instead of rent telephones. the plan succeeded admirably. the first lecture was given at salem where, because of mr. bell's previous residence and many friends, a large audience packed the hall. then boston desired to know more of the invention and an appeal for a lecture signed by longfellow, oliver wendell holmes, and other distinguished citizens was forwarded to mr. bell. the boston lectures were followed by others in new york, providence, and the principal cities throughout new england." "it seems a shame mr. bell should have had to take his time to do that, doesn't it?" mused ted. "how did they manage the lectures?" "the lectures had a checkered existence," smiled mr. hazen. "many very amusing incidents centered about them. were i to talk until doomsday i could not begin to tell you the multitudinous adventures mr. bell and mr. watson had during their platform career; for although mr. watson was never really before the footlights as mr. bell was, he was an indispensable part of the show,--the power behind the scenes, the man at the other end of the wire, who furnished the lecture hall with such stunts as would not only convince an audience but also entertain them. it was a dull, thankless position, perhaps, to be so far removed from the excitement and glamor, to be always playing or singing into a little wooden box and never catching a glimpse of the fun that was going on at the other end of the line; but since mr. watson was a rather shy person it is possible he was quite as well pleased. after all, it was mr. bell whom everybody wanted to see and of course mr. watson understood this. therefore he was quite content to act his modest rôle and not only gather together at his end of the wire cornet soloists, electric organs, brass bands, or whatever startling novelties the occasion demanded, but talk or sing himself. the shyest of men can sometimes out-herod herod if not obliged to face their listeners in person. as watson had spoken so much over the telephone, he was thoroughly accustomed to it and played the parts assigned him far better than more gifted but less practically trained soloists did. it always amused him intensely after he had bellowed _pull for the shore_, _hold the fort_ or _yankee doodle_ into the transmitter to hear the applause that followed his efforts. probably singing before a large company was about the last thing tom watson expected his electrical career would lead him into. had he been told that such a fate awaited him, he would doubtless have jeered at the prophecy. but here he was, singing away with all his lung power, before a great hall full of people and not minding it in the least; nay, i rather think he may have enjoyed it. once, desiring to give a finer touch than usual to the entertainment, mr. bell hired a professional singer; but this soloist had never used a telephone and although he possessed the art of singing he was not able to get it across the wire. no one in the lecture hall could hear him. mr. bell promptly summoned watson (who was doubtless congratulating himself on being off duty) to render _hold the fort_ in his customary lusty fashion. after this mr. watson became the star soloist and no more singers were engaged." a ripple of amusement passed over the faces of the lads listening. "ironically enough, as mr. watson's work kept him always in the background furnishing the features of these entertainments, he never himself heard mr. bell lecture. he says, however, that the great inventor was a very polished, magnetic speaker who never failed to secure and hold the attention of his hearers. of course, every venture has its trials and these lecture tours were no exception to the general rule. once, for example, the northern lights were responsible for demoralizing the current and spoiling a telephone demonstration at lawrence; and although both watson and a cornetist strained their lungs to bursting, neither of them could be heard at the hall. then the sparks began to play over the wires and the show had to be called off. nevertheless such disasters occurred seldom, and for the most part the performances went smoothly, the people were delighted, and mr. bell increased not only his fame but his fortune." mr. hazen stopped a moment. "you must not for an instant suppose," he resumed presently, "that the telephone was a perfected product. transmitters of sufficient delicacy to do away with shouting and screaming had not yet made their appearance and in consequence when one telephoned all the world knew it; it was not until the blake transmitter came into use that a telephone conversation could be to any extent confidential. in its present state, the longer the range the more lung power was demanded; and probably had not this been the condition, people would have shouted anyway, simply from instinct. even with our own delicately adjusted instruments we are prone to forget and commit this folly. but in the early days one was forced to uplift his voice at the telephone and if he had no voice to uplift woe betide his telephoning. and apropos of this matter, i recall reading that once, when mr. bell was to lecture in new york, he thought what a drawing card it would be if he could have his music and other features of entertainment come from boston. therefore he arranged to use the wires of the atlantic and pacific telegraph company and to this end he and watson planned a dress rehearsal at midnight in order to try out the inspiration. now it chanced that the same inflexible landlady ruled at number exeter place, and remembering his former experience, mr. watson felt something must be done to stifle the shouting he foresaw he would be compelled to do at that nocturnal hour. so he gathered together all the blankets and rolled them into a sort of cone and to the small end of this he tied his telephone. then he crept into this stuffy, breathless shelter, the ancestor of our sound-proof telephone booth, and for nearly three hours shouted to mr. bell in new york--or tried to. but the experiment was not a success. he could be heard, it is true, but not distinctly enough to risk such an unsatisfactory demonstration before an uninitiated audience. hence the scheme was abandoned and mr. watson scrambled his things together and betook himself to a point nearer the center of action." "it must all have been great fun, mustn't it?" said laurie thoughtfully. "great fun, no doubt, but very hard work," was the tutor's answer. "many a long, discouraging hour was yet to follow before the telephone became a factor in the everyday world. yet each step of the climb to success had its sunlight as well as its shadow, its humor as well as its pathos; and it was fortunate both men appreciated this fact for it floated them over many a rough sea. man can spare almost any other attribute better than his sense of humor. without this touchstone he is ill equipped to battle with life," concluded mr. hazen whimsically. chapter xi the rest of the story "i should think," commented laurie one day, when ted and mr. hazen were sitting in his room, "that mr. bell's landlady would have fussed no end to have his telephone ringing all the time." "my dear boy, you do not for an instant suppose that the telephones of that period had bells, do you?" replied mr. hazen with amusement. "no, indeed! there was no method for signaling. unless two persons agreed to talk at a specified hour of the day or night and timed their conversation by the clock, or else had recourse to the morse code, there was no satisfactory way they could call one another. this did not greatly matter when you recollect how few telephones there were in existence. mr. williams used to summon a listener by tapping on the metal diaphragm of the instrument with his pencil, a practice none too beneficial to the transmitter; nor was the resulting sound powerful enough to reach any one who was not close at hand. furthermore, persons could not stand and hold their telephones and wait until they could arouse the party at the other end of the line for a telephone weighed almost ten pounds and----" "ten pounds!" repeated ted in consternation. mr. hazen nodded. "yes," answered he, "the early telephones were heavy, cumbersome objects and not at all like the trim, compact instruments we have to-day. in fact, they were quite similar to the top of a sewing-machine box, only, perhaps, they were a trifle smaller. you can understand that one would not care to carry on a very long conversation if he must in the meantime stand and hold in his arms a ten-pound object about ten inches long, six inches wide, and six inches high." "i should say not!" laurie returned. "it must have acted as a fine check, though, on people who just wanted to gabble." both ted and the tutor laughed. "of course telephone owners could not go on that way," ted said, after the merriment had subsided. "what did mr. bell do about it?" "the initial step for betterment was not taken by mr. bell but by mr. watson," mr. hazen responded. "he rigged a little hammer inside the box and afterwards put a button on the outside. this _thumper_ was the first calling device ever in use. later on, however, the assistant felt he could improve on this method and he adapted the buzzer of the harmonic telegraph to the telephone; this proved to be a distinct advance over the more primitive _thumper_ but nevertheless he was not satisfied with it as a signaling apparatus. so he searched farther still, and with the aid of one of the shabby little books on electricity that he had purchased for a quarter from williams's tiny showcase, he evolved the magneto-electric call bell such as we use to-day. this answered every purpose and nothing has ever been found that has supplanted it. it is something of a pity that watson did not think to affix his name to this invention; but he was too deeply interested in what he was doing and probably too busy to consider its value. his one idea was to help mr. bell to improve the telephone in every way possible and measuring what he was going to get out of it was apparently very far from his thought. of course, the first of these call bells were not perfect, any more than were the first telephones; by and by, however, their defects were remedied until they became entirely satisfactory." "so they now had telephones, transmitters, and call bells," reflected ted. "i should say they were pretty well ready for business." "you forget the switchboard," was mr. hazen's retort. "a one-party line was a luxury and a thing practically beyond the reach of the public. at best there were very few of them. no, some method for connecting parties who wished to speak to one another had to be found and it is at this juncture of the telephone's career that a new contributor to the invention's success comes upon the scene. "doing business at number washington street was a young new yorker by the name of edwin t. holmes, who had charge of his father's burglar-alarm office. as all the electrical equipment he used was made at williams's shop, he used frequently to go there and one day, when he entered, he came upon charles williams, the proprietor of the store, standing before a little box that rested on a shelf and shouting into it. hearing mr. holmes's step, he glanced over his shoulder, met his visitor's astonished gaze, and laughed. "'for heaven's sake, williams, what have you got in that box?' demanded mr. holmes. "'oh, this is what that fellow out there by watson's bench, mr. bell, calls a telephone,' replied mr. williams. "'so that's the thing i have seen squibs in the paper about!' observed the burglar-alarm man with curiosity. "'yes, he and watson have been working at it for some time.' "now mr. holmes knew tom watson well for the young electrician had done a great deal of work for him in the past; moreover, the new york man was a person who kept well abreast of the times and was always alert for novel ideas. therefore quite naturally he became interested in the embryo enterprise and dropped into williams's shop almost every day to see how the infant invention was progressing. in this way he met both mr. gardiner hubbard and mr. thomas saunders, who were mr. bell's financial sponsors. after mr. holmes had been a spectator of the telephone for some time, he remarked to mr. hubbard: "'if you succeed in getting two or three of those things to work and will lend them to me, i will show them to boston.' "'show them to boston,' repeated mr. hubbard. 'how will you do that?' "'well,' said mr. holmes, 'i have a central office down at number washington street from which i have individual wires running to most of the banks, many jeweler's shops, and other stores. i can ring a bell in a bank from my office and the bank can ring one to me in return. by using switches and giving a prearranged signal to the exchange bank, both of us could throw a switch which would put the telephones in circuit and we could talk together.' "after looking at mr. holmes for a moment with great surprise, mr. hubbard slapped him on the back and said, 'i will do it! get your switches and other things ready.' "of course mr. holmes was greatly elated to be the first one to show on his wires this wonderful new instrument and connect two or more parties through a central office. he immediately had a switchboard made (its actual size was five by thirty-six inches) through which he ran a few of his burglar-alarm circuits and by means of plugs he arranged so that he could throw the circuit from the burglar-alarm instruments to the telephone. he also had a shelf made to rest the telephones on and had others like it built at the exchange national and the hide and leather banks. in a few days the telephones, numbered , , and , arrived and were quickly installed, and the marvellous exhibition opened. soon two more instruments were added, one of which was placed in the banking house of brewster, bassett and company and the other in the shoe and leather bank. when the williams shop was connected, it gave mr. holmes a working exchange of five connections, the first telephone exchange in history." "i'll bet they had some queer times with it," asserted ted. "they did, indeed!" smiled mr. hazen. "the papers announced the event, although in very retiring type, and persons of every walk in life flocked to the holmes office to see the wonder with their own eyes. so many came that mr. holmes had a long bench made so that visitors could sit down and watch the show. one day a cornetist played from the holmes building so that the members of the boston stock exchange, assembled at the office of brewster, bassett and company, could hear the performance. considering the innovation a great boon, the new york man secured another instrument and after meditating some time on whom he would bestow it he decided to install it in the revere bank, thinking the bank people would be delighted to be recipients of the favor. his burglar-alarm department had pass-keys to all the banks and therefore, when banking hours were over, he and one of his men obtained entrance and put the telephone in place. the following morning he had word that the president of the bank wished to see him and expecting to receive thanks for the happy little surprise he had given the official, he hurried to the bank. instead of expressing gratitude, however, the president of the institution said in an injured tone: "'mr. holmes, what is that play toy you have taken the liberty of putting up out there in the banking room?' "'why, that is what they are going to call a telephone,' explained mr. holmes. "'a telephone! what's a telephone?' inquired the president. "with enthusiasm the new yorker carefully sketched in the new invention and told what could be done with it. "after he had finished he was greatly astonished to have the head of the bank reply with scorn: "'mr. holmes, you take that plaything out of my bank and don't ever take such liberties again.' "you may be sure the _plaything_ was quickly removed and the revere bank went on record as having the first telephone disconnection in the country. "having exhibited the telephones for a couple of weeks, mr. holmes went to mr. hubbard and suggested that he would like to continue to carry on the exchange but he should like it put on a business basis. "'have you any money?' asked mr. hubbard. "'mighty little,' was the frank answer. "'well, that's more than we have got,' mr. hubbard responded. 'however, if you have got enough money to do the business and build the exchange, we will rent you the telephones.' "by august, , when bell's patent was sixteen months' old, casson's history tells us there were seven hundred and seventy-eight telephones in use and the bell telephone association was formed. the organization was held together by an extremely simple agreement which gave bell, hubbard, and saunders a three-tenths' interest apiece in the patents and watson one-tenth. the business possessed no capital, as there was none to be had; and these four men at that time had an absolute monopoly of the telephone business,--and everybody else was quite willing they should have. "in addition to these four associates was charles williams, who had from the first been a believer in the venture, and mr. holmes who built the first telephone exchange with his own money, and had about seven hundred of the seven hundred and seventy-eight instruments on his wires. mr. robert w. devonshire joined the others in august, , as bookkeeper and general secretary and has since become an official in the american telephone and telegraph company. "mr. holmes rented the telephones for ten dollars a year and through his exchange was the first practical man who had the temerity to offer telephone service for sale. it was the arrival of a new idea in the business world. "now the business world is not a tranquil place and as soon as the new invention began to prosper, every sort of difficulty beset its path. "there were those who denied that mr. bell had been first in the field with the telephone idea, and they began to contest his right to the patents. other telephone companies sprang up and began to compete with the rugged-hearted pioneers who had launched the industry. lawsuits followed and for years mr. bell's days were one continual fight to maintain his claims and keep others from wresting his hard-earned prosperity from him. but in time smoother waters were reached and now alexander graham bell has been universally conceded to be the inventor of this marvel without which we of the present should scarcely know how to get on." "i don't believe we could live without telephones now, do you?" remarked laurie thoughtfully. "oh, i suppose we could keep alive," laughed mr. hazen, "but i am afraid our present order of civilization would have to be changed a good deal. we scarcely realize what a part the telephone plays in almost everything we attempt to do. certainly the invention helps to speed up our existence; and, convenient as it is, i sometimes am ungrateful enough to wonder whether we should not be a less highly strung and nervous nation without it. however that may be, the telephone is here, and here to stay, and you now have a pretty clear idea of its early history. how from these slender beginnings the industry spread until it spanned continents and circled the globe, you can easily read elsewhere. yet mighty as this factor has become in the business world, it is not from this angle of its greatness that i like best to view it. i would rather think of the lives it has saved; the good news it has often borne; the misunderstandings it has prevented; the better unity it has promoted among all peoples. just as the railroad was a gigantic agent in bringing north, south, east, and west closer together, so the telephone has helped to make our vast country, with its many diverse elements, 'one nation, indivisible.'" chapter xii conspirators with september a tint of scarlet crept into the foliage bordering the little creeks that stole from the river into the aldercliffe meadows; tangles of goldenrod and purple asters breathed of autumn, and the mornings were now too chilly for a swim. had it not been for the great fireplace the shack would not have been livable. for the first time both ted and laurie realized that the summer they had each enjoyed so heartily was at an end and they were face to face with a different phase of life. the harvest, with its horde of vegetables and fruit, had been gathered into the yawning barns and cellars and the earth that had given so patiently of its increase had earned the right to lay fallow until the planting of another spring. ted's work was done. he had helped deposit the last barrel of ruddy apples, the last golden pumpkins within doors, and now he had nothing more to do but to pack up his possessions preparatory to returning to freeman's falls, there to rejoin his family and continue his studies. once the thought that the drudgery of summer was over would have been a delightful one. why, he could remember the exultation with which he had burned the last cornstalks at the end of the season when at home in vermont. the ceremony had been a rite of hilarious rejoicing. but this year, strange to say, a dull sadness stole over him whenever he looked upon the devastated gardens and the reaches of bare brown earth. there was nothing to keep him longer either at aldercliffe or pine lea. his work henceforth lay at school. it was strange that a little sigh accompanied the thought for had he not always looked forward to this very prospect? what was the matter now? was not studying the thing he had longed to be free to do? why this regret and depression? and why was his own vague sadness reflected in laurie's eyes and in those of mr. hazen? summer could not last forever; it was childish to ask that it should. they all had known from the beginning that these days of companionship must slip away and come to an end. and yet the end had come so quickly. why, it had scarcely been midsummer before the twilight had deepened and the days mellowed into autumn. well, they had held many happy, happy hours for ted, at least. never had he dreamed of such pleasures. he had enjoyed his work, constant though it had been, and had come to cherish as much pride in the gardens of aldercliffe and pine lea, in the vast crops of hay that bulged from the barn lofts, as if they had been his own. and when working hours were over there was laurie fernald and the new and pleasant friendship that existed between them. as ted began to drag out from beneath his bunk the empty wooden boxes he purposed to pack his books in, his heart sank. soon the cosy house in which he had passed so many perfect hours would be quite denuded. frosts would nip the flowers nodding in a final glory of color outside the windows; the telephone would be disconnected; his belongings would once more be crowded into the stuffy little flat at home; and the door of the camp on the river's edge would be tightly locked on a deserted paradise. of course, everything had to come to an end some time and often when he had been weeding long, and what seemed interminable rows of seedlings and had been making only feeble progress at the task, the thought that termination of his task was an ultimate certainty had been a consolation mighty and sustaining. such an uninteresting undertaking could not last forever, he told himself over and over again; nothing ever did. and now with ironic conformity to law, his philosophy had turned on him, demonstrating beyond cavil that not only did the things one longed to be free of come to a sure finality but so did those one pined to have linger. although night was approaching, too intent had he been on his reveries to notice that the room was in darkness. how still everything was! that was the way the little hut would be after he was gone,--cold, dark, and silent. he wondered as he sat there whether he should ever come back. would the fernalds want him next season and again offer him the boathouse for a home? they had said nothing about it but if he thought he was to return another summer it would not be so hard to go now. it was leaving forever that saddened him. he must have remained immovable there in the twilight for a much longer time than he realized; and perhaps he would have sat there even longer had not a sound startled him into breathless attention. it was the rhythmic stroke of a canoe paddle and as it came nearer it was intermingled with the whispers of muffled voices. possibly he might have thought nothing of the happening had there not been a note of tense caution in the words that came to his ear. who could be navigating the river at this hour of the night? surely not pleasure-seekers, for it was very cold and an approaching storm had clouded in the sky until it had become a dome of velvet blackness. whoever was venturing out upon the river must either know the stream very well or be reckless of his own safety. ted did not move but listened intently. "let's take a chance and land," he heard a thick voice murmur. "the boy has evidently either gone to bed or he isn't here. whichever the case, he can do us no harm and i'm not for risking the river any farther. it's black as midnight. we might get into the current and have trouble." "what's the sense of running our heads into a noose by landing?" objected a second speaker. "we can't talk here--that's nonsense." "i tell you the boy isn't in the hut," retorted his comrade. "i remember now that i heard he was going back to the falls to school. likely he has gone already. in any case we can try the door and examine the windows; if the place is locked, we shall be sure he is not here. and should it prove to be inhabited, we can easy hatch up some excuse for coming. he'll be none the wiser. even if he should be here," added the man after a pause, "he is probably asleep. after a hard day's work a boy his age sleeps like a log. there'll be no waking him, so don't fret. come! let's steer for the float." "but i----" "great heavens, cronin! we've got to take some chances. you're not getting cold feet so soon, are you?" burst out the other scornfully. "n--o! of course not," his companion declared with forced bravado. "but i don't like taking needless risks. the boy might be awake and hear us." "what if he does? haven't i told you i will invent some yarn to put him off the scent? he wouldn't be suspecting mischief, anyhow. i tell you i'm not going drifting round this river in the dark any longer. next thing we know we may hit a snag and upset." "but you insisted on coming." "i know i did," snapped the sharp voice. "what chance had we to talk in a crowded boarding-house whose very walls had ears? or on the village streets? i knew the river would have no listeners and you see i was right; it hasn't. but i did expect there would be a trifle more light. it is like ink, isn't it? you can't see your hand before your face." "i don't believe we could find the float even if we tried for it," piped his friend with malicious satisfaction. "find it? of course we can. i've traveled this river too many times to get lost on it. i know every inch of the stream." "but aren't there boats at the landing?" "oh, they've been hauled in for the season long ago. i know that to be a fact." "then i guess young turner must have gone." "that's what i've been trying to tell you for the last half-hour," asserted the other voice with high-pitched irritation. "why waste all this time? let's land, talk things over, lay our plans, and be getting back to freeman's falls. we mustn't be seen returning to the town together too late for it might arouse suspicion." "you're right there." "then go ahead and paddle for the landing. i'll steer. just have your hand out so we won't bump." the lapping of the paddles came nearer and nearer. then there was a crash as the nose of the canoe struck the float. "you darned idiot, cronin! why didn't you fend her off as i told you to?" "i couldn't see. i----" "hush!" a moment of breathless silence followed and then there was a derisive laugh. "i told you the boy wasn't here," one of the men declared aloud. "if he had been he would have had his head out the window by now. we've made noise enough to wake the dead." "but he may be here for all that," cautioned the other speaker. "don't talk so loud." "nonsense!" his comrade retorted without lowering his tone. "i tell you the boy has gone back home and the hut is as empty as a last year's bird's nest. i'll stake my oath on it. the place is shut and locked tight as a drum. you'll see i'm right presently." instantly ted's brain was alert. the door was locked, that he knew, for when he came in he had bolted it for the night. one window, however, was open and he dared not attempt to close it lest he make some betraying sound; and even were he able to shut it noiselessly he reflected that the procedure would be an unwise one since it would cut him off from hearing the conversation. no, he must keep perfectly still and trust that his nocturnal visitors would not make too thorough an investigation of the premises. to judge from the scuffling of feet outside, both of them had now alighted from the canoe and were approaching the door. soon he heard a hand fumbling with the latch and afterward came a heavy knock. slipping breathlessly from his chair he crouched upon the floor, great beads of perspiration starting out on his forehead. "the door is locked, as i told you," he heard some one mutter. "he may be asleep." "we can soon make sure. ah, there! turner! turner!" once more a series of blows descended upon the wooden panel. "does that convince you, cronin?" "y--e--s," owned cronin reluctantly. "i guess he's gone." "of course he's gone! come, brace up, can't you?" urged his companion. "where's your backbone?" "i'm not afraid." "tell that to the marines! you're timid and jumpy as a girl. how are we ever to put this thing over if you don't pull yourself together? i might as well have a baby to help me," sneered the gruff voice. "don't be so hard on me, alf," whined his comrade. "i ain't done nothin'. ain't i right here and ready?" "you're here, all right," snarled the first speaker, "but whether you're ready or not is another matter. now i'm going to give you a last chance to pull out. do you want to go ahead or don't you? it's no good for us to be laying plans if you are going to be weak-kneed at the end and balk at carrying them out. do you mean to stand by me and see this thing to a finish or don't you?" "i--sure i do!" "cross your heart?" "cross my heart!" this time the words echoed with more positiveness. "you're not going to back out or squeal?" his pal persisted. "why, alf, how can you----" "because i've got to be sure before i stir another inch." "but ain't i told you over and over again that i----" "i don't trust you." "what makes you so hard on a feller, alf?" whimpered cronin. "i haven't been mixed up in as many of these jobs as you have and is it surprising that i'm a mite nervous? it's no sign that i'm crawling." "you're ready to stick it out, then?" "sure!" there was another pause. "well, let me just tell you this, jim cronin. if you swear to stand by me and don't do it, your miserable life won't be worth a farthing--understand? i'll wring your neck, wring it good and thorough. i'm not afraid to do it and i will. you know that, don't you?" "yes." the terror-stricken monosyllable made it perfectly apparent that cronin did know. "then suppose we get down to hard tacks," asserted his companion, the note of fierceness suddenly dying out of his tone. "come and sit down and we'll plan the thing from start to finish. we may as well be comfortable while we talk. there's no extra charge for sitting." as ted bent to put his ear to the crack of the door, the thud of a heavy body jarred the shack. "jove!" he heard cronin cry. "the ground is some way down, ain't it?" "and it's none to soft at that," came grimly from his comrade, as a second person slumped upon the planks outside. somebody drew a long breath and while the men were making themselves more comfortable on the float ted waited expectantly in the darkness. chapter xiii what ted heard "now the question is which way are we going to get the biggest results," alf began, when they were both comfortably settled with their backs to the door. "that must be the thing that governs us--that, and the sacrifice of as few lives as possible. not _their_ lives, of course. i don't care a curse for the fernalds; the more of them that go sky-high the better, in my estimation. it's the men i mean, our own people. some of them will have to die, i know that. it's unavoidable, since the factories are never empty. even when no night shifts are working, there are always watchmen and engineers on the job. but fortunately just now, owing to the dull season, there are no night gangs on duty. if we decide on the mills it can be done at night; if on the fernalds themselves, why we can set the bombs when we are sure that they are in their houses." ted bit his lips to suppress the sudden exclamation of horror that rose to them. he must not cry out, he told himself. terrible as were the words he heard, unbelievable as they seemed, if he were to be of any help at all he must know the entire plot. therefore he listened dumbly, struggling to still the beating of his heart. for a moment there was no response from cronin. "come, jim, don't sit there like a graven image!" the leader of the proposed expedition exclaimed impatiently. "haven't you a tongue in your head? what's your idea? out with it. i'm not going to shoulder all the job." the man called cronin cleared his throat. "as i see it, we gain nothing by blowing up the fernald houses," answered he deliberately. "so long as the mills remain, their income is sure. after they're gone, the young one will just rebuild and go on wringing money out of the people as his father and grandfather are doing." "but we mean to get him, too." a murmured protest came from cronin. "i'm not for injuring that poor, unlucky lad," asserted he. "he's nothing but a cripple who can't help himself. it would be like killing a baby." "nonsense! what a sentimental milksop you are, jim!" alf cut in. "you can't go letting your feelings run away with you like that, old man. i'm sorry for the young chap, too. he's the most decent one of the lot. but that isn't the point. he's a fernald and because he is----" "but he isn't to blame for that, is he?" "you make me tired, cronin, with all this cry-baby stuff!" alf ejaculated. "you've simply got to cut it out--shut your ears to it--if we are ever to accomplish anything. you can't let your sympathies run away with you like this." "i ain't letting my sympathies run away with me," objected cronin, in a surly tone. "and i'm no milksop, either. but i won't be a party to harming that unfortunate mr. laurie and you may as well understand that at the outset. i'm willing to do my share in blowing the fernald mills higher than a kite, and the two fernalds with 'em; or i'll blow the two fernalds to glory in their beds. i could do it without turning a hair. but to injure that helpless boy of theirs i can't and won't. that would be too low-down a deed for me, bad as i am. he hasn't the show the others have. they can fend for themselves." "you make me sick!" replied alf scornfully. "why, you might as well throw up the whole job as to only half do it. what use will it be to take the old men of the family if the young one still lives on?" "i ain't going to argue with you, alf," responded cronin stubbornly. "if i were to talk all night you likely would never see my point. but there i stand and you can take it or leave it. if you want to go on on these terms, well and good; if not, i wash my hands of the whole affair and you can find somebody else to help you." "of course i can't find somebody else," was the exasperated retort. "you know that well enough. do you suppose i would go on with a scheme like this and leave you wandering round to blab broadcast whatever you thought fit?" "i shouldn't blab, alf," declared cronin. "you could trust me to hold my tongue and not peach on a pal. i should just pull out, that's all. i warn you, though, that if our ways parted and you went yours, i should do what i could to keep mr. laurie out of your path." "you'd try the patience of job, cronin." "i'm sorry." "no, you're not," snarled alf. "you're just doing this whole thing to be cussed. you know you've got me where i can't stir hand or foot. i was a fool ever to have got mixed up with such a white-livered, puling baby. i might have known you hadn't an ounce of sand." "take care, sullivan," cautioned cronin in a low, tense voice. "but hang it all--why do you want to balk and torment me so?" "i ain't balking and tormenting you." "yes, you are. you're just pulling the other way from sheer contrariness. why can't you be decent and come across?" "haven't i been decent?" cronin answered. "haven't i fallen in with every idea you've suggested? you've had your way fully and freely. i haven't stood out for a single thing but this, have i?" "n--o. but----" "well, why not give in and let me have this one thing as i want it? it don't amount to much, one way or the other. the boy is sickly and isn't likely to live long at best." "but i can't for the life of me see why you should be so keen on sparing him. what is he to you?" cronin hesitated; then in a very low voice he said: "once, two years ago, my little kid got out of the yard and unbeknown to his mother wandered down by the river. we hunted high and low for him and were well-nigh crazy, for he's all the child we have, you know. it seems mr. laurie was riding along the shore in his automobile and he spied the baby creeping out on the thin ice. he stopped his car and called to the little one and coaxed him back until the chauffeur could get to him and lift him aboard the car. then they fetched the child to the village, hunted up where he lived, and brought him home to his mother. i--i've never forgotten it and i shan't." "that was mighty decent of mr. laurie--mighty decent," sullivan admitted slowly. "i've got a kid at home myself." for a few moments neither man spoke; then sullivan continued in quick, brisk fashion, as if he were trying to banish some reverie that plagued him: "well, have your way. we'll leave mr. laurie out of this altogether." "thank you, alf." sullivan paid no heed to the interruption. "now let's can all this twaddle and get down to work," he said sharply. "we've wasted too much time squabbling over that miserable cripple. let's brace up and make our plans. you are for destroying the mills, eh?" "it's the only thing that will be any use, it seems to me," cronin replied. "if the mills are blown up, it will not only serve as a warning to the fernalds but it will mean the loss of a big lot of money. they will rebuild, of course, but it will take time, and in the interval everything will be at a standstill." "it will throw several hundred men out of work," sullivan objected. "that can't be helped," retorted cronin. "they will get out at least with their lives and will be almighty thankful for that. they can get other jobs, i guess. but even if they are out of work, i figure some of them won't be so sorry to see the fernalds get what's coming to them," chuckled cronin. "you're right there, jim!" "i'll bet i am!" cried cronin. "then your notion would be to plant time bombs at the factories so they will go off in the night?" "yes," confessed cronin, a shadow of regret in his tone. "that will carry off only a few watchmen and engineers. mighty tough luck for them." "it can't be helped," sullivan said ruthlessly. "you can't expect to carry through a thing of this sort without some sacrifice. all we can do is to believe that the end justifies the means. it's a case of the greatest good to the greatest number." "i--suppose--so." "well, then, why hesitate?" "i ain't hesitating," announced cronin quickly. "i just happened to remember maguire. he's one of the night watchmen at the upper mill and a friend of mine." "but we can't remember him, cronin," sullivan burst out. "it is unlucky that he chances to be on duty, of course; but that is his misfortune. we'd spare him if we could." "i know, i know," cronin said. "it's a pitiless business." then, as if his last feeble compunction vanished with the words, he added, "it's to be the mills, then." "yes. we seem to be agreed on that," sullivan replied eagerly. "i have everything ready and i don't see why we can't go right ahead to-night and plant the machines with their fuses timed for early morning. i guess we can sneak into the factories all right--you to the upper mill and i to the lower. if you get caught you can say you are hunting for maguire; and if i do--well, i must trust to my wits to invent a story. but they won't catch me. i've never been caught yet, and i have handled a number of bigger jobs than this one," concluded he with pride. "anything more you want to say to me?" asked cronin. "no, i guess not. i don't believe i need to hand you any advice. just stiffen up, that's all. anything you want to say to me?" "no. i shan't worry my head about you, you old fox. you're too much of a master hand," cronin returned, with an inflection that sounded like a grin. "i imagine you can hold up your end." "i rather imagine i can," drawled sullivan. "then if there's nothing more to be said, i move we start back to town. it must be late," cronin asserted. "it's black enough to be midnight," grumbled sullivan. "we'd best go directly to our houses--i to mine and you to yours. the explosives and bombs i'll pack into two grips. yours i'll hide in your back yard underneath that boat. how'll that be?" "o. k." "you've got it straight in your head what you are to do?" "yes." "and i can count on you?" "sure!" "then let's be off." there was a splash as the canoe slipped into the water and afterward ted heard the regular dip of the paddles as the craft moved away. he listened until the sound became imperceptible and when he was certain that the conspirators were well out of earshot he sped to the telephone and called up the police station at freeman's falls. it did not take long for him to hurriedly repeat to an officer what he had heard. afterward, in order to make caution doubly sure, he called up the mills and got his old friend maguire at the other end of the line. it was not until all this had been done and he could do no more that he sank limply down on the couch and stared into the darkness. now that everything was over he found that he was shaking like a leaf. his hands were icy cold and he quivered in every muscle of his body. it was useless for him to try to sleep; he was far too excited and worried for that. therefore he lay rigidly on his bunk, thinking and waiting for--he knew not what. it might have been an hour later that he was aroused from a doze by the sharp reverberation of the telephone bell. dizzily he sprang to his feet and stood stupid and inert in the middle of the floor. again the signal rang and this time he was broad awake. he rushed forward to grasp the receiver. "turner? ted turner?" "yes, sir." "this is the police station at freeman's falls. we have your men--both of them--and the goods on them. they are safe and sound under lock and key. i just thought you might like to know it. we shall want to see you in the morning. you've done a good night's work, young one. the state police have been after these fellows for two years. sullivan has a record for deeds of this sort. mighty lucky we got a line on him this time before he did any mischief." "it was." "that's all, thanks to you, kid. i advise you to go to bed now and to sleep. i'll hunt you up to-morrow. i'll bet the fernalds will, too. they owe you something." chapter xiv the fernalds win their point the trial of alf sullivan and jim cronin was one of the most spectacular and thrilling events freeman's falls had ever witnessed. that two such notorious criminals should have been captured through the efforts of a young boy was almost inconceivable to the police, especially to the state detectives whom they had continually outwitted. and yet here they were in the dock and the town officers made not the slightest pretense that any part of the glory of their apprehension belonged to them. to ted turner's prompt action, and to that alone, the triumph was due. in consequence the boy became the hero of the village. he had always been a favorite with both young and old, for every one liked his father, and it followed that they liked his father's son. now, however, they had greater cause to admire that son for his own sake and cherish toward him the warmest gratitude. many a man and woman reflected that it was this slender boy who had stood between them and a calamity almost too horrible to be believed; and as a result their gratitude was tremendous. and if the townsfolk were sensible of this great obligation how much more keenly alive to it were the fernalds whose property had been thus menaced. "you have topped one service with another, ted," mr. lawrence fernald declared. "we do not see how we are ever to thank you. come, there must be something that you would like--some wish you would be happy to have gratified. tell us what it is and perhaps we can act as magicians and make it come true." "yes," pleaded mr. clarence fernald, "speak out, ted. do not hesitate. remember you have done us a favor the magnitude of which can never be measured and which we can never repay." "but i do not want to be paid, sir," the lad answered. "i am quite as thankful as you that the wretches who purposed harm were caught before they had had opportunity to destroy either life or property. certainly that is reward enough." "it _is_ a reward in its way," the elder mr. fernald asserted. "the thought that it was you who were the savior of an entire community will bring you happiness as long as you live. nevertheless we should like to give you something more tangible than pleasant thoughts. we want you to have something by which to remember this marvelous escape from tragedy. deep down in your heart there must be some wish you cherish. if you knew the satisfaction it would give us to gratify it, i am sure you would not be so reluctant to express it." ted colored, and after hesitating an instant, shyly replied: "since you are both so kind and really seem to wish to know, there is something i should like." "name it!" the fernalds cried in unison. "i should like to feel i can return to the shack next summer," the boy remarked timidly. "you see, i have become very fond of aldercliffe and pine lea, fond of laurie, of mr. hazen, and of the little hut. i have felt far more sorry than perhaps you realize to go away from here." his voice quivered. "you poor youngster!" mr. clarence exclaimed. "why in the name of goodness didn't you say so? there is no more need of your leaving this place than there is of my going, or laurie. we ought to have sensed your feeling and seen to it that other plans were made long ago. indeed, you shall come back to your little riverside abode next summer--never fear! and as for aldercliffe, pine lea, laurie and all the rest of it, you shall not be parted from any of them." "but i must go back to school now, sir." "what's the matter with your staying on at pine lea and having your lessons with laurie and mr. hazen instead?" "oh--why----" "should you like to?" "oh, mr. fernald, it would be----" laurie's father laughed. "i guess we do not need an answer to that question," grandfather fernald remarked, smiling. "his face tells the tale." "then the thing is as good as done," mr. clarence announced. "hazen will be as set up as an old hen to have two chicks. he likes you, ted." "and well he may," growled grandfather fernald. "but for ted's prayers and pleas he would not now be here." "yes, hazen will be much pleased," reiterated mr. clarence fernald, ignoring his father's comment. "as for laurie--i wonder we never thought of all this before. it is no more work to teach two boys than one, and in the meantime each will act as a stimulus for the other. the spur of rivalry will be a splendid incentive for laurie, to say nothing of the joy he will take in your companionship. he needs young people about him. it is a great scheme, a great scheme!" mused mr. fernald, rubbing his hands with increasing satisfaction as one advantage of the arrangement after another rotated through his mind. "if only my father does not object," murmured ted. "object! object!" blustered grandfather fernald. "and why, pray, should he object?" that a man of mr. turner's station in life should view the plan with anything but pride and complacency was evidently a new thought to the financier. "why, sir, my father and sisters are very fond of me and may not wish to have me remain longer away from home. they have missed me a lot this summer, i know that. you see i am the youngest one, the only boy." "humph!" interpolated the elder mr. fernald. "in spite of the fact that we are crowded at home and too busy to see much of one another, father likes to feel i'm around," continued ted. "i--suppose--so," came slowly from the old gentleman. "i am sure i can fix all that," asserted mr. clarence fernald briskly. "i will see your father and sisters myself, and i feel sure they will not stand in the way of your getting a fine education when it is offered you--that is, if they care as much for you as you say they do. on the contrary, they will be the first persons to realize that such a plan is greatly to your advantage." "it is going to be almightily to your advantage," mr. lawrence fernald added. "who can tell where it all may lead? if you do well at your studies, perhaps it may mean college some day, and a big, well-paid job afterward." ted's eyes shone. "would you like to go to college if you could?" persisted the elder man. "you bet i would--i mean yes, sir." the old gentleman chuckled at the fervor of the reply. "well, well," said he, "time must decide all that. first lay a good foundation. you cannot build anything worth building without something to build upon. you get your cellar dug and we will then see what we will put on top of it." with this parting remark he and his son moved away. when the project was laid before laurie, his delight knew no bounds. to have ted come and live at pine lea for the winter, what a lark! think of having some one to read and study with every day! nothing could be jollier! and mr. hazen was every whit as pleased. "it is the very thing!" he exclaimed to laurie's father. "ted will not be the least trouble. he is a fine student and it will be a satisfaction to work with him. besides, unless i greatly miss my guess, he will cheer laurie on to much larger accomplishments. ted's influence has never been anything but good." and what said laurie's mother? "it is splendid, clarence, splendid! we can refurnish that extra room that adjoins laurie's suite and let mr. hazen and the boys have that entire wing of the house. nothing could be simpler. i shall be glad to have ted here. not only is he a fine boy but he has proved himself a good friend to us all. if we can do anything for him, we certainly should do it. the lad has had none too easy a time in this world." yes, all went well with the plan so far as the fernalds were concerned; but the turners--ah, there was the stumbling block! "it's no doubt a fine thing you're offering to do for my son," ted's father replied to mr. clarence fernald, "and i assure you i am not unmindful of your kindness; but you see he is our only boy and when he isn't here whistling round the house we miss him. 'tain't as if we had him at home during his vacation. if he goes up to your place to work summers and stays there winters as well, we shall scarcely see him at all. all we have had of him this last year was an occasional teatime visit. folks don't like having their children go out from the family roof so young." "but, father," put in nancy, "think what such a chance as this will mean to ted. you yourself have said over and over again that there was nothing like having an education." "i know it," mused the man. "there's nothing can equal knowing something. i never did and look where i've landed. i'll never go ahead none. but i want it to be different with my boy. he's going to have some stock in trade in the way of training for life. it will be a kind of capital nothing can sweep away. as i figure it, it will be a sure investment--that is, if the boy has any stuff in him." "an education is a pretty solid investment," agreed the elder mr. fernald, "and you are wise to recognize its value, mr. turner. to plunge into life without such a weapon is like entering battle without a sword. i know, for i have tried it." "have you indeed, sir?" grandfather fernald nodded. "i was brought up on a vermont farm when i was a boy." "you don't say so! well, well!" "yes, i never had much schooling," went on the old man. "of course i picked up a lot of practical knowledge, as a boy will; and in some ways it has not been so bad. but it was a pretty mixed-up lot of stuff and i have been all my life sorting it out and putting it in order. i sometimes wonder when i think things over that i got ahead at all; it was more happen than anything else, i guess." "the vermonters have good heads on their shoulders," mr. turner remarked. "oh, you can't beat the green mountain state," laughed the senior mr. fernald, unbending into cordiality in the face of a common interest. "still, when it came to bringing up my boy i felt as you do. i wasn't satisfied to have him get nothing more than i had. so i sent him to college and gave him all the education i never got myself. it has stood him in good stead, too, and i've lived to be proud of what he's done with it." "and well you may be, sir," mr. turner observed. mr. clarence fernald flushed in the face of these plaudits and cut the conversation short by saying: "it is that kind of an education that we want to give your boy, mr. turner. we like the youngster and believe he has promise of something fine. we should like to prepare him for college or some technical school and send him through it. he has quite a pronounced bent for science and given the proper opportunities he might develop into something beyond the ordinary rank and file." "do you think so, sir?" asked mr. turner, glowing with pleasure. "well, i don't know but that he has a sort of knack with wire, nails, and queer machinery. he has tinkered with such things since he was a little lad. of late he has been fussing round with electricity and scaring us all to death here at home. his sisters were always expecting he'd meet his end or blow up the house with some claptraption he'd put together." nancy blushed; then added, with a shy glance toward the fernalds: "they say down at the school that ted is quite handy with telephones and such things." "mr. hazen, my son's tutor, thinks your brother has a knowledge of electricity far beyond his years," replied mr. clarence fernald. "that is why it seems a pity his talents in that direction should not be cultivated. who knows but he may be an embryo genius? you never can tell what may be inside a child." "you're right there, sir," mr. turner assented cordially. then after a moment of thought, he continued, "likely an education such as you are figuring on would cost a mint of money." the fernalds, both father and son, smiled at the naïve comment. "well--yes," confessed mr. clarence slowly. "it would cost something." "a whole lot?" "if you wanted the best." mr. turner scratched his head. "i'm afraid i couldn't swing it," declared he, regret in his tone. "but we are offering to do this for you," put in grandfather fernald. "i know you are, sir; i know you are and i'm grateful," ted's father answered. "but if i could manage it myself, i'd----" "come, mr. turner, i beg you won't say that," interrupted the elder mr. fernald. "think what we owe to your son. why, we never in all the world can repay what he has done for us. this is no favor. we are simply paying our debts. you like to pay your bills, don't you?" "indeed i do, sir!" was the hearty reply. "there's no happier moment than the one when i take my pay envelope and go to square up what i owe. true, i don't run up many bills; still, there is not always money enough on hand to make both ends meet without depending some on credit." "how much do you get in the shipping room?" "eighty dollars a month, sir." "and your daughters are working?" "they are in the spinning mills." mr. fernald glanced about over the little room. although scrupulously neat, it was quite apparent that the apartment was far too crowded for comfort. the furnishings also bespoke frugality in the extreme. it was not necessary to be told that the turners' life was a close arithmetical problem. "your family stand by us loyally," observed the financier. "we have your mills to thank for our daily bread, sir," mr. turner answered. "and your boy--if he does not go on with his studies shall you have him enter the factories?" mr. turner squared his shoulders with a swift gesture of protest. "no, sir--not if i can help it!" he burst out. then as if he suddenly sensed his discourtesy, he added, "i beg your pardon, gentlemen. i wasn't thinking who i was talking to. it isn't that i do not like the mills. it's only that there is so little chance for the lad to get ahead there. i wouldn't want the boy to spend his life grubbing away as i have." "and yet you are denying him the chance to better himself." "i am kinder going round in a circle, ain't i?" returned mr. turner gently. "like as not it is hard for you to understand how i feel. it's only that you hate to let somebody else do for your children. it seems like charity." "charity! charity--when we owe the life of our boy, the lives of many of our workmen, the safety of our mills to your son?" ejaculated mr. clarence fernald with unmistakable sincerity. "when you pile it up that way it does sound like a pretty big debt, doesn't it?" mused mr. turner. "of course it's a big debt--it is a tremendous one. now try, mr. turner, and see our point of view. we want to take our envelope in our hands and although we have not fortune enough in the world to wipe out all we owe, we wish to pay part of it, at least. no matter how much we may be able to do for ted in the future, we shall never be paying in full all that he has done for us. much of his service we must accept as an obligation and give in return for it nothing but gratitude and affection. but if you will grant us the privilege of doing this little, it will give us the greatest pleasure." if any one had told the stately mr. lawrence fernald weeks before that he would be in the home of one of his workmen, pleading for a favor, he would probably have shrugged his shoulders and laughed; and even mr. clarence fernald, who was less of an aristocrat than his father, would doubtless have questioned a prediction of his being obliged actually to implore one of the men in his employ to accept a benefaction from him. yet here they both were, almost upon their knees, theoretically, before this self-respecting artisan. in the face of such entreaty who could have remained obdurate? certainly not mr. turner who in spite of his pride was the kindest-hearted creature alive. "well, you shall have your way, gentlemen," he at length replied, "ted shall stay on at pine lea, since you wish it, and you shall plan his education as you think best. i know little of such matters and feel sure the problem is better in your hands than mine. i know you will work for the boy's good. and i beg you won't think me ungrateful because i have hesitated to accept your offer. we all have our scruples and i have mine. but now that i have put them in the background, i shall take whole-heartedly what you give and be most thankful for it." thus did the fernalds win their point. nevertheless they came away from the turner's humble home with a consciousness that instead of bestowing a favor, as they had expected to do, they had really received one. perhaps they did not respect ted's father the less because of his reluctance to take the splendid gift they had put within his reach. they themselves were proud men and they had a sympathy for the pride of others. there could be no question that the interview had furnished both of them with food for thought for as they drove home in their great touring car they did not speak immediately. by and by, however, grandfather fernald observed: "don't you think, clarence, turner's pay should be increased? eighty dollars isn't much to keep a roof over one's head and feed a family of three persons." "i have been thinking that, too," returned his son. "they tell me he is a very faithful workman and he has been here long enough to have earned a substantial increase in wages. i don't see why i never got round to doing something for him before. the fellow was probably too proud to ask for more money and unless some kick comes to me those things slip my mind. i'll see right away what can be done." there was a pause and then the senior mr. fernald spoke again: "do you ever feel that we ought to do something about furnishing better quarters for the men?" he asked. "i have had the matter on my conscience for months. look at that tenement of the turners! it is old, out of date, crowded and stuffy. there isn't a ray of sunshine in it. it's a disgrace to herd a family into such a place. and i suppose there are ever so many others like it in freeman's falls." "i'm afraid there are, father." "i don't like the idea of it," growled old mr. fernald. "the houses all look well enough until one goes inside. but they're terrible, terrible! why, they are actually depressing. i haven't shaken off the gloom of that room yet. we own land enough on the other side of the river. why couldn't we build a handsome bridge and then develop that unused area by putting up some decent houses for our people? it would increase the value of the property and at the same time improve the living conditions of our employees. what do you say to the notion?" "i am ready to go in on any such scheme!" cried mr. clarence fernald heartily. "i'd like nothing better. i have always wanted to take up the matter with you; but i fancied from something you said once when i suggested it that you----" "i didn't realize what those houses down along the water front were like," interrupted grandfather fernald. "ugh! at least sunshine does not cost money. we must see that our people get more of it." chapter xv what came of the plot the fernalds were as good as their word. all winter long father, son, and grandson worked at the scheme for the new cottages and by new year, with the assistance of an architect, they had on paper plans for a model village to be built on the opposite side of the river as soon as the weather permitted. the houses were gems of careful thought, no two of them being alike. nevertheless, although each tiny domain was individual in design, a general uniformity of construction existed between them which resulted in a delightfully harmonious ensemble. the entire fernald family was enthusiastic over the project. it was the chief topic of conversation both at aldercliffe and at pine lea. rolls of blue prints littered office and library table and cluttered the bureaus, chairs, and even the pockets of the elder men of each household. "we are going to make a little normandy on the other shore of the river before we have done with it," asserted grandfather fernald to laurie. "it will be as pretty a settlement as one would wish to see. i mean, too, to build coöperative stores, a clubhouse, and a theater; perhaps i may even go farther and put up a chapel. i have gone clean daft over the notion of a model village and since i am started i may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. i do not believe we shall be sinking our money, either, for in addition to bettering the living conditions of our men i feel we shall also draw to the locality a finer class of working people. this will boom our section of the country and should make property here more valuable. but even if it doesn't work out that way, i shall take pride in the proposed village. i have always insisted that our mills be spotless and up to date and the fact that they have been has been a source of great gratification. now i shall carry that idea farther and see that the new settlement comes up to our standards. i have gone over and over the plans to see if in any way they can be bettered; suppose you and i look at them together once more. some new inspiration may come to us--something that will be an improvement." patiently and for the twentieth time laurie examined the blue prints while his grandfather volubly explained just where each building of the many was to stand. "this little park, with a fountain in the middle and a bandstand near by, will slope down toward the river. as there are many fine trees along the shore it will be a cool and pleasant place to sit in summer. the stone bridge i am to put up will cross just above and serve as a sort of entrance to the park. we intend that everything shall be laid out with a view to making the river front attractive. as for the village itself--the streets are to be wide so that each dwelling shall have plenty of fresh air and sunshine. no more of those dingy flats such as the turners live in! each family is also to have land enough for a small garden, and each house will have a piazza and the best of plumbing; and because many of the women live in their kitchens more than in any other part of their abode, i am insisting that that room be as comfortable and airy as it can be made." "it is all bully, grandfather," laurie answered. "but isn't it going to cost a fortune to do the thing as you want it done?" "it is going to cost money," nodded the elder man. "i am not deceiving myself as to that. but i have the money and if i chose to spend it on this _fad_ (as one of my friends called it) i don't see why i shouldn't do it. since your grandmother died i have not felt the same interest in aldercliffe that i used to. when she was alive that was my hobby. i shall simply be putting out the money in a different direction, that is all. perhaps it will be a less selfish direction, too." "it certainly is a bully fine fad, grandfather," laurie exclaimed. "somehow i believe it is, laddie," the old gentleman answered thoughtfully. "your father thinks so. time only can tell whether i have chucked my fortune in a hole or really invested it wisely. i have been doing a good deal of serious thinking lately, thanks to those chaps who tried to blow up the mills. as i have turned matters over in my mind since the trial, and struggled to get their point of view, i have about come to the conclusion that they had a fair measure of right on their side. not that i approve of their methods," continued he hastily, raising a protesting hand, when laurie offered an angry interruption. "do not misunderstand me. the means they took was cowardly and criminal and i do not for a moment uphold it. but the thing that led them to act as they planned to act was that they honestly believed we had not given them and their comrades a square deal. as i have pondered over this conviction of theirs, i am not so sure but they were right in that belief." he paused to light a fresh cigar which he silently puffed for a few moments. "this village plan of mine has grown to some extent out of the thinking to which this tragedy has stimulated me. there can be no question that our fortunes have come to us as a result of the hard labor of our employees. i know that. and i also know that we have rolled up a far larger proportion of the profits than they have. in fact, i am not sure we have not accepted a larger slice than was our due; and i am not surprised that some of them are also of that opinion. i would not go so far as to say we have been actually dishonest but i am afraid we have not been generous. the matter never came to me before in precisely this light and i confess frankly i am sorry that i have blundered. nevertheless, as i tell your father, it is never too late to mend. if we have made mistakes we at least do not need to continue to make them. so i have resolved to pay up some of my past obligations by building this village and afterward your dad and i plan to raise the wages of the workers--raise them voluntarily without their asking. i figure we shall have enough to keep the wolf from the door, even then," he added, smiling, "and if we should find we had not why we should simply have to come back on you and ted turner to support us, that's all." laurie broke into a ringing laugh. "i would much rather you and dad spent the money this way than to have you leave it all to me," he said presently. "one person does not need so much money. it is more than his share of the world's profits--especially if he has earned none of it. besides, when a fortune is handed over to you, it spoils all the fun of making one for yourself." the boy's eyes clouded wistfully. "i suppose anyhow i never shall be able to work as hard as you and father have; still i----" "pooh! pooh! nonsense!" his grandfather interrupted huskily. "i believe i shall be able to earn enough to take care of myself," continued laurie steadily. "in any case i mean to try." "of course you will!" cried the elder man heartily. "why, aren't you expecting to be an engineer or something?" "i--i--hope--to," replied the boy. "certainly! certainly!" fidgeted grandfather fernald nervously. "you are going to be a great man some day, laurie--a consulting engineer, maybe; or a famous electrician, or something of the sort." "i wish i might," the lad repeated. "you see, grandfather, it is working out your own career that is the fun, making something all yourself. that is why i hate the idea of ever stepping into your shoes and having to manage the mills. all the interesting part is done already. you and dad had the pleasure----" "the damned hard work, you mean," cut in his grandfather. "well, the hard work, then," chuckled laurie, "of building the business up." "that is true, my boy," replied mr. fernald. "it was a great game, too. why, you know when i came here and we staked out the site for the mills, there wasn't a house in sight. there was nothing but that river. to one little wooden factory and that rushing torrent of water i pinned my faith. every cent i possessed in the world was in the venture. i must make good or go under. nobody will ever know how i slaved in those early days. for years i worked day and night, never giving myself time to realize that i was tired. but i was young and eager and although i got fagged sometimes a few hours of sleep sent me forth each morning with faith that i could slay whatever dragons i might encounter. as i look back on those years, hard though they were, they will always stand out as the happiest ones of my life. it was the fight that was the sport. now i am an old man and i have won the thing i was after--success. of course, it is a satisfaction to have done what you set out to do. but i tell you, laddie, that after your money is made, the zest of the game is gone. your fortune rolls up then without you and all you have to do is to sit back and watch it grow of itself. it doesn't seem to be a part of you any more. you feel old, and unnecessary, and out of it. you are on the shelf." "that is why i want to begin at the beginning and earn my own money, grandfather," laurie put in. "think what you would have missed if some one had deprived you of all your fun when you were young. you wouldn't have liked it." "you bet i wouldn't!" cried the old gentleman. "i don't want to lose my fun either," persisted laurie. "i want to win my way just as you and dad have done--just as ted turner is going to do. i want to find out what is in me and what i can do with it." grandfather fernald rubbed his hands. "bully for you, laurie! bully for you!" he ejaculated. "that's the true fernald spirit. it was that stuff that took me away from my father's farm in vermont and started me out in the world with only six dollars in my pocket. i was bound i would try my muscle and i did. i got some pretty hard knocks, too, while i was doing it. still, they were all in the day's work and i never have regretted them. but i didn't mean to have your father go through all i did and so i saw that he got an education and started different. he knew what he was fighting and was armed with the proper weapons instead of going blind into the scrimmage. that is what we are trying to do for you and what we mean to do for ted turner. we do not intend to take either of you out of the fray but we are going to put into your hands the things you need to win the battle. then the making good will depend solely on you." "i mean to try to do my part." "i know you do, laddie; and you'll do it, too." "i just wish i was stronger--as well as ted is," murmured the boy. "i wish you were," his grandfather responded gently, touching his grandson's shoulder affectionately with his strong hand. "if money could give you health you should have every farthing i possess. but there are things that money cannot do, laurie. i used to think it was all-powerful and that if i had it there was nothing i could not make mine. but i realize now that many of the best gifts of life are beyond its reach. we grow wiser as we grow older," he concluded, with a sad shake of his head. "sometimes i think we should have been granted two lives, one to experiment with and the other to live." he rose, a weary shadow clouding his eyes. "well, to live and learn is all we can do; and thank goodness it is never too late to profit by our errors. i have learned many things from ted turner; i have learned some more from his father; and i have added to all these certain things that those unlucky wretches, sullivan and cronin, have demonstrated to me. who knows but i may make freeman's falls a better place in consequence? we shall see." with these parting reflections the old gentleman slowly left the room. chapter xvi another calamity the winter was a long and tedious one with much cold weather and ice. great drifts leveled the fields about aldercliffe and pine lea, shrouding the vast expanse of fields along the river in a glistening cloak of ermine spangled with gold. the stream itself was buried so deep beneath the snow that it was difficult not to believe it had disappeared altogether. freeman's falls had never known a more severe season and among the mill employees there was much illness and depression. prices were high, business slack, and the work ran light. nevertheless, the fernalds refused to shorten the hours. there were no night shifts on duty, to be sure, but the hum of the machinery that ceased at twilight resumed its buzzing every morning and by its music gladdened many a home where anxiety might otherwise have reigned. that the factories were being operated at a loss rather than throw the men out of employment ted turner could not help knowing for since he had become a member of the fernald household he had been included so intimately in the family circle that it was unavoidable he should be cognizant of much that went on there. as a result, an entirely new aspect of manufacture came before him. up to this time he had seen but one side of the picture, that with which the working man was familiar. but now the capitalist's side was turned toward him and on confronting its many intricate phases he gained a very different conception of the mill-owner's conundrums. he learned now for the first time who it was that tided over business in its seasons of stress and advanced the money that kept bread in the mouths of the workers. he sensed, too, as he might never have done otherwise, who shouldered the burden of care not alone during working hours but outside of them; he glimpsed something of the struggles of competition; the problems of securing raw material; the work concerning credits. a very novel viewpoint it was to the boy, and as he regarded the complicated web, he found himself wondering how much of all this tangle was known to the men, and whether they were always fair to their employer. he had frequently overheard conversations at his father's when they had proclaimed how easy and care-free a life the rich led, and while they had envied and criticized and slandered the fernalds and asserted that they did nothing but enjoy themselves, he had listened. ah, how far from the truth this estimate had been! he speculated, as he reviewed the facts and vaguely rehearsed the capitalist's enigmas whether, if shown the actual conditions, the townsfolk would have been willing to exchange places with either of these men whose fortunes they so greedily coveted. for in very truth the fernalds seemed to ted persons to be pitied far more than envied. stripped of illusions, what was mr. lawrence fernald but an old man who had devoted himself to money-making until he had rolled up a fortune so large that its management left him no leisure to enjoy it? eager to accumulate more and ever more wealth, he toiled and worried quite as hard as he would have done had he had no money at all; he often passed sleepless nights and could never be persuaded to take a day away from his office. he slaved harder than any of those he paid to work for him and he had none of their respite from care. mr. clarence fernald, being of a younger generation, had perhaps learned greater wisdom. at any rate, he went away twice a year for extended pleasure trips. possibly the fact that his father had degenerated into a mere money-making machine was ever before him, serving as a warning against a similar fate. however that may have been, he did break resolutely away from business at intervals, or tried to. nevertheless, he never could contrive to be wholly free. telegrams pursued him wherever he went; his secretary often went in search of him; and many a time, like a defeated runaway whose escape is cut short, he was compelled to abandon his holiday and return to the mills, there to straighten out some unlooked-for complication. day and night the responsibilities of his position, the welfare of the hundreds of persons dependent on him, weighed down his shoulders. and even when he was at home in the bosom of his family, there was laurie, his son, his idol, who could probably never be well! what man in all freeman's falls could have envied him if acquainted with all the conditions of his life? this and many another such reflection engrossed ted, causing him to wonder whether there was not in the divine plan a certain element of equalization. in the meantime, his lessons with laurie and mr. hazen went steadily and delightfully on. how much more could be accomplished with a tutor who devoted all his time simply to two pupils! and how much greater pleasure one derived from studying under these intimate circumstances! in every way the arrangement was ideal. thus the winter passed with its balancing factors of work and play. the friendship between the two boys strengthened daily and in a similar proportion ted's affection for the entire fernald family increased. it was when the first thaw made its appearance late in march that trouble came. laurie was stricken with measles, and because of the contagion, ted's little shack near the river was hastily equipped for occupancy, and the lad was transferred there. "i can't have two boys sick," declared mr. clarence fernald, "and as you have not been exposed to the disease there is no sense in our thrusting you into its midst. plenty of wood will keep your fireplace blazing and as the weather is comparatively mild i fancy you can contrive to be comfortable. we will connect the telephone so you won't be lonely and so you can talk with laurie every day. the doctor says he will soon be well again and after the house has been fumigated you can come back to pine lea." accordingly, ted was once more ensconced in the little hut and how good it seemed to be again in that familiar haunt only he realized. before the first day was over, he felt as if he had never been away. pine lea might boast its conservatories, its sun parlors, its tiled baths, its luxuries of every sort; they all faded into nothingness beside the freedom and peace of the tiny shack at the river's margin. meanwhile, with the gradual approach of spring, the sun mounted higher and the great snow drifts settled and began to disappear. already the ice in the stream was breaking up and the turbid yellow waters went rushing along, carrying with them whirling blocks of snow. as the torrent swept past, it flooded the meadows and piled up against the dam opposite the factories great frozen, jagged masses of ice which ground and crashed against one another, so that the sounds could be distinctly heard within the mills. at some points these miniature icebergs blocked the falls and held the waters in check until, instead of cascading over the dam, they spread inland, inundating the shores. the float before ted's door was covered and at night, when all was still and his windows open, he could hear the roaring of the stream, and the impact of the bumping ice as it sped along. daily, as the snows on the far distant hillsides near the river's source melted, the flood increased and poured down in an ever rising tide its seething waters. yet notwithstanding the fact that each day saw the stream higher, no one experienced any actual anxiety from the conditions, although everybody granted they were abnormal. of course, there was more ice in the river than there had been for many years. even grandfather fernald, who had lived in the vicinity for close on to half a century, could not recall ever having witnessed such a spring freshet; nor did he deny that the weight of ice and water against the dam must be tremendous. however, the structure was strong and there was no question of its ability to hold, even though this chaos of grinding ice-cakes boomed against it with defiant reverberation. in spite of the conditions, ted felt no nervousness about remaining by himself in the shack and perhaps every premonition of evil might have escaped him had he not been awakened one morning very early by a ripple of lapping water that seemed near at hand. sleepily he opened his eyes and looked about him. the floor of the hut was wet and through the crack beneath the door a thread of muddy water was steadily seeping. in an instant he was on his feet and as he stood looking about him in bewilderment he heard the roar of the river and detected in the sound a threatening intonation that had not been there on the previous day. he hurried to the window and stared out into the grayness of the dawn. the scene that confronted him chilled his blood. the river had risen unbelievably during the night. not only were the little bushes along the shore entirely submerged but many of the pines standing upon higher ground were also under water. as he threw on his clothes, he tried to decide whether there was anything he ought to do. would it be well to call up the fernalds, or telephone to the mills, or to the village, and give warning of the conditions? it was barely four o'clock and the first streaks of light were but just appearing. nevertheless, there must be persons who were awake and as alert as he to the transformation the darkness had wrought. moreover, perhaps there was no actual danger, and should this prove to be the case, how absurd he would feel to arouse people at daybreak for a mere nothing. it was while he paused there indecisively that a sight met his eye which spurred hesitancy to immediate action. around the bend far up the stream came sweeping a tangle of wreckage--trees, and brush, and floating timber--and swirling along in its wake was a small lean-to which he recognized as one that had stood on the bank of the river at melton, the village located five miles above freeman's falls. if the water were high enough to carry away this building, it must indeed have risen to a menacing height and there was not a moment to be lost. he rushed to the telephone and called up mr. clarence fernald who replied to his summons in irritable, half-dazed fashion. "is there any way of lifting the water gates at the mills?" asked ted breathlessly. "the river has risen so high that it is sweeping away trees and even some of the smaller houses from the melton shore. if the debris piles up against the dam, the pressure may be more than the thing can stand. besides, the water will spread and flood both aldercliffe and pine lea. i thought i'd better tell you." mr. fernald was not dazed now; he was broad awake. "where are you?" inquired he sharply. "at the shack, sir. the water is ankle deep." "don't stay there another moment. it is not safe. at any instant the whole hut may be carried away. gather your traps together and call wharton or stevens--or both of them--to come and help you take them up to aldercliffe. i'll attend to notifying the mills. you've done us a good turn, my boy." during the next hour ted himself was too busy to appreciate the hectic rush of events that he had set moving, or realize the feverish energy with which the fernalds and their employees worked to avert a tragedy which, but for his warning, might have been a very terrible one. the mills were reached by wire and the sluices at the sides of the central dam immediately lifted to make way for the torrent of snow, ice, wreckage, and water. in what a fierce and maddened chaos it surged over the falls and dashed into the chasm beneath! all day the mighty current boiled and seethed, overflowing the outlying fields with its yellow flood. nevertheless, the great brick factories that bordered the stream stood firm and so did the residences at aldercliffe and pine lea, both of which were fortunately situated on high ground. ted had not made his escape from his little camp a moment too soon, for while he stood looking out on the freshet from one of the attic windows at pine lea, he shivered to behold his little hut bob past him amid the rushing waters and drift into an eddy on the opposite shore along with a mass of uprooted pines. a sob burst from him. "it's gone, mr. hazen--our little house!" he murmured brokenly to the young tutor who was standing beside him. "we never shall see it again." "you mustn't take it so to heart, ted," the teacher answered, laying his hand sympathetically on the lad's shoulder. "suppose you had been in it and borne away to almost certain death. that would have been a calamity indeed. what is an empty boathouse when we consider how many people are to suffer actual financial loss and perhaps forfeit everything they have, as a result of this tragedy. the villagers who live along the river will lose practically everything they own--boats, poultry, barns; and many of them both houses and furniture. we all loved the shack; but it is not as if its destruction left you with no other roof above your head. you can stay at aldercliffe, pine lea, or join your family at freeman's falls. three shelters are open to you. but these poor souls in the town----" "i had not thought about the villagers," blushed ted. "the fernalds have been in the settlement since dawn and along with every man they could summon have been working to save life and property. if i had not had to stay here with laurie, i should have gone to help, too." ted hung his head. "i'm ashamed to have been so selfish," said he. "instead of thinking only of myself, i ought to have been lending a hand to aid somebody else. it was rotten of me. why can't i go down to the village now? there must be things i can do. certainly i'm no use here." "no, there is nothing to be done here," the tutor agreed. "if you could stay with laurie and calm him down there would be some sense in your remaining; but as it is, i don't see why you shouldn't go along to the town and fill in wherever you can. i fancy there will be plenty to do. the fernalds, wharton, stevens, and the rest of the men are moving the families who lived along the water front out of their houses and into others. all our trucks and cars are busy at the job." "i know i could help," cried ted eagerly, his foot on the top step of the staircase. "i am sure you can," mr. hazen replied. "already by your timely warning you have helped more than you will ever know. i tremble to think what might have happened if you had not awakened mr. clarence just when you did. had the dam at the mills gone down, the whole town would have been devastated. mr. fernald told me so himself." "i'm mighty glad if i----" "so you see you have been far from selfish," continued the tutor, in a cheery tone. "as for the shack, it can be rebuilt, so i should not mourn about that." "i guess mr. fernald is glad now that he has his plans ready for his model village." "yes, he is. he said right away that it was providential. the snow will disappear after this thaw and as soon as the earth dries up enough to admit of building, the workmen will begin to break ground for the new settlement. the prospect of other and better houses than the old ones will encourage many of the mill people who have had their dwellings ruined to-day and in consequence been forced to move into temporary quarters where they are crowded and uncomfortable. we can all endure inconvenience when we know it is not to last indefinitely. mr. fernald told me over the telephone that the promise of new houses by summer or fall at the latest was buoying up the courage of all those who had suffered from this terrible disaster. he is going to grant special privileges to every family that has met with loss. they are to be given the first houses that are finished." "i do hope another freshet like this one won't sweep away the new village," reflected ted. "oh, we shall probably never again be treated to an excitement similar to this one," smiled mr. hazen reassuringly. "didn't you hear them say that it was the bursting of the melton reservoir which was largely responsible for this catastrophe? mr. fernald declared all along that this was no ordinary freshet. he has seen the river every spring for nearly forty years and watched it through all its annual thaws; and although it has often been high, it has never been a danger to the community. he told me over the telephone about the reservoir bursting. he had just got the news. it seems the reservoir above melton was an old one which the authorities have realized for some time must be rebuilt. they let it go one year too long. with the weight of water, snow, and ice, it could not bear the pressure put upon it and collapsed. i'm afraid it has been a severe lesson to the officials of the place for the chance they took has caused terrible damage." "were people killed?" asked ted in an awed whisper. "we have heard so--two or three who were trapped asleep in their houses. as for the town, practically all the buildings that fronted the river were destroyed. of course, as yet we have not been able to get very satisfactory details, for most of the wires were down and communication was pretty well cut off. i suppose that is why they did not notify us of our peril. people were probably too busy with their own affairs, too intent on saving their own lives and possessions to think of anything else. then, too, the thing came suddenly. if there hadn't been somebody awake here, i don't know where we should have been. i don't see how you happened to be astir so early." "nor i," returned ted modestly. "i think it must have been the sound of the water coming in that woke me. i just happened to hear it." "well, it was an almighty fortunate happen--that is all i can say," asserted mr. hazen, as the boy sped down the stairs. chapter xvii surprises during the next few days tidings of the melton disaster proved the truth of mr. hazen's charitable suppositions, for it was definitely learned that the calamity which befell the village came entirely without warning, and as the main part of the town was wiped out almost completely and the river front destroyed, all communication between the unfortunate settlement and the outside world had been cut off so that to send warnings to the communities below had been impossible. considering the enormity of the catastrophe, it was miraculous that there had not been greater loss of life and wider spread devastation. a week of demoralization all along the river followed the tragedy; but after the bulk of wreckage was cleared away and the stream had dropped to normal, the fernalds actually began to congratulate themselves on the direful event. "well, the thing has not been all to the bad, by any means," commented grandfather fernald. "we have at least got rid of those unsightly tenements bordering the water which were such a blot on freeman's falls; and once gone, i do not mean to allow them ever to be put back again. i have bought up the land and shall use it as the site of the new granite bridge i intend to build across the stream. and in case i have more land than is needed for this purpose, the extra area can be used for a park which will be an ornament to the spot rather than an eyesore. therefore, take it altogether, i consider that freshet a capital thing." he glanced at ted who chanced to be standing near by. "i suppose you, my lad, do not entirely agree with me," added he, a twinkle gleaming beneath his shaggy brows. "you are thinking of that playhouse of yours and laurie's that was carried off by the deluge." "i am afraid i was, sir." "pooh! nonsense!" blustered the old gentleman. "what's a thing like that? besides, laurie's father proposes to rebuild it for you. hasn't he told you?" questioned the man, noticing the surprise in the boy's face. "oh, yes, indeed! he is going to put up another house for you; and judging from his plans, you will find yourself far better off than you were in the first place for this time he is to give you a real cottage, not simply a made-over boathouse. yes, there is to be running water; a bedroom, study, and kitchenette; to say nothing of a bath and steam heat. he plans to connect it by piping with the central heating plant. so you see you will have a regular housekeeping bungalow instead of a camp." ted gasped. "but--but--i can't let mr. fernald do all this for me," he protested. "it's--it's--too much." "i shouldn't worry about him, if i were you," smiled the elder man. "it won't scrimp him, i imagine. furthermore, it will be an excellent investment, for should the time ever come when you did not need the house it could be rented to one of our tenants. he is to put a foundation under it this time and build it more solidly; and possibly he may decide to set it a trifle farther back from the water. in any case, he will see that it is right; you can trust him for that. it will not be carried away a second time." "i certainly hope not," ted agreed. "what a pity it was they did not have some way of notifying us from melton! if they had only had a wireless apparatus----" he broke off thoughtfully. "i doubt if all the wireless in the world could have saved your little hut," answered mr. fernald kindly. "it was nothing but a pasteboard house and wireless or no wireless it would have gone anyway. i often speculate as to how ships ever dared to go to sea before they had the protection of wireless communication. ignorance was bliss, i suppose. they knew nothing about it and therefore did not miss it. when we can boast no better way we are satisfied with the old. but think of the shipwrecks and accidents that might have been averted! you will be studying about all this some day when you go to technology or college." ted's face lighted at the words. "you have all been so kind to me, mr. fernald," he murmured. "when i think of your sending me to college it almost bowls me over." "you must never look upon it as an obligation, my boy," the old gentleman declared. "if there is any obligation at all (and there is a very real one) it is ours. the only obligation you have will be to do well at your studies and make us proud of you, and that you are doing all the time. mr. hazen tells me you are showing splendid progress. i hope by another week laurie will be out of the woods, pine lea will be fumigated, and you can resume your former way of living there without further interruptions from floods and illness. still, i shall be sorry to have your little visit at aldercliffe come to an end. you seem to have grown into the ways of the whole family and to fit in wherever you find yourself." mr. fernald smiled affectionately at the lad. "there is something that has been on my tongue's end to whisper to you for some time," he went on, after a brief interval of hesitancy. "i know you can keep a secret and so i mean to tell you one. in the spring we are going to take laurie over to new york to see a very celebrated surgeon who is coming from vienna to this country. we hear he has had great success with cases such as laurie's and we hope he may be able to do something for the boy. of course, no one knows this as yet, not even laurie himself." "oh, mr. fernald! do you mean there would be a chance that laurie could walk sometime?" ted cried. the old man looked into the young and shining face and nervously brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. "perhaps; perhaps!" responded he gruffly. "who can tell? this doctor has certainly performed some marvelous cures. who knows but the lad may some day not only walk about, but leap and run as you do!" "oh, sir--!" "but we must not be too sure or allow ourselves to be swept away by hope," cautioned grandfather fernald. "no one knows what can be done yet and we might be disappointed--sadly disappointed. still, there is no denying that there is a fighting chance. but keep this to yourself, ted. i must trust you to do that. if laurie were to know anything about it, it would be very unfortunate, for the ordeal will mean both pain and suffering for him and he must not be worried about it in advance. he will need all his nerve and courage when the time for action comes. moreover, we feel it would be cruel for him to glimpse such a vision and then find it only a mirage. so we have told him nothing. but i have told you because you are fond of him and i wanted you to share the secret." "it shall remain a secret, mr. fernald." "i feel sure of that," the man replied. "you are a good boy, ted. it was a lucky day that brought you to pine lea." "a lucky one for me, sir!" "for all of us, son! for all of us!" reiterated the old gentleman. "the year of your coming here will be one we never shall forget. it has been very eventful." certainly the final comment was no idle one. not only had the year been a red-letter one but it was destined to prove even more conspicuously memorable. with the spring the plans for the new village went rapidly forward and soon pretty little concrete houses with roofs of scarlet and trimmings of green dotted the slopes on the opposite side of the river. the laying out and building of this community became grandfather fernald's recreation and delight. morning, noon, and evening he could be seen either perusing curling sheets of blue prints, consorting with his architects, or rolling off in his car to inspect the progress of the venture. sometimes he took ted with him, sometimes his son, and when laurie was strong enough, the entire family frequently made the pilgrimage to the new settlement. it was very attractive, there was no denying that; and it seemed as if nothing that could give pleasure to its future residents had been omitted. the tiny library had been laurie's pet scheme, and not only had his grandfather eagerly carried out the boy's own plans but he had proudly ordered the lad's name to be chiselled across the front of the building. ted's plea had been for a playground and this request had also been granted, since it appeared to be a wise one. it was a wonderful playground, bordering on the river and having swings and sand boxes for the children; seats for tired mothers; and a large ball-field with bleachers for the men and boys. the inhabitants of freeman's falls had never dreamed of such an ideal realm in which to live, and as tidings of the paradise went forth, strangers began to flock into town in the hope of securing work in the mills and homes in the new settlement. the fernalds, however, soon made it plain that the preference was to be given to their old employees who had served them well and faithfully for so many years. therefore, as fast as the houses were completed, they were assigned to those who had been longest in the company's employ and soon the streets of the new village were no longer silent but teemed with life and the laughter of a happy people. and among those for whom a charming little abode was reserved were the turners, ted's family. then came the tearing down of the temporary bridge of wood and the opening of the beautiful stone structure that arched the stream. ah, what a holiday that was! the mills were closed, there was a band concert in the little park, dedication exercises, and fireworks in the evening. and great was ted's surprise when he spied cut in the stone the words "turner's bridge!" near the entrance was a modest bronze tablet stating that the memorial had been constructed in honor of theodore turner who, by his forethought in giving warning of the freshet of had saved the village of freeman's falls from inestimable calamity. how the boy blushed when mr. lawrence fernald mentioned him by name in the dedication speech! and yet he was pleased, too. and how the people cheered; and how proud his father and sisters were! perhaps, however, the most delighted person of all was laurie who had been in the secret all along and who now smiled radiantly to see his friend so honored. "the townspeople may not go to my library," he laughed, "but every one of them will use your bridge. they will have to; they can't help it!" the thought seemed to amuse him vastly and he always referred to the exquisite granite structure with its triple arch and richly carved piers of stone as _ted's bridge_. thus did the year with its varied experiences slip by and when june came the fernalds carried laurie to new york to consult the much heralded viennese surgeon. ah, those were feverish, anxious days, not only for the fernald family but for ted and mr. hazen as well. the boy and the tutor had remained at pine lea there to continue their studies and await the tidings laurie's father had promised to send them; and when the ominous yellow telegrams with their momentous messages began to arrive, they hardly knew whether to greet them with sorrow or rejoicing. they need not, however, have dreaded the news for after careful examination the eminent specialist had decided to take a single desperate chance and operate with the hope of success. laurie, they were told, was a monument of courage and had the spirit of a spartan. unquestionably he merited the good luck that followed for fortune did reward his heroism,--smiling fortune. of course, the miracle of health could not come all in a moment; months of convalescence must follow which would be unavoidably tedious with suffering. but beyond this arid stretch of pain lay the goal of recovery. no lips could tell what this knowledge meant to those who loved the boy. in time he was to be as strong as any one! it was unbelievable. nevertheless, the roseate promise was no dream. laurie was brought home to pine lea and immediately the mending process began. already one could read in the patient face the transformation hope had wrought. there was some day to be college, not alone for ted but for laurie himself,--college, and sports, and a career. in the fullness of time these long-anticipated joys began to arrive. health made its appearance and at its heels trouped success and happiness; and to balance them came gratitude, humility, and service. in the meantime, with every lengthening year, the friendship between laurie and ted toughened in fiber and became a closer bond. and it was not engineering or electricity that ultimately claimed the constructive interest of the two comrades but instead the fernald mills, which upon grandfather fernald's retirement called for younger men at their helm. so after going forth into the great world and whetting the weapons of their intellect they found the dragon they had planned to slay waiting for them at home in freeman's falls. yet notwithstanding its familiar environment, it was a very real dragon and resolutely the two young men attacked it, putting into their management of the extensive industry all the spirit of brotherhood that burned in their hearts and all the desire for service which they cherished. with the aim of bringing about a kindlier coöperation and fuller sympathy between capital and labor they toiled, and the world to which they gave their efforts was the better for it. nevertheless, they did not entirely abandon their scientific interests for on the border of the river stood a tiny shack equipped with a powerful wireless apparatus. here on a leisure afternoon ted turner and his comrade could often be found capturing from the atmosphere those magic sounds that spelled the intercourse of peoples, and the thought of nations; and often they spoke of alexander graham bell and those patient pioneers who, together with him, had made it possible for the speech of man to traverse continents and circle a universe. finis what katy did by susan coolidge with frontispiece in color by ralph pallen coleman to five. six of us once, my darlings, played together beneath green boughs, which faded long ago, made merry in the golden summer weather, pelted each other with new-fallen snow. did the sun always shine? i can't remember a single cloud that dimmed the happy blue,-- a single lightning-bolt or peal of thunder, to daunt our bright, unfearing lives: can you? we quarrelled often, but made peace as quickly, shed many tears, but laughed the while they fell, had our small woes, our childish bumps and bruises, but mother always "kissed and made them well." is it long since?--it seems a moment only: yet here we are in bonnets and tail-coats, grave men of business, members of committees, our play-time ended: even baby votes! and star-eyed children, in whose innocent faces kindles the gladness which was once our own, crowd round our knees, with sweet and coaxing voices, asking for stories of that old-time home. "were _you_ once little too?" they say, astonished; "did you too play? how funny! tell us how." almost we start, forgetful for a moment; almost we answer, "we are little _now!_" dear friend and lover, whom to-day we christen, forgive such brief bewilderment,--thy true and kindly hand we hold; we own thee fairest. but ah! our yesterday was precious too. so, darlings, take this little childish story, in which some gleams of the old sunshine play, and, as with careless hands you turn the pages, look back and smile, as here i smile to-day. contents chapter i the little carrs ii paradise iii the day of scrapes iv kikeri v in the loft vi intimate friends vii cousin helen's visit viii to-morrow ix dismal days x st. nicholas and st. valentine xi a new lesson to learn xii two years afterward xiii at last chapter i the little carrs i was sitting in the meadows one day, not long ago, at a place where there was a small brook. it was a hot day. the sky was very blue, and white clouds, like great swans, went floating over it to and fro. just opposite me was a clump of green rushes, with dark velvety spikes, and among them one single tall, red cardinal flower, which was bending over the brook as if to see its own beautiful face in the water. but the cardinal did not seem to be vain. the picture was so pretty that i sat a long time enjoying it. suddenly, close to me, two small voices began to talk--or to sing, for i couldn't tell exactly which it was. one voice was shrill; the other, which was a little deeper, sounded very positive and cross. they were evidently disputing about something, for they said the same words over and over again. these were the words--"katy did." "katy didn't." "she did." "she didn't." "she did." "she didn't." "did." "didn't." i think they must have repeated them at least a hundred times. i got up from my seat to see if i could find the speakers; and sure enough, there on one of the cat-tail bulrushes, i spied two tiny pale-green creatures. their eyes seemed to be weak, for they both wore black goggles. they had six legs apiece,--two short ones, two not so short, and two very long. these last legs had joints like the springs to buggy-tops; and as i watched, they began walking up the rush, and then i saw that they moved exactly like an old-fashioned gig. in fact, if i hadn't been too big, i _think_ i should have heard them creak as they went along. they didn't say anything so long as i was there, but the moment my back was turned they began to quarrel again, and in the same old words--"katy did." "katy didn't." "she did." "she didn't." as i walked home i fell to thinking about another katy,--a katy i once knew, who planned to do a great many wonderful things, and in the end did none of them, but something quite different,--something she didn't like at all at first, but which, on the whole, was a great deal better than any of the doings she had dreamed about. and as i thought, this little story grew in my head, and i resolved to write it down for you. i have done it; and, in memory of my two little friends on the bulrush, i give it their name. here it is--the story of what katy did. katy's name was katy carr. she lived in the town of burnet, which wasn't a very big town, but was growing as fast as it knew how. the house she lived in stood on the edge of the town. it was a large square house, white, with green blinds, and had a porch in front, over which roses and clematis made a thick bower. four tall locust trees shaded the gravel path which led to the front gate. on one side of the house was an orchard; on the other side were wood piles and barns, and an ice-house. behind was a kitchen garden sloping to the south; and behind that a pasture with a brook in it, and butternut trees, and four cows--two red ones, a yellow one with sharp horns tipped with tin, and a dear little white one named daisy. there were six of the carr children--four girls and two boys. katy, the oldest, was twelve years old; little phil, the youngest, was four, and the rest fitted in between. dr. carr, their papa, was a dear, kind, busy man, who was away from home all day, and sometimes all night, too, taking care of sick people. the children hadn't any mamma. she had died when phil was a baby, four years before my story began. katy could remember her pretty well; to the rest she was but a sad, sweet name, spoken on sunday, and at prayer-times, or when papa was especially gentle and solemn. in place of this mamma, whom they recollected so dimly, there was aunt izzie, papa's sister, who came to take care of them when mamma went away on that long journey, from which, for so many months, the little ones kept hoping she might return. aunt izzie was a small woman, sharp-faced and thin, rather old-looking, and very neat and particular about everything. she meant to be kind to the children, but they puzzled her much, because they were not a bit like herself when she was a child. aunt izzie had been a gentle, tidy little thing, who loved to sit as curly locks did, sewing long seams in the parlor, and to have her head patted by older people, and be told that she was a good girl; whereas katy tore her dress every day, hated sewing, and didn't care a button about being called "good," while clover and elsie shied off like restless ponies when any one tried to pat their heads. it was very perplexing to aunt izzie, and she found it hard to quite forgive the children for being so "unaccountable," and so little like the good boys and girls in sunday-school memoirs, who were the young people she liked best, and understood most about. then dr. carr was another person who worried her. he wished to have the children hardy and bold, and encouraged climbing and rough plays, in spite of the bumps and ragged clothes which resulted. in fact, there was just one half-hour of the day when aunt izzie was really satisfied about her charges, and that was the half-hour before breakfast, when she had made a law that they were all to sit in their little chairs and learn the bible verse for the day. at this time she looked at them with pleased eyes, they were all so spick and span, with such nicely-brushed jackets and such neatly-combed hair. but the moment the bell rang her comfort was over. from that time on, they were what she called "not fit to be seen." the neighbors pitied her very much. they used to count the sixty stiff white pantalette legs hung out to dry every monday morning, and say to each other what a sight of washing those children made, and what a chore it must be for poor miss carr to keep them so nice. but poor miss carr didn't think them at all nice; that was the worst of it. "clover, go up stairs and wash your hands! dorry, pick your hat off the floor and hang it on the nail! not that nail--the third nail from the corner!" these were the kind of things aunt izzie was saying all day long. the children minded her pretty well, but they didn't exactly love her, i fear. they called her "aunt izzie" always, never "aunty." boys and girls will know what _that_ meant. i want to show you the little carrs, and i don't know that i could ever have a better chance than one day when five out of the six were perched on top of the ice-house, like chickens on a roost. this ice-house was one of their favorite places. it was only a low roof set over a hole in the ground, and, as it stood in the middle of the side-yard, it always seemed to the children that the shortest road to every place was up one of its slopes and down the other. they also liked to mount to the ridge-pole, and then, still keeping the sitting position, to let go, and scrape slowly down over the warm shingles to the ground. it was bad for their shoes and trousers, of course, but what of that? shoes and trousers, and clothes generally, were aunt izzie's affair; theirs was to slide and enjoy themselves. clover, next in age to katy, sat in the middle. she was a fair, sweet dumpling of a girl, with thick pig-tails of light brown hair, and short-sighted blue eyes, which seemed to hold tears, just ready to fall from under the blue. really, clover was the jolliest little thing in the world; but these eyes, and her soft cooing voice, always made people feel like petting her and taking her part. once, when she was very small, she ran away with katy's doll, and when katy pursued, and tried to take it from her, clover held fast and would not let go. dr. carr, who wasn't attending particularly, heard nothing but the pathetic tone of clover's voice, as she said: "me won't! me want dolly!" and, without stopping to inquire, he called out sharply: "for shame, katy! give your sister _her_ doll at once!" which katy, much surprised, did; while clover purred in triumph, like a satisfied kitten. clover was sunny and sweet-tempered, a little indolent, and very modest about herself, though, in fact, she was particularly clever in all sorts of games, and extremely droll and funny in a quiet way. everybody loved her, and she loved everybody, especially katy, whom she looked up to as one of the wisest people in the world. pretty little phil sat next on the roof to clover, and she held him tight with her arm. then came elsie, a thin, brown child of eight, with beautiful dark eyes, and crisp, short curls covering the whole of her small head. poor little elsie was the "odd one" among the carrs. she didn't seem to belong exactly to either the older or the younger children. the great desire and ambition of her heart was to be allowed to go about with katy and clover and cecy hall, and to know their secrets, and be permitted to put notes into the little post-offices they were forever establishing in all sorts of hidden places. but they didn't want elsie, and used to tell her to "run away and play with the children," which hurt her feelings very much. when she wouldn't run away, i am sorry to say they ran away from her, which, as their legs were longest, it was easy to do. poor elsie, left behind, would cry bitter tears, and, as she was too proud to play much with dorry and john, her principal comfort was tracking the older ones about and discovering their mysteries, especially the post-offices, which were her greatest grievance. her eyes were bright and quick as a bird's. she would peep and peer, and follow and watch, till at last, in some odd, unlikely place, the crotch of a tree, the middle of the asparagus bed, or, perhaps, on the very top step of the scuttle ladder, she spied the little paper box, with its load of notes, all ending with: "be sure and not let elsie know." then she would seize the box, and, marching up to wherever the others were, she would throw it down, saying, defiantly: "there's your old post-office!" but feeling all the time just like crying. poor little elsie! in almost every big family, there is one of these unmated, left-out children. katy, who had the finest plans in the world for being "heroic," and of use, never saw, as she drifted on her heedless way, that here, in this lonely little sister, was the very chance she wanted for being a comfort to somebody who needed comfort very much. she never saw it, and elsie's heavy heart went uncheered. dorry and joanna sat on the two ends of the ridge-pole. dorry was six years old; a pale, pudgy boy, with rather a solemn face, and smears of molasses on the sleeve of his jacket. joanna, whom the children called "john," and "johnnie," was a square, splendid child, a year younger than dorry; she had big brave eyes, and a wide rosy mouth, which always looked ready to laugh. these two were great friends, though dorry seemed like a girl who had got into boy's clothes by mistake, and johnnie like a boy who, in a fit of fun, had borrowed his sister's frock. and now, as they all sat there chattering and giggling, the window above opened, a glad shriek was heard, and katy's head appeared. in her hand she held a heap of stockings, which she waved triumphantly. "hurray!" she cried, "all done, and aunt izzie says we may go. are you tired out waiting? i couldn't help it, the holes were so big, and took so long. hurry up, clover, and get the things! cecy and i will be down in a minute." the children jumped up gladly, and slid down the roof. clover fetched a couple of baskets from the wood-shed. elsie ran for her kitten. dorry and john loaded themselves with two great fagots of green boughs. just as they were ready, the side-door banged, and katy and cecy hall came into the yard. i must tell you about cecy. she was a great friend of the children's, and lived in a house next door. the yards of the houses were only separated by a green hedge, with no gate, so that cecy spent two-thirds of her time at dr. carr's, and was exactly like one of the family. she was a neat, dapper, pink-and-white-girl, modest and prim in manner, with light shiny hair, which always kept smooth, and slim hands, which never looked dirty. how different from my poor katy! katy's hair was forever in a snarl; her gowns were always catching on nails and tearing "themselves"; and, in spite of her age and size, she was as heedless and innocent as a child of six. katy was the _longest_ girl that was ever seen. what she did to make herself grow so, nobody could tell; but there she was--up above papa's ear, and half a head taller than poor aunt izzie. whenever she stopped to think about her height she became very awkward, and felt as if she were all legs and elbows, and angles and joints. happily, her head was so full of other things, of plans and schemes, and fancies of all sorts, that she didn't often take time to remember how tall she was. she was a dear, loving child, for all her careless habits, and made bushels of good resolutions every week of her life, only unluckily she never kept any of them. she had fits of responsibility about the other children, and longed to set them a good example, but when the chance came, she generally forgot to do so. katy's days flew like the wind; for when she wasn't studying lessons, or sewing and darning with aunt izzie, which she hated extremely, there were always so many delightful schemes rioting in her brains, that all she wished for was ten pairs of hands to carry them out. these same active brains got her into perpetual scrapes. she was fond of building castles in the air, and dreaming of the time when something she had done would make her famous, so that everybody would hear of her, and want to know her. i don't think she had made up her mind what this wonderful thing was to be; but while thinking about it she often forgot to learn a lesson, or to lace her boots, and then she had a bad mark, or a scolding from aunt izzie. at such times she consoled herself with planning how, by and by, she would be beautiful and beloved, and amiable as an angel. a great deal was to happen to katy before that time came. her eyes, which were black, were to turn blue; her nose was to lengthen and straighten, and her mouth, quite too large at present to suit the part of a heroine, was to be made over into a sort of rosy button. meantime, and until these charming changes should take place, katy forgot her features as much as she could, though still, i think, the person on earth whom she most envied was that lady on the outside of the tricopherous bottles with the wonderful hair which sweeps the ground. chapter ii paradise the place to which the children were going was a sort of marshy thicket at the bottom of a field near the house. it wasn't a big thicket, but it looked big, because the trees and bushes grew so closely that you could not see just where it ended. in winter the ground was damp and boggy, so that nobody went there, excepting cows, who don't mind getting their feet wet; but in summer the water dried away, and then it was all fresh and green, and full of delightful things--wild roses, and sassafras, and birds' nests. narrow, winding paths ran here and there, made by the cattle as they wandered to and fro. this place the children called "paradise," and to them it seemed as wide and endless and full of adventure as any forest of fairy land. the way to paradise was through some wooden bars. katy and cecy climbed these with a hop, skip and jump, while the smaller ones scrambled underneath. once past the bars they were fairly in the field, and, with one consent, they all began to run till they reached the entrance of the wood. then they halted, with a queer look of hesitation on their faces. it was always an exciting occasion to go to paradise for the first time after the long winter. who knew what the fairies might not have done since any of them had been there to see? "which path shall we go in by?" asked clover, at last. "suppose we vote," said katy. "i say by the pilgrim's path and the hill of difficulty." "so do i!" chimed in clover, who always agreed with katy. "the path of peace is nice," suggested cecy. "no, no! we want to go by sassafras path!" cried john and dorry. however, katy, as usual, had her way. it was agreed that they should first try pilgrim's path, and afterward make a thorough exploration of the whole of their little kingdom, and see all that had happened since last they were there. so in they marched, katy and cecy heading the procession, and dorry, with his great trailing bunch of boughs, bringing up the rear. "oh, there is the dear rosary, all safe!" cried the children, as they reached the top of the hill of difficulty, and came upon a tall stump, out of the middle of which waved a wild rose-bush, budded over with fresh green eaves. this "rosary" was a fascinating thing to their minds. they were always inventing stories about it, and were in constant terror lest some hungry cow should take a fancy to the rose-bush and eat it up. "yes," said katy, stroking a leaf with her finger, "it was in great danger one night last winter, but it escaped." "oh, how? tell us about it!" cried the others, for katy's stories were famous in the family. "it was christmas eve," continued katy, in a mysterious tone. "the fairy of the rosary was quite sick. she had taken a dreadful cold in her head, and the poplar-tree fairy, just over there, told her that sassafras tea is good for colds. so she made a large acorn-cup full, and then cuddled herself in where the wood looks so black and soft, and fell asleep. in the middle of the night, when she was snoring soundly, there was a noise in the forest, and a dreadful black bull with fiery eyes galloped up. he saw our poor rosy posy, and, opening his big mouth, he was just going to bite her in two; but at that minute a little fat man, with a wand in his hand, popped out from behind the stump. it was santa claus, of course. he gave the bull such a rap with his wand that he moo-ed dreadfully, and then put up his fore-paw, to see if his nose was on or not. he found it was, but it hurt him so that he 'moo-ed' again, and galloped off as fast as he could into the woods. then santa claus waked up the fairy, and told her that if she didn't take better care of rosy posy he should put some other fairy into her place, and set her to keep guard over a prickly, scratchy, blackberry-bush." "is there really any fairy?" asked dorry, who had listened to this narrative with open mouth. "of course," answered katy. then bending down toward dorry, she added in a voice intended to be of wonderful sweetness: "i am a fairy, dorry!" "pshaw!" was dorry's reply; "you're a giraffe--pa said so!" the path of peace got its name because of its darkness and coolness. high bushes almost met over it, and trees kept it shady, even in the middle of the day. a sort of white flower grew there, which the children called pollypods, because they didn't know the real name. they staid a long while picking bunches of these flowers, and then john and dorry had to grub up an armful of sassafras roots; so that before they had fairly gone through toadstool avenue, rabbit hollow, and the rest, the sun was just over their heads, and it was noon. "i'm getting hungry," said dorry. "oh, no, dorry, you mustn't be hungry till the bower is ready!" cried the little girls, alarmed, for dorry was apt to be disconsolate if he was kept waiting for his meals. so they made haste to build the bower. it did not take long, being composed of boughs hung over skipping-ropes, which were tied to the very poplar-tree where the fairy lived who had recommended sassafras tea to the fairy of the rose. when it was done they all cuddled in underneath. it was a very small bower--just big enough to hold them, and the baskets, and the kitten. i don't think there would have been room for anybody else, not even another kitten. katy, who sat in the middle, untied and lifted the lid of the largest basket, while all the rest peeped eagerly to see what was inside. first came a great many ginger cakes. these were carefully laid on the grass to keep till wanted: buttered biscuit came next--three apiece, with slices of cold lamb laid in between; and last of all were a dozen hard-boiled eggs, and a layer of thick bread and butter sandwiched with corn-beef. aunt izzie had put up lunches for paradise before, you see, and knew pretty well what to expect in the way of appetite. oh, how good everything tasted in that bower, with the fresh wind rustling the poplar leaves, sunshine and sweet wood-smells about them, and birds singing overhead! no grown-up dinner party ever had half so much fun. each mouthful was a pleasure; and when the last crumb had vanished, katy produced the second basket, and there, oh, delightful surprise! were seven little pies--molasses pies, baked in saucers--each with a brown top and crisp candified edge, which tasted like toffy and lemon-peel, and all sorts of good things mixed up together. there was a general shout. even demure cecy was pleased, and dorry and john kicked their heels on the ground in a tumult of joy. seven pairs of hands were held out at once toward the basket; seven sets of teeth went to work without a moment's delay. in an incredibly short time every vestige of the pie had disappeared, and a blissful stickiness pervaded the party. "what shall we do now?" asked clover, while little phil tipped the baskets upside down, as if to make sure there was nothing left that could possibly be eaten. "i don't know," replied katy, dreamily. she had left her seat, and was half-sitting, half-lying on the low, crooked bough of a butternut tree, which hung almost over the children's heads. "let's play we're grown up," said cecy, "and tell what we mean to do." "well," said clover, "you begin. what do you mean to do?" "i mean to have a black silk dress, and pink roses in my bonnet, and a white muslin long-shawl," said cecy; "and i mean to look _exactly_ like minerva clark! i shall be very good, too; as good as mrs. bedell, only a great deal prettier. all the young gentlemen will want me to go and ride, but i shan't notice them at all, because you know i shall always be teaching in sunday-school, and visiting the poor. and some day, when i am bending over an old woman and feeding her with currant jelly, a poet will come along and see me, and he'll go home and write a poem about me," concluded cecy, triumphantly. "pooh!" said clover. "i don't think that would be nice at all. _i'm_ going to be a beautiful lady--the most beautiful lady in the world! and i'm going to live in a yellow castle, with yellow pillars to the portico, and a square thing on top, like mr. sawyer's. my children are going to have a play-house up there. there's going to be a spy-glass in the window, to look out of. i shall wear gold dresses and silver dresses every day, and diamond rings, and have white satin aprons to tie on when i'm dusting, or doing anything dirty. in the middle of my back-yard there will be a pond-full of lubin's extracts, and whenever i want any i shall go just out and dip a bottle in. and i shan't teach in sunday schools, like cecy, because i don't want to; but every sunday i'll go and stand by the gate, and when her scholars go by on their way home, i'll put lubin's extracts on their handkerchiefs." "i mean to have just the same," cried elsie, whose imagination was fired by this gorgeous vision, "only my pond will be the biggest. i shall be a great deal beautifuller, too," she added. "you can't," said katy from overhead. "clover is going to be the most beautiful lady in the world." "but i'll be more beautiful than the most beautiful," persisted poor little elsie; "and i'll be big, too, and know everybody's secrets. and everybody'll be kind, then, and never run away and hide; and there won't be any post offices, or anything disagreeable." "what'll you be, johnnie?" asked clover, anxious to change the subject, for elsie's voice was growing plaintive. but johnnie had no clear ideas as to her future. she laughed a great deal, and squeezed dorry's arm very tight, but that was all. dorry was more explicit. "i mean to have turkey every day," he declared, "and batter-puddings; not boiled ones, you know, but little baked ones, with brown shiny tops, and a great deal of pudding sauce to eat on them. and i shall be so big then that nobody will say, 'three helps is quite enough for a little boy.'" "oh, dorry, you pig!" cried katy, while the others screamed with laughter. dorry was much affronted. "i shall just go and tell aunt izzie what you called me," he said, getting up in a great pet. but clover, who was a born peacemaker, caught hold of his arm, and her coaxings and entreaties consoled him so much that he finally said he would stay; especially as the others were quite grave now, and promised that they wouldn't laugh any more. "and now, katy, it's your turn," said cecy; "tell us what you're going to be when you grow up." "i'm not sure about what i'll be," replied katy, from overhead; "beautiful, of course, and good if i can, only not so good as you, cecy, because it would be nice to go and ride with the young gentlemen _sometimes_. and i'd like to have a large house and a splendiferous garden, and then you could all come and live with me, and we would play in the garden, and dorry should have turkey five times a day if he liked. and we'd have a machine to darn the stockings, and another machine to put the bureau drawers in order, and we'd never sew or knit garters, or do anything we didn't want to. that's what i'd like to _be_. but now i'll tell you what i mean to _do_." "isn't it the same thing?" asked cecy. "oh, no!" replied katy, "quite different; for you see i mean to _do_ something grand. i don't know what, yet; but when i'm grown up i shall find out." (poor katy always said "when i'm grown up," forgetting how very much she had grown already.) "perhaps," she went on, "it will be rowing out in boats, and saving peoples' lives, like that girl in the book. or perhaps i shall go and nurse in the hospital, like miss nightingale. or else i'll head a crusade and ride on a white horse, with armor and a helmet on my head, and carry a sacred flag. or if i don't do that, i'll paint pictures, or sing, or scalp--sculp,--what is it? you know--make figures in marble. anyhow it shall be _something_. and when aunt izzie sees it, and reads about me in the newspapers she will say, 'the dear child! i always knew she would turn out an ornament to the family,' people very often say, afterward, that they 'always knew,'" concluded katy sagaciously. "oh, katy! how beautiful it will be!" said clover, clasping her hands. clover believed in katy as she did in the bible. "i don't believe the newspapers would be so silly as to print things about _you_, katy carr," put in elsie, vindictively. "yes they will!" said clover; and gave elsie a push. by and by john and dorry trotted away on mysterious errands of their own. "wasn't dorry funny with his turkey?" remarked cecy; and they all laughed again. "if you won't tell," said katy, "i'll let you see dorry's journal. he kept it once for almost two weeks, and then gave it up. i found the book, this morning, in the nursery closet." all of them promised, and katy produced it from her pocket. it began thus: "march .--have resolved to keep a jurnal. march .--had rost befe for diner, and cabage, and potato and appel sawse, and rice puding. i do not like rice puding when it is like ours. charley slack's kind is rele good. mush and sirup for tea. march .--forgit what did. john and me saved our pie to take to schule. march .--forgit what did. gridel cakes for brekfast. debby didn't fry enuff. march .--this is sunday. corn befe for dinnir. studdied my bibel leson. aunt issy said i was gredy. have resollved not to think so much about things to ete. wish i was a beter boy. nothing pertikeler for tea. march .--forgit what did. march .--forgit what did. march .--played. march .--forgit what did. april .--have dissided not to kepe a jurnal enny more." here ended the extracts; and it seemed as if only a minute had passed since they stopped laughing over them, before the long shadows began to fall, and mary came to say that all of them must come in to get ready for tea. it was dreadful to have to pick up the empty baskets and go home, feeling that the long, delightful saturday was over, and that there wouldn't be another for a week. but it was comforting to remember that paradise was always there; and that at any moment when kate and aunt izzie were willing, they had only to climb a pair of bars--very easy ones, and without any fear of an angel with flaming sword to stop the way--enter in, and take possession of their eden. chapter iii the day of scrapes mrs. knight's school, to which katy and clover and cecy went, stood quite at the other end of the town from dr. carr's. it was a low, one-story building and had a yard behind it, in which the girls played at recess. unfortunately, next door to it was miss miller's school, equally large and popular, and with a yard behind it also. only a high board fence separated the two playgrounds. mrs. knight was a stout, gentle woman, who moved slowly, and had a face which made you think of an amiable and well-disposed cow. miss miller, on the contrary, had black eyes, with black corkscrew curls waving about them, and was generally brisk and snappy. a constant feud raged between the two schools as to the respective merits of the teachers and the instruction. the knight girls for some unknown reason, considered themselves genteel and the miller girls vulgar, and took no pains to conceal this opinion; while the miller girls, on the other hand, retaliated by being as aggravating as they knew how. they spent their recesses and intermissions mostly in making faces through the knot-holes in the fence, and over the top of it when they could get there, which wasn't an easy thing to do, as the fence was pretty high. the knight girls could make faces too, for all their gentility. their yard had one great advantage over the other: it possessed a wood-shed, with a climbable roof, which commanded miss miller's premises, and upon this the girls used to sit in rows, turning up their noses at the next yard, and irritating the foe by jeering remarks. "knights" and "millerites," the two schools called each other; and the feud raged so high, that sometimes it was hardly safe for a knight to meet a millerite in the street; all of which, as may be imagined, was exceedingly improving both to the manners and morals of the young ladies concerned. one morning, not long after the day in paradise, katy was late. she could not find her things. her algebra, as she expressed it, had "gone and lost itself," her slate was missing, and the string was off her sun-bonnet. she ran about, searching for these articles and banging doors, till aunt izzie was out of patience. "as for your algebra," she said, "if it is that very dirty book with only one cover, and scribbled all over the leaves, you will find it under the kitchen-table. philly was playing before breakfast that it was a pig: no wonder, i'm sure, for it looks good for nothing else. how you do manage to spoil your school-books in this manner, katy, i cannot imagine. it is less than a month since your father got you a new algebra, and look at it now--not fit to be carried about. i do wish you would realize what books cost! "about your slate," she went on, "i know nothing; but here is the bonnet-string;" taking it out of her pocket. "oh, thank you!" said katy, hastily sticking it on with a pin. "katy carr!" almost screamed miss izzie, "what are you about? pinning on your bonnet-string! mercy on me, what shiftless thing will you do next? now stand still, and don't fidget. you sha'n't stir till i have sewed it on properly." it wasn't easy to "stand still and not fidget," with aunt izzie fussing away and lecturing, and now and then, in a moment of forgetfulness, sticking her needle into one's chin. katy bore it as well as she could, only shifting perpetually from one foot to the other, and now and then uttering a little snort, like an impatient horse. the minute she was released she flew into the kitchen, seized the algebra, and rushed like a whirlwind to the gate, where good little clover stood patiently waiting, though all ready herself, and terribly afraid she should be late. "we shall have to run," gasped katy, quite out of breath. "aunt izzie kept me. she has been so horrid!" they did run as fast as they could, but time ran faster, and before they were half-way to school the town clock struck nine, and all hope was over. this vexed katy very much; for, though often late, she was always eager to be early. "there," she said, stopping short, "i shall just tell aunt izzie that it was her fault. it is _too_ bad." and she marched into school in a very cross mood. a day begun in this manner is pretty sure to end badly, as most of us know. all the morning through, things seemed to go wrong. katy missed twice in her grammar lesson, and lost her place in the class. her hand shook so when she copied her composition, that the writing, not good at best, turned out almost illegible, so that mrs. knight said it must all be done over again. this made katy crosser than ever; and almost before she thought, she had whispered to clover, "how hateful!" and then, when just before recess all who had "communicated" were requested to stand up, her conscience gave such a twinge that she was forced to get up with the rest, and see a black mark put against her name on the list. the tears came into her eyes from vexation; and, for fear the other girls would notice them, she made a bolt for the yard as soon as the bell rang, and mounted up all alone to the wood-house roof, where she sat with her back to the school, fighting with her eyes, and trying to get her face in order before the rest should come. miss miller's clock was about four minutes slower than mrs. knight's, so the next playground was empty. it was a warm, breezy day, and as katy sat here, suddenly a gust of wind came, and seizing her sun-bonnet, which was only half tied on, whirled it across the roof. she clutched after it as it flew, but too late. once, twice, thrice, it flapped, then it disappeared over the edge, and katy, flying after, saw it lying a crumpled lilac heap in the very middle of the enemy's yard. this was horrible! not merely losing the bonnet, for katy was comfortably indifferent as to what became of her clothes, but to lose it _so_. in another minute the miller girls would be out. already she seemed to see them dancing war-dances round the unfortunate bonnet, pinning it on a pole, using it as a football, waving it over the fence, and otherwise treating it as indians treat a captive taken in war. was it to be endured? never! better die first! and with very much the feeling of a person who faces destruction rather than forfeit honor, katy set her teeth, and sliding rapidly down the roof, seized the fence, and with one bold leap vaulted into miss miller's yard. just then the recess bell tinkled; and a little millerite who sat by the window, and who, for two seconds, had been dying to give the exciting information, squeaked out to the others: "there's katy carr in our back-yard!" out poured the millerites, big and little. their wrath and indignation at this daring invasion cannot be described. with a howl of fury they precipitated themselves upon katy, but she was quick as they, and holding the rescued bonnet in her hand, was already half-way up the fence. there are moments when it is a fine thing to be tall. on this occasion katy's long legs and arms served her an excellent turn. nothing but a daddy long legs ever climbed so fast or so wildly as she did now. in one second she had gained the top of the fence. just as she went over a millerite seized her by the last foot, and almost dragged her boot off. almost, not quite, thanks to the stout thread with which aunt izzie had sewed on the buttons. with a frantic kick katy released herself, and had the satisfaction of seeing her assailant go head over heels backward, while, with a shriek of triumph and fright, she herself plunged headlong into the midst of a group of knights. they were listening with open mouths to the uproar, and now stood transfixed at the astonishing spectacle of one of their number absolutely returning alive from the camp of the enemy. i cannot tell you what a commotion ensued. the knights were beside themselves with pride and triumph. katy was kissed and hugged, and made to tell her story over and over again, while rows of exulting girls sat on the wood-house roof to crow over the discomfited millerites: and when, later, the foe rallied and began to retort over the fence, clover, armed with a tack-hammer, was lifted up in the arms of one of the tall girls to rap the intruding knuckles as they appeared on the top. this she did with such good-will that the millerites were glad to drop down again, and mutter vengeance at a safe distance. altogether it was a great day for the school, a day to be remembered. as time went on, katy, what with the excitement of her adventure, and of being praised and petted by the big girls, grew perfectly reckless, and hardly knew what she said or did. a good many of the scholars lived too far from school to go home at noon, and were in the habit of bringing their lunches in baskets, and staying all day. katy and clover were of this number. this noon, after the dinners were eaten, it was proposed that they should play something in the school-room, and katy's unlucky star put it into her head to invent a new game, which she called the game of rivers. it was played in the following manner: each girl took the name of a river, and laid out for herself an appointed path through the room, winding among the desks and benches, and making a low, roaring sound, to imitate the noise of water. cecy was the platte, marianne brooks, a tall girl, the mississippi, alice blair, the ohio, clover, the penobscot, and so on. they were instructed to run into each other once in a while, because, as katy said, "rivers do." as for katy herself, she was "father ocean," and, growling horribly, raged up and down the platform where mrs. knight usually sat. every now and then, when the others were at the far end of the room, she would suddenly cry out, "now for a meeting of the waters!" whereupon all the rivers bouncing, bounding, scrambling, screaming, would turn and run toward father ocean, while he roared louder than all of them put together, and made short rushes up and down, to represent the movement of waves on a beach. such a noise as this beautiful game made was never heard in the town of burnet before or since. it was like the bellowing of the bulls of bashan, the squeaking of pigs, the cackle of turkey-cocks, and the laugh of wild hyenas all at once; and, in addition, there was a great banging of furniture and scraping of many feet on an uncarpeted floor. people going by stopped and stared, children cried, an old lady asked why some one didn't run for a policeman; while the miller girls listened to the proceedings with malicious pleasure, and told everybody that it was the noise that mrs. knight's scholars "usually made at recess." mrs. knight coming back from dinner, was much amazed to see a crowd of people collected in front of her school. as she drew near, the sounds reached her, and then she became really frightened, for she thought somebody was being murdered on her premises. hurrying in, she threw open the door, and there, to her dismay, was the whole room in a frightful state of confusion and uproar: chairs flung down, desks upset, ink streaming on the floor; while in the midst of the ruin the frantic rivers raced and screamed, and old father ocean, with a face as red as fire, capered like a lunatic on the platform. "what _does_ this mean?" gasped poor mrs. knight, almost unable to speak for horror. at the sound of her voice the rivers stood still, father ocean brought his prances to an abrupt close, and slunk down from the platform. all of a sudden, each girl seemed to realize what a condition the room was in, and what a horrible thing she had done. the timid ones cowered behind their desks, the bold ones tried to look unconscious, and, to make matters worse, the scholars who had gone home to dinner began to return, staring at the scene of disaster, and asking, in whispers, what had been going on? mrs. knight rang the bell. when the school had come to order, she had the desks and chairs picked up, while she herself brought wet cloths to sop the ink from the floor. this was done in profound silence; and the expression of mrs. knight's face was so direful and solemn, that a fresh damp fell upon the spirits of the guilty rivers, and father ocean wished himself thousands of miles away. when all was in order again, and the girls had taken their seats, mrs. knight made a short speech. she said she never was so shocked in her life before; she had supposed that she could trust them to behave like ladies when her back was turned. the idea that they could act so disgracefully, make such an uproar and alarm people going by, had never occurred to her, and she was deeply pained. it was setting a bad example to all the neighborhood--by which mrs. knight meant the rival school, miss miller having just sent over a little girl, with her compliments, to ask if any one was hurt, and could _she_ do anything? which was naturally aggravating! mrs. knight hoped they were sorry; she thought they must be--sorry and ashamed. the exercises could now go on as usual. of course some punishment would be inflicted for the offense, but she should have to reflect before deciding what it ought to be. meantime she wanted them all to think it over seriously; and if any one felt that she was more to blame than the others, now was the moment to rise and confess it. katy's heart gave a great thump, but she rose bravely: "i made up the game, and i was father ocean," she said to the astonished mrs. knight, who glared at her for a minute, and then replied solemnly: "very well, katy--sit down;" which katy did, feeling more ashamed than ever, but somehow relieved in her mind. there is a saving grace in truth which helps truth-tellers through the worst of their troubles, and katy found this out now. the afternoon was long and hard. mrs. knight did not smile once; the lessons dragged; and katy, after the heat and excitement of the forenoon, began to feel miserable. she had received more than one hard blow during the meetings of the waters, and had bruised herself almost without knowing it, against the desks and chairs. all these places now began to ache: her head throbbed so that she could hardly see, and a lump of something heavy seemed to be lying on her heart. when school was over, mrs. knight rose and said, "the young ladies who took part in the game this afternoon are requested to remain." all the others went away, and shut the door behind them. it was a horrible moment: the girls never forgot it, or the hopeless sound of the door as the last departing scholar clapped it after her as she left. i can't begin to tell you what it was that mrs. knight said to them: it was very affecting, and before long most of the girls began to cry. the penalty for their offense was announced to be the loss of recess for three weeks; but that wasn't half so bad as seeing mrs. knight so "religious and afflicted," as cecy told her mother afterward. one by one the sobbing sinners departed from the schoolroom. when most of them were gone, mrs. knight called katy up to the platform, and said a few words to her specially. she was not really severe, but katy was too penitent and worn out to bear much, and before long was weeping like a water-spout, or like the ocean she had pretended to be. at this, tender-hearted mrs. knight was so much affected that she let her off at once, and even kissed her in token of forgiveness, which made poor ocean sob harder than ever. all the way home she sobbed; faithful little clover, running along by her side in great distress, begging her to stop crying, and trying in vain to hold up the fragments of her dress, which was torn in, at least, a dozen places. katy could not stop crying, and it was fortunate that aunt izzie happened to be out, and that the only person who saw her in this piteous plight was mary, the nurse, who doted on the children, and was always ready to help them out of their troubles. on this occasion she petted and cosseted katy exactly as if it had been johnnie or little phil. she took her on her lap, bathed the hot head, brushed the hair, put arnica on the bruises, and produced a clean frock, so that by tea-time the poor child, except for her red eyes, looked like herself again, and aunt izzie didn't notice anything unusual. for a wonder, dr. carr was at home that evening. it was always a great treat to the children when this happened, and katy thought herself happy when, after the little ones had gone to bed, she got papa to herself, and told him the whole story. "papa," she said, sitting on his knee, which, big girl as she was, she liked very much to do, "what is the reason that makes some days so lucky and other days so unlucky? now today began all wrong, and everything that happened in it was wrong, and on other days i begin right, and all goes right, straight through. if aunt izzie hadn't kept me in the morning, i shouldn't have lost my mark, and then i shouldn't have been cross, and then _perhaps_ i shouldn't have got in my other scrapes." "but what made aunt izzie keep you, katy?" "to sew on the string of my bonnet, papa." "but how did it happen that the string was off?" "well," said katy, reluctantly, "i am afraid that was _my_ fault, for it came off on tuesday, and i didn't fasten it on." "so you see we must go back of aunt izzie for the beginning of this unlucky day of yours, childie. did you ever hear the old saying about, 'for the want of a nail the shoe was lost'?" "no, never--tell it to me!" cried katy, who loved stories as well as when she was three years old. so dr. carr repeated-- "for the want of a nail the shoe was lost, for the want of a shoe the horse was lost, for the want of a horse the rider was lost, for the want of a rider the battle was lost, for the want of a battle the kingdom was lost, and all for want of a horse-shoe nail." "oh, papa!" exclaimed katy, giving him a great hug as she got off his knee, "i see what you mean! who would have thought such a little speck of a thing as not sewing on my string could make a difference? but i don't believe i shall get in any more scrapes, for i sha'n't ever forget-- "'for the want of a nail the shoe was lost.'" chapter iv kikeri but i am sorry to say that my poor, thoughtless katy _did_ forget, and did get into another scrape, and that no later than the very next monday. monday was apt to be rather a stormy day at the carrs'. there was the big wash to be done, and aunt izzie always seemed a little harder to please, and the servants a good deal crosser than on common days. but i think it was also, in part, the fault of the children, who, after the quiet of sunday, were specially frisky and uproarious, and readier than usual for all sorts of mischief. to clover and elsie, sunday seemed to begin at saturday's bed-time, when their hair was wet, and screwed up in papers, that it might curl next day. elsie's waved naturally, so aunt izzie didn't think it necessary to pin her papers very tight; but clover's thick, straight locks required to be pinched hard before they would give even the least twirl, and to her, saturday night was one of misery. she would lie tossing, and turning, and trying first one side of her head and then the other; but whichever way she placed herself, the hard knobs and the pins stuck out and hurt her; so when at last she fell asleep, it was face down, with her small nose buried in the pillow, which was not comfortable, and gave her bad dreams. in consequence of these sufferings clover hated curls, and when she "made up" stories for the younger children, they always commenced: "the hair of the beautiful princess was as straight as a yard-stick, and she never did it up in papers--never!" sunday always began with a bible story, followed by a breakfast of baked beans, which two things were much tangled up together in philly's mind. after breakfast the children studied their sunday-school lessons, and then the big carryall came round, and they drove to church, which was a good mile off. it was a large, old-fashioned church, with galleries, and long pews with high red-cushioned seats. the choir sat at the end, behind a low, green curtain, which slipped from side to side on rods. when the sermon began, they would draw the curtain aside and show themselves, all ready to listen, but the rest of the time they kept it shut. katy always guessed that they must be having good times behind the green curtain--eating orange-peel, perhaps, or reading the sunday-school books--and she often wished she might sit up there among them. the seat in dr. carr's pew was so high that none of the children, except katy, could touch the floor, even with the point of a toe. this made their feet go to sleep; and when they felt the queer little pin-pricks which drowsy feet use to rouse themselves with, they would slide off the seat, and sit on the benches to get over it. once there, and well hidden from view, it was almost impossible not to whisper. aunt izzie would frown and shake her head, but it did little good, especially as phil and dorry were sleeping with their heads on her lap, and it took both her hands to keep them from rolling off into the bottom of the pew. when good old dr. stone said, "finally, my brethren," she would begin waking them up. it was hard work sometimes, but generally she succeeded, so that during the last hymn the two stood together on the seat, quite brisk and refreshed, sharing a hymn-book, and making believe to sing like the older people. after church came sunday-school, which the children liked very much, and then they went home to dinner, which was always the same on sunday--cold corned-beef, baked potatoes, and rice pudding. they did not go to church in the afternoon unless they wished, but were pounced upon by katy instead, and forced to listen to the reading of _the sunday visitor_, a religious paper, of which she was the editor. this paper was partly written, partly printed, on a large sheet of foolscap, and had at the top an ornamental device, in lead pencil, with "sunday visitor" in the middle of it. the reading part began with a dull little piece of the kind which grown people call an editorial, about "neatness," or "obedience," or "punctuality." the children always fidgeted when listening to this, partly, i think, because it aggravated them to have katy recommending on paper, as very easy, the virtues which she herself found it so hard to practise in real life. next came anecdotes about dogs and elephants and snakes, taken from the natural history book, and not very interesting, because the audience knew them by heart already. a hymn or two followed, or a string of original verses, and, last of all, a chapter of "little maria and her sisters," a dreadful tale, in which katy drew so much moral, and made such personal allusions to the faults of the rest, that it was almost more than they could bear. in fact, there had just been a nursery rebellion on the subject. you must know that, for some weeks back, katy had been too lazy to prepare any fresh _sunday visitors_, and so had forced the children to sit in a row and listen to the back numbers, which she read aloud from the very beginning! "little maria" sounded much worse when taken in these large doses, and clover and elsie, combining for once, made up their minds to endure it no longer. so, watching their chance, they carried off the whole edition, and poked it into the kitchen fire, where they watched it burn with a mixture of fear and delight which it was comical to witness. they dared not confess the deed, but it was impossible not to look conscious when katy was flying about and rummaging after her lost treasure, and she suspected them, and was very irate in consequence. the evenings of sunday were always spent in repeating hymns to papa and aunt izzie. this was fun, for they all took turns, and there was quite a scramble as to who should secure the favorites, such as, "the west hath shut its gate of gold," and "go when the morning shineth." on the whole, sunday was a sweet and pleasant day, and the children thought so; but, from its being so much quieter than other days, they always got up on monday full of life and mischief, and ready to fizz over at any minute, like champagne bottles with the wires just cut. this particular monday was rainy, so there couldn't be any out-door play, which was the usual vent for over-high spirits. the little ones, cooped up in the nursery all the afternoon, had grown perfectly riotous. philly was not quite well, and had been taking medicine. the medicine was called _elixir pro_. it was a great favorite with aunt izzie, who kept a bottle of it always on hand. the bottle was large and black, with a paper label tied round its neck, and the children shuddered at the sight of it. after phil had stopped roaring and spluttering, and play had begun again, the dolls, as was only natural, were taken ill also, and so was "pikery," john's little yellow chair, which she always pretended was a doll too. she kept an old apron tied on his back, and generally took him to bed with her--not into bed, that would have been troublesome; but close by, tied to the bed-post. now, as she told the others, pikery was very sick indeed. he must have some medicine, just like philly. "give him some water," suggested dorry. "no," said john, decidedly, "it must be black and out of a bottle, or it won't do any good." after thinking a moment, she trotted quietly across the passage into aunt izzie's room. nobody was there, but john knew where the elixir pro was kept--in the closet on the third shelf. she pulled one of the drawers out a little, climbed up, and reached it down. the children were enchanted when she marched back, the bottle in one hand, the cork in the other, and proceeded to pour a liberal dose on to pikery's wooden seat, which john called his lap. "there! there! my poor boy," she said, patting his shoulder--i mean his arm--"swallow it down--it'll do you good." just then aunt izzie came in, and to her dismay saw a long trickle of something dark and sticky running down on to the carpet. it was pikery's medicine, which he had refused to swallow. "what is that?" she asked sharply. "my baby is sick," faltered john, displaying the guilty bottle. aunt izzie rapped her over the head with a thimble, and told her that she was a very naughty child, whereupon johnnie pouted, and cried a little. aunt izzie wiped up the slop, and taking away the elixir, retired with it to her closet, saying that she "never knew anything like it--it was always so on mondays." what further pranks were played in the nursery that day, i cannot pretend to tell. but late in the afternoon a dreadful screaming was heard, and when people rushed from all parts of the house to see what was the matter, behold the nursery door was locked, and nobody could get in. aunt izzie called through the keyhole to have it opened, but the roars were so loud that it was long before she could get an answer. at last elsie, sobbing violently, explained that dorry had locked the door, and now the key wouldn't turn, and they couldn't open it. _would_ they have to stay there always, and starve? "of course you won't, you foolish child," exclaimed aunt izzie. "dear, dear, what on earth will come next? stop crying, elsie--do you hear me? you shall all be got out in a few minutes." and sure enough, the next thing came a rattling at the blinds, and there was alexander, the hired man, standing outside on a tall ladder and nodding his head at the children. the little ones forgot their fright. they flew to open the window, and frisked and jumped about alexander as he climbed in and unlocked the door. it struck them as being such a fine thing to be let out in this way, that dorry began to rather plume himself for fastening them in. but aunt izzie didn't take this view of the case. she scolded them well, and declared they were troublesome children, who couldn't be trusted one moment out of sight, and that she was more than half sorry she had promised to go to the lecture that evening. "how do i know," she concluded, "that before i come home you won't have set the house on fire, or killed somebody?" "oh, no we won't! no we won't!" whined the children, quite moved by this frightful picture. but bless you--ten minutes afterward they had forgotten all about it. all this time katy had been sitting on the ledge of the bookcase in the library, poring over a book. it was called tasso's jerusalem delivered. the man who wrote it was an italian, but somebody had done the story over into english. it was rather a queer book for a little girl to take a fancy to, but somehow katy liked it very much. it told about knights, and ladies, and giants, and battles, and made her feel hot and cold by turns as she read, and as if she must rush at something, and shout, and strike blows. katy was naturally fond of reading. papa encouraged it. he kept a few books locked up, and then turned her loose in the library. she read all sorts of things: travels, and sermons, and old magazines. nothing was so dull that she couldn't get through with it. anything really interesting absorbed her so that she never knew what was going on about her. the little girls to whose houses she went visiting had found this out, and always hid away their story-books when she was expected to tea. if they didn't do this, she was sure to pick one up and plunge in, and then it was no use to call her, or tug at her dress, for she neither saw nor heard anything more, till it was time to go home. this afternoon she read the jerusalem till it was too dark to see any more. on her way up stairs she met aunt izzie, with bonnet and shawl on. "where _have_ you been?" she said. "i have been calling you for the last half-hour." "i didn't hear you, ma'am." "but where were you?" persisted miss izzie. "in the library, reading," replied katy. her aunt gave a sort of sniff, but she knew katy's ways, and said no more. "i'm going out to drink tea with mrs. hall and attend the evening lecture," she went on. "be sure that clover gets her lesson, and if cecy comes over as usual, you must send her home early. all of you must be in bed by nine." "yes'm," said katy, but i fear she was not attending much, but thinking, in her secret soul, how jolly it was to have aunt izzie go out for once. miss carr was very faithful to her duties: she seldom left the children, even for an evening, so whenever she did, they felt a certain sense of novelty and freedom, which was dangerous as well as pleasant. still, i am sure that on this occasion katy meant no mischief. like all excitable people she seldom did _mean_ to do wrong, she just did it when it came into her head. supper passed off successfully, and all might have gone well, had it not been that after the lessons were learned and cecy had come in, they fell to talking about "kikeri." kikeri was a game which had been very popular with them a year before. they had invented it themselves, and chosen for it this queer name out of an old fairy story. it was a sort of mixture of blindman's buff and tag--only instead of any one's eyes being bandaged, they all played in the dark. one of the children would stay out in the hall, which was dimly lighted from the stairs, while the others hid themselves in the nursery. when they were all hidden, they would call out "kikeri," as a signal for the one in the hall to come in and find them. of course, coming from the light he could see nothing, while the others could see only dimly. it was very exciting to stand crouching up in a corner and watch the dark figure stumbling about and feeling to right and left, while every now and then somebody, just escaping his clutches, would slip past and gain the hall, which was "freedom castle," with a joyful shout of "kikeri, kikeri, kikeri, ki!" whoever was caught had to take the place of the catcher. for a long time this game was the delight of the carr children; but so many scratches and black-and-blue spots came of it, and so many of the nursery things were thrown down and broken, that at last aunt izzie issued an order that it should not be played any more. this was almost a year since; but talking of it now put it into their heads to want to try it again. "after all we didn't promise," said cecy. "no, and _papa_ never said a word about our not playing it," added katy, to whom "papa" was authority, and must always be minded, while aunt izzie might now and then be defied. so they all went up stairs. dorry and john, though half undressed, were allowed to join the game. philly was fast asleep in another room. it was certainly splendid fun. once clover climbed up on the mantel-piece and sat there, and when katy, who was finder, groped about a little more wildly than usual, she caught hold of clover's foot, and couldn't imagine where it came from. dorry got a hard knock, and cried, and at another time katy's dress caught on the bureau handle and was frightfully torn, but these were too much affairs of every day to interfere in the least with the pleasures of kikeri. the fun and frolic seemed to grow greater the longer they played. in the excitement, time went on much faster than any of them dreamed. suddenly, in the midst of the noise, came a sound--the sharp distinct slam of the carryall-door at the side entrance. aunt izzie had returned from her lecture. the dismay and confusion of that moment! cecy slipped down stairs like an eel, and fled on the wings of fear along the path which led to her home. mrs. hall, as she bade aunt izzie good-night, and shut dr. carr's front door behind her with a bang, might have been struck with the singular fact that a distant bang came from her own front door like a sort of echo. but she was not a suspicious woman; and when she went up stairs there were cecy's clothes neatly folded on a chair, and cecy herself in bed, fast asleep, only with a little more color than usual in her cheeks. meantime, aunt izzie was on _her_ way up stairs, and such a panic as prevailed in the nursery! katie felt it, and basely scuttled off to her own room, where she went to bed with all possible speed. but the others found it much harder to go to bed; there were so many of them, all getting into each other's way, and with no lamp to see by. dorry and john popped under the clothes half undressed, elsie disappeared, and clover, too late for either, and hearing aunt izzie's step in the hall, did this horrible thing--fell on her knees, with her face buried in a chair, and began to say her prayers very hard indeed. aunt izzie, coming in with a candle in her hand, stood in the doorway, astonished at the spectacle. she sat down and waited for clover to get through, while clover, on her part, didn't dare to get through, but went on repeating "now i lay me" over and over again, in a sort of despair. at last aunt izzie said very grimly: "that will do, clover, you can get up!" and clover rose, feeling like a culprit, which she was, for it was much naughtier to pretend to be praying than to disobey aunt izzie and be out of bed after ten o'clock, though i think clover hardly understood this then. aunt izzie at once began to undress her, and while doing so asked so many questions, that before long she had got at the truth of the whole matter. she gave clover a sharp scolding, and leaving her to wash her tearful face, she went to the bed where john and dorry lay, fast asleep, and snoring as conspicuously as they knew how. something strange in the appearance of the bed made her look more closely: she lifted the clothes, and there, sure enough, they were--half dressed, and with their school-boots on. such a shake as aunt izzie gave the little scamps at this discovery, would have roused a couple of dormice. much against their will john and dorry were forced to wake up, and be slapped and scolded, and made ready for bed, aunt izzie standing over them all the while, like a dragon. she had just tucked them warmly in, when for the first time she missed elsie. "where is my poor little elsie?" she exclaimed. "in bed," said clover, meekly. "in bed!" repeated aunt izzie, much amazed. then stooping down, she gave a vigorous pull. the trundle-bed came into view, and sure enough, there was elsie, in full dress, shoes and all, but so fast asleep that not all aunt izzie's shakes, and pinches, and calls, were able to rouse her. her clothes were taken off, her boots unlaced, her night-gown put on; but through it all elsie slept, and she was the only one of the children who did not get the scolding she deserved that dreadful night. katy did not even pretend to be asleep when aunt izzie went to her room. her tardy conscience had waked up, and she was lying in bed, very miserable at having drawn the others into a scrape as well as herself, and at the failure of her last set of resolutions about "setting an example to the younger ones." so unhappy was she, that aunt izzie's severe words were almost a relief; and though she cried herself to sleep, it was rather from the burden of her own thoughts than because she had been scolded. she cried even harder the next day, for dr. carr talked to her more seriously than he had ever done before. he reminded her of the time when her mamma died, and of how she said, "katy must be a mamma to the little ones, when she grows up." and he asked her if she didn't think the time was come for beginning to take this dear place towards the children. poor katy! she sobbed as if her heart would break at this, and though she made no promises, i think she was never quite so thoughtless again, after that day. as for the rest, papa called them together and made them distinctly understand that "kikeri" was never to be played any more. it was so seldom that papa forbade any games, however boisterous, that this order really made an impression on the unruly brood, and they never have played kikeri again, from that day to this. chapter v in the loft "i declare," said miss petingill, laying down her work, "if them children don't beat all! what on airth _are_ they going to do now?" miss petingill was sitting in the little room in the back building, which she always had when she came to the carr's for a week's mending and making over. she was the dearest, funniest old woman who ever went out sewing by the day. her face was round, and somehow made you think of a very nice baked apple, it was so criss-crossed, and lined by a thousand good-natured puckers. she was small and wiry, and wore caps and a false front, which was just the color of a dusty newfoundland dog's back. her eyes were dim, and she used spectacles; but for all that, she was an excellent worker. every one liked miss petingill though aunt izzie _did_ once say that her tongue "was hung in the middle." aunt izzie made this remark when she was in a temper, and was by no means prepared to have phil walk up at once and request miss petingill to "stick it out," which she obligingly did; while the rest of the children crowded to look. they couldn't see that it was different from other tongues, but philly persisted in finding something curious about it; there must be, you know--since it was hung in that queer way! wherever miss petingill went, all sorts of treasures went with her. the children liked to have her come, for it was as good as a fairy story, or the circus, to see her things unpacked. miss petingill was very much afraid of burglars; she lay awake half the night listening for them and nothing on earth would have persuaded her to go anywhere, leaving behind what she called her "plate." this stately word meant six old teaspoons, very thin and bright and sharp, and a butter-knife, whose handle set forth that it was "a testimonial of gratitude, for saving the life of ithuriel jobson, aged seven, on the occasion of his being attacked with quinsy sore throat." miss petingill was very proud of her knife. it and the spoons travelled about in a little basket which hung on her arm, and was never allowed to be out of her sight, even when the family she was sewing for were the honestest people in the world. then, beside the plate-basket, miss petingill never stirred without tom, her tortoiseshell cat. tom was a beauty, and knew his power; he ruled miss petingill with a rod of iron, and always sat in the rocking-chair when there was one. it was no matter where _she_ sat, miss petingill told people, but tom was delicate, and must be made comfortable. a big family bible always came too, and a special red merino pin-cushion, and some "shade pictures" of old mr. and mrs. petingill and peter petingill, who was drowned at sea; and photographs of mrs. porter, who used to be marcia petingill, and mrs. porter's husband, and all the porter children. many little boxes and jars came also, and a long row of phials and bottles, filled with homemade physic and herb teas. miss petingill could not have slept without having them beside her, for, as she said, how did she know that she might not be "took sudden" with something, and die for want of a little ginger-balsam or pennyroyal? the carr children always made so much noise, that it required something unusual to make miss petingill drop her work, as she did now, and fly to the window. in fact there was a tremendous hubbub: hurrahs from dorry, stamping of feet, and a great outcry of shrill, glad voices. looking down, miss petingill saw the whole six--no, seven, for cecy was there too--stream out of the wood-house door--which wasn't a door, but only a tall open arch--and rush noisily across the yard. katy was at the head, bearing a large black bottle without any cork in it, while the others carried in each hand what seemed to be a cookie. "katherine carr! kather-_ine_!" screamed miss petingill, tapping loudly on the glass. "don't you see that it's raining? you ought to be ashamed to let your little brothers and sisters go out and get wet in such a way!" but nobody heard her, and the children vanished into the shed, where nothing could be seen but a distant flapping of pantalettes and frilled trousers, going up what seemed to be a ladder, farther back in the shed. so, with a dissatisfied cluck, miss petingill drew back her head, perched the spectacles on her nose, and went to work again on katy's plaid alpaca, which had two immense zigzag rents across the middle of the front breadth. katy's frocks, strange to say, always tore exactly in that place! if miss petingill's eyes could have reached a little farther, they would have seen that it wasn't a ladder up which the children were climbing, but a tall wooden post, with spikes driven into it about a foot apart. it required quite a stride to get from one spike to the other; in fact the littler ones couldn't have managed it at all, had it not been for clover and cecy "boosting" very hard from below, while katy, making a long arm, clawed from above. at last they were all safely up, and in the delightful retreat which i am about to describe: imagine a low, dark loft without any windows, and with only a very little light coming in through the square hole in the floor, to which the spikey post led. there was a strong smell of corn-cobs, though the corn had been taken away, a great deal of dust and spiderweb in the corners, and some wet spots on the boards; for the roof always leaked a little in rainy weather. this was the place, which for some reason i have never been able to find out, the carr children preferred to any other on rainy saturdays, when they could not play out-doors, aunt izzie was as much puzzled at this fancy as i am. when she was young (a vague, far-off time, which none of her nieces and nephews believed in much), she had never had any of these queer notions about getting off into holes and corners, and poke-away places. aunt izzie would gladly have forbidden them to go the loft, but dr. carr had given his permission, so all she could do was to invent stories about children who had broken their bones in various dreadful ways, by climbing posts and ladders. but these stories made no impression on any of the children except little phil, and the self-willed brood kept on their way, and climbed their spiked post as often as they liked. "what's in the bottle?" demanded dorry, the minute he was fairly landed in the loft. "don't be greedy," replied katy, severely; "you will know when the time comes. it is something _delicious_, i can assure you. "now," she went on, having thus quenched dorry, "all of you had better give me your cookies to put away: if you don't, they'll be sure to be eaten up before the feast, and then you know there wouldn't be anything to make a feast of." so all of them handed over their cookies. dorry, who had begun on his as he came up the ladder, was a little unwilling, but he was too much in the habit of minding katy to dare to disobey. the big bottle was set in a corner, and a stack of cookies built up around it. "that's right," proceeded katy, who, as oldest and biggest, always took the lead in their plays. "now if we're fixed and ready to begin, the fête (katy pronounced it _feet_) can commence. the opening exercise will be 'a tragedy of the alhambra,' by miss hall." "no," cried clover; "first 'the blue wizard, or edwitha of the hebrides,' you know, katy." "didn't i tell you?" said katy; "a dreadful accident has happened to that." "oh, what?" cried all the rest, for edwitha was rather a favorite with the family. it was one of the many serial stories which katy was forever writing, and was about a lady, a knight, a blue wizard, and a poodle named bop. it had been going on so many months now, that everybody had forgotten the beginning, and nobody had any particular hope of living to hear the end, but still the news of its untimely fate was a shock. "i'll tell you," said katy. "old judge kirby called this morning to see aunt izzie; i was studying in the little room, but i saw him come in, and pull out the big chair and sit down, and i almost screamed out 'don't!'" "why?" cried the children. "don't you see? i had stuffed 'edwitha' down between the back and the seat. it was a _beau_tiful hiding-place, for the seat goes back ever so far; but edwitha was such a fat bundle, and old judge kirby takes up so much room, that i was afraid there would be trouble. and sure enough, he had hardly dropped down before there was a great crackling of paper, and he jumped up again and called out, 'bless me! what is that?' and then he began poking, and poking, and just as he had poked out the whole bundle, and was putting on his spectacles to see what it was, aunt izzie came in." "well, what next?" cried the children, immensely tickled. "oh!" continued katy, "aunt izzie put on her glasses too, and screwed up her eyes--you know the way she does, and she and the judge read a little bit of it; that part at the first, you remember, where bop steals the blue-pills, and the wizard tries to throw him into the sea. you can't think how funny it was to hear aunt izzie reading 'edwitha' out loud--" and katy went into convulsions at the recollection "where she got to 'oh bop--my angel bop--' i just rolled under the table, and stuffed the table-cover in my mouth to keep from screaming right out. by and by i heard her call debby, and give her the papers, and say: 'here is a mass of trash which i wish you to put at once into the kitchen fire.' and she told me afterward that she thought i would be in an insane asylum before i was twenty. it was too bad," ended katy half laughing and half crying, "to burn up the new chapter and all. but there's one good thing--she didn't find 'the fairy of the dry goods box,' that was stuffed farther back in the seat. "and now," continued the mistress of ceremonies, "we will begin. miss hall will please rise." "miss hall," much flustered at her fine name, got up with very red cheeks. "it was once upon a time," she read, "moonlight lay on the halls of the alhambra, and the knight, striding impatiently down the passage, thought she would never come." "who, the moon?" asked clover. "no, of course not," replied cecy, "a lady he was in love with. the next verse is going to tell about her, only you interrupted. "she wore a turban of silver, with a jewelled crescent. as she stole down the corregidor the beams struck it and it glittered like stars. "'so you are come, zuleika?' "'yes, my lord.' "just then a sound as of steel smote upon the ear, and zuleika's mail-clad father rushed in. he drew his sword, so did the other. a moment more, and they both lay dead and stiff in the beams of the moon. zuleika gave a loud shriek, and threw herself upon their bodies. she was dead, too! and so ends the tragedy of the alhambra." "that's lovely," said katy, drawing a long breath, "only very sad! what beautiful stories you do write, cecy! but i wish you wouldn't always kill the people. why couldn't the knight have killed the father, and--no, i suppose zuleika wouldn't have married him then. well, the father might have--oh, bother! why must anybody be killed, anyhow? why not have them fall on each other's necks, and make up?" "why, katy!" cried cecy, "it wouldn't have been a tragedy then. you know the name was a _tragedy_ of the alhambra." "oh, well," said katy, hurriedly, for cecy's lips were beginning to pout, and her fair, pinkish face to redden, as if she were about to cry; "perhaps it _was_ prettier to have them all die; only i thought, for a change, you know!--what a lovely word that was--. 'corregidor'--what does it mean?" "i don't know," replied cecy, quite consoled. "it was in the 'conquest of granada.' something to walk over, i believe." "the next," went on katy, consulting her paper, "is 'yap,' a simple poem, by clover carr." all the children giggled, but clover got up composedly, and recited the following verses: "did you ever know yap? the best little dog who e'er sat on lap or barked at a frog. "his eyes were like beads, his tail like a mop, and it waggled as if it never would stop. "his hair was like silk of the glossiest sheen, he always ate milk, and once the cold-cream "off the nursery bureau (that line is too long!) it made him quite ill, so endeth my song. "for yappy he died just two months ago, and we oughtn't to sing at a funeral, you know." the "poem" met with immense applause; all the children laughed, and shouted, and clapped, till the loft rang again. but clover kept her face perfectly, and sat down as demure as ever, except that the little dimples came and went at the corners of her mouth; dimples, partly natural, and partly, i regret to say, the result of a pointed slate-pencil, with which clover was in the habit of deepening them every day while she studied her lessons. "now," said katy, after the noise had subsided, "now come 'scripture verses,' by miss elsie and joanna carr. hold up your head, elsie, and speak distinctly; and oh, johnnie, you _mustn't_ giggle in that way when it comes your turn!" but johnnie only giggled the harder at this appeal, keeping her hands very tight across her mouth, and peeping out over her fingers. elsie, however, was solemn as a little judge, and with great dignity began: "an angel with a fiery sword, came to send adam and eve abroad and as they journeyed through the skies they took one look at paradise. they thought of all the happy hours among the birds and fragrant bowers, and eve she wept, and adam bawled, and both together loudly squalled." dorry snickered at this, but sedate clover hushed him. "you mustn't," she said; "it's about the bible, you know. now john, it's your turn." but johnnie would persist in holding her hands over her mouth, while her fat little shoulders shook with laughter. at last, with a great effort, she pulled her face straight, and speaking as fast as she possibly could, repeated, in a sort of burst: "balaam's donkey saw the angel, and stopped short in fear. balaam didn't see the angel, which is very queer." after which she took refuge again behind her fingers, while elsie went on-- "elijah by the creek, he by ravens fed, took from their horny beak pieces of meat and bread." "come, johnnie," said katy, but the incorrigible johnnie was shaking again, and all they could make out was-- "the bears came down, and ate------and ate." these "verses" were part of a grand project on which clover and elsie had been busy for more than a year. it was a sort of rearrangement of scripture for infant minds; and when it was finished, they meant to have it published, bound in red, with daguerreotypes of the two authoresses on the cover. "the youth's poetical bible" was to be the name of it. papa, much tickled with the scraps which he overheard, proposed, instead, "the trundle-bed book," as having been composed principally in that spot, but elsie and clover were highly indignant, and would not listen to the idea for a moment. after the "scripture verses," came dorry's turn. he had been allowed to choose for himself, which was unlucky, as his taste was peculiar, not to say gloomy. on this occasion he had selected that cheerful hymn which begins-- "hark, from the tombs a doleful sound." and he now began to recite it in a lugubrious voice and with great emphasis, smacking his lips, as it were, over such lines as-- "princes, this clay _shall_ be your bed, in spite of all your towers." the older children listened with a sort of fascinated horror, rather enjoying the cold chills which ran down their backs, and huddling close together, as dorry's hollow tones echoed from the dark corners of the loft. it was too much for philly, however. at the close of the piece he was found to be in tears. "i don't want to st-a-a-y up here and be groaned at," he sobbed. "there, you bad boy!" cried katy, all the more angry because she was conscious of having enjoyed it herself, "that's what you do with your horrid hymns, frightening us to death and making phil cry!" and she gave dorry a little shake. he began to whimper, and as phil was still sobbing, and johnnie had begun to sob too, out of sympathy with the others, the _feet_ in the loft seemed likely to come to a sad end. "i'm goin' to tell aunt izzie that i don't like you," declared dorry, putting one leg through the opening in the floor. "no, you aren't," said katy, seizing him, "you are going to stay, because _now_ we are going to have the feast! do stop, phil; and johnnie, don't be a goose, but come and pass round the cookies." the word "feast" produced a speedy effect on the spirits of the party. phil cheered at once, and dorry changed his mind about going. the black bottle was solemnly set in the midst, and the cookies were handed about by johnnie, who was now all smiles. the cookies had scalloped edges and caraway seeds inside, and were very nice. there were two apiece; and as the last was finished, katy put her hand in her pocket, and amid great applause, produced the crowning addition to the repast--seven long, brown sticks of cinnamon. "isn't it fun?" she said. "debby was real good-natured to-day, and let me put my own hand into the box, so i picked out the longest sticks there were. now, cecy, as you're company, you shall have the first drink out of the bottle." the "something delicious" proved to be weak vinegar-and-water. it was quite warm, but somehow, drank up there in the loft, and out of a bottle, it tasted very nice. beside, they didn't _call_ it vinegar-and-water--of course not! each child gave his or her swallow a different name, as if the bottle were like signor blitz's and could pour out a dozen things at once. clover called her share "raspberry shrub," dorry christened his "ginger pop," while cecy, who was romantic, took her three sips under the name of "hydomel," which she explained was something nice, made, she believed, of beeswax. the last drop gone, and the last bit of cinnamon crunched, the company came to order again, for the purpose of hearing philly repeat his one piece,-- "little drops of water," which exciting poem he had said every saturday as far back as they could remember. after that katy declared the literary part of the "feet" over, and they all fell to playing "stagecoach," which, in spite of close quarters and an occasional bump from the roof, was such good fun, that a general "oh dear!" welcomed the ringing of the tea-bell. i suppose cookies and vinegar had taken away their appetites, for none of them were hungry, and dorry astonished aunt izzie very much by eyeing the table in a disgusted way, and saying: "pshaw! _only_ plum sweatmeats and sponge cake and hot biscuit! i don't want any supper." "what ails the child? he must be sick," said dr. carr; but katy explained. "oh no, papa, it isn't that--only we've been having a feast in the loft." "did you have a good time?" asked papa, while aunt izzie gave a dissatisfied groan. and all the children answered at once: "splendiferous!" chapter vi intimate friends "aunt izzie, may i ask imogen clark to spend the day here on saturday?" cried katy, bursting in one afternoon. "who on earth is imogen clark? i never heard the name before," replied her aunt. "oh, the _loveliest_ girl! she hasn't been going to mrs. knight's school but a little while, but we're the greatest friends. and she's perfectly beautiful, aunt izzie. her hands are just as white as snow, and no bigger than _that_. she's got the littlest waist of any girl in school, and she's real sweet, and so self-denying and unselfish! i don't believe she has a bit good times at home, either. do let me ask her!" "how do you know she's so sweet and self-denying, if you've known her such a short time?" asked aunt izzie, in an unpromising tone. "oh, she tells me everything! we always walk together at recess now. i know all about her, and she's just lovely! her father used to be real rich, but they're poor now, and imogen had to have her boots patched twice last winter. i guess she's the flower of her family. you can't think how i love her!" concluded katy, sentimentally. "no, i can't," said aunt izzie. "i never could see into these sudden friendships of yours, katy, and i'd rather you wouldn't invite this imogen, or whatever her name is, till i've had a chance to ask somebody about her." katy clasped her hands in despair. "oh, aunt izzie!" she cried, "imogen knows that i came in to ask you, and she's standing at the gate at this moment, waiting to hear what you say. please let me, just this once! i shall be so dreadfully ashamed not to." "well," said miss izzie, moved by the wretchedness of katy's face, "if you've asked her already, it's no use my saying no, i suppose. but recollect, katy, this is not to happen again. i can't have you inviting girls, and then coming for my leave. your father won't be at all pleased. he's very particular about whom you make friends with. remember how mrs. spenser turned out." poor katy! her propensity to fall violently in love with new people was always getting her into scrapes. ever since she began to walk and talk, "katy's intimate friends" had been one of the jokes of the household. papa once undertook to keep a list of them, but the number grew so great that he gave it up in despair. first on the list was a small irish child, named marianne o'riley. marianne lived in a street which katy passed on her way to school. it was not mrs. knight's, but an abc school, to which dorry and john now went. marianne used to be always making sand-pies in front of her mother's house, and katy, who was about five years old, often stopped to help her. over this mutual pastry they grew so intimate, that katy resolved to adopt marianne as her own little girl, and bring her up in a safe and hidden corner. she told clover of this plan, but nobody else. the two children, full of their delightful secret, began to save pieces of bread and cookies from their supper every evening. by degrees they collected a great heap of dry crusts, and other refreshments, which they put safely away in the garret. they also saved the apples which were given them for two weeks, and made a bed in a big empty box, with cotton quilts, and the dolls' pillows out of the baby-house. when all was ready, katy broke the plan to her beloved marianne, and easily persuaded her to run away and take possession of this new home. "we won't tell papa and mamma till she's quite grown up," katy said to clover; "then we'll bring her down stairs, and _won't_ they be surprised? don't let's call her marianne any longer, either. it isn't pretty. we'll name her susquehanna instead--susquehanna carr. recollect, marianne, you mustn't answer if i call you marianne--only when i say susquehanna." "yes'm," replied marianne, very meekly. for a whole day all went on delightfully. susquehanna lived in her wooden box, ate all the apples and the freshest cookies, and was happy. the two children took turns to steal away and play with the "baby," as they called marianne, though she was a great deal bigger than clover. but when night came on, and nurse swooped on katy and clover, and carried them off to bed, miss o'riley began to think that the garret was a dreadful place. peeping out of her box, she could see black things standing in corners, which she did not recollect seeing in the day-time. they were really trunks and brooms and warming-pans, but somehow, in the darkness, they looked different--big and awful. poor little marianne bore it as long as she could; but when at last a rat began to scratch in the wall close beside her, her courage gave way entirely, and she screamed at the top of her voice. "what is that?" said dr. carr, who had just come in, and was on his way up stairs. "it sounds as if it came from the attic," said mrs. carr (for this was before mamma died). "can it be that one of the children has got out of bed and wandered up stairs in her sleep?" no, katy and clover were safe in the nursery; so dr. carr took a candle and went as fast as he could to the attic, where the yells were growing terrific. when he reached the top of the stairs, the cries ceased. he looked about. nothing was to be seen at first, then a little head appeared over the edge of a big wooden box, and a piteous voice sobbed out: "ah, miss katy, and indeed i can't be stayin' any longer. there's rats in it!" "who on earth _are_ you?" asked the amazed doctor. "sure i'm miss katy's and miss clover's baby. but i don't want to be a baby any longer. i want to go home and see my mother." and again the poor little midge lifted up her voice and wept. i don't think dr. carr ever laughed so hard in his life, as when finally he got to the bottom of the story, and found that katy and clover had been "adopting" a child. but he was very kind to poor susquehanna, and carried her down stairs in his arms, to the nursery. there, in a bed close to the other children, she soon forgot her troubles and fell asleep. the little sisters were much surprised when they waked up in the morning, and found their baby asleep beside them. but their joy was speedily turned to tears. after breakfast, dr. carr carried marianne home to her mother, who was in a great fright over her disappearance, and explained to the children that the garret plan must be given up. great was the mourning in the nursery; but as marianne was allowed to come and play with them now and then, they gradually got over their grief. a few months later mr. o'riley moved away from burnet, and that was the end of katy's first friendship. the next was even funnier. there was a queer old black woman who lived all alone by herself in a small house near the school. this old woman had a very bad temper. the neighbors told horrible stories about her, so that the children were afraid to pass the house. they used to turn always just before they reached it, and cross to the other side of the street. this they did so regularly, that their feet had worn a path in the grass. but for some reason katy found a great fascination in the little house. she liked to dodge about the door, always holding herself ready to turn and run in case the old woman rushed out upon her with a broomstick. one day she begged a large cabbage of alexander, and rolled it in at the door of the house. the old woman seemed to like it, and after this katy always stopped to speak when she went by. she even got so far as to sit on the step and watch the old woman at work. there was a sort of perilous pleasure in doing this. it was like sitting at the entrance of a lion's cage, uncertain at what moment his majesty might take it into his head to give a spring and eat you up. after this, katy took a fancy to a couple of twin sisters, daughters of a german jeweller. they were quite grown-up, and always wore dresses exactly alike. hardly any one could tell them apart. they spoke very little english, and as katy didn't know a word of german, their intercourse was confined to smiles, and to the giving of bunches of flowers, which katy used to tie up and present to them whenever they passed the gate. she was too shy to do more than just put the flowers in their hands and run away; but the twins were evidently pleased, for one day, when clover happened to be looking out of the window, she saw them open the gate, fasten a little parcel to a bush, and walk rapidly off. of course she called katy at once, and the two children flew out to see what the parcel was. it held a bonnet--a beautiful doll's bonnet of blue silk, trimmed with artificial flowers; upon it was pinned a slip of paper with these words, in an odd foreign hand: "to the nice little girl who was so kindly to give us some flowers." you can judge whether katy and clover were pleased or not. this was when katy was six years old. i can't begin to tell you how many different friends she had set up since then. there was an ash-man, and a steam-boat captain. there was mrs. sawyer's cook, a nice old woman, who gave katy lessons in cooking, and taught her to make soft custard and sponge-cake. there was a bonnet-maker, pretty and dressy, whom, to aunt izzie's great indignation, katy persisted in calling "cousin estelle!" there was a thief in the town-jail, under whose window katy used to stand, saying, "i'm so sorry, poor man!" and "have you got any little girls like me?" in the most piteous way. the thief had a piece of string which he let down from the window. katy would tie rosebuds and cherries to this string, and the thief would draw them up. it was so interesting to do this, that katy felt dreadfully when they carried the man off to the state prison. then followed a short interval of cornelia perham, a nice, good-natured girl, whose father was a fruit-merchant. i am afraid katy's liking for prunes and white grapes played a part in this intimacy. it was splendid fun to go with cornelia to her father's big shop, and have whole boxes of raisins and drums of figs opened for their amusement, and be allowed to ride up and down in the elevator as much as they liked. but of all katy's queer acquaintances, mrs. spenser, to whom aunt izzie had alluded, was the queerest. mrs. spenser was a mysterious lady whom nobody ever saw. her husband was a handsome, rather bad-looking man, who had come from parts unknown, and rented a small house in burnet. he didn't seem to have any particular business, and was away from home a great deal. his wife was said to be an invalid, and people, when they spoke of him, shook their heads and wondered how the poor woman got on all alone in the house, while her husband was absent. of course katy was too young to understand these whispers, or the reasons why people were not disposed to think well of mr. spenser. the romance of the closed door and the lady whom nobody saw, interested her very much. she used to stop and stare at the windows, and wonder what was going on inside, till at last it seemed as if she _must_ know. so, one day she took some flowers and victoria, her favorite doll, and boldly marched into the spensers' yard. she tapped at the front door, but nobody answered. then she tapped again. still nobody answered. she tried the door. it was locked. so shouldering victoria, she trudged round to the back of the house. as she passed the side-door she saw that it was open a little way. she knocked for the third time, and as no one came, she went in, and passing through the little hall, began to tap at all the inside doors. there seemed to be no people in the house, katy peeped into the kitchen first. it was bare and forlorn. all sorts of dishes were standing about. there was no fire in the stove. the parlor was not much better. mr. spenser's boots lay in the middle of the floor. there were dirty glasses on the table. on the mantel-piece was a platter with bones of meat upon it. dust lay thick over everything, and the whole house looked as if it hadn't been lived in for at least a year. katy tried several other doors, all of which were locked, and then she went up stairs. as she stood on the top step, grasping her flowers, and a little doubtful what to do next, a feeble voice from a bed-room called out: "who is there?" this was mrs. spenser. she was lying on her bed, which was very tossed and tumbled, as if it hadn't been made up that morning. the room was as disorderly and dirty as all the rest of the house, and mrs. spenser's wrapper and night-cap were by no means clean, but her face was sweet, and she had beautiful curling hair, which fell over the pillow. she was evidently very sick, and altogether katy felt sorrier for her than she had ever done for anybody in her life. "who are you, child?" asked mrs. spenser. "i'm dr. carr's little girl," answered katy, going straight up to the bed. "i came to bring you some flowers." and she laid the bouquet on the dirty sheet. mrs. spenser seemed to like the flowers. she took them up and smelled them for a long time, without speaking. "but how did you get in?" she said at last. "the door was open," faltered katy, who was beginning to feel scared at her own daring, "and they said you were sick, so i thought perhaps you would like me to come and see you." "you are a kind little girl," said mrs. spenser, and gave her a kiss. after this katy used to go every day. sometimes mrs. spenser would be up and moving feebly about; but more often she was in bed, and katy would sit beside her. the house never looked a bit better than it did that first day, but after a while katy used to brush mrs. spenser's hair, and wash her face with the corner of a towel. i think her visits were a comfort to the poor lady, who was very ill and lonely. sometimes, when she felt pretty well, she would tell katy stories about the time when she was a little girl and lived at home with her father and mother. but she never spoke of mr. spenser, and katy never saw him except once, when she was so frightened that for several days she dared not go near the house. at last cecy reported that she had seen him go off in the stage with his carpet-bag, so katy ventured in again. mrs. spenser cried when she saw her. "i thought you were never coming any more," she said. katy was touched and flattered at having been missed, and after that she never lost a day. she always carried the prettiest flowers she could find, and if any one gave her a specially nice peach or a bunch of grapes, she saved it for mrs. spenser. aunt izzie was much worried at all this. but dr. carr would not interfere. he said it was a case where grown people could do nothing, and if katy was a comfort to the poor lady he was glad. katy was glad too, and the visits did her as much good as they did mrs. spenser, for the intense pity she felt for the sick woman made her gentle and patient as she had never been before. one day she stopped, as usual, on her way home from school. she tried the side-door--it was locked; the back-door, it was locked too. all the blinds were shut tight. this was very puzzling. as she stood in the yard a woman put her head out of the window of the next house. "it's no use knocking," she said, "all the folks have gone away." "gone away where?" asked katy. "nobody knows," said the woman; "the gentleman came back in the middle of the night, and this morning, before light, he had a wagon at the door, and just put in the trunks and the sick lady, and drove off. there's been more than one a-knocking besides you, since then. but mr. pudgett, he's got the key, and nobody can get in without goin' to him." it was too true. mrs. spenser was gone, and katy never saw her again. in a few days it came out that mr. spenser was a very bad man, and had been making false money--_counterfeiting_, as grown people call it. the police were searching for him to put him in jail, and that was the reason he had come back in such a hurry and carried off his poor sick wife. aunt izzie cried with mortification, when she heard this. she said she thought it was a disgrace that katy should have been visiting in a counterfeiter's family. but dr. carr only laughed. he told aunt izzie that he didn't think that kind of crime was catching, and as for mrs. spenser, she was much to be pitied. but aunt izzie could not get over her vexation, and every now and then, when she was vexed, she would refer to the affair, though this all happened so long ago that most people had forgotten all about it, and philly and john had stopped playing at "putting mr. spenser in jail," which for a long time was one of their favorite games. katy always felt badly when aunt izzie spoke unkindly of her poor sick friend. she had tears in her eyes now, as she walked to the gate, and looked so very sober, that imogen clark, who stood there waiting, clasped her hands and said: "ah, i see! your aristocratic aunt refuses." imogen's real name was elizabeth. she was rather a pretty girl, with a screwed-up, sentimental mouth, shiny brown hair, and a little round curl on each of her cheeks. these curls must have been fastened on with glue or tin tacks, one would think, for they never moved, however much she laughed or shook her head. imogen was a bright girl, naturally, but she had read so many novels that her brain was completely turned. it was partly this which made her so attractive to katy, who adored stories, and thought imogen was a real heroine of romance. "oh no, she doesn't," she replied, hardly able to keep from laughing, at the idea of aunt izzie's being called an "aristocratic relative"--"she says she shall be my hap--" but here katy's conscience gave a prick, and the sentence ended in "um, um, um--" "so you'll come, won't you, darling? i am so glad!" "and i!" said imogen, turning up her eyes theatrically. from this time on till the end of the week, the children talked of nothing but imogen's visit, and the nice time they were going to have. before breakfast on saturday morning, katy and clover were at work building a beautiful bower of asparagus boughs under the trees. all the playthings were set out in order. debby baked them some cinnamon cakes, the kitten had a pink ribbon tied round her neck, and the dolls, including "pikery," were arrayed in their best clothes. about half-past ten imogen arrived. she was dressed in a light-blue barège, with low neck and short sleeves, and wore coral beads in her hair, white satin slippers, and a pair of yellow gloves. the gloves and slippers were quite dirty, and the barège was old and darned; but the general effect was so very gorgeous, that the children, who were dressed for play, in gingham frocks and white aprons, were quite dazzled at the appearance of their guest. "oh, imogen, you look just like a young lady in a story!" said simple katy; whereupon imogen tossed her head and rustled her skirts about more than ever. somehow, with these fine clothes, imogen seemed to have put on a fine manner, quite different from the one she used every day. you know some people always do, when they go out visiting. you would almost have supposed that this was a different imogen, who was kept in a box most of the time, and taken out for sundays and grand occasions. she swam about, and diddled, and lisped, and looked at herself in the glass, and was generally grown-up and airy. when aunt izzie spoke to her, she fluttered and behaved so queerly, that clover almost laughed; and even katy, who could see nothing wrong in people she loved, was glad to carry her away to the playroom. "come out to the bower," she said, putting her arm round the blue barège waist. "a bower!" cried imogen. "how sweet!" but when they reached the asparagus boughs her face fell. "why it hasn't any roof, or pinnacles, or any fountain!" she said. "why no, of course not," said clover, staring, "we made it ourselves." "oh!" said imogen. she was evidently disappointed. katy and clover felt mortified; but as their visitor did not care for the bower, they tried to think of something else. "let us go to the loft," they said. so they all crossed the yard together. imogen picked her way daintily in the white satin slippers, but when she saw the spiked post, she gave a scream. "oh, not up there, darling, not up there!". she cried; "never, never!" "oh, do try! it's just as easy as can be," pleaded katy, going up and down half a dozen times in succession to show how easy it was. but imogen wouldn't be persuaded. "do not ask me," she said affectedly; "my nerves would never stand such a thing! and besides--my dress!" "what made you wear it?" said philly, who was a plain-spoken child, and given to questions. while john whispered to dorry, "that's a real stupid girl. let's go off somewhere and play by ourselves." so, one by one, the small fry crept away, leaving katy and clover to entertain the visitor by themselves. they tried dolls, but imogen did not care for dolls. then they proposed to sit down in the shade, and cap verses, a game they all liked. but imogen said that though she adored poetry, she never could remember any. so it ended in their going to the orchard, where imogen ate a great many plums and early apples, and really seemed to enjoy herself. but when she could eat no more, a dreadful dulness fell over the party. at last imogen said: "don't you ever sit in the drawing-room?" "the what?" asked clover. "the drawing-room," repeated imogen. "oh, she means the parlor!" cried katy. "no, we don't sit there except when aunt izzie has company to tea. it is all dark and poky, you know. beside, it's so much pleasanter to be out-doors. don't you think so?" "yes, sometimes," replied imogen, doubtfully, "but i think it would be pleasant to go in and sit there for a while, now. my head aches dreadfully, being out here in this horrid sun." katy was at her wit's end to know what to do. they scarcely ever went into the parlor, which aunt izzie regarded as a sort of sacred place. she kept cotton petticoats over all the chairs for fear of dust, and never opened the blinds for fear of flies. the idea of children with dusty boots going in there to sit! on the other hand, katy's natural politeness made it hard to refuse a visitor anything she asked for. and beside, it was dreadful to think that imogen might go away and report "katy carr isn't allowed to sit in the best room, even when she has company!" with a quaking heart she led the way to the parlor. she dared not open the blinds, so the room looked very dark. she could just see imogen's figure as she sat on the sofa, and clover twirling uneasily about on the piano-stool. all the time she kept listening to hear if aunt izzie were not coming, and altogether the parlor was a dismal place to her; not half so pleasant as the asparagus bower, where they felt perfectly safe. but imogen, who, for the first time, seemed comfortable, began to talk. her talk was about herself. such stories she told about the things which had happened to her! all the young ladies in the ledger put together, never had stranger adventures. gradually, katy and clover got so interested that they left their seats and crouched down close to the sofa, listening with open mouths to these stories. katy forgot to listen for aunt izzie. the parlor door swung open, but she did not notice it. she did not even hear the front door shut, when papa came home to dinner. dr. carr, stopping in the hall to glance over his newspaper, heard the high-pitched voice running on in the parlor. at first he hardly listened; then these words caught his ear: "oh, it was lovely, girls, perfectly delicious! i suppose i did look well, for i was all in white, with my hair let down, and just one rose, you know, here on top. and he leaned over me, and said in a low, deep tone, 'lady, i am a brigand, but i feel the enchanting power of your beauty. you are free!'" dr. carr pushed the door open a little farther. nothing was to be seen but some indistinct figures, but he heard katy's voice in an eager tone: "oh, _do_ go on. what happened next?" "who on earth have the children got in the parlor?" he asked aunt izzie, whom he found in the dining-room. "the parlor!" cried miss izzie, wrathfully, "why, what are they there for?" then going to the door, she called out, "children, what are you doing in the parlor? come out right away. i thought you were playing out-doors." "imogen had a head-ache," faltered katy. the three girls came out into the hall; clover and katy looking scared, and even the enchanter of the brigand quite crest-fallen. "oh," said aunt izzie, grimly, "i am sorry to hear that. probably you are bilious. would you like some camphor or anything?" "no, thank you," replied imogen, meekly. but afterwards she whispered to katy: "your aunt isn't very nice, i think. she's just like jackima, that horrid old woman i told you about, who lived in the brigand's cave and did the cooking. "i don't think you're a bit polite to tell me so," retorted katy, very angry at this speech. "oh, never mind, dear, don't take it to heart!" replied imogen, sweetly. "we can't help having relations that ain't nice, you know." the visit was evidently not a success. papa was very civil to imogen at dinner, but he watched her closely, and katy saw a comical twinkle in his eye, which she did not like. papa had very droll eyes. they saw everything, and sometimes they seemed to talk almost as distinctly as his tongue. katy began to feel low-spirited. she confessed afterward that she should never have got through the afternoon if she hadn't run up stairs two or three times, and comforted herself by reading a little in "rosamond." "aren't you glad she's gone?" whispered clover, as they stood at the gate together watching imogen walk down the street. "oh, clover! how can you?" said katy but she gave clover a great hug, and i think in her heart she _was_ glad. "katy," said papa, next day, "you came into the room then, exactly like your new friend miss clark." "how? i don't know what you mean," answered katy, blushing deeply. "_so_," said dr. carr; and he got up, raising his shoulders and squaring his elbows, and took a few mincing steps across the room. katy couldn't help laughing, it was so funny, and so like imogen. then papa sat down again and drew her close to him. "my dear," he said, "you're an affectionate child, and i'm glad of it. but there is such a thing as throwing away one's affection. i didn't fancy that little girl at all yesterday. what makes you like her so much?" "i didn't like her so much, yesterday," admitted katy, reluctantly. "she's a great deal nicer than that at school, sometimes." "i'm glad to hear it," said her father. "for i should be sorry to think that you really admired such silly manners. and what was that nonsense i heard her telling you about brigands?" "it really hap--" began katy.--then she caught papa's eye, and bit her lip, for he looked very quizzical. "well," she went on, laughing, "i suppose it didn't really all happen;--but it was ever so funny, papa, even if it was a make-up. and imogen's just as good-natured as can be. all the girls like her." "make-ups are all very well," said papa, "as long as people don't try to make you believe they are true. when they do that, it seems to me it comes too near the edge of falsehood to be very safe or pleasant. if i were you, katy, i'd be a little shy of swearing eternal friendship for miss clark. she may be good-natured, as you say, but i think two or three years hence she won't seem so nice to you as she does now. give me a kiss, chick, and run away, for there's alexander with the buggy." chapter vii cousin helen's visit a little knot of the school-girls were walking home together one afternoon in july. as they neared dr. carr's gate, maria fiske exclaimed, at the sight of a pretty bunch of flowers lying in the middle of the sidewalk: "oh my!" she cried, "see what somebody's dropped! i'm going to have it." she stooped to pick it up. but, just as her fingers touched the stems, the nosegay, as if bewitched, began to move. maria made a bewildered clutch. the nosegay moved faster, and at last vanished under the gate, while a giggle sounded from the other side of the hedge. "did you see that?" shrieked maria; "those flowers ran away of themselves." "nonsense," said katy, "it's those absurd children." then, opening the gate, she called: "john! dorry! come out and show yourselves." but nobody replied, and no one could be seen. the nosegay lay on the path, however, and picking it up, katy exhibited to the girls a long end of black thread, tied to the stems. "that's a very favorite trick of johnnie's," she said: "she and dorry are always tying up flowers, and putting them out on the walk to tease people. here, maria, take 'em if you like. though i don't think john's taste in bouquets is very good." "isn't it splendid to have vacation come?" said one of the bigger girls. "what are you all going to do? we're going to the seaside." "pa says he'll take susie and me to niagara," said maria. "i'm going to make my aunt a visit," said alice blair. "she lives in a real lovely place in the country, and there's a pond there; and tom (that's my cousin) says he'll teach me to row. what are you going to do, katy?" "oh, i don't know; play round and have splendid times," replied katy, throwing her bag of books into the air, and catching it again. but the other girls looked as if they didn't think this good fun at all, and as if they were sorry for her; and katy felt suddenly that her vacation wasn't going to be so pleasant as that of the rest. "i wish papa _would_ take us somewhere," she said to clover, as they walked up the gravel path. "all the other girls' papas do." "he's too busy," replied clover. "beside, i don't think any of the rest of the girls have half such good times as we. ellen robbins says she'd give a million of dollars for such nice brothers and sisters as ours to play with. and, you know, maria and susie have _awful_ times at home, though they do go to places. mrs. fiske is so particular. she always says 'don't,' and they haven't got any yard to their house, or anything. i wouldn't change." "nor i," said katy, cheering up at these words of wisdom. "oh, isn't it lovely to think there won't be any school to-morrow? vacations are just splendid!" and she gave her bag another toss. it fell to the ground with a crash. "there, you've cracked your slate," said clover. "no matter, i sha'n't want it again for eight weeks," replied katy, comfortably, as they ran up the steps. they burst open the front door and raced up stairs, crying "hurrah! hurrah! vacation's begun. aunt izzie, vacation's begun!" then they stopped short, for lo! the upper hall was all in confusion. sounds of beating and dusting came from the spare room. tables and chairs were standing about; and a cot-bed, which seemed to be taking a walk all by itself, had stopped short at the head of the stairs, and barred the way. "why, how queer!" said katy, trying to get by. "what _can_ be going to happen? oh, there's aunt izzie! aunt izzie, who's coming? what _are_ you moving the things out of the blue-room for?" "oh, gracious! is that you?" replied aunt izzie, who looked very hot and flurried. "now, children, it's no use for you to stand there asking questions; i haven't got time to answer them. let the bedstead alone, katy, you'll push it into the wall. there, i told you so!" as katy gave an impatient shove, "you've made a bad mark on the paper. what a troublesome child you are! go right down stairs, both of you, and don't come up this way again till after tea. i've just as much as i can possibly attend to till then." "just tell us what's going to happen, and we will," cried the children. "your cousin helen is coming to visit us," said miss izzie, curtly, and disappeared into the blue-room. this was news indeed. katy and clover ran down stairs in great excitement, and after consulting a little, retired to the loft to talk it over in peace and quiet. cousin helen coming! it seemed as strange as if queen victoria, gold crown and all, had invited herself to tea. or as if some character out of a book, robinson crusoe, say, or "amy herbert," had driven up with a trunk and announced the intention of spending a week. for to the imaginations of the children, cousin helen was as interesting and unreal as anybody in the fairy tales: cinderella, or blue-beard, or dear red riding-hood herself. only there was a sort of mixture of sunday-school book in their idea of her, for cousin helen was very, very good. none of them had ever seen her. philly said he was sure she hadn't any legs, because she never went away from home, and lay on a sofa all the time. but the rest knew that this was because cousin helen was ill. papa always went to visit her twice a year, and he liked to talk to the children about her, and tell how sweet and patient she was, and what a pretty room she lived in. katy and clover had "played cousin helen" so long, that now they were frightened as well as glad at the idea of seeing the real one. "do you suppose she will want us to say hymns to her all the time?" asked clover. "not all the time," replied katy, "because you know she'll get tired, and have to take naps in the afternoons. and then, of course, she reads the bible a great deal. oh dear, how quiet we shall have to be! i wonder how long she's going to stay?" "what do you suppose she looks like?" went on clover. "something like 'lucy,' in mrs. sherwood, i guess, with blue eyes, and curls, and a long, straight nose. and she'll keep her hands clasped _so_ all the time, and wear 'frilled wrappers,' and lie on the sofa perfectly still, and never smile, but just look patient. we'll have to take off our boots in the hall, clover, and go up stairs in stocking feet, so as not to make a noise, all the time she stays." "won't it be funny!" giggled clover, her sober little face growing bright at the idea of this variation on the hymns. the time seemed very long till the next afternoon, when cousin helen was expected. aunt izzie, who was in a great excitement, gave the children many orders about their behavior. they were to do this and that, and not to do the other. dorry, at last, announced that he wished cousin helen would just stay at home. clover and elsie, who had been thinking pretty much the same thing in private, were glad to hear that she was on her way to a water cure, and would stay only four days. five o'clock came. they all sat on the steps waiting for the carriage. at last it drove up. papa was on the box. he motioned the children to stand back. then he helped out a nice-looking young woman, who, aunt izzie told them, was cousin helen's nurse, and then, very carefully, lifted cousin helen in his arms and brought her in. "oh, there are the chicks!" were the first words the children heard, in such a gay, pleasant voice. "do set me down somewhere, uncle. i want to see them so much!" so papa put cousin helen on the hall sofa. the nurse fetched a pillow, and when she was made comfortable, dr. carr called to the little ones. "cousin helen wants to see you," he said. "indeed i do," said the bright voice. "so this is katy? why, what a splendid tall katy it is! and this is clover," kissing her; "and this dear little elsie. you all look as natural as possible--just as if i had seen you before." and she hugged them all round, not as if it was polite to like them because they were relations, but as if she had loved them and wanted them all her life. there was something in cousin helen's face and manner, which made the children at home with her at once. even philly, who had backed away with his hands behind him, after staring hard for a minute or two, came up with a sort of rush to get his share of kissing. still, katy's first feeling was one of disappointment. cousin helen was not at all like "lucy," in mrs. sherwood's story. her nose turned up the least bit in the world. she had brown hair, which didn't curl, a brown skin, and bright eyes, which danced when she laughed or spoke. her face was thin, but except for that you wouldn't have guessed that she was sick. she didn't fold her hands, and she didn't look patient, but absolutely glad and merry. her dress wasn't a "frilled wrapper," but a sort of loose travelling thing of pretty gray stuff, with a rose-colored bow, and bracelets, and a round hat trimmed with a gray feather. all katy's dreams about the "saintly invalid" seemed to take wings and fly away. but the more she watched cousin helen the more she seemed to like her, and to feel as if she were nicer than the imaginary person which she and clover had invented. "she looks just like other people, don't she?" whispered cecy, who had come over to have a peep at the new arrival. "y-e-s," replied katy, doubtfully, "only a great, great deal prettier." by and by, papa carried cousin helen up stairs. all the children wanted to go too, but he told them she was tired, and must rest. so they went out doors to play till tea-time. "oh, do let me take up the tray," cried katy at the tea-table, as she watched aunt izzie getting ready cousin helen's supper. such a nice supper! cold chicken, and raspberries and cream, and tea in a pretty pink-and-white china cup. and such a snow-white napkin as aunt izzie spread over the tray! "no indeed," said aunt izzie; "you'll drop it the first thing." but katy's eyes begged so hard, that dr. carr said, "yes, let her, izzie; i like to see the girls useful." so katy, proud of the commission, took the tray and carried it carefully across the hall. there was a bowl of flowers on the table. as she passed, she was struck with a bright idea. she set down the tray, and picking out a rose, laid it on the napkin besides the saucer of crimson raspberries. it looked very pretty, and katy smiled to herself with pleasure. "what are you stopping for?" called aunt izzie, from the dining-room. "do be careful, katy, i really think bridget had better take it." "oh no, no!" protested katy, "i'm most up already." and she sped up stairs as fast as she could go. luckless speed! she had just reached the door of the blue-room, when she tripped upon her boot-lace, which, as usual, was dangling, made a misstep, and stumbled. she caught at the door to save herself; the door flew open; and katy, with the tray, cream, raspberries, rose and all, descended in a confused heap upon the carpet. "i told you so!" exclaimed aunt izzie from the bottom of the stairs. katy never forgot how kind cousin helen was on this occasion. she was in bed, and was of course a good deal startled at the sudden crash and tumble on her floor. but after one little jump, nothing could have been sweeter than the way in which she comforted poor crest-fallen katy, and made so merry over the accident, that even aunt izzie almost forgot to scold. the broken dishes were piled up and the carpet made clean again, while aunt izzie prepared another tray just as nice as the first. "please let katy bring it up!" pleaded cousin helen, in her pleasant voice, "i am sure she will be careful this time. and katy, i want just such another rose on the napkin. i guess that was your doing--wasn't it?" katy _was_ careful.--this time all went well. the tray was placed safely on a little table beside the bed, and katy sat watching cousin helen eat her supper with a warm, loving feeling at her heart. i think we are scarcely ever so grateful to people as when they help us to get back our own self-esteem. cousin helen hadn't much appetite, though she declared everything was delicious. katy could see that she was very tired. "now," she said, when she had finished, "if you'll shake up this pillow, _so;_--and move this other pillow a little, i think i will settle myself to sleep. thanks--that's just right. why, katy dear, you are a born nurse now kiss me. good-night! to-morrow we will have a nice talk." katy went down stairs very happy. "cousin helen's perfectly lovely," she told clover. "and she's got on the most _beautiful_ night-gown, all lace and ruffles. it's just like a night-gown in a book." "isn't it wicked to care about clothes when you're sick?" questioned cecy. "i don't believe cousin helen _could_ do anything wicked," said katy. "i told ma that she had on bracelets, and ma said she feared your cousin was a worldly person," retorted cecy, primming up her lips. katy and clover were quite distressed at this opinion. they talked about it while they were undressing. "i mean to ask cousin helen to-morrow," said katy. next morning the children got up very early. they were so glad that it was vacation! if it hadn't been, they would have been forced to go to school without seeing cousin helen, for she didn't wake till late. they grew so impatient of the delay, and went up stairs so often to listen at the door, and see if she were moving, that aunt izzie finally had to order them off. katy rebelled against this order a good deal, but she consoled herself by going into the garden and picking the prettiest flowers she could find, to give to cousin helen the moment she should see her. when aunt izzie let her go up, cousin helen was lying on the sofa all dressed for the day in a fresh blue muslin, with blue ribbons, and cunning bronze slippers with rosettes on the toes. the sofa had been wheeled round with its back to the light. there was a cushion with a pretty fluted cover, that katy had never seen before, and several other things were scattered about, which gave the room quite a different air. all the house was neat, but somehow aunt izzie's rooms never were pretty. children's eyes are quick to perceive such things, and katy saw at once that the blue-room had never looked like this. cousin helen was white and tired, but her eyes and smile were as bright as ever. she was delighted with the flowers, which katy presented rather shyly. "oh, how lovely!" she said; "i must put them in water right away. katy dear, don't you want to bring that little vase on the bureau and set it on this chair beside me? and please pour a little water into it first." "what a beauty!" cried katy, as she lifted the graceful white cup swung on a gilt stand. "is it yours, cousin helen?" "yes, it is my pet vase. it stands on a little table beside me at home, and i fancied that the water cure would seem more home-like if i had it with me there, so i brought it along. but why do you look so puzzled, katy? does it seem queer that a vase should travel about in a trunk?" "no," said katy, slowly, "i was only thinking--cousin helen, is it worldly to have pretty things when you're sick?" cousin helen laughed heartily. "what put that idea into your head?" she asked. "cecy said so when i told her about your beautiful night-gown." cousin helen laughed again. "well," she said, "i'll tell you what i think, katy. pretty things are no more 'worldly' than ugly ones, except when they spoil us by making us vain, or careless of the comfort of other people. and sickness is such a disagreeable thing in itself, that unless sick people take great pains, they soon grow to be eyesores to themselves and everybody about them. i don't think it is possible for an invalid to be too particular. and when one has the back-ache, and the head-ache, and the all-over ache," she added, smiling, "there isn't much danger of growing vain because of a ruffle more or less on one's night-gown, or a bit of bright ribbon." then she began to arrange the flowers, touching each separate one gently, and as if she loved it. "what a queer noise!" she exclaimed, suddenly stopping. it _was_ queer--a sort of snuffing and snorting sound, as if a walrus or a sea-horse were promenading up and down in the hall. katy opened the door. behold! there were john and dorry, very red in the face from flattening their noses against the key-hole, in a vain attempt to see if cousin helen were up and ready to receive company. "oh, let them come in!" cried cousin helen from her sofa. so they came in, followed, before long, by clover and elsie. such a merry morning as they had! cousin helen proved to possess a perfect genius for story-telling, and for suggesting games which could be played about her sofa, and did not make more noise than she could bear. aunt izzie, dropping in about eleven o'clock, found them having such a good time, that almost before she knew it, _she_ was drawn into the game too. nobody had ever heard of such a thing before! there sat aunt izzie on the floor, with three long lamp-lighters stuck in her hair, playing, "i'm a genteel lady, always genteel," in the jolliest manner possible. the children were so enchanted at the spectacle, that they could hardly attend to the game, and were always forgetting how many "horns" they had. clover privately thought that cousin helen must be a witch; and papa, when he came home at noon, said almost the same thing. "what have you been doing to them, helen?" he inquired, as he opened the door, and saw the merry circle on the carpet. aunt izzie's hair was half pulled down, and philly was rolling over and over in convulsions of laughter. but cousin helen said she hadn't done anything, and pretty soon papa was on the floor too, playing away as fast as the rest. "i must put a stop to this," he cried, when everybody was tired of laughing, and everybody's head was stuck as full of paper quills as a porcupine's back. "cousin helen will be worn out. run away, all of you, and don't come near this door again till the clock strikes four. do you hear, chicks? run--run! shoo! shoo!" the children scuttled away like a brood of fowls--all but katy. "oh, papa, i'll be _so_ quiet!" she pleaded. "mightn't i stay just till the dinner-bell rings?" "do let her!" said cousin helen, so papa said "yes." katy sat on the floor holding cousin helen's hand, and listening to her talk with papa. it interested her, though it was about things and people she did not know. "how is alex?" asked dr. carr, at length. "quite well now," replied cousin helen, with one of her brightest looks. "he was run down and tired in the spring, and we were a little anxious about him, but emma persuaded him to take a fortnight's vacation, and he came back all right." "do you see them often?" "almost every day. and little helen comes every day, you know, for her lessons." "is she as pretty as she used to be?" "oh yes--prettier, i think. she is a lovely little creature: having her so much with me is one of my greatest treats. alex tries to think that she looks a little as i used to. but that is a compliment so great, that i dare not appropriate it." dr. carr stooped and kissed cousin helen as if he could not help it. "my _dear_ child," he said. that was all; but something in the tone made katy curious. "papa," she said, after dinner, "who is alex, that you and cousin helen were talking about?" "why, katy? what makes you want to know?" "i can't exactly tell--only cousin helen looked so;--and you kissed her;--and i thought perhaps it was something interesting." "so it is," said dr. carr, drawing her on to his knee. "i've a mind to tell you about it, katy, because you're old enough to see how beautiful it is, and wise enough (i hope) not to chatter or ask questions. alex is the name of somebody who, long ago, when cousin helen was well and strong, she loved, and expected to marry." "oh! why didn't she?" cried katy. "she met with a dreadful accident," continued dr. carr. "for a long time they thought she would die. then she grew slowly better, and the doctors told her that she might live a good many years, but that she would have to lie on her sofa always, and be helpless, and a cripple. "alex felt dreadfully when he heard this. he wanted to marry cousin helen just the same, and be her nurse, and take care of her always; but she would not consent. she broke the engagement, and told him that some day she hoped he would love somebody else well enough to marry her. so after a good many years, he did, and now he and his wife live next door to cousin helen, and are her dearest friends. their little girl is named 'helen.' all their plans are talked over with her, and there is nobody in the world they think so much of." "but doesn't it make cousin helen feel bad, when she sees them walking about and enjoying themselves, and she can't move?" asked katy. "no," said dr. carr, "it doesn't, because cousin helen is half an angel already, and loves other people better than herself. i'm very glad she could come here for once. she's an example to us all, katy, and i couldn't ask anything better than to have my little girls take pattern after her." "it must be awful to be sick," soliloquized katy, after papa was gone. "why, if i had to stay in bed a whole week--i should _die_, i know i should." poor katy. it seemed to her, as it does to almost all young people, that there is nothing in the world so easy as to die, the moment things go wrong! this conversation with papa made cousin helen doubly interesting in katy's eyes. "it was just like something in a book," to be in the same house with the heroine of a love-story so sad and sweet. the play that afternoon was much interrupted, for every few minutes somebody had to run in and see if it wasn't four o'clock. the instant the hour came, all six children galloped up stairs. "i think we'll tell stories this time," said cousin helen. so they told stories. cousin helen's were the best of all. there was one of them about a robber, which sent delightful chills creeping down all their backs. all but philly. he was so excited, that he grew warlike. "i ain't afraid of robbers," he declared, strutting up and down. "when they come, i shall just cut them in two with my sword which papa gave me. they did come once. i did cut them in two--three, five, eleven of 'em. you'll see!" but that evening, after the younger children were gone to bed, and katy and clover were sitting in the blue-room, a lamentable howling was heard from the nursery. clover ran to see what was the matter. behold--there was phil, sitting up in bed, and crying for help. "there's robbers under the bed," he sobbed; "ever so many robbers." "why no, philly!" said clover, peeping under the valance to satisfy him; "there isn't anybody there." "yes, there is, i tell you," declared phil, holding her tight. "i heard one. they were _chewing my india-rubbers_." "poor little fellow!" said cousin helen, when clover, having pacified phil, came back to report. "it's a warning against robber stories. but this one ended so well, that i didn't think of anybody's being frightened." it was no use, after this, for aunt izzie to make rules about going into the blue-room. she might as well have ordered flies to keep away from a sugar-bowl. by hook or by crook, the children _would_ get up stairs. whenever aunt izzie went in, she was sure to find them there, just as close to cousin helen as they could get. and cousin helen begged her not to interfere. "we have only three or four days to be together," she said. "let them come as much as they like. it won't hurt me a bit." little elsie clung with a passionate love to this new friend. cousin helen had sharp eyes. she saw the wistful look in elsie's face at once, and took special pains to be sweet and tender to her. this preference made katy jealous. she couldn't bear to share her cousin with anybody. when the last evening came, and they went up after tea to the blue-room, cousin helen was opening a box which had just come by express. "it is a good-by box," she said. "all of you must sit down in a row, and when i hide my hands behind me, _so_, you must choose in turn which you will take." so they all chose in turn, "which hand will you have, the right or the left?" and cousin helen, with the air of a wise fairy, brought out from behind her pillow something pretty for each one. first came a vase exactly like her own, which katy had admired so much. katy screamed with delight as it was placed in her hands: "oh, how lovely! how lovely!" she cried. "i'll keep it as long as i live and breathe." "if you do, it'll be the first time you ever kept anything for a week without breaking it," remarked aunt izzie. next came a pretty purple pocket-book for clover. it was just what she wanted, for she had lost her porte-monnaie. then a cunning little locket on a bit of velvet ribbon, which cousin helen tied round elsie's neck. "there's a piece of my hair in it," she said. "why, elsie, darling, what's the matter? don't cry so!" "oh, you're s-o beautiful, and s-o sweet!" sobbed elsie; "and you're go-o-ing away." dorry had a box of dominoes, and john a solitaire board. for phil there appeared a book--"the history of the robber cat." "that will remind you of the night when the thieves came and chewed your india-rubbers," said cousin helen, with a mischievous smile. they all laughed, phil loudest of all. nobody was forgotten. there was a notebook for papa, and a set of ivory tablets for aunt izzie. even cecy was remembered. her present was "the book of golden deeds," with all sorts of stories about boys and girls who had done brave and good things. she was almost too pleased to speak. "oh, thank you, cousin helen!" she said at last. cecy wasn't a cousin, but she and the carr children were in the habit of sharing their aunts and uncles, and relations generally, as they did their other good things. next day came the sad parting. all the little ones stood at the gate, to wave their pocket-handkerchiefs as the carriage drove away. when it was quite out of sight, katy rushed off to "weep a little weep," all by herself. "papa said he wished we were all like cousin helen," she thought, as she wiped her eyes, "and i mean to try, though i don't suppose if i tried a thousand years i should ever get to be half so good. i'll study, and keep my things in order, and be ever so kind to the little ones. dear me--if only aunt izzie was cousin helen, how easy it would be! never mind--i'll think about her all the time, and i'll begin to-morrow." chapter viii to-morrow "to-morrow i will begin," thought katy, as she dropped asleep that night. how often we all do so! and what a pity it is that when morning comes and to-morrow is to-day, we so frequently wake up feeling quite differently; careless or impatient, and not a bit inclined to do the fine things we planned overnight. sometimes it seems as if there must be wicked little imps in the world, who are kept tied up so long as the sun shines, but who creep into our bed-rooms when we are asleep, to tease us and ruffle our tempers. else, why, when we go to rest good-natured and pleasant, should we wake up so cross? now there was katy. her last sleepy thought was an intention to be an angel from that time on, and as much like cousin helen as she could; and when she opened her eyes she was all out of sorts, and as fractious as a bear! old mary said that she got out of bed on the wrong side. i wonder, by the way, if anybody will ever be wise enough to tell us which side that is, so that we may always choose the other? how comfortable it would be if they could! you know how, if we begin the day in a cross mood, all sorts of unfortunate accidents seem to occur to add to our vexations. the very first thing katy did this morning was to break her precious vase--the one cousin helen had given her. it was standing on the bureau with a little cluster of blush-roses in it. the bureau had a swing-glass. while katy was brushing her hair, the glass tipped a little so that she could not see. at a good-humored moment, this accident wouldn't have troubled her much. but being out of temper to begin with, it made her angry. she gave the glass a violent push. the lower part swung forward, there was a smash, and the first thing katy knew, the blush-roses lay scattered all over the floor, and cousin helen's pretty present was ruined. katy just sat down on the carpet and cried as hard as if she had been phil himself. aunt izzie heard her lamenting, and came in. "i'm very sorry," she said, picking up the broken glass, "but it's no more than i expected, you're so careless, katy. now don't sit there in that foolish way! get up and dress yourself. you'll be late to breakfast." "what's the matter?" asked papa, noticing katy's red eyes as she took her seat at the table. "i've broken my vase," said katy, dolefully. "it was extremely careless of you to put it in such a dangerous place," said her aunt. "you might have known that the glass would swing and knock it off." then, seeing a big tear fall in the middle of katy's plate, she added: "really, katy, you're too big to behave like a baby. why dorry would be ashamed to do so. pray control yourself!" this snub did not improve katy's temper. she went on with her breakfast in sulky silence. "what are you all going to do to-day?" asked dr. carr, hoping to give things a more cheerful turn. "swing!" cried john and dorry both together. "alexander's put us up a splendid one in the wood-shed." "no you're not," said aunt izzie in a positive tone, "the swing is not to be used till to-morrow. remember that, children. not till to-morrow. and not then, unless i give you leave." this was unwise of aunt izzie. she would better have explained farther. the truth was, that alexander, in putting up the swing, had cracked one of the staples which fastened it to the roof. he meant to get a new one in the course of the day, and, meantime, he had cautioned miss carr to let no one use the swing, because it really was not safe. if she had told this to the children, all would have been right; but aunt izzie's theory was, that young people must obey their elders without explanation. john, and elsie, and dorry, all pouted when they heard this order. elsie recovered her good-humor first. "i don't care," she said, "'cause i'm going to be very busy; i've got to write a letter to cousin helen about somefing." (elsie never could quite pronounce the _th_.) "what?" asked clover. "oh, somefing," answered elsie, wagging her head mysteriously. "none of the rest of you must know, cousin helen said so, it's a secret she and me has got." "i don't believe cousin helen said so at all," said katy, crossly. "she wouldn't tell secrets to a silly little girl like you." "yes she would too," retorted elsie angrily. "she said i was just as good to trust as if i was ever so big. and she said i was her pet. so there! katy carr!" "stop disputing," said aunt izzie. "katy your top-drawer is all out of order. i never saw anything look so badly. go up stairs at once and straighten it, before you do anything else. children, you must keep in the shade this morning. it's too hot for you to be running about in the sun. elsie, go into the kitchen and tell debby i want to speak to her." "yes," said elsie, in an important tone, "and afterwards i'm coming back to write my letter to cousin helen." katy went slowly up stairs, dragging one foot after the other. it was a warm, languid day. her head ached a little, and her eyes smarted and felt heavy from crying so much. everything seemed dull and hateful. she said to herself, that aunt izzie was very unkind to make her work in vacation, and she pulled the top-drawer open with a disgusted groan. it must be confessed that miss izzie was right. a bureau-drawer could hardly look worse than this one did. it reminded one of the white knight's recipe for a pudding, which began with blotting-paper, and ended with sealing-wax and gunpowder. all sorts of things were mixed together, as if somebody had put in a long stick and stirred them well up. there were books and paint-boxes and bits of scribbled paper, and lead-pencils and brushes. stocking-legs had come unrolled, and twisted themselves about pocket-handkerchiefs, and ends of ribbon, and linen collars. ruffles, all crushed out of shape, stuck up from under the heavier things, and sundry little paper boxes lay empty on top, the treasures they once held having sifted down to the bottom of the drawer, and disappeared beneath the general mass. it took much time and patience to bring order out of this confusion. but katy knew that aunt izzie would be up by and by, and she dared not stop till all was done. by the time it was finished, she was very tired. going down stairs, she met elsie coming up with a slate in her hand, which, as soon as she saw katy, she put behind her. "you mustn't look," she said, "it's my letter to cousin helen. nobody but me knows the secret. it's all written, and i'm going to send it to the office. see--there's a stamp on it;" and she exhibited a corner of the slate. sure enough, there was a stamp stuck on the frame. "you little goose!" said katy, impatiently, "you can't send _that_ to the post-office. here, give me the slate. i'll copy what you've written on paper, and papa'll give you an envelope." "no, no," cried elsie, struggling, "you mustn't! you'll see what i've said and cousin helen said i wasn't to tell. it's a secret. let go of my slate, i say! i'll tell cousin helen what a mean girl you are, and then she won't love you a bit." "there, then, take your old slate!" said katy, giving her a vindictive push. elsie slipped, screamed, caught at the banisters, missed them, and rolling over and over, fell with a thump on the hall floor. it wasn't much of a fall, only half-a-dozen steps, but the bump was a hard one, and elsie roared as if she had been half killed. aunt izzie and mary came rushing to the spot. "katy--pushed--me," sobbed elsie. "she wanted me to tell her my secret, and i wouldn't. she's a bad, naughty girl!" "well, katy carr, i _should_ think you'd be ashamed of yourself," said aunt izzie, "wreaking your temper on your poor little sister! i think your cousin helen will be surprised when she hears this. there, there, elsie! don't cry any more, dear. come up stairs with me. i'll put on some arnica, and katy sha'n't hurt you again." so they went up stairs. katy, left below, felt very miserable: repentant, defiant, discontented, and sulky all at once. she knew in her heart that she had not meant to hurt elsie, but was thoroughly ashamed of that push; but aunt izzie's hint about telling cousin helen, had made her too angry to allow of her confessing this to herself or anybody else. "i don't care!" she murmured, choking back her tears. "elsie is a real cry-baby, anyway. and aunt izzie always takes her part. just because i told the little silly not to go and send a great heavy slate to the post-office!" she went out by the side-door into the yard. as she passed the shed, the new swing caught her eye. "how exactly like aunt izzie," she thought, "ordering the children not to swing till she gives them leave. i suppose she thinks it's too hot, or something. _i_ sha'n't mind her, anyhow." she seated herself in the swing. it was a first-rate one, with a broad, comfortable seat, and thick new ropes. the seat hung just the right distance from the floor. alexander was a capital hand at putting up swings, and the wood-shed the nicest possible spot in which to have one. it was a big place, with a very high roof. there was not much wood left in it just now, and the little there was, was piled neatly about the sides of the shed, so as to leave plenty of room. the place felt cool and dark, and the motion of the swing seemed to set the breeze blowing. it waved katy's hair like a great fan, and made her dreamy and quiet. all sorts of sleepy ideas began to flit through her brain. swinging to and fro like the pendulum of a great clock, she gradually rose higher and higher, driving herself along by the motion of her body, and striking the floor smartly with her foot, at every sweep. now she was at the top of the high arched door. then she could almost touch the cross-beam above it, and through the small square window could see pigeons sitting and pluming themselves on the eaves of the barn, and white clouds blowing over the blue sky. she had never swung so high before. it was like flying, she thought, and she bent and curved more strongly in the seat, trying to send herself yet higher, and graze the roof with her toes. suddenly, at the very highest point of the sweep, there was a sharp noise of cracking. the swing gave a violent twist, spun half round, and tossed katy into the air. she clutched the rope,--felt it dragged from her grasp,--then, down,--down--down--she fell. all grew dark, and she knew no more. when she opened her eyes she was lying on the sofa in the dining-room. clover was kneeling beside her with a pale, scared face, and aunt izzie was dropping something cold and wet on her forehead. "what's the matter?" said katy, faintly. "oh, she's alive--she's alive!" and clover put her arms round katy's neck and sobbed. "hush, dear!" aunt izzie's voice sounded unusually gentle. "you've had a bad tumble, katy. don't you recollect?" "a tumble? oh, yes--out of the swing," said katy, as it all came slowly back to her. "did the rope break, aunt izzie? i can't remember about it." "no, katy, not the rope. the staple drew out of the roof. it was a cracked one, and not safe. don't you recollect my telling you not to swing to-day? did you forget?" "no, aunt izzie--i didn't forget. i--" but here katy broke down. she closed her eyes, and big tears rolled from under the lids. "don't cry," whispered clover, crying herself, "please don't. aunt izzie isn't going to scold you." but katy was too weak and shaken not to cry. "i think i'd like to go up stairs and lie on the bed," she said. but when she tried to get off the sofa, everything swam before her, and she fell back again on the pillow. "why, i can't stand up!" she gasped, looking very much frightened. "i'm afraid you've given yourself a sprain somewhere," said aunt izzie, who looked rather frightened herself. "you'd better lie still a while, dear, before you try to move. ah, here's the doctor! well, i am glad." and she went forward to meet him. it wasn't papa, but dr. alsop, who lived quite near them. "i am so relieved that you could come," aunt izzie said. "my brother is gone out of town not to return till to-morrow, and one of the little girls has had a bad fall." dr. alsop sat down beside the sofa and counted katy's pulse. then he began feeling all over her. "can you move this leg?" he asked. katy gave a feeble kick. "and this?" the kick was a good deal more feeble. "did that hurt you?" asked dr. alsop, seeing a look of pain on her face. "yes, a little," replied katy, trying hard not to cry. "in your back, eh? was the pain high up or low down?" and the doctor punched katy's spine for some minutes, making her squirm uneasily. "i'm afraid she's done some mischief," he said at last, "but it's impossible to tell yet exactly what. it may be only a twist, or a slight sprain," he added, seeing the look of terror on katy's face. "you'd better get her up stairs and undress her as soon as you can, miss carr. i'll leave a prescription to rub her with." and dr. alsop took out a bit of paper and began to write. "oh, must i go to bed?" said katy. "how long will i have to stay there, doctor?" "that depends on how fast you get well," replied the doctor; "not long, i hope. perhaps only a few days. "a few days!" repeated katy, in a despairing tone. after the doctor was gone, aunt izzie and debby lifted katy, and carried her slowly up stairs. it was not easy, for every motion hurt her, and the sense of being helpless hurt most of all. she couldn't help crying after she was undressed and put into bed. it all seemed so dreadful and strange. if only papa was here, she thought. but dr. carr had gone into the country to see somebody who was very sick, and couldn't possibly be back till to-morrow. such a long, long afternoon as that was! aunt izzie sent up some dinner, but katy couldn't eat. her lips were parched and her head ached violently. the sun began to pour in, the room grew warm. flies buzzed in the window, and tormented her by lighting on her face. little prickles of pain ran up and down her back. she lay with her eyes shut, because it hurt to keep them open, and all sorts of uneasy thoughts went rushing through her mind. "perhaps, if my back is really sprained, i shall have to lie here as much as a week," she said to herself. "oh dear, dear! i _can't_. the vacation is only eight weeks, and i was going to do such lovely things! how can people be as patient as cousin helen when they have to lie still? won't she be sorry when she hears! was it really yesterday that she went away? it seems a year. if only i hadn't got into that nasty old swing!" and then katy began to imagine how it would have been if she _hadn't_, and how she and clover had meant to go to paradise that afternoon. they might have been there under the cool trees now. as these thoughts ran through her mind, her head grew hotter and her position in the bed more uncomfortable. suddenly she became conscious that the glaring light from the window was shaded, and that the wind seemed to be blowing freshly over her. she opened her heavy eyes. the blinds were shut, and there beside the bed sat little elsie, fanning her with a palm-leaf fan. "did i wake you up, katy?" she asked in a timid voice. katy looked at her with startled, amazed eyes. "don't be frightened," said elsie, "i won't disturb you. johnnie and me are so sorry you're sick," and her little lips trembled. "but we mean to keep real quiet, and never bang the nursery door, or make noises on the stairs, till you're well again. and i've brought you somefing real nice. some of it's from john, and some from me. it's because you got tumbled out of the swing. see--" and elsie pointed triumphantly to a chair, which she had pulled up close to the bed, and on which were solemnly set forth: st. a pewter tea-set; d. a box with a glass lid, on which flowers were painted; d. a jointed doll; th. a transparent slate; and lastly, two new lead pencils! "they're all yours--yours to keep," said generous little elsie. "you can have pikery, too, if you want. only he's pretty big, and i'm afraid he'd be lonely without me. don't you like the fings, katy? they're real pretty!" it seemed to katy as if the hottest sort of a coal of fire was burning into the top of her head as she looked at the treasures on the chair, and then at elsie's face all lighted up with affectionate self-sacrifice. she tried to speak, but began to cry instead, which frightened elsie very much. "does it hurt you so bad?" she asked, crying, too, from sympathy. "oh, no! it isn't that," sobbed katy, "but i was so cross to you this morning, elsie, and pushed you. oh, please forgive me, please do!" "why, it's got well!" said elsie, surprised. "aunt izzie put a fing out of a bottle on it, and the bump all went away. shall i go and ask her to put some on you too--i will." and she ran toward the door. "oh, no!" cried katy, "don't go away, elsie. come here and kiss me, instead." elsie turned as if doubtful whether this invitation could be meant for her. katy held out her arms. elsie ran right into them, and the big sister and the little, exchanged an embrace which seemed to bring their hearts closer together than they had ever been before. "you're the most _precious_ little darling," murmured katy, clasping elsie tight. "i've been real horrid to you, elsie. but i'll never be again. you shall play with me and clover, and cecy, just as much as you like, and write notes in all the post-offices, and everything else." "oh, goody! goody!" cried elsie, executing little skips of transport. "how sweet you are, katy! i mean to love you next best to cousin helen and papa! and"--racking her brains for some way of repaying this wonderful kindness--"i'll tell you the secret, if you want me to _very_ much. i guess cousin helen would let me." "no!" said katy; "never mind about the secret. i don't want you to tell it to me. sit down by the bed, and fan me some more instead." "no!" persisted elsie, who, now that she had made up her mind to part with the treasured secret, could not bear to be stopped. "cousin helen gave me a half-dollar, and told me to give it to debby, and tell her she was much obliged to her for making her such nice things to eat. and i did. and debby was real pleased. and i wrote cousin helen a letter, and told her that debby liked the half-dollar. that's the secret! isn't it a nice one? only you mustn't tell anybody about it, ever--just as long as you live." "no!" said katy, smiling faintly, "i won't." all the rest of the afternoon elsie sat beside the bed with her palm-leaf fan, keeping off the flies, and "shue"-ing away the other children when they peeped in at the door. "do you really like to have me here?" she asked, more than once, and smiled, oh, _so_ triumphantly! when katy said "yes!" but though katy said yes, i am afraid it was only half the truth, for the sight of the dear little forgiving girl, whom she had treated unkindly, gave her more pain than pleasure. "i'll be _so_ good to her when i get well," she thought to herself, tossing uneasily to and fro. aunt izzie slept in her room that night. katy was feverish. when morning came, and dr. carr returned, he found her in a good deal of pain, hot and restless, with wide-open, anxious eyes. "papa!" she cried the first thing, "must i lie here as much as a week?" "my darling, i'm afraid you must," replied her father, who looked worried, and very grave. "dear, dear!" sobbed katy, "how can i bear it?" chapter ix dismal days if anybody had told katy, that first afternoon, that at the end of a week she would still be in bed, and in pain, and with no time fixed for getting up, i think it would have almost killed her. she was so restless and eager, that to lie still seemed one of the hardest things in the world. but to lie still and have her back ache all the time, was worse yet. day after day she asked papa with quivering lip: "mayn't i get up and go down stairs this morning?" and when he shook his head, the lip would quiver more, and tears would come. but if she tried to get up, it hurt her so much, that in spite of herself she was glad to sink back again on the soft pillows and mattress, which felt so comfortable to her poor bones. then there came a time when katy didn't even ask to be allowed to get up. a time when sharp, dreadful pain, such as she never imagined before, took hold of her. when days and nights got all confused and tangled up together, and aunt izzie never seemed to go to bed. a time when papa was constantly in her room. when other doctors came and stood over her, and punched and felt her back, and talked to each other in low whispers. it was all like a long, bad dream, from which she couldn't wake up, though she tried ever so hard. now and then she would rouse a little, and catch the sound of voices, or be aware that clover or elsie stood at the door, crying softly; or that aunt izzie, in creaking slippers, was going about the room on tiptoe. then all these things would slip away again, and she would drop off into a dark place, where there was nothing but pain, and sleep, which made her forget pain, and so seemed the best thing in the world. we will hurry over this time, for it is hard to think of our bright katy in such a sad plight. by and by the pain grew less, and the sleep quieter. then, as the pain became easier still, katy woke up as it were--began to take notice of what was going on about her; to put questions. "how long have i been sick?" she asked one morning. "it is four weeks yesterday," said papa. "four weeks!" said katy. "why, i didn't know it was so long as that. was i very sick, papa?" "very, dear. but you are a great deal better now." "how did i hurt me when i tumbled out of the swing?" asked katy, who was in an unusually wakeful mood. "i don't believe i could make you understand, dear." "but try, papa!" "well--did you know that you had a long bone down your back, called a spine?" "i thought that was a disease," said katy. "clover said that cousin helen had the spine!" "no--the spine is a bone. it is made up of a row of smaller bones--or knobs--and in the middle of it is a sort of rope of nerves called the spinal cord. nerves, you know, are the things we feel with. well, this spinal cord is rolled up for safe keeping in a soft wrapping, called membrane. when you fell out of the swing, you struck against one of these knobs, and bruised the membrane inside, and the nerve inflamed, and gave you a fever in the back. do you see?" "a little," said katy, not quite understanding, but too tired to question farther. after she had rested a while, she said: "is the fever well now, papa? can i get up again and go down stairs right away?" "not right away, i'm afraid," said dr. carr, trying to speak cheerfully. katy didn't ask any more questions then. another week passed, and another. the pain was almost gone. it only came back now and then for a few minutes. she could sleep now, and eat, and be raised in bed without feeling giddy. but still the once active limbs hung heavy and lifeless, and she was not able to walk, or even stand alone. "my legs feel so queer," she said one morning, "they are just like the prince's legs which were turned to black marble in the arabian nights. what do you suppose is the reason, papa? won't they feel natural soon?" "not soon," answered dr. carr. then he said to himself: "poor child! she had better know the truth." so he went on, aloud, "i am afraid, my darling, that you must make up your mind to stay in bed a long time." "how long?" said katy, looking frightened: "a month more?" "i can't tell exactly how long," answered her father. "the doctors think, as i do, that the injury to your spine is one which you will outgrow by and by, because you are so young and strong. but it may take a good while to do it. it may be that you will have to lie here for months, or it may be more. the only cure for such a hurt is time and patience. it is hard, darling"--for katy began to sob wildly--"but you have hope to help you along. think of poor cousin helen, bearing all these years without hope!" "oh, papa!" gasped katy, between her sobs, "doesn't it seem dreadful, that just getting into the swing for a few minutes should do so much harm? such a little thing as that!" "yes, such a little thing!" repeated dr. carr, sadly. "and it was only a little thing, too, forgetting aunt izzie's order about the swing. just for the want of the small 'horseshoe nail' of obedience, katy." years afterwards, katy told somebody that the longest six weeks of her life were those which followed this conversation with papa. now that she knew there was no chance of getting well at once, the days dragged dreadfully. each seemed duller and dismaller than the day before. she lost heart about herself, and took no interest in anything. aunt izzie brought her books, but she didn't want to read, or to sew. nothing amused her. clover and cecy would come and sit with her, but hearing them tell about their plays, and the things they had been doing, made her cry so miserably, that aunt izzie wouldn't let them come often. they were very sorry for katy, but the room was so gloomy, and katy so cross, that they didn't mind much not being allowed to see her. in those days katy made aunt izzie keep the blinds shut tight, and she lay in the dark, thinking how miserable she was, and how wretched all the rest of her life was going to be. everybody was very kind and patient with her, but she was too selfishly miserable to notice it. aunt izzie ran up and down stairs, and was on her feet all day, trying to get something which would please her, but katy hardly said "thank you," and never saw how tired aunt izzie looked. so long as she was forced to stay in bed, katy could not be grateful for anything that was done for her. but doleful as the days were, they were not so bad as the nights, when, after aunt izzie was asleep, katy would lie wide awake, and have long, hopeless fits of crying. at these times she would think of all the plans she had made for doing beautiful things when she was grown up. "and now i shall never do any of them," she would say to herself, "only just lie here. papa says i may get well by and by, but i sha'n't, i know i sha'n't. and even if i do, i shall have wasted all these years, and the others will grow up and get ahead of me, and i sha'n't be a comfort to them or to anybody else. oh dear! oh dear! how dreadful it is!" the first thing which broke in upon this sad state of affairs, was a letter from cousin helen, which papa brought one morning and handed to aunt izzie. "helen tells me she's going home this week," said aunt izzie, from the window, where she had gone to read the letter. "well, i'm sorry, but i think she's quite right not to stop. it's just as she says: one invalid at a time is enough in a house. i'm sure i have my hands full with katy." "oh, aunt izzie!" cried katy, "is cousin helen coming this way when she goes home? oh! do make her stop. if it's just for one day, do ask her! i want to see her so much! i can't tell you how much! won't you? please! please, dear papa!" she was almost crying with eagerness. "why, yes, darling, if you wish it so much," said dr. carr. "it will cost aunt izzie some trouble, but she's so kind that i'm sure she'll manage it if it is to give you so much pleasure. can't you, izzie?" and he looked eagerly at his sister. "of course i will!" said miss izzie, heartily. katy was so glad, that, for the first time in her life, she threw her arms of her own accord round aunt izzie's neck, and kissed her. "thank you, dear aunty!" she said. aunt izzie looked as pleased as could be. she had a warm heart hidden under her fidgety ways--only katy had never been sick before, to find it out. for the next week katy was feverish with expectation. at last cousin helen came. this time katy was not on the steps to welcome her, but after a little while papa brought cousin helen in his arms, and sat her in a big chair beside the bed. "how dark it is!" she said, after they had kissed each other and talked for a minute or two; "i can't see your face at all. would it hurt your eyes to have a little more light?" "oh no!" answered katy. "it don't hurt my eyes, only i hate to have the sun come in. it makes me feel worse, somehow." "push the blind open a little bit then clover;" and clover did so. "now i can see," said cousin helen. it was a forlorn-looking child enough which she saw lying before her. katy's face had grown thin, and her eyes had red circles about them from continual crying. her hair had been brushed twice that morning by aunt izzie, but katy had run her fingers impatiently through it, till it stood out above her head like a frowsy bush. she wore a calico dressing-gown, which, though clean, was particularly ugly in pattern; and the room, for all its tidiness, had a dismal look, with the chairs set up against the wall, and a row of medicine-bottles on the chimney-piece. "isn't it horrid?" sighed katy, as cousin helen looked around. "everything's horrid. but i don't mind so much now that you've come. oh, cousin helen, i've had such a dreadful, _dreadful_ time!" "i know," said her cousin, pityingly. "i've heard all about it, katy, and i'm so very sorry for you! it is a hard trial, my poor darling." "but how do _you_ do it?" cried katy. "how do you manage to be so sweet and beautiful and patient, when you're feeling badly all the time, and can't do anything, or walk, or stand?"--her voice was lost in sobs. cousin helen didn't say anything for a little while. she just sat and stroked katy's hand. "katy," she said at last, "has papa told you that he thinks you are going to get well by and by?" "yes," replied katy, "he did say so. but perhaps it won't be for a long, long time. and i wanted to do so many things. and now i can't do anything at all!" "what sort of things?" "study, and help people, and become famous. and i wanted to teach the children. mamma said i must take care of them, and i meant to. and now i can't go to school or learn anything myself. and if i ever do get well, the children will be almost grown up, and they won't need me." "but why must you wait till you get well?" asked cousin helen, smiling. "why, cousin helen, what can i do lying here in bed?" "a good deal. shall i tell you, katy, what it seems to me that i should say to myself if i were in your place?" "yes, please!" replied katy wonderingly. "i should say this: 'now, katy carr, you wanted to go to school and learn to be wise and useful, and here's a chance for you. god is going to let you go to _his_ school--where he teaches all sorts of beautiful things to people. perhaps he will only keep you for one term, or perhaps it may be for three or four; but whichever it is, you must make the very most of the chance, because he gives it to you himself.'" "but what is the school?" asked katy. "i don't know what you mean." "it is called the school of pain," replied cousin helen, with her sweetest smile. "and the place where the lessons are to be learned is this room of yours. the rules of the school are pretty hard, but the good scholars, who keep them best, find out after a while how right and kind they are. and the lessons aren't easy, either, but the more you study the more interesting they become." "what are the lessons?" asked katy, getting interested, and beginning to feel as if cousin helen were telling her a story. "well, there's the lesson of patience. that's one of the hardest studies. you can't learn much of it at a time, but every bit you get by heart, makes the next bit easier. and there's the lesson of cheerfulness. and the lesson of making the best of things." "sometimes there isn't anything to make the best of," remarked katy, dolefully. "yes there is, always! everything in the world has two handles. didn't you know that? one is a smooth handle. if you take hold of it, the thing comes up lightly and easily, but if you seize the rough handle, it hurts your hand and the thing is hard to lift. some people always manage to get hold of the wrong handle." "is aunt izzie a 'thing?'" asked katy. cousin helen was glad to hear her laugh. "yes--aunt izzie is a _thing_--and she has a nice pleasant handle too, if you just try to find it. and the children are 'things,' also, in one sense. all their handles are different. you know human beings aren't made just alike, like red flower-pots. we have to feel and guess before we can make out just how other people go, and how we ought to take hold of them. it is very interesting, i advise you to try it. and while you are trying, you will learn all sorts of things which will help you to help others." "if i only could!" sighed katy. "are there any other studies in the school, cousin helen?" "yes, there's the lesson of hopefulness. that class has ever so many teachers. the sun is one. he sits outside the window all day waiting a chance to slip in and get at his pupil. he's a first-rate teacher, too. i wouldn't shut him out, if i were you. "every morning, the first thing when i woke up, i would say to myself: 'i am going to get well, so papa thinks. perhaps it may be to-morrow. so, in case this _should_ be the last day of my sickness, let me spend it _beauti-_fully, and make my sick-room so pleasant that everybody will like to remember it.' "then, there is one more lesson, katy--the lesson of neatness. school-rooms must be kept in order, you know. a sick person ought to be as fresh and dainty as a rose." "but it is such a fuss," pleaded katy. "i don't believe you've any idea what a bother it is to always be nice and in order. you never were careless like me, cousin helen; you were born neat." "oh, was i?" said her cousin. "well, katy, we won't dispute that point, but i'll tell you a story, if you like, about a girl i once knew, who _wasn't_ born neat." "oh, do!" cried katy, enchanted. cousin helen had done her good, already. she looked brighter and less listless than for days. "this girl was quite young," continued cousin helen; "she was strong and active, and liked to run, and climb, and ride, and do all sorts of jolly things. one day something happened--an accident--and they told her that all the rest of her life she had got to lie on her back and suffer pain, and never walk any more, or do any of the things she enjoyed most." "just like you and me!" whispered katy, squeezing cousin helen's hand. "something like me; but not so much like you, because, you know, we hope _you_ are going to get well one of these days. the girl didn't mind it so much when they first told her, for she was so ill that she felt sure she should die. but when she got better, and began to think of the long life which lay before her, that was worse than ever the pain had been. she was so wretched, that she didn't care what became of anything, or how anything looked. she had no aunt izzie to look after things, so her room soon got into a dreadful state. it was full of dust and confusion, and dirty spoons and phials of physic. she kept the blinds shut, and let her hair tangle every which way, and altogether was a dismal spectacle. "this girl had a dear old father," went on cousin helen, "who used to come every day and sit beside her bed. one morning he said to her: "'my daughter, i'm afraid you've got to live in this room for a long time. now there's one thing i want you to do for my sake.' "'what's that?' she asked, surprised to hear there was anything left which she could _do_ for anybody. "'i want you to turn out all these physic bottles, and make your room pleasant and pretty for _me_ to come and sit in. you see, i shall spend a good deal of my time here! now i don't like dust and darkness. i like to see flowers on the table, and sunshine in at the window. will you do this to please me?' "'yes,' said the girl, but she gave a sigh, and i am afraid she felt as if it was going to be a dreadful trouble. "'then, another thing,' continued her father, 'i want _you_ to look pretty. can't nightgowns and wrappers be trimmed and made becoming just as much as dresses? a sick woman who isn't neat is a disagreeable object. do, to please me, send for something pretty, and let me see you looking nice again. i can't bear to have my helen turn into a slattern.'" "helen!" exclaimed katy, with wide-open eyes, "was it _you_?" "yes," said her cousin, smiling. "it was i though i didn't mean to let the name slip out so soon. so, after my father was gone away, i sent for a looking-glass. such a sight, katy! my hair was a perfect mouse's nest, and i had frowned so much that my forehead was all criss-crossed with lines of pain, till it looked like an old woman's." katy stared at cousin helen's smooth brow and glossy hair. "i can't believe it," she said; "your hair never could be rough." "yes it was--worse, a great deal, than yours looks now. but that peep in the glass did me good. i began to think how selfishly i was behaving, and to desire to do better. and after that, when the pain came on, i used to lie and keep my forehead smooth with my fingers, and try not to let my face show what i was enduring. so by and by the wrinkles wore away, and though i am a good deal older now, they have never come back. "it was a great deal of trouble at first to have to think and plan to keep my room and myself looking nice. but after a while it grew to be a habit, and then it became easy. and the pleasure it gave my dear father repaid for all. he had been proud of his active, healthy girl, but i think she was never such a comfort to him as his sick one, lying there in her bed. my room was his favorite sitting-place, and he spent so much time there, that now the room, and everything in it, makes me think of him." there were tears in cousin helen's eyes as she ceased speaking. but katy looked bright and eager. it seemed somehow to be a help, as well as a great surprise, that ever there should have been a time when cousin helen was less perfect than she was now. "do you really think i could do so too?" she asked. "do what? comb your hair?" cousin helen was smiling now. "oh no! be nice and sweet and patient, and a comfort to people. you know what i mean." "i am sure you can, if you try." "but what would you do first?" asked katy; who, now that her mind had grasped a new idea, was eager to begin. "well--first i would open the blinds, and make the room look a little less dismal. are you taking all those medicines in the bottles now?" "no--only that big one with the blue label." "then you might ask aunt izzy to take away the others. and i'd get clover to pick a bunch of fresh flowers every day for your table. by the way, i don't see the little white vase." "no--it got broken the very day after you went away; the day i fell out of the swing," said katy, sorrowfully. "never mind, pet, don't look so doleful. i know the tree those vases grow upon, and you shall have another. then, after the room is made pleasant, i would have all my lesson-books fetched up, if i were you, and i would study a couple of hours every morning." "oh!" cried katy, making a wry face at the idea. cousin helen smiled. "i know," said she, "it sounds like dull work, learning geography and doing sums up here all by yourself. but i think if you make the effort you'll be glad by and by. you won't lose so much ground, you see--won't slip back quite so far in your education. and then, studying will be like working at a garden, where things don't grow easily. every flower you raise will be a sort of triumph, and you will value it twice as much as a common flower which has cost no trouble." "well," said katy, rather forlornly, "i'll try. but it won't be a bit nice studying without anybody to study with me. is there anything else, cousin helen?" just then the door creaked, and elsie timidly put her head into the room. "oh, elsie, run away!" cried katy. "cousin helen and i are talking. don't come just now." katy didn't speak unkindly, but elsie's face fell, and she looked disappointed. she said nothing, however, but shut the door and stole away. cousin helen watched this little scene without speaking. for a few minutes after elsie was gone she seemed to be thinking. "katy," she said at last, "you were saying just now, that one of the things you were sorry about was that while you were ill you could be of no use to the children. do you know, i don't think you have that reason for being sorry." "why not?" said katy, astonished. "because you can be of use. it seems to me that you have more of a chance with the children now, than you ever could have had when you were well, and flying about as you used. you might do almost anything you liked with them." "i can't think what you mean," said katy, sadly. "why, cousin helen, half the time i don't even know where they are, or what they are doing. and i can't get up and go after them, you know." "but you can make your room such a delightful place, that they will want to come to you! don't you see, a sick person has one splendid chance--she is always on hand. everybody who wants her knows just where to go. if people love her, she gets naturally to be the heart of the house. "once make the little ones feel that your room is the place of all others to come to when they are tired, or happy, or grieved, or sorry about anything, and that the katy who lives there is sure to give them a loving reception--and the battle is won. for you know we never do people good by lecturing; only by living their lives with them, and helping a little here, and a little there, to make them better. and when one's own life is laid aside for a while, as yours is now, that is the very time to take up other people's lives, as we can't do when we are scurrying and bustling over our own affairs. but i didn't mean to preach a sermon. i'm afraid you're tired." "no, i'm not a bit," said katy, holding cousin helen's hand tight in hers; "you can't think how much better i feel. oh, cousin helen, i will try!" "it won't be easy," replied her cousin. "there will be days when your head aches, and you feel cross and fretted, and don't want to think of any one but yourself. and there'll be other days when clover and the rest will come in, as elsie did just now, and you will be doing something else, and will feel as if their coming was a bother. but you must recollect that every time you forget, and are impatient or selfish, you chill them and drive them farther away. they are loving little things, and are so sorry for you now, that nothing you do makes them angry. but by and by they will get used to having you sick, and if you haven't won them as friends, they will grow away from you as they get older." just then dr. carr came in. "oh, papa! you haven't come to take cousin helen, have you?" cried katy. "indeed i have," said her father. "i think the big invalid and the little invalid have talked quite long enough. cousin helen looks tired." for a minute, katy felt just like crying. but she choked back the tears. "my first lesson in patience," she said to herself, and managed to give a faint, watery smile as papa looked at her. "that's right, dear," whispered cousin helen, as she bent forward to kiss her. "and one last word, katy. in this school, to which you and i belong, there is one great comfort, and that is that the teacher is always at hand. he never goes away. if things puzzle us, there he is, close by, ready to explain and make all easy. try to think of this, darling, and don't be afraid to ask him for help if the lesson seems too hard." katy had a strange dream that night. she thought she was trying to study a lesson out of a book which wouldn't come quite open. she could just see a little bit of what was inside, but it was in a language which she did not understand. she tried in vain; not a word could she read; and yet, for all that, it looked so interesting that she longed to go on. "oh, if somebody would only help me!" she cried impatiently. suddenly a hand came over her shoulder and took hold of the book. it opened at once, and showed the whole page. and then the forefinger of the hand began to point to line after line, and as it moved the words became plain, and katy could read them easily. she looked up. there, stooping over her, was a great beautiful face. the eyes met hers. the lips smiled. "why didn't you ask me before, little scholar?" said a voice. "why, it is you, just as cousin helen told me!" cried katy. she must have spoken in her sleep, for aunt izzie half woke up, and said: "what is it? do you want anything?" the dream broke, and katy roused, to find herself in bed, with the first sunbeams struggling in at the window, and aunt izzie raised on her elbow, looking at her with a sort of sleepy wonder. chapter x st. nicholas and st. valentine "what are the children all doing to-day?" said katy laying down "norway and the norwegians," which she was reading for the fourth time; "i haven't seen them since breakfast." aunt izzie, who was sewing on the other side of the room, looked up from her work. "i don't know," she said, "they're over at cecy's, or somewhere. they'll be back before long, i guess." her voice sounded a little odd and mysterious, but katy didn't notice it. "i thought of such a nice plan yesterday," she went on. "that was that all of them should hang their stockings up here to-morrow night instead of in the nursery. then i could see them open their presents, you know. mayn't they, aunt izzie? it would be real fun." "i don't believe there will be any objection," replied her aunt. she looked as if she were trying not to laugh. katy wondered what was the matter with her. it was more than two months now since cousin helen went away, and winter had fairly come. snow was falling out-doors. katy could see the thick flakes go whirling past the window, but the sight did not chill her. it only made the room look warmer and more cosy. it was a pleasant room now. there was a bright fire in the grate. everything was neat and orderly, the air was sweet with mignonette, from a little glass of flowers which stood on the table, and the katy who lay in bed, was a very different-looking katy from the forlorn girl of the last chapter. cousin helen's visit, though it lasted only one day, did great good. not that katy grew perfect all at once. none of us do that, even in books. but it is everything to be started in the right path. katy's feet were on it now; and though she often stumbled and slipped, and often sat down discouraged, she kept on pretty steadily, in spite of bad days, which made her say to herself that she was not getting forward at all. these bad days, when everything seemed hard, and she herself was cross and fretful, and drove the children out of her room, cost katy many bitter tears. but after them she would pick herself up, and try again, and harder. and i think that in spite of drawbacks, the little scholar, on the whole, was learning her lesson pretty well. cousin helen was a great comfort all this time. she never forgot katy. nearly every week some little thing came from her. sometimes it was a pencil note, written from her sofa. sometimes it was an interesting book, or a new magazine, or some pretty little thing for the room. the crimson wrapper which katy wore was one of her presents, so were the bright chromos of autumn leaves which hung on the wall, the little stand for the books--all sorts of things. katy loved to look about her as she lay. all the room seemed full of cousin helen and her kindness. "i wish i had something pretty to put into everybody's stocking," she went on, wistfully; "but i've only got the muffetees for papa, and these reins for phil." she took them from under her pillow as she spoke--gay worsted affairs, with bells sewed on here and there. she had knit them herself, a very little bit at a time. "there's my pink sash," she said suddenly, "i might give that to clover. i only wore it once, you know, and i don't think i got any spots on it. would you please fetch it and let me see, aunt izzie? it's in the top drawer." aunt izzie brought the sash. it proved to be quite fresh, and they both decided that it would do nicely for clover. "you know i sha'n't want sashes for ever so long," said katy, in rather a sad tone, "and this is a beauty." when she spoke next, her voice was bright again. "i wish i had something real nice for elsie. do you know, aunt izzie--i think elsie is the dearest little girl that ever was." "i'm glad you've found it out," said aunt izzie, who had always been specially fond of elsie. "what she wants most of all is a writing-desk," continued katy. "and johnnie wants a sled. but, oh dear! these are such big things. and i've only got two dollars and a quarter." aunt izzie marched out of the room without saying anything. when she came back she had something folded up in her hand. "i didn't know what to give you for christmas, katy," she said, "because helen sends you such a lot of things that there don't seem to be anything you haven't already. so i thought i'd give you this, and let you choose for yourself. but if you've set your heart on getting presents for the children, perhaps you'd rather have it now." so saying, aunt izzie laid on the bed a crisp, new five-dollar bill! "how good you are!" cried katy, flushed with pleasure. and indeed aunt izzie _did_ seem to have grown wonderfully good of late. perhaps katy had got hold of her smooth handle! being now in possession of seven dollars and a quarter, katy could afford to be gorgeously generous. she gave aunt izzie an exact description of the desk she wanted. "it's no matter about its being very big," said katy, "but it must have a blue velvet lining, and an inkstand, with a silver top. and please buy some little sheets of paper and envelopes, and a pen-handle; the prettiest you can find. oh! and there must be a lock and key. don't forget that, aunt izzie." "no, i won't. what else?" "i'd like the sled to be green," went on katy, "and to have a nice name. sky-scraper would be nice, if there was one. johnnie saw a sled once called sky-scraper, and she said it was splendid. and if there's money enough left, aunty, won't you buy me a real nice book for dorry, and another for cecy, and a silver thimble for mary? her old one is full of holes. oh! and some candy. and something for debby and bridget--some little thing, you know. i think that's all!" was ever seven dollars and a quarter expected to do so much? aunt izzie must have been a witch, indeed, to make it hold out. but she did, and next day all the precious bundles came home. how katy enjoyed untying the strings! everything was exactly right. "there wasn't any sky-scraper," said aunt izzie, "so i got 'snow-skimmer' instead." "it's beautiful, and i like it just as well," said katy contentedly. "oh, hide them, hide them!" she cried with sudden terror, "somebody's coming." but the somebody was only papa, who put his head into the room as aunt izzie, laden with bundles, scuttled across the hall. katy was glad to catch him alone. she had a little private secret to talk over with him. it was about aunt izzie, for whom she, as yet, had no present. "i thought perhaps you'd get me a book like that one of cousin helen's, which aunt izzie liked so much," she said. "i don't recollect the name exactly. it was something about a shadow. but i've spent all my money." "never mind about that," said dr. carr. "we'll make that right. 'the shadow of the cross'--was that it? i'll buy it this afternoon." "oh, thank you, papa! and please get a brown cover, if you can, because cousin helen's was brown. and you won't let aunt izzie know, will you? be careful, papa!" "i'll swallow the book first, brown cover and all," said papa, making a funny face. he was pleased to see katy so interested about anything again. these delightful secrets took up so much of her thoughts, that katy scarcely found time to wonder at the absence of the children, who generally haunted her room, but who for three days back had hardly been seen. however, after supper they all came up in a body, looking very merry, and as if they had been having a good time somewhere. "you don't know what we've been doing," began philly. "hush, phil!" said clover, in a warning voice. then she divided the stockings which she held in her hand. and everybody proceeded to hang them up. dorry hung his on one side of the fireplace, and john hers exactly opposite. clover and phil suspended theirs side by side, on two handles of the bureau. "i'm going to put mine here, close to katy, so that she can see it the first fing in the mornin'," said elsie, pinning hers to the bed-post. then they all sat down round the fire to write their wishes on bits of paper, and see whether they would burn, or fly up the chimney. if they did the latter, it was a sign that santa claus had them safe, and would bring the things wished for. john wished for a sled and a doll's tea-set, and the continuation of the swiss family robinson. dorry's list ran thus: "a plum-cake, a new bibel, harry and lucy, a kellidescope, everything else santa claus likes." when they had written these lists they threw them into the fire. the fire gave a flicker just then, and the papers vanished. nobody saw exactly how. john thought they flew up chimney, but dorry said they didn't. phil dropped his piece in very solemnly. it flamed for a minute, then sank into ashes. "there, you won't get it, whatever it was!" said dorry. "what did you write, phil?" "nofing," said phil, "only just philly carr." the children shouted. "i wrote 'a writing-desk' on mine," remarked elsie, sorrowfully, "but it all burned up." katy chuckled when she heard this. and now clover produced her list. she read aloud: "'strive and thrive,' a pair of kid gloves, a muff, a good temper!" then she dropped it into the fire. behold, it flew straight up chimney. "how queer!" said katy; "none of the rest of them did that." the truth was, that clover, who was a canny little mortal, had slipped across the room and opened the door just before putting her wishes in. this, of course, made a draft, and sent the paper right upward. pretty soon aunt izzie came in and swept them all off to bed. "i know how it will be in the morning," she said, "you'll all be up and racing about as soon as it is light. so you must get your sleep now, if ever." after they had gone, katy recollected that nobody had offered to hang a stocking up for her. she felt a little hurt when she thought of it. "but i suppose they forgot," she said to herself. a little later papa and aunt izzie came in, and they filled the stockings. it was great fun. each was brought to katy, as she lay in bed, that she might arrange it as she liked. the toes were stuffed with candy and oranges. then came the parcels, all shapes and sizes, tied in white paper, with ribbons, and labelled. "what's that?" asked dr. carr, as aunt izzie rammed a long, narrow package into clover's stocking. "a nail-brush," answered aunt izzie. "clover needed a new one." how papa and katy laughed! "i don't believe santa claus ever had such a thing before," said dr. carr. "he's a very dirty old gentleman, then," observed aunt izzie, grimly. the desk and sled were too big to go into any stocking, so they were wrapped in paper and hung beneath the other things. it was ten o'clock before all was done, and papa and aunt izzie went away. katy lay a long time watching the queer shapes of the stocking-legs as they dangled in the firelight. then she fell asleep. it seemed only a minute, before something touched her and woke her up. behold, it was day-time, and there was philly in his nightgown, climbing up on the bed to kiss her! the rest of the children, half dressed, were dancing about with their stockings in their hands. "merry christmas! merry christmas!" they cried. "oh, katy, such beautiful, beautiful things!" "oh!" shrieked elsie, who at that moment spied her desk, "santa claus _did_ bring it, after all! why, it's got 'from katy' written on it! oh, katy, it's so sweet, and i'm _so_ happy!" and elsie hugged katy, and sobbed for pleasure. but what was that strange thing beside the bed! katy stared, and rubbed her eyes. it certainly had not been there when she went to sleep. how had it come? it was a little evergreen tree planted in a red flower-pot. the pot had stripes of gilt paper stuck on it, and gilt stars and crosses, which made it look very gay. the boughs of the tree were hung with oranges, and nuts, and shiny red apples, and pop-corn balls, and strings of bright berries. there were also a number of little packages tied with blue and crimson ribbon, and altogether the tree looked so pretty, that katy gave a cry of delighted surprise. "it's a christmas-tree for you, because you're sick, you know!" said the children, all trying to hug her at once. "we made it ourselves," said dorry, hopping about on one foot; "i pasted the black stars on the pot." "and i popped the corn!" cried philly. "do you like it?" asked elsie, cuddling close to katy. "that's my present--that one tied with a green ribbon. i wish it was nicer! don't you want to open 'em right away?" of course katy wanted to. all sorts of things came out of the little bundles. the children had arranged every parcel themselves. no grown person had been allowed to help in the least. elsie's present was a pen-wiper, with a gray flannel kitten on it. johnnie's, a doll's tea-tray of scarlet tin. "isn't it beau-ti-ful?" she said, admiringly. dorry's gift, i regret to say, was a huge red-and-yellow spider, which whirred wildly when waved at the end of its string. "they didn't want me to buy it," said he, "but i did! i thought it would amoose you. does it amoose you, katy?" "yes, indeed," said katy, laughing and blinking as dorry waved the spider to and fro before her eyes. "you can play with it when we ain't here and you're all alone, you know," remarked dorry, highly gratified. "but you don't notice what the tree's standing upon," said clover. it was a chair, a very large and curious one, with a long-cushioned back, which ended in a footstool. "that's papa's present," said clover; "see, it tips back so as to be just like a bed. and papa says he thinks pretty soon you can lie on it, in the window, where you can see us play." "does he really?" said katy, doubtfully. it still hurt her very much to be touched or moved. "and see what's tied to the arm of the chair," said elsie. it was a little silver bell, with "katy" engraved on the handle. "cousin helen sent it. it's for you to ring when you want anybody to come," explained elsie. more surprises. to the other arm of the chair was fastened a beautiful book. it was "the wide wide world"--and there was katy's name written on it, 'from her affectionate cecy.' on it stood a great parcel of dried cherries from mrs. hall. mrs. hall had the most _delicious_ dried cherries, the children thought. "how perfectly lovely everybody is!" said katy, with grateful tears in her eyes. that was a pleasant christmas. the children declared it to be the nicest they had ever had. and though katy couldn't quite say that, she enjoyed it too, and was very happy. it was several weeks before she was able to use the chair, but when once she became accustomed to it, it proved very comfortable. aunt izzie would dress her in the morning, tip the chair back till it was on a level with the bed, and then, very gently and gradually, draw her over on to it. wheeling across the room was always painful, but sitting in the window and looking out at the clouds, the people going by, and the children playing in the snow, was delightful. how delightful nobody knows, excepting those who, like katy, have lain for six months in bed, without a peep at the outside world. every day she grew brighter and more cheerful. "how jolly santa claus was this year!" she happened to say one day, when she was talking with cecy. "i wish another saint would come and pay us a visit. but i don't know any more, except cousin helen, and she can't." "there's st. valentine," suggested cecy. "sure enough. what a bright thought!" cried katy, clapping her hands. "oh, cecy, let's do something funny on valentine's-day! such a good idea has just popped into my mind." so the two girls put their heads together and held a long, mysterious confabulation. what it was about, we shall see farther on. valentine's-day was the next friday. when the children came home from school on thursday afternoon, aunt izzie met them, and, to their great surprise, told them that cecy was come to drink tea, and they must all go up stairs and be made nice. "but cecy comes most every day," remarked dorry, who didn't see the connection between this fact and having his face washed. "yes--but to-night you are to take tea in katy's room," said aunt izzie; "here are the invitations: one for each of you." sure enough, there was a neat little note for each, requesting the pleasure of their company at "queen katharine's palace," that afternoon, at six o'clock. this put quite a different aspect on the affair. the children scampered up stairs, and pretty soon, all nicely brushed and washed, they were knocking formally at the door of the "palace." how fine it sounded! the room looked bright and inviting. katy, in her chair, sat close to the fire, cecy was beside her, and there was a round table all set out with a white cloth and mugs of milk and biscuit, and strawberry-jam and doughnuts. in the middle was a loaf of frosted cake. there was something on the icing which looked like pink letters, and clover, leaning forward, read aloud, "st. valentine." "what's that for?" asked dorry. "why, you know this is st. valentine's-eve," replied katy. "debbie remembered it, i guess, so she put that on." nothing more was said about st. valentine just then. but when the last pink letter of his name had been eaten, and the supper had been cleared away, suddenly, as the children sat by the fire, there was a loud rap at the door. "who can that be?" said katy; "please see, clover!" so clover opened the door. there stood bridget, trying very hard not to laugh, and holding a letter in her hand. "it's a note as has come for you, miss clover," she said. "for _me_!" cried clover, much amazed. then she shut the door, and brought the note to the table. "how very funny!" she exclaimed, as she looked at the envelope, which was a green and white one. there was something hard inside. clover broke the seal. out tumbled a small green velvet pincushion made in the shape of a clover-leaf, with a tiny stem of wire wound with green silk. pinned to the cushion was a paper, with these verses: "some people love roses well, tulips, gayly dressed, some love violets blue and sweet,-- i love clover best. "though she has a modest air, though no grace she boast, though no gardener call her fair, i love clover most. "butterfly may pass her by, he is but a rover, i'm a faithful, loving bee-- and i stick to clover." this was the first valentine clover had ever had. she was perfectly enchanted. "oh, who _do_ you suppose sent it?" she cried. but before anybody could answer, there came another loud knock at the door, which made them all jump. behold, bridget again, with a second letter! "it's for you, miss elsie, this time," she said with a grin. there was an instant rush from all the children, and the envelope was torn open in the twinkling of an eye. inside was a little ivory seal with "elsie" on it in old english letters, and these rhymes: "i know a little girl, she is very dear to me, she is just as sweet as honey when she chooses so to be, and her name begins with e, and ends with e. "she has brown hair which curls, and black eyes for to see with, teeth like tiny pearls, and dimples, one, two--three, and her name begins with e, and ends with e. "her little feet run faster than other feet can flee, as she brushes quickly past, her voice hums like a bee, and her name begins with e, and ends with e. "do you ask me why i love her? then i shall answer thee, because i can't help loving, she is so sweet to me, this little girl whose name begins and ends with 'e.'" "it's just like a fairy story," said elsie, whose eyes had grown as big as saucers from surprise, while these verses were being read aloud by cecy. another knock. this time there was a perfect handful of letters. everybody had one. katy, to her great surprise, had _two_. "why, what _can_ this be?" she said. but when she peeped into the second one, she saw cousin helen's handwriting, and she put it into her pocket, till the valentines should be read. dorry's was opened first. it had the picture of a pie at the top--i ought to explain that dorry had lately been having a siege with the dentist. "little jack horner sat in his corner, eating his christmas pie, when a sudden grimace spread over his face, and he began loudly to cry. "his tender mamma heard the sound from afar, and hastened to comfort her child; 'what aileth my john?' she inquired in a tone which belied her question mild. "'oh, mother,' he said, 'every tooth in my head jumps and aches and is loose, o my! and it hurts me to eat anything that is sweet-- so what _will_ become of my pie?' "it were vain to describe how he roared and he cried, and howled like a miniature tempest; suffice it to say, that the very next day he had all his teeth pulled by a dentist!" this valentine made the children laugh for a long time. johnnie's envelope held a paper doll named "red riding-hood." these were the verses: "i send you my picture, dear johnnie, to show that i'm just as alive as you, and that you needn't cry over my fate any more, as you used to do. "the wolf didn't hurt me at all that day, for i kicked and fought and cried, till he dropped me out of his mouth, and ran away in the woods to hide. "and grandma and i have lived ever since in the little brown house so small, and churned fresh butter and made cream cheeses, nor seen the wolf at all. "so cry no more for fear i am eaten, the naughty wolf is shot, and if you will come to tea some evening you shall see for yourself i'm not." johnnie was immensely pleased at this, for red riding-hood was a great favorite of hers. philly had a bit of india-rubber in his letter, which was written with very black ink on a big sheet of foolscap: "i was once a naughty man, and i hid beneath the bed, to steal your india-rubbers, but i chewed them up instead. "then you called out, 'who is there?' i was thrown most in a fit, and i let the india-rubbers fall-- all but this little bit. "i'm sorry for my naughty ways, and now, to make amends, i send the chewed piece back again, and beg we may be friends. "robber." "just listen to mine," said cecy, who had all along pretended to be as much surprised as anybody, and now behaved as if she could hardly wait till philly's was finished. then she read aloud: "to cecy. "if i were a bird and you were a bird, what would we do? why you should be little and i would be big, and, side by side on a cherry-tree twig, we'd kiss with our yellow bills, and coo-- that's what we'd do! "if i were a fish and you were a fish, what would we do? we'd frolic, and whisk our little tails, and play all sorts of tricks with the whales, and call on the oysters, and order a 'stew,' that's what we'd do! "if i were a bee and you were a bee, what would we do? we'd find a home in a breezy wood, and store it with honey sweet and good. you should feed me and i would feed you, that's what we'd do! "valentine." "i think that's the prettiest of all," said clover. "i don't," said elsie. "i think mine is the prettiest. cecy didn't have any seal in hers, either." and she fondled the little seal, which all this time she had held in her hand. "katy, you ought to have read yours first because you are the oldest," said clover. "mine isn't much," replied katy, and she read: "the rose is red the violet blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you." "what a mean valentine!" cried elsie, with flashing eyes. "it's a real shame, katy! you ought to have had the best of all." katy could hardly keep from laughing. the fact was that the verses for the others had taken so long, that no time had been left for writing a valentine to herself. so, thinking it would excite suspicion to have none, she had scribbled this old rhyme at the last moment. "it isn't very nice," she said, trying to look as pensive as she could, "but never mind." "it's a shame!" repeated elsie, petting her very hard to make up for the injustice. "hasn't it been a funny evening?" said john; and dorry replied, "yes; we never had such good times before katy was sick, did we?" katy heard this with a mingled feeling of pleasure and pain. "i think the children do love me a little more of late," she said to herself. "but, oh, why couldn't i be good to them when i was well and strong!" she didn't open cousin helen's letter until the rest were all gone to bed. i think somebody must have written and told about the valentine party, for instead of a note there were these verses in cousin helen's own clear, pretty hand. it wasn't a valentine, because it was too solemn, as katy explained to clover, next day. "but," she added, "it is a great deal beautifuller than any valentine that ever was written." and clover thought so too. these were the verses: "in school. "i used to go to a bright school where youth and frolic taught in turn; but idle scholar that i was, i liked to play, i would not learn; so the great teacher did ordain that i should try the school of pain. "one of the infant class i am with little, easy lessons, set in a great book; the higher class have harder ones than i, and yet i find mine hard, and can't restrain my tears while studying thus with pain. "there are two teachers in the school, one has a gentle voice and low, and smiles upon her scholars, as she softly passes to and fro. her name is love; 'tis very plain she shuns the sharper teacher, pain. "or so i sometimes think; and then, at other times, they meet and kiss, and look so strangely like, that i am puzzled to tell how it is, or whence the change which makes it vain to guess if it be--love or pain. "they tell me if i study well, and learn my lessons, i shall be moved upward to that higher class where dear love teaches constantly; and i work hard, in hopes to gain reward, and get away from pain. "yet pain is sometimes kind, and helps me on when i am very dull; i thank him often in my heart; but love is far more beautiful; under her tender, gentle reign i must learn faster than of pain. "so i will do my very best, nor chide the clock, nor call it slow; that when the teacher calls me up to see if i am fit to go, i may to love's high class attain, and bid a sweet good-by to pain." chapter xi a new lesson to learn it was a long time before the children ceased to talk and laugh over that jolly evening. dorry declared he wished there could be a valentine's-day every week. "don't you think st. valentine would be tired of writing verses?" asked katy. but she, too, had enjoyed the frolic, and the bright recollection helped her along through the rest of the long, cold winter. spring opened late that year, but the summer, when it came, was a warm one. katy felt the heat very much. she could not change her seat and follow the breeze about from window to window as other people could. the long burning days left her weak and parched. she hung her head, and seemed to wilt like the flowers in the garden-beds. indeed she was worse off than they, for every evening alexander gave them a watering with the hose, while nobody was able to bring a watering-pot and pour out what she needed--a shower of cold, fresh air. it wasn't easy to be good-humored under these circumstances, and one could hardly have blamed katy if she had sometimes forgotten her resolutions and been cross and fretful. but she didn't--not very often. now and then bad days came, when she was discouraged and forlorn. but katy's long year of schooling had taught her self-control, and, as a general thing, her discomforts were borne patiently. she could not help growing pale and thin however, and papa saw with concern that, as the summer went on, she became too languid to read, or study, or sew, and just sat hour after hour, with folded hands, gazing wistfully out of the window. he tried the experiment of taking her to drive. but the motion of the carriage, and the being lifted in and out, brought on so much pain, that katy begged that he would not ask her to go again. so there was nothing to be done but wait for cooler weather. the summer dragged on, and all who loved katy rejoiced when it was over. when september came, with cool mornings and nights, and fresh breezes, smelling of pine woods, and hill-tops, all things seemed to revive, and katy with them. she began to crochet and to read. after a while she collected her books again, and tried to study as cousin helen had advised. but so many idle weeks made it seem harder work than ever. one day she asked papa to let her take french lessons. "you see i'm forgetting all i knew," she said, "and clover is going to begin this term, and i don't like that she should get so far ahead of me. don't you think mr. bergèr would be willing to come here, papa? he does go to houses sometimes." "i think he would if we asked him," said dr. carr, pleased to see katy waking up with something like life again. so the arrangement was made. mr. bergèr came twice every week, and sat beside the big chair, correcting katy's exercises and practising her in the verbs and pronunciation. he was a lively little old frenchman, and knew how to make lesson-time pleasant. "you take more pain than you used, mademoiselle," he said one day; "if you go on so, you shall be my best scholar. and if to hurt the back make you study, it would be well that some other of my young ladies shall do the same." katy laughed. but in spite of mr. bergèr and his lessons, and in spite of her endeavors to keep cheerful and busy, this second winter was harder than the first. it is often so with sick people. there is a sort of excitement in being ill which helps along just at the beginning. but as months go on, and everything grows an old story, and one day follows another day, all just alike and all tiresome, courage is apt to flag and spirits to grow dull. spring seemed a long, long way off whenever katy thought about it. "i wish something would happen," she often said to herself. and something was about to happen. but she little guessed what it was going to be. "katy!" said clover, coming in one day in november, "do you know where the camphor is? aunt izzie has got _such_ a headache." "no," replied katy, "i don't. or--wait--clover, it seems to me that debby came for it the other day. perhaps if you look in her room you'll find it." "how very queer!" she soliloquized, when clover was gone; "i never knew aunt izzie to have a headache before." "how is aunt izzie?" she asked, when papa came in at noon. "well, i don't know. she has some fever and a bad pain in her head. i have told her that she had better lie still, and not try to get up this evening. old mary will come in to undress you, katy. you won't mind, will you, dear?" "n-o!" said katy, reluctantly. but she did mind. aunt izzie had grown used to her and her ways. nobody else suited her so well. "it seems so strange to have to explain just how every little thing is to be done," she remarked to clover, rather petulantly. it seemed stranger yet, when the next day, and the next, and the next after that passed, and still no aunt izzie came near her. blessings brighten as they take their flight. katy began to appreciate for the first time how much she had learned to rely on her aunt. she missed her dreadfully. "when _is_ aunt izzie going to get well?" she asked her father; "i want her so much." "we all want her," said dr. carr, who looked disturbed and anxious. "is she very sick?" asked katy, struck by the expression of his face. "pretty sick, i'm afraid," he replied. "i'm going to get a regular nurse to take care of her." aunt izzie's attack proved to be typhoid fever. the doctors said that the house must be kept quiet, so john, and dorry, and phil were sent over to mrs. hall's to stay. elsie and clover were to have gone too, but they begged so hard, and made so many promises of good behavior, that finally papa permitted them to remain. the dear little things stole about the house on tiptoe, as quietly as mice, whispering to each other, and waiting on katy, who would have been lonely enough without them, for everybody else was absorbed in aunt izzie. it was a confused, melancholy time. the three girls didn't know much about sickness, but papa's grave face, and the hushed house, weighed upon their spirits, and they missed the children very much. "oh dear!" sighed elsie. "how i wish aunt izzie would hurry and get well." "we'll be real good to her when she does, won't we?" said clover. "i never mean to leave my rubbers in the hat-stand any more, because she don't like to have me. and i shall pick up the croquet-balls and put them in the box every night." "yes," added elsie, "so will i, when she gets well." it never occurred to either of them that perhaps aunt izzie might not get well. little people are apt to feel as if grown folks are so strong and so big, that nothing can possibly happen to them. katy was more anxious. still she did not fairly realize the danger. so it came like a sudden and violent shock to her, when, one morning on waking up, she found old mary crying quietly beside the bed, with her apron at her eyes. aunt izzie had died in the night! all their kind, penitent thoughts of her; their resolutions to please--their plans for obeying her wishes and saving her trouble, were too late! for the first time, the three girls, sobbing in each other's arms, realized what a good friend aunt izzie had been to them. her worrying ways were all forgotten now. they could only remember the many kind things she had done for them since they were little children. how they wished that they had never teased her, never said sharp words about her to each other! but it was no use to wish. "what shall we do without aunt izzie?" thought katy, as she cried herself to sleep that night. and the question came into her mind again and again, after the funeral was over and the little ones had come back from mrs. hall's, and things began to go on in their usual manner. for several days she saw almost nothing of her father. clover reported that he looked very tired and scarcely said a word. "did papa eat any dinner?" asked katy, one afternoon. "not much. he said he wasn't hungry. and mrs. jackson's boy came for him before we were through." "oh dear!" sighed katy, "i do hope _he_ isn't going to be sick. how it rains! clovy, i wish you'd run down and get out his slippers and put them by the fire to warm. oh, and ask debby to make some cream-toast for tea! papa likes cream-toast." after tea, dr. carr came up stairs to sit a while in katy's room. he often did so, but this was the first time since aunt izzie's death. katy studied his face anxiously. it seemed to her that it had grown older of late, and there was a sad look upon it, which made her heart ache. she longed to do something for him, but all she could do was to poke the fire bright, and then to possess herself of his hand, and stroke it gently with both hers. it wasn't much, to be sure, but i think papa liked it. "what have you been about all day?" he asked. "oh, nothing, much," said katy. "i studied my french lesson this morning. and after school, elsie and john brought in their patchwork, and we had a 'bee.' that's all." "i've been thinking how we are to manage about the housekeeping," said dr. carr. "of course we shall have to get somebody to come and take charge. but it isn't easy to find just the right person. mrs. hall knows of a woman who might do, but she is out west, just now, and it will be a week or two before we can hear from her. do you think you can get on as you are for a few days?" "oh, papa!" cried katy, in dismay, "must we have anybody?" "why, how did you suppose we were going to arrange it? clover is much too young for a housekeeper. and beside, she is at school all day." "i don't know--i hadn't thought about it," said katy, in a perplexed tone. but she did think about it--all that evening, and the first thing when she woke in the morning. "papa," she said, the next time she got him to herself, "i've been thinking over what you were saying last night, about getting somebody to keep the house, you know. and i wish you wouldn't. i wish you would let _me_ try. really and truly, i think i could manage." "but how?" asked dr. carr, much surprised. "i really don't see. if you were well and strong, perhaps--but even then you would be pretty young for such a charge, katy." "i shall be fourteen in two weeks," said katy, drawing herself up in her chair as straight as she could. "and if i _were_ well, papa, i should be going to school, you know, and then of course i couldn't. no, i'll tell you my plan. i've been thinking about it all day. debby and bridget have been with us so long, that they know all aunt izzie's ways, and they're such good women, that all they want is just to be told a little now and then. now, why couldn't they come up to me when anything is wanted--just as well as to have me go down to them? clover and old mary will keep watch, you know, and see if anything is wrong. and you wouldn't mind if things were a little crooked just at first, would you? because, you know, i should be learning all the time. do let me try! it will be real nice to have something to think about as i sit up here alone, so much better than having a stranger in the house who doesn't know the children or anything. i am sure it will make me happier. please say 'yes,' papa, please do!" "it's too much for you, a great deal too much," replied dr. carr. but it was not easy to resist katy's "please! please!" and after a while it ended with-- "well, darling, you may try, though i am doubtful as to the result of the experiment. i will tell mrs. hall to put off writing to wisconsin for a month, and we will see. "poor child, anything to take her thoughts off herself!" he muttered, as he walked down stairs. "she'll be glad enough to give the thing up by the end of the month." but papa was mistaken. at the end of a month katy was eager to go on. so he said, "very well--she might try it till spring." it was not such hard work as it sounds. katy had plenty of quiet thinking-time for one thing. the children were at school all day, and few visitors came to interrupt her, so she could plan out her hours and keep to the plans. that is a great help to a housekeeper. then aunt izzie's regular, punctual ways were so well understood by the servants, that the house seemed almost to keep itself. as katy had said, all debby and bridget needed was a little "telling" now and then. as soon as breakfast was over, and the dishes were washed and put away, debby would tie on a clean apron, and come up stairs for orders. at first katy thought this great fun. but after ordering dinner a good many times, it began to grow tiresome. she never saw the dishes after they were cooked; and, being inexperienced, it seemed impossible to think of things enough to make a variety. "let me see--there is roast beef--leg of mutton--boiled chicken," she would say, counting on her fingers, "roast beef--leg of mutton--boiled chicken. debby, you might roast the chickens. dear!--i wish somebody would invent a new animal! where all the things to eat are gone to, i can't imagine!" then katy would send for every recipe-book in the house, and pore over them by the hour, till her appetite was as completely gone as if she had swallowed twenty dinners. poor debby learned to dread these books. she would stand by the door with her pleasant red face drawn up into a pucker, while katy read aloud some impossible-sounding rule. "this looks as if it were delicious, debby, i wish you'd try it: take a gallon of oysters, a pint of beef stock, sixteen soda crackers, the juice of two lemons, four cloves, a glass of white wine, a sprig of marjoram, a sprig of thyme, a sprig of bay, a sliced shalott--" "please, miss katy, what's them?" "oh, don't you know, debby? it must be something quite common, for it's in almost all the recipes." "no, miss katy, i never heard tell of it before. miss carr never gave me no shell-outs at all at all!" "dear me, how provoking!" katy would cry, flapping over the leaves of her book; "then we must try something else." poor debby! if she hadn't loved katy so dearly, i think her patience must have given way. but she bore her trials meekly, except for an occasional grumble when alone with bridget. dr. carr had to eat a great many queer things in those days. but he didn't mind, and as for the children, they enjoyed it. dinner-time became quite exciting, when nobody could tell exactly what any dish on the table was made of. dorry, who was a sort of dr. livingstone where strange articles of food were concerned, usually made the first experiment, and if he said that it was good, the rest followed suit. after a while katy grew wiser. she ceased teasing debby to try new things, and the carr family went back to plain roast and boiled, much to the advantage of all concerned. but then another series of experiments began. katy got hold of a book upon "the stomach," and was seized with a rage for wholesome food. she entreated clover and the other children to give up sugar, and butter, and gravy, and pudding-sauce, and buckwheat cakes, and pies, and almost everything else that they particularly liked. boiled rice seemed to her the most sensible dessert, and she kept the family on it until finally john and dorry started a rebellion, and dr. carr was forced to interfere. "my dear, you are overdoing it sadly," he said, as katy opened her book and prepared to explain her views; "i am glad to have the children eat simple food--but really, boiled rice five times in a week is too much." katy sighed, but submitted. later, as the spring came on, she had a fit of over-anxiousness, and was always sending clover down to ask debby if her bread was not burning, or if she was sure that the pickles were not fermenting in their jars? she also fidgeted the children about wearing india-rubbers, and keeping on their coats, and behaved altogether as if the cares of the world were on her shoulders. but all these were but the natural mistakes of a beginner. katy was too much in earnest not to improve. month by month she learned how to manage a little better, and a little better still. matters went on more smoothly. her cares ceased to fret her. dr. carr watching the increasing brightness of her face and manner, felt that the experiment was a success. nothing more was said about "somebody else," and katy, sitting up stairs in her big chair, held the threads of the house firmly in her hands. chapter xii two years afterward it was a pleasant morning in early june. a warm wind was rustling the trees, which were covered thickly with half-opened leaves, and looked like fountains of green spray thrown high into the air. dr. carr's front door stood wide open. through the parlor window came the sound of piano practice, and on the steps, under the budding roses, sat a small figure, busily sewing. this was clover, little clover still, though more than two years had passed since we saw her last, and she was now over fourteen. clover was never intended to be tall. her eyes were as blue and sweet as ever, and her apple-blossom cheeks as pink. but the brown pig-tails were pinned up into a round knot, and the childish face had gained almost a womanly look. old mary declared that miss clover was getting quite young-ladyfied, and "miss clover" was quite aware of the fact, and mightily pleased with it. it delighted her to turn up her hair; and she was very particular about having her dresses made to come below the tops of her boots. she had also left off ruffles, and wore narrow collars instead, and little cuffs with sleeve-buttons to fasten them. these sleeve-buttons, which were a present from cousin helen, clover liked best of all her things. papa said that he was sure she took them to bed with her, but of course that was only a joke, though she certainly was never seen without them in the daytime. she glanced frequently at these beloved buttons as she sat sewing, and every now and then laid down her work to twist them into a better position, or give them an affectionate pat with her forefinger. pretty soon the side-gate swung open, and philly came round the corner of the house. he had grown into a big boy. all his pretty baby curls were cut off, and his frocks had given place to jacket and trousers. in his hand he held something. what, clover could not see. "what's that?" she said, as he reached the steps. "i'm going up stairs to ask katy if these are ripe," replied phil, exhibiting some currants faintly streaked with red. "why, of course they're not ripe!" said clover, putting one into her mouth. "can't you tell by the taste? they're as green as can be." "i don't care, if katy says they're ripe i shall eat 'em," answered phil, defiantly, marching into the house. "what did philly want?" asked elsie, opening the parlor door as phil went up stairs. "only to know if the currants are ripe enough to eat." "how particular he always is about asking now!" said elsie; "he's afraid of another dose of salts." "i should think he would be," replied clover, laughing. "johnnie says she never was so scared in her life as when papa called them, and they looked up, and saw him standing there with the bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other!" "yes," went on elsie, "and you know dorry held his in his mouth for ever so long, and then went round the corner of the house and spat it out! papa said he had a good mind to make him take another spoonful, but he remembered that after all dorry had the bad taste a great deal longer than the others, so he didn't. i think it was an _awful_ punishment, don't you?" "yes, but it was a good one, for none of them have ever touched the green gooseberries since. have you got through practising? it doesn't seem like an hour yet." "oh, it isn't--it's only twenty-five minutes. but katy told me not to sit more than half an hour at a time without getting up and running round to rest. i'm going to walk twice down to the gate, and twice back. i promised her i would." and elsie set off, clapping her hands briskly before and behind her as she walked. "why--what is bridget doing in papa's room?" she asked, as she came back the second time. "she's flapping things out of the window. are the girls up there? i thought they were cleaning the dining-room." "they're doing both. katy said it was such a good chance, having papa away, that she would have both the carpets taken up at once. there isn't going to be any dinner today, only just bread and butter, and milk, and cold ham, up in katy's room, because debby is helping too, so as to get through and save papa all the fuss. and see," exhibiting her sewing, "katy's making a new cover for papa's pincushion, and i'm hemming the ruffle to go round it." "how nicely you hem!" said elsie. "i wish i had something for papa's room too. there's my washstand mats--but the one for the soap-dish isn't finished. do you suppose, if katy would excuse me from the rest of my practising, i could get it done? i've a great mind to go and ask her." "there's her bell!" said clover, as a little tinkle sounded up stairs; "i'll ask her, if you like." "no, let me go. i'll see what she wants." but clover was already half-way across the hall, and the two girls ran up side by side. there was often a little strife between them as to which should answer katy's bell. both liked to wait on her so much. katy came to meet them as they entered. not on her feet: that, alas! was still only a far-off possibility; but in a chair with large wheels, with which she was rolling herself across the room. this chair was a great comfort to her. sitting in it, she could get to her closet and her bureau-drawers, and help herself to what she wanted without troubling anybody. it was only lately that she had been able to use it. dr. carr considered her doing so as a hopeful sign, but he had never told katy this. she had grown accustomed to her invalid life at last, and was cheerful in it, and he thought it unwise to make her restless, by exciting hopes which might after all end in fresh disappointment. she met the girls with a bright smile as they came in, and said: "oh, clovy, it was you i rang for! i am troubled for fear bridget will meddle with the things on papa's table. you know he likes them to be left just so. will you please go and remind her that she is not to touch them at all? after the carpet is put down, i want you to dust the table, so as to be sure that everything is put back in the same place. will you?" "of course i will!" said clover, who was a born housewife, and dearly loved to act as katy's prime minister. "sha'n't i fetch you the pincushion too, while i'm there?" "oh yes, please do! i want to measure." "katy," said elsie, "those mats of mine are most done, and i would like to finish them and put them on papa's washstand before he comes back. mayn't i stop practising now, and bring my crochet up here instead?" "will there be plenty of time to learn the new exercise before miss phillips comes, if you do?" "i think so, plenty. she doesn't come till friday, you know." "well, then it seems to me that you might just as well as not. and elsie, dear, run into papa's room first, and bring me the drawer out of his table. i want to put that in order myself." elsie went cheerfully. she laid the drawer across katy's lap, and katy began to dust and arrange the contents. pretty soon clover joined them. "here's the cushion," she said. "now we'll have a nice quiet time all by ourselves, won't we? i like this sort of day, when nobody comes in to interrupt us." somebody tapped at the door, as she spoke. katy called out, "come!" and in marched a tall, broad-shouldered lad, with a solemn, sensible face, and a little clock carried carefully in both his hands. this was dorry. he has grown and improved very much since we saw him last, and is turning out clever in several ways. among the rest, he has developed a strong turn for mechanics. "here's your clock, katy," he said. "i've got it fixed so that it strikes all right. only you must be careful not to hit the striker when you start the pendulum." "have you, really?" said katy. "why, dorry, you're a genius! i'm ever so much obliged." "it's four minutes to eleven now," went on dorry. "so it'll strike pretty soon. i guess i'd better stay and hear it, so as to be sure that it is right. that is," he added politely, "unless you're busy, and would rather not." "i'm never too busy to want you, old fellow," said katy, stroking his arm. "here, this drawer is arranged now. don't you want to carry it into papa's room and put it back into the table? your hands are stronger than elsie's." dorry looked gratified. when he came back the clock was just beginning to strike. "there!" he exclaimed; "that's splendid, isn't it?" but alas! the clock did not stop at eleven. it went on--twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen! "dear me!" said clover, "what does all this mean? it must be day after to-morrow, at least." dorry stared with open mouth at the clock, which was still striking as though it would split its sides. elsie, screaming with laughter, kept count. "thirty, thirty-one--oh, dorry! thirty-two! thirty-three! thirty-four!" "you've bewitched it, dorry!" said katy, as much entertained as the rest. then they all began counting. dorry seized the clock--shook it, slapped it, turned it upside-down. but still the sharp, vibrating sounds continued, as if the clock, having got its own way for once, meant to go on till it was tired out. at last, at the one-hundred-and-thirtieth stroke, it suddenly ceased; and dorry, with a red, amazed countenance, faced the laughing company. "it's very queer," he said, "but i'm sure it's not because of anything i did. i can fix it, though, if you'll let me try again. may i, katy? i'll promise not to hurt it." for a moment katy hesitated. clover pulled her sleeve, and whispered, "don't!" then seeing the mortification on dorry's face, she made up her mind. "yes! take it, dorry. i'm sure you'll be careful. but if i were you, i'd carry it down to wetherell's first of all, and talk it over with them. together you could hit on just the right thing. don't you think so?" "perhaps," said dorry; "yes, i think i will." then he departed with the clock under his arm, while clover called after him teasingly, "lunch at o'clock; don't forget!" "no, i won't!" said dorry. two years before he would not have borne to be laughed at so good-naturedly. "how could you let him take your clock again?" said clover, as soon as the door was shut. "he'll spoil it. and you think so much of it." "i thought he would feel mortified if i didn't let him try," replied katy, quietly, "i don't believe he'll hurt it. wetherell's man likes dorry, and he'll show him what to do." "you were real good to do it," responded clover; "but if it had been mine i don't think i could." just then the door flew open, and johnnie rushed in, two years taller, but otherwise looking exactly as she used to do. "oh, katy!" she gasped, "won't you please tell philly not to wash the chickens in the rain-water tub? he's put in every one of speckle's, and is just beginning on dame durden's. i'm afraid one little yellow one is dead already--" "why, he mustn't--of course he mustn't!" said katy; "what made him think of such a thing?" "he says they're dirty, because they've just come out of egg-shells! and he insists that the yellow on them is yolk-of-egg. i told him it wasn't, but he wouldn't listen to me." and johnnie wrung her hands. "clover!" cried katy, "won't you run down and ask philly to come up to me? speak pleasantly, you know!" "i spoke pleasantly--real pleasantly, but it wasn't any use," said johnnie, on whom the wrongs of the chicks had evidently made a deep impression. "what a mischief phil is getting to be!" said elsie. "papa says his name ought to be pickle." "pickles turn out very nice sometimes, you know," replied katy, laughing. pretty soon philly came up, escorted by clover. he looked a little defiant, but katy understood how to manage him. she lifted him into her lap, which, big boy as he was, he liked extremely; and talked to him so affectionately about the poor little shivering chicks, that his heart was quite melted. "i didn't mean to hurt 'em, really and truly," he said, "but they were all dirty and yellow--with egg, you know, and i thought you'd like me to clean 'em up." "but that wasn't egg, philly--it was dear little clean feathers, like a canary-bird's wings." "was it?" "yes. and now the chickies are as cold and forlorn as you would feel if you tumbled into a pond and nobody gave you any dry clothes. don't you think you ought to go and warm them?" "how?" "well--in your hands, very gently. and then i would let them run round in the sun." "i will!" said philly, getting down from her lap. "only kiss me first, because i didn't mean to, you know!"--philly was very fond of katy. miss petingill said it was wonderful to see how that child let himself be managed. but i think the secret was that katy didn't "manage," but tried to be always kind and loving, and considerate of phil's feelings. before the echo of phil's boots had fairly died away on the stairs, old mary put her head into the door. there was a distressed expression on her face. "miss katy," she said, "i wish _you'd_ speak to alexander about putting the woodshed in order. i don't think you know how bad it looks." "i don't suppose i do," said katy, smiling, and then sighing. she had never seen the wood-shed since the day of her fall from the swing. "never mind, mary, i'll talk to alexander about it, and he shall make it all nice." mary trotted down stairs satisfied. but in the course of a few minutes she was up again. "there's a man come with a box of soap, miss katy, and here's the bill. he says it's resated." it took katy a little time to find her purse, and then she wanted her pencil and account book, and elsie had to move from her seat at the table. "oh dear!" she said, "i wish people wouldn't keep coming and interrupting us. who'll be the next, i wonder?" she was not left to wonder long. almost as she spoke, there was another knock at the door. "come in!" said katy, rather wearily. the door opened. "shall i?" said a voice. there was a rustle of skirts, a clatter of boot-heels, and imogen clark swept into the room. katy could not think who it was, at first. she had not seen imogen for almost two years. "i found the front door open," explained imogen, in her high-pitched voice, "and as nobody seemed to hear when i rang the bell, i ventured to come right up stairs. i hope i'm not interrupting anything private?" "not at all," said katy, politely. "elsie, dear, move up that low chair, please. do sit down, imogen! i'm sorry nobody answered your ring, but the servants are cleaning house to-day, and i suppose they didn't hear." so imogen sat down and began to rattle on in her usual manner, while elsie, from behind katy's chair, took a wide-awake survey of her dress. it was of cheap material, but very gorgeously made and trimmed, with flounces and puffs, and imogen wore a jet necklace and long black ear-rings, which jingled and clicked when she waved her head about. she still had the little round curls stuck on to her cheeks, and elsie wondered anew what kept them in their places. by and by the object of imogen's visit came out. she had called to say good-by. the clark family were all going back to jacksonville to live. "did you ever see the brigand again?" asked clover, who had never forgotten that eventful tale told in the parlor. "yes," replied imogen, "several times. and i get letters from him quite often. he writes _beau_tiful letters. i wish i had one with me, so that i could read you a little bit. you would enjoy it, i know. let me see--perhaps i have." and she put her hand into her pocket. sure enough there _was_ a letter. clover couldn't help suspecting that imogen knew it all the time. the brigand seemed to write a bold, black hand, and his note-paper and envelope was just like anybody else's. but perhaps his band had surprised a pedlar with a box of stationery. "let me see," said imogen, running her eye down the page. "'adored imogen'--that wouldn't interest you--hm, hm, hm--ah, here's something! 'i took dinner at the rock house on christmas. it was lonesome without you. i had roast turkey, roast goose, roast beef, mince pie, plum pudding, and nuts and raisins. a pretty good dinner, was it not? but nothing tastes first-rate when friends are away.'" katy and clover stared, as well they might. such language from a brigand! "john billings has bought a new horse," continued imogen; "hm, hm, hm--him. i don't think there is anything else you'd care about. oh, yes! just here, at the end, is some poetry: "'come, little dove, with azure wing, and brood upon my breast,' "that's sweet, ain't it?" "hasn't he reformed?" said clover; "he writes as if he had." "reformed!" cried imogen, with a toss of the jingling ear-rings. "he was always just as good as he could be!" there was nothing to be said in reply to this. katy felt her lips twitch, and for fear she should be rude, and laugh out, she began to talk as fast as she could about something else. all the time she found herself taking measure of imogen, and thinking--"did i ever really like her? how queer! oh, what a wise man papa is!" imogen stayed half an hour. then she took her leave. "she never asked how you were!" cried elsie, indignantly; "i noticed, and she didn't--not once." "oh well--i suppose she forgot. we were talking about her, not about me," replied katy. the little group settled down again to their work. this time half an hour went by without any more interruptions. then the door bell rang, and bridget, with a disturbed face, came up stairs. "miss katy," she said, "it's old mrs. worrett, and i reckon's she's come to spend the day, for she's brought her bag. what ever shall i tell her?" katy looked dismayed. "oh dear!" she said, "how unlucky. what can we do?" mrs. worrett was an old friend of aunt izzie's, who lived in the country, about six miles from burnet, and was in the habit of coming to dr. carr's for lunch, on days when shopping or other business brought her into town. this did not occur often; and, as it happened, katy had never had to entertain her before. "tell her ye're busy, and can't see her," suggested bridget; "there's no dinner nor nothing, you know." the katy of two years ago would probably have jumped at this idea. but the katy of to-day was more considerate. "n-o," she said; "i don't like to do that. we must just make the best of it, bridget. run down, clover, dear, that's a good girl! and tell mrs. worrett that the dining-room is all in confusion, but that we're going to have lunch here, and, after she's rested, i should be glad to have her come up. and, oh, clovy! give her a fan the first thing. she'll be _so_ hot. bridget, you can bring up the luncheon just the same, only take out some canned peaches, by way of a dessert, and make mrs. worrett a cup of tea. she drinks tea always, i believe. "i can't bear to send the poor old lady away when she has come so far," she explained to elsie, after the others were gone. "pull the rocking-chair a little this way, elsie. and oh! push all those little chairs back against the wall. mrs. worrett broke down in one the last time she was here--don't you recollect?" it took some time to cool mrs. worrett off, so nearly twenty minutes passed before a heavy, creaking step on the stairs announced that the guest was on her way up. elsie began to giggle. mrs. worrett always made her giggle. katy had just time to give her a warning glance before the door opened. mrs. worrett was the most enormously fat person ever seen. nobody dared to guess how much she weighed, but she looked as if it might be a thousand pounds. her face was extremely red. in the coldest weather she appeared hot, and on a mild day she seemed absolutely ready to melt. her bonnet-strings were flying loose as she came in, and she fanned herself all the way across the room, which shook as she walked. "well, my dear," she said, as she plumped herself into the rocking-chair, "and how do you do?" "very well, thank you," replied katy, thinking that she never saw mrs. worrett look half so fat before, and wondering how she _was_ to entertain her. "and how's your pa?" inquired mrs. worrett. katy answered politely, and then asked after mrs. worrett's own health. "well, i'm so's to be round," was the reply, which had the effect of sending elsie off into a fit of convulsive laughter behind katy's chair. "i had business at the bank," continued the visitor, "and i thought while i was about it i'd step up to miss petingill's and see if i couldn't get her to come and let out my black silk. it was made quite a piece back, and i seem to have fleshed up since then, for i can't make the hooks and eyes meet at all. but when i got there, she was out, so i'd my walk for nothing. do you know where she's sewing now?" "no," said katy, feeling her chair shake, and keeping her own countenance with difficulty, "she was here for three days last week to make johnnie a school-dress. but i haven't heard anything about her since. elsie, don't you want to run down stairs and ask bridget to bring a--a--a glass of iced water for mrs. worrett? she looks warm after her walk." elsie, dreadfully ashamed, made a bolt from the room, and hid herself in the hall closet to have her laugh out. she came back after a while, with a perfectly straight face. luncheon was brought up. mrs. worrett made a good meal, and seemed to enjoy everything. she was so comfortable that she never stirred till four o'clock! oh, how long that afternoon did seem to the poor girls, sitting there and trying to think of something to say to their vast visitor! at last mrs. worrett got out of her chair, and prepared to depart. "well," she said, tying her bonnet-strings, "i've had a good rest, and feel all the better for it. ain't some of you young folks coming out to see me one of these days? i'd like to have you, first-rate, if you will. 'tain't every girl would know how to take care of a fat old woman, and make her feel to home, as you have me, katy. i wish your aunt could see you all as you are now. she'd be right pleased; i know that." somehow, this sentence rang pleasantly in katy's ears. "ah! don't laugh at her," she said later in the evening, when the children, after their tea in the clean, fresh-smelling dining-room, were come up to sit with her, and cecy, in her pretty pink lawn and white shawl, had dropped in to spend an hour or two; "she's a real kind old woman, and i don't like to have you. it isn't her fault that she's fat. and aunt izzie was fond of her, you know. it is doing something for her when we can show a little attention to one of her friends. i was sorry when she came, but now it's over, i'm glad." "it feels so nice when it stops aching," quoted elsie, mischievously, while cecy whispered to clover. "isn't katy sweet?" "isn't she!" replied clover. "i wish i was half so good. sometimes i think i shall really be sorry if she ever gets well. she's such a dear old darling to us all, sitting there in her chair, that it wouldn't seem so nice to have her anywhere else. but then, i know it's horrid in me. and i don't believe she'd be different, or grow slam-bang and horrid, like some of the girls, even if she were well." "of course she wouldn't!" replied cecy. chapter xiii at last it was about six weeks after this, that one day, clover and elsie were busy down stairs, they were startled by the sound of katy's bell ringing in a sudden and agitated manner. both ran up two steps at a time, to see what was wanted. katy sat in her chair, looking very much flushed and excited. "oh, girls!" she exclaimed, "what do you think? i stood up!" "what?" cried clover and elsie. "i really did! i stood up on my feet! by myself!" the others were too much astonished to speak, so katy went on explaining. "it was all at once, you see. suddenly, i had the feeling that if i tried i could, and almost before i thought, i _did_ try, and there i was, up and out of the chair. only i kept hold of the arm all the time! i don't know how i got back, i was so frightened. oh, girls!"--and katy buried her face in her hands. "do you think i shall ever be able to do it again?" she asked, looking up with wet eyes. "why, of course you will!" said clover; while elsie danced about, crying out anxiously: "be careful! do be careful!" katy tried, but the spring was gone. she could not move out of the chair at all. she began to wonder if she had dreamed the whole thing. but next day, when clover happened to be in the room, she heard a sudden exclamation, and turning, there stood katy, absolutely on her feet. "papa! papa!" shrieked clover, rushing down stairs. "dorry, john, elsie--come! come and see!" papa was out, but all the rest crowded up at once. this time katy found no trouble in "doing it again." it seemed as if her will had been asleep; and now that it had waked up, the limbs recognized its orders and obeyed them. when papa came in, he was as much excited as any of the children. he walked round and round the chair, questioning katy and making her stand up and sit down. "am i really going to get well?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "yes, my love, i think you are," replied dr. carr, seizing phil and giving him a toss into the air. none of the children had ever before seen papa behave so like a boy. but pretty soon, noticing katy's burning cheeks and excited eyes, he calmed himself, sent the others all away, and sat down to soothe and quiet her with gentle words. "i think it is coming, my darling," he said, "but it will take time, and you must have a great deal of patience. after being such a good child all the years, i am sure you won't fail now. remember, any imprudence will put you back. you must be content to gain a very little at a time. there is no royal road to walking any more than there is to learning. every baby finds that out." "oh, papa!" said katy, "it's no matter if it takes a year--if only i get well at last." how happy she was that night--too happy to sleep. papa noticed the dark circles under her eyes in the morning, and shook his head. "you must be careful," he told her, "or you'll be laid up again. a course of fever would put you back for years." katy knew papa was right, and she was careful, though it was by no means easy to be so with that new life tingling in every limb. her progress was slow, as dr. carr had predicted. at first she only stood on her feet a few seconds, then a minute, then five minutes, holding tightly all the while by the chair. next she ventured to let go the chair, and stand alone. after that she began to walk a step at a time, pushing a chair before her, as children do when they are learning the use of their feet. clover and elsie hovered about her as she moved, like anxious mammas. it was droll, and a little pitiful, to see tall katy with her feeble, unsteady progress, and the active figures of the little sisters following her protectingly. but katy did not consider it either droll or pitiful; to her it was simply delightful--the most delightful thing possible. no baby of a year old was ever prouder of his first steps than she. gradually she grew adventurous, and ventured on a bolder flight. clover, running up stairs one day to her own room, stood transfixed at the sight of katy sitting there, flushed, panting, but enjoying the surprise she caused. "you see," she explained, in an apologizing tone, "i was seized with a desire to explore. it is such a time since i saw any room but my own! but oh dear, how long that hall is! i had forgotten it could be so long. i shall have to take a good rest before i go back." katy did take a good rest, but she was very tired next day. the experiment, however, did no harm. in the course of two or three weeks, she was able to walk all over the second story. this was a great enjoyment. it was like reading an interesting book to see all the new things, and the little changes. she was forever wondering over something. "why, dorry," she would say, "what a pretty book-shelf! when did you get it?" "that old thing! why, i've had it two years. didn't i ever tell you about it?" "perhaps you did," katy would reply, "but you see i never saw it before, so it made no impression." by the end of august she was grown so strong, that she began to talk about going down stairs. but papa said, "wait." "it will tire you much more than walking about on a level," he explained, "you had better put it off a little while--till you are quite sure of your feet." "i think so too," said clover; "and beside, i want to have the house all put in order and made nice, before your sharp eyes see it, mrs. housekeeper. oh, i'll tell you! such a beautiful idea has come into my head! you shall fix a day to come down, katy, and we'll be all ready for you, and have a 'celebration' among ourselves. that would be just lovely! how soon may she, papa?" "well--in ten days, i should say, it might be safe." "ten days! that will bring it to the seventh of september, won't it?" said katy. "then papa, if i may, i'll come down stairs the first time on the eighth. it was mamma's birthday, you know," she added in a lower voice. so it was settled. "how delicious!" cried clover, skipping about and clapping her hands: "i never, never, never _did_ hear of anything so perfectly lovely. papa, when are you coming down stairs? i want to speak to you _dreadfully_." "right away--rather than have my coat-tails pulled off," answered dr. carr, laughing, and they went away together. katy sat looking out of the window in a peaceful, happy mood. "oh!" she thought, "can it really be? is school going to 'let out,' just as cousin helen's hymn said? am i going to 'bid a sweet good-bye to pain?' but there was love in the pain. i see it now. how good the dear teacher has been to me!" clover seemed to be very busy all the rest of that week. she was "having windows washed," she said, but this explanation hardly accounted for her long absences, and the mysterious exultation on her face, not to mention certain sounds of hammering and sawing which came from down stairs. the other children had evidently been warned to say nothing; for once or twice philly broke out with, "oh, katy!" and then hushed himself up, saying, "i 'most forgot!" katy grew very curious. but she saw that the secret, whatever it was, gave immense satisfaction to everybody except herself; so, though she longed to know, she concluded not to spoil the fun by asking any questions. at last it wanted but one day of the important occasion. "see," said katy, as clover came into the room a little before tea-time. "miss petingill has brought home my new dress. i'm going to wear it for the first time to go down stairs in." "how pretty!" said clover, examining the dress, which was a soft, dove-colored cashmere, trimmed with ribbon of the same shade. "but katy, i came up to shut your door. bridget's going to sweep the hall, and i don't want the dust to fly in, because your room was brushed this morning, you know." "what a queer time to sweep a hall!" said katy, wonderingly. "why don't you make her wait till morning?" "oh, she can't! there are--she has--i mean there will be other things for her to do to-morrow. it's a great deal more convenient that she should do it now. don't worry, katy, darling, but just keep your door shut. you will, won't you? promise me!" "very well," said katy, more and more amazed, but yielding to clover's eagerness, "i'll keep it shut." her curiosity was excited. she took a book and tried to read, but the letters danced up and down before her eyes, and she couldn't help listening. bridget was making a most ostentatious noise with her broom, but through it all, katy seemed to hear other sounds--feet on the stairs, doors opening and shutting--once, a stifled giggle. how queer it all was! "never mind," she said, resolutely stopping her ears, "i shall know all about it to-morrow." to-morrow dawned fresh and fair--the very ideal of a september day. "katy!" said clover, as she came in from the garden with her hands full of flowers, "that dress of yours is sweet. you never looked so nice before in your life!" and she stuck a beautiful carnation pink under katy's breast-pin and fastened another in her hair. "there!" she said, "now you're adorned. papa is coming up in a few minutes to take you down." just then elsie and johnnie came in. they had on their best frocks. so had clover. it was evidently a festival-day to all the house. cecy followed, invited over for the special purpose of seeing katy walk down stairs. she, too, had on a new frock. "how fine we are!" said clover, as she remarked this magnificence. "turn round, cecy--a panier, i do declare--and a sash! you are getting awfully grown up, miss hall." "none of us will ever be so 'grown up' as katy," said cecy, laughing. and now papa appeared. very slowly they all went down stairs, katy leaning on papa, with dorry on her other side, and the girls behind, while philly clattered ahead. and there were debby and bridget and alexander, peeping out of the kitchen door to watch her, and dear old mary with her apron at her eyes crying for joy. "oh, the front door is open!" said katy, in a delighted tone. "how nice! and what a pretty oil-cloth. that's new since i was here." "don't stop to look at _that_!" cried philly, who seemed in a great hurry about something. "it isn't new. it's been there ever and ever so long! come into the parlor instead." "yes!" said papa, "dinner isn't quite ready yet, you'll have time to rest a little after your walk down stairs. you have borne it admirably, katy. are you very tired?" "not a bit!" replied katy, cheerfully. "i could do it alone, i think. oh! the bookcase door has been mended! how nice it looks." "don't wait, oh, don't wait!" repeated phil, in an agony of impatience. so they moved on. papa opened the parlor door. katy took one step into the room--then stopped. the color flashed over her face, and she held by the door-knob to support herself. what was it that she saw? not merely the room itself, with its fresh muslin curtains and vases of flowers. nor even the wide, beautiful window which had been cut toward the sun, or the inviting little couch and table which stood there, evidently for her. no, there was something else! the sofa was pulled out and there upon it, supported by pillows, her bright eyes turned to the door, lay--cousin helen! when she saw katy, she held out her arms. clover and cecy agreed afterward that they never were so frightened in their lives as at this moment; for katy, forgetting her weakness, let go of papa's arm, and absolutely _ran_ toward the sofa. "oh, cousin helen! dear, dear cousin helen!" she cried. then she tumbled down by the sofa somehow, the two pairs of arms and the two faces met, and for a moment or two not a word more was heard from anybody. "isn't a nice 'prise?" shouted philly, turning a somerset by way of relieving his feelings, while john and dorry executed a sort of war-dance round the sofa. phil's voice seemed to break the spell of silence, and a perfect hubbub of questions and exclamations began. it appeared that this happy thought of getting cousin helen to the "celebration," was clover's. she it was who had proposed it to papa, and made all the arrangements. and, artful puss! she had set bridget to sweep the hall, on purpose that katy might not hear the noise of the arrival. "cousin helen's going to stay three weeks this time--isn't that nice?" asked elsie, while clover anxiously questioned: "are you sure that you didn't suspect? not one bit? not the least tiny, weeny mite?" "no, indeed--not the least. how could i suspect anything so perfectly delightful?" and katy gave cousin helen another rapturous kiss. such a short day as that seemed! there was so much to see, to ask about, to talk over, that the hours flew, and evening dropped upon them all like another great surprise. cousin helen was perhaps the happiest of the party. beside the pleasure of knowing katy to be almost well again, she had the additional enjoyment of seeing for herself how many changes for the better had taken place, during the four years, among the little cousins she loved so much. it was very interesting to watch them all. elsie and dorry seemed to her the most improved of the family. elsie had quite lost her plaintive look and little injured tone, and was as bright and beaming a maiden of twelve as any one could wish to see. dorry's moody face had grown open and sensible, and his manners were good-humored and obliging. he was still a sober boy, and not specially quick in catching an idea, but he promised to turn out a valuable man. and to him, as to all the other children, katy was evidently the centre and the sun. they all revolved about her, and trusted her for everything. cousin helen looked on as phil came in crying, after a hard tumble, and was consoled; as johnnie whispered an important secret, and elsie begged for help in her work. she saw katy meet them all pleasantly and sweetly, without a bit of the dictatorial elder-sister in her manner, and with none of her old, impetuous tone. and best of all, she saw the change in katy's own face: the gentle expression of her eyes, the womanly look, the pleasant voice, the politeness, the tact in advising the others, without seeming to advise. "dear katy," she said a day or two after her arrival, "this visit is a great pleasure to me--you can't think how great. it is such a contrast to the last i made, when you were so sick, and everybody so sad. do you remember?" "indeed i do! and how good you were, and how you helped me! i shall never forget that." "i'm glad! but what i could do was very little. you have been learning by yourself all this time. and katy, darling, i want to tell you how pleased i am to see how bravely you have worked your way up. i can perceive it in everything--in papa, in the children, in yourself. you have won the place, which, you recollect, i once told you an invalid should try to gain, of being to everybody 'the heart of the house.'" "oh, cousin helen, don't!" said katy, her eyes filling with sudden tears. "i haven't been brave. you can't think how badly i sometimes have behaved--how cross and ungrateful i am, and how stupid and slow. every day i see things which ought to be done, and i don't do them. it's too delightful to have you praise me--but you mustn't. i don't deserve it." but although she said she didn't deserve it i think that katy did! the red planet by william j. locke author of "the wonderful year," "jaffery," "the beloved vagabond," etc. not only over death strewn plains, fierce mid the cold white stars, but over sheltered vales of home, hides the red planet mars. the red planet chapter i "lady fenimore's compliments, sir, and will you be so kind as to step round to sir anthony at once?" heaven knows that never another step shall i take in this world again; but sergeant marigold has always ignored the fact. that is one of the many things i admire about marigold. he does not throw my poor paralysed legs, so to speak, in my face. he accepts them as the normal equipment of an employer. i don't know what i should do without marigold.... you see we were old comrades in the south african war, where we both got badly knocked to pieces. he was sergeant in my battery, and the same boer shell did for both of us. at times we join in cursing that shell heartily, but i am not sure that we do not hold it in sneaking affection. it initiated us into the brotherhood of death. shortly afterwards when we had crossed the border-line back into life, we exchanged, as tokens, bits of the shrapnel which they had extracted from our respective carcases. i have not enquired what he did with his bit; but i keep mine in a certain locked drawer.... there were only the two of us left on the gun when we were knocked out.... i should like to tell you the whole story, but you wouldn't listen to me. and no wonder. in comparison with the present world convulsion in which the slaughtered are reckoned by millions, the boer war seems a trumpery affair of bows and arrows. i am a back-number. still, back-numbers have their feelings--and their memories. i sometimes wonder, as i sit in this wheel-chair, with my abominable legs dangling down helplessly, what sergeant marigold thinks of me. i know what i think of marigold. i think him the ugliest devil that god ever created and further marred after creating him. he is a long, bony creature like a knobbly ram-rod, and his face is about the colour and shape of a damp, mildewed walnut. to hide a bald head into which a silver plate has been fixed, he wears a luxuriant curly brown wig, like those that used to adorn waxen gentlemen in hair-dressing windows. his is one of those unhappy moustaches that stick out straight and scanty like a cat's. he has the slit of a letter-box mouth of the irishman in caricature, and only half a dozen teeth spaced like a skeleton company. nothing will induce him to procure false ones. it is a matter of principle. between the wearing of false hair and the wearing of false teeth he makes a distinction of unfathomable subtlety. he is an obstinate beast. if he wasn't he would not, with four fingers of his right hand shot away, have remained with me on that gun. in the same way, neither tears nor entreaties nor abuse have induced him to wear a glass eye. on high days and holidays, whenever he desires to look smart and dashing, he covers the unpleasing orifice with a black shade. in ordinary workaday life he cares not how much he offends the aesthetic sense. but the other eye, the sound left eye, is a wonder--the precious jewel set in the head of the ugly toad. it is large, of ultra-marine blue, steady, fearless, humorous, tender--everything heroic and beautiful and romantic you can imagine about eyes. let him clap a hand over that eye and you will hold him the most dreadful ogre that ever escaped out of a fairy tale. let him clap a hand over the other eye and look full at you out of the good one and you will think him the knightliest man that ever was--and in my poor opinion, you would not be far wrong. so, out of this nightmare of a face, the one beautiful eye of sergeant marigold was bent on me, as he delivered his message. i thrust back my chair from the writing-table. "is sir anthony ill?" "he rode by the gate an hour ago looking as well as either you or me, sir." "that's not very reassuring," said i. marigold did not take up the argument. "they've sent the car for you, sir." "in that case," said i, "i'll start immediately." marigold wheeled my chair out of the room and down the passage to the hall, where he fitted me with greatcoat and hat. then, having trundled me to the front gate, he picked me up--luckily i have always been a small spare man--and deposited me in the car. i am always nervous of anyone but marigold trying to carry me. they seem to stagger and fumble and bungle. marigold's arms close round me like an iron clamp and they lift me with the mechanical certainty of a crane. he jumped up beside the chauffeur and we drove off. perhaps when i get on a little further i may acquire the trick of telling a story. at present i am baffled by the many things that clamour for prior record. before bringing sir anthony on the scene, i feel i ought to say something more about myself, to explain why lady fenimore should have sent for me in so peremptory a fashion. following the model of my favourite author balzac--you need the awful leisure that has been mine to appreciate him--i ought to describe the house in which i live, my establishment--well, i have begun with sergeant marigold--and the little country town which is practically the scene of the drama in which were involved so many bound to me by close ties of friendship and affection. i ought to explain how i come to be writing this at all. well, to fill in my time, i first started by a diary--a sort of war diary of wellingsford, the little country town in question. then things happened with which my diary was inadequate to cope. everyone came and told me his or her side of the story. all through, i found thrust upon me the parts of father-confessor, intermediary, judge, advocate, and conspirator.... for look you, what kind of a life can a man lead situated as i am? the crowning glory of my days, my wife, is dead. i have neither chick nor child. no brothers or sisters, dead or alive. the bon dieu and sergeant marigold (the latter assisted by his wife and a maid or two) look after my creature comforts. what have i in the world to do that is worth doing save concern myself with my country and my friends? with regard to my country, in these days of war, i do what i can. until finally flattened out by the war office, i pestered them for such employment as a cripple might undertake. as an instance of what a paralytic was capable i quoted couthon, member of the national convention and the committee of public safety. you can see his chair, not very unlike mine, in the musee carnavalet in paris. perhaps that is where i blundered. the idea of a shrieking revolutionary in whitehall must have sent a cold shiver down their spines. in the meanwhile, i serve on as many war committees in wellingsford as is physically possible for sergeant marigold to get me into. i address recruiting meetings. i have taken earnest young territorial artillery officers in courses of gunnery. you know they work with my own beloved old fifteen pounders, brought up to date with new breeches, recoils, shields, and limbers. for months there was a brigade in wellings park, and i used to watch their drill. i was like an old actor coming once again before the footlights.... of course it was only in the mathematics of the business that i could be of any help, and doubtless if the war office had heard of the goings on in my study, they would have dropped severely on all of us. still, i taught them lots of things about parabolas that they did not know and did not know were to be known--things that, considering the shells they fired went in parabolas, ought certainly to be known by artillery officers; so i think, in this way, i have done a little bit for my country. with regard to my friends, god has given me many in this quiet market town--once a sleepy hollow awakened only on thursdays by bleating sheep and lowing cattle and red-faced men in gaiters and hard felt hats; its life flowing on drowsily as the gaudily painted barges that are towed on the canal towards which, in scattered buildings, it drifts aimlessly; a sleepy hollow with one broad high street, melting gradually at each end through shops, villas, cottages, into the king's highway, yet boasting in its central heart a hundred yards or so of splendour, where the truculent new red brick post office sneers across the flagged market square at the new portland-stone town hall, while the old thatched corn-market sleeps in the middle and the early english spire of the norman church dreams calmly above them. once, i say, a sleepy hollow, but now alive with the tramp of soldiers and the rumble of artillery and transport; for wellingsford is the centre of a district occupied by a division, which means twenty thousand men of all arms, and the streets and roads swarm with men in khaki, and troops are billeted in all the houses. the war has changed many aspects, but not my old friendships. i had made a home here during my soldiering days, long before the south african war, my wife being a kinswoman of sir anthony, and so i have grown into the intimacy of many folks around. and, as they have been more than good to me, surely i must give them of my best in the way of sympathy and counsel. so it is in no spirit of curiosity that i have pried into my friends' affairs. they have become my own, very vitally my own; and this book is a record of things as i know them to have happened. my name is meredyth, with a "y," as my poor mother used proudly to say, though what advantage a "y" has over an "i," save that of a swaggering tail, i have always been at a loss to determine; major duncan meredyth, late r.f.a., aged forty-seven; and i live in a comfortable little house at the extreme north end of the high street, standing some way back from the road; so that in fine weather i can sit in my front garden and watch everybody going into the town. and whenever any of my friends pass by, it is their kindly habit to cast an eye towards my gate, and, if i am visible, to pass the time of day with me for such time as they can spare. years ago, when first i realised what would be my fate for the rest of my life, i nearly broke my heart. but afterwards, whether owing to the power of human adaptability or to the theory of compensation, i grew to disregard my infirmity. by building a series of two or three rooms on to the ground floor of the house, so that i could live in it without the need of being carried up and down stairs, and by acquiring skill in the manipulation of my tricycle chair, i can get about the place pretty much as i choose. and marigold is my second self. so, in spite of the sorrow and grief incident to humanity of which god has given me my share, i feel that my lot is cast in pleasant places and i am thankful. the high street, towards its southern extremity, takes a sudden bend, forming what the french stage directions call a pan coupe. on the inner angle are the gates of wellings park, the residence of sir anthony fenimore, third baronet, and the most considerable man in our little community. through these gates the car took me and down the long avenue of chestnut trees, the pride of a district braggart of its chestnuts and its beeches, but now leafless and dreary, spreading out an infinite tracery of branch and twig against a grey february sky. thence we emerged into the open of rolling pasture and meadow on the highest ground of which the white georgian house was situated. as we neared the house i shivered, not only with the cold, but with a premonition of disaster. for why should lady fenimore have sent for me to see sir anthony, when he, strong and hearty, could have sent for me himself, or, for the matter of that, could have visited me at my own home? the house looked stark and desolate. and when we drew up at the front door and pardoe, the elderly butler, appeared, his face too looked stark and desolate. marigold lifted me out and carried me up the steps and put me into a chair like my own which the fenimores have the goodness to keep in a hall cupboard for my use. "what's the matter, pardoe?" i asked. "sir anthony and her ladyship will tell you, sir. they're in the morning room." so i was shewn into the morning room--a noble square room with french windows, looking on to the wintry garden, and with a log fire roaring up a great chimney. on one side of the fire sat sir anthony, and on the other, lady fenimore. and both were crying. he rose as he saw me--a short, crop-haired, clean-shaven, ruddy, jockey-faced man of fifty-five, the corners of his thin lips, usually curled up in a cheery smile, now piteously drawn down, and his bright little eyes now dim like those of a dead bird. she, buxom, dark, without a grey hair in her head, a fine woman defying her years, buried her face in her hands and sobbed afresh. "it's good of you to come, old man," said sir anthony, "but you're in it with us." he handed me a telegram. i knew, before reading it, what message it contained. i had known, all along, but dared not confess it to myself. "i deeply regret to inform you that your son, lieutenant oswald fenimore, was killed in action yesterday while leading his men with the utmost gallantry." i had known him since he was a child. by reason of my wife's kinship, i was "uncle duncan." he was just one and twenty, but a couple of years out of sandhurst. only a week before i had received an exuberant letter from him extolling his men as "super-devil-angels," and imploring me if i loved him and desired to establish the supremacy of british arms, to send him some of mrs. marigold's potted shrimp. and now, there he was dead; and, if lucky, buried with a little wooden cross with his name rudely inscribed, marking his grave. i reached out my hand. "my poor old anthony!" he jerked his head and glance towards his wife and wheeled me to her side, so that i could put my hand on her shoulder. "it's bitter hard, edith, but--" "i know, i know. but all the same--" "well, damn it all!" cried sir anthony, in a quavering voice, "he died like a man and there's nothing more to be said." presently he looked at his watch. "by george," said he, "i've only just time to get to my committee." "what committee?" i asked. "the lord lieutenant's. i promised to take the chair." for the first time lady fenimore lifted her stricken face. "are you going, anthony?" "the boy didn't shirk his duty. why should i?" she looked at him squarely and the most poignant simulacrum of a smile i have ever seen flitted over her lips. "why not, darling? duncan will keep me company till you come back." he kissed his wife, a trifle more demonstratively than he had ever done in alien presence, and with a nod at me, went out of the room. and suddenly she burst into sobbing again. "i know it's wrong and wicked and foolish," she said brokenly. "but i can't help it. oh, god! i can't help it." then, like an ass, i began to cry, too; for i loved the boy, and that perhaps helped her on a bit. chapter ii dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. the tag has been all but outworn during these unending days of death; it has become almost a cant phrase which the judicious shrink from using. yet to hundreds of thousands of mourning men and women there has been nothing but its truth to bring consolation. they are conscious of the supreme sacrifice and thereby are ennobled. the cause in which they made it becomes more sacred. the community of grief raises human dignity. in england, at any rate, there are no widows of ashur. all are silent in their lamentations. you see little black worn in the public ways. the fenimores mourned for their only son, the idol of their hearts; but the manifestation of their grief was stoical compared with their unconcealed desolation on the occasion of a tragedy that occurred the year before. towards the end of the preceding june their only daughter, althea, had been drowned in the canal. here was a tragedy unrelieved, stupid, useless. here was no consoling knowledge of glorious sacrifice; no dying for one's country. there was no dismissing it with a heroic word that caught in the throat. i have not started out to write this little chronicle of wellingsford in order to weep over the pain of the world. god knows there is in it an infinity of beauty, fresh revelations of which are being every day unfolded before my eyes. if i did not believe with all my soul that out of darkness cometh light, i would take my old service revolver from its holster and blow out my brains this very minute. the eternal laughter of the earth has ever since its creation pierced through the mist of tears in which at times it has been shrouded. what has been will be. nay, more, what has been shall be. it is the law of what i believe to be god.... as a concrete instance, where do you find a fuller expression of the divine gaiety of the human spirit than in the houses of pain, strewn the length and breadth of the land, filled with maimed and shattered men who have looked into the jaws of hell? if it comes to that, i have looked into them myself, and have heard the heroic jests of men who looked with me. for some years up to the outbreak of the war which has knocked all so-called modern values silly, my young friends, with a certain respectful superciliousness, regarded me as an amiable person hopelessly out of date. now that we are at grip with elementals, i find myself, if anything, in advance of the fashion. this, however, by the way. what i am clumsily trying to explain is that if i am to make this story intelligible i must start from the darkness where its roots lie hidden. and that darkness is the black depths of the canal by the lock gates where althea fenimore's body was found. it was high june, in leafy england, in a world at peace. can one picture it? with such a wrench of memory does one recall scenes of tender childhood. in the shelter of a stately house lived althea fenimore. she was twenty-one; pretty, buxom, like her mother, modern, with (to me) a pathetic touch of mid-victorian softness and sentimentality; independent in outward action, what we call "open-air"; yet an anomaly, fond at once of games and babies. i have seen her in the morning tearing away across country by the side of her father, the most passionate and reckless rider to hounds in the county, and in the evening i have come across her, a pretty mass of pink flesh and muslin--no, it can't be muslin--say chiffon--anyhow, something white and filmy and girlish--curled up on a sofa and absorbed in a novel of mrs. henry wood, borrowed, if one could judge by the state of its greasy brown paper cover, from the servants' hall. i confess that, though to her as to her brother i was "uncle duncan," and loved her as a dear, sweet english girl, i found her lacking in spirituality, in intellectual grasp, in emotional distinction. i should have said that she was sealed by god to be the chaste, healthy, placid mother of men. she was forever laughing--just the spontaneous laughter of the gladness of life. on the last afternoon of her existence she came to see me, bringing me a basket of giant strawberries from her own particular bed. we had tea in the garden, and with her young appetite she consumed half the fruit she had brought. at the time i did not notice an unusual touch of depression. i remember her holding by its stalk a great half-eaten strawberry and asking me whether sometimes i didn't find life rather rotten. i said idly: "you can't expect the world to be a peach without a speck on it. of such is the kingdom of heaven. the wise person avoids the specks." "but suppose you've bitten a specky bit by accident?" "spit it out," said i. she laughed. "you think you're like the wise uncle in the sunday school books, don't you?" "i know i am," i said. whereupon she laughed again, finished the strawberry, and changed the conversation. there seemed to be no foreshadowing of tragedy in that. i had known her (like many of her kind) to proclaim the rottenness of the universe when she was off her stroke at golf, or when a favourite young man did not appear at a dance. i attributed no importance to it. but the next day i remembered. what was she doing after half-past ten o'clock, when she had bidden her father and mother goodnight, on the steep and lonely bank of the canal, about a mile and a half away? no one had seen her leave the house. no one, apparently, had seen her walking through the town. nothing was known of her until dawn when they found her body by the lock gate. she had been dead some hours. it was a mysterious affair, upon which no light was thrown at the inquest. no one save myself had observed any sign of depression, and her half-bantering talk with me was trivial enough. no one could adduce a reason for her midnight walk on the tow-path. the obvious question arose. whom had she gone forth to meet? what man? there was not a man in the neighbourhood with whom her name could be particularly associated. generally, it could be associated with a score or so. the modern young girl of her position and upbringing has a drove of young male intimates. with one she rides, with another she golfs, with another she dances a two-step, with another she bostons; she will let tom read poetry to her, although, as she expresses it, "he bores her stiff," because her sex responds to the tribute; she plays lady patroness to dick, and tries to intrigue him into a soft job; and as for harry she goes on telling him month after month that unless he forswears sack and lives cleanly she will visit him with her high displeasure. meanwhile, most of these satellites have affaires de coeur of their own, some respectable, others not; they regard the young lady with engaging frankness as a woman and a sister, they have the run of her father's house, and would feel insulted if anybody questioned the perfect correctness of their behaviour. each man has, say, half a dozen houses where he is welcomed on the same understanding. of course, when one particular young man and one particular young woman read lunatic things in each other's eyes, then the rest of the respective quasi-sisters and quasi-brothers have to go hang. (in parenthesis, i may state that the sisters are more ruthlessly sacrificed than the brothers.) at any rate, frankness is the saving quality of the modern note. in the case of althea, there had been no sign of such specialisation. she could not have gone forth, poor child, to meet the twenty with whom she was known to be on terms of careless comradeship. she had gone from her home, driven by god knows what impulse, to walk in the starlight--there was no moon--along the banks of the canal. in the darkness, had she missed her footing and stepped into nothingness and the black water? the coroner's jury decided the question in the affirmative. they brought in a verdict of death by misadventure. and up to the date on which i begin this little chronicle of wellingsford, namely that of the summons to wellings park, when i heard of the death of young oswald fenimore, that is all i knew of the matter. throughout july my friends were like dead people. there was nothing that could be said to them by way of consolation. the sun had gone out of their heaven. there was no light in the world. having known death as a familiar foe, and having fought against its terrors; having only by the grace of god been able to lift up a man's voice in my hour of awful bereavement, and cry, "o death, where is thy sting, o grave, thy victory?" i could suffer with them and fear for their reason. they lived in a state of coma, unaware of life, performing, like automata, their daily tasks. then, in the early days of august, came the trumpet of war, and they awakened. in my life have i seen nothing so marvellous. no broken spell of enchantment in an arabian tale when dead warriors spring into life was ever more instant and complete. they arose in their full vigour; the colour came back to their cheeks and the purpose into their eyes. they laughed once more. their days were filled with work and cheerfulness. in november sir anthony was elected mayor. being a practical, hard-headed little man, loved and respected by everybody, he drove a hitherto contentious town council into paths of high patriotism like a flock of sheep. and no less energy did lady fenimore exhibit in the sphere of her own activities. a few days after the tidings came of oswald's death, sir anthony was riding through the town and pulled up before perkins' the fishmonger's. perkins emerged from his shop and crossed the pavement. "i hear you've had bad news." "yes, indeed, sir anthony." "i'm sorry. he was a fine fellow. so was my boy. we're in the same boat, perkins." perkins assented. "it sort of knocks one's life to bits, doesn't it?" said he. "we've nothing left." "we have our country." "our country isn't our only son," said the other dully. "no. she's our mother," said sir anthony. "isn't that a kind of abstraction?" "abstraction!" cried sir anthony, indignantly. "you must be imbibing the notions of that poisonous beast gedge." gedge was a smug, socialistic, pacifist builder who did not hold with war--and with this one least of all, which he maintained was being waged for the exclusive benefit of the capitalist classes. in the eyes of the stalwarts of wellingsford, he was a horrible fellow, capable of any stratagem or treason. perkins flushed. "i've always voted conservative, like my father before me, sir anthony, and like yourself i've given my boy to my country. i've no dealings with unpatriotic people like gedge, as you know very well." "of course i do," cried sir anthony. "and that's why i ask you what the devil you mean by calling england an abstraction. for us, she's the only thing in the world. we're elderly chaps, you and i, perkins, and the only thing we can do to help her is to keep our heads high. if people like you and me crumple up, the british empire will crumple up." "that's quite true," said perkins. sir anthony bent down and held out his hand. "it's damned hard lines for us, and for the women. but we must keep our end up. it's doing our bit." perkins wrung his hand. "i wish to god," said he, "i was young enough--" "by god! so do i!" said sir anthony. this little conversation (which i afterwards verified) was reported to me by my arch-gossip, sergeant marigold. "and i tell you what, sir," said he after the conclusion, "i'm of the same way of thinking and feeling." "so am i." "besides, i'm not so old, sir. i'm only forty-two." "the prime of life," said i. "then why won't they take me, sir?" if there had been no age limit and no medical examination marigold would have re-enlisted as john smith, on the outbreak of war, without a moment's consideration of the position of his wife and myself. and mrs. marigold, a soldier's wife of twenty years' standing, would have taken it, just like myself, as a matter of course. but as he could not re-enlist, he pestered the war office (just as i did) and i pestered for him to give him military employment. and all in vain. "why don't they take me, sir? when i see these fellows with three stripes on their arms, and looking at them and wondering at them as if they were struck three stripes by lightning, and calling themselves sergeants and swanking about and letting their men waddle up to their gun like cows--and when i see them, as i've done with your eyes--watch one of their men pass by an officer in the street without saluting, and don't kick the blighter to--to--to barracks--it fairly makes me sick. and i ask myself, sir, what i've done that i should be loafing here instead of serving my country." "you've somehow mislaid an eye and a hand and gone and got a tin head. that's what you've done," said i. "and the war office has a mark against you as a damned careless fellow." "tin head or no tin head," he grumbled, "i could teach those mother's darlings up there the difference between a battery of artillery and a skittle-ally." "i believe you've mentioned the matter to them already," i observed softly. marigold met my eye for a second and then looked rather sheepish. i had heard of a certain wordy battle between him and a territorial sergeant whom he had set out to teach. marigold encountered a cannonade of blasphemous profanity, new, up-to-date, scientific, against which the time-worn expletives in use during his service days were ineffectual. he was routed with heavy loss. "this is a war of the young," i continued. "new men, new guns, new notions. even a new language," i insinuated. "i wish 'em joy of their language," said marigold. then seeing that i was mildly amusing myself at his expense, he asked me stiffly if there was anything more that he could do for me, and on my saying no, he replied "thank you, sir," most correctly and left the room. on the d of march betty fairfax came to tea. of all the young women of wellingsford she was my particular favourite. she was so tall and straight, with a certain rosalind boyishness about her that made for charm. i am not yet, thank goodness, one of the fossils who hold up horror-stricken hands at the independent ways of the modern young woman. if it were not for those same independent ways the mighty work that english women are doing in this war would be left undone. betty fairfax was breezily independent. she had a little money of her own and lived, when it suited her, with a well-to-do and comfortable aunt. she was two and twenty. i shall try to tell you more about her, as i go on. as i have said, and as my diary tells me, she came to tea on the d of march. she was looking particularly attractive that afternoon. shaded lamps and the firelight of a cosy room, with all their soft shadows, give a touch of mysterious charm to a pretty girl. her jacket had a high sort of medici collar edged with fur, which set off her shapely throat. the hair below her hat was soft and brown. her brows were wide, her eyes brown and steady, nose and lips sensitive. she had a way of throwing back her head and pointing her chin fearlessly, as though in perpetual declaration that she cared not a hang either for black-beetles or germans. and she was straight as a dart, with the figure of a young diana--diana before she began to worry her head about beauty competitions. a kind of dark hat stuck at a considerable angle on her head gave her the prettiest little swaggering air in the world.... well, there was i, a small, brown, withered, grizzled, elderly, mustachioed monkey, chained to my wheel-chair; there were the brave logs blazing up the wide chimney; there was the tea table on my right with its array of silver and old china; and there, on the other side of it, attending to my wants, sat as brave and sweet a type of young english womanhood as you could find throughout the length and breadth of the land. had i not been happy, i should have been an ungrateful dog. we talked of the war, of local news, of the wounded at the hospital. and here i must say that we are very proud of our wellingsford hospital. it is the largest and the wealthiest in the county. we owe it to the uneasy conscience of a wellingsford man, a railway speculator in the forties, who, having robbed widows and orphans and, after trial at the old bailey, having escaped penal servitude by the skin of his teeth, died in the odour of sanctity, and the possessor of a colossal fortune in the year eighteen sixty-three. this worthy gentleman built the hospital and endowed it so generously that a wing of it has been turned into a military hospital with forty beds. i have the honour to serve on the committee. betty fairfax entered as a probationer early in september, and has worked there night and day ever since. that is why we chatted about the wounded. having a day off, she had indulged in the luxury of pretty clothes. of these i had duly expressed my admiration. tea over, she lit a cigarette for me and one for herself and drew her chair a trifle nearer the fire. after a little knitting of the brow, she said:-- "you haven't asked me why i invited myself to tea." "i thought," said i, "it was for my beaux yeux." "not this time. i rather wanted you to be the first to receive a certain piece of information." i glanced at her sharply. "you don't mean to say you're going to be married at last?" in some astonishment she retorted:-- "how did you guess?" "holy simplicity!" said i. "you told me so yourself." she laughed. suddenly, on reflection, her face changed. "why did you say 'at last'?" "well--" said i, with a significant gesture. she made a defiant announcement:-- "i am going to marry willie connor." it was my turn to be astonished. "captain connor?" i echoed. "yes. what have you to say against him?" "nothing, my dear, nothing." and i hadn't. he was an exemplary young fellow, a captain in a territorial regiment that had been in hard training in the neighbourhood since august. he was of decent family and upbringing, a barrister by profession, and a comely pink-faced boy with a fair moustache. he brought a letter or two of introduction, was billeted on mrs. fairfax, together with one of his subs, and was made welcome at various houses. living under the same roof as betty, it was natural that he should fall in love with her. but it was not at all natural that she should fall in love with him. she was not one of the kind that suffer fools gladly.... no; i had nothing against willie connor. he was merely a common-place, negative young man; patriotic, keen in his work, an excellent soldier, and, as far as i knew, of blameless life; but having met him two or three times in general company, i had found him a dull dog, a terribly dull dog,--the last man in the world for betty fairfax. and then there was leonard boyce. i naturally had him in my head, when i used the words "at last." "you don't seem very enthusiastic," said betty. "you've taken me by surprise," said i. "i'm not young enough to be familiar with these sudden jerks." "you thought it was major boyce." "i did, betty. true, you've said nothing about it to me for ever so long, and when i have asked you for news of him your answers have shewed me that all was not well. but you've never told me, or anyone, that the engagement was broken off." her young face was set sternly as she looked into the fire. "it's not broken off--in the formal sense. leonard thought fit to let it dwindle, and it has dwindled until it has perished of inanition." she flashed round. "i'm not the sort to ask any man for explanations." "boyce went out with the first lot in august," i said. "he has had seven awful months. mons and all the rest of it. you must excuse a man in the circumstances for not being aux petits soins des dames. and he seems to be doing magnificently--twice mentioned in dispatches." "i know all that," she said. "i'm not a fool. but the war has nothing to do with it. it started a month before the war broke out. don't let us talk of it." she threw the end of her cigarette into the fire and lit a fresh one. i accepted the action as symbolical. i dismissed boyce, and said:-- "and so you're engaged to captain connor?" "more than that," she laughed. "i'm going to marry him. he's going out next week. it's idiotic to have an engagement. so i'm going to marry him the day after to-morrow." now here was a piece of news, all flung at my head in a couple of minutes. the day after to-morrow! i asked for the reason of this disconcerting suddenness. "he's going out next week." "my dear," said i, "i have known you for a very long time--and i suppose it's because i'm such a very old friend that you've come to tell me all about it. so i can talk to you frankly. have you considered the terrible chances of this war? heaven knows what may happen. he may be killed." "that's why i'm marrying him," she said. there was a little pause. for the moment i had nothing to say, as i was busily searching for her point of view. then, with pauses between each sentence, she went on:-- "he asked me two months ago, and again a month ago. i told him to put such ideas out of his head. yesterday he told me they were off to the front and said what a wonderful help it would be to him if he could carry away some hope of my love. so i gave it to him."--she threw back her head and looked at me, with flushed cheeks. "the love, not the hope." "i don't think it was right of him to press for an immediate marriage," said i, in a grandfatherly way--though god knows if i had been mad for a girl i should have done the same myself when i was young. "he didn't" said betty, coolly. "it was all my doing. i fixed it up there and then. looked up whitaker's almanack for the necessary information, and sent him off to get a special license." i nodded a non-committal head. it all seemed rather mad. betty rose and from her graceful height gazed down on me. "if you don't look more cheerful, major, i shall cry. i've never done so yet, but i'm sure i've got it in me." i stretched out my hand. she took it, and, still holding it, seated herself on a footstool close to my chair. "there are such a lot of things that occur to me," i said. "things that your poor mother, if she were alive, would be more fitted to touch on than myself." "such as--" she knelt by me and gave me both her hands. it was a pretty way she had. she had begun it soon after her head overtopped mine in my eternal wheelbarrow. there was a little mockery in her eyes. "well--" said i. "you know what marriage means. there is the question of children." she broke into frank laughter. "my darling majy--" that is the penalty one pays for admitting irresponsible modern young people into one's intimacy. they miscall one abominably. i thought she had outgrown this childish, though affectionate appellation of disrespect. "my darling majy!" she said. "children! how many do you think i'm going to have?" i was taken aback. there was this pure, proud, laughing young face a foot away from me. i said in desperation:-- "you know very well what i mean, young woman. i want to put things clearly before you--" it is the most difficult thing in the world for a man--even without legs--to talk straight about the facts of life to a young girl. he has no idea how much she knows about them and how much she doesn't. to tear away veils and reveal frightening starkness is an act from which he shrinks with all the modesty of a (perhaps) deluded sex. i took courage. "i want," i repeated, "to put things clearly before you. you are marrying this young man. you will have a week's married life. he goes away like a gallant fellow to fight for his country. he may be killed in the course of the next few weeks. like a brave girl you've got to face it. in the course of time a child may be born--without a father to look after him. it's a terrific responsibility." she knelt upright and put both her hands on my shoulders, almost embracing me, and the laughter died away from her eyes, giving place to something which awakened memories of what i had seen once or twice in the eyes of the dearest of all women. she put her face very close to mine and whispered: "don't you see, dear, it's in some sort of way because of that? don't you think it would be awful for a strong, clean, brave english life like his to go out without leaving behind him someone to--well, you know what i mean--to carry on the same traditions--to be the same clean brave englishman in the future?" i smiled and nodded. quite a different kind of nod from the previous one. "thousands of girls are doing it, you dear old early victorian, and aren't ashamed to say so to those who really love and can understand them. and you do love and understand, don't you?" she set me off at arm's length, and held me with her bright unflinching eyes. "i do, my dear," said i. "but there's only one thing that troubles me. marriage is a lifelong business. captain connor may win through to a green old age. i hope to god the gallant fellow will. your present motives are beautiful and heroic. but do you care for him sufficiently to pass a lifetime with him--after the war--an ordinary, commonplace lifetime?" with the same clear gaze full on me she said:-- "didn't i tell you that i had given him my love?" "you did." "then," she retorted with a smile, "my dear major didymus, what more do you want?" "nothing, my dear betty." i kissed her. she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me again. sergeant marigold entered on the sentimental scene and preserved a face of wood. betty rose to her feet slowly and serenely and smiled at marigold. "miss fairfax's car," he announced. "marigold," said i, "miss fairfax is going to be married the day after to-morrow to captain connor of the--" "i know, sir," interrupted my one-eyed ramrod. "i'm very glad, if i may be permitted to say so, miss. i've made it my duty to inspect all the troops that have been quartered hereabouts during the last eight months. and captain connor is one of the few that really know their business. i shouldn't at all mind to serve under him. i can't say more, miss. i wish you happiness." she flushed and laughed and looked adorable, and held out her hand, which he enclosed in his great left fist. "and you'll come to my wedding, sergeant?" "i will, miss," said he. "with considerable pleasure." chapter iii when i want to shew how independent i am of everybody, i drive abroad in my donkey carriage. i am rather proud of my donkey, a lithe-limbed pathetically eager little beast, deep bay with white tips to his ears. marigold bought him for me last spring, from some gipsies, when his predecessor, dan, who had served me faithfully for some years, struck work and insisted on an old-age pension. he is called hosea, a name bestowed on him, by way of clerical joke, and i am sure with a profane reminiscence of jorrocks, by the vicar, because he "came after daniel." at first i thought it rather silly; but when i tried to pull him up i found that "whoa-ho-sea!" came in rather pat; so hosea he has remained. he has quite a fast, stylish little trot, and i can square my elbows and cock my head on one side as i did in the days of my youth when the brief ownership of a tandem and a couple of thoroughbreds would have landed me in the bankruptcy court, had it not mercifully first landed me in the hospital. the afternoon after betty's visit, i took hosea to wellings park. the fenimores shewed me a letter they had received from oswald's colonel, full of praise of the gallant boy, and after discussing it, which they did with brave eyes and voices, sir anthony said:-- "i want your advice, duncan, on a matter that has been worrying us both. briefly it is this. when oswald came of age i promised to allow him a thousand a year till i should be wiped out and he should come in. now i'm only fifty-five and as strong as a horse. i can reasonably expect to live, say, another twenty years. if oswald were alive i should owe him, in prospectu, twenty thousand pounds. he has given his life for his country. his country, therefore, is his heir, comes in for his assets, his twenty years' allowance--" "and the whole of your estate at your death?" i interposed. "no. not at all," said he. "at my death, it would have been his to dispose of as he pleased. up to my death, he would have had no more claim to deal with it than you have. look at things from my point of view, and don't be idiotic. i am considering my debt to oswald, and therefore, logically, my debt to the country. it is twenty thousand pounds. i'm going to pay it. the only question is--and the question has kept edith and myself awake the last two nights--is what's the best thing to do with it? of course i could give it to some fund,--or several funds,--but it's a lot of money and i should like it to be used to the best advantage. now what do you say?" "i say," said i, "that you croesuses make a half-pay major of artillery's head reel. if i were like you, i should go into a shop and buy a super-dreadnought, and stick a card on it with a drawing pin, and send it to the admiralty with my compliments." "duncan," said lady fenimore, severely, "don't be flippant." heaven knows i was in no flippant mood; but it was worth a foolish jest to bring a smile to sir anthony's face. also this grave, conscientious proposition had its humorous side. it was so british. it reminded me of the story of swift, who, when gay and pope visited him and refused to sup, totted up the cost of the meal and insisted on their accepting half-a-crown apiece. it reminded me too of the rugged old lancashire commercial blood that was in him--blood that only shewed itself on the rarest and greatest of occasions--the blood of his grandfather, the manchester cotton-spinner, who founded the fortunes of his house. sir anthony knew less about cotton than he did about ballistics and had never sat at a desk in a business office for an hour in his life; but now and again the inherited instinct to put high impulses on a scrupulously honest commercial basis asserted itself in the quaintest of fashions. "there's some sense in what he says, edith," remarked sir anthony. "it's only vanity that prompted us to ear-mark this sum for something special." "vanity!" cried lady fenimore. "you weren't by any chance thinking of advertising our gift or contribution or whatever you like to call it in the daily mail?" "heaven forbid, my dear," sir anthony replied warmly; and he stood, his hands under his coat-tails and his gaitered legs apart, regarding her with the air of a cock-sparrow accused of murdering his young, or a sensitive jockey repudiating a suggestion of crooked riding. "heaven forbid!" he repeated. "such an idea never entered my head." "then where does the vanity come in?" asked lady fenimore. they had their little argument. i lit a cigarette and let them argue. in such cases, every married couple has its own queer and private and particular and idiosyncratic way of coming to an agreement. the third party who tries to foist on it his own suggestion of a way is an imbecile. the dispute on the point of vanity, charmingly conducted, ended by sir anthony saying triumphantly:-- "well, my dear, don't you see i'm right?" and by his wife replying with a smile:-- "no, darling, i don't see at all. but since you feel like that, there's nothing more to be said." i was mildly enjoying myself. perhaps i'm a bit of a cynic. i broke in. "i don't think it's vanity to see that you get your money's worth. there's lots of legitimate fun in spending twenty thousand pounds properly. it's too big to let other people manage or mis-manage. suppose you decided on motor-ambulances or hospital trains, for instance, it would be your duty to see that you got the best and most up-to-date ambulances or trains, with the least possible profits, to contractors and middle-men." "as far as that goes, i think i know my way about," said sir anthony. "of course. and as for publicity--or the reverse, hiding your light under a bushel--any fool can remain anonymous." sir anthony nodded at me, rubbed his hands, and turned to his wife. "that's just what i was saying, edith." "my dear, that is just what i was trying to make you understand." neither of the two dear things had said, or given the other to understand, anything of the kind. but you see they had come in their own quaint married way to an agreement and were now receptive of commonsense. "the motor ambulance is a sound idea," said sir anthony, rubbing his chin between thumb and forefinger. "so is the hospital train," said lady fenimore. what an idiot i was to suggest these alternatives! i looked at my watch. it was getting late. hosea, like a silly child, is afraid of the dark. he just stands still and shivers at the night, and the more he is belaboured the more he shivers, standing stock-still with ears thrown back and front legs thrown forward. as i can't get out and pull, i'm at the mercy of hosea. and he knows it. since the mount of balaam, there was never such an intelligent idiot of an ass. "what do you say?" asked sir anthony. "ambulance or train?" "donkey carriage," said i. "this very moment minute." i left them and trotted away homewards. just as i had turned a bend of the chestnut avenue near the park gates, i came upon a couple of familiar figures--familiar, that is to say, individually, but startlingly unfamiliar in conjunction. they were a young man and girl, randall holmes and phyllis gedge. randall had concluded a distinguished undergraduate career at oxford last summer. he was a man of birth, position, and, to a certain extent, of fortune. phyllis gedge was the daughter, the pretty and attractive daughter, of daniel gedge, the socialistic builder who did not hold with war. what did young randall mean by walking in the dark with his arm round phyllis's waist? of course as soon as he heard the click-clack of hosea's hoofs he whipped his arm away; but i had already caught him. they tried to look mighty unconcerned as i pulled up. i took off my hat politely to the lady and held out my hand to the young man. "good evening, randall," said i. "i haven't seen you for ages." he was a tall, clean-limbed, clear-featured boy, with black hair, which though not long, yet lacked the military trimness befitting the heads of young men at the present moment. he murmured something about being busy. "it will do you good to take a night off," i said; "drop in after dinner and smoke a pipe with an old friend." i smiled, bowed again politely, whipped up hosea and trotted off. i wondered whether he would come. he had said: "delighted, i'm sure," but he had not looked delighted. very possibly he regarded me as a meddlesome, gossiping old tom-cat. perhaps for that reason he would deem it wise to adopt a propitiatory attitude. perhaps also he retained a certain affectionate respect for me, seeing that i had known him as a tiny boy in a sailor suit, and had fed him at harrow (as i did poor oswald fenimore at wellington) with mrs. marigold's famous potted shrimp and other comestibles, and had put him up, during here and there holidays and later a vacation, when his mother and aunts, with whom he lived, had gone abroad to take inefficacious cures for the tedium of a futile life. oxford, however, had set him a bit off my plane. as an ordinary soldierman, trained in the elementary virtues of plain-speaking and direct dealing, love of country and the sacredness of duty, i have had no use for the metaphysician. i haven't the remotest notion what his jargon means. from aristotle to william james, i have dipped into quite a lot of them--descartes, berkeley, kant, schopenhauer (the thrice besotted teutonic ass who said that women weren't beautiful), for i hate to be thought an ignorant duffer--and i have never come across in them anything worth knowing, thinking, or doing that i was not taught at my mother's knee. and as for her, dear, simple soul, if you had asked her what was the categorical imperative (having explained beforehand the meaning of the words), she would have said, "the sermon on the mount." of course, please regard this as a criticism not of the metaphysicians and the philosophers, but of myself. all these great thinkers have their niches in the temple of fame, and i'm quite aware that the consensus of human judgment does not immortalise even such an ass as schopenhauer, without sufficient reason. all i want to convey to you is that i am only a plain, ordinary god-fearing, law-abiding englishman, and that when young randall holmes brought down from oxford all sorts of highfalutin theories about everything, not only in god's universe, but in the super-universe that wasn't god's, and of every one of which he was cocksure, i found my homely self very considerably out of it. then--young randall was a poet. he had won the newdigate. the subject was andrea del sarto, one of my favourite painters--il pittore senza errore--and his prize poem--it had, of course, to be academic in form--was excellent. it said just the things about him which browning somehow missed, and which i had always been impotently wanting to say. and a year or so afterwards--when i praised his poem--he would shrink in a more than deprecating attitude: i might just as well have extolled him for seducing the wife of his dearest friend. his later poems, of which he was immodestly proud--"sensations captured on the wing," he defined them--left me cold and unsympathetic. so, for these reasons, the boy and i had drifted apart. until i had caught him in flagrante delicto of walking with his arm round the waist of pretty phyllis gedge, i had not seen him to speak to for a couple of months. he came, however, after dinner, looking very sleek and handsome and intellectual, and wearing a velvet dinner jacket which i did not like. after we had gossiped awhile:-- "you said you were very busy?" i remarked. he flicked off his cigarette ash and nodded. "what at?" "war poetry," he replied. "i am trying to supply the real note. it is badly wanted. there are all kinds of stuff being written, but all indifferent and valueless. if it has a swing, it's merely vulgar, and what isn't vulgar is academic, commonplace. there's a crying need for the high level poetry that shall interpret with dignity and nobility the meaning of the war." "have you written much?" "i have an ode every week in the albemarle review. i also write the political article. didn't you know? haven't you seen them?" "i don't take in that periodical," said i. "the omniscience of the last copy i saw dismayed me. i couldn't understand why the government were such insensate fools as not to move from downing street to their editorial offices." randall, with a humouring smile, defended the albemarle review. "it is run," said he, "by a little set of intellectuals--some men up with me at oxford--who must naturally have a clearer vision than men who have been living for years in the yellow fog of party politics." he expounded the godlike wisdom of young oxford at some length, replying vividly to here and there a socratic interpolation on my part. after a while i began to grow irritated. his talk, like his verse, seemed to deal with unrealities. it was a negation of everything, save the intellectual. if he and his friends had been in power, there would never have been a war; there never would have been a german menace; the lamb would have lain down in peace, outside the lion. he had an airy way of dismissing the ruder and more human aspects of the war. said i:-- "anyone can talk of what might have been. but that's all over and done with. we're up against the tough proposition of the present. what are you doing for it?" he waved a hand. "that's just the point. the present doesn't matter--not in the wide conception of things. it is the past and the future that count. the present is mere fluidity." "the poor devils up to their waists in water in the trenches would agree with you," said i. "they would also agree with me," he retorted, "if they had time to go into the reconstruction of the future that we are contemplating." at this juncture marigold came in with the decanters and syphons. i noticed his one eye harden on the velvet dinner-jacket. he fidgeted about the room, threw a log on the fire, drew the curtains closer, always with an occasional malevolent glance at the jacket. then randall, like a silly young ass, said, from the depths of his easy chair, a very silly thing. "i see you've not managed to get into khaki yet, sergeant." marigold took a tactical pace or two to the door. "neither have you, sir," he said in a respectful tone, and went out. randall laughed, though i saw his dark cheek flush. "if marigold had his way he would have us all in a barrack square." "preferably in those fluid trenches of the present," said i. "and he wouldn't be far wrong." my eyes rested on him somewhat stonily. people have complained sometimes--defaulters, say, in the old days--that there can be a beastly, nasty look in them. "what do you mean, major?" he asked. "sergeant marigold," said i, "is a brave, patriotic englishman who has given his country all he can spare from the necessary physical equipment to carry on existence; and it's making him hang-dog miserable that he's not allowed to give the rest to-morrow. you must forgive his plain speaking," i continued, gathering warmth as i went on, "but he can't understand healthy young fellows like you not wanting to do the same. and, for the matter of that, my dear randall, neither do i. why aren't you serving your country?" he started forward in his chair and threw out his arms, and his dark eyes flashed and a smile of conscious rectitude overspread his clear-cut features. "my dear major--serving my country? why, i'm working night and day for it. you don't understand." "i've already told you i don't." the boy was my guest. i had not intended to hold a pistol to his head in one hand and dangle a suit of khaki before his eyes in the other. i had been ill at ease concerning him for months, but i had proposed to regain his confidence in a tactful, fatherly way. instead of which i found myself regarding him with my beastly defaulter glare. the blood sometimes flies to one's head. he condescended to explain. "there are millions of what the germans call 'cannon fodder' about. but there are few intellects--few men, shall i say?--of genius, scarcely a poet. and men like myself who can express--that's the whole vital point--who can express the higher philosophy of the empire, and can point the way to its realisation are surely more valuable than the yokel or factory hand, who, as the sum-total of his capabilities, can be trained merely into a sort of shooting machine. just look at it, my dear major, from a commonsense point of view--" he forgot, the amazing young idiot, that he was talking not to a maiden aunt, but to a hard-bitten old soldier. "what good would it serve to stick the comparatively rare man--i say it in all modesty--the comparatively rare man like myself in the trenches? it would be foolish waste. i assure you i'm putting all my talents at the disposal of the country." seeing, i suppose, in my eyes, the maintained stoniness of non-conviction, he went on, "but, my dear sir, be reasonable." ... reasonable! i nearly choked. if i could have stood once more on my useless legs, i should have swung my left arm round and clouted him on the side of the head. reasonable indeed! this well-fed, able-bodied, young oxford prig to tell me, an honourable english officer and gentleman, to be reasonable, when the british empire, in peril of its existence, was calling on all its manhood to defend it in arms! i glared at him. he continued:-- "yes, be reasonable. everyone has his place in this world conflict. we can't all be practical fighters. you wouldn't set kitchener or grey or lord crewe to bayonet germans--" "by god, sir," i cried, smiting one palm with the fist of the other hand. "by god, sir, i would, if they were three and twenty." i had completely lost my temper. "and if i saw them doing nothing, while the country was asking for men, but writing rotten doggerel and messing about with girls far beneath them in station, i should call them the damnedest skunks unskinned!" he had the decency to rise. "major meredyth," said he, "you're under a terrible misapprehension. you're a military man and must look at everything from a military point of view. it would be useless to discuss the philosophy of the situation with you. we're on different planes." just what i said. "you," said i, "seem to be hovering near tophet and the abyss." "no, no," he answered with an indulgent smile. "you are quoting carlyle. you must give him up." "damned pro-german, i should think i do," i cried. i had forgotten where my phrase came from. "i'm glad to hear it. he's a back-number. i'm a modern. i represent equilibrium--" he made a little rocking gesture with his graceful hand. "i am out for eternal truth, which i think i perceive." "in poor little phyllis gedge, i suppose?" "why not? look. i am the son, grandson, great-grandson, of english tories. she is the daughter of socialism, syndicalism, pacifism, internationalism--everything that is most apart from my traditions. but she brings to me beauty, innocence, the feminine solution of all intellectual concepts. she, the woman, is the soul of conflicting england. she is torn both ways. but as she has to breed men, some day, she is instinctively on our side. she is invaluable to me. she inspires my poems. you may not believe it, but she is at the back of my political articles. you must really be a little more broad-minded, major, and look at these things from the right point of view. from the point of view of my work, she is merely a symbol." "and you?" said i, wrathfully. "what are you to her? do you suppose she takes you for a symbol? i wish to heaven she did. a round cipher of naught, the symbol of inanity. she takes you for an honourable gentleman. i've known the child since she was born. as good a little girl as you could wish to meet." he drew himself up. "that's the opinion of her i am endeavouring to express." "quite so. you win a good decent girl's affection,--if you hadn't, she would never have let you walk about with her at nightfall, with your arm round her waist,--and you have the cynical audacity to say that she's only a symbol." "when you asked me to come in this evening," said he, "i naturally concluded you would broach this subject. i came prepared to give you a complete explanation of what i am ready to admit was a compromising situation." "there is only one explanation," said i angrily. "what are your intentions regarding the girl?" he smiled. "quite honourable." "you mean marriage?" "oh, no," said he, emphatically. "then the other thing? that's not honourable." "of course not. certainly not the other thing. i'm not a blackguard." "then what on earth are you playing at?" he sighed. "i'm afraid you will never understand." "i'm afraid i won't," said i. "by your own confession you are neither a lusty blackguard nor an honourable gentleman. you're a sort of philanderer, somewhere in between. you neither mean to fight like a man nor love like a man. i'm sorry to say it, but i've no use for you. as i can't do it myself, will you kindly ring the bell?" "certainly," said he, white with anger, which i was glad to see, and pressed the electric button beside the mantelpiece. he turned on me, his head high. there was still some breeding left in him. "i'm sorry we're at such cross-purposes, major. all my life long i've owed you kindnesses i can't ever repay. but at present we're hopelessly out of sympathy!" "it seems so," said i. "i had hoped your father's son would be a better man!" "my father," said he, "was a successful stockbroker, without any ideas in his head save the making of money. i don't see what he has got to do with my well-considered attitude towards life." "your callow attitude towards life, my poor boy," said i, "is a matter of profound indifference to me. but i shall give orders that you are no longer admitted to this house except in uniform." "that's absurd," said he. "not at all," said i. in obedience to the summons of the bell sergeant marigold appeared and stood in his ramrod fashion by the door. randall came forward to my wheel-chair, with hand outstretched. "i'm desperately sorry, major, for this disastrous misunderstanding." i thrust my hands beneath the light shawl that covered my legs. "don't be such a self-sufficient fool, randall," i said, "as to think i don't understand. in the present position there are no subtleties and no complications. good-night." marigold, with a wooden face, opened wide the door, and randall, with a shrug of the shoulders, went out. i stayed awake the whole of that livelong night. when i learned the death of young oswald fenimore, whom i loved far more dearly than randall holmes, i went to bed and slept peacefully. a gallant lad died in battle; there is nothing more to be said, nothing more to be thought. the finality, heroically sublime, overwhelms the poor workings of the brain. but in the case of a fellow like randall holmes--well, as i have said, i did not get a wink of sleep the whole night long. someone, a few months ago, told me of a young university man--oxford or cambridge, i forget--who, when asked why he was not fighting, replied; "what has the war to do with me? i disapprove of this brawling." was that the attitude of randall, whom i had known all his life long? i shivered, like a fool, all night. the only consolation i had was to bring commonsense to my aid and to meditate on the statistical fact that the universities of oxford and cambridge were practically empty. but my soul was sick for young randall holmes. chapter iv on the wedding eve betty brought the happy young man to dine with me. he was in that state of unaccustomed and somewhat embarrassed bliss in which a man would have dined happily with beelzebub. a fresh-coloured boy, with fair crisply set hair and a little moustache a shade or two fairer, he kept on blushing radiantly, as if apologising in a gallant sort of fashion for his existence in the sphere of betty's affection. as i had known him but casually and desired to make his closer acquaintance, i had asked no one to meet them, save betty's aunt, whom a providential cold had prevented from facing the night air. so, in the comfortable little oak-panelled dining-room, hung round with my beloved collection of delft, i had the pair all to myself, one on each side; and in this way i was able to read exchanges of glances whence i might form sage conclusions. bella, spruce parlour-maid, waited deftly. sergeant marigold, when not occupied in the mild labour of filling glasses, stood like a guardian ramrod behind my chair--a self-assigned post to which he stuck grimly like a sentinel. as i always sat with my back to the fire there must have been times when, the blaze roaring more fiercely than usual up the chimney, he must have suffered martyrdom in his hinder parts. as i talked--for the first time on such intimate footing--with young connor, i revised my opinion of him and mentally took back much that i had said in his disparagement. he was by no means the dull dog that i had labelled him. by diligent and sympathetic enquiry i learned that he had been a natural science scholar at trinity college, cambridge, where he had taken a first-class degree--specialising in geology; that by profession (his father's) he was a mining-engineer, and, in pursuit of his vocation, had travelled in galicia, mexico and japan; furthermore, that he had been one of the ardent little band who of recent years had made the cambridge officers training corps an effective school. hitherto, when i had met him he had sat so agreeably smiling and modestly mumchance that i had accepted him at his face value. i was amused to see how betty, in order to bring confusion on me, led him to proclaim himself. and i loved the manner in which he did so. to hear him, one would have thought that he owed everything in the world to betty--from his entrance scholarship at the university to the word of special commendation which his company had received from the general of his division at last week's inspection. yes, he was the modest, clean-bred, simple english gentleman who, without self-consciousness or self-seeking, does his daily task as well as it can be done, just because it is the thing that is set before him to do. and he was over head and ears in love with betty. i took it upon myself to dismiss her with a nod after she had smoked a cigarette over her coffee. mrs. marigold, as a soldier's wife, i announced, had a world of invaluable advice to give her. willie connor opened the door. on the threshold she said very prettily: "don't drink too much of major meredyth's old port. it has been known before now to separate husbands and wives for years and years." he looked after her for a few seconds before he closed the door. oh, my god! i've looked like that, in my time, after one dear woman.... humanity is very simple, after all. every generation does exactly the same beautiful, foolish things as its forerunner. as he approached the table, i said with a smile:-- "you're only copying your great-great-grandfather." "in what way, sir?" he asked, resuming his place. i pushed the decanter of port. "he watched the disappearing skirt of your great-great-grandmother." "she was doubtless a very venerable old lady," said he, flushing and helping himself to wine. "i never knew her, but she wasn't a patch on betty!" "but," said i, "when your great-great-grandfather opened the door for her to pass out, she wasn't venerable at all, but gloriously young." "i suppose he was satisfied, poor old chap." he took a sip. "but those days did not produce betty fairfaxes." he laughed. "i'm jolly sorry for my ancestors." well--that is the way i like to hear a young man talk. it was the modern expression of the perfect gentle knight. in so far as went his heart's intention and his soul's strength to assure it, i had no fear for betty's happiness. he gave it to her fully into her own hands; whether she would throw it away or otherwise misuse it was another matter. though i have ever loved women, en tout bien et tout honneur, their ways have never ceased from causing me mystification. i think i can size up a man, especially given such an opportunity as i had in the case of willie connor--i have been more or less trained in the business all my man's life; but betty fairfax, whom i had known intimately for as many years as she could remember, puzzled me exceedingly. i defy anyone to have picked a single fault in her demeanour towards her husband of to-morrow. she lit a cigarette for him in the most charming way in the world, and when he guided the hand that held the match, she touched his crisp hair lightly with the fingers of the other. she was all smiles. when we met in the drawing-room, she retailed with a spice of mischief much of mrs. marigold's advice. she had seated herself on the music stool. swinging round, she quoted: "'even the best husband,' she said, 'will go on swelling himself up with vanity just because he's a man. a sensible woman, miss, lets him go on priding of himself, poor creature. it sort of helps his dignity when the time comes for him to eat out of your hand, and makes him think he's doing you a favour.'" "when are you going to eat out of my hand, willie?" she asked. "haven't i been doing it for the past week?" "oh, they always do that before they're married--so mrs. marigold informed me. i mean afterwards." "don't you think, my dear," i interposed, "it depends on what your hands hold out for him to eat?" her eyes wavered a bit under mine. "if he's good," she answered, "they'll be always full of nice things." she sat, flushed, happy, triumphant, her arms straight down, her knuckles resting on the leathern seat, her silver-brocaded, slender feet, clear of the floor, peeping close together beneath her white frock. "and if he isn't good?" "they'll be full of nasty medicine." she laughed and pivoted round and, after running over the keys of the piano for a second or two, began to play gounod's "death march of a marionette." she played it remarkably well. when she had ended, connor walked from the hearth, where he had been standing, to her side. i noticed a little puzzled look in his eyes. "delightful," said he. "but, betty, what put that thing suddenly into your head?" "we had been talking nonsense," she replied, picking out a chord or two, without looking at him. "and i thought we ought to give all past vanities and frivolities and lunacies a decent burial." he put both hands very tenderly on her shoulders. "requiescat," said he. she spread out her fingers and struck the two resonant chords of an "amen," and then glanced up at him, laughing. after a while, marigold announced her car, or, rather, her aunt's car. they took their leave. i gave them my benediction. presently, betty, fur-coated, came running in alone. she flung herself down, in her impetuous way, beside my wheel-chair. no visit of betty's would have been complete without this performance. "i haven't had a word with you all the evening, majy, dear. i've told willie to discuss strategy with sergeant marigold in the hall, till i come. well--you thought i was a damn little fool the other day, didn't you? what do you think now?" "i think, my dear," said i, with a hand on her forehead, "that you are marrying a very gallant english gentleman of whose love any woman in the land might be proud." she clutched me round the neck and brought her young face near mine--and looked at me--i hesitate to say it,--but so it seemed,--somewhat haggardly. "i love to hear you say that, it means so much to me. don't think i haven't a sense of proportion. i have. in all this universal slaughter and massacre, a woman's life counts as much as that of a mosquito." she freed an arm and snapped her fingers. "but to the woman herself, her own life can't help being of some value. such as it is, i want to give it all, every bit of it, to willie. he shall have everything, everything, everything that i can give him." i looked into the young, drawn, pleading face long and earnestly. no longer was i mystified. i remembered her talk with me a couple of days before, and i read her riddle. she had struck gold. she knew it. gold of a man's love. gold of a man's strength. gold of a man's honour. gold of a man's stainless past. gold of a man's radiant future. and though she wore the mocking face and talked the mocking words of the woman who expected such a man to "eat out of her hand," she knew that never out of her hand would he eat save that which she should give him in honourable and wifely service. she knew that. she was exquisitely anxious that i should know it too. floodgates of relief were expressed when she saw that i knew it. not that i, personally, counted a scrap. what she craved was a decent human soul's justification of her doings. she craved recognition of her action in casting away base metal forever and taking the pure gold to her heart. "tell me that i am doing the right thing, dear," she said, "and to-morrow i'll be the happiest woman in the world." and i told her, in the most fervent manner in my power. "you quite understand?" she said, standing up, looking very young and princess-like, her white throat gleaming between her furs and up-turned chin. "you will find, my dear," said i, "that the significance of your dead march of a marionette will increase every day of your married life." she stiffened in a sudden stroke of passion, looking, for the instant, electrically beautiful. "i wish," she cried, "someone had written the dead march of a devil." she bent down, kissed me, and went out in a whirr of furs and draperies. of course, all i could do was to scratch my thin iron-grey hair and light a cigar and meditate in front of the fire. i knew all about it--or at any rate i thought i did, which, as far as my meditation in front of the fire is concerned, comes to the same thing. betty had cast out the base metal of her love for leonard boyce in order to accept the pure gold of the love of willie connor. so she thought, poor girl. she had been in love with boyce. she had been engaged to boyce. boyce, for some reason or the other, had turned her down. spretae injuria formae--she had cast boyce aside. but for all her splendid surrender of her womanhood to willie connor, for the sake of her country, she still loved leonard boyce. or, if she wasn't in love with him, she couldn't get him out of her head or her senses. something like that, anyhow. i don't pretend to know exactly what goes on in the soul or nature, or whatever it is, of a young girl, who has given her heart to a man. i can only use the crude old phrase: she was still in love (in some sort of fashion) with leonard boyce, and she was going to marry, for the highest motives, somebody else. "confound the fellow," said i, with an irritable gesture and covered myself with cigar ash. she had called boyce a devil and implied a wish that he were dead. for myself i did not know what to make of him, for reasons which i will state. i never approved of the engagement. as a matter of fact, i knew--and was one of the very few who knew--of a black mark against him--the very blackest mark that could be put against a soldier's name. it was a puzzling business. and when i say i knew of the mark, i must be candid and confess that its awful justification lies in the conscience of one man living in the world to-day--if indeed he be still alive. boyce was a great bronzed, bull-necked man, with an overpowering personality. people called him the very model of a soldier. he was always admired and feared by his men. his fierce eye and deep, resonant voice, and a suggestion of hidden strength, even of brutality, commanded implicit obedience. but both glance and voice would soften caressingly and his manner convey a charm which made him popular with men--brother officers and private soldiers alike--and with women. with regard to the latter--to put things crudely--they saw in him the essential, elemental male. of that i am convinced. it was the open secret of his many successes. and he had a buoyant, boyish, disarming, chivalrous way with him. if he desired a woman's lips he would always begin by kissing the hem of her skirt. had i not known what i did, i, an easy-going sort of christian temperamentally inclined to see the best in my fellow-creatures, and, as i boastingly said a little while ago, a trained judge of men, should doubtless have fallen, like most other people, under the spell of his fascination. but whenever i met him, i used to look at him and say to myself: "what's at the back of you anyway? what about that business at vilboek's farm?" now this is what i knew--with the reservation i have made above--and to this day he is not aware of my knowledge. it was towards the end of the boer war. boyce had come out rather late; for which, of course, he was not responsible. a soldier has to go when he is told. after a period of humdrum service he was sent off with a section of mounted infantry to round up a certain farm-house suspected of harbouring boer combatants. the excursion was a mere matter of routine--of humdrum commonplace. as usual it was made at night, but this was a night of full dazzling moon. the farm lay in a hollow of the veldt, first seen from the crest of a kopje. there it lay below, ramshackle and desolate, a rough wall around; flanked by outbuildings--barn and cowsheds. the section rode down. the stoep led to a shuttered front. there was no sign of life. the moonlight blazed full on it. they dismounted, tethered their horses behind the wall, and entered the yard. the place was deserted, derelict--not even a cat. suddenly a shot rang out from somewhere in the main building, and the sergeant, the next man to boyce, fell dead, shot through the brain. the men looked at boyce for command and saw a hulking idiot paralysed by fear. "his mouth hung open and his eyes were like a silly servant girl's looking at a ghost." so said my informant. two more shots and two men fell. boyce still stood white and gasping, unable to move a muscle or utter a sound. his face looked ghastly in the moonlight. a shot pierced his helmet, and the shock caused him to stagger and lose his legs. a corporal rushed up, thinking he was hit, and, finding him whole, rose, in order to leave him there, and, in rising, got a bullet through the neck. thus there were four men killed, and the commanding officer, of his own accord, put out of action. it all happened in a few confused moments. then the remaining men did what boyce should have commanded as soon as the first shot was fired--they rushed the house. it contained one solitary inmate, an old man with a couple of mauser rifles, whom they had to shoot in self-defence. meanwhile boyce, white and haggard-eyed, had picked himself up; revolver in hand he stood on the stoep. his men came out, cursed him to his face while giving him their contemptuous report brought the dead bodies of their comrades into the house and laid them out decently, together with the body of the white-bearded boer. after that they mounted their horses without a word to him and rode off. and he let them ride; for his authority was gone; and he knew that they justly laid the deaths of their comrades at the door of his cowardice. what he did during the next few awful hours is known only to god and to boyce himself. the four dead men, his companions, have told no tales. but at last, one of his men--somers was his name--came riding back at break-neck speed. when he had left the moon rode high in the heavens; when he returned it was dawn--and he had a bloody tunic and the face of a man who had escaped from hell. he threw himself from his horse and found boyce, sitting on the stoep with his head in his hands. he shook him by the shoulder. boyce started to his feet. at first he did not recognise somers. then he did and read black tidings in the man's eyes. "what's the matter?" "they're all wiped out, sir. the whole blooming lot." he told a tale of heroic disaster. the remnant of the section had ridden off in hot indignation and had missed their way. they had gone in a direction opposite to safety, and after a couple of hours had fallen in with a straggling portion of a boer commando. refusing to surrender, they had all been killed save somers, who, with a bullet through his shoulder, had prudently turned bridle and fled hell for leather. boyce put his hands up to his head and walked about the yard for a few moments. then he turned abruptly and stood toweringly over the scared survivor--a tough, wizened little cockney of five foot six. "well, what's going to happen now?" he asked, in his soft, dangerous voice. somers replied, "i must leave that to you, sir." boyce regarded him glitteringly for a long time. a scheme of salvation was taking vivid shape in his mind.... "my report of this occurrence will be that as soon as, say, three men dropped here, the rest of the troop got into a panic and made a bolt of it. say the sergeant and myself remained. we broke into the house and did for the old boer, who, however, unfortunately did for the sergeant. then i alone went out in search of my men and following their track found they had gone in a wrong direction, and eventually scented danger, which was confirmed by my meeting you, with your bloody tunic and your bloody tale." "but good god! sir," cried the man, "you'd be having me shot for running away. i could tell a damned different story, captain boyce." "who would believe you?" the cockney intelligence immediately appreciated the situation. it also was ready for the alternative it guessed at the back of boyce's mind. "i know it's a mess, sir," he replied, with a straight look at boyce. "a mess for both of us, and, as i have said, i'll leave it to you, sir." "very well," said boyce. "it's the simplest thing in the world. there were four killed at once, including sergeant oldham. you remained faithful when the others bolted. you and i tackled the old boer and you got wounded. you and i went on trek for the rest of the troop. we got within breathing distance of the commando--how many strong?" "about a couple of hundred, sir." "and of course we bolted back without knowing anything about the troop, except that we are sure that, dead or alive, the boers have accounted for them. if you'll agree to this report, we can ride back to headquarters and i think i can promise you sergeant's stripes in a very short time!" "i agree to the report, sir," said somers, "because i don't see that i can do anything else. but to hell with the stripes under false pretences and don't you try playing that sort of thing off on me." "as you like," replied boyce, unruffled. "provided we understand each other on the main point." so they left the farm and rode to headquarters and boyce made his report, and as all save one of his troop were dead, there were none, save that one, to gainsay him. on his story no doubt was cast; but an officer who loses his whole troop in the military operation of storming a farm-house garrisoned by one old man does not find peculiar favour in the eyes of his colonel. boyce took a speedy opportunity of transference, and got into the thick of some fighting. then he served with distinction and actually got mentioned in dispatches for pluckily rescuing a wounded man under fire. for a long time somers kept his mouth shut; but at last he began to talk. the ugly rumour spread. it even reached my battery which was a hundred miles away; for johnny dacre, one of my subs, had a brother in boyce's old regiment. for my own part i scouted the story as soon as i heard it, and i withered up young dacre for daring to bring such abominable slander within my rhadamanthine sphere. i dismissed the calumny from my mind. providentially, (as i heard later), the news came of boyce's "mention," and somers was set down as a liar. the poor devil was had up before the colonel and being an imaginative and nervous man denied the truth of the rumour and by dexterous wriggling managed to exculpate himself from the charge of being its originator. i must, parenthetically, crave indulgence for these apparently irrelevant details. but as, in this chronicle, i am mainly concerned with the career of leonard boyce, i have no option but to give them. they are necessary for a conception of the character of a remarkable man to whom i have every reason and every honourable desire to render justice. it is necessary, too, that i should state clearly the manner in which i happened to learn the facts of the affair at vilboek's farm, for i should not like you to think that i have given a credulous ear to idle slander. it was in cape town, whither i had been despatched, on a false alarm of enteric. i was walking with johnny dacre up adderley street, dun with kahki, when he met his brother reginald, who was promptly introduced to johnny's second in command. reggie was off to hospital to see one of his men who had been badly hurt. "it's the chap," he said to his brother, "who was with boyce through that shady affair at vilboek's farm." "i don't know why you call it a shady affair," said i, somewhat acidly. "i know captain boyce--he is a near neighbour of mine at home--and he has proved himself to be a gallant officer and a brave man." the young fellow reddened. "i'm awfully sorry, sir. i withdraw the word 'shady.' but this poor chap has something on his mind, and everyone has a down on him. he led a dog's life till he was knocked out, and he has been leading a worse one since. i don't call it fair." he looked at me squarely out of his young blue eyes--the lucky devil, he is commanding his regiment now in flanders, with the d.s.o. ribbon on his tunic. "will you come with me and see him, sir?" "certainly," said i, for i had nothing to do, and the boy's earnestness impressed me. on our way he told me of such mixture of rumour and fact as he was acquainted with. it was then that i heard the man somers's name for the first time. we entered the hospital, sat by the side of the man's bed, and he told us the story of vilboek's farm which i have, in bald terms, just related. shortly afterwards i returned to the front, where the famous shell knocked me out of the army forever. what has happened to somers i don't know. he was, i learned, soon afterwards discharged from the army. he either died or disappeared in the full current of english life. perhaps he is with our armies now. it does not matter. what matters is my memory of his nervous, sallow, cockney face, its earnestness, its imprint of veracity, and the damning lucidity of his narrative. i exacted from my young friends a promise to keep the unsavoury tale to themselves. no good would arise from a publicity which would stain the honour of the army. besides, boyce had made good. they have kept their promise like honest gentlemen. i have never, personally, heard further reference to the affair, and of course i have never mentioned it to anyone. now, it is right for me to mention that, for many years, i lived in a horrible state of dubiety with regard to boyce. there is no doubt that, after the vilboek business, he acted in an exemplary manner; there is no doubt that he performed the gallant deed for which he got his mention. but what about somers's story? i tried to disbelieve it as incredible. that an english officer--not a nervous wisp of a man like somers, but a great, hulking, bull-necked gladiator--should have been paralysed with fear by one shot coming out of a boer farm, and thereby demoralised and incapacitated from taking command of a handful of men; that, instead of blowing his brains out, he should have imposed his mephistophelian compact upon the unhappy somers and carried off the knavish business successfully--i could not believe it. on the other hand, there was the british private. i have known him all my life, god bless him! thank god, it is my privilege to know him now, as he lies knocked to bits, cheerily, in our hospital. it was inconceivable that out of sheer funk he could abandon a popular officer. and his was not even a scratch crowd, but a hard-bitten regiment with all sorts of glorious names embroidered on its colours.... i hope you see my difficulty in regard to my betty's love affairs. i had nothing against boyce, save this ghastly story, which might or might not be true. officially, he had made an unholy mess of such a simple military operation as rounding up a boer farm, and the prize of one dead old boer had covered him with ridicule; but officially, also, he had retrieved his position by distinguished service. after all, it was not his fault that his men had run away. on the other hand...well, you cannot but appreciate the vicious circle of my thoughts, when betty, in her frank way, came and told me of her engagement to him. what could i say? it would have been damnable of me to hint at scandal of years gone by. i received them both and gave them my paralytic blessing, and leonard boyce accepted it with the air of a man who might have been blessed, without a qualm of conscience, by the third person of the trinity in person. this was in april, . he had retired from the army some years before with the rank of major, and lived with his mother--he was a man of means--in wellingsford. in the june of that year he went off salmon fishing in norway. on the outbreak of war he returned to england and luckily got his job at once. he did not come back to wellingsford. his mother went to london and stayed there until he was ordered out to the front. i had not seen him since that june. and, as far as i am aware, my dear betty had not seen him either. marigold entered. "well?" said i. "i thought you rang, sir." "you didn't," i said. "you thought i ought to have rung, but you were mistaken." i have on my mantelpiece a tiny, corroded, wooden egyptian bust, of so little value that mr. hatoun of cairo (and every visitor to cairo knows hatoun) gave it me as baksheesh; it is, however, a genuine bit from a poor humble devil's tomb of about five thousand years ago. and it has only one positive eye and no expression. marigold was the living replica of it--with his absurd wig. "in a quarter of an hour," said i, "i shall have rung." "very good, sir," said marigold. but he had disturbed the harmonical progression of my reflections. they all went anyhow. when he returned, all i could say was: "it's miss betty's wedding to-morrow. i suppose i've got a morning coat and a top hat." "you have a morning coat, sir," said marigold. "but your last silk hat you gave to miss althea, sir, to make a work-bag out of the outside." "so i did," said i. it was an unpleasant reminiscence. a hat is about as symbolical a garment as you may be pleased to imagine. i wanted to wear at the live betty's wedding the ceremonious thing which i had given, for purposes of vanity, to the dead althea. i was cross with marigold. "why did you let me do such a silly thing? you might have known that i should want it some day or other. why didn't you foresee such a contingency?" "why," asked marigold woodenly, "didn't you or i, sir, or many wiser than us, foresee the war?" "because we were all damned fools," said i. marigold approached my chair with his great inexorable tentacles of arms. it was bed time. "i'm sorry about the hat, sir," said he. chapter v in due course captain connor's regiment went off to france; not with drums beating and colours flying--i wish to heaven it had; if there had been more pomp and circumstance in england, the popular imagination would not have remained untouched for so long a time--but in the cold silent hours of the night, like a gang of marauders. betty did not go to bed after he had left, but sat by the fire till morning. then she dressed in uniform and resumed her duties at the hospital. many a soldier's bride was doing much the same. and her days went on just as they did before her marriage. she presented a smiling face to the world; she said: "if i'm as happy as can be expected in the circumstances, i think it my duty to look happier." it was a valiant philosophy. the falling of a chimney-stack brought me up against daniel gedge, who before the war did all my little repairs. the chimney i put into the hands of day & higgins, another firm of builders. a day or two afterwards hosea shied at something and i discovered it was gedge, who had advanced into the roadway expressing a desire to have a word with me. i quieted the patriotic hosea and drew up by the kerb. gedge was a lean foxy-faced man with a long, reddish nose and a long blunt chin from which a grizzled beard sprouted aggressively forwards. he had hard, stupid grey eyes. "i hope you 'll excuse the liberty i take in stopping you, sir," he said, civilly. "that's all right," said i. "what's the matter?" "i thought i had given you satisfaction these last twenty years." i assented. "quite correct," said i. "then, may i ask, sir, without offence, why you've called in day & higgins?" "you may," said i, "and, with or without offence, i'll answer your question. i've called them in because they're good loyal people. higgins has joined the army, and so has day's eldest boy, while you have been going on like a confounded pro-german." "you've no right to say that, major meredyth." "not when you go over to godbury"--the surging metropolis of the county some fifteen miles off--"and tell a pack of fools to strike because this is a capitalists' war? not when you go round the mills here, and do your best to stop young fellows from fighting for their country? god bless my soul, in whose interests are you acting, if not germany's?" he put on his best platform manner. "i'm acting in the best interests of the people of this country. the war is wrong and incredibly foolish and can bring no advantage to the working man. why should he go and be killed or maimed for life? will it put an extra penny in his pocket or his widow's? no. oh!"--he checked my retort--"i know everything you would say. i see the arguments every day in all your great newspapers. but the fact remains that i don't see eye to eye with you, or those you represent. you think one way, i think another. we agree to differ." "we don't," said i. "i don't agree at all." "at any rate," he said, "i can't see how a difference of political opinion can affect my ability now to put a new chimney-stack in your house, any more than it has done in the past." "in the past," said i, "political differences were parochial squabbles in comparison with things nowadays. you're either for england, or against her." he smiled wryly. "i'm for england. we both are. you think her salvation lies one way. i think another. this is a free country in which every man has a right to his own opinion." "exactly so," said i. "therefore you'll admit that i've a right to the opinion that you ought to be locked up either in a gaol or a lunatic asylum as a danger to the state, and that, having that rightful opinion, i'm justified in not entrusting the safety of my house to one who, in my aforesaid opinion, is either a criminal or a lunatic." dialectically, i had him there. it afforded me keen enjoyment. besides being a john bull englishman, i am a cripple and therefore ever so little malicious. "it's all very well for you to talk, major meredyth," said he, "but your opinions cost you nothing--mine are costing me my livelihood. it isn't fair." "you might as well say," i replied, "that i, who have never dared to steal anything in my life, live in ease and comfort, whereas poor bill sykes, who has devoted all his days to burglary, has seven years' penal servitude. no, gedge," said i, gathering up the reins, "it can't be done. you can't have it both ways." he put a detaining hand on hosea's bridle and an evil flash came into his hard grey eyes. "i'll have it some other way, then," he said. "a way you've no idea of. a way that'll knock all you great people of wellingsford off your high horses. if you drive me to it, you'll see. i'll bide my time and i don't care whether it breaks me." he stamped his foot and tugged at the bridle. two or three passers-by halted wonderingly and prettilove, the hairdresser, moved across the pavement from his shop door where he had been taking the air. "my good fellow," said i, "you have lost your temper and are talking drivel. kindly unhand my donkey." prettilove, who has a sycophantic sense of humour, burst into a loud guffaw. gedge swung angrily away, and hosea and i continued our interrupted progress down the high street. although i had called his dark menaces drivel, i could not help wondering what it meant. was he going to guide a german army to wellingsford? was he, a modern guy fawkes, plotting to blow up the town hall while mayor and corporation sat in council? he was not the man to utter purely idle threats. what the dickens was he going to do? something mean and dirty and underhand. i knew his ways, he was always getting the better of somebody. the wise never let him put in a pane of glass without a specification and estimate, and if he had not been by far the most competent builder in the town--perhaps the only one who thoroughly knew his business in all its branches--no one would have employed him. when i next saw betty, it was in one of the corridors of the hospital, after a committee meeting; she stopped by my chair to pass the time of day. through the open doorway of a ward i perceived a well-known figure in nurse's uniform. "why," said i, "there's phyllis gedge." betty nodded. "she has just come in as a probationer." "i thought her father wouldn't let her. i've heard--heaven knows whether it's true, but it sounds likely--that he said if men were such fools as to get shot he didn't see why his daughter should help to mend them." "he has consented now," said betty, "and phyllis is delighted." "no doubt it's a bid for popular favour," said i. and i told her of his dwindling business and of my encounter with him. when i came to his threat betty's brows darkened. "i don't like that at all," she said. "why? what do you think he means?" "mischief." she lowered her voice, for, it being visiting day at the hospital, people were passing up and down the corridor. "suppose he has some of the people here in his power?" "blackmail--?" i glanced up at her sharply. "what do you know about it?" "nothing," she replied abruptly. then she looked down and fingered her wedding-ring. "i only said 'suppose.'" a sister appeared at the door of the ward and seeing us together paused hoveringly. "i rather think you're wanted," said i. i left the hospital somewhat disturbed in mind. summons to duty had cut our conversation short; but i knew that no matter how long i had cross-questioned betty i should have got nothing further out of her. she was a remarkably outspoken young woman. what she said she meant, and what she didn't want to say all the cripples in the british army could not have dragged out of her. i tried her again a few days later. a slight cold, aided and abetted by a dear exaggerating idiot of a tyrannical doctor, confined me to the house and she came flying in, expecting to find me in extremis. when she saw me clothed and in my right mind and smoking a big cigar, she called me a fraud. "look here," said i, after a while. "about gedge--" again her brow darkened and her lips set stiffly--"do you think he has his knife into young randall holmes?" i had worried about the boy. naturally, if gedge found the relations between his daughter and randall unsatisfactory, no one could blame him for any outbreak of parental indignation. but he ought to break out openly, while there was yet time--before any harm was done--not nurse some diabolical scheme of subterraneous vengeance. betty's brow cleared, and she laughed. i saw at once that i was on a wrong track. "why should he have his knife into randall? i suppose you've got phyllis in your mind." "i have. how did you guess?" she laughed again. "what other reason could he have? but how did you come to hear of randall and phyllis?" "never mind," said i, "i did. and if gedge is angry, i can to some extent sympathize with him." "but he's not. not the least little bit in the world," she declared, lighting a cigarette. "gedge and randall are as thick as thieves, and phyllis won't have anything to do with either of them." "now, my dear," said i. "now that you're married, become a real womanly woman and fill my empty soul with gossip." "there's no gossip at all about it," she replied serenely. "it's all sordid and romantic fact. the two men hold long discussions together at gedge's house, gedge talking anti-patriotism and randall talking rot which he calls philosophy. you can hear them, can't you? their meeting-ground is the absurdity of randall joining the army." "and phyllis?" "she is a loyal little soul and as miserable as can be. she's deplorably in love with randall. she has told me so. and because she's in love with a man whom she knows to be a slacker she's eaten up with shame. now she won't speak to him. to avoid meeting him she lives entirely at the hospital--a paying probationer." "that must be since the last committee meeting," i said. "yes." "and daniel gedge pays a guinea a week?" "he doesn't," said betty. "i do." i accepted the information with a motion of the head. she went on after a minute or so. "i have always been fond of the child"--there were only three or four years difference between them!--"and so i want to protect her. the time may come when she'll need protection. she has told me things--not now--but long ago--which frightened her. she came to me for advice. since then i've kept an eye on her--as far as i could. her coming into the hospital helps me considerably." "when you say 'things which frightened her,' do you mean in connection with her father?" again the dark look in betty's eyes. "yes," she said. "he's an evil, dangerous man." that was all i could get out of her. if she had meant me to know the character of gedge's turpitude, she would have told me of her own accord. but in our talk at the hospital she had hinted at blackmail--and blackmailers are evil, dangerous men. i went to see sir anthony about it. beyond calling him a damned scoundrel, a term which he applied to all pro-germans, pacifists and half the cabinet, he did not concern himself about gedge. young randall holmes's intimacy with the scoundrel seemed to him a matter of far greater importance. he strode up and down his library, choleric and gesticulating. "a gentleman and a scholar to hob-nob with a traitorous beast like that! i know that he writes for a filthy weekly paper. somebody sent me a copy a few days ago. it's rot--but not actually poisonous like that he must hear from gedge. that's the reason, i suppose, he's not in the king's uniform. i've had my eye on him for some time. that's why i've not asked him to the house." i told sir anthony of my interview with the young man. he waxed wroth. in a country with a backbone every randall holmes in the land would have been chucked willy-nilly into the army. but the country had spinal disorders. it had locomotor ataxy. the result of sloth and self-indulgence. we had the government we deserved ... i need not quote further. you can imagine a fine old fox-hunting tory gentleman, with england filling all the spaces of his soul, blowing off the steam of his indignation. when he had ended, "what," said i, "is to be done?" "i'll lay my horsewhip across the young beggar's shoulders the next time i meet him." "capital," said i. "if i were you i should never ride abroad except in my mayor's gown and chain, so that you can give an official character to the thrashing." he glanced swiftly at me in his bird-like fashion, his brow creased into a thousand tiny horizontal lines--it always took him a fraction of a second to get clear of the literal significance of words--and then he laughed. personal violence was out of the question. why, the young beggar might summon him for assault. no; he had a better idea. he would put in a word at the proper quarter, so that every recruiting sergeant in the district should have orders to stop him at every opportunity. "i shouldn't do that," said i. "then, i don't know what the deuce i can do," said sir anthony. as i didn't know, either, our colloquy was fruitless. eventually sir anthony said: "perhaps it's likely, after all, that gedge may offend young oxford's fastidiousness. it can't be long before he discovers gedge to be nothing but a vulgar, blatant wind-bag; and then he may undergo some reaction." i agreed. it seemed to be the most sensible thing he had said. give gedge enough rope and he would hang himself. so we parted. i have said before that when i want to shew how independent i am of everybody i drive abroad in my donkey carriage. but there are times when i have to be dependent on marigold for carrying me into the houses i enter; on these helpless occasions i am driven about by marigold in a little two-seater car. that is how i visited wellings park and that is how i set off a day or two later to call on mrs. boyce. as she took little interest in anything foreign to her own inside, she was not to most people an exhilarating companion. she even discussed the war in terms of her digestion. but we were old friends. being a bit of a practical philosopher i could always derive some entertainment from her serial romance of a gastric juice, and besides, she was the only person in wellingsford whom i did not shrink from boring with the song of my own ailments. rather than worry the fenimores or betty or mrs. holmes with my aches and pains i would have hung on, like the idiot boy of sparta with the fox, until my vitals were gnawed out--parenthetically, it has always worried me to conjecture why a boy should steal a fox, why it should have been so valuable to the owner, and to what use he put it. in the case of all my other friends i regarded myself as too much of an obvious nuisance, as it was, for me to work on their sympathy for infirmities that i could hide; but with mrs. boyce it was different. the more i chanted antistrophe to her strophe of lamentation the more was i welcome in her drawing-room. i had not seen her for some weeks. perhaps i had been feeling remarkably well with nothing in the world to complain about, and therefore unequipped with a topic of conversation. however, hearty or not, it was time for me to pay her a visit. so i ordered the car. mrs. boyce lived in a comfortable old house half a mile or so beyond the other end of the town, standing in half a dozen well-wooded acres. it was a fair april afternoon, all pale sunshine and tenderness. a dream of fairy green and delicate pink and shy blue sky melting into pearl. the air smelt sweet. it was good to be in it, among the trees and the flowers and the birds. others must have also felt the calls of the spring, for as we were driving up to the house, i caught a glimpse of the lawn and of two figures strolling in affectionate attitude. one was that of mrs. boyce; the other, khaki-clad and towering above her, had his arm round her waist. the car pulled up at the front door. before we had time to ring, a trim parlour-maid appeared. "mrs. boyce is not at home, sir." marigold, who, when my convenience was in question, swept away social conventions like cobwebs, fixed her with his one eye, and before i could interfere, said: "i'm afraid you're mistaken. i've just seen major boyce and madam on the lawn." the maid reddened and looked at me appealingly. "my orders were to say not at home, sir." "i quite understand, mary," said i. "major boyce is home on short leave, and they don't want to be disturbed. isn't that it?" "yes, sir." "marigold," said i. "right about turn." marigold, who had stopped the car, got out unwillingly and went to the starting-handle. that i should be refused admittance to a house which i had deigned to honour with my presence he regarded as an intolerable insult. he also loved to have tea, as a pampered guest, in other folks' houses. when he got home mrs. marigold, as like as not, would give him plain slabs of bread buttered by her economical self. i knew my marigold. he gave a vicious and ineffectual turn or two and then stuck his head in the bonnet. the situation was saved by the appearance from the garden of mrs. boyce herself, a handsome, erect, elegantly dressed old lady in the late sixties, pink and white like a dresden figure and in her usual condition of resplendent health. she held out her hand. "i couldn't let you go without telling you that leonard is back. i don't want the whole town to know. if it did, i should see nothing of him, his leave is so short. that's why i told mary to say 'not at home.' but an old friend like you--would you like to see him?" marigold closed the bonnet and stood up with a grimace which passed for a happy smile. "i should, of course," said i, politely. "but i quite understand. you have everything to say to each other. no. i won't stay"--marigold's smile faded into woodenness--"i only turned in idly to see how you were getting on. but just tell me. how is leonard? fit, i hope?" "he's wonderful," she said. i motioned marigold to start the car. "give him my kind regards," said i. "no, indeed. he doesn't want to see an old crock like me." the engine rattled. "i hope he's pleased at finding his mother looking so bonny." "it's only excitement at having leonard," she explained earnestly. "in reality i'm far from well. but i wouldn't tell him for worlds." "what's that you wouldn't tell, mother?" cried a soft, cheery voice, and leonard, the fine flower of english soldiery, turned the corner of the house. there he stood, tall, deep-chested, clear-eyed, bronzed, his heavy chin in the air, his bull-neck not detracting from his physical handsomeness, but giving it a seal of enormous strength. "my dear fellow," he cried, grasping my hand heartily, "how glad i am to see you. come along in and let mother give you some tea. nonsense!" he waved away my protest. "marigold, stop that engine and bring in the major. i've got lots of things to tell you. that's right." he strode boyishly to the front door, which he threw open wide to admit marigold and myself and followed us with mrs. boyce into the drawing-room, talking all the while. i must confess that i was just a little puzzled by his exuberant welcome. and, to judge by the blank expression that flitted momentarily over her face, so was his mother. if he were so delighted by my visit, why had he not crossed the lawn at once as soon as he saw the car? why had he sent his mother on ahead? i was haunted by an exchange of words overheard in imagination: "confound the fellow! what has he come here for?" "mary will say 'not at home.'" "but he has spotted us. do go and get rid of him." "such an old friend, dear." "we haven't time for old fossils. tell him to go and bury himself." and (in my sensitive fancy) she had delivered the import of the message. i had gathered that my visit was ill-timed. i was preparing to cut it short, when leonard himself came up and whisked me against my will to the tea-table. if my hypothesis were correct he had evidently changed his mind as to the desirability of getting rid, in so summary a fashion, of what he may have considered to be an impertinent and malicious little factor in wellingsford gossip. at any rate, if he was playing a part, he played it very well. it was not in the power of man to be more cordial and gracious. he gave me a vivid account of the campaign. he had been through everything, the retreat from mons, the battle of the aisne, the great rush north, and the battle of neuve chapelle on the th of march. i listened, fascinated, to his tale, which he told with a true soldier's impersonal modesty. "i was glad," said i, after a while, "to see you twice mentioned in dispatches." mrs. boyce turned on me triumphantly. "he is going to get his d. s. o." "by jove!" said i. leonard laughed, threw one gaitered leg over the other and held up his hands at her. "oh, you feminine person!" he smiled at me. "i told my dear old mother as a dead and solemn secret." "but it will be gazetted in a few days, dear." "one can never be absolutely sure of these things until they're in black and white. a pretty ass i'd look if there was a hitch--say through some fool of a copying clerk--and i didn't get it after all. it's only dear, silly understanding things like mothers that would understand. other people wouldn't. don't you think i'm right, meredyth?" of course he was. i have known, in my time, of many disappointments. it is not every recommendation for honours that becomes effective. i congratulated him, however, and swore to secrecy. "it's all luck," said he. "just because a man happens to be spotted. if my regiment got its deserts, every jack man would walk about in a suit of armour made of victoria crosses. give me some more tea, mother." "the thing i shall never understand, dear," she said, artlessly, looking up at him, while she handed him his cup, "is when you see a lot of murderous germans rushing at you with guns and shells and bayonets, how you are not afraid." he threw back his head and laughed in his debonair fashion; but i watched him narrowly and i saw the corners of his mouth twitch for the infinitesimal fraction of a second. "oh, sometimes we're in an awful funk, i assure you," he replied gaily. "ask meredyth." "we may be," said i, "but we daren't shew it--i'm speaking of officers. if an officer funks he's generally responsible for the death of goodness knows how many men. and if the men funk they're liable to be shot for cowardice in the face of the enemy." "and what happens to officers who are afraid?" "if it's known, they get broke," said i. boyce swallowed his tea at a gulp, set down the cup, and strode to the window. there was a short pause. presently he turned. "physical fear is a very curious thing," he said in a voice unnecessarily loud. "i've seen it take hold of men of proved courage and paralyse them. it's just like an epileptic fit--beyond a man's control. i've known a fellow--the most reckless, hare-brained daredevil you can imagine--to stand petrified with fear on the bank of a river, and let a wounded comrade drown before his eyes. and he was a good swimmer too." "what happened to him?" i asked. he met my gaze for a moment, looked away, and then met it again--it seemed defiantly. "what happened to him? well--" there was the tiniest possible pause--a pause that only an uneasy, suspicious repository of the abominable story of vilboek's farm could have noticed--"well, as he stood there he got plugged--and that was the end of him. but what i--" "was he an officer, dear?" "no, no, mother, a sergeant," he answered abruptly, and in the same breath continued. "what i was going to say is this. no one as far as i know has ever bothered to work out the psychology of fear. especially the sudden thing that hits a man's heart and makes him stand stock-still like a living corpse--unable to move a muscle--all his willpower out of gear--just as a motor is out of gear. i've seen a lot of it. those men oughtn't to be called cowards. it's as much a fit, say, as epilepsy. allowances ought to made for them." it was a warm day, the windows were closed, my valetudinarian hostess having a horror of draughts, and a cheery fire was blazing up the chimney. boyce took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "dear old mother," said he, "you keep this room like an oven." "it is you who have got so excited talking, dear," said mrs. boyce. "i'm sure it can't be good for your heart. it is just the same with me. i remember i had to speak quite severely to mary a week--no, to-day's tuesday--ten days ago, and i had dreadful palpitations afterwards and broke out into a profuse perspiration and had to send for doctor miles." "now, that's funny," said i. "when i'm excited about anything i grow quite cold." boyce lit a cigarette and laughed. "i don't see where the excitement in the present case comes in. mother started an interesting hare, and i followed it up. anyhow--" he threw himself on the sofa, blew a kiss to his mother in the most charming way in the world, and smiled on me--"anyhow, to see you two in this dearest bit of dear old england is like a dream. and i'm not going to think of the waking up. i want all the cushions and the lavender and the neat maid's caps and aprons--i said to mary this morning when she drew my curtains: 'stay just there and let me look at you so that i can realise i'm at home and not in my little grey trench in west flanders'--she got red and no doubt thought me a lunatic and felt inclined to squawk--but she stayed and looked jolly pretty and refreshing--only for a minute or two, after which i dismissed her--yes, my dears, i want everything that the old life means, the white table linen, the spring flowers, the scent of the air which has never known the taint of death, and all that this beautiful mother of england, with her knitting needles, stands for. i want to have a debauch of sweet and beautiful things." "as far as i can give them you shall have them. my dear--" she dropped her knitting in her lap and looked over at him tragically--"i quite forgot to ask. did mary put bath-salts, as i ordered, into your bath this morning?" leonard threw away his cigarette and slapped his leg. "by george!" he cried. "that explains it. i was wondering where the dickens that smell of ammonia came from." "if you use it every day it makes your skin so nice and soft," remarked mrs. boyce. he laughed, and made the obvious jest on the use of bath-salts in the trenches. "i wonder, mother, whether you have any idea of what trenches and dug-outs look like." he told her, very picturesquely, and went on to a general sketch of life at the front. he entertained me with interesting talk for the rest of my visit. i have already said that he was a man of great personal charm. he accompanied me to the car and saw me comfortably tucked in. "you won't give me away, will you?" he said, shaking hands. "how?" i asked. "by telling any one i'm here." i promised and drove off. marigold, full of the tea that is given to a guest, strove cheerfully to engage me in conversation. i hate to snub marigold, excellent and devoted fellow, so i let him talk; but my mind was occupied with worrying problems. chapter vi leonard boyce had received me on sufferance. i had come upon him while he was imprudently exposing himself to view. there had been no way out of it. but he made it clear that he desired no other wellingsfordian to invade his privacy. secretly he had come to see his mother and secretly he intended to go. i remembered that before he went to the front he had not come home, but his mother had met him in london. he had asked me for no local news. he had inquired after the welfare of none of his old friends. never an allusion to poor oswald fenimore's gallant death--he used to run in and out of wellings park as if it were his own house. what had he against the place which for so many years had been his home? with regard to betty fairfax, he had loved and ridden away, it is true, leaving her disconsolate. but though everyone knew of the engagement, no one had suspected the defection. betty was a young woman who could keep her own counsel and baffle any curiosity-monger or purveyor of gossip in the country. so when she married captain connor, a little gasp went round the neighbourhood, which for the first time remembered leonard boyce. there were some who blamed her for callous treatment of boyce, away and forgotten at the front. the majority, however, took the matter calmly, as we have had to take far more amazing social convulsions. the fact remained that betty was married, and there was no reason whatever, on the score of the old engagement, for boyce to manifest such exaggerated shyness with regard to wellingsford society. if it had been any other man than boyce, i should not have worried about the matter at all. save that i was deeply attached to betty, what had her discarded lover's attitude to do with me? but boyce was boyce, the man of the damnable story of vilboek's farm. and he, of his own accord, had revived in my mind that story in all its intensity. a chance foolish question, such as thousands of gentle, sheltered women have put to their suddenly uncomprehended, suddenly deified sons and husbands, had obviously disturbed his nervous equilibrium. that little reflex twitch at the corner of his lips--i have seen it often in the old times. i should like to have had him stripped to the waist so that i could have seen his heart--the infallible test. at moments of mighty moral strain men can keep steady eyes and nostrils and mouth and speech; but they cannot control that tell-tale diaphragm of flesh over the heart. i have known it to cause the death of many a kaffir spy.... but, at any rate, there was the twitch of the lips ... i deliberately threw weight into the scale of mrs. boyce's foolish question. if he had not lost his balance, why should he have launched into an almost passionate defence of the physical coward? my memory went back to the narrative of the poor devil in the cape town hospital. boyce's description of the general phenomenon was a deadly corroboration of somers's account of the individual case. they had used the same word--"paralysed." boyce had made a fierce and definite apologia for the very act of which somers had accused him. he put it down to the sudden epilepsy of fear for which a man was irresponsible. somers's story had never seemed so convincing--the first part of it, at least--the part relating to the paralysis of terror. but the second part--the account of the diabolical ingenuity by means of which boyce rehabilitated himself--instead of blowing his brains out like a gentleman--still hammered at the gates of my credulity. well--granted the whole thing was true--why revive it after fifteen years' dead silence, and all of a sudden, just on account of an idle question? even in south africa, his "mention" had proved his courage. now, with the d. s. o. a mere matter of gazetting, it was established beyond dispute. on the other hand, if the vilboek story, more especially the second part, was true, what reparation could he make in the eyes of honourable men?--in his own eyes, if he himself had succeeded to the status of an honourable man? would not any decent soldier smite him across the face instead of grasping him by the hand? i was profoundly worried. moreover betty, level-headed betty, had called him a devil. why? if the second part of somers's story were true, he had acted like a devil. there is no other word for it. now, what concrete diabolical facts did betty know? or had her instinctive feminine insight pierced through the man's outer charm and merely perceived horns, tail, and cloven hoof cast like a shadow over his soul? how was i to know? she came to dine with me the next evening: a dear way she had of coming uninvited, and god knows how a lonely cripple valued it. she was in uniform, being too busy to change, and looked remarkably pretty. she brought with her a cheery letter from her husband, received that morning, and read me such bits as the profane might hear, her eyes brightening as she glanced over the sections that she skipped. beyond doubt her marriage had brought her pleasure and pride. the pride she would have felt to some extent, i think, if she had married a grampus; for when a woman has a husband at the front she feels that she is taking her part in the campaign and exposing herself vicariously to hardship and shrapnel; and in the eyes of the world she gains thereby a little in stature, a thing dear to every right-minded woman. but betty's husband was not a grampus, but a very fine fellow, a mate to be wholly proud of: and he loved her devotedly and expressed his love beautifully loverwise, as her tell-tale face informed me. gratefully and sturdily she had set herself out to be happy. she was succeeding.... lord bless you! millions of women who have married, not the wretch they loved, but the other man, have lived happy ever after. no: i had no fear for betty now. i could not see that she had any fear for herself. after dinner she sat on the floor by my side and smoked cigarettes in great content. she had done a hard day's work at the hospital; her husband had done a hard day's work--probably was still doing it--in flanders. both deserved well of their country and their consciences. she was giving a poor lonely paralytic, who had given his legs years ago to the aforesaid country, a delightful evening. ... no, i'm quite sure such a patronising thought never entered my betty's head. after all, my upper half is sound, and i can talk sense or nonsense with anybody. what have one's legs to do with a pleasant after-dinner conversation? years ago i swore a great oath that i would see them damned before they got in the way of my intelligence. we were getting on famously. we had put both war and wellingsford behind us, and talked of books. i found to my dismay that this fair and fearless high product of modernity had far less acquaintance with matthew arnold than with the evangelist of the same praenomen. she had never heard of "the forsaken merman," one of the most haunting romantic poems in the english language. i pointed to a bookcase and bade her fetch the volume. she brought it and settled down again by my chair, and, as a punishment of ignorance, and for the good of her soul, i began to read aloud. she is an impressionable young person and yet one of remarkable candour. if she had not been held by the sea-music of the poem, she would not have kept her deep, steady brown eyes fixed on me. i have no hesitation in repeating that we were getting on famously and enjoying ourselves immensely. i got nearly to the end: "... here came a mortal, but faithless was she, and alone dwell forever the kings of the sea. but, children at midnight--" the door opened wide. topping his long stiff body, marigold's ugly one-eyed head appeared, and, as if he was tremendously proud of himself, he announced: "major boyce." boyce strode quickly past him and, suddenly aware of betty by my side, stopped short, like a private suddenly summoned to attention. marigold, unconscious of the blackest curses that had ever fallen upon him during his long and blundering life, made a perfect and self-satisfied exit. betty sprang to her feet, held her tall figure very erect, and faced the untimely visitor, her cheeks flushing deep red. for an appreciable time, say, thirty seconds, boyce stood stock still, looking at her from under heavy contracted brows. then he recovered himself, smiled, and advanced to her with outstretched hand, but, on his movement, she had been quick to turn and bend down in order to pick up the book that had fallen from my fingers on the further side of my chair. so, swiftly he wheeled to me with his handshake. it was very deft manoeuvring on both sides. "the faithful marigold didn't tell me that you weren't alone, meredyth," he said in his cordial, charming way. "otherwise i shouldn't have intruded. but my dear old mother had an attack of something and went to bed immediately after dinner, and i thought i'd come round and have a smoke and a drink in your company." betty, who had occupied herself by replacing matthew arnold's poems in the bookcase, caught up the box of cigars that lay on the brass tray table by my side, and offered it to him. "here is the smoke," she said. and when, after a swift, covert glance at her, he had selected a cigar, she went to the bell-push by the mantelpiece. "the drinks will be here in a minute." in order to do something to save this absurd situation, i drew from my waistcoat pocket a little cigar-cutter attached to my watch-chain, and clipped the end of his cigar. i also lit a match from my box and handed it up to him. when he had finished with the match he threw it into the fireplace and turned to betty. "my congratulations are a bit late, but i hope i may offer them." she said, "thank you." waved a hand. "won't you sit down?" "wasn't it rather sudden?" he asked. "everything in war time is sudden--except the action of the british government. your own appearance to-night is sudden." he laughed at her jest and explained, much as he had done to me, his reasons for wishing to keep his visit to wellingsford a secret. meanwhile marigold had brought in decanters and syphons. betty attended to boyce's needs with a provoking air of nonchalance. if a notorious german imbrued in the blood of babes had chanced to be in her hospital, she would have given him his medicine with just the same air. although no one could have specified a lack of courtesy towards a guest--for in my house she played hostess--there was an indefinable touch of cold contumely in her attitude. whether he felt the hostility as acutely as i did, i cannot say; but he carried it off with a swaggering grace. he bowed to her over his glass. "here's to the fortunate and gallant fellow over there." i saw her knuckles whiten as, with an inclination of the head, she acknowledged the toast. "by the way," said he, "what's his regiment? my good mother told me his name. captain connor, isn't it? but for the rest she is vague. she's the vaguest old dear in the world. i found out to-day that she thought there was a long row of cannons, hundreds of them, all in a line, in front of the english army, and a long row in front of the german army, and, when there was a battle, that they all blazed away. so when i asked her whether your husband was in the life guards or the army service corps, she said cheerfully that it was either one or the other but she wasn't quite sure. so do give me some reliable information." "my husband is in the th wessex fusiliers, a territorial battalion," she replied coldly. "i hope some day to have the pleasure of making his acquaintance." "stranger things have happened," said betty. she glanced at the clock and rose abruptly. "it's time i was getting back to the hospital." boyce rose too. "how are you going?" he asked. "i'm walking." he advanced a step towards her. "won't you let me run you round in the car?" "i prefer to walk." her tone was final. she took affectionate leave of me and went to the door, which boyce held open. "good-night," she said, without proffering her hand. he followed her out into the hall. "betty," he said in a low voice, "won't you ever forgive me?" "i have no feelings towards you either of forgiveness or resentment," she replied. they did not mean to be overheard, but my hearing is unusually acute, and i could not help catching their conversation. "i know i seem to have behaved badly to you." "you have behaved worse to others," said betty. "i don't wonder at your shrinking from showing your face here." then, louder, for my benefit. "good-night, major boyce. i really can walk up to the hospital by myself." evidently she walked away and boyce after her, for i heard him say: "you shan't go till you've told me what you mean." what she replied i don't know. to judge by the slam of the front door it must have been something defiant. presently he entered debonair, with a smile on his lips. "i'm afraid i've left you in a draught," he said, shutting the door. "i couldn't resist having a word with her and wishing her happiness and the rest of it. we were engaged once upon a time." "i know," said i. "i hope you don't think i did wrong in releasing her from the engagement. i don't consider a man has a right to go on active service--especially on such service as the present war--and keep a girl bound at home. still less has he a right to marry her. what happens in so many cases? a fortnight's married life. the man goes to the front. then ping! or whizz-bang! and that's the end of him, and so the girl is left." "on the other hand," said i, "you must remember that the girl may hold very strong opinions and take pings and whizz-bangs very deliberately into account." boyce helped himself to another whisky and soda. "it's a matter for the individual conscience. i decided one way. connor obviously decided another, and, like a lucky fellow, found betty of his way of thinking. perhaps i have old-fashioned notions." he took a long pull at his drink. "well, it can't be helped," he said with a smile. "the other fellow has won, and i must take it gracefully. ... by george! wasn't she looking stunning to-night--in that kit? ... i hope you didn't mind my bursting in on you--" "of course not," said i, politely. he drained his glass. "the fact is," said he, "this war is a nerve-racking business. i never dreamed i was so jumpy until i came home. i hate being by myself. i've kept my poor devoted mother up till one o'clock in the morning. to-night she struck, small blame to her; but, after five minutes on my lones, i felt as if i should go off my head. so i routed out the car and came along. but of course i didn't expect to see betty. the sight of betty in the flesh as a married woman nearly bowled me over. may i help myself again?" he poured out a very much stiffer drink than before, and poured half of it down his throat. "it's not a joyous thing to see the woman one has been crazy over the wife of another fellow." "i suppose it isn't," said i. of course i might have made some subtle and cunning remark, suavely put a leading question which would have led him on, in his unbalanced mood, to confidential revelations. but the man was a distinguished soldier and my guest. to what he chose to tell me voluntarily i could listen. i could do no more. he did not reply to my last unimportant remark, but lay back in his armchair watching the blue spirals of smoke from the end of his cigar. there was a fairly long silence. i was worried by the talk i had overheard through the open door. "you have behaved worse to others. i don't wonder at your shrinking from showing your face here." betty had, weeks ago, called him a devil. she had treated him to-night in a manner which, if not justified, was abominable. i was forced to the conclusion that betty was fully aware of some discreditable chapter in the man's life which had nothing to do with the affair at vilboek's farm, which, indeed, had to do with another woman and this humdrum little town of wellingsford. otherwise why did she taunt him with hiding from the light of wellingsfordian day? now, please don't think me little-minded. or, if you do think so, please remember the conditions under which i have lived for so many years and grant me your kind indulgence for a confession i have to make. besides being worried, i felt annoyed. wellingsford was my little world. i knew everybody in it. i had grown to regard myself as the repository of all its gossip. the fraction of it that i retailed was a matter of calculated discretion. i made a little hobby--it was a foible, a vanity, what you will--of my omniscience. i knew months ahead the dates of the arrivals of young wellingsfordians in this world of pain and plenitude. i knew of maidens who were wronged and youths who were jilted; of wives who led their husbands a deuce of a dance, and of wives who kept their husbands out of the bankruptcy court. when young trexham, the son of the lord lieutenant of the county, married a minor light of musical comedy at a registrar's office, i was the first person in the place to be told; and i flatter myself that i was instrumental in inducing a pig-headed old idiot to receive an exceedingly charming daughter-in-law. i loved to look upon wellingsford as an open book. can you blame me for my resentment at coming across, so to speak, a couple of pages glued together? the only logical inference from betty's remark was that boyce had behaved abominably and even notoriously to a woman in wellingsford. to do him justice, i declare i had never heard his name associated with any woman or girl in the place save betty herself. i felt that, in some crooked fashion, or the other, i had been done out of my rights. and there, placidly smoking his cigar and watching the wreaths of blue smoke with the air of an idle seraph contemplating a wisp of cirrus in heaven's firmament, sat the man who could have given me the word of the enigma. he broke the silence by saying: "have you ever seriously considered the real problems of the balkans?" now what on earth had the balkans to do with the thoughts that must have been rolling at the back of the man's mind? i was both disappointed and relieved. i expected him to resume the personal talk, and i dreaded lest he should entrust me with embarrassing confidences. after three strong whiskies and sodas a man is apt to relax hold of his discretion.... anyhow, he jerked me back to my position of host. i made some sort of polite reply. he smiled. "you, my dear meredyth, like the rest of the country, are half asleep. in a few months' time you'll get the awakening of your life." he began to discourse on the diplomatic situation. months afterwards i remembered what he had said that night and how accurate had been his forecast. he talked brilliantly for over an hour, during which, keenly interested in his arguments, i lost the puzzle of the man in admiration of the fine soldier and clear and daring thinker. it was only when he had gone that i began to worry again. and before i went to sleep i had fresh cause for anxious speculation. "marigold," said i, when he came in as usual to carry me to bed, "didn't i tell you that major boyce particularly wanted no one to know that he was in the town?" "yes, sir," said marigold. "i've told nobody." "and yet you showed him in without informing him that mrs. connor was here. really you ought to have had more tact." marigold received his reprimand with the stolidity of the old soldier. i have known men who have been informed that they would be court-martialled and most certainly shot, make the same reply. "very good, sir," said he. i softened. i was not marigold's commanding officer, but his very grateful friend. "you see," said i, "they were engaged before mrs. connor married--i needn't tell you that; it was common knowledge--and so their sudden meeting was awkward." "mrs. marigold has already explained, sir," said he. i chuckled inwardly all the way to my bedroom. "all the same, sir," said he, aiding me in my toilet, which he did with stiff military precision, "i don't think the major is as incognighto" (the spelling is phonetic) "as he would like. prettilove was shaving me this morning and told me the major was here. as i considered it my duty, i told him he was a liar, and he was so upset that he nicked my adam's apple and i was that covered with blood that i accused him of trying to cut my throat, and i went out and finished shaving myself at home, which is unsatisfactory when you only have a thumb on your right hand to work the razor." i laughed, picturing the scene. prettilove is an inoffensive little rabbit of a man. marigold might sit for the model of a war-scarred mercenary of the middle ages, and when he called a man a liar he did it with accentuaton and vehemence. no wonder prettilove jumped. "and then again this evening, sir," continued marigold, slipping me into my pyjama jacket, "as i was starting the major's car, who should be waiting there for him but mr. gedge." "gedge?" i cried. "yes, sir. waiting by the side of the car. 'can i have a word with you, major boyce?' says he. 'no, you can't,' says the major. 'i think it's advisable,' says he. 'those repairs are very pressing.' 'all right,' says the major, 'jump in.' then he says: 'that'll do, marigold. good-night.' and he drives off with mr. gedge. well, if mr. gedge and prettilove know he's here, then everyone knows it." "was gedge inside the drive?" i asked. the drive was a small semicircular sort of affair, between gate and gate. "he was standing by the car waiting," said marigold. "now, sir." he lifted me with his usual cast-iron tenderness into bed and pulled the coverings over me. "it's a funny time to talk about house repairs at eleven o'clock, at night," he remarked. "nothing is funny in war-time," said i. "either nothing or everything," said marigold. he fussed methodically about the room, picked up an armful of clothes, and paused by the door, his hand on the switch. "anything more, sir?" "nothing, thank you, marigold." "good-night, sir." the room was in darkness. marigold shut the door. i was alone. what the deuce was the meaning of this waylaying of boyce by daniel gedge? chapter vii "major boyce has gone, sir," said marigold, the next morning, as i was tapping my breakfast egg. "gone?" i echoed. boyce had made no reference the night before to so speedy a departure. "by the . train, sir." every train known by a scheduled time at wellingsford goes to london. there may be other trains proceeding from the station in the opposite direction but nobody heeds them. boyce had taken train to london. i asked my omniscient sergeant: "how did you find that out?" it appeared it was the driver of the railway delivery van. i smiled at boyce's ostrich-like faith in the invisibility of his hinder bulk. what could occur in wellingsford without it being known at once to vanmen and postmen and barbers and servants and masters and mistresses? how could a man hope to conceal his goings and comings and secret actions? he might just as well expect to take a secluded noontide bath in the fountain in piccadilly circus. "perhaps that's why the matter of those repairs was so pressing, sir," said marigold. "no doubt of it," said i. marigold hung about, his finger-tips pushing towards me mustard and apples and tulips and everything that one does not eat with egg. but it was no use. i had no desire to pursue the conversation. i continued my breakfast stolidly and read the newspaper propped up against the coffee-pot. so many circumstances connected with boyce's visit were of a nature that precluded confidential discussion with marigold,--that precluded, indeed, confidential discussion with anyone else. the suddenness of his departure i learned that afternoon from mrs. boyce, who sent me by hand a miserable letter characteristically rambling. from it i gathered certain facts. leonard had come into her bedroom at seven o'clock, awakening her from the first half-hour's sleep she had enjoyed all night, with the news that he had been unexpectedly summoned back. when she came to think of it, she couldn't imagine how he got the news, for the post did not arrive till eight o'clock, and mary said no telegram had been delivered and there had been no call on the telephone. but she supposed the war office had secret ways of communicating with officers which it would not be well to make known. the whole of this war, with its killing off of the sons of the best families in the land, and the sleeping in the mud with one's boots on, to say nothing of not being able to change for dinner, and the way in which they knew when to shoot and when not to shoot, was all so mysterious that she had long ago given up hope of understanding any of its details. all she could do was to pray god that her dear boy should be spared. at any rate, she knew the duty of an english mother when the country was in danger; so she had sent him away with a brave face and her blessing, as she had done before. but, although english mothers could show themselves spartans--(she spelt it "spartians," dear lady, but no matter)--yet they were women and had to sit at home and weep. in the meanwhile, her palpitations had come on dreadfully bad, and so had her neuritis, and she had suffered dreadfully after eating some fish at dinner which she was sure pennideath, the fishmonger--she always felt that man was an anarchist in disguise--had bought out of the condemned stock at billingsgate, and none of the doctor's medicines were of the slightest good to her, and she was heartbroken at having to part so suddenly from leonard, and would i spare half an hour to comfort an old woman who had sent her only son to die for his country and was ready, when it pleased god, if not sooner, to die in the same sacred cause? so of course i went. the old lady, propped on pillows in an overheated room, gave me tea and poured into my ear all the anguish of her simple heart. in an abstracted, anxious way, she ate a couple of crumpets and a wedge of cake with almond icing, and was comforted. we continued our discussion of the war--or rather leonard, for with her leonard seemed to be the war. she made some remark deliciously inept--i wish i could remember it. i made a sly rejoinder. she sat bolt upright and a flush came into her dresden-china cheek and her old eyes flashed. "you may think i'm a silly old woman, duncan. i dare say i am. i can't take in things as i used to do when i was young. but if leonard should be killed in the war--i think of it night and day--what i should like to do would be to drive to the market square of wellingsford and wave a union jack round and round and fall down dead." i made some sort of sympathetic gesture. "and i certainly should," she added. "my dear friend," said i, "if i could move from this confounded chair, i would kiss your brave hands." and how many brave hands of english mothers, white and delicate, coarse and toil-worn, do not demand the wondering, heart-full homage of us all? and hundreds of thousands of them don't know why we are fighting. hundreds of thousands of them have never read a newspaper in their lives. i doubt whether they would understand one if they tried, i doubt whether all could read one in the literal sense of the word. we have had--we have still--the most expensive and rottenest system of primary education in the world, the worst that squabbling sectarians can devise. arab children squatting round the courtyard of a mosque and swaying backwards and forwards as they get by heart meaningless bits of the koran, are not sent out into life more inadequately armed with elementary educational weapons than are english children. our state of education has nominally been systematised for forty-five years, and yet now in our hospitals we have splendid young fellows in their early twenties who can neither read nor write. i have talked with them. i have read to them. i have written letters for them. clean-cut, decent, brave, honourable englishmen--not gutter-bred hooligans dragged from the abyss by the recruiting sergeant, but men who have thrown up good employment because something noble inside them responded to the great call. and to the eternal disgrace of governments in this disastrously politician-ridden land such men have not been taught to read and write. it is of no use anyone saying to me that it is not so. i know of my own certain intimate knowledge that it is so. even among those who technically have "the three r's," i have met scores of men in our wellingsford hospital who, bedridden for months, would give all they possess to be able to enjoy a novel--say a volume of w. w. jacobs, the writer who above all others has conferred the precious boon of laughter on our wounded--but to whom the intellectual strain of following the significance of consecutive words is far too great. thousands and thousands of men have lain in our hospitals deprived, by the criminal insanity of party politicians, of the infinite consolation of books. christ, whom all these politicians sanctimoniously pretend to make such a fuss of, once said that a house divided against itself cannot stand. and yet we regard this internecine conflict between our precious political parties as a sacred institution. by allah, we are a funny people! of course your officials at the board of education--that beautiful timber-headed, timber-hearted, timber-souled structure--could come down on me with an avalanche of statistics. "look at our results," they cry. i look. there are certain brains that even our educational system cannot benumb. a few clever ones, at the cost of enormously expensive machinery, are sent to the universities, where they learn how to teach others the important things whereby they achieved their own unimportant success. the shining lights are those whom we turn out as syndicalist leaders and other kinds of anti-patriotic demagogues. we systematically deny them the wine of thought, but give them the dregs. but in the past we did not care; they were vastly clever people, a credit to our national system. it gave them chances which they took. we were devilish proud of them. on the other hand, the vast mass are sent away with the intellectual equipment of a public school-boy of twelve, and, as i have declared, a large remnant have not been taught even how to read and write. the storm of political controversy on educational matters has centred round such questions as whether the story of joseph and his brethren and the parable of the prodigal son should be taught to little baptists by a church of england teacher, and what proportion of rates paid by church of england ratepayers should go to giving little baptists a baptistical training. if there was a christ who could come down among us, with what scorching sarcasm would he not shrivel up the scribes and pharisees, hypocrites, who in his name have prevented the people from learning how to read and write. look through hansard. there never has been a debate in the house of commons devoted to the question of education itself. if the war can teach us any lessons, as a nation--and sometimes i doubt whether it will--it ought at least to teach us the essential vicious rottenness of our present educational system. this tirade may seem a far cry from mrs. boyce and her sister mothers. it is not. i started by saying that there are hundreds of thousands of british mothers, with sons in the army, who have never read a line of print dealing with the war, who have the haziest notion of what it is all about. all they know is that we are fighting germans, who for some incomprehensible reason have declared themselves to be our enemies; that the germans, by hearsay accounts, are dreadful people who stick babies on bayonets and drop bombs on women and children. they really know little more. but that is enough. they know that it is the part of a man to fight for his country. they would not have their sons be called cowards. they themselves have the blind, instinctive, and therefore sacred love of country, which is named patriotism--and they send forth their sons to fight. i stand up to kiss the white and delicate hand of the gentlewoman who sends her boy to the war, for its owner knows as well as i do (or ought to) all that is involved in this colossal struggle. but to the toil-worn, coarse-handed mother i go on bended knees; nothing intellectual comes within the range of her ideas. her boy is fighting for england. she would be ashamed if he were not. were she a man she would fight too. he has gone "with a good 'eart"--the stereotyped phrase with which every english private soldier, tongue-tied, hides the expression of his unconquerable soul. how many times have i not heard it from wounded men healed of their wounds? i have never heard anything else. "the man who says he wants to go back is a liar. but if they send me, i'll go with a good 'eart"--the phrase which ought to be immortalized on every grave in flanders and france and gallipoli and mesopotamia. p'v'te thomas atkins st god's own reg't he died with a good 'eart so, you see, i looked at this rather silly malade imaginaire of an old lady with whom i was taking tea, and suddenly conceived for her a vast respect--even veneration. i say "rather silly." i had many a time qualified the adjective much more forcibly. i took her to have the intellectual endowment of a hen. but then she flashed out suddenly before me an elderly jeanne d'arc. that to me leonard boyce was suspect did not enter at all into the question. to her--and that was all that mattered--he was sir galahad, lancelot, king arthur, bayard, st. george, hector, lysander, miltiades, all rolled into one. the passion of her life was spent on him. to do him justice, he had never failed to display to her the most tender affection. in her eyes he was perfection. his death would mean the wiping out of everything between earth and heaven. and yet, paramount in her envisagement of such a tragedy was the idea of a public proclamation of the cause of england in which he died. in this war the women of england--the women of great britain and ireland--the women of the far-flung regions of the british empire, have their part. now and then mild business matters call me up to london. on these occasions marigold gets himself up in a kind of yachting kit which he imagines will differentiate him from the ordinary chauffeur and at the same time proclaim the dignity of the meredyth-marigold establishment. he loves to swagger up the steps of my service club and announce my arrival to the hall porter, who already, warned by telephone of my advent, has my little wicker-work tricycle chair in readiness. i think he feels, dear fellow, that he and i are keeping our end up; that, although there are only bits of us left, we are there by inalienable right as part and parcel of the british army--none of your territorials or kitcheners, but the old original british army whose prestige and honour were those of his own straight soul. the hall porter is an ex-sergeant-major, and he and marigold are old acquaintances, and the meeting of the two warriors is acknowledged by a wink and a military jerk of the head. i think it is marigold that impresses bunworthy with a respect for me, for that august functionary never fails to descend the steps and cross the pavement to my modest little two-seater; an act of graciousness which (so i am given to understand by my friends) he will only perform in the case of royalty itself. a mere field-marshal has to mount the steps unattended like any subaltern. these red-letter days when i drive through the familiar (and now exciting) hubbub of london, i love (strange taste!) every motor omnibus, every pretty woman, every sandwich-man, every fine young fellow in khaki, every car-load of men in blue hospital uniform. i love the smell of london, the cinematographic picture of london, the thrill of london. to understand what i mean you have only got to get rid of your legs and keep your heart and nerves and memories, and live in a little country town. yes, my visits to london are red-letter days. to get there with any enjoyment to myself involves such a fussification, and such an unauthorised claim on the services of other people, that my visits are few and far between. a couple of hours in a club smoking-room--to the normal man a mere putting in of time, a vain surcease from boredom, a vacuous habit--is to me, a strange wonder and delight. after wellingsford the place is resonant with actualities. i hear all sorts of things; mostly lies, i know; but what matter? when a man tells me that his cousin knows a man attached as liaison officer to the staff of general joffre, who has given out confidentially that such and such a thing is going to happen i am all ears. i feel that i am sucked into the great whirlpool of vast events. i don't care a bit about being disillusioned afterwards. the experience has done me good, made a man of me and sent me back to wellingsford as an oracle. and if you bring me a man who declares that he does not like being an oracle, i will say to his face that he is an unblushing liar. all this is by way of preface to the statement that on the third of may (vide diary) i went to the club. it was just after lunch and the great smoking-room was full of men in khaki and men in blue and gold, with a sprinkling of men, mostly elderly, in mufti; and from their gilt frames the full-length portraits of departed men of war in gorgeous uniforms looked down superciliously on their more sadly attired descendants. i got into a corner by the door, so as to be out of the way, for i knew by experience that should there be in the room a choleric general, he would inevitably trip over the casually extended front wheel of my chair, greatly to the scandal of modest ears and to my own physical discomfiture. various seniors came up and passed the time of the day with me--one or two were bald-headed retired colonels of sixty, dressed in khaki, with belts like equators on a terrestrial globe and with a captain's three stars on their sleeves. gallant old boys, full of gout and softness, they had sunk their rank and taken whatever dull jobs, such as guarding internment camps or railway bridges, the war office condescendingly thought fit to give them. they listened sympathetically to my grievances, for they had grievances of their own. when soldiers have no grievances the army will perish of smug content. "why can't they give me a billet in the army pay and let me release a man sounder of wind and limb?" i asked. "what's the good of legs to a man who sits on his hunkers all day in an office and fills up army forms? i hate seeing you lucky fellows in uniform." "we're not a pretty sight," said the most rotund, who was a wag in his way. then we discussed what we knew and what we didn't know of the battle of ypres, and the withdrawal of our second army, and shook our heads dolorously over the casualty lists, every one of which in those days contained the names of old comrades and of old comrades' boys. and when they had finished their coffee and mild cigars they went off well contented to their dull jobs and the room began to thin. other acquaintances on their way out paused for a handshake and a word, and i gathered scraps of information that had come "straight from kitchener," and felt wonderfully wise and cheerful. i had been sitting alone for a few minutes when a man rose from a far corner, a tall soldierly figure, his arm in a sling, and came straight towards me with that supple, easy stride that only years of confident command can give. he had keen blue eyes and a pleasant bronzed face which i knew that i had seem somewhere before. i noticed on his sleeve the crown and star of a lieutenant-colonel. he said pleasantly: "you're major meredyth, aren't you?" "yes," said i. "you don't remember me. no reason why you should. but my name's dacre--reggie dacre, brother of johnnie dacre in your battery. we met in cape town." i held out my hand. "of course," said i. "you took me to a hospital. do sit down for a bit. you a member here?" "no. i belong to the naval and military. lunching with old general donovan, a sort of god-father of mine. he told me who you were. i haven't seen you since that day in south africa." i asked for news of johnnie, who had been lost to my ken for years. johnnie had been in india, and was now doing splendidly with his battery somewhere near la bassee. i pointed to the sling. badly hurt? no, a bit of flesh torn by shrapnel. bone, thank god, not touched. it was only horny-headed idiots like the british r. a. m. c. that would send a man home for such a trifle. it was devilish hard lines to be hoofed away from the regiment practically just after he had got his command. however, he would be back in a week or two. he laughed. "lucky to be alive at all." "or not done in for ever like myself," said i. "i didn't like to ask--" he said. men would rather die than commit the indelicacy of appearing to notice my infirmity. "you haven't been out there?" "no such luck," said i. "i got this little lot about a fortnight after i saw you. johnnie was still on sick leave and so was out of that scrap." he commiserated with me on my ill-fortune, and handed me his cigarette case. we smoked. "you've been on my mind for months," he said abruptly. "i?" he nodded. "i thought i recognised you. i asked the general who you were. he said 'meredyth of the gunners.' so i knew i was right and made a bee line for you. do you remember the story of that man in the hospital?" "perfectly," said i. "about boyce of the king's watch?" "yes," said i. "i saw boyce, home on leave, about a fortnight ago. i suppose you saw his d.s.o. gazetted?" "i did. and he deserves a jolly sight more," he exclaimed heartily. "i've come to the conclusion that that fellow in the hospital--i forget the brute's name--" "somers," said i. "yes, somers. i've come to the conclusion that he was the damn'dest, filthiest, lyingest hound that ever was pupped." "i'm glad to hear it," said i. "it was a horrible story. i remember making your brother and yourself vow eternal secrecy." "you can take it from me that we haven't breathed a word to anybody. as a matter of fact, the whole damn thing had gone out of my head for years. then i begin to hear of a fellow called boyce of the rifles doing the most crazy magnificent things. i make enquiries and find it's the same leonard boyce of the vilboek farm story. we're in the same brigade. "you don't often hear of individual men out there--your mind's too jolly well concentrated on your own tiny show. but boyce has sort of burst out beyond his own regiment and, with just one or two others, is beginning to be legendary. he has done the maddest things and won the v.c. twenty times over. so that blighter somers, accusing him of cowardice, was a ghastly liar. and then i remembered taking you up to hear that damnable slander, and i felt that i had a share in it, as far as you were concerned, and i longed to get at you somehow and tell you about it. i wanted to get it off my chest. and now," said he with a breath of relief, "thank god, i've been able to do so." "i wish you would tell me of an incident or two," said i. "he has got a life-preserver that looks like an ordinary cane--had it specially made. it's quite famous. men tell me that the knob is a rich, deep, polished vermilion. he'll take on any number of boches with it single-handed. if there's any sign of wire-cutting, he'll not let the men fire, but will take it on himself, and creep like a gurkha and do the devils in. one night he got a whole listening post like that. he does a lot of things a second in command hasn't any business to do, but his men would follow him anywhere. he bears a charmed life. i could tell you lots of things--but i see my old general's getting restive." he rose, stretched out his hand. "at any rate, take my word for it--if there's a man in the british army who doesn't know what fear is, that man is leonard boyce." he nodded in his frank way and rejoined his old general. as i had had enough exciting information for one visit to town, i motored back to wellingsford. chapter viii my house, as i have already mentioned, is situated at the extreme end of the town on the main road, already called the rowdon road, which is an extension of the high street. it stands a little way back to allow room for a semicircular drive, at each end of which is a broad gate. the semicircle encloses a smooth-shaven lawn of which i am vastly proud. in the spandrels by the side of the house are laburnums and lilacs and laurels. from gate to gate stretch iron railings, planted in a low stone parapet and unencumbered with vegetation, so that the view from road to lawn and from lawn to road is unrestricted. thus i can take up my position on my lawn near the railings and greet all passers-by. it was a lovely may morning. my laburnums and lilacs were in flower. on the other side of the way the hedge of white-thorn screening the grounds of a large preparatory school was in flower also, and deliciously scented the air. i sat in my accustomed spot, a table with writing materials, tobacco, and books by my side, and a mass of newspapers at my feet. there was going to be a coalition government. great statesmen were going to forget that there was such a thing as party politics, except in the distribution of minor offices, when the claims of good and faithful jackals on either side would have to be considered. and my heart grew sick within me, and i longed for a man to arise who, with a snap of his strong fingers, would snuff out the little parish-pump folk who have misruled england this many a year with their limited vision and sordid aspirations, and would take the great, unshakable, triumphant command of a mighty empire passionately yearning to do his bidding... i could read no more newspapers. they disgusted me. one faction seemed doggedly opposed to any proposition for the amelioration of the present disastrous state of affairs. the salvation of wrecked political theories loomed far more important in their darkened minds than the salvation, by hook or crook, of the british empire. the other faction, more patriotic in theory, cried aloud stinking fish, and by scurrilous over-statement defeated their own ends. in the general ignoble screech the pronouncements of the one or two dignified and thoughtful london newspapers passed unheeded.... i drew what comfort i could from the sight of the continually passing troops; a platoon off to musketry training; a battalion, brown and dusty, on a route march with full equipment, whistling "tipperary"; sections of an army service train cursing good-humouredly at their mules; a battery of artillery thundering along at a clean, rhythmical trot which, considering what they were like in their slovenly jogging and bumping three months ago, afforded me prodigious pleasure. on the passing of these last-mentioned i felt inclined to clap my hands and generally proclaim my appreciation. indeed, i did arrest a fresh-faced subaltern bringing up the rear of the battery who, having acquaintance with me, saluted, and i shouted: "they're magnificent!" he reared up his horse and flushed with pleasure. "we've done our best, sir," said he. "we had news last week that we should be sent out quite soon, and that has bucked them up enormously." he saluted again and rode off, and my heart went with him. what a joy it would be to clatter down a road once again with the guns! and other people passed. townsfolk who gave me a kindly "morning, major!" and went on, and others who paused awhile and gave me the gossip of the day. and presently young randall holmes went by on a motor bicycle. he caught sight of me, disappeared, and then suddenly reappeared, wheeling his machine. he rested it by the kerb of the sidewalk and approached the railings. he was within a yard of me. "would you let me speak to you for half a minute, major?" "certainly," said i. "come in." he swung through the gate and crossed the lawn. "you said very hard things to me some time ago." "i did," said i, "and i don't think they were undeserved." "up to a certain point i agree with you," he replied. he looked extraordinarily robust and athletic in his canvas kit. why should he be tearing about aimlessly on a motor bicycle this may morning when he ought to be in france? "i wish you agreed with me all along the line," said i. he found a little iron garden seat and sat down by my side. "i don't want to enter into controversial questions," he said. confound him! he might have been fifty instead of four-and-twenty. controversial questions! his assured young oxford voice irritated me. "what do you want to enter into?" i asked. "a question of honour," he answered calmly. "i have been wanting to speak to you, but i didn't like to. passing you by, just now, i made a sudden resolution. you have thought badly of me on account of my attitude towards phyllis gedge. i want to tell you that you were quite right. my attitude was illogical and absurd." "you have discovered," said i, "that she is not the inspiration you thought she was, and like an honest man have decided to let her alone." "on the contrary," said he. "i'd give the eyes out of my head to marry her." "why?" he met my gaze very frankly. "for the simple reason, major meredyth, that i love her." all this natural, matter-of-fact simplicity coming from so artificial a product of balliol as randall holmes, was a bit upsetting. after a pause, i said: "if that is so, why don't you marry her?" "she'll have nothing to do with me." "have you asked her?" "i have, in writing. there's no mistake about it. i'm in earnest." "i'm exceedingly glad to hear it," said i. and i was. an honest lover i can understand, and a don juan i can understand. but the tepid philanderer has always made my toes tingle. and i was glad, too, to hear that little phyllis gedge had so much dignity and commonsense. not many small builders' daughters would have sent packing a brilliant young gentleman like randall holmes, especially if they happened to be in love with him. as i did not particularly wish to be the confidant of this love-lorn shepherd, i said nothing more. randall lit a cigarette. "i hope i'm not boring you," he said. "not a bit." "well--what complicates the matter is that her father's the most infernal swine unhung." i started, remembering what betty had told me. "i thought," said i, "that you were fast friends." "who told you so?" he asked. "all the birds of wellingsford." "i did go to see him now and then," he admitted. "i thought he was much maligned. a man with sincere opinions, even though they're wrong, is deserving of some respect, especially when the expression of them involves considerable courage and sacrifice. i wanted to get to the bottom of his point of view." "if you used such a metaphor in the albemarle," i interrupted, "i'm afraid you would be sacrificed by your friends." he had the grace to laugh. "you know what i mean." "and did you get to the bottom of it?" "i think so." "and what did you find?" "crass ignorance and malevolent hatred of everyone better born, better educated, better off, better dressed, better spoken than himself." "still," said i, "a human being can have those disabilities and yet not deserve to be qualified as the most infernal swine unhung." "that's a different matter," said he, unbuttoning his canvas jacket, for the morning was warm. "i can talk patiently to a fool--to be able to do so is an elementary equipment for a life among men and women--" why the deuce, thought i, wasn't he expending this precious acquirement on a platoon of agricultural recruits? the officer who suffers such gladly has his name inscribed on the golden legend (unfortunately unpublished) of the british army--"but when it comes," he went on, "to low-down lying knavery, then i'm done. i don't know how to tackle it. all i can do is to get out of the knave's way. i've found gedge to be a beast, and i'm very honourably in love with gedge's daughter, and i've asked her to marry me. i attach some value, major, to your opinion of me, and i want you to know these two facts." i again expressed my gratification at learning his honourable intentions towards phyllis, and i commended his discovery of gedge's fundamental turpitude. i cannot say that i was cordial. at this period, the unmilitary youth of england were not affectionately coddled by their friends. still, i was curious to see whether gedge's depravity extended beyond a purely political scope. i questioned my young visitor. "oh, it's nothing to do with abstract opinions," said he, thinning away the butt-end of his cigarette. "and nothing to do with treason, or anything of that kind. he has got hold of a horrible story--told me all about it when he was foully drunk--that in itself would have made me break with him, for i loathe drunken men--and gloats over the fact that he is holding it over somebody's head. oh, a ghastly story!" i bent my brows on him. "anything to do with south africa?" "south africa--? no. why?" the puzzled look on his face showed that i was entirely on the wrong track. i was disappointed at the faultiness of my acumen. you see, i argued thus: gedge goes off on a mysterious jaunt with boyce. boyce retreats precipitately to london. gedge in his cups tells a horrible scandal with a suggestion of blackmail to randall holmes. what else could he have divulged save the vilboek farm affair? my nimble wit had led me a jack o' lantern dance to nowhere. "why south africa?" he repeated. i replied with macchiavellian astuteness, so as to put him on a false scent: "a stupid slander about illicit diamond buying in connection with a man, now dead, who used to live here some years ago." "oh, no," said randall, with a superior smile "nothing of that sort." "well, what is it?" i asked. he helped himself to another cigarette. "that," said he, "i can't tell you. in the first place i gave my word of honour as to secrecy before he told me, and, in the next, even if i hadn't given my word, i would not be a party to such a slander by repeating it to any living man." he bent forward and looked me straight in the eyes. "even to you, major, who have been a second father to me." "a man," said i, "has a priceless possession that he should always keep--his own counsel." "i've only told you as much as i have done," said randall, "because i want to make clear to you my position with regard both to phyllis and her father." "may i ask," said i, "what is phyllis's attitude towards her father?" i knew well enough from betty; but i wanted to see how much randall knew about it. "she is so much out of sympathy with his opinions that she has gone to live at the hospital." "perhaps she thinks you share those opinions, and for that reason won't marry you?" "that may have something to do with it, although i have done my best to convince her that i hold diametrically opposite views, but you can't expect a woman to reason." "the unexpected sometimes happens," i remarked. "and then comes catastrophe; in this case not to the woman." i cannot say that my tone was sympathetic. i had cause for interest in his artless tale, but it was cold and dispassionate. "tell me," i continued, "when did you discover the diabolical nature of the man gedge?" "last night." "and when did you ask phyllis to marry you?" "a week ago." "what's going to happen now?" i asked. "i'm hanged if i know," said he, gloomily. i was in no mood to offer the young man any advice. the poor little wretch at the hospital--so betty had told me--was crying her eyes out for him; but it was not for his soul's good that he should know it. "in heroic days," said i, "a hopeless lover always found a sovereign remedy against an obdurate mistress." he rose and buttoned up his canvas jacket. "i know what you mean," he said. "and i didn't come to discuss it--if you'll excuse my apparent rudeness in saying so." "then things are as they were between us." "not quite, i hope," he replied in a dignified way. "when last you spoke to me about phyllis gedge, i really didn't know my own mind. i am not a cad and the thought of--of anything wrong never entered my head. on the other hand, marriage seemed out of the question." "i remember," said i, "you talked some blithering rot about her being a symbol." "i am quite willing to confess i was a fool," he admitted gracefully. "and i merited your strictures." his reversion to artificiality annoyed me. i'm far from being of an angelic disposition. "my dear boy," i cried. "do, for god's sake, talk human english, and not the new oxford dictionary." he flushed angrily, snapped an impatient finger and thumb, and marched away to the gravel path. i sang out sharply: "randall!" he turned. i cried: "come here at once." he came with sullen reluctance. afterwards i was rather tickled at realizing that the lame old war-dog had so much authority left. if he had gone defiantly off, i should have felt rather a fool. "my dear boy," i said, "i didn't mean to insult you. but can't a clever fellow like you understand that all the pretty frills and preciousness of a year ago are as dead as last year's brussels sprouts? we're up against elemental things and can only get at them with elemental ideas expressed in elemental language." "i'd have you to know," said randall, "that i spoke classical english." "quite so," said i. "but the men of to-day speak saxon english, cockney english, slang english, any damned sort of english that is virile and spontaneous. as i say, you're a clever fellow. can't you see my point? speech is an index of mental attitude. i bet you what you like phyllis gedge would see it at once. just imagine a subaltern at the front after a bad quarter of an hour with his colonel--'i've merited your strictures, sir!' if there was a bomb handy, the colonel would catch it up and slay him on the spot." "but i don't happen to be at the front, major," said randall. "then you damned well ought to be," said i, in sudden wrath. i couldn't help it. he asked for it. he got it. he went away, mounted his motor bicycle, and rode off. i was sorry. the boy evidently was in a chastened mood. if i had handled him gently and diplomatically, i might have done something with him. i suppose i'm an irritable, nasty-tempered beast. it is easy to lay the blame on my helpless legs. it isn't my legs. i've conquered my damned legs. it isn't my legs. its me. i was ashamed of myself. and when, later, marigold enquired whether the doors were still shut against mr. holmes, i asked him what the blazes he meant by not minding his own business. and marigold said: "very good, sir." chapter ix for a week or two the sluggish stream of wellingsfordian life flowed on undisturbed. the chief incident was a recruiting meeting held on the common. sir anthony fenimore in his civic capacity, a staff-officer with red tabs, a wounded soldier, an elderly, eloquent gentleman from recruiting headquarters in london, and one or two nondescripts, including myself, were on the platform. a company of a county territorial battalion and the o.t.c. of the godbury grammar school gave a semblance of military display. the town band, in a sort of hungarian uniform, discoursed martial music. old men and maidens, mothers and children, and contented young fellows in khaki belonging to all kinds of arms, formed a most respectable crowd. the flower of wellingsfordian youth was noticeably absent. they were having too excellent a time to be drawn into the temptation of a recruiting meeting, in spite of the band and the fine afternoon and the promiscuity of attractive damsels. they were making unheard-of money at the circumjacent factories; their mothers were waxing fat on billeting-money. they never had so much money to spend on moving-picture-palaces and cheap jewellery for their inamoratas in their lives. as our beautiful educational system had most scrupulously excluded from their school curriculum any reference to patriotism, any rudimentary conception of england as their sacred heritage, and as they had been afforded no opportunity since they left school of thinking of anything save their material welfare and grosser material appetites, the vague talk of peril to the british empire left them unmoved. they were quite content to let others go and fight. they had their own comfortable theories about it. some fellows liked that sort of thing. they themselves didn't. in ordinary times, it amused that kind of fellow to belong to a harriers club, and clad in shorts and zephyrs, go on sundays for twenty-mile runs. it didn't amuse them. a cigarette, a girl, and a stile formed their ideal of sunday enjoyment. they had no quarrel with the harrier fellow or the soldier fellow for following his bent. they were most broad-minded. but they flattered themselves that they were fellows of a superior and more intelligent breed. they were making money and living warm, the only ideal of existence of which they had ever heard, and what did anything else matter? if a man has never been taught that he has a country, how the deuce do you expect him to love her--still less to defend her with his blood? our more than damnable governments for the last thirty years have done everything in their power to crush in english hearts the national spirit of england. god knows i have no quarrel with scotland, ireland, and wales. i speak in no disparagement of them. quite the reverse. in this war they have given freely of their blood. i only speak as an englishman of england, the great mother of the empire. scot, irishman, welshman, canadian, australian are filled with the pride of their nationality. it is part of their being. wisely they have been trained to it from infancy. england, who is far bigger, far more powerful than the whole lot of them put together--it's a statistical fact--has deliberately sunk herself in her own esteem, in her own pride. only one great man has stood for england, as england, the great mother, for the last thirty years. and that man is rudyard kipling. and the little folk in authority in england have spent their souls in rendering nugatory his inspired message. this criminal self-effacement of england is at the root of the peril of the british empire during this war. i told you at the beginning that i did not know how to write a story. you must forgive me for being led away into divagations which seem to be irrelevant to the dramatic sequence. but when i remember that the result of all the pomp and circumstance of that meeting was seven recruits, of whom three were rejected as being physically unfit, my pen runs away with my discretion, and my conjecturing as to artistic fitness. yes, the major spoke. sir anthony is a peppery little person and the audience enjoyed the cayenne piquancy of his remarks. the red-tabbed lieutenant-colonel spoke. he was a bit dull. the elderly orator from london roused enthusiastic cheers. the wounded sergeant, on crutches, displaying a foot like a bandaged mop, brought tears into the eyes of many women and evoked hoarse cheers from the old men. i spoke from my infernal chair, and i think i was quite a success with the good fellows in khaki. but the only men we wanted to appeal to had studiously refrained from being present. the whole affair was a fiasco. when we got home, marigold, who had stood behind my chair during the proceedings, said to me: "i think i know personally about thirty slackers in this town, sir, and i'm more than a match for any three of them put together. suppose i was to go the rounds, so to speak, and say to each of them, 'you young blighter, if you don't come with me and enlist, i 'll knock hell out of you!'--and, if he didn't come, i did knock hell out of him--what exactly would happen, sir?" "you would be summoned," said i, "for thirty separate cases of assault and battery. reckoning the penalty at six months each, you would have to go to prison for fifteen years." marigold's one eye grew pensive and sad. "and they call this," said he, "a free country!" i began this chapter by remarking that for a week or two after my second interview with randall holmes, nothing particular happened. then one afternoon came sir anthony fenimore to see me, and with a view to obtaining either my advice or my sympathy, reopened the story of his daughter althea found drowned in the canal eleven months before. what he considered a most disconcerting light had just been cast on the tragedy by maria beccles. this lady was lady fenimore's sister. a deadly feud, entirely of miss beccles' initiating and nourishing, had existed between them for years. they had been neither on speaking nor on writing terms. miss beccles, ten years lady fenimore's senior, was, from all i had heard, a most disagreeable and ill-conditioned person, as different from my charming friend edith fenimore as the ugly old sisters were from cinderella. although she belonged to a good old south of england family, she had joined, for reasons known only to herself, the old free kirk of scotland, found a congenial calvinistic centre in galloway, and after insulting her english relations and friends in the most unconscionable way, cut herself adrift from them for ever. "mad as a hatter," sir anthony used to say, and, never having met the lady, i agreed with him. she loathed her sister, she detested anthony, and she appeared to be coldly indifferent to the fact of the existence of her nephew oswald. but for althea, and for althea alone, she entertained a curious, indulgent affection, and every now and then althea went to spend a week or so in galloway, where she contrived to obtain considerable amusement. aunt maria did both herself and her visitors very well, said althea, who had an appreciative eye for the material blessings of life. althea walked over the moors and fished and took aunt maria's cars out for exercise and, except whistle on the sabbath, seemed to do exactly what she liked. now, in january , althea announced to her parents that aunt maria had summoned her for a week to galloway. sir anthony stuffed her handbag with five-pound notes, and at an early hour of the morning sent her up in the car to london in charge of the chauffeur. the chauffeur returned saying that he had bought miss althea's ticket at euston and seen her start off comfortably on her journey. a letter or two had been received by the fenimores from galloway, and letters they had written to galloway had been acknowledged by althea. she returned to wellingsford in due course, with bonny cheeks and wind-swept eyes, and told us all funny little stories about aunt maria. no one thought anything more about it until one fine afternoon in may, , when maria beccles walked unexpectedly into the drawing-room of wellings park, while sir anthony and lady fenimore were at tea. "my dear edith," she said to her astounded hostess, who had not seen her for fifteen years. "in this orgy of hatred and strife that is going on in the world, it seems ridiculous to go on hating and fighting one's own family. we must combine against the germans and hate them. let us be friends." "mad as crazy jane," said sir anthony, telling me the story. but i, who had never heard aunt maria's side of the dispute, thought it very high-spirited of the old lady to come and hold out the olive-branch in so uncompromising a fashion. lady fenimore then said that she had never wished to quarrel with maria, and sir anthony declared that her patriotic sentiments did her credit, and that he was proud to receive her under his roof, and in a few minutes maria was drinking tea and discussing the war in the most contented way in the world. "i didn't write to you on the occasion of the death of your two children because you knew i didn't like you," said this outspoken lady. "i hate hypocrisy. also i thought that tribulation might chasten you in the eyes of the lord. i've discussed it with our minister, a poor body, but a courageous man. he told me i was unchristian. now, what with all this universal massacre going on and my unregenerate longing, old woman as i am, to wade knee-deep in german blood, i don't know what the devil i am." the more anthony told me of aunt maria, the more i liked her. "can't i come round and make her acquaintance?" i cried. "she's the sort of knotty, solid human thing that i should love. no wonder althea was fond of her." "this happened a week ago. she only stayed a night," replied sir anthony. "i wish to god we had never seen her or heard of her." and then the good, heart-wrung little man, who had been beating about the bush for half an hour, came straight to the point. "you remember althea's visit to scotland in january last year?" "perfectly," said i. he rose from his chair and looked at me in wrinkled anguish. "she never went there," he said. that was what he had come to tell me. a natural reference to the last visit of althea to her aunt had established the stupefying fact. "althea's last visit was in october, ," said miss beccles. "but we have letters from your house to prove she was with you in january," said sir anthony. most methodical and correspondence-docketing of men, he went to his library and returned with a couple of letters. the old lady looked them through grimly. "pretty vague. no details. read 'em again, anthony." when he had done so, she said: "well?" lady fenimore objected: "but althea did stay with you. she must have stayed with you." "all right, edith," said maria, sitting bolt upright. "call me a liar, and have done with it. i've come here at considerable dislocation of myself and my principles, to bury the hatchet for the sake of unity against the enemy, and this is how i'm treated. i can only go back to scotland at once." sir anthony succeeded in pacifying her. the letters were evidence that edith and himself believed that althea was in galloway at the time. maria's denial had come upon them like a thunderclap, bewildering, stunning. if althea was not in galloway, where was she? maria beccles did not reply for some time to the question. then she took the pins out of her hat and threw it on a chair, thus symbolising the renunciation of her intention of returning forthwith to scotland. "yes, maria," said lady fenimore, with fear in her dark eyes, "we don't doubt your word--but, as anthony has said, if she wasn't with you, where was she?" "how do i know?" maria beccles pointed a lean finger--she was a dark and shrivelled, gipsy-like creature. "you might as well ask the canal in which she drowned herself." "but, my god, anthony!" i cried, when he had got thus far, "what did you think? what did you say?" i realised that the old lady had her social disqualifications. plain-dealing is undoubtedly a virtue. but there are several virtues which the better class of angel keeps chained up in a dog-kennel. of course she was acute. a mind trained in the acrobatics of calvinistic theology is, within a narrow compass, surprisingly agile. it jumped at one bound from the missing week in althea's life into the black water of the canal. it was incapable, however, of appreciating the awful horror in the minds of the beholders. "i don't know what i said," replied sir anthony, walking restlessly about my library. "we were struck all of a heap. as you know, we never had reason to think that the poor dear child's death was anything but an accident. we were not narrow-minded old idiots. she was a dear good girl. in a modern way she claimed her little independence. we let her have it. we trusted her. we took it for granted--you know it, duncan, as well as i do--that, a hot night in june--not able to sleep--she had stuck on a hat and wandered about the grounds, as she had often done before, and a spirit of childish adventure had tempted her, that night, to walk round the back of the town and--and--well, until in the dark, she stepped off the tow-path by the lock gates, into nothing--and found the canal. it was an accident," he continued, with a hand on my shoulder, looking down on me in my chair. "the inquest proved that. i accepted it, as you know, as a visitation of god. edith and i sorrowed for her like cowards. it took the war to bring us to our senses. but, now, this damned old woman comes and upsets the whole thing." "but," said i, "after all, it was only a bow at a venture on the part of the old lady." "i wish it were," said he, and he handed me a letter which maria had written to him the day after her return to scotland. the letter contained a pretty piece of information. she had summarily discharged elspeth macrae, her confidential maid of five-and-twenty years' standing. elspeth macrae, on her own confession, had, out of love for althea, performed the time-honoured jugglery with correspondence. she had posted in galloway letters which she had received, under cover, from althea, and had forwarded letters that had arrived addressed to althea to an accommodation address in carlisle. so have sentimental serving-maids done since the world began. "what do you make of it?" asked sir anthony. what else could i make of it but the one sorry theory? what woman employs all this subterfuge in order to obtain a weeks liberty for any other purpose than the one elementary purpose of young humanity? we read the inevitable conclusion in each other's eyes. "who is the man, duncan?" "i suppose you have searched her desk and things?" "last year. everything most carefully. it was awful--but we had to. not a scrap of paper that wasn't innocence itself." "it can't be anyone here," said i. "you know what the place is. the slightest spark sends gossip aflame like the fumes of petrol." he sat down by my side and rubbed his close-cropped grey head. "it couldn't have been young holmes?" the little man had a brave directness that sometimes disconcerted me. i knew the ghastly stab that every word cost him. "she used to make mock of randall," said i. "don't you remember she used to call him 'the gilded poet'? once she said he was the most lady-like young man of her acquaintance. i don't admire our young friend, but i think you're on the wrong track, anthony." "i don't see it," said he. "that sort of flippancy goes for nothing. women use it as a sort of quickset hedge of protection." he bent forward and tapped me on my senseless knee. "young holmes always used to be in and out of the house. they had known each other from childhood. he had a distinguished oxford career. when he won the newdigate, she came running to me with the news, as pleased as punch. i gave him a dinner in honour of it, if you remember." "i remember," said i. i did not remind him that he had made a speech which sent cold shivers down the spine of our young apollo; that, in a fine rhetorical flourish--dear old fox-hunting ignoramus--he declared that the winner of the newdigate carried the bays of the laureate in his knapsack; that randall, white-lipped with horror, murmured to betty fairfax, his neighbour at the table: "my god! the poet-laureate's unhallowed grave! i must burn the knapsack and take to a hod!" it was too tragical a conversation for light allusion. "the poor dear child--edith and i have sized it up--was all over him that evening." "what more youthfully natural," said i, "than that she should carry off the hero of the occasion--her childhood's playfellow?" "all sorts of apparently insignificant details, duncan, taken together--especially if they fit in--very often make up a whole case for prosecution." "you're a chairman of quarter sessions," i admitted, "and so you ought to know." "i know this," said he, "that holmes only spent part of that christmas vacation with his mother, and went off somewhere or the other early in january." i cudgelled back my memory into confirmation of his statement. to remember trivial incidents before the war takes a lot of cudgelling. yes. i distinctly recollected the young man's telling me that oxford being an intellectual hothouse and wellingsford an intellectual arabia petrea, he was compelled, for the sake of his mental health, to find a period of repose in the intellectual nature of london. i mentioned this to sir anthony. "yet," i said, "i don't think he had anything to do with it." "why?" "it would have been far too much moral exertion--" "you call it moral?" sir anthony burst out angrily. i pacified him with an analysis, from my point of view, of randall's character. centripetal forces were too strong for the young man. i dissertated on his amours with phyllis gedge. "no, my dear old friend," said i, in conclusion, "i don't think it was randall holmes." sir anthony rose and shook his fist in my face. as i knew he meant me no bodily harm, i did not blench. "who was it, then?" "althea," said i, "often used to stay in town with your sister. lady greatorex has a wide circle of acquaintances. do you know anything of the men althea used to meet at her house?" "of course i don't," replied sir anthony. then he sat down again with a gesture of despair. "after all, what does it matter? perhaps it's as well i don't know who the man was, for if i did, i'd kill him!" he set his teeth and glowered at nothing and smote his left palm with his right fist, and there was a long silence. presently he repeated: "i'd kill him!" we fell to discussing the whole matter over again. why, i asked, should we assume that the poor child was led astray by a villain? might there not have been a romantic marriage which, for some reason we could not guess, she desired to keep secret for a time? had she not been bright and happy from january to june? and that night of tragedy... what more likely than that she had gone forth to keep tryst with her husband and accidentally met her death? "he arrives," said i, "waits for her. she never comes. he goes away. the next day he learns from local gossip or from newspapers what has happened. he thinks it best to keep silent and let her fair name be untouched...what have you to say against that theory?" "possible," he replied. "anything conceivable within the limits of physical possibility is possible. but it isn't probable. i have an intuitive feeling that there was villainy about--and if ever i get hold of that man--god help him!" so there was nothing more to be said. chapter x i haven't that universal sympathy which is the most irritating attribute of saints and other pacifists. when, for instance, anyone of the fraternity arguing from the sermon on the mount tells me that i ought to love germans, either i admit the obligation and declare that, as i am a miserable sinner, i have no compunction in breaking it, or, if he is a very sanctimonious saint, i remind him that, such creatures as modern germans not having been invented on or about the year a.d. , the rule about loving your enemies could not possibly apply. at least i imagine i do one of these two things (sometimes, indeed, i dream gloatfully over acts of physical violence) when i read the pronouncements of such a person; for i have to my great good fortune never met him in the flesh. if there are any saintly pacifists in wellingsford, they keep sedulously out of my way, and they certainly do not haunt my service club. and these are the only two places in which i have my being. even gedge doesn't talk of loving germans. he just lumps all the belligerents together in one conglomerate hatred, for upsetting his comfortable social scheme. as i say, i lack the universal sympathy of the saint. i can't like people i don't like. some people i love very deeply; others, being of a kindly disposition, i tolerate; others again i simply detest. now wellingsford, like every little country town in england, is drab with elderly gentlewomen. as i am a funny old tabby myself, i have to mix with them. if i refuse invitations to take tea with them, they invite themselves to tea with me. "the poor major," they say, "is so lonely." and they bait their little hooks and angle for gossip of which i am supposed--heaven knows why--to be a sort of stocked pond. they don't carry home much of a catch, i assure you.... well, of some of them i am quite fond. mrs. boyce, for all her shortcomings, is an old crony for whom i entertain a sincere affection. towards betty's aunt, miss fairfax, a harmless lady with a passion for ecclesiastical embroidery, i maintain an attitude of benevolent neutrality. but mrs. holmes, randall's mother, and her sisters, the daughters of an eminent publicist who seems to have reared his eminence on bones of talk flung at him by carlisle, george eliot, lewes, monckton milnes, and is now, doubtless, recording their toe-prints on the banks of acheron, i never could and never can abide. my angel of a wife saw good in them, and she loved the tiny randall, of whom i too was fond; so, for her sake, i always treated them with courtesy and kindness. also for randall's father's sake. he was a bluff, honest, stock-broking briton who fancied pigeons and bred greyhounds for coursing, and cared less for literature and art than does the equally honest mrs. marigold in my kitchen. but his wife and her sisters led what they called the intellectual life. they regarded it as a heritage from their pompous ass of a father. of course they were not eighteen-sixty, or even eighteen-eighty. they prided themselves on developing the hereditary tradition of culture to its extreme modern expression. they were of the semi-intellectual type of idiot--and, if it destroys it, the great war will have some justification--which professes to find in the dull analysis of the drab adultery and suicide of a german or scandinavian rabbit-picker a supreme expression of human existence. all their talk was of hauptmann and sudermann (they dropped them patriotically, i must say, as outrageous fellows, on the outbreak of war), strindberg, dostoievsky--though i found they had never read either "crime and punishment" or "the brothers karamazoff"--tolstoi, whom they didn't understand; and in art--god save the mark!--the cubist school. that is how my poor young friend, randall, was trained to get the worst of the frothy scum of intelligent oxford. but even he sometimes winced at the pretentiousness of his mother and his aunts. he was a clever fellow and his knowledge was based on sound foundations. i need not say that the ladies were rather feared than loved in wellingsford. all this to explain why it was that when marigold woke me from an afternoon nap with the information that mrs. holmes desired to see me, i scowled on him. "why didn't you say i was dead?" "i told mrs. holmes you were asleep, sir, and she said: 'will you be so kind as to wake him?' so what could i do, sir?" i have never met with an idiot so helpless in the presence of a woman. he would have defended my slumbers before a charge of cavalry; but one elderly lady shoo'd him aside like a chicken. mrs. holmes was shewn in, a tall, dark, thin, nervous woman wearing pince-nez and an austere sad-coloured garment. she apologised for disturbing me. "but," she said, sitting down on the couch, "i am in such great trouble and i could think of no one but you to advise me." "what's the matter?" i asked. "it's randall. he left the house the day before yesterday, without telling any of us good-bye, and he hasn't written, and i don't know what on earth has become of him." "did he take any luggage?" "just a small suit-case. he even packed it himself, a thing he has never done at home in his life before." this was news. the proceedings were unlike randall, who in his goings and comings loved the domestic brass-band. to leave his home without valedictory music and vanish into the unknown, betokened some unusual perturbation of mind. i asked whether she knew of any reason for such perturbation. "he was greatly upset," she replied, "by the stoppage of the albemarle review for which he did such fine work." i strove politely to hide my inability to condole and wagged my head sadly: "i'm afraid there was no room for it in a be-bombed and be-shrapnelled world." "i suppose the still small voice of reason would not be heard amid the din," she sighed. "and no other papers--except the impossible ones--would print randall's poems and articles." more news. this time excellent news. a publicist denied publicity is as useful as a german field marshal on a desert island. i asked what the albemarle died of. "practically all the staff deserted what randall called the cause and dribbled away into the army," she replied mournfully. as to what this precious cause meant i did not enquire, having no wish to enter into an argument with the good lady which might have become exacerbated. besides, she would only have parroted randall. i had never yet detected her in the expression of an original idea. "perhaps he has dribbled away too?" i suggested grimly. she was silent. i bent forward. "wouldn't you like him to dribble into the great flood?" she lifted her lean shoulders despairingly. "he's the only son of a widow. even in france and germany they're not expected to fight. but if he were different i would let him go gladly--i'm not selfish and unpatriotic, major," she said with an unaccustomed little catch in her throat--and for the very first time i found in her something sympathetic--"but," she continued, "it seems so foolish to sacrifice all his intellectual brilliance to such crudities as fighting, when it might be employed so much more advantageously elsewhere." "but, good god, my dear lady!" i cried. "where are your wits? where's your education? where's your intelligent understanding of the daily papers? where's your commonsense?"--i'm afraid i was brutally rude. "can't you give a minute's thought to the situation? if there's one institution on earth that's shrieking aloud for intellectual brilliance, it's the british army! do you think it's a refuge for fools? do you think any born imbecile is good enough to outwit the german headquarters staff? do you think the lives of hundreds of his men--and perhaps the fate of thousands--can be entrusted to any brainless ass? an officer can't have too much brains. we're clamouring for brains. it's the healthy, brilliant-brained men like randall that the army's yelling for--simply yelling for," i repeated, bringing my hand down on the arm of my chair. two little red spots showed on each side of her thin face. "i've never looked at it in that light before," she admitted. "of course i agree with you," i said diplomatically, "that randall would be more or less wasted as a private soldier. the heroic stuff of which thomas atkins is made is, thank god, illimitable. but intellect is rare--especially in the ranks of god's own chosen, the british officer. and randall is of the kind we want as officers. as for a commission, he could get one any day. i could get one for him myself. i still have a few friends. he's a good-looking chap and would carry off a uniform. wouldn't you be proud to see him?" a tear rolled down her cheek. i patted myself on the back for an artful fellow. but i had underrated her wit. to my chagrin she did not fall into my trap. "it's the uncertainty that's killing me," she said. and then she burst out disconcertingly: "do you think he has gone off with that dreadful little gedge girl?" phyllis! i was a myriad miles from phyllis. i was talking about real things. the mother, however, from her point of view, was talking of real things also. but how did she come to know about her son's amours? i thought it useless to enquire. randall must have advertised his passion pretty widely. i replied: "it's extremely improbable. in the first place phyllis gedge isn't dreadful, but a remarkably sweet and modest young woman, and in the second place she won't have anything to do with him." "that's nonsense," she said, bridling. "why?" "because--" a gesture and a smile completed the sentence. that a common young person should decline to have dealings with her paragon was incredible. "i can find out in a minute," i smiled, "whether she is still in wellingsford." i wheeled myself to the telephone on my writing-table and rang up betty at the hospital. "do you know where phyllis gedge is?" betty's voice came. "yes. she's here. i've just left her to come to speak to you. why do you want to know?" "never mind so long as she is safe and sound. there's no likelihood of her running away or eloping?" betty's laughter rang over the wires. "what lunacy are you talking? you might as well ask me whether i'm going to elope with you." "i don't think you're respectful, betty," i replied. "good-bye." i rang off and reported betty's side of the conversation to my visitor. "on that score," said i, "you can make your mind quite easy." "but where can the boy have gone?" she cried. "into the world somewhere to learn wisdom," i said, and in order to show that i did not speak ironically, i wheeled myself to her side and touched her hand. "i think his swift brain has realised at last that all his smart knowledge hasn't brought him a little bit of wisdom worth a cent. i shouldn't worry. he's working out his salvation somehow, although he may not know it." "do you really think so?" "i do," said i. "and if he finds that the path of wisdom leads to the german trenches--will you be glad or sorry?" she grappled with the question in silence for a moment or two. then she broke down and, to my dismay, began to cry. "do you suppose there's a woman in england that, in her heart of hearts, doesn't want her men folk to fight?" i only allow the earlier part of this chapter to stand in order to show how a man quite well-meaning, although a trifle irascible, may be wanting in christian charity and ordinary understanding; and of how many tangled knots of human motive, impulse, and emotion this war is a solvent. you see, she defended her son to the last, adopting his own specious line of argument; but at the last came the breaking-point.... the rest of our interview was of no great matter. i did my best to reassure and comfort her; and when i next saw marigold, i said affably: "you did quite well to wake me." "i thought i was acting rightly, sir. mr. randall having bolted, so to speak, it seemed only natural that mrs. holmes should come to see you." "you knew that mr. randall had bolted and you never told me?" i glared indignantly. marigold stiffened himself--the degree of stiffness beyond his ordinary inflexibility of attitude could only have been ascertained by a vernier, but that degree imparted an appreciable dignity to his demeanour. "i beg pardon, sir, but lately i've noticed that my little bits of local news haven't seemed to be welcome." "marigold," said i, "don't be an ass." "very good, sir." "my mind," said i, "is in an awful muddle about all sorts of things that are going on in this town. so i should esteem it a favour if you would tell me at once any odds and ends of gossip you may pick up. they may possibly be important." "and if i have any inferences to draw from what i hear," said he gravely, fixing me with his clear eye, "may i take the liberty of acquainting you with them?" "certainly." "very good, sir," said marigold. now what was marigold going to draw inferences about? that was another puzzle. i felt myself being drawn into a fog-filled labyrinth of intrigue in which already groping were most of the people i knew. what with the mysterious relations between betty and boyce and gedge, what with young dacre's full exoneration of boyce, what with young randall's split with gedge and his impeccable attitude towards phyllis, things were complicated enough; sir anthony's revelations regarding poor althea and his dark surmises concerning randall complicated them still more; and now comes mrs. holmes to tell me of randall's mysterious disappearance. "a plague on the whole lot!" i exclaimed wrathfully. i dined that evening with the fenimores. my dear betty was there too, the only other guest, looking very proud and radiant. a letter that morning from willie connor informed her that the regiment, by holding a trench against an overwhelming german attack, had achieved glorious renown. the brigadier-general had specially congratulated the colonel, and the colonel had specially complimented willie on the magnificent work of his company. of course there was a heavy price in casualties--poor young etherington, whom we all knew, for instance, blown to atoms--but willie, thank god! was safe. "i wonder what would happen to me, if willie were to get the v.c. i think i should go mad with pride!" she exclaimed with flushed cheeks, forgetful of poor young etherington, a laughter-loving boy of twenty, who had been blown to atoms. it is strange how apparently callous this universal carnage has made the noblest and the tenderest of men and women. we cling passionately to the lives of those near and dear to us. but as to those near and dear to others, who are killed--well--we pay them the passing tribute not even of a tear, but only of a sign. they died gloriously for their country. what can we say more? if we--we survivors, not only invalids and women and other stay-at-homes, but also comrades on the field--were riven to our souls by the piteous tragedy of splendid youth destroyed in its flower, we could not stand the strain, we should weep hysterically, we should be broken folk. but a merciful providence steps in and steels our hearts. the loyal hearts are there beating truly; and in order that they should beat truly and stoutly, they are given this god-sent armour. so, when we raised our glasses and drank gladly to the success of willie connor the living, and put from our thoughts frank etherington the dead, you must not account it to us as lack of human pity. you must be lenient in your judgment of those who are thrown into the furnace of a great war. lady fenimore smiled on betty. "we should all be proud, my dear, if captain connor won the victoria cross. but you mustn't set your heart on it. that would be foolish. hundreds of thousands of men deserve the v.c. ten times a day, and they can't all be rewarded." betty laughed gaily at good lady fenimore's somewhat didactic reproof. "you know i'm not an absolute idiot. fancy the poor dear coming home all over bandages and sticking-plaster. 'where's your v. c?' 'i haven't got it.' 'then go back at once and get it or i shan't love you.' poor darling!" suddenly the laughter in her eyes quickened into something very bright and beautiful. "there's not a woman in england prouder of her husband than i am. no v.c. could possibly reward him for what he has done. but i want it for myself. i'd like my babies to cut their teeth on it." when i went out to the boer war, the most wonderful woman on earth said to me on parting: "wherever you are, dear, remember that i am always with you in spirit and soul and heart and almost in body." and god knows she was. and when i returned a helpless cripple she gathered me in her brave arms on the open quay at southampton, and after a moment or two of foolishness, she said: "do you know, when i die, what you'll find engraven on my heart?" "no," said i. "your d.s.o. ribbon." so when betty talked about her babies and the little bronze cross, my eyes grew moist and i felt ridiculously sentimental. not a word, of course, was spoken before betty of the new light, or the new darkness, whichsoever you will, that had been cast on the tragedy of althea. i could not do otherwise than agree with the direct-spoken old lady who had at once correlated the adventure in carlisle with the plunge into the wellingsford canal. and so did sir anthony. they were very brave, however, the little man and edith, in their dinner-talk with betty. but i saw that the past fortnight had aged them both by a year or more. they had been stabbed in their honour, their trust, and their faith. it was a secret terror that stalked at their side by day and lay stark at their side by night. it was only when the ladies had left us that sir anthony referred to the subject. "i suppose you know that young randall holmes has bolted." "so his mother informed me to-day." he pricked his ears. "does she know where he has gone to?" "no," said i. "what did i tell you?" said sir anthony. i held up my glass of port to the light and looked through it. "a lot of damfoolishness, my dear old friend," said i. he grew angry. a man doesn't like to be coldly called a damfool at his own table. he rose on his spurs, in his little red bantam way. was i too much of an idiot to see the connection? as soon as the carlisle business became known, this young scoundrel flies the country. couldn't i see an inch before my blind nose? forbearing to question this remarkable figure of speech, i asked him how so confidential a matter could have become known. "everything gets known in this infernal little town," he retorted. "that's where you're mistaken," said i. "half everything gets known--the unimportant half. the rest is supplied by malicious or prejudiced invention." we discussed the question after the futile way of men until we went into the drawing-room, where betty played and sang to us until it was time to go home. marigold was about to lift me into the two-seater when betty, who had been lurking in her car a little way off, ran forward. "would it bore you if i came in for a quarter of an hour?" "bore me, my dear?" said i. "of course not." so a short while afterwards we were comfortably established in my library. "you rang me up to-day about phyllis gedge." "i did," said i. she lit a cigarette and seated herself on the fender-stool. she has an unconscious knack of getting into easy, loose-limbed attitudes. i said admiringly: "do you know you're a remarkably well-favoured young person?" and as soon as i said it, i realised what a tremendous factor betty was in my circumscribed life. what could i do without her sweet intimacy? if willie connor's territorial regiment, like so many others, had been ordered out to india, and she had gone with him, how blank would be the days and weeks and months! i thanked god for granting me her graciousness. she smiled and blew me a kiss. "that's very gratifying to know," she said. "but it has nothing to do with phyllis." "well, what about phyllis?" "i'll tell you," she replied. and she told me. her story was not of world-shaking moment, but it interested me. i have since learned its substantial correctness and am able to add some supplementary details. you see, things were like this.... in order to start i must go back some years.... i have always had a warm corner in my heart for little phyllis gedge, ever since she was a blue-eyed child. my wife had a great deal to do with it. she was a woman of dauntless courage and clear vision into the heart of things. i find many a reflection of her in betty. perhaps that is why i love betty so dearly. some strange, sweet fool feminine of gentle birth and deplorable upbringing fell in love with a vehemently socialistic young artisan by the name of gedge and married him. her casual but proud-minded family wiped her off the proud family slate. she brought phyllis into the world and five years afterwards found herself be-gedged out of existence. they were struggling people in those days, and before her death my wife used to employ her, when she could, for household sewing and whatnot. and tiny phyllis, in a childless home, became a petted darling. when my great loneliness came upon me, it was a solace to have the little dainty prattling thing to spend an occasional hour in my company. gedge, an excellent workman, set up as a contractor. he took my modest home under his charge. a leaky tap, a broken pane, a new set of bookshelves, a faulty drainpipe--all were matters for gedge. i abhorred his politics but i admired his work, and i continued, with mrs. marigold's motherly aid, to make much of phyllis. gedge, for queer motives of his own, sent her to as good a school as he could afford, as a matter of fact an excellent school, one where she met girls of a superior social class and learned educated speech and graceful manners. her holidays, poor child, were somewhat dreary, for her father, an anti-social creature, had scarce a friend in the town. save for here and there an invitation to tea from betty or myself, she did not cross the threshold of a house in wellingsford. but to my house, all through her schooldays and afterwards, phyllis came, and on such occasions mrs. marigold prepared teas of the organic lusciousness dear to the heart of a healthy girl. now, here comes the point of all this palaver. young master randall used also to come to my house. now and then by chance they met there. they were good boy and girl friends. i want to make it absolutely clear that her acquaintance with randall was not any vulgar picking-up-in-the-street affair. when she left school, her father made her his book-keeper, secretary, confidential clerk. anybody turning into the office to summon gedge to repair a roof or a burst boiler had a preliminary interview with phyllis. young randall, taking over the business of the upkeep of his mother's house, gradually acquired the habit of such preliminary interviews. the whole imbroglio was very simple, very natural. they had first met at my own rich cake and jam-puff bespread tea-table. when randall went into the office to speak, presumably, about a defective draught in the kitchen range, and really about things quite different, the ethics of the matter depended entirely on randall's point of view. their meetings had been contrived by no unmaidenly subterfuge on the part of phyllis. she knew him to be above her in social station. she kept him off as long as she could. but que voulez-vous? randall was a very good-looking, brilliant, and fascinating fellow; phyllis was a dear little human girl. and it is the human way of such girls to fall in love with such fascinating, brilliant fellows. i not only hold a brief for phyllis, but i am the judge, too, and having heard all the evidence, i deliver a verdict overwhelmingly in her favour. given the circumstances as i have stated them, she was bound to fall in love with randall, and in doing so committed not the little tiniest speck of a peccadillo. my first intimation of tender relations between them came from my sight of them in february in wellings park. since then, of course, i have much which i will tell you as best i may. so now for betty's story, confirmed and supplemented by what i have learned later. but before plunging into the matter, i must say that when betty had ended i took up my little parable and told her of all that randall had told me concerning his repudiation of gedge. and betty listened with a curiously stony face and said nothing. when betty puts on that face of granite i am quite unhappy. that is why i have always hated the statues of egypt. there is something beneath their cold faces that you can't get at. chapter xi gedge bitterly upbraided his daughter, both for her desertion of his business and her criminal folly in abandoning it so as to help mend the shattered bodies of fools and knaves who, by joining the forces of militarism, had betrayed the sacred cause of the international solidarity of labour. his first ground for complaint was scarcely tenable; with his dwindling business the post of clerk had dwindled into a sinecure. to sit all day at the receipt of imaginary custom is not a part fitted for a sane and healthy young human being. still, from gedge's point of view her defection was a grievance; but that she could throw in her lot openly with the powers of darkness was nothing less than an outrage. i suppose, in a kind of crabbed way, the crabbed fellow was fond of phyllis. she was pretty. she had dainty tricks of dress. she flitted, an agreeable vision, about his house. he liked to hear her play the piano, not because he had any ear for music, but because it tickled his vanity to reflect that he, the agricultural labourer's son and apprentice to a village carpenter, was the possessor both of a broadway grand and of a daughter who, entirely through his efforts, had learned to play on it. like most of his political type, he wallowed in his own peculiar snobbery. but of anything like companionship between father and daughter there had existed very little. while railing, wherever he found ears into which to rail, against the vicious luxury and sordid shallowness of the upper middle classes, his instinctive desire to shine above his poorer associates had sent phyllis to an upper middle class school. now gedge had a certain amount of bookish and political intelligence. phyllis inheriting the intellectual equipment of her sentimental fool of a mother, had none, oh! she had a vast fund of ordinary commonsense. of that i can assure you. a bit of hard brain fibre from her father had counteracted any over-sentimental folly in the maternal heritage. and she came back from school a very ladylike little person. if pressed, she could reel off all kinds of artificial scraps of knowledge, like a dear little parrot. but she had never heard of karl marx and didn't want to hear. she had a vague notion that international socialism was a movement in favour of throwing bombs at monarchs and of seizing the wealth of the rich in order to divide it among the poor--and she regarded it as abominable. when her father gave her fabian society tracts to read, he might just as well, for all her understanding of the argument, set her down to a treatise on the infinitesimal calculus. her brain stood blank before such abstract disquisitions. she loved easily comprehended poetry and novels that made her laugh or cry and set her mind dancing round the glowing possibilities of life; all disastrous stuff abhorred by the international socialist, to whom the essential problems of existence are of no interest whatever. so, after a few futile attempts to darken her mind, gedge put her down as a mere fool woman, and ceased to bother his head about her intellectual development. that came to him quite naturally. there is no turk more contemptuous of his womankind's political ideas than the gedges of our enlightened england. but on other counts she was a distinct asset. he regarded her with immense pride, as a more ornamental adjunct to his house than any other county builder and contractor could display, and, recognising that she was possessed of some low feminine cunning in the way of adding up figures and writing letters, made use of her in his office as general clerical factotum. when the war broke out, he discovered, to his horror, that phyllis actually had political ideas--unshakable, obstinate ideas opposed to his own--and that he had been nourishing in his bosom a viperous patriot. phyllis, for her part, realised with equal horror the practical significance of her father's windy theories. when randall, who had stolen her heart, took to visiting the house, in order, as far as she could make out, to talk treason with her father, the strain of the situation grew more than she could bear. she fled to betty for advice. betty promptly stepped in and whisked her off to the hospital. it was on the morning on which randall interviewed me in the garden, the morning after he had broken with gedge, that phyllis, having a little off-time, went home. she found her father in the office making out a few bills. he thrust forward his long chin and aggressive beard and scowled at her. "oh, it's you, is it? come at last where your duty calls you, eh?" "i always come when i can, father," she replied. she bent down and kissed his cheek. he caught her roughly round the waist and, leaning back in his chair, looked up at her sourly. "how long are you going on defying me like this?" she tried to disengage herself, but his arm was too strong. "oh, father," she said, rather wearily, "don't let us go over this old argument again." "but suppose i find some new argument? suppose i send you packing altogether, refuse to contribute further to your support. what then?" she started at the threat but replied valiantly: "i should have to earn my own living." "how are you going to do it?" "there are heaps of ways." he laughed. "there ain't; as you'd soon find out. they don't even pay you for being scullery-maid to a lot of common soldiers." she protested against that view of her avocation. in the perfectly appointed wellingsford hospital she had no scullery work. she was a probationer, in training as a nurse. he still gripped her. "the particular kind of tomfoolery you are up to doesn't matter. we needn't quarrel. i've another proposition to put before you--much more to your fancy, i think. you like this mr. randall holmes, don't you?" she shivered a little and flushed deep red. her father had never touched on the matter before. she said, straining away: "i don't want to talk about mr. holmes." "but i do. come, my dear. in this life there must be always a certain amount of give and take. i'm not the man to drive a one-sided bargain. i'll make you a fair offer--as between father and daughter. i'll wipe out all that's past. in leaving me like this, when misfortune has come upon me, you've been guilty of unfilial conduct--no one can deny it. but i'll overlook everything, forgive you fully and take you to my heart again and leave you free to do whatever you like without interfering with your opinions, if you'll promise me one thing--" "i know what you're going to say." she twisted round on him swiftly. "i'll promise at once. i'll never marry mr. holmes. i've already told him i won't marry him." surprise relaxed his grip. she took swift advantage and sheered away to the other side of the table. he rose and brought down his hand with a thump. "you refused him? why, you silly little baggage, my condition is that you should marry him. you're sweet on him aren't you?" "i detest him," cried phyllis. "why should i marry him?" her eyes, young and pure, divined some sordid horror behind eyes crafty and ignoble. once before she had had such a fleeting, uncomprehended vision into the murky depths of the man's soul. this was some time ago. in the routine of her secretarial duties she had, one morning, opened and read a letter, not marked "private" or "personal," whose tenor she could scarcely understand. when she handed it to her father, he smiled, vouchsafed a specious explanation, and looked at her in just the same crafty and ignoble fashion, and she shrank away frightened. the matter kept her awake for a couple of nights. then, for sheer easing of her heart, she went to her adored betty fairfax, her lady patroness and mother confessor, who, being wise and strong, and possessing the power of making her kind eyes unfathomable, laughed, bade her believe her father's explanation, and sent her away comforted. the incident passed out of her mind. but now memory smote her, as she shrank from her father's gaze and the insincere smile on his thin lips. "for one thing," he replied after a pause, pulling his straggly beard, "your poor dear mother was a lady, and if she had lived she would have wanted you to marry a gentleman. it's for her sake i've given you an education that fits you to consort with gentlefolk--just for her sake--don't make any mistake about it, for i've always hated the breed. if i've violated my principles in order to meet her wishes, i think you ought to meet them too. you wouldn't like to marry a small tradesman or a working man, would you?" "i'm not going to marry anybody," cried phyllis. she was only a pink and white, very ordinary little girl. i have no idealisations or illusions concerning phyllis. but she had a little fine steel of character running through her. it flashed on gedge. "i don't want to marry anybody," she declared. "but i'd sooner marry a bricklayer who was fighting for his country than a fine gentleman like mr. holmes who wasn't. i'd sooner die," she cried passionately. "then go and die and be damned to you!" snarled gedge, planting himself noisily in his chair. "i've no use for khaki-struck drivelling idiots. i've no use for patriots. bah! damn patriots! the upper classes are out for all they can get, and they befool the poor imbecile working man with all their highfalutin phrases to get it for them at the cost of his blood. i've no use for them, i tell you. and i've no use either for undutiful daughters. i've no use for young women who blow hot and cold. haven't i seen you with the fellow? do you think i'm a blind dodderer? do you think i haven't kept an eye on you? haven't i seen you blowing as hot as you please? and now because he refuses to be a blinking idiot and have his guts blown out in this war of fools and knaves and capitalists, you blast him like a three-farthing iceberg." everything in her that was tender, maidenly, english, shrank lacerated. but the steel held her. she put both her hands on the table and bent over towards him. "but, father, except that he's a gentleman, you haven't told me why you want me to marry mr. holmes." he fidgeted with his fingers. "haven't you a spark of affection for me left?" she said dutifully, "yes, father." "i want you to marry him. i've set my heart on it. it has been the one bright hope in my life for months. can't you marry him because you love me?" "one generally marries because one loves the man one's going to marry," said phyllis. "but you do love him," cried gedge. "either you're just a wanton little hussy or you must care for the fellow." "i don't. i hate him. and i don't want to have anything more to do with him." the tears came. "he's a pro-german and i won't have anything to do with pro-germans." she fled precipitately from the office into the street and made a blind course to the hospital; feeling, in dumb misery, that she had committed the unforgivable sin of casting off her father and, at the same time, that she had made stalwart proclamation of her faith. if ever a good, loyal little heart was torn into piteous shreds, that little heart was phyllis's. in the bare x-ray room of the hospital, which happened to be vacant, betty sat on the one straight-backed wooden chair, while a weeping damsel on the uncarpeted floor sobbed in her lap and confessed her sins and sought absolution. of course gedge was a fool. if i, or any wise, diplomatic, tactful person like myself, had found it necessary to tackle a young woman on the subject of a matrimonial alliance, we should have gone about the business in quite a different way. but what could you expect from an anarchical turk like gedge? phyllis, not knowing whether she were outcast and disinherited or not, found, of course, a champion in betty, who, in her spacious manner, guaranteed her freedom from pecuniary worries for the rest of her life. but phyllis was none the less profoundly unhappy, and it took a whole convoy of wounded to restore her to cheerfulness. you can't attend to a poor brave devil grinning with pain, while a surgeon pokes a six-inch probe down a sinus in search of bits of bone or shrapnel, and be acutely conscious of your own two-penny-half-penny little miseries. many a heartache, in this wise, has been cured in the houses of pain. now, nothing much would have happened, i suppose, if phyllis, driven from the hospital by superior decree that she should take fresh air and exercise, had not been walking some days afterwards across the common by the canal. bordering the latter, wellingsford has an avenue of secular chestnuts of which it is inordinately proud. dispersed here and there are wooden benches sanctified by generations of lovers. carven thereon are the presentments, often interlaced, of hearts that have long since ceased to beat; lonely hearts transfixed by arrows, which in all probability survived the wound and inspired the owner to the parentage of a dozen children; initials once, individually, the record of many a romance, but now, collectively, merely an alphabet run mad. phyllis entered the avenue, practically deserted at midday, and rested, a pathetically lonely little grey-uniformed figure on one of the benches. on the common, some distance behind her, stretched the lines of an army service train, with mules and waggons, and here and there a tent. in front of her, beyond the row of trees, was the towing-path; an old horse in charge of a boy jogged by, pulling something of which only a moving stove pipe like a periscope was visible above the bank. overhead the chestnuts rioted in broad leaf and pink and white blossom, showing starry bits of blue sky and admitting arrow shafts of spring sunshine. a dirty white mongrel dog belonging to the barge came up to her, sniffed, and made friends; then, at last obeying a series of whistles from the boy, looked at her apologetically and trotted off. her gaze followed him wistfully, for he was a very human dear dog, and with a sympathetic understanding of all her difficulties in his deep topaz eyes. after that she had as companions a couple of butterflies and a bumble-bee and a perky, portly robin who hopped within an inch of her feet and looked up at her sideways out of his hard little eye (so different from the dog's) with the expression of one who would say: "the most beauteous and delectable worm i have ever encountered. if i were a bit bigger, say the size of the roc of the arabian nights, what a dainty morsel you would make! in the meantime can't you shed something of yourself for my entertainment like others, though grosser, of your species?" she laughed at the cold impudence of the creature, just as she had smiled at the butterflies and the bumble-bee. she surrendered herself to the light happiness of the moment. it was good to escape for an hour from the rigid lines of beds and the pale suffering faces and the eternal faint odour of disinfectants, into all this greenery and the fellowship of birds and beasts unconscious of war. she remembered that once, in the pocket of her cloak, there had been a biscuit or two. very slowly and carefully, her mind fixed on the robin, she fished for crumbs and very carefully and gently she fed the impudent, stomach-centred fellow. she had attracted him to the end of the seat, when, whizz and clatter, came a motor cycle down the avenue, and off in a terrible scare flew the robin; the idyll of tree and beast and birds suffered instant disruption and randall holmes, in his canvas suit, stood before her. he said: "good morning, phyllis." she said, with cold politeness: "good morning." but she asked the spring morning in dumb piteousness, "oh, why has he come? why has he come to spoil it all?" he sat down by her side. "this is the luckiest chance i've ever had--finding you here," he said. "you've had all my letters, haven't you?" "yes," she answered, "and i've torn them all up." "why?" "because i didn't want them," she flashed on him: "i've destroyed them without reading them." he flushed angrily. apart from the personal affront, the fact that the literary products of a poet, precious and, in this case, sincere, should have been destroyed, unread, was an anti-social outrage. "if it didn't please a woman to believe in god," he said, "and god came in person and stood in front of her, she would run out of the room and call upon somebody to come and shoot him for a burglar, just to prove she was right." phyllis was shocked. her feminine mind pounced on the gross literalness of his rhetorical figure. "i've never heard anything more blasphemous and horrible," she exclaimed, moving to her end of the bench. "putting yourself in the position of the almighty! oh!" she flung out her hand. "don't speak to me." in spite of the atheistical gedge, phyllis believed in god and jesus christ and the ten commandments. she also believed in a host of other simple things, such as goodness and truth, virtue and patriotism. the arguments and theories and glosses that her father and randall wove about them appeared to her candid mind as meaningless arabesques. she could not see how all the complications concerning the elementary canons of faith and conduct could arise. she appreciated randall's intellectual gifts; his power of weaving magical words into rhyme fascinated her; she was childlike in her wonder at his command of the printed page; when he revealed to her the beauty of things, as the rogue had a pretty knack of doing, her nature thrilled responsive. he gave her a thousand glimpses into a new world, and she loved him for it. but when he talked lightly of sacred matters, such as god and duty, he ran daggers into her heart. she almost hated him. he had to expend much eloquence and persuasion to induce her to listen to him. he had no wish to break any of the commandments, especially the third. he professed penitence. but didn't she see that her treatment of him was driving him into a desperate unbelief in god and man? when a woman accepted a man's love she accepted many responsibilities. phyllis stonily denied acceptance. "i've refused it. you've asked me to marry you and i told you i wouldn't. and i won't." "you're mixing up two things," he said, with a smile. "love and marriage. many people love and don't marry, just as many marry and don't love. now once you did tell me that you loved me, and so you accepted my love. there's no getting out of it. i've given you everything i've got, and you can't throw it away. the question is--what are you going to do with it? what are you going to do with me?" his sophistries frightened her; but she cut through them. "isn't it rather a question of what you're going to do with yourself?" "if you give me up i don't care a hang what becomes of me." he came very near and his voice was dangerously soft. "phyllis dear, i do love you with all my heart. why won't you marry me?" but a hateful scene rushed to her memory. she drew herself up. "why are my father and you persecuting me to marry you?" "your father?" he interrupted, in astonishment. "when?" she named the day, wednesday of last week. in desperation she told him what had happened. the poor child was fighting for her soul against great odds. "it's a conspiracy to get me round to your way of thinking. you want me to be a pro-german like yourselves, and i won't be a pro-german, and i think it wicked even to talk to pro-germans!" she rose, all sobs, fluster, and heroism, and walked away. he strode a step or two and stood in front of her with his hands on her shoulders. "i've never spoken to your father in that way about you. never. not a word has passed my lips about my caring for you. on my word of honour. on tuesday night i left your father's house never to go there again. i told him so." she writhed out of his grasp and spread the palms of her hands against him. "please don't," she said, and seeing that she stood her ground, he made no further attempt to touch her. the austerity of her grey nurse's uniform gave a touch of pathos to her childish, blue-eyed comeliness and her pretty attitude of defiance. "i suppose," she said, "he was too pro-german even for you." he looked at her for a long time disconcertingly: so disconcertingly and with so much pain and mysterious hesitation in his eyes as to set even phyllis's simple mind a-wondering and to make her emphasize it, in her report of the matter to betty, as extraordinary and frightening. it seemed, so she explained, in her innocent way, that he had discovered something horrible about her father which he shrank from telling her. but if they had quarrelled so bitterly, why had her father the very next day urged her to marry him? the answer came in a ghastly flash. she recoiled as though in the presence of defilement. if she married randall, his lips would be closed against her father. that is what her father had meant. the vague, disquieting suspicions of years that he might not have the same standards of uprightness as other men, attained an awful certainty. she remembered the incident of the private letter and the look in her father's eyes.... finally she revolted. her soul grew sick. she took no heed of randall's protest. she only saw that she was to be the cloak to cover up something unclean between them. at a moment like this no woman pretends to have a sense of justice. randall had equal share with her father in an unknown baseness. she hated him as he stood there so strong and handsome. and she hated herself for having loved him. at last he said with a smile: "yes, that's just it." "what?" she had forgotten the purport of her last remark. "he was a bit too--well, not too pro-german--but too anti-english for me. you have got hold of the wrong end of the stick all the time, phyllis dear. i'm no more pro-german than you are. perhaps i see things more clearly than you do. i've been trained to an intellectual view of human phenomena." her little pink and white face hardened until it looked almost ugly. the unpercipient young man continued: "and so i take my stand on a position that you must accept on trust. i am english to the backbone. you can't possibly dream that i'm not. come, dear, let me try to explain." his arm curved as if to encircle her waist. she sprang away. "don't touch me. i couldn't bear it. there's something about you i can't understand." in her attitude, too, he found a touch of the incomprehensible. he said, however, with a sneer: "if i were swaggering about in a cheap uniform, you'd find me simplicity itself." she caught at his opening, desperately. "yes. at any rate i'd find a man. a man who wasn't afraid to fight for his country." "afraid!" "yes," she cried, and her blue eyes blazed. "afraid. that's why i can't marry you. i'd rather die than marry you. i've never told you. i thought you'd guess. i'm an english girl and i can't marry a coward--a coward--a coward--a coward." her voice ended on a foolish high note, for randall, very white, had seized her by the wrist. "you little fool," he cried. "you'll live to repent what you've said." he released her, mounted his motor bicycle, and rode away. phyllis watched him disappear up the avenue; then she walked rather blindly back to the bench and sat down among the ruins of a black and abominable world. after a while the friendly robin, seeing her so still, perched first on the back of the bench and then hopped on the seat by her side, and cocking his head, looked at her enquiringly out of his little hard eye, as though he would say: "my dear child, what are you making all this fuss about? isn't it early june? isn't the sun shining? aren't the chestnuts in flower? don't you see that bank of dark blue cloud over there which means a nice softening rain in the night and a jolly good breakfast of worms in the morning? what's wrong with this exquisitely perfect universe?" and phyllis--on her own confession--with an angry gesture sent him scattering up among the cool broad leaves and cried: "get away, you hateful little beast!" and having no use for robins and trees and spring and sunshine and such like intolerable ironies, a white little wisp of a nurse left them all to their complacent riot and went back to the hospital. chapter xii a few days after this, mrs. holmes sent me under cover a telegram which she had received from her son. it was dispatched from aberdeen and ran: "perfectly well. don't worry about me. love. randall." and that was all i heard of him for some considerable time. what he was doing in aberdeen, a city remote from his sphere of intellectual, political, and social activities, heaven and himself alone knew. i must confess that i cared very little. he was alive, he was well, and his mother had no cause for anxiety. phyllis had definitely sent him packing. there was no reason for me to allow speculation concerning him to keep me awake of nights. i had plenty to think about besides randall. they made me honorary treasurer of the local volunteer training corps which had just been formed. the members not in uniform wore a red brassard with "g.r." in black. the facetious all over the country called them "gorgeous wrecks." i must confess that on their first few parades they did not look very military. their composite paunchiness, beardedness, scragginess, spectacledness, impressed me unfavourably when, from my hosea-carriage, i first beheld them. marigold, who was one of the first to join and to leap into the grey uniform, tried to swagger about as an instructor. but as the little infantry drill he had ever learned had all been changed since the boer war, i gathered an unholy joy from seeing him hang like a little child on the lips of the official sergeant instructor of the corps. in the evenings he and i mugged up the text-books together; and with the aid of the books i put him through all the new physical exercises. i was a privileged person. i could take my own malicious pleasure out of marigold's enforced humility, but i would be hanged if anybody else should. sergeant marigold should instruct those volunteers as he once instructed the recruits of his own battery. so i worked with him like a nigger until there was nothing in the various drills of a modern platoon that he didn't know, and nothing that he could not do with the mathematical precision of his splendid old training. one night during the thick of it betty came in. i waved her into a corner of the library out of the way, and she smoked cigarettes and looked on at the performance. now i come to think of it, we must have afforded an interesting spectacle. there was the gaunt, one-eyed, preposterously wigged image clad in undervest and shrunken yellow flannel trousers which must have dated from his gym-instructor days in the nineties, violently darting down on his heels, springing up, kicking out his legs, shooting out his arms, like an inspired marionette, all at the words of command shouted in fervent earnest by a shrivelled up little cripple in a wheel-chair. when it was over--the weather was warm--he passed a curved forefinger over his dripping forehead, cut himself short in an instinctive action and politely dried his hand on the seat of his trousers. then his one eye gleamed homage at betty and he drew himself up to attention. "do you mind, sir, if i send in ellen with the drinks?" i nodded. "you'll do very well with a drink yourself, marigold." "it's thirsty work and weather, sir." he made a queer movement of his hand--it would have been idiotic of him to salute--but he had just been dismissed from military drill, so his hand went up to the level of his breast and--right about turn--he marched out of the room. betty rose from her corner and threw herself in her usual impetuous way on the ground by my chair. "do you know," she cried, "you two dear old things were too funny for words." but as i saw that her eyes were foolishly moist, i was not as offended as i might have been by her perception of the ludicrous. when i said that i had plenty to think about besides randall, i meant to string off a list. my prolixity over the volunteer training corps came upon me unawares. i wanted to show you that my time was fairly well occupied. i was chairman of our town belgian relief committee. i was a member of our county territorial association and took over a good deal of special work connected with one of our battalions that was covering itself with glory and little mounds topped with white crosses at the front. if you think i lived a tom-tabby, tea-party sort of life, you are quite mistaken. if the war office could have its way, it would have lashed me in red tape, gagged me with regulations, and sealing-waxed me up in my bed-room. and there are thousands of us who have shaken our fists under the nose of the war office and shouted, "all your blighting, man-with-the-mudrake officialdom shan't prevent us from serving our country." and it hasn't! the very government itself, in spite of its monumental efforts, has not been able to shackle us into inertia or drug us into apathy. such non-combatant francs-tireurs in england have done a power of good work. and then, of course, there was the hospital which, in one way or another, took up a good deal of my time. i was reposing in the front garden one late afternoon in mid-june, after a well-filled day, when a car pulled up at the gate, in which were betty (at the wheel) and a wounded soldier, in khaki, his cap perched on top of a bandaged head. i don't know whether it is usual for young women in nurse's uniform to career about the country driving wounded men in motor cars, but betty did it. she cared very little for the usual. she came in, leaving the man in the car, and crossed the lawn, flushed and bright-eyed, a refreshing picture for a tired man. "we're in a fix up at the hospital," she announced as soon as she was in reasonable speaking distance, "and i want you to get us out of it." sitting on the grass, she told me the difficulty. a wounded soldier, discharged from some distant hospital, and home now on sick furlough before rejoining his depot, had been brought into the hospital with a broken head. the modern improvements on vinegar and brown paper having been applied, the man was now ready to leave. i interrupted with the obvious question. why couldn't he go to his own home? it appeared that the prospect terrified him. on his arrival, at midday, after eight months' absence in france, he found that his wife had sold or pawned practically everything in the place, and that the lady herself was in the violent phase of intoxication. his natural remonstrances not being received with due meekness, a quarrel arose from which the lady emerged victorious. she laid her poor husband out with a poker. they could not keep him in hospital. he shied at an immediate renewal of conjugal life. he had no relations or intimate friends in wellingsford. where was the poor devil to go? "i thought i might bring him along here and let the marigolds look after him for a week or two." "indeed," said i. "i admire your airy ways." "i know you do," she replied, "and that's why i've brought him." "is that the fellow?" she laughed. "you're right first time. how did you guess?" she scrambled to her feet. "i'll fetch him in." she fetched him in, a haggard, broad-shouldered man with a back like a sloping plank of wood. he wore corporal's stripes. he saluted and stood at rigid attention. "this is tufton," said betty. i despatched her in search of marigold. to tufton i said, regarding him with what, without vanity, i may term an expert eye: "you're an old soldier." "yes, sir." "guards?" his eyes brightened. "yes, sir. seven years in the grenadiers. then two years out. rejoined on outbreak of war, sir." i rubbed my hands together in satisfaction. "i'm an old soldier too," said i. "so sister told me, sir." a delicate shade in the man's tone and manner caught at my heart. perhaps it was the remotest fraction of a glance at my rug-covered legs, the pleased recognition of my recognition, ... perhaps some queer freemasonry of the old army. "you seem to be in trouble, boy," said i. "tell me all about it and i'll do what i can to help you." so he told his story. after his discharge from the army he had looked about for a job and found one at the mills in wellingsford, where he had met the woman, a mill-hand, older than himself, whom he had married. she had been a bit extravagant and fond of her glass, but when he left her to rejoin the regiment, he had had no anxieties. she did not write often, not being very well educated and finding difficult the composition of letters. a machine gun bullet had gone through his chest, just missing his lung. he had been two months in hospital. he had written to her announcing his arrival. she had not met him at the station. he had tramped home with his kit-bag on his back--and the cracked head was his reception. he supposed she had had a lot of easy money and had given way to temptation--and---- "and what's a man to do, sir?" "i'm sure i don't know, corporal," said i. "it's damned hard lines on you. but, at any rate, you can look upon this as your home for as long as you like to stay." "thank you kindly, sir," said he. i turned and beckoned to betty and marigold, who had been hovering out of earshot by the house door. they approached. "i want to have a word with marigold," i said. tufton saluted and went off with betty. sergeant marigold stood stiff as a ramrod on the spot which tufton had occupied. "i suppose mrs. connor," said i, "has told you all about this poor chap?" "yes, sir," said marigold. "we must put him up comfortably. that's quite simple. the only thing that worries me is this--supposing his wife comes around here raising cain--?" marigold held me with his one glittering eye--an eye glittering with the pride of the gunner and the pride (more chastened) of the husband. "you can leave all that, sir, to mrs. marigold. if she isn't more than a match for any grenadier guardsman's wife, then i haven't been married to her for the last twenty years." nothing more was to be said. marigold marched the man off, leaving me alone with betty. "i'm going to get in before mrs. marigold," she remarked, with a smile. "i'm off now to interview madam tufton and bring back her husband's kit." in some ways it is a pity betty isn't a man. she would make a splendid soldier. i don't think such a thing as fear, physical, moral, or spiritual, lurks in any recess of betty's nature. not every young woman would brave, without trepidation, a virago who had cracked a hard-bitten warrior's head with a poker. "marigold and i will come with you," i said. she protested. it was nonsense. suppose mrs. tufton went for marigold and spoiled his beauty? no. it was too dangerous. no place for men. we argued. at last i blew the police-whistle which i wear on the end of my watch-chain. marigold came hurrying out of the house. "mrs. connor is going to take us for a run," said i. "very good, sir." "your blood be on your own heads," said betty. we talked a while of what had happened. vague stories of the demoralization of wives left alone with a far greater weekly income than they had ever handled before had reached our ears. we had read them in the newspapers. but till now we had never come across an example. the woman in question belonged to a bad type. various dregs from large cities drift into the mills around little country towns and are the despair of mayors, curates, and other local authorities. we genteel folk regarded them as a plague-spot in the midst of us. i remember the scandal when the troops first came in august, , to wellingsford--a scandal put a summary end to, after a fortnight's grinning amazement at our country morals, by the troops themselves. tufton had married into an undesirable community. "we're wasting time," said betty. so marigold put me into the back of the car and mounted into the front seat by betty, and we started. flowery end was the poetic name of the mean little row of red-brick houses inhabited exclusively by mrs. tufton and her colleagues at the mills. to get to it you turn off the high street by the post office, turn to the right down avonmore avenue, and then to the left. there you find flowery end, and, fifty yards further on, the main road to godbury crosses it at right angles. betty, who lived on the godbury road, was quite familiar with flowery end. mid-june did its best to justify the name. here and there, in the tiny patches of front garden, a tenant tried to help mid-june by cultivating wall-flowers and geraniums and snapdragon and a rose or two; but the majority cared as much for the beauty of mid-june as for the cleanliness of their children,--an unsightly brood, with any slovenly rags about their bodies, and the circular crust of last week's treacle on their cheeks. in his abominable speeches before the war gedge used to point out these children to unsympathetic wellingsfordians as the infant martyrs of an accursed capitalism. betty pulled up the car at number seven. marigold sprang out, helped her down, and would have walked up the narrow flagged path to knock at the door. but she declined his aid, and he stood sentry by the gap where the wicket gate of the garden should have been. i saw the door open on betty's summons, and a brawny, tousled, red-faced woman appear--a most horrible and forbidding female, although bearing traces of a once blowsy beauty. as in most cottages hereabouts, you entered straight from garden-plot into the principal livingroom. on each side of the two figures i obtained a glimpse of stark emptiness. betty said: "are you mrs. tufton? i've come to talk to you about your husband. let me come in." the attack was so debonair, so unquestioning, that the woman withdrew a pace or two and betty, following up her advantage, entered and shut the door behind her. i could not have done what betty did if i had had as many legs as a centipede. marigold turned to me anxiously. "you do think she's safe, sir?" i nodded. "anyway, stand by." the neighbours came out of adjoining houses; slatternly women with babies, more unwashed children, an elderly, vacant male or two--the young men and maidens had not yet been released from the mills. as far as i could gather, there was amused discussion among the gossips concerning the salient features of sergeant marigold's physical appearance. i heard one lady bid another to look at his wicked old eye, and receive the humorous rejoinder: "which one?" i should have liked to burn them as witches; but marigold stood his ground, imperturbable. presently the door opened, and betty came sailing down the path with a red spot on each cheek, followed by mrs. tufton, vociferous. "sergeant marigold," cried betty. "will you kindly go into that house and fetch out corporal tufton's kit-bag?" "very good, madam," said marigold. "sergeant or no sergeant," cried mrs. tufton, squaring her elbows and barring his way, "nobody's coming into my house to touch any of my husband's property...." really what she said i cannot record. the british tommy i know upside-down, inside-out. i could talk to you about him for the week together. the ordinary soldier's wife, good, straight, heroic soul, i know as well and and profoundly admire as i do the ordinary wife of a brother-officer, and i could tell you what she thinks and feels in her own language. but the class whence mrs. tufton proceeded is out of my social ken. she was stale-drunk; she had, doubtless, a vile headache; probably she felt twinges of remorse and apprehension of possible police interference. as a counter-irritant to this, she had worked herself into an astounding temper. she would give up none of her husband's belongings. she would have the law on them if they tried. bad enough it was for her husband to come home after a year's desertion, leaving her penniless, and the moment he set eyes on her begin to knock her about; but for sergeants suffering under a blight and characterless females masquerading as hospital nurses to come and ride rough-shod over an honest working woman was past endurance. thus i paraphrase my memory of the lady's torrential speech. "lay your hand on me," she cried, "and i'll summons you for assault." as marigold could not pass her without laying hands on her, and as the laying of hands on her, no matter how lightly, would indubitably have constituted an assault in the eyes of the law, marigold stiffly confronted her and tried to argue. the neighbours listened in sardonic amusement. betty stood by, with the spots burning on her cheek, clenching her slender capable fingers, furious at defeat. i was condemned to sit in the car a few yards off, an anxious spectator. in a moment's lull of the argument, betty interposed: "every woman here knows what you have done. you ought to be ashamed of yourself." "and you ought to be ashamed of yourself," mrs. tufton retorted--"taking an honest woman's husband away from her." it was time to interfere. i called out: "betty, let us get back. i'll fix the man up with everything he wants." at the moment of her turning to me a telegraph boy hopped from his bicycle on the off-side of the ear and touched his cap. "i've a telegram for mrs. connor, sir. i recognised the car and i think that's the lady. so instead of going on to the house--" i cut him short. yes. that was mrs. connor of telford lodge. he dodged round the car and, entering the garden path, handed the orange-coloured envelope to betty. she took it from him absent-mindedly, her heart and soul engaged in the battle with mrs. tufton. the boy stood patient for a second or two. "any answer, ma'am?" she turned so that i could see her face in profile, and impatiently opened the envelope and glanced at the message. then she stiffened, seeming in a curious way to become many inches taller, and grew deadly white. the paper dropped from her hand. marigold picked it up. the diversion of the telegraph boy had checked mrs. tufton's eloquence and compelled the idle interest of the neighbours. i cried out from the car: "what's the matter?" but i don't think betty heard me. she recovered herself, took the telegram from marigold, and showed it to the woman. "read it," said betty, in a strange, hard voice. "this is to tell me that my husband was killed yesterday in france. go on your knees and thank god that you have a brave husband still alive and pray that you may be worthy of him." she went into the house and in a moment reappeared like a ghost of steel, carrying the disputed canvas kit-bag over her shoulder. the woman stared open-mouthed and said nothing. marigold came forward to relieve betty of her burden, but she waved him imperiously away, passed him and, opening the car-door, threw the bag at my feet. not one of the rough crowd moved a foot or uttered a sound, save a baby in arms two doors off, who cut the silence with a sickly wail and was immediately hushed by its mother. betty turned to the attendant marigold. "you can drive me home." she sat by my side. marigold took the wheel in front and drove on. she sought for my hand, held it in an iron grip, and said not a word. it was but a five minutes' run at the pace to which marigold, time-worn master of crises of life and death, put the car. betty held herself rigid, staring straight in front of her, and striving in vain to stifle horrible little sounds that would break through her tightly closed lips. when we pulled up at her door she said queerly: "forgive me. i'm a damned little coward." and she bolted from the car into the house. chapter xiii thus over the sequestered vale of wellingsford, far away from the sound of shells, even off the track of marauding zeppelins, rode the fiery planet, mars. there is not a homestead in great britain that in one form or another has not caught a reflection of its blood-red ray. no matter how we may seek distraction in work or amusement, the angry glow is ever before our eyes, colouring our vision, colouring our thoughts, colouring our emotions for good or for ill. we cannot escape it. our personal destinies are inextricably interwoven with the fate directing the death grapple of the thousand miles or so of battle line, and arbitrating on the doom of colossal battleships. our local newspaper prints week by week its ever-lengthening roll of honour. the shells that burst and slew these brave fellows spread their devastation into our little sheltered town; in a thundering crash tearing off from the very trunk of life here a friend, there a son, there a father, there a husband. and i repeat, at the risk of wearisome insistence, that our sheltered homeland shares the calm, awful fatalism of the battlefield; we have to share it because every rood of our country is, spiritually, as much a battlefield as the narrow, blood-sodden wastes of flanders and france. willie connor, fine brave gentleman, was dead. my beloved betty was a widow. no victoria cross for betty. even if there had been one, no children to be bred from birth on its glorious legend. the german shell left betty stripped and maimed. with her passionate generosity she had given her all; even as his all had been nobly given by her husband. and then all of both had been swept ruthlessly away down the gory draught of sacrifice. poor betty! "i'm a damned little coward," she said, as she bolted into the house. the brave, foolish words rang in my ears all that night. in the early morning i wondered what i should do. a commonplace message, written or telephoned, would be inept. i shrank from touching her, although i knew she would feel my touch to be gentle. you have seen, i hope, that betty was dearer to me than anyone else in the world, and i knew that, apart from the stirring emotions in her own young life, betty held me in the closest affection. when she needed me, she would fly the signal. of that i felt assured. still... while i was in this state of perplexity, marigold came in to rouse me and get me ready for the day. "i've taken the liberty, sir," said he, "to telephone to telford lodge to enquire after mrs. connor. the maid said she had mrs. connor's instructions to reply that she was quite well." the good, admirable fellow! i thanked him. while i was shaving, he said in his usual wooden way: "begging your pardon, sir, i thought you might like to send mrs. connor a few flowers, so i took upon myself to cut some roses, first thing this morning, with the dew on them." of course i cut myself and the blood flowed profusely. "why the dickens do you spring things like that on people while they're shaving?" i cried. "very sorry, sir," said he, solicitous with sponge and towel. "all the same, marigold," said i, "you've solved a puzzle that has kept me awake since early dawn. we'll go out as soon as i'm dressed and we'll send her every rose in the garden." i have an acre or so of garden behind the house of which i have not yet spoken, save incidentally--for it was there that just a year ago poor althea fenimore ate her giant strawberries on the last afternoon of her young life; and a cross-grained old misanthropist, called timbs, attends to it and lavishes on the flowers the love which, owing, i suspect, to blighted early affection, he denies to mankind. i am very fond of my garden and am especially interested in my roses. do you know an exquisitely pink rose--the only true pink--named mrs. george norwood? ... i bring myself up with a jerk. i am not writing a book on roses. when the war is over perhaps i shall devote my old age to telling you what i feel and know and think about them.... i had a battle with timbs. timbs was about sixty. he had shaggy, bushy eyebrows over hard little eyes, a shaggy grey beard, and a long, clean-shaven, obstinate upper lip. stick him in an ill-fitting frock coat and an antiquated silk hat, and he would be the stage model of a scottish elder. as a matter of fact he was hampshire born and a devout roman catholic. but he was as crabbed an old wretch as you can please. he flatly refused to execute my order. i dismissed him on the spot. he countered with the statement that he was an old man who had served me faithfully for many years. i bade him go on serving me faithfully and not be a damned fool. the roses were to be cut. if he didn't cut them, marigold would. "he's been a-cutting them already," he growled. "before i came." timbs loathed marigold--why, i could never discover--and marigold had the lowest opinion of timbs. it was an offence for marigold to desecrate the garden by his mere footsteps; to touch a plant or a flower constituted a damnable outrage. on the other side, timbs could not approach my person for the purpose of rendering me any necessary physical assistance, without incurring marigold's violent resentment. "he'll go on cutting them," said i, "unless you start in at once." he began. i sent off marigold in search of a wheelbarrow. then, having timbs to myself, i summoned him to my side. "do you hold with a man sacrificing his life for his country?" he looked at me for a moment or two, in his dour, crabbed way. "i've got a couple of sons in france, trying their best to do it," he replied. that was the first i had ever heard of it. i had always regarded him as a gnarled old bachelor without human ties. where he had kept the sons and the necessary mother i had not the remotest notion. "you're proud of them?" "i am." "and if one was killed, would you grudge his grave a few roses? for the sake of him wouldn't you sacrifice a world of roses?" his manner changed. "i don't understand, sir. is anybody killed?" "didn't i say that all these roses were for mrs. connor?" he dropped his secateur. "good god, sir! is it captain connor?" the block-headed idiot of a marigold had not told him! marigold is a very fine fellow, but occasionally he manifests human frailties that are truly abominable. "we are going to sacrifice all our roses, timbs," said i, "for the sake of a very gallant englishman. it's about all we can do." of course i ought to have entered upon all this explanation when i first came on the scene; but i took it for granted that timbs knew of the tragedy. "need we cut those blooms of the rayon d'or?" asked timbs, alluding to certain roses under conical paper shades which he had been breathlessly tending for our local flower show. "we'll cut them first," said i. looking back through the correcting prism of time, i fancy this slaughter of the innocents may have been foolishly sentimental. but i had a great desire to lay all that i could by way of tribute of consolation at betty's feet, and this little sacrifice of all my roses seemed as symbolical an expression of my feelings as anything that my unimaginative brain could devise. during the forenoon i superintended the packing of the baskets of roses in pawling the florist's cart, which i was successful in engaging for the occasion,--neither wheelbarrow nor donkey carriage nor two-seater, the only vehicles at my disposal, being adequate; and when i saw it start for its destination, i wheeled myself, by way of discipline, through my bereaved garden. it looked mighty desolate. but though all the blooms had gone, there were a myriad buds which next week would burst into happy flower. and the sacrifice seemed trivial, almost ironical; for in betty's heart there were no buds left. after lunch i went to the hospital for the weekly committee meeting. to my amazement the first person i met in the corridor was betty--betty, white as wax, with black rings round unnaturally shining eyes. she waited for me to wheel myself up to her. i said severely: "what on earth are you doing here? go home to bed at once." she put her hand on the back of my chair and bent down. "i'm better here. and so are the dear roses. come and see them." i followed her into one of the military wards on the ground floor, and the place was a feast of roses. i had no idea so many could have come from my little garden. and the ward upstairs, she told me, was similarly beflowered. by the side of each man's bed stood bowl or vase, and the tables and the window sills were bright with blooms. it was the ward for serious cases--men with faces livid from gas-poisoning, men with the accursed trench nephritis, men with faces swathed in bandages hiding god knows what distortions, men with cradles over them betokening mangled limbs, men recovering from operations, chiefly the picking of bits of shrapnel and splinters of bone from shattered arms and legs; men with pale faces, patient eyes, and with cheery smiles round their lips when we passed by. a gramophone at the end of the room was grinding out a sentimental tune to which all were listening with rapt enjoyment. i asked one man, among others, how he was faring. he was getting on fine. with the death-rattle in his throat the wounded british soldier invariably tells you that he is getting on fine. "and ain't these roses lovely? makes the place look like a garden. and that music--seems appropriate, don't it, sir?" i asked what the gramophone was playing. he looked respectfully shocked. "why, it's 'the rosary,' sir." after we had left him, betty said: "that's the third time they've asked for it to-day. they've got mixed up with the name, you see. they're beautiful children, aren't they?" i should have called them sentimental idiots, but betty saw much clearer than i did. she accompanied me back to the corridor and to the committee room door. i was a quarter of an hour late. "i've kept the precious rayon d'ors for myself," she said. "how could you have the heart to cut them?" "i would have cut out my heart itself, for the matter of that," said i, "if it would have done any good." she smiled in a forlorn kind of way. "don't do that, for i shall want it inside you more than ever now. tell me, how is tufton?" "tufton--?" "yes--tufton." i must confess that my mind being so full of betty, i had clean forgotten tufton. but betty remembered. i smiled. "he's getting on fine," said i. i reached out my hand and held her cold, slim fingers. "promise me one thing, my dear." "all right," she said. "don't overdo things. there's a limit to the power of bearing strain. as soon as you feel you're likely to go fut, throw it all up and come and see me and let us lay our heads together." "i despise people who go fut," said betty. "i don't," said i. we nodded a mutual farewell. she opened the committee room door for me and walked down the corridor with a swinging step, as though she would show me how fully she had made herself mistress of circumstance. some evenings later she came in, as usual, unheralded, and established herself by my chair. the scents of midsummer came in through the open windows, and there was a great full moon staring in at us from a cloudless sky. letters from the war office, from brother-officers, from the colonel, from the brigadier general himself, had broken her down. she gave me the letters to read. everyone loved him, admired him, trusted him. "as brave as a lion," wrote one. "perhaps the most brilliant company officer in my brigade," wrote the general. and his death--the tragic common story. a trench; a high-explosive shell; the fate of young etherington; and no possible little wooden cross to mark his grave. and betty, on the floor by my side, gave way. the proud will bent. she surrendered herself to a paroxysm of sorrow. she was not in a fit state to return to the hospital, where, i learned, she shared a bedroom with phyllis gedge. i shrank from sending her home to the tactless comforting of her aunts. they were excellent, god-fearing ladies, but they had never understood betty. all her life they had worried her with genteel admonitions. they had regarded her marriage with disfavour, as an act of foolhardiness--i even think they looked on her attitude as unmaidenly; and now in her frozen widowhood they fretted her past endurance. on the night when the news came they sent for the vicar of their parish--not my good friend who christened hosea--a very worthy, very serious, very evangelistically religious fellow, to administer spiritual consolation. if betty had sat devoutly under him on sundays, there might have been some reason in the summons. but betty, holding her own religious views, had only once been inside the church--on the occasion of her wedding--and had but the most formal acquaintance with the good man.... no, i could not send betty home, unexpectedly, to have her wounds mauled about by unskilful fingers. nothing remained but to telephone to the hospital and put her in mrs. marigold's charge for the night. so broken was my dear betty, that she allowed herself to be carried off without a word.... once before, years ago, she had behaved with the same piteous docility; and that was when, a short-frocked maiden, she had fallen from an apple tree and badly hurt herself, and marigold had carried her into the house and mrs. marigold had put her to bed.... in the morning i found her calm and sedate at the breakfast table. "you've been and gone and done for both of us, majy dear," she remarked, pouring out tea. "what do you mean?" "our reputations. what a scandal in wellingsford!" she looked me clearly in the eyes and smiled, and her hand did not shake as she held my cup. and by these signs i knew that she had taken herself again in grip and forbade reference to the agony through which she had passed. quickly she turned the conversation to the tuftons. what had happened? i told her meagrely. she insisted on fuller details. so, flogged by her, i related what i had gleaned from marigold's wooden reports. he always conveyed personal information as though he were giving evidence against a defaulter. i had to start all over again. apparently this had happened: mrs. tufton had arrayed herself, not in sackcloth and ashes, for that was apparently her normal attire, but in an equivalent, as far as a symbol of humility was concerned; namely, in decent raiment, and had sought her husband's forgiveness. there had been a touching scene in the scullery which mrs. marigold had given up to them for the sake of privacy, in which the lady had made tearful promises of reform and the corporal had magnanimously passed the sponge over the terrible reckoning on her slate. would he then go home to his penitent wife? but the gallant fellow, with the sturdy common-sense for which the british soldier is renowned, contrasted the clover in which he was living here with the aridness of flowery end, and declined to budge. high sentiment was one thing, snug lying was another. next time he came back, if she had re-established the home in its former comfort, he didn't say as how he wouldn't-- "but," she cried--and this bit i didn't tell betty--"the next time you may come home dead!" "then," replied tufton, "let me see what a nice respectable coffin, with brass handles and lots of slap-up brass nails and a brass plate, you can get ready for me." since the first interview, i informed betty, there had been others daily--most decorous. they were excellent friends. neither seemed to perceive anything absurd in the situation. even marigold looked on it as a matter of course. "i have an idea," said betty. "you know we want some help in the servant staff of the hospital?" i did. the matron had informed the committee, who had empowered her to act. "why not let me tackle mrs. tufton while she is in this beautifully chastened and devotional mood? in this way we can get her out of the mills, out of flowery end, fill her up with noble and patriotic emotions instead of whisky, and when tufton returns, present her to him as a model wife, sanctified by suffering and ennobled by the consciousness of duty done. it would be splendid!" for the first time since the black day there came a gleam of fun into betty's eyes and a touch of colour into her cheeks. "it would indeed," said i. "the only question is whether tufton would really like this red cross saint you'll have provided for him." "in case he does not," said betty, "you can provide him with a refuge as you are doing now." she rose from the table, announcing her intention of going straight to the hospital. i realised with a pang that breakfast was over; that i had enjoyed a delectable meal; that, by some sort of dainty miracle, she had bemused me into eating and drinking twice my ordinary ration; that she had inveigled me into talking--a thing i have never done during breakfast for years--it is as much as marigold's ugly head is worth to address a remark to me during the unsympathetic duty--why, if my poached egg regards me with too aggressive a pinkiness, i want to slap it--and into talking about those confounded tuftons with a gusto only provoked by a glass or two of impeccable port after a good dinner. one would have thought, considering the anguished scene of the night before, that it would have been one of the most miserably impossible tete-a-tete breakfasts in the whole range of such notoriously ghastly meals. but here was betty, serene and smiling, as though she had been accustomed to breakfast with me every morning of her life, off to the hospital, with a hard little idea in her humorous head concerning mrs. tufton's conversion. the only sign she gave of last night's storm was when, by way of good-bye, she bent down and kissed my cheek. "you know," she said, "i love you too much to thank you." and she went off with her brave little head in the air. in the afternoon i went to wellings park. sir anthony was away, but lady fenimore was in. she showed me a letter she had received from betty in reply to her letter of condolence: "my dears, "it is good to realise one has such rocks to lean on. you long to help and comfort me. well, i'll tell you how to do it. you just forget. leave it to me to do all the remembering. "yours, betty." chapter xiv on the first of july there was forwarded to me from the club a letter in an unknown handwriting. i had to turn to the signature to discover the identity of my correspondent. it was reggie dacre, colonel dacre, whom i had met in london a couple of months before. as it tells its own little story, i transcribe it. "dear major meredyth: "i should like to confirm by the following anecdote, which is going the round of the brigade, what i recently told you about our friend boyce. i shouldn't worry you, but i feel that if one has cast an unjustifiable slur on a brother-officer's honour--and i can't tell you how the thing has lain on my conscience--one shouldn't leave a stone unturned to rehabilitate him, even in the eyes of one person. "there has been a good deal of scrapping around ypres lately--that given away by the communiques; but for reasons which both the censor and yourself will appreciate, i can't be more explicit as to locality. enough to say that somewhere in this region--or sector, as we call it nowadays--there was a certain bit of ground that had been taken and retaken over and over again. b.'s regiment was in this fighting, and at one particular time we were holding a german front trench section. a short distance further on the enemy held a little farm building, forming a sort of redoubt. they sniped all day long. they also had a machine gun. i can't give you accurate details, for i can only tell you what i've heard; but the essentials are true. well, we got that farmhouse. we got it single-handed. boyce put up the most amazing bluff that has ever happened in this war. he crawls out by himself, without anybody knowing--it was a pitch-black night--gets through the barbed wire, heaven knows how, up to the house; lays a sentry out with his life-preserver; gives a few commands to an imaginary company; and summons the occupants--two officers and fifteen men--to surrender. thinking they are surrounded, they obey like lambs, come out unarmed, with their hands up, officers and all, and are comfortably marched off in the dark, as prisoners into our trenches. they say that when the german officers discovered how they had been done, they foamed so hard that we had to use empty sandbags as strait waistcoats. "now, it's picturesque, of course, and being picturesque, it has flown from mouth to mouth. but it's true. verb. sap. "hoping some time or other to see you again, "yours sincerely, "r. dacre, "lt. col." i quote this letter here for the sake of chronological sequence. it gave me a curious bit of news. no man could have performed such a feat without a cold brain, soundly beating heart, and nerves of steel. it was not an act of red-hot heroism. it was done in cold blood, a deliberate gamble with death on a thousand to one chance. it was staggeringly brave. i told the story to mrs. boyce. her comment was characteristic: "but surely they would have to surrender if called upon by a british officer." to the day of judgment i don't think she will understand what leonard did. leonard himself, coming home slightly wounded two or three weeks afterwards, pooh-poohed the story as one of no account and only further confused the dear lady's ill-conceived notions. in the meanwhile life at wellingsford flowed uneventfully. now and again a regiment or a brigade, having finished its training, disappeared in a night, and the next day fresh troops arrived to fill its place. and this great, silent movement of men went on all over the country. sometimes our hearts sank. a reserve howitzer territorial brigade turned up in wellings park with dummy wooden guns. the officers told us that they had been expecting proper guns daily for the past two months. marigold shook a sad head. but all things, even six-inch howitzers, come to him who waits. little more was heard of randall holmes. he corresponded with his mother through a firm of london solicitors, and his address and his doings remained a mystery. he was alive, he professed robust health, and in reply to mrs. holmes's frantically expressed hope that he was adopting no course that might discredit his father's name, he twitted her with intellectual volte-face to the views of philistia, but at the same time assured her that he was doing nothing which the most self-righteous bourgeois would consider discreditable. "but it is discreditable for him to go away like this and not let his own mother know where he is," cried the poor woman. and of course i agreed with her. i find it best always to agree with mothers; also with wives. after her own lapse from what mrs. boyce would have called "spartianism," betty kept up her brave face. when willie connor's kit came home she told me tearlessly about the heartrending consignment. now and then she spoke of him--with a proud look in her eyes. she was one of the women of england who had the privilege of being the wife of a hero. in this world one must pay for everything worth having. her widowhood was the price. all the tears of a lifetime could not bring him back. all the storms of fate could not destroy the glory of those few wonderful months. he was laughing, so she heard, when he met his death. so would she, in honour of him, go on laughing till she met hers. "and that silly little fool, phyllis, is still crying her eyes out over randall," she said. "don't i think she was wrong in sending him away? if she had married him she might have influenced him, made him get a commission in the army. i've threatened to beat her if she talks such nonsense. why can't people take a line and stick to it?" "this isn't a world of bettys, my dear," said i. "rubbish! the outrageous mrs. tufton's doing it." apparently she was. she followed betty about as the lamb followed mary. tufton, after a week or two at wellington barracks, had been given sergeant's stripes and sent off with a draft to the front. betty's dramatic announcement of her widowhood seemed to have put the fear of death into the woman's soul. as soon as her husband landed in france she went scrupulously through the closely printed casualty lists of non-commissioned officers and men in the daily mail, in awful dread lest she should see her husband's name. betty vainly assured her that, in the first place, she would hear from the war office weeks before anything could appear in the papers, and that, in the second, his name would occur under the heading "grenadier guards," and not under "royal field artillery," "royal engineers," "duke of cornwall's light infantry," "r.a.m.c.," or australian and canadian contingents. mrs. tufton went through the lot from start to finish. once, indeed, she came across the name, in big print, and made a bee-line through the wards for betty--an offence for which the matron nearly threw her, there and then, into the street. it was that of the gallant colonel of a new zealand regiment at gallipoli. betty had to point to the brief biographical note to prove to the distracted woman that the late colonel tufton of new zealand could not be identical with sergeant tufton of the grenadiers. she regarded mrs. tufton as a brand she had plucked from the burning and took a great deal of trouble with her. on the other hand, i imagine mrs. tufton looked upon herself as a very important person, a sergeant's wife, and the confidential intimate of a leading sister at the wellingsford hospital. in fact, marigold mentioned her notorious vanity. "what does it matter," cried betty, when i put this view before her, "how swelled her head may be, so long as it isn't swollen with drink?" and i could find no adequate reply. towards the end of the month comes boyce to wellingsford, this time not secretly; for the day after his arrival he drove his mother through the town and incidentally called on me. a neglected bullet graze on the neck had turned septic. an ugly temperature had sent him to hospital. the authorities, as soon as the fever had abated and left him on the high road to recovery, had sent him home. a khaki bandage around his bull-throat alone betokened anything amiss. he would be back, he said, as soon as the medical board at the war office would let him. on this occasion, for the first time since south african days, i met him without any mistrust. what had passed between betty and himself, i did not know. relations between man and woman are so subtle and complicated, that unless you have the full pleadings on both sides in front of you, you cannot arbitrate; and, as often as not, if you deliver the most soul-satisfying of judgments, you are hopelessly wrong, because there are all important, elusive factors of personality, temperament, sex, and what not which all the legal acumen in the world could not set down in black and white. so half unconsciously i ruled out betty from my contemplation of the man. i had been obsessed by the vilboek farm story, and by that alone. reggie dacre--to say nothing of personages in high command--had proved it to be a horrible lie. he had marshal ney's deserved reputation--le brave des braves--and there is no more coldly critical conferrer of such repute than the british army in the field. to win it a man not only has to do something heroic once or twice--that is what he is there for--but he has to be doing it all the time. boyce had piled up for himself an amazing record, one that overwhelmed the possibility of truth in old slanders. when i gripped him by the hand, i felt immeasurable relief at being able to do so without the old haunting suspicion and reservation. he spoke, like thousands of others of his type--the type of the fine professional english soldier--with diffident modesty of such personal experiences as he deigned to recount. the anecdotes mostly had a humorous side, and were evoked by allusion. like all of us stay-at-homes, i cursed the censorship for leaving us so much in the dark. he laughed and cursed the censorship for the opposite reason. "the damned fools--i beg your pardon, mother, but when a fool is too big a fool even for this world, he must be damned--the damned fools allow all sorts of things to be given away. they were nearly the death of me and were the death of half a dozen of my men." and he told the story. in a deserted brewery behind the lines the vats were fitted up as baths for men from the trenches, and the furnaces heated ovens in which horrible clothing was baked. this brewery had been immune from attack until an officially sanctioned newspaper article specified its exact position. a few days after the article appeared, in fact, as soon as a copy of the paper reached germany, a thunderstorm of shells broke on the brewery. out of it poured a helter-skelter stream of stark-naked men, who ran wherever they could for cover. from one point of view it was vastly comic. in the meanwhile the building containing all their clothes, and all the spare clothing for a brigade, was being scientifically destroyed. that was more comic still. the bather cut off from his garments is a world-wide joke. the german battery, having got the exact range, were having a systematic, teutonic afternoon's enjoyment. but from another point of view the situation was desperate. there were these poor fellows, hordes of them, in nature's inadequate protection against the weather, shivering in the cold, with the nearest spare rag of clothing some miles away. boyce got them together, paraded them instantly under the shell fire, and led them at a rush into the blazing building to salve stores. six never came out alive. many were burned and wounded. but it had to be done, or the whole crowd would have perished from exposure. tommy is fairly tough; but he cannot live mother-naked through a march night of driving sleet. "no," said boyce, "if you suffered daily from the low cunning of brother bosch, you wouldn't cry for things to be published in the newspapers." at the end of their visit i accompanied my guests to the hall. marigold escorted mrs. boyce to the car. leonard picked up his cap and cane and turned to shake hands. i noticed that the knob of the cane was neatly cased in wash-leather. idly i enquired the reason. he smiled grimly as he slipped off the cover and exposed the polished deep vermilion butt of the life-preserver which reggie dacre had described. "it's a sort of fetish i feel i must carry around with me," he explained. "when i've got it in my hand, i don't seem to care a damn what i do. when i haven't, i miss it. remember the story of sir walter scott's boy with the butter? something like that, you know. but in its bare state it's not a pretty sight for the mother." "it ought to have a name," said i. "the poilu calls his bayonet rosalie." he looked at it darkly for a moment, before refitting the wash-leather. "i might call it the reminder," said he. "good-bye." and he turned quickly and strode out of the door. the reminder of what? he puzzled me. why, in spite of all my open-heartedness, did he still contrive to leave me with a sense of the enigmatic? although he showed himself openly about the town, he held himself aloof from social intercourse with the inhabitants. he called, i know, on mrs. holmes, and on one or two others who have no place in this chronicle. but he refused all proposals of entertainment, notably an invitation to dinner from the fenimores. sir anthony met him in the street, upbraided him in his genial manner for neglect of his old friends, and pressingly asked him to dine at wellings park. just a few old friends. the duties of a distinguished soldier, said he, did not begin and end on the field. he must uplift the hearts of those who had to stay at home. sir anthony had a nervous trick of rattling off many sentences before his interlocutor could get in a word. when he had finished, boyce politely declined the invitation. "and with a damned chilly, stand-offish politeness," cried sir anthony furiously, when telling me about it. "just as if i had been perkins, the fish-monger, asking him to meet the prettiloves at high tea. it's swelled head, my dear chap; that's what it is. just swelled head. none of us are good enough for him and his laurels. he's going to remain the modest mossy violet of a hero blushing unseen. oh, damn the fellow!" i did my best to soothe my touchy and choleric friend. no soldier, said i, likes to be made a show of. why had he suggested a dinner party? a few friends. anyone in boyce's position knew what that meant. it meant about thirty gawking, gaping people for whom he didn't care a hang. why hadn't anthony asked the boyces to dine quietly with edith and himself--with me thrown in, for instance, if they wanted exotic assistance? let me try, i said, to fix matters up. so the next day i called on boyce and told him, with such tact as i have at command, of sir anthony's wounded feelings. "my dear meredyth," said he. "i can only say to you what i tried to explain to the irascible little man. if i accepted one invitation, i should have to accept all invitations or give terrible offence all over the place. i'm here a sick man and my mother's an invalid. and i merely want to be saved from my friends and have a quiet time with the old lady. of course if sir anthony is offended, i'm only too sorry, and i beg you to assure him that i never intended the slightest discourtesy. the mere idea of it distresses me." the explanation was reasonable, the apology frank. sir anthony received them both grumpily. he had his foibles. he set his invitations to dinner in a separate category from those of the rag-tag and bobtail of wellingsford society. so for the sake of principle he continued to damn the fellow. on the other hand, for the sake of principle, reparation for injustice, i continued to like the fellow and found pleasure in his company. for one thing, i hankered after the smoke and smell and din of the front, and boyce succeeded more than anyone else in satisfying my appetite. while he talked, as he did freely with me alone, i got near to the grim essence of things. also, with the aid of rough military maps, he made actions and strategical movements of which newspaper accounts had given me but a confused notion, as clear as if i had been a chief of staff. often he went to considerable trouble in obtaining special information. he appeared to set himself out to win my esteem. now a cripple is very sensitive to kindness. i could not reject his overtures. what interested motive could he have in seeking out a useless hulk like me? on the first opportunity i told betty of the new friendship, having a twinge or two of conscience lest it might appear to her disloyal. "but why in the world shouldn't you see him, dear?" she said, open-eyed. "he brings the breath of battle to you and gives you fresh life. you're looking ever so much better the last few days. the only thing is," she added, turning her head away, "that i don't want to run the risk of meeting him again." naturally i took precautions against such an occurrence. the circumstances of their last meeting at my house lingered unpleasantly in my mind. perhaps, for betty's sake, i ought to have turned a cold shoulder on boyce. but when you have done a man a foul injustice for years, you must make him some kind of secret reparation. so, by making him welcome, i did what i could. now i don't know whether i ought to set down a trivial incident mentioned in my diary under the date of the th august, the day before boyce left wellingsford to join his regiment in france. in writing an account of other people's lives it is difficult to know what to put in and what to leave out. if you bring in your own predilections or prejudices or speculations concerning them, you must convey a distorted impression. you lie about them unconsciously. a fact is a fact, and, if it is important, ought to be recorded. but when you are not sure whether it is a fact or not, what are you to do? perhaps i had better narrate what happened and tell you afterwards why i hesitate. marigold had driven me over to godbury, where i had business connected with a county territorial association, and we were returning home. it was a moist, horrible, depressing august day. a slimy, sticky day. clouds hung low over the reeking earth. the honest rain had ceased, but wet drops dribbled from the leaves of the trees and the branches and trunks exuded moisture. the thatched roofs of cottages were dank. in front gardens roses and hollyhocks drooped sodden. the very droves of steers coming from market sweated in the muggy air. the good slush of the once dusty road, broken to bits by military traffic, had stiffened into black grease. round a bend of the road we skidded alarmingly. marigold has a theory that in summer time a shirt next the skin is the only wear for humans and square-tread tyres the only wear for motor-cars. with some acerbity i pointed out the futility of his proposition. with the blandness of superior wisdom he assured me that we were perfectly safe. you can't knock into the head of an artilleryman who has been trained to hang on to a limber by the friction of his trousers, that there can be any danger in the luxurious seat of a motor-car. there is a good straight half mile of the godbury road which is known in the locality as "the gut." it is sunken and very narrow, being flanked on one side by the railway embankment, and on the other by the grounds of godbury chase. a most desolate bit of road, half overhung by trees and oozing with all the moisture of the country-side. on this day it was the wettest, slimiest bit of road in england. we had almost reached the end of it, when it entered the head of a stray puppy dog to pause in the act of crossing and sit down in the middle and hunt for fleas. to spare the abominable mongrel, marigold made a sudden swerve. of course the car skidded. it skidded all over the place, as if it were drunk, and, aided by marigold, described a series of ghastly half-circles. at last he performed various convulsive feats of jugglery, with the result that the car, which was nosing steadily for the ditch, came to a stand-still. then marigold informed me in unemotional tones that the steering gear had gone. "it's all the fault of that there dog," said he, twisting his head so as to glare at the little beast, who, after a yelp and a bound, had calmly recaptured his position and resumed his interrupted occupation. "it's all the fault of that there marigold," i retorted, "who can't see the sense of using studded tyres on a greasy surface. what's to be done now?" marigold thrust his hand beneath his wig and scratched his head. he didn't exactly know. he got out and stared intently at the car. if mind could have triumphed over matter, the steering gear would have become disfractured. but the good marigold's mind was not powerful enough. he gave up the contest and looked at me and the situation. there we were, broadside on to the narrow road, and only manhandling could bring us round to a position of safety by the side. he was for trying it there and then; but i objected, having no desire to be slithered into the ditch. "i would just as soon," said i, "ride a giraffe shod with roller skates." he didn't even smile. he turned his one reproachful eye on me. what was to be done? i told him. we must wait for assistance. when i had been transferred into the vehicle of a passing samaritan, it was time enough for the manhandling. fate brought the samaritan very quickly. a car coming from godbury tooted violently, then slowed down, stopped, and from it jumped leonard boyce. as he was to rescue me from a position of peculiar helplessness, i regarded his great khaki-clad figure as that of a ministering angel. i beamed on him. "hallo! what's the matter?" he asked cheerily. i explained. being merciful, i spared marigold and threw the blame on the dog and on the county council for allowing the roads to get into such a filthy condition. "that's all right," said boyce. "we'll soon fix you up. first we'll get you into my car. then marigold and i will slue this one round, and then we'll send him a tow." marigold nodded and approached to lift me out. then, what happened next, happened in the flash of a few breathless seconds. there was the dull thud of hoofs. a scared bay thoroughbred, coming from godbury, galloping hell for leather, with a dishevelled boy in khaki on his back. the boy had lost his stirrups; he had lost his reins; he had lost his head. he hung half over the saddle and had a death grip on the horse's mane. and the uncontrolled brute was thundering down on us. there was my infernal car barring the narrow road. i remember bracing myself to meet the shock. an end, thought i, of duncan meredyth. i saw boyce leap aside like a flash and appear to stand stock-still. the next second i saw marigold semaphore a few yards in front of the car and then swing sickeningly at the horse's bit; and then the whole lot of them, marigold, horse and rider, come down in a convulsive heap on the greasy road. to my intense relief i saw marigold pick himself up and go to the head of the plunging, prostrate horse. in a moment or two he had got the beast on his feet, where he stood quivering. it was a fine, smart piece of work on the part of the old artilleryman. i was so intent on his danger that i forgot all about boyce: but as soon as the three crashed down, i saw him run to assist the young subaltern who had rolled himself clear. "by jove, that was a narrow shave!" he cried cordially, giving him a hand. "it was indeed, sir," said the young man, scraping the mud off his face. "that's the second time the brute has done it. he shies and bucks and kicks like a regular devil. this time he shied at a steam lorry and bucked my feet out of the stirrups. everybody in the squadron has turned him down, and i'm the junior, i've had to take him." he eyed the animal resentfully. "i'd just like to get him on some grass and knock hell out of him!" "i'm glad to see you're not hurt," said boyce with a smile. "oh, not a bit, sir," said the boy. he turned to marigold. "i don't know how to thank you. it was a jolly plucky thing to do. you've saved my life and that of the gentleman in the car. if we had busted into it, there would have been pie." he came to the side of the car. "i think you're major meredyth, sir. i must have given you an awful fright. i'm so sorry. my name is brown. i'm in the south scottish horse." he had a courteous charm of manner in spite of his boyish desire to appear unshaken by the accident. a little bravado is an excellent thing. i laughed and held out my hand. "i'm glad to meet you--although our meeting might have been contrived less precipitously. this is sergeant marigold, late r.f.a., who does me the honour of looking after me. and this is major boyce." observe the little devil of malice that made me put marigold first. "of the rifles?" a quick gleam of admiration showed in the boy's eyes as he saluted. no soldier could be stationed at wellingsford without hearing of the hero of the neighbourhood. a great hay waggon came lumbering down the road and pulled up, there being no room for it to pass. this put an end to social amenities. brown mounted his detested charger and trotted off. marigold transferred me to boyce's car. several pairs of brawny arms righted the two-seater and boyce and i drove off, leaving marigold waiting with his usual stony patience for the promised tow. on the way boyce talked gaily of marigold's gallantry, of the boy's spirit, of the idiotic way in which impossible horses were being foisted on newly formed cavalry units. when we drew up at my front door, it occurred to me that there was no marigold in attendance. "how the deuce," said i, "am i going to get out?" boyce laughed. "i don't think i'll drop you." his great arms picked me up with ease. but while he was carrying me i experienced a singular physical revolt. i loathed his grip. i loathed the enforced personal contact. even after he had deposited me--very skilfully and gently--in my wheel-chair in the hall, i hated the lingering sense of his touch. he owed his whisky and soda to the most elementary instinct of hospitality. besides, he was off the next day, back to the trenches and the hell of battle, and i had to bid him good-bye and god-speed. but when he went, i felt glad, very glad, as though relieved of some dreadful presence. my old distrust and dislike returned increased a thousandfold. it was only when he got my frail body in his arms, which i realized were twice as strong as my good marigold's, that i felt the ghastly and irrational revulsion. the only thing to which i can liken it, although it seems ludicrous, is what i imagine to be the instinctive recoil of a woman who feels on her body the touch of antipathetic hands. i know that my malady has made me a bit supersensitive. but my vanity has prided itself on keeping up a rugged spirit in a fool of a body, so i hated myself for giving way to morbid sensations. all the same, i felt that if i were alone in a burning house, and there were no one but leonard boyce to save me, i should prefer incineration to rescue. and now i will tell you why i have hesitated to give a place in this chronicle to the incident of the broken-down car and the runaway horse. it all happened so quickly, my mind was so taken up with the sudden peril, that for the life of me i cannot swear to the part played by leonard boyce. i saw him leap aside, and had the fragment of an impression of him standing motionless between the radiator of his car and the tail of mine which was at right angles. the next time he thrust himself on my consciousness was when he was lugging young brown out of reach of the convulsive hoofs. in the meanwhile marigold, single-handed, had rushed into the jaws of death and stopped the horse. but as it was a matter of seconds, i had no reason for believing that, but for adventitious relative positions on the road, boyce would not have done the same.... and yet out of the corner of my eye i got an instantaneous photograph of him standing bolt upright between the two cars, while the abominable bay brute, with distended red nostrils and wild eyes, was thundering down on us. on the other hand, the swift pleasure in the boy's eyes when he realised that he was in the presence of the popular hero, proved him free of doubts such as mine. and when marigold, having put the car in hospital, came to make his report, and lingered in order to discuss the whole affair, he said, in wooden deprecation of my eulogy: "if major boyce hadn't jumped in, sir, young mr. brown's head would have been kicked into pumpkin-squash." well, i have known from long experience that there are no more untrustworthy witnesses than a man's own eyes; especially in the lightning dramas of life. i was kept awake all night, and towards the dawn i came into thorough agreement with sir anthony and i heartily damned the fellow. what had i to do with him that he should rob me of my sleep? chapter xv the next morning he strode in while i was at breakfast, handsome, erect, deep-chested, the incarnation of physical strength, with a glad light in his eyes. "congratulate me, old man," he cried, gripping my frail shoulder. "i've three days' extra leave. and more than that, i go out in command of the regiment. no temporary business but permanent rank. gazetted in due course. bannatyne--that's our colonel--damned good soldier!--has got a staff appointment. i take his place. i promise you the fourth king's rifles are going to make history. either history or manure. history for choice. as i say, bannatyne's a damned good soldier, and personally as brave as a lion, but when it comes to the regiment, he's too much on the cautious side. the regiment's only longing to make things hum, and i'm going to let 'em do it." i congratulated him in politely appropriate terms and went on with my bacon and eggs. he sat on the window-seat and tapped his gaiters with his cane life-preserver. he wore his cap. "i thought you'd like to know," said he. "you've been so good to the old mother while i've been away and been so charitable, listening to my yarns, while i've been here, that i couldn't resist coming round and telling you." "i suppose your mother's delighted," said i. he threw back his head and laughed, as though he had never a black thought or memory in the world. "dear old mater! she has the impression that i'm going out to take charge of the blessed campaign. so if she talks about 'my dear son's army,' don't let her down, like a good chap--for she'll think either me a fraud or you a liar." he rose suddenly, with a change of expression. "you're the only man in the world i could talk to like this about my mother. you know the sterling goodness and loyalty that lies beneath her funny little ways." he strode to the window which looks out on to the garden, his back turned on me. and there he stood silent for a considerable time. i helped myself to marmalade and poured out a second cup of tea. there was no call for me to speak. i had long realized that, whatever may have been the man's sins and weaknesses, he had a very deep and tender love for the dresden china old lady that was his mother. there was london of the clubs and the theatres and the restaurants and the night-clubs, a war london full and alive, not dead as in augusts of far-off tradition, all ready to give him talk and gaiety and the things that matter to the man who escapes for a brief season from the never-ending hell of the battlefield; ready, too, to pour flattery into his ear, to touch his scars with the softest of its fingers. yet he chose to stay, a recluse, in our dull little town, avoiding even the kindly folk round about, in order to devote himself to one dear but entirely uninteresting old woman. it is not that he despised london, preferring the life of the country gentleman. on the contrary, before the war leonard boyce was very much the man about town. he loved the glitter and the chatter of it. from chance words during this spell of leave, i had divined hankering after its various fleshpots. for the sake of one old woman he made reckless and gallant sacrifice. when he was bored to misery he came round to me. i learned later that in visiting wellingsford he faced more than boredom. all of this you must put to the credit side of his ledger. there he stood, his great broad shoulders and bull-neck silhouetted against the window. that broad expanse, a bit fleshy, below the base of the skull indicates brutality. never before, to my eyes, had the sign asserted itself with so much aggression. i had often wondered why, apart from the vilboek farm legend, i had always disliked and distrusted him. now i seemed to know. it was the neck not of a man, but of a brute. the curious repulsion of the previous evening, when he had carried me into the house, came over me again. from junction of arm and body protruded six inches of the steel-covered life-preserver, the washleather that hid its ghastly knob staring at me blankly. i hated the thing. the gallant english officer--and in my time i have known and loved a many of the most gallant--does not go about in private life fondling a trophy reeking with the blood of his enemies. it is the trait of a savage. that truculent knob and that truculent bull-neck correlated themselves most horribly in my mind. and again, with a shiver, i had the haunting flash of a vision of him, out of the tail of my eye, standing rigid and gaping between the two cars, while my rugged old marigold, in a businesslike, old-soldier sort of way, without thought of danger or death, was swaying at the head of the runaway horse. presently he turned, and his brows were set above unfathomable hard eyes. the short-cropped moustache could not hide the curious twitch of the lips which i had seen once before. it was obvious that these few minutes of silence had been spent in deep thought and had resulted in a decision. a different being from the gay, successful soldier who had come in to announce his honours confronted me. he threw down cap and stick and passed his hand over his crisp brown hair. "i don't know whether you're a friend of mine or not," he said, hands on hips and gaitered legs slightly apart. "i've never been able to make out. all through our intercourse, in spite of your courtesy and hospitality, there has been some sort of reservation on your part." "if that is so," said i, diplomatically, "it is because of the defects of my national quality." "that's possibly what i've felt," said he. "but it doesn't matter a damn with regard to what i want to say. it's a question not of your feelings towards me, but my feelings towards you. i don't want to make polite speeches--but you're a man whom i have every reason to honour and trust. and unlike all my other brother-officers, you have no reason to be jealous--" "my dear fellow," i interrupted, "what's all this about? why jealousy?" "you know what a pot-hunter is in athletics? a chap that is simply out for prizes? well, that's what a lot of them think of me. that i'm just out to get orders and medals and distinctions and so forth." "that's nonsense," said i. "i happen to know. your reputation in the brigade is unassailable." "in the way of my having done what i'm credited with, it is," he answered. "but all the same, they're right." "what do you mean?" i asked. "what i say. they're right. i'm out for everything i can get. now i'm out for a v.c. i see you think it abominable. that's because you don't understand. no one but i myself could understand. i feel i owe it to myself." he looked at me for a second or two and then broke into a sardonic sort of laugh. "i suppose you think me a conceited ass," he continued. "why should leonard boyce be such a vastly important person? it isn't that, i assure you." i lit a cigarette, having waved an invitation to join me, which with a nod he refused. "what is it, then?" "has it ever struck you that often a man's most merciless creditor is himself?" here was a casuistical proposition thrown at my head by the last person i should have suspected of doing so. it was immensely interesting, in view of my long puzzledom. i spoke warily. "that depends on the man--on the nice balance of his dual nature. on the one side is the power to demand mercilessly; on the other, the instinct to respond. of course, the criminal--" "what are you dragging in criminals for?" he said sharply. "i'm talking about honourable men with consciences. criminals haven't consciences. the devil who has just been hung for murdering three women in their baths hadn't any dual nature, as you call it. those murders didn't represent to him a mountain of debt to god which his soul was summoned to discharge. he went to his death thinking himself a most unlucky and hardly used fellow." his fingers went instinctively into the cigarette-box. i passed him the matches. "precisely," said i. "that was the point i was about to make." he puffed at his cigarette and looked rather foolish, as though regretting his outburst. "we've got away," he said, after a pause, "from what i was meaning to tell you. and i want to tell you because i mayn't have another chance." he turned to the window-seat and picked up his life-preserver. "i'm out for two things. one is to kill germans--" he patted the covered knob--and there flashed across my mind a boyhood's memory of martin--wasn't it martin?--in "hereward the wake," who had a deliciously blood-curdling habit of patting his revengeful axe.--"i've done in eighty-five with this and my revolver. that, i consider, is my duty to my country. the other is to get the v.c. that's for payment to my creditor self." "in full, or on account?" said i. "there's only one payment in full," he answered grimly, "and that i've been offering for the past twelve months. and it's a thousand chances to one it will be accepted before the end of this year. and that, after all this palaver, is what i've just made up my mind to talk to you about." "you mean your death?" "just that," said he. "a man pot-hunting for victoria crosses takes a thousand to one chance." he paused abruptly and shot an eager and curiously wavering glance at me. "am i boring you with all this?" "good heavens, no." and then as the insistence of his great figure towering over me had begun to fret my nerves--"sit down, man," said i, with an impatient gesture, "and put that sickening toy away and come to the point." he tossed the cane on the window-seat and sat near me on a straight-backed chair. "all right," he said. "i'll come to the point. i shan't see you again. i'm going out in command. thank god we're in the thick of it. round about loos. it's a thousand to one i'll be killed. life doesn't matter much to me, in spite of what you may think. there are only two people on god's earth i care for. one, of course, is my old mother. the other is betty fairfax--i mean betty connor. i spoke to you once about her--after i had met her here--and i gave you to understand that i had broken off our engagement from conscientious motives. it was an awkward position and i had to say something. as a matter of fact i acted abominably. but i couldn't help it." the corners of his lips suddenly worked in the odd little twitch. "sometimes circumstances, especially if a man's own damn foolishness has contrived them, tie him hand and foot. sometimes physical instincts that he can't control." he narrowed his eyes and bent forward, looking at me intently, and he repeated the phrase slowly--"physical instincts that he can't control-" was he referring to the incident of yesterday? i thought so. i also believed it was the motive power of this strangely intimate conversation. he rose again as though restless, and once more went to the window and seemed to seek inspiration or decision from the sight of my roses. after a short while he turned and dragged up from his neck a slim chain at the end of which hung a round object in a talc case. this he unfastened and threw on the table in front of me. "do you know what that is?" "yes," said i. "your identification disc." "look on the other side." i took it up and found that the reverse contained the head cut out from some photograph of betty. after i had handed back the locket, he slipped it on the chain and dropped it beneath his collar. "i'm not a damned fool," said he. i nodded understandingly. no one would have accused him of mawkish sentiment. the woman whose portrait he wore night and day next his skin was the woman he loved. he had no other way of proving his sincerity than by exhibiting the token. "i see," said i. "what do you propose to do?" "i've told you. the v.c. or--" he snapped his fingers. "but if it's the v.c. and a brigade, and perhaps a division--if it's everything else imaginable except--" i snapped my fingers in imitation--"what then?" again the hateful twitch of the lips, which he quickly dissimulated in a smile. "i'll begin to try to be a brave man." he lit another cigarette. "but all that, my dear meredyth," he continued, "is away from the point. if i live, i'll ask you to forget this rotten palaver. but i have a feeling that i shan't come back. something tells me that my particular form of extermination will be a head knocked into slush. i'm absolutely certain that i shall never see you again. oh, i'm not morbid," he said, as i raised a protesting hand. "you're an old soldier and know what these premonitions are. when i came in--before i had finally made up my mind to pan out to you like this--i felt like a boy who has been made captain of the school. but all the same, i know i shan't see you again. so i want you to promise me two things--quite honourable and easy." "of course, my dear fellow," said i rather tartly, for i did not like the wind-up of his sentence. it was unthinkable that an officer and a gentleman should inveigle a brother-officer into a solemn promise to do anything dishonourable. "of course. anything you like." "one is to look after the old mother--" "that goes without promising," said i. "the other is to--what shall i say?--to rehabilitate my memory in the eyes of betty connor. she may hear all kinds of things about me--some true, others false--i have my enemies. she has heard things already. i didn't know it till our last meeting here. there's no one else on god's earth can do what i want but you. do you think i'm putting you into an impossible position?" "i don't think so," said i. "go on." "well--there's not much more to be said. try to make her realise that, whatever may be my faults--my crimes, if it comes to that--i've done my damndest out there to make reparation. by god! i have," he cried, in a sudden flash of passion. "see that she realises it. and--" he thumped the hidden identification disc, "tell her that she is the only woman that has ever really mattered in the whole of my blasted life." he threw his half-smoked cigarette into the fire-place and walked over to the sideboard, where stood decanters and syphon. "may i help myself to a drink?" "certainly," said i. he gulped down half a whisky and soda and turned on me. "you promise?" "of course," said i. "she may have reasons to think the worst of me. but whatever i am there is some good in me. i'm not altogether a worthless hound. if you promise to make her think the best of me, i'll go away happy. i don't care a damn whether i die or live. that's the truth. as long as i'm alive i can take care of myself. i'm not dreaming of asking you to say a word to win her favour. that would be outrageous impudence. you clearly understand. i don't want you ever to mention my name unless i'm dead. if i feel that i've an advocate in you--advocatus diaboli, if you like--i'll go away happy. you've got your brief. you know my life at home. you know my record." "my dear fellow," said i, "i promise to do everything in my power to carry out your wishes. but as to your record--are you quite certain that i know it?" you must realise that there was a curious tension in the situation, at any rate as far as it affected myself. here was a man with whom, for reasons you know, i had studiously cultivated the most formal social relations, claiming my active participation in the secret motives of his heart. since his first return from the front a bluff friendliness had been the keynote of our intercourse. nothing more. now he came and without warning enmeshed me in this intimate net of love and death. i promised to do his bidding--i could not do otherwise. i was in the position of an executor according to the terms of a last will and testament. our comradeship in arms--those of our old army who survive will understand--forbade refusal. besides, his intensity of purpose won my sympathy and admiration. but i loved him none the more. to my cripple's detested sensitiveness, as he stood over me, he loomed more than ever the hulking brute. his semi-confessions and innuendoes exacerbated my feelings of distrust and repulsion. and yet, at the same tune, i could not--nor did i try to--repress an immense pity for the man; perhaps less for the man than for the soul in pain. at the back of his words some torment burned at red heat, remorselessly. he sought relief. perhaps he sought it from me because i was as apart as a woman from his physical splendour, a kind of bodiless creature with just a brain and a human heart, the ghost of an old soldier, far away from the sphere of poor passions and little jealousies. i felt the tentacles of the man's nature blindly and convulsively groping after something within me that eluded them. that is the best way in which i can describe the psychology of these strange moments. the morning sun streamed into my little oak-panelled dining-room and caught the silver and fruit on the breakfast table and made my frieze of old delft glow blue like the responsive western sky. with his back to the vivid window, leonard boyce stood cut out black like a silhouette. that he, too, felt the tension, i know; for a wasp crawled over his face, from cheek-bone, across his temples, to his hair, and he did not notice it. instinctively i said the words: "your record. are you quite certain that i know it?" with what intensity, with what significance in my eyes, i may have said them, i know not. i repeat that i had a subconsciousness, almost uncanny, that we were souls rather than men, talking to each other. he sat down once more, drawing the chair to the table and resting his elbow on it. "my record," said he. "what about it?" again please understand that i felt i had the man's soul naked before me. an imponderable hand plucked away my garments of convention. "some time ago," said i, "you spoke of my attitude towards you being marked by a certain reserve. that is quite true. it dates back many years. it dates back from the south african war. from an affair at vilboek's farm." again his lips twitched; but otherwise he did not move. "i remember," he answered. "my men saw me run away. i came out of it quite clean." i said: "i saw the man afterwards in hospital at cape town. his name was somers. he told me quite a different story." his face grew grey. he glanced at me for a fraction of a second. "what did he tell you?" he asked quietly. in the fewest possible words i repeated what i have set down already in this book. when i had ended, he said in the same toneless way: "you have believed that all these years?" "i have done my best not to believe it. the last twelve months have disproved it." he shook his head. "they haven't. nothing i can do in this world can disprove it. what that man said was true." "true?" i drew a deep breath and stared at him hard. his eyes met mine. they were very sad and behind them lay great pain. although i expressed astonishment, it proceeded rather from some reflex action than from any realised shock to my consciousness. i say the whole thing was uncanny. i knew, as soon as he sat down by the table, that he would confess to the vilboek story. and yet, at last, when he did confess and there were no doubts lingering in my mind, i gasped and stared at him. "i was a bloody coward," he said. "that's frank enough. when they rode away and left me, i tried to shoot myself--and i couldn't. if the man somers hadn't returned, i think i should have waited until they sent to arrest me. but he did come back and the instinct of self-preservation was too strong. i know my story about the men's desertion and my forcing him to back me up was vile and despicable. but i clung to life and it was my only chance. afterwards, with the horror of the thing hanging over me, i didn't care so much about life. in the little fighting that was left for me i deliberately tried to throw it away. i ask you to believe that." "i do," i said. "you were mentioned in dispatches for gallantry in action." he passed his hand over his eyes. looking up, he said: "it is strange that you of all men, my neighbour here, should have heard of this. not a whisper of its being known has ever reached me. how many people do you think have any idea of it?" i told him all that i knew and concluded by showing him reggie dacre's letter, which i had kept in the letter-case in my pocket. he returned it to me without a word. presently he broke a spell of silence. all this time he had sat fixed in the one attitude--only shifted once, when marigold entered to clear away the breakfast things and was dismissed by me with a glance and a gesture. "do you remember," he said, "a talk we had about fear, in april, the first time i was over? i described what i knew. the paralysis of fear. since we are talking as i never thought to talk with a human being, i may as well make my confession. i'm a man of strong animal passions. when i see red, i daresay i'm just a brute beast. but i'm a physical coward. owing to this paralysis of fear, this ghastly inhibition of muscular or nervous action, i have gone through things even worse than that south-african business. i go about like a man under a curse. even out there, when i don't care a damn whether i live or die, the blasted thing gets hold of me." he swung himself away from the table and shook his great clenched firsts. "by the grace of god, no one yet has seemed to notice it. i suppose i have a swift brain and as soon as the thing is over i can cover it up. it's my awful terror that one day i shall be found out and everything i've gained shall be stripped away from me." "but what about a thing like this?" said i, tapping colonel dacre's letter. "that's all right," he answered grimly. "that's when i know what i'm facing. that's deliberate pot-hunting. it's saving face as the chinese say. it's doing any damned thing that will put me right with myself." he got up and swung about the room. i envied him, i would have given a thousand pounds to do the same just for a few moments. but i was stuck in my confounded chair, deprived of physical outlet. suddenly he came to a halt and stood once more over me. "now you know what kind of a fellow i am, what do you think of me?" it was a brutal question to fling at my head. it gave me no time to co-ordinate my ideas. what was one to make of a man avowedly subject to fits of the most despicable cowardice from the consequences of which he used any unscrupulous craftiness to extricate himself, and yet was notorious in his achievement of deeds of the most reckless courage? it is a problem to which i have devoted all the months occupied in writing this book. how the dickens could i solve it at a minute's notice? the situation was too blatant, too raw, too near bedrock, too naked and unashamed, for me to take refuge in platitudinous generalities of excuse. the bravest of men know fear. they know him pretty intimately. but they manage to kick him to hades by the very reason of their being brave men. i had to take leonard boyce as i found him. and i must admit that i found him a tragically miserable man. that is how i answered his question--in so many words. "you're not far wrong," said he. he picked up cap and stick. "when i get up to town i shall make my will. i've never worried about it before. can i appoint you my executor?" "certainly," said i. "i'm very grateful. i'll assure you a fireworks sort of finish, so that you shan't be ashamed. and--i don't ask impossibilities--i can't hold you to your previous promise--but what about betty connor?" "you may count," said i, "on my acting like an officer and a gentleman, and, if i may say so, like a christian." he said: "thank you, meredyth. good-bye." then he stuck on his cap, brought his fingers to the peak in salute and marched to the door. "boyce!" i cried sharply. he turned. "yes?" "aren't you going to shake hands with me?" he retraced the few steps to my chair. "i didn't know whether it would be--" he paused, seeking for a word--"whether it would be agreeable." then i broke down. the strain had been too great for my sick man's nerves. i forgot all about the brutality of his bull-neck, for he faced me in all his gallant manhood and there was a damnable expression in his eyes like that of a rated dog. i stretched out my hand. "my dear good fellow," i cried, "what the hell are you talking about?" chapter xvi boyce left wellingsford that afternoon, and for many months i heard little about him. his astonishing avowal had once more turned topsy-turvy my conception of his real nature. i had to reconstruct the man, a very complicated task. i had to reconcile in him all kinds of opposites--the lusty brute and the sentimental lover; the physical coward and the baresark hero; the man with hell in his soul and the debonair gentleman. after a vast deal of pondering, i arrived not very much nearer a solution of the problem. the fact remained, however, that i found myself in far closer sympathy with him than ever before. after all that he had said, i should have had a heart of stone if it had not been stirred to profound pity. i had seen an instance both of his spell-bound cowardice and of his almost degrading craft in extrication. that in itself repelled me. but it lost its value in the light that he had cast on the never-ceasing torment that consumed him. at any rate he was at death-grips with himself, strangling the devils of fear and dishonour with a hand relentlessly certain. he appeared to me a tragic figure warring against a doom. at first i expected every day to receive an agonised message from mrs. boyce announcing his death. then, as is the way of humans, the keenness of my apprehension grew blunted, until, at last, i took his continued existence as a matter of course. i wrote him a few friendly letters, to which he replied in the same strain. and so the months went on. looking over my diary i find that these months were singularly uneventful as far as the lives of those dealt with in this chronicle were concerned. in the depths of our souls we felt the long-drawn-out agony of the war, with its bitter humiliations, its heartrending disappointments. in our daily meetings one with another we cried aloud for a great voice to awaken the little folk in great britain from their selfish lethargy--the little folk in high office, in smug burgessdom, in seditious factory and shipyard. they were months of sordid bargaining between all sections of our national life, in the murk of which the glow of patriotism seemed to be eclipsed. and in the meantime, the heroic millions from all corners of our far-flung empire were giving their lives on land and sea, gaily and gallantly, too often in tragic futility, for the ideals to which the damnable little folk at home were blind. the little traitorous folk who gambled for their own hands in politics, the little traitorous folk who put the outworn shibboleths of a party before the war-cry of an empire, the little traitorous folk who strove with all their power to starve our navy of ships, our ships of coal, our men in the trenches of munitions, our armies of men, our country of honour--all these will one day be mercilessly arraigned at the bar of history. the plains of france, the steeps of gallipoli, the swamps of mesopotamia, the seven seas will give up their dead as witnesses. we spoke bitterly of all these things and thought of them with raging impotence; but the even tenor of our life went on. we continued to do our obscure and undistinguished work for the country. it became a habit, part of the day's routine. we almost forgot why we were doing it. the war seemed to make little real difference in our social life. the small town was pitch black at night. prices rose. small economies were practised. labour was scarce. fewer young men out of uniform were seen in the streets and neighbouring roads and lanes. groups of wounded from the hospital in their uniform of deep blue jean with red ties and khaki caps gave a note of actuality to the streets. otherwise, there were few signs of war. even the troops who hitherto swarmed about the town had gradually been removed from billets to a vast camp of huts some miles away, and appeared only sporadically about the place. i missed them and the stimulus of their presence. they brought me into closer touch with things. marigold, too, pined for more occupation for his one critical eye than was afforded by the local volunteers. he grew morose, sick of a surfeit of newspapers. if he could have gone to france and got through to the firing-line, i am sure he would have dug a little trench all to himself and defied the germans on his own account. in november colonel dacre was brought home gravely wounded, to a hospital for officers in london. a nurse gave me the news in a letter in which she said that he had asked to see me before an impending hazardous operation. i went up to town and found him wrecked almost beyond recognition. as we were the merest of acquaintances with nothing between us save our common link with boyce, i feared lest he should desire to tell me of some shameful discovery. but his gay greeting and the brave smile, pathetically grotesque through the bandages in which his head was wrapped, reassured me. only his eyes and mouth were visible. "it's worth while being done in," said he. "it makes one feel like a sultan. you have just to clap your hands and say 'i want this,' and you've got it. i've a good mind to say to this dear lady, 'fetch their gracious majesties from buckingham palace,' and i'm sure they'd be here in a tick. it's awfully good of you to come, meredyth." i signed to marigold, who had carried me into the ward and set me down on a chair, and to the sister, the "dear lady" of dacre's reference, to withdraw, and after a few sympathetic words i asked him why he had sent for me. "i'm broken to bits all over," he replied. "the doctors here say they never saw such a blooming mess-up of flesh pretending to be alive. and as for talking, they'd just as soon expect speech from a jellyfish squashed by a steam-roller. if i do get through, i'll be a helpless crock all my days. i funked it till i thought of you. i thought the sight of another fellow who has gone through it and stuck it out might give me courage. i've had my wife here. we're rather fond of one another, you know ... my god! what brave things women are! if she had broken down all over me i could have risen to the occasion. but she didn't, and i felt a cowardly worm." "i had a brave wife, too," said i, and for a few moments we talked shyly about the women who had played sacred parts in our lives. whether he was comforted by what i said i don't know. probably he only listened politely. but i think he found comfort in a sympathetic ear. presently he turned on to boyce, the real motive of his summons. he repented much that he had told and written to me. his long defamation of the character of a brother-officer had lain on his conscience. and lately he had, at last, met boyce personally, and his generous heart had gone out to the man's soldierly charm. "i never felt such a slanderous brute in my life as when i shook him by the hand. you know the feeling--how one wants to get behind a hedge and kick oneself. kick oneself," he repeated faintly. then he closed his eyes and his lips contracted in pain. the sister, who had been watching him from a distance, came up. he had talked enough. it was time to go. but at the announcement he opened his eyes again and with an effort recovered his gaiety. "the whole gist of the matter lies in the postscript. like a woman's letter. i must have my postscript." "very well. two more minutes." "merciless dragon," said he. she smiled and left us. "the dearest angel, bar one, in the world." said he. "what were we talking about?" "colonel boyce." "oh, yes. forgive me. my head goes fut now and then. it's idiotic not to be able to control one's brain.... the point is this. i may peg out. i know this operation they're going to perform is just touch and go. i want to face things with a clear conscience. i've convinced you, haven't i, that there wasn't a word of truth in that south-african story? if ever it crops up you'll scotch it like a venomous snake?" the ethics of my answer i leave to the casuist. i am an old-fashioned church of england person. as i am so mentally constituted that i am unable to believe cheerfully in nothing. i believe in god and jesus christ, and accept the details of doctrine as laid down in the thirty-nine articles. for liars i have the apocryphal condemnation. yet i lied without the faintest rippling qualm of conscience. "my dear fellow," said i, stoutly, "there's not the remotest speck of truth in it. you haven't a second's occasion to worry." "that's all right," he said. the sister approached again. instinctively i stretched out my hand. he laughed. "no good. you must take it as gripped. goodbye, old chap." i bade him good-bye and marigold wheeled me away. a few days afterwards they told me that this gay, gallant, honourable, sensitive gentleman was dead. although i had known him so little, it seemed that i knew him very intimately, and i deeply mourned his loss. i think this episode was the most striking of what i may term personal events during those autumn months. of randall holmes we continued to hear in the same mysterious manner. his mother visited the firm of solicitors in london through whom his correspondence passed. they pleaded ignorance of his doings and professional secrecy as to the disclosure of his whereabouts. in december he ceased writing altogether, and twice a week mrs. holmes received a formal communication from the lawyers to the effect that they had been instructed by her son to inform her that he was in perfect health and sent her his affectionate greetings. such news of this kind as i received i gave to betty, who passed it on to phyllis gedge. of course my intimacy with my dear betty continued unbroken. if the unmarried betty had a fault, it was a certain sweet truculence, a pretty self-assertiveness which sometimes betrayed intolerance of human foibles. her widowhood had, in a subtle way, softened these little angularities of her spiritual contour. and bodily, the curves of her slim figure had become more rounded. she was no longer the young diana of a year ago. the change into the gracious woman who had passed through the joy and the sorrow of life was obvious even to me, to whom it had been all but imperceptibly gradual. after a while she rarely spoke of her husband. the name of leonard boyce was never mentioned between us. with her as with me, the weeks ate up the uneventful days and the months the uneventful weeks. in her humdrum life the falling away of mrs. tufton loomed catastrophic. for four months mrs. tufton shone splendid as the wife of the british warrior. the wellingsford hospital rang with her praises and glistened with her scrubbing brush. she was the admirable crichton of the institution. what with men going off to the war and women going off to make munitions, there were never-ending temporary gaps in the staff. and there was never a gap that mrs. tufton did not triumphantly fill. the pride of betty, who had wrought this reformation, was simply monstrous. if she had created a real live angel, wings and all, out of the dust-bin, she could not have boasted more arrogantly. being a member of the hospital committee, i must confess to a bemused share in the popular enthusiasm. and was i not one of the original discoverers of mrs. tufton? when marigold, inspired doubtless by his wife, from time to time suggested disparagement of the incomparable woman, i rebuked him for an arrant scandal-monger. there had been a case or two of drunkenness at the hospital. wounded soldiers had returned the worse for liquor, an almost unforgivable offence.... not that the poor fellows desired to get drunk. a couple of pints of ale or a couple of glasses of whisky will set swimming the head of any man who has not tasted alcohol for months. but to a man with a septic wound or trench nephritis or smashed up skull, alcohol is poison and poison is death, and so it is sternly forbidden to our wounded soldiers. they cannot be served in public houses. where, then, did the hospital defaulters get their drink? "if i was you, sir," said marigold, "i'd keep an eye on that there mrs. tufton." i instantly annihilated him--or should have done so had his expressionless face not been made of non-inflammable timber. he said: "very good, sir." but there was a damnably ironical and insubordinate look in his one eye. gradually the lady lapsed from grace. she got up late and complained of spasms. she left dustpan and brush on a patient's bed. she wrongfully interfered with the cook, insisting, until she was forcibly ejected from the kitchen, on throwing lettuces into the irish stew. finally, one sunday afternoon, a policeman wandering through some waste ground, a deserted brickfield behind flowery end, came upon an unedifying spectacle. there were madam and an elderly irish soldier sprawling blissfully comatose with an empty flask of gin and an empty bottle of whisky lying between them. they were taken to the hospital and put to bed. the next morning, the lady, being sober, was summarily dismissed by the matron. late at night she rang and battered at the door, clamouring for admittance, which was refused. then she went away, apparently composed herself to slumber in the roadway of the pitch-black high street, and was killed by a motor-car. and that, bar the funeral, was the end of mrs. tufton. from her bereaved husband, with whom i at once communicated, i received the following reply: "dear sir, "yours to hand announcing the accidental death of my wife, which i need not say i deeply regret. you will be interested to hear that i have been offered a commission in the royal fusiliers, which i am now able to accept. in view of the same, any expense to which you may be put to give my late wife honourable burial, i shall be most ready to defray. "with many thanks for your kindness in informing me of this unfortunate circumstance, "i am, "yours faithfully, "john p. tufton." "i think he's a horrid, callous, cold-blooded fellow!" cried betty when i showed her this epistle. "after all," said i, "she wasn't a model wife. if the fatal motor-car hadn't come along, the probability is that she would have received poor tufton on his next leave with something even more deadly than a poker. now and again the fates have brilliant inspirations. this was one of them. now, you see the virago-clogged tufton is a free man, able to accept a commission and start a new life as an officer and a gentleman." "i think you're perfectly odious. odious and cynical," she exclaimed wrathfully. "i think," said i, "that a living warrior is better than a dead-- disappointment." "you don't understand," she stormed. "if i didn't love you, i could rend you to pieces." "it is because i do understand, my dear," said i, enjoying the flashing beauty of her return to artemisian attitudes, "that i particularly characterised the dear lady as a disappointment." "i think," she said, in dejected generalisation, "the working out of the whole scheme of the universe is a disappointment." "the high originators of the scheme seem to bear it pretty philosophically," i rejoined; "so why shouldn't we?" "they're gods and we're human," said betty. "precisely," said i. "and oughtn't it to be our ideal to approximate to the divine attitude?" again betty declared that i was odious. from her point of view--no. that is an abuse of language. there are mental states in which a woman has no point of view at all. she wanders over an ill-defined circular area of vision. that is why, in such conditions, you can never pin a woman down with a shaft of logic and compel her surrender, as you can compel that of a mere man. we went on arguing, and after a time i really did not know what i was arguing about. i advanced and tried to support the theory that on the whole the progress of humanity as represented by the british empire in general and the about-to-be lieutenant tufton in particular, was advanced by the opportune demise of an unfortunately balanced lady. from her point--or rather her circular area of vision--perhaps my dear betty was right in declaring me odious. she hated to be reminded of the intolerable goosiness of her swan. she longed for comforting, corroborative evidence of essential swaniness for her own justification. in a word, the poor dear girl was sore all over with mortification, and wherever one touched her, no matter with how gentle a finger, one hurt. "i would have trusted that woman," she cried tragically, "with a gold-mine or a distillery." "we trusted her with something more valuable, my dear," said i. "our guileless faith in human nature. anyhow we'll keep the faith undamaged." she smiled. "that's considerably less odious." nothing more could be said. we let the unfortunate subject rest in peace for ever after. these two episodes, the death of poor reggie dacre and the tufton catastrophe, are the only incidents in my diary that are worth recording here. christmas came and went and we entered on the new year of . it was only at a date in the middle of february, a year since i had driven to wellings park to hear the tragic news of oswald fenimore's death, that i find an important entry in my diary. chapter xvii mrs. boyce was shown into my study, her comely dresden china face very white and her hands shaking. she held a telegram. i had seen faces like that before. every day in england there are hundreds thus stricken. i feared the worst. it was a relief to read the telegram and find that boyce was only wounded. the message said seriously wounded, but gave consolation by adding that his life was not in immediate danger. mrs. boyce was for setting out for france forthwith. i dissuaded her from a project so embarrassing to the hospital authorities and so fatiguing to herself. in spite of the chivalry and humanity of our medical staff, old ladies of seventy are not welcome at a busy base hospital. as soon as he was fit to be moved, i assured her, he would be sent home, before she could even obtain her permits and passes and passport and make other general arrangements for her journey. there was nothing for it but her englishwoman's courage. she held up her hand at that, and went away to live, like many another, patiently through the long hours of suspense. for two or three days no news came. i spent as much time as i could with my old friend, seeking to comfort her. on the third morning it was announced in the papers that the king had been graciously pleased to confer the victoria cross on lt. colonel leonard boyce for conspicuous gallantry in action. it did not occur in a list of honours. it had a special paragraph all to itself. such isolated announcements generally indicate immediate recognition of some splendid feat. i was thrilled by the news. it was a grand achievement to win through death to the greatest of all military rewards deliberately coveted. here, as i had strange reason for knowing, was no sudden act of sublime valour. the final achievement was the result of months of heroic, almost suicidal daring. and it was repayment of a terrible debt, the whole extent of which i knew not, owed by the man to his tormented soul. i rang up mrs. boyce, who replied tremulously to my congratulations. would i come over and lunch? i found a very proud and tearful old lady. she may not have known the difference between a platoon and a howitzer, and have conceived the woolliest notions of the nature of her son's command, but the victoria cross was a matter on which her ideas were both definite and correct. she had spent the morning at the telephone receiving calls of congratulation. a great sheaf of telegrams had arrived. two or three of them were from the high and mighty of the military hierarchy. she was in such a twitter of joy that she almost forgot her anxiety as to his wounds. "do you think he knows? i telegraphed to him at once." "so did i." she glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. "how long would it take for a telegram to reach him?" "you may be sure he has it by now," said i, "and it has given him a prodigious appetite for lunch." her face clouded over. "that horrid tinned stuff. it's so dangerous. i remember once mary's aunt--or was it cook's aunt--one of them any way--nearly died of eating tinned lobster--ptomaine poisoning. i've always told leonard not to touch it. "they don't give colonels and v.c.s tinned lobster at boulogne," i answered cheerfully. "he's living now on the fat of the land." "let us hope so," she sighed dubiously. "it's no use my sending out things for him, as they always go wrong. some time ago i sent him three brace of grouse and three brace of partridges. he didn't acknowledge them for weeks, and then he said they were most handy things to kill germans with, but were an expensive form of ammunition. i don't quite know what he meant--but at any rate they were not eatable when they arrived. poor fellow!" she sighed again. "if only i knew what was the matter with him." "it can't be much," i reassured her, "or you would have heard again. and this news will act like a sovereign remedy." she patted the back of my hand with her plump palm. "you're always so sympathetic and comforting." "i'm an old soldier, like leonard," said i, "and never meet trouble halfway." at lunch, the old lady insisted on opening a bottle of champagne, a veuve clicquot which leonard loved, in honour of the glorious occasion. we could not drink to the hero's health in any meaner vintage, although she swore that a teaspoonful meant death to her, and i protested that a confession of champagne to my medical adviser meant a dog's rating. we each, conscience-bound, put up the tips of our fingers to the glasses as soon as mary had filled them with froth, and solemnly drank the toast in the eighth of an inch residuum. but by some freakish chance or the other, there was nothing left in that quart bottle by the time mary cleared the table for dessert. and to tell the honest truth, i don't think the health of either my hostess or myself was a penny the worse. let no man despise generous wine. treated with due reverence it is a great loosener of human sympathy. generous ale similarly treated produces the same effect. marigold, driving me home, cocked a luminous eye on me and said: "begging your pardon, sir, would you mind very much if i broke the neck of that there gedge?" "you would be aiding the good cause," said i, "but i should deplore the hanging of an old friend. what has gedge been doing?" marigold sounded his horn and slowed down round a bend, and, as soon as he got into a straight road, he replied. "i'm not going to say, sir, if i may take the liberty, that i was ever sweet on colonel boyce. people affect you in different ways. you either like 'em or you don't like 'em. you can't tell why. and a sergeant, being, as you may say, a human being, has as much right to his private feelings regarding a colonel as any officer." "undoubtedly," said i. "well, sir, i never thought colonel boyce was true metal. but i take it all back--every bit of it." "for god's sake," i cried, stretching out a foolish but instinctive hand to the wheel, "for god's sake, control your emotions, or you'll be landing us in the ditch." "that's all right, sir," he replied, steering a straight course. "she's a bit skittish at times. i was saying as how i did the colonel an injustice. i'm very sorry. no man who wasn't steel all through ever got the v.c. they don't chuck it around on blighters." "that's all very interesting and commendable," said i, "but what has it to do with gedge?" "he has been slandering the colonel something dreadful the last few months, sneering at him, saying nothing definite, but insinuatingly taking away his character." "in what way?" i asked. "well, he tells one man that the colonel's a drunkard, another that it's women, another that he gambles and doesn't pay, another that he pays the newspapers to put in all these things about him, while all the time in france he's in a blue funk hiding in his dugout." "that's moonshine," said i. and as regards the drinking, drabbing, and gaming of course it was. but the suggestion of cowardice gave me a sharp stab of surprise and dismay. "i know it is," said marigold. "but the people hereabouts are so ignorant, you can make them believe anything." marigold was a man of kent and had a poor opinion of those born and bred in other counties. "i met gedge this morning," he continued, and thereupon gave me the substance of the conversation. i hardly think the adjectives of the report were those that were really used. "so your precious colonel has got the v.c.," sneered gedge. "he has," said marigold. "and it's too great an honour for your inconsiderable town." "if this inconsiderable town knew as much about him as i do, it would give him the order of the precious boot." "and what do you know?" asked marigold. "that's what all you downtrodden slaves of militarism would like to find out," replied gedge. "the time will come when i, and such as i, will tear the veils away and expose them, and say 'these be thy gods, o israel.'" "the time will come," retorted marigold, "when if you don't hold your precious jaw, i and such as i will smash it into a thousand pieces. for twopence i'd knock your ugly head off this present minute." whereupon gedge apparently wilted before the indignant eye of sergeant marigold and faded away down the high street. all this in itself seemed very trivial, but for the past year the attitude of gedge had been mysterious. could it be possible that gedge thought himself the sole repository of the secret which boyce had so desperately confided to me? but when had the life of gedge and the military life of leonard boyce crossed? it was puzzling. well, to tell the truth, i thought no more about the matter. the glow of mrs. boyce's happiness remained with me all the evening. rarely had i seen her so animated, so forgetful of her own ailments. she had taken the rosiest view of leonard's physical condition and sunned herself in the honour conferred on him by the king. i had never spent a pleasanter afternoon at her house. we had comfortably criticised our neighbours, and, laudatores temporis acti, had extolled the days of our youth. i went to bed as well pleased with life as a man can be in this convulsion of the world. the next morning she sent me a letter to read. it was written at boyce's dictation. it ran: "dear mother: "i'm sorry to say i am knocked out pro tem. i was fooling about where a c.o. didn't ought to, and a bosch bullet got me so that i can't write. but don't worry at all about me. i'm too tough for anything the bosches can do. to show how little serious it is, they tell me that i'll be conveyed to england in a day or two. so get hot-water bottles and bath salts ready. "your ever loving leonard." this was good news. over the telephone wire we agreed that the letter was a justification of our yesterday's little merrymaking. obviously, i told her, he would live to fight another day. she was of opinion that he had done enough fighting already. if he went on much longer, the poor boy would get quite tired out, to say nothing of the danger of being wounded again. the king ought to let him rest on his laurels and make others who hadn't worked a quarter as hard do the remainder of the war. "perhaps," i said light-heartedly, "leonard will drop the hint when he writes to thank the king for the nice cross." she said that i was laughing at her, and rang off in the best of spirits. in the evening came betty, inviting herself to dinner. she had been on night duty at the hospital, and i had not seen her for some days. the sight of her, bright-eyed and brave, fresh and young, always filled me with happiness. i felt her presence like wine and the sea wind and the sunshine. so greatly did her vitality enrich me, that sometimes i called myself a horrid old vampire. as soon as she had greeted me, she said in her downright way: "so leonard boyce has got his v.c." "yes," said i. "what do you think of it?" a spot of colour rose to her cheek. "i'm very glad. it's no use, majy, pretending that i ignore his existence. i don't and i can't. because i loved and married someone else doesn't alter the fact that i once cared for him, does it?" "many people," said i, judicially, "find out that they have been mistaken as to the extent and nature of their own sentiments." "i wasn't mistaken," she replied, sitting down on the piano stool, her hands on the leathern seat, her neatly shod feet stretched out in front of her, just as she had sat on her wedding eve talking nonsense to willie connor. "i wasn't mistaken. i was never addicted to silly school-girl fancies. i know my own mind. i cared a lot for leonard boyce." "eh bien?" said i. "well, don't you see what i'm driving at?" "i don't a bit." she sighed. "oh, dear! how dull some people are! don't you see that, when an affair like that is over, a woman likes to get some evidence of the man's fine qualities, in order to justify her for having once cared for him?" "quite so. yet--" i felt argumentative. the breach, as you know, between betty and boyce was wrapped in exasperating obscurity. "yet, on the other hand," said i, "she might welcome evidence of his worthlessness, so as to justify her for having thrown him over." "if a woman isn't a dam-fool already," said betty, "and i don't think i'm one, she doesn't like to feel that she ever made a dam-fool of herself. she is proud of her instincts and her judgments and the sensitive, emotional intelligence that is hers. when all these seem to have gone wrong, it's pleasing to realise that originally they went right. it soothes one's self-respect, one's pride. i know now that all these blind perceptions in me went straight to certain magnificent essentials--those that make the great, strong, fearless fighting man. that's attractive to a woman, you know. at any rate, to an independent barbarian like myself--" "my dear betty," i interrupted with a laugh. "you a barbarian? you whom i regard as the last word, the last charming and delightful word, in modern womanhood?" "of course i'm the child of my century," she cried, flushing. "i want votes, freedom, opportunity for expansion, power--everything that can develop betty connor into a human product worthy of the god who made her. but how she could fulfil herself without the collaboration of a man, has baffled her ever since she was a girl of sixteen, when she began to awake to the modern movement. on one side i saw women perfectly happy in the mere savage state of wifehood and motherhood, and not caring a hang for anything else, and on the other side women who threw babies back into limbo and preached of nothing but intellectual and political and economic independence. oh, i worried terribly about it, majy, when i was a girl. each side seemed to have such a lot to say for itself. then it dawned upon me that the only way out of the dilemma was to combine both ideals--that of the savage woman in skins and the lady professor in spectacles. that is what, allowing for the difference of sex, a man does. why shouldn't a woman? the woman, of course, has to droop a bit more to the savage, because she has to produce the babies and suckle them, and so forth, and a man hasn't. that was my philosophy of life when i entered the world as a young woman. love came into it, of course. it was a sanctification of the savagery. i've gone on like this," she laughed, "because i don't want you to protest in your dear old-fashioned way against my calling myself an independent barbarian. i am, and i glory in it. that's why, as i was saying, i'm deeply glad that leonard boyce has made good. his honour means a good deal to me--to my self-esteem. i hope," she added, rising and coming to me with a caressing touch. "i hope you've got the hang of the thing now." within myself i sincerely hoped i had. if her sentiments were just as she analysed them, all was well. if, on the other hand, the little demon of love for boyce still lurked in her heart, in spite of the marriage and widowhood, there might be trouble ahead. i remembered how once she had called him a devil. i remembered, too, uncomfortably, the scrap of conversation i had overheard between boyce and herself in the hall. she had lashed him with her scorn, and he had taken his whipping without much show of fight. still, a woman's love, especially that of a lady barbarian, was a curiously complex affair, and had been known to impel her to trample on a man one minute and the next to fall at his feet. now the worm she had trampled on had turned; stood erect as a properly authenticated hero. i felt dubious as to the ensuing situation. "i wrote to old mrs. boyce," she added after a while. "i thought it only decent. i wrote yesterday, but only posted the letter to-day, so as to be sure i wasn't acting on impulse." the latter part of the remark was by way of apology. the breach of the engagement had occasioned a cessation of social relations between betty and mrs. boyce. betty's aunts had ceased calling on mrs. boyce and mrs. boyce had ceased calling on betty's aunts. whenever the estranged parties met, which now and then was inevitable in a little town, they bowed with distant politeness, but exchanged no words. everything was conducted with complete propriety. the old lady, knowing how beloved an intimate of mine was betty, alluded but once to the broken engagement. that was when betty got married. "it has been a great unhappiness to me, major," she said. "in spite of her daring ways, which an old woman like myself can't quite understand, i was very fond of her. she was just the girl for leonard. they made such a handsome couple. i have never known why it was broken off. leonard won't tell me. it's out of the question that it could be his fault, and i can't believe it is all betty fairfax's. she's a girl of too much character to be a mere jilt." i remember that i couldn't help smiling at the application of the old-fashioned word to my betty. "you may be quite certain she isn't that," said i. "then what was the reason? do you know?" i didn't. i was as mystified as herself. i told her so. i didn't mention that a few days before she had implied that leonard was a devil and she wished that he was dead, thereby proving to me, who knew betty's uprightness, that boyce and boyce only was to blame in the matter. it would have been a breach of confidence, and it would not have made my old friend any the happier. it would have fired her with flaming indignation against betty. "young people," said i, "must arrange their own lives." and we left it at that. now and then, afterwards, she enquired politely after betty's health, and when willie connor was killed, she spoke to me very feelingly and begged me to convey to betty the expression of her deep sympathy. in the unhappy circumstances, she explained, she was naturally precluded from writing. so betty's letter was the first direct communication that had passed between them for nearly two years. that is why to my meddlesome-minded self it appeared to have some significance. "you did, did you?" said i. then i looked at her quickly, with an idea in my head. "what did mrs. boyce say in reply?" "she has had no time to answer. didn't i tell you i only posted the letter to-day?" "then you've heard nothing more about leonard boyce except that he has got the v.c.?" "no. what more is there to hear?" even bettys are sly folk. it behooved me to counter with equal slyness. i wondered whether she had known all along of boyce's mishap, or had been informed of it by his mother. knowledge might explain her unwonted outburst. i looked at her fixedly. "what's the matter?" she asked, bending slightly down to me. "you haven't heard that he is wounded?" she straightened herself. "no. when?" "five days ago." "why didn't you tell me?" "i haven't seen you." "i mean--this evening." i reached for her hand. "will you forgive me, my dear betty, for remarking that for the last twenty minutes you have done all the talking?" "is he badly hurt?" she ignored my playful rejoinder. i noted the fact. usually she was quick to play beatrice to my benedick. had i caught her off her guard? i told her all that i knew. she seated herself again on the piano-stool. "i hope mrs. boyce did not think me unfeeling for not referring to it," she said calmly. "you will explain, won't you?" marigold entered, announcing dinner. we went into the dining-room. all through the meal bella, my parlour-maid, flitted about with dishes and plates, and marigold, when he was not solemnly pouring claret, stood grim behind my chair, roasting, as usual, his posterior before a blazing fire, with soldierly devotion to duty. conversation fell a little flat. the arrival of the evening newspapers, half an hour belated, created a diversion. the war is sometimes subversive of nice table decorum. i read out the cream of the news. discussion thereon lasted us until coffee and cigarettes were brought in and the servants left us to ourselves. one of the curious little phenomena of human intercourse is the fact that now and again the outer personality of one with whom you are daily familiar suddenly strikes you afresh, thus printing, as it were, a new portrait on your mind. at varying intervals i had received such portrait impressions of betty, and i had stored them in my memory. another i received at this moment, and it is among the most delectable. she was sitting with both elbows on the table, her palms clasped and her cheek resting on the back of the left hand. her face was turned towards me. she wore a low-cut black chiffon evening dress--the thing had mere straps over the shoulders--an all but discarded vanity of pre-war days. i had never before noticed what beautiful arms she had. perhaps in her girlhood, when i had often seen her in such exiguous finery, they had not been so shapely. i have told you already of the softening touch of her womanhood. an exquisite curve from arm to neck faded into the shadow of her hair. she had a single string of pearls round her neck. the fatigue of last week's night duty had cast an added spirituality over her frank, sensitive face. we had not spoken for a while. she smiled at me. "what are you thinking of?" "i wasn't thinking at all," said i. "i was only gratefully admiring you." "why gratefully?" "oughtn't one to be grateful to god for the beautiful things he gives us?" she flushed and averted her eyes. "you are very good to me, majy." "what made you attire yourself in all this splendour?" i asked, laughing. the wise man does not carry sentiment too far. he keeps it like a little precious nugget of pure gold; the less wise beats it out into a flabby film. "i don't know," she said, shifting her position and casting a critical glance at her bodice. "all kinds of funny little feminine vanities. perhaps i wanted to see whether i hadn't gone off. perhaps i wanted to try to feel good-looking even if i wasn't. perhaps i thought my dear old majy was sick to death of the hospital uniform perfumed with disinfectant. perhaps it was just a catlike longing for comfort. anyhow, i'm glad you like me." "my dear betty," said i, "i adore you." "and i you," she laughed. "so there's a pair of us." she lit a cigarette and sipped her coffee. then, breaking a short silence: "i hope you quite understand, dear, what i said about leonard boyce. i shouldn't like to leave you with the smallest little bit of a wrong impression." "what wrong impression could i possibly have?" i asked disingenuously. "you might think that i was still in love with him." "that would be absurd," said i. "utterly absurd. i should feel it to be almost an insult if you thought anything of the kind. long before my marriage things that had happened had killed all such feelings outright." she paused for a few seconds and her brow darkened, just as it had done when she had spoken of him in the days immediately preceding her marriage with willie connor. presently it cleared. "the whole beginning and end of my present feelings," she continued, "is that i'm glad the man i once cared for has won such high distinction, and i'm sorry that such a brave soldier should be wounded." i could do nothing else than assure her of my perfect understanding. i upbraided myself as a monster of indelicacy for my touch of doubt before dinner; also for a devilish and malicious suspicion that flitted through my brain while she was cataloguing her possible reasons for putting on the old evening dress. the thought of betty's beautiful arm and the man's bull-neck was a shivering offence. i craved purification. "if you've finished your coffee," i said, "let us go into the drawing-room and have some music." she rose with the impulsiveness of a child told that it can be excused, and responded startlingly to my thought. "i think we need it," she said. in the drawing-room i swung my chair so that i could watch her hands on the keys. she was a good musician and had the well-taught executant's certainty and grace of movement. it may be the fancy of an outer philistine, but i love to forget the existence of the instrument and to feel the music coming from the human finger-tips. she found a volume of chopin's nocturnes on the rest. in fact she had left it there a fortnight before, the last time she had played for me. i am very fond of chopin. i am an uneducated fellow and the lyrical mostly appeals to me both in poetry and in music. besides, i have understood him better since i have been a crock. and i loved betty's sympathetic interpretation. so i sat there, listening and watching, and i knew that she was playing for the ease of both our souls. once more i thanked god for the great gift of betty to my crippled life. peace gathered round my heart as betty played. the raucous buzz of the telephone in the corner of the room knocked the music to shatters. i cried out impatiently. it was the fault of that giant of ineptitude marigold and his incompetent satellites, whose duty it was to keep all upstairs extensions turned off and receive calls below. only two months before i had been the victim of their culpable neglect, when i was forced to have an altercation with a man at harrod's stores, who seemed pained because i declined to take an interest in some idiotic remark he was making about fish. "i'll strangle marigold with my own hands," i cried. betty, unmoved by my ferocity, laughed and rose from the piano. "shall i take the call?" to betty i was all urbanity. "if you'll be so kind, dear," said i. she crossed the room and stopped the abominable buzzing. "yes. hold on for a minute. it's the post-office"--she turned to me--"telephoning a telegram that has just come in. shall i take it down for you?" more urbanity on my part. she found pencil and paper on an escritoire near by, and went back to the instrument. for a while she listened and wrote. at last she said: "are you sure there's no signature?" she got the reply, waited until the message had been read over, and hung up the receiver. when she came round to me--my back had been half turned to her all the time--i was astonished to see her looking rather shaken. she handed me the paper without a word. the message ran: "thanks yesterday's telegram. just got home. queen victoria hospital, belton square. must have talk with you before i communicate with my mother. rely absolutely on your discretion. come to-morrow. forgive inconvenience caused, but most urgent." "it's from boyce," i said, looking up at her. "naturally." "i suppose he omitted the signature to avoid any possible leakage through the post-office here." she nodded. "what do you think is the matter?" "god knows," said i. "evidently something very serious." she went back to the piano seat. "it's odd that i should have taken down that message," she said, after a while. "i'll sack marigold for putting you in that abominable position," i exclaimed wrathfully. "no, you won't, dear. what does it signify? i'm not a silly child. i suppose you're going to-morrow?" "of course--for mrs. boyce's sake alone i should have no alternative." she turned round and began to take up the thread of the nocturne from the point where she had left off; but she only played half a page and quitted the piano abruptly. "the pretty little spell is broken, majy. no matter how we try to escape from the war, it is always shrieking in upon us. we're up against naked facts all the time. if we can't face them we go under either physically or spiritually. anyhow--" she smiled with just a little touch of weariness,--"we may as well face them in comfort." she pushed my chair gently nearer to the fire and sat down by my side. and there we remained in intimate silence until marigold announced the arrival of her car. chapter xviii i shrink morbidly from visiting strange houses. i shrink from the unknown discomforts and trivial humiliations they may hold for me. i hate, for instance, not to know what kind of a chair may be provided for me to sit on. i hate to be carried up many stairs even by my steel-crane of a marigold. just try doing without your legs for a couple of days, and you will see what i mean. of course i despise myself for such nervous apprehensions, and do not allow them to influence my actions--just as one, under heavy fire, does not satisfy one's simple yearning to run away. i would have given a year's income to be able to refuse boyce's request with a clear conscience; but i could not. i shrank all the more because my visit in the autumn to reggie dacre had shaken me more than i cared to confess. it had been the only occasion for years when i had entered a london building other than my club. to the club, where i was as much at home as in my own house, all those in town with whom i now and then had to transact business were good enough to come. this penetration of strange hospitals was an agitating adventure. apart, however, from the mere physical nervousness against which, as i say, i fought, there was another element in my feelings with regard to boyce's summons. if i talk about the iron hand of fate you may think i am using a cliche of melodrama. perhaps i am. but it expresses what i mean. something unregenerate in me, some lingering atavistic savage instinct towards freedom, rebelled against this same iron hand of fate that, first clapping me on the shoulder long ago in cape town, was now dragging me, against my will, into ever thickening entanglement with the dark and crooked destiny of leonard boyce. i tell you all this because i don't want to pose as a kind of apodal angel of mercy. i was also deadly anxious as to the nature of the communication boyce would make to me, before his mother should be informed of his arrival in london. in spite of his frank confession, there was still such a cloud of mystery over the man's soul as to render any revelation possible. had his hurt declared itself to be a mortal one? had he summoned me to unburden his conscience while yet there was time? was it going to be a repetition, with a difference, of my last interview with reggie dacre? i worried myself with unnecessary conjecture. after a miserable drive through february rain and slush, i reached my destination in belton square, a large mansion, presumably equipped by its owner as a hospital for officers, and given over to the nation. a telephone message had prepared the authorities for my arrival. marigold, preceded by the sister in charge, carried me across a tesselated hall and began to ascend the broad staircase. i uttered a little gasp and looked around me, for in a flash i realised where i was. twenty years ago i had danced in this house. i had danced here with my wife before we were married. on the half landing we had sat out together. it was the town house of the late lord madelow, with whose wife i shared the acquaintance of a couple of hundred young dancing men inscribed on her party list. both were dead long since. to whom the house belonged now i did not know. but i recognised pictures and statuary and a conservatory with palms. and the place shimmered with brilliant ghosts and was haunted by hot perfumes and by the echo of human voices and by elfin music. and the cripple forgot that he was being carried up the stairs in the grip of the old soldier. he was mounting them with heart beating high and the presence of a beloved hand on his arm.... you see, it was all so sudden. it took my breath away and sent my mind whirling back over twenty years. it was like awaking from a dream to find a door flung open in front of me and to hear the sister announce my name. i was on the threshold not of a ward, but of a well-appointed private room fairly high up and facing the square, for the first thing i saw was the tops of the leafless trees through the windows. then i was conscious of a cheery fire. the last thing i took in was the bed running at right angles to door and window, and leonard boyce lying in it with bandages about his face. for the dazed second or two he seemed to be reggie dacre over again. but he had thrown back the bedclothes and his broad chest and great arms were free. his pleasant voice rang out at once. "hallo! hallo! you are a good samaritan. is that you, marigold? there's a comfortable chair by the bedside for major meredyth." he seemed remarkably strong and hearty; far from any danger of death. stubs of cigarettes were lying in an ash-tray on the bed. in a moment or two they settled me down and left me alone with him. as soon as he heard the click of the door he said: "i've done more than i set out to do. you remember our conversation. i said i should either get the v.c. or never see you again. i've managed both." "what do you mean?" i asked. "i shall never see you or anybody else again, or a dog or a cat, or a tree or a flower." then, for the first time the dreadful truth broke upon me. "good heavens!" i cried. "your eyes--?" "done in. blind. it's a bit ironical, isn't it?" he laughed bitterly. what i said by way of sympathy and consolation is neither here nor there. i spoke sincerely from my heart, for i felt overwhelmed by the tragedy of it all. he stretched out his hand and grasped mine. "i knew you wouldn't fail me. your sort never does. you understand now why i wanted you to come?--to prepare the old mother for the shock. you've seen for yourself that i'm sound of wind and limb--as fit as a fiddle. you can make it quite clear to her that i'm not going to die yet awhile. and you can let her down easy on the real matter. tell her i'm as merry as possible and looking forward to going about wellingsford with a dog and string." "you're a brave chap, boyce," i said. he laughed again. "you're anticipating. do you remember what i said when you asked me what i should do if i won all the pots i set my heart on and came through alive? i said i should begin to try to be a brave man. god! it's a tough proposition. but it's something to live for, anyway." i asked him how it happened. "i got sick," he replied, "of bearing a charmed life and nothing happening. the bosch shell or bullet that could hit me wasn't made. i could stroll about freely where it was death for anyone else to show the top of his head. i didn't care. then suddenly one day things went wrong. you know what i mean. i nearly let my regiment down. it was touch and go. and it was touch and go with my career. i just pulled through, however. i'll tell you all about it one of these days--if you'll put up with me." again the familiar twitch of the lips which looked ghastly below the bandaged eyes. "no one ever dreamed of the hell i went through. then i found i was losing the nerve i had built up all these months. i nearly went off my head. at last i thought i would put an end to it. it was a small attack of ours that had failed. the men poured back over the parapet into the trench, leaving heaven knows how many dead and wounded outside. i'm not superstitious and i don't believe in premonitions and warnings, and so forth; but in cases of waiting like mine a man suddenly gets to know that his hour has come.... i got in six wounded. two men were shot while i was carrying them. how i lived god knows. it was cold hell. my clothes were torn to rags. as i was going for the seventh, the knob of my life-preserver was shot away and my wrist nearly broken. i wore it with a strap, you know. the infernal thing had been a kind of mascot. when i realised it was gone i just stood still and shivered in a sudden, helpless funk. the seventh man was crawling up to me. he had a bloody face and one dragging leg. that's my last picture of god's earth. before i could do anything--i must have been standing sideways on--a bullet got me across the bridge of the nose and night came down like a black curtain. then i ran like a hare. sometimes i tripped over a man, dead or wounded, and fell on my head. i don't remember much about this part of it. they told me afterwards. at last i stumbled on to the parapet and some plucky fellow got me into the trench. it was the regulation v.c. business," he added, "and so they gave it to me." "specially," said i. "consolation prize, i suppose, for losing my sight. they had just time to get me away behind when the germans counter attacked. if i hadn't brought the six men in, they wouldn't have had a dog's chance. i did save their lives. that's something to the credit side of the infernal balance." "there can be no balance now, my dear chap," said i. "god knows you've paid in full." he lifted his hand and dropped it with a despairing gesture. "there's only one payment in full. that was denied me. god, or whoever was responsible, had my eyes knocked out, and made it impossible for ever. he or somebody must be enjoying the farce." "that's all very well," said i. "a man can do no more than his utmost--as you've done. he must be content to leave the rest in the hands of the almighty." "the almighty has got a down on me," he replied. "and i don't blame him. of course, from your point of view, you're right. you're a normal, honourable soldier and gentleman. anything you've got to reproach yourself with is of very little importance. but i'm an accursed freak. i told you all about it when you held me up over the south african affair. there were other affairs after that. others again in this war. haven't i just told you i let my regiment down?" "don't, my dear man, don't!" i cried, in great pain, for it was horrible to hear a man talk like this. "can't you see you've wiped out everything?" "there's one thing at any rate i can't ever wipe out," he said in a low voice. then he laughed. "i've got to stick it. it may be amusing to see how it all pans out. i suppose the very last passion left us is curiosity." "there's also the unconquerable soul," said i. "you're very comforting," said he. "if i were in your place, i'd leave a chap like me to the worms." he drew a long breath. "i suppose i'll pull through all right." "of course you will," said i. "i feel tons better, thanks to you, already." "that's right," said i. he fumbled for the box of cigarettes on the bed. instinctively i tried to help him, but i was tied to my fixed chair. it was a trivial occasion; but i have never been so terrified by the sense of helplessness. just think of it. two men of clear brain and, to all intents and purposes, of sound bodily health, unable to reach an object a few feet away. boyce uttered an impatient exclamation. "get hold of that box for me, like a good chap," he said, his fingers groping wide of the mark. "i can't move," said i. "good lord! i forgot." he began to laugh. i laughed, too. we laughed like fools and the tears ran down my cheeks. i suppose we were on the verge of hysterics. i pulled myself together and gave him a cigarette from my case. and then, stretch as i would, i could not reach far enough to apply the match to the end of the cigarette between his lips. he was unable to lift his head. i lit another match and, like an idiot, put it between his fingers. he nearly burned his moustache and his bandage, and would have burned his fingers had not the match--a wooden one--providentially gone out. then i lit a cigarette myself and handed it to him. the incident, as i say, was trivial, but it had deep symbolic significance. all symbols in their literal objectivity are trivial. what more trivial than the eating of a bit of bread and the sipping from a cup of wine? this trumpery business with the cigarette revolutionised my whole feelings towards boyce. it initiated us into a sacred brotherhood. hitherto, it had been his nature which had reached out towards me tentacles of despair. my inner self, as i have tried to show you, had never responded. it was restrained by all kinds of doubts, suspicions, and repulsions. now, suddenly, it broke through all those barriers and rushed forth to meet him. my death in life against which i had fought, i hope like a brave man (it takes a bit of fighting) for many years, would henceforth be his death in life, at whose terrors he too would have to snap a disdainful finger. i had felt deep pity for him; but if pity is indeed akin to love, it is a very poor relation. now i had cast pity and such like superior sentiment aside and accepted him as a sworn brother. the sins, whatever they were, that lay on the man's conscience mattered nothing. he had paid in splendid penance and in terrible penalty. i should have liked to express to him something of this surge of emotion. but i could find no words. as a race, our emotions are not facile, and therefore we lack the necessary practice in expressing them. when they do come, they come all of a heap and scare us out of our wits and leave us speechless. so the immediate outcome of all this psychological upheaval was that we went on smoking and said nothing more about it. as far as i remember we started talking about the recruiting muddle, as to which our views most vigorously coincided. we parted cheerily. it was only when i got outside the room that the ghastly irony of the situation again made my heart as lead. we passed by the conservatory and the statuary and down the great staircase, but the ghosts had gone. yet i cast a wistful glance at the spot--it was just under that cuyp with the flashing white horse--where we had sat twenty years ago. but the new tragedy had rendered the memory less poignant. "it's a dreadful thing about the colonel, sir," said marigold as we drove off. "more dreadful than anyone can imagine," said i. "what he's going to do with himself is what i'm wondering," said marigold. what indeed? the question went infinitely deeper than the practical dreams of marigold's philosophy. my honest fellow saw but the outside--the full-blooded man of action cabined in his lifelong darkness. i, to whom chance had revealed more, trembled at the contemplation of his future. the man, goaded by the furies, had rushed into the jaws of death. those jaws, by some divine ordinance, had ruthlessly closed against him. the furies meanwhile attended him unrelenting. whither now would they goad him? into madness? i doubted it. in spite of his contradictory nature, he did not seem to be the sort of man who would go mad. he could exercise over himself too reasoned a control. yet here were passions and despairs seething without an outlet. what would be the end? it is true that he had achieved glory. to the end of his life, wherever he went, he would command the honour and admiration of men. greater achievement is granted to few mortals. in our little town he would be the great hero. but would all that human sympathy and veneration could contrive keep the furies at bay and soothe the tormented spirit? i tried to eat a meal at the club, but the food choked me. i got into the car as soon as possible and reached wellingsford with head and heart racked with pain. but before i could go home i had to execute boyce's mission. if i accomplished it successfully, my heart and not my wearied mind deserves the credit. at first mrs. boyce broke down under the shock of the news, for all the preparation in the world can do little to soften a deadly blow; but breed and pride soon asserted themselves, and she faced things bravely. with charming dignity she received marigold's few respectful words of condolence. and she thanked me for what i had done, beyond my deserts. to show how brave she was, she insisted on accompanying us downstairs and on standing in the bleak evening air while marigold put me in the car. "after all, i have my son alive and in good strong health. i must realise how merciful god has been to me." she put her hand into mine. "i shan't see you again till i bring him home with me. i shall go up to london early to-morrow morning and stay with my old friend lady fanshawe--i think you have met her here--the widow of the late admiral fanshawe. she has a house in eccleston street, which is, i think, in the neighbourhood of belton square. if i haven't thanked you enough, dear major meredyth, it is that, when one's heart is full, one can't do everything all at once." she waved to me very graciously as the car drove off--a true "spartian" mother, dear lady, of our modern england. oh! the humiliation of possessing a frail body and a lot of disorganized nerves! when i got home marigold, seeing that i was overtired, was all for putting me to bed then and there. i spurned the insulting proposal in language plain enough even to his wooden understanding. sometimes his imperturbability exasperated me. i might just as well try to taunt a poker or sting a fire-shovel into resentment of personal abuse. "i'll see you hanged, drawn, and quartered before i'll go to bed," i declared. "very good, sir." the gaunt wretch was carrying me. "but i think you might lie down for half an hour before dinner." he deposited me ignominiously on the bed and left the room. in about ten minutes dr. cliffe, my inveterate adversary who has kept life in me for many a year, came in with his confounded pink smiling face. "what's this i hear? been overdoing it?" "what the deuce are you doing here?" i cried. "go away. how dare you come when you're not wanted?" he grinned. "i'm wanted right enough, old man. the good marigold's never at fault. he rang me up and i slipped round at once." "one of these days," said i, "i'll murder that fellow." he replied by gagging me with his beastly thermometer. then he felt my pulse and listened to my heart and stuck his fingers into the corners of my eyes, so as to look at the whites; and when he was quite satisfied with himself--there is only one animal more self-complacent than your medical man in such circumstances, and that is a dog who has gorged himself with surreptitious meat--he ordained that i should forthwith go properly to bed and stay there and be perfectly quiet until he came again, and in the meanwhile swallow some filthy medicine which he would send round. "one of these days," said he, rebukingly, "instead of murdering your devoted sergeant, you'll be murdering yourself, if you go on such lunatic excursions. of course i'm shocked at hearing about colonel boyce, and i'm sorry for the poor lady, but why you should have been made to half kill yourself over the matter is more than i can understand." "i happen," said i, "to be his only intimate friend in the place." "you happen," he retorted, "to be a chronic invalid and the most infernal worry of my life." "you're nothing but an overbearing bully," said i. he grinned again. that is what i have to put up with. if i curse marigold, he takes no notice. if i curse cliffe, he grins. yet what i should do without them, heaven only knows. "god bless 'em both," said i, when my aching body was between the cool sheets. although it was none of his duties, marigold brought me in a light supper, fish and a glass of champagne. never a parlour-maid would he allow to approach me when i was unwell. i often wondered what would happen if i were really ill and required the attendance of a nurse. i swear no nurse's touch could be so gentle as when he raised me on the pillows. he bent over the tray on the table by the bed and began to dissect out the back-bone of the sole. "i can do that," said i, fretfully. he cocked a solitary reproachful eye on me. i burst out laughing. he looked so dear and ridiculous with his preposterous curly wig and his battered face. he went on with his task. "i wonder, marigold," said i, "how you put up with me." he did not reply until he had placed the neatly arranged tray across my body. "i've never heard, sir," said he, "as how a man couldn't put up with his blessings." a bit of sole was on my fork and i was about to convey it to my mouth, but there came a sudden lump in my throat and i put the fork down. "but what about the curses?" a horrible contortion of the face and a guttural rumble indicated amusement on the part of marigold. i stared, very serious, having been profoundly touched. "what are you laughing at?" i asked. the idiot's merriment increased in vehemence. he said: "you're too funny, sir," and just bolted, in a manner unbecoming not only to a sergeant, but even to a butler. as i mused on this unprecedented occurrence, i made a discovery,--that of sergeant marigold's sense of humour. to that sense of humour my upbraidings, often, i must confess, couched in picturesque and figurative terms so as not too greatly to hurt his feelings, had made constant appeal for the past fifteen years. hitherto he had hidden all signs of humorous titillation behind his impassive mask. to-night, a spark of sentiment had been the match to explode the mine of his mirth. it was a serious position. here had i been wasting on him half a lifetime's choicest objurgations. what was i to do in the future to consolidate my authority? i never enjoyed a fried sole and a glass of champagne more in my life. he came in later to remove the tray, as wooden as ever. "mrs. connor called a little while ago, sir." "why didn't you ask her to come in to see me?" "doctor's orders, sir." after the sole and champagne, i felt much better. i should have welcomed my dear betty with delight. that, at any rate, was my first impulsive thought. "confound the doctor!" i cried. and i was going to confound marigold, too, but i caught his steady luminous eye. what was the use of any anathema when he would only take it away, as a dog does a bone, and enjoy it in a solitary corner? i recovered myself. "well?" said i, with dignity. "did mrs. connor leave any message?" "i was to give you her compliments, sir, and say she was sorry you were so unwell and she was shocked to hear of colonel boyce's sad affliction." this was sheer orderly room. such an expression as "sad affliction" never passed betty's lips. i, however, had nothing to say. marigold settled me for the night and left me. when i was alone and able to consider the point, i felt a cowardly gratitude towards the doctor who had put me to bed like a sick man and forbidden access to my room. i had been spared breaking the news to betty. how she received it, i did not know. it had been impossible to question marigold. after all, it was a matter of no essential moment. i consoled myself with the reflection and tried to go to sleep. but i passed a wretched night, my head whirling with the day's happenings. the morning papers showed me that boyce, wishing to spare his mother, had been wise to summon me at once. they all published an official paragraph describing the act for which he had received his distinction, and announcing the fact of his blindness. they also gave a brief and flattering sketch of his career. one paper devoted to him a short leading article. the illustrated papers published his photograph. boyce was on the road to becoming a popular hero. cliffe kept me in bed all that day, to my great irritation. i had no converse with the outside world, save vicariously with betty, who rang up to enquire after my health. on the following morning, when i drove abroad with hosea, i found the whole town ringing with boyce. it was a friday, the day of publication of the local newspaper. it had run to extravagant bills all over the place: "wellingsford hero honoured by the king. tragic end to glorious deeds." the word--marigold's, i suppose--had gone round that i had visited the hero in london. i was stopped half a dozen times on my way up the high street by folks eager for personal details. outside prettilove the hairdresser's i held quite a little reception, and instead of moving me on for blocking the traffic, as any of his london colleagues would have done, the local police sergeant sank his authority and by the side of a butcher's boy formed part of the assembly. when i got to the market square, i saw sir anthony fenimore's car standing outside the town hall. the chauffeur stopped me. "sir anthony was going to call on you, sir, as soon as he had finished his business inside." "i'll wait for him," said i. it was one of the few mild days of a wretched month and i enjoyed the air. springfield, the house agent, passed and engaged me in conversation on the absorbing topic, and then the manager of the gasworks joined us. everyone listened so reverently to my utterances that i began to feel as if i had won the victoria cross myself. presently sir anthony bustled out of the town hall, pink, brisk, full of business. at the august appearance of the mayor my less civically distinguished friends departed. his eyes brightened as they fell on me and he shook hands vigorously. "my dear duncan, i was just on my way to you. only heard this morning that you've been seedy. knocked up, i suppose, by your journey to town. just heard of that, too. must have thought me a brute not to enquire. but edith and i didn't know. i was away all yesterday. these infernal tribunals. with the example of men like leonard boyce before their eyes, it makes one sick to look at able-bodied young englishmen trying to wriggle out of their duty to the country. well, dear old chap, how are you?" i assured him that i had recovered from cliffe and was in my usual state of health. he rubbed his hands. "that's good. now give me all the news. what is boyce's condition? when will he be able to be moved? when do you think he'll come back to wellingsford?" at this series of questions i pricked a curious ear. "am i speaking to the man or the mayor?" "the mayor," said he. "i wish to goodness i could get you inside, so that you and i and winterbotham could talk things over." winterbotham was the town clerk. sir anthony cast an instinctive glance at his chauffeur, a little withered elderly man. i laughed and made a sign of dissent. when you have to be carried about, you shy at the prospect of little withered, elderly men as carriers. besides-- "unless it would lower winterbotham's dignity or give him a cold in the head," said i, "why shouldn't he come out here?" sir anthony crossed the pavement briskly, gave a message to the doorkeeper of the town hall, and returned to hosea and myself. "it's a dreadful thing. dreadful. i never realised till yesterday, when i read his record, what a distinguished soldier he was. a modern bayard. for the last year or so he seemed to put my back up. behaved in rather a curious way, never came near the house where once he was always welcome, and when i asked him to dinner he turned me down flat. but that's all over. sometimes one has these pettifogging personal vanities. the best thing is to be heartily ashamed of 'em like an honest man, and throw 'em out in the dung-heap where they belong. that's what i told edith last night, and she agreed with me. don't you?" i smiled. here was another typical english gentleman ridding his conscience of an injustice done to leonard boyce. "of course i do," said i. "boyce is a queer fellow. a man with his exceptional qualities has to be judged in an exceptional way." "and then," said sir anthony, "it's that poor dear old lady that i've been thinking of. edith went to see her yesterday afternoon, but found she had gone up to london. in her frail health it's enough to kill her." "it won't," said i. "a woman doesn't give birth to a lion without having something of the lion in her nature." "i've never thought of that," said sir anthony. "haven't you?" his face turned grave and he looked far away over the red-brick post-office on the opposite side of the square. then he sighed, looked at me with a smile, and nodded. "you're right, duncan." "i know i am," said i. "i broke the news to mrs. boyce. that's why he asked me to go up and see him." winterbotham appeared--a tall, cadaverous man in a fur coat and a soft felt hat. he shook hands with me in a melancholy way. in a humbler walk of life, i am sure he would have been an undertaker. "now," said sir anthony, "tell us all about your interview with boyce." "before i commit myself," said i, "with the civic authorities, will you kindly inform me what this conference coram publico is all about?" "why, my dear chap, haven't i told you?" cried sir anthony. "we're going to give colonel boyce a civic reception." chapter xix thenceforward nothing was talked of but the home-coming of colonel boyce. he touched the public imagination. all kinds of stories, some apocryphal, some having a basis of truth, some authentic, went the round of the little place. it simmered with martial fervour. elderly laggards enrolled themselves in the volunteer training corps. young married men who had not attested under the derby scheme rushed out to enlist. the tribunal languished in idleness for lack of claimants for exemption. exempted men, with the enthusiastic backing of employers, lost the sense of their indispensability and joined the colours. an energetic lady who had met the serbian minister in london conceived the happy idea of organising a serbian flag day in wellingsford, and reaped a prodigious harvest. we were all tremendously patriotic, living under boyce's reflected glory. at first i had deprecated the proposal, fearing lest boyce might not find it acceptable. the reputation he had sought at the cannon's mouth was a bubble of a different kind from that which the good townsfolk were eager to celebrate. vanity had no part in it. for what the outer world thought of his exploits he did not care a penny. he was past caring. his soul alone, for its own sore needs, had driven him to the search. before his own soul and not before his fellow countrymen, had he craved to parade as a recipient of the victoria cross. his own soul, as i knew, not being satisfied, he would shrink from obtaining popular applause under false pretences. no unhappy man ever took sterner measure of himself. of all this no one but myself had the faintest idea. in explaining my opinion i had to leave out all essentials. i could only hint that a sensitive man like colonel boyce might be averse from exhibiting in public his physical disabilities; that he had always shown himself a modest soldier with a dislike of self-advertisement; that he would prefer to seek immediate refuge in the quietude of his home. but they would not listen to me. colonel boyce, they said, would be too patriotic to refuse the town's recognition. it was part of the game which he, as a brave soldier, no matter how modest, could not fail to play. he would recognise that such public honourings of valour had widespread effect among the population. in face of such arguments i had to withdraw my opposition; otherwise it might have appeared that i was actuated by petty personal motives. god knows i only desired to save boyce from undergoing a difficult ordeal. for the same reasons i could not refuse to serve on the reception committee which was immediately formed under the chairmanship of the mayor. preliminaries having been discussed, the mayor and the town clerk waited on boyce in belton square, and returned with the triumphant tidings that they had succeeded in their mission. "i can't make out what you were running your head against, duncan," said sir anthony. "of course, as you say, he's a modest chap and dislikes publicity. so do we all. but i quickly talked him out of that objection. i talked him out of all sorts of objections before he could raise them. at last what do you think he said?" "i should have told you to go to blazes and not worry me." "he didn't. he said--now i like the chap for it, it was so simple and honest--he said: 'if i were alone in the world i wouldn't have it, for i don't like it. but i'll accept on one condition. my poor old mother has had rather a thin time and she's going to have a thinner. she never gets a look in. make it as far as possible her show, and i'll do what you like.' what do you think of that?" "i think it's very characteristic," said i. and it was. in my mental survey of the situation from boyce's point of view i had not taken into account the best and finest in the man. his reason rang true against my exceptional knowledge of him. i had worked myself into so sympathetic a comprehension that i knew he would be facing something unknown and terrible in the proposed ceremony; i knew that for his own sake he would have unequivocably declined. but, ad majorem matris gloriam, he assented. the main question, at any rate, was settled. the hero would accept the honour. it was for the committee to make the necessary arrangements. we corresponded far and wide in order to obtain municipal precedents. we had interviews with the military and railway authorities. we were in constant communication with the local volunteer training corps; with the godbury volunteers and the godbury school o.t.c., who both desired to take a part in the great event. in compliance with the conditions imposed, we gave as much publicity as we could to mrs. boyce. lieutenant colonel boyce, v.c., and mrs. boyce were officially associated in the programme of the reception. how to disentangle them afterwards, when the presentation of the address, engrossed on velluni and enclosed in a casket, should be made to the colonel, was the subject of heated and confused discussion. then the feminine elements in town and county desired to rally to the side of mrs. boyce. the red cross and volunteer aid detachment nurses claimed representation. so did the munitions workers of godbury. the countess of laleham, the wife of the lord lieutenant of the county, a most imposing and masterful woman, signified (in genteel though incisive language) her intention to take a leading part in the proceedings and to bring along her husband, apparently as an unofficial ornament. this, of course, upset our plans, which had all to be reconsidered from the beginning. "who is giving the reception?" cried lady fenimore, who could stand upon her dignity as well as anybody. "the county or wellingsford? i presume it's wellingsford, and, so long as i am mayoress, that dreadful laleham woman will have to take a back seat." so, you see, we had our hands full. all this time i found betty curiously elusive. now and then i met her for a few fugitive moments at the hospital. twice she ran in for dinner, in uniform, desperately busy, arriving on the stroke of the dinner hour and rushing away five minutes after her coffee and cigarette, alleging as excuse the epidemic of influenza, consequent on the vile weather, which had woefully reduced the hospital staff. she seemed to be feverish and ill at ease, and tried to cover the symptoms by a reversion to her old offhand manner. as i was so seldom alone with her i could find scant opportunity for intimate conversation. i thought that she might have regretted the frank exposition of her feelings regarding leonard boyce. but she showed no sign of it. she spoke in the most detached way of his blindness and the coming ceremony. never once, even on the first occasion when i met her--in the hospital corridor--after my return from london, did her attitude vary from that of any kind-hearted englishwoman who deplores the mutilation of a gallant social acquaintance. sometimes i wanted to shake her, though i could scarcely tell why. i certainly would not have had her weep on my shoulder over boyce's misfortune; nor would i have cared for her to exhibit a vindictive callousness. she behaved with perfect propriety. perhaps that is what disturbed me. i was not accustomed to associate perfect propriety with my dear betty. the days went on. the reception arrangements were perfected. we only waited for the date of boyce's arrival to be fixed. that depended on the date of the particular investiture by the king which boyce's convalescence should allow him to attend. at last the date was fixed. a few days before the investiture i went to london and called at lady fanshawe's in eccleston street, whither he had been removed after leaving the hospital. i was received in the dining-room on the ground floor by boyce and his mother. he wore black glasses to hide terrible disfigurement--he lifted them to show me. one eye had been extracted. the other was seared and sightless. he greeted me as heartily as ever, made little jests over his infirmity, treating it lightly for his mother's sake. she, on her side, deemed it her duty to exhibit equal cheerfulness. she boasted of his progress in self-reliance and in the accomplishment of various little blind man's tricks. at her bidding he lit a cigarette for my benefit, by means of a patent fuse. he said, when he had succeeded: "better than the last time you saw me, eh, meredyth?" "what was that?" asked mrs. boyce. "he nearly burned his fingers," said i, shortly. i had no desire to relate the incident. we talked of the coming ceremony and i gave them the details of the programme. boyce had been right in accepting on the score of his mother. only once had she been the central figure in any public ceremony--on her wedding day, in the years long ago. here was a new kind of wedding day in her old age. the prospect filled her with a tremulous joy which was to both of them a compensation. she bubbled over with pride and excitement at her inclusion in the homage that was to be paid to the valour of her only son. "after all," she said, "i did bring him into the world. so i can claim some credit. i only hope i shan't cry and make a fool of myself. they won't expect me to keep on bowing, will they? i once saw queen victoria driving through the streets, and i thought how dreadfully her poor old neck must have ached." on the latter point i reassured her. on the drive from the station boyce would take the salute of the troops on the line of route. if she smiled charmingly on them, their hearts would be satisfied, and if she just nodded at them occasionally in a motherly sort of way, they would be enchanted. she informed me that she was having a new dress made for the occasion. she had also bought a new hat, which i must see. a servant was summoned and dispatched for it. she tried it on girlishly before the mirror over the mantelpiece, and received my compliments. "tell me what it looks like," said boyce. you might as well ask a savage in central africa to describe the interior of a submarine as the ordinary man to describe a woman's hat. my artless endeavours caused considerable merriment. to hear boyce's gay laughter one would have thought he had never a care in the world ... when i took my leave, mrs. boyce accompanied marigold and myself to the front door. "did you ever hear of anything so dreadful?" she whispered, and i saw her lips quivering and the tears rolling down her cheeks. "if he weren't so brave and wonderful, i should break my heart." "what do you suppose you are yourself, my dear old friend," said i over marigold's shoulder. i went away greatly comforted. both of them were as brave as could be. for the first time i took a more cheerful view of boyce's future. on the evening before the reception betty was shown into the library. it was late, getting on towards my bedtime, and i was nodding in front of the fire. "i'm just in and out, majy dear," she said. "i had to come. i didn't want to give you too many shocks." at my expression of alarm, she laughed. "i've only run in to tell you that i've made up my mind to come to the town hall tomorrow." i looked at her, and i suppose my hands moved in a slight gesture. "by that," she said, "i suppose you mean you can never tell what i'm going to do next." "you've guessed it, my dear," said i. "do you disapprove?" "i couldn't be so presumptuous." she bent over me and caught the lapels of my jacket. "oh, don't be so dreadfully dignified. i want you to understand. everybody is going to pay honour to-morrow to a man who has given everything he could to his country. don't you think it would be petty of me if i stood out? what have the dead things that have passed between us to do with my tribute as an englishwoman?" what indeed? i asked her whether she was attending in her private capacity or as one of the representatives of the v.a.d. nurses. i learned for the thousandth time that betty connor did not deal in half measures. if she went at all, it was as betty connor that she would go. her aunts would accompany her. it was part of the municipal ordering of things that the town clerk should have sent them the special cards of invitation. "i think it my duty to go," said betty. "if you think so, my dear," said i, "then it is your duty. so there's nothing more to be said about it." betty kissed the top of my head and went off. we come now to the morning of the great day. everything had been finally settled. the mayor and aldermen, lady fenimore and the aldermen's wives, the lord lieutenant (in unofficial mufti) and lady laleham (great though officially obscure lady), the general of the division quartered in the neighbourhood and officers of his staff, and a few other magnates to meet the three o'clock train by which the boyces were due to arrive. the station hung with flags and inscriptions. a guard of honour and a band in the station-yard, with a fleet of motor cars in waiting. troops lining the route from station to town hall. more troops in the decorated market square, including the godbury school o.t.c. and the wellingsford and godbury volunteers. i heard that the latter were very anxious to fire off a feu de joie, but were restrained owing to lack of precedent. the local fire-brigade in freshly burnished helmets were to follow the procession of motor cars, and behind them motor omnibuses with the nurses. marigold, although his attendance on me precluded him from taking part in the parade of volunteers, appeared in full grey uniform with all his medals and the black patch of ceremony over his eyeless socket. i must confess to regarding him with some jealousy. i too should have liked to wear my decorations. if a man swears to you that he is free from such little vanities, he is more often than not a mere liar. but a broken-down old soldier, although still drawing pay from the government, is not allowed to wear uniform (which i think is outrageous), and he can't go and plaster himself with medals when he is wearing on his head a hard felt hat. my envy of the martial looking marigold is a proof that my mind was not busied with sterner preoccupations. i ate my breakfast with the serene conscience not only of a man who knows he has done his duty, but of an organiser confident in the success of his schemes. the abominable weather of snows and tempests from which we had suffered for weeks had undergone a change. it was a mild morning brightened by a pale convalescent sort of sun, and there was just a little hope of spring in the air. i felt content with everything and everybody. about eleven o'clock the buzz of the library telephone disturbed my comfortable perusal of the newspaper. i wheeled towards the instrument. sir anthony was speaking. "can you come round at once? very urgent. the car is on its way to you." "what's the matter?" i asked. he could not tell me over the wires. i was to take it that my presence was urgently needed. "i'll come along at once," said i. some hitch doubtless had occurred. perhaps the war office (whose ways were ever weird and unaccountable) had forbidden the general to take part in such a village-pump demonstration. perhaps lady laleham had insisted on her husband coming down like a uniformed lord lieutenant on the fold. perhaps the hero himself was laid up with measles. with the lightest heart i drove to wellings park. marigold, straight as a ramrod, sitting in front by the chauffeur. as soon as pardoe, the butler, had brought out my chair and marigold had settled me in it, sir anthony, very red and flustered, appeared and, shaking me nervously by the hand, said without preliminary greeting: "come into the library." he, i think, had come from the morning room on the right of the hall. the library was on the left. he flung open the door. i steered myself into the room; and there, standing on the white bearskin hearthrug, his back to the fire, his hands in his pockets, his six inches of stiff white beard stuck aggressively outward, i saw daniel gedge. while i gaped in astonishment, sir anthony shut the door behind him, drew a straight-backed chair from the wall, planted it roughly some distance away from the fire, and, pointing to it, bade gedge sit down. gedge obeyed. sir anthony took the hearthrug position, his hands behind his back, his legs apart. "this man," said he, "has come to me with a ridiculous, beastly story. at first i was undecided whether i should listen to him or kick him out. i thought it wiser to listen to him in the presence of a reputable witness. that's why i've sent for you, duncan. now you just begin all over again, my man," said he, turning to gedge, "and remember that anything you say here will be used against you at your trial." gedge laughed--i must admit, with some justification. "you forget, sir anthony, i'm not a criminal and you're not a policeman." "i'm the mayor to this town, sir," cried sir anthony. "i'm also a justice of the peace." "and i'm a law-abiding citizen," retorted gedge. "you're an infernal socialistic pro-german," exclaimed sir anthony. "prove it. i only ask you to prove it. no matter what my private opinions may be, you just try to bring me up under the defence of the realm act, and you'll find you can't touch me." i held out a hand. "forgive me for interrupting," said i, "but what is all this discussion about?" gedge crossed one leg over the other and drew his beard through his fingers. sir anthony was about to burst into speech, but i checked him with a gesture and turned to gedge. "it has nothing to do with political opinions," said he. "it has to do with the death, nearly two years ago, of miss althea fenimore, sir anthony's only daughter." sir anthony, his face congested, glared at him malevolently. i started, with a gasp of surprise, and stared at the man who, caressing his beard, looked from one to the other of us with an air of satisfaction. "get on," said sir anthony. "you are going to give a civic reception to-day to colonel boyce, v.c., aren't you?" "yes, i am," snapped sir anthony. "do you think you ought to do it when i tell you that colonel boyce, v.c., murdered miss althea fenimore on the night of the th june, two years ago?" "yes," said sir anthony. "and do you know why? because i know you to be a liar and a scoundrel." i can never describe the awful horror that numbed me to the heart. for a few moments my body seemed as lifeless as my legs. the charge, astounding almost to grotesqueness in the eyes of sir anthony, and rousing him to mere wrath, deprived me of the power of speech. for i knew, in that dreadful instant, that the man's words contained some elements of truth. all the pieces of the puzzle that had worried me at odd times for months fitted themselves together in a vivid flash. boyce and althea! i had never dreamed of associating their names. that association was the key of the puzzle. out of the darkness disturbing things shone clear. boyce's abrupt retirement from wellingsford before the war; his cancellation by default of his engagement; his morbid desire, a year ago, to keep secret his presence in his own house; gedge's veiled threat to me in the street to use a way "that'll knock all you great people of wellingsford off your high horses;" his extraordinary interview with boyce; his generally expressed hatred of boyce. was this too the secret which he let out in his cups to randall holmes and which drove the young man from his society? and betty? boyce was a devil. she wished he were dead. and her words: "you have behaved worse to others. i don't wonder at your shrinking from showing your face here." how much did betty know? there was the lost week--in carlisle?--in poor althea's life. and then there were boyce's half confessions, the glimpses he had afforded me into the tormented soul. to me he had condemned himself out of his own mouth. i repeat that, sitting there paralysed by the sudden shock of it, i knew--not that the man was speaking the literal truth--god forbid!--but that boyce was, in some degree, responsible for althea's death. "calling me names won't alter the facts, sir anthony," said gedge, with a touch of insolence. "i was there at the time. i saw it." "if that's true," sir anthony retorted, "you're an accessory after the fact, and in greater danger of being hanged than ever." he turned to me in his abrupt way. "now that we've heard this blackguard, shall we hand him over to the police?" being directly addressed, i recovered my nerve. "before doing that," said i, "perhaps it would be best for us to hear what kind of a story he has to tell us. we should also like to know his motives in not denouncing the supposed murderer at once, and in keeping his knowledge hidden all this time." "with regard to the last part of your remarks, i dare say you would," said gedge. "only i don't know whether i'll go so far as to oblige you. anyhow you may have discovered that i don't particularly care about your class. i've been preaching against your idleness and vanity and vices, and the strangling grip you have on the throats of the people, ever since i was a young man. if one of your lot chose to do in another of your lot--a common story of seduction and crime--" at this slur in his daughter's honour sir anthony broke out fiercely, and, for a moment, i feared lest he would throw himself on gedge and wring his neck. i managed to check his outburst and bring him to reason. he resumed his attitude on the hearthrug. "as i was saying," gedge continued, rather frightened, "from my sociological point of view i considered the affair no business of mine. i speak of it now, because ever since war broke out your class and the parasitical bourgeoisie have done your best to reduce me to starvation. i thought it would be pleasant to get a bit of my own back. just a little bit," he added, rubbing his hands. "if you think you've done it, you'll find yourself mistaken." gedge shrugged his shoulders and pulled his beard. i hated the light in his little crafty eyes. i feel sure he had been looking forward for months to this moment of pure happiness. "having given us an insight into your motives, which seem consistent with what we know of your character," said i, judicially, "will you now make your statement of facts?" "what's the good of listening further to his lies?" interrupted sir anthony. "i'm a magistrate. i can give the police at once a warrant for his arrest." again i pacified him. "let us hear what the man has to say." gedge began. he spoke by the book, like one who repeats a statement carefully prepared. "it was past ten o'clock on the night of the th june, . i had just finished supper when i was rung up by the landlord of the three feathers on the farfield road--it's the inn about a quarter of a mile from the lock gates. he said that the district secretary of the red democratic federation was staying there--his brother-in-law, if you want to know--and he hadn't received my report. i must explain that i am the local secretary, and as there was to be an important conference of the federation at derby the next day, the district secretary ought to have been in possession of my report on local affairs. i had drawn up the report. my daughter phyllis had typed it, and she ought to have posted it. on questioning her, i found she had neglected to do so. i explained this over the wires and said i would bring the report at once to the three feathers. i only tell you all this, in which you can't be interested, so that you can't say: 'what were you doing on a lonely road at that time of night?' my daughter and the landlord of the three feathers can corroborate this part of my story. i set out on my bicycle. it was bright moonlight. you know that for about two hundred yards before the lock gate, and for about twenty after, the towing-path is raised above the level of the main road which runs parallel with it a few yards away. there are strips of market garden between. when i got to this open bit i saw two persons up on the towing-path. one was a girl with a loose kind of cloak and a hat. the other was a man wearing a soft felt hat and a light overcoat. the overcoat was open and i saw that he was wearing it over evening dress. that caught my attention. what was this swell in evening dress doing there with a girl? i slowed down and dismounted. they didn't see me. i got into the shadow of a whitethorn. they turned their faces so that the moon beat full on them. i saw them as plain as i see you. they were colonel boyce, v.c.,--major then--and your daughter, mr. mayor, miss althea fenimore." he paused as though to point the dramatic effect, and twisted round, sticking out his horrible beard at sir anthony. sir anthony, his hands thrust deep in his trouser-pockets and his bullet head bent forward, glared at him balefully out of his old blue eyes. but he said never a word. gedge continued. "they didn't speak very loud, so i could only hear a scrap or two of their conversation. they seemed to be quarrelling--she wanted him to do something which he wouldn't do. i heard the words 'marriage' and 'disgrace.' they stood still for a moment. then they turned back. i had overtaken them, you know. i remounted my bicycle and rode to the three feathers. i was there about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. then i rode back for home. when i came in sight of the lock, there i saw a man standing alone, sharp in the moonlight. as i came nearer i recognised the same man, major boyce. there were no lights in the lock-keeper's cottage. he and his wife had gone to bed long before. i was so interested that i forgot what i was doing and ran into the hedge so that i nearly came down. there was the noise of the scrape and drag of the machine which must have sounded very loud in the stillness. it startled him, for he looked all round, but he didn't see me, for i was under the hedge. then suddenly he started running. he ran as if the devil was after him. i saw him squash down his trilby hat so that it was shapeless. then he disappeared along the path. i thought this a queer proceeding. why should he have taken to his heels? i thought i should like to see him again. if he kept to the towing-path, his shortest way home, he was bound to go along the chestnut avenue, where, as you know, the road and the path again come together. on a bicycle it was easy to get there before him. i sat down on a bench and waited. presently he comes, walking fast, his hat still squashed in all over his ears. i walked my bicycle slap in front of him. "'good-night, major,' i said. "he stared at me as if he didn't know me. then he seemed to pull himself together and said: 'good-night, gedge. what are you doing out at this time of night?' "'if it comes to that, sir,' said i, 'what are you?' "then he says, very haughty, as if i was the dirt under his feet--i suppose, sir anthony fenimore and major meredyth, you think that me and my class are by divine prescription the dirt beneath your feet, but you're damn well mistaken--then he says: 'what the devil do you mean?' and catches hold of the front wheel of the bicycle and swings it and me out of his way so that i had a nasty fall, with the machine on top of me, and he marches off. i picked myself up furious with anger. i am an elderly man and not accustomed to that sort of treatment. i yelled out: 'what have you been doing with the squire's daughter on the towing-path?' it pulled him up short. he made a step or two towards me, and again he asked me what i meant. and this time i told him. he called me a liar, swore he had never been on any tow-path or had seen any squire's daughter, and threatened to murder me. as soon as i could mount my bicycle i left him and made for home. the next afternoon, if you remember, the unfortunate young lady's body was found at the bottom of three fathoms of water by the lock gates." he had spoken so clearly, so unfalteringly, that sir anthony had been surprised into listening without interruption. the bull-dog expression on his face never changed. when gedge had come to the end, he said: "will you again tell me your object in coming to me with this disgusting story?" gedge lifted his bushy eyebrows. "don't you believe it even now?" "not a word of it," replied sir anthony. "i ought to remind you of another point." said gedge. "was major boyce ever seen in wellingsford after that night? no. he went off by the first train the next morning. went abroad and stayed there till the outbreak of war." "i happen to know he had made arrangements to start for norway that morning," said sir anthony. "he had called here a day or two before to say good-bye." "did he write you any letter of condolence?" gedge asked sneeringly. i saw a sudden spasm pass over sir anthony's features. but he said in the same tone as before: "i am not going to answer insolent questions." gedge turned to me with the air of a man giving up argument with a child. "what do you think of it, major meredyth?" what could i say? i had kept a grim iron face all through the proceedings. i could only reply: "i agree entirely with sir anthony." gedge rose and thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. "you gentlemen are hard to convince. if you want proof positive, just read that." and he held a letter out to sir anthony. sir anthony glared at him and abruptly plucked the letter out of his hand; for the fraction of a second he stood irresolute; then he threw it behind him into the blazing fire. "do you think i'm going to soil my mind with your dirty forgeries?" gedge laughed. "you think you've queered my pitch, i suppose. you haven't. i've heaps more incriminating letters. that was only a sample." "publish one of them at your peril," said i. "pray, mister major meredyth," said he, "what is to prevent me?" "penal servitude for malicious slander." "i should win my case." "in that event they would get you, on your own showing, for being an accessory after the fact of murder, and for blackmail." "suppose i risk it?" "you won't," said i. sir anthony turned to the bell-push by the side of the mantelpiece. "what's the good of talking to this double-dyed scoundrel?" he pointed to the door. "you infamous liar, get out. and if i ever catch you prowling round this house, i'll set the dogs on you." gedge marched to the door and turned on the threshold and shook his fist. "you'll repent your folly till your dying day!" "to hell with you," cried sir anthony. the door slammed. we were left alone. an avalanche of silence overwhelmed us. heaven knows how long we remained speechless and motionless--i in my wheel-chair, he standing on the hearthrug staring awfully in front of him. at last he drew a deep breath and threw up his arms and flung himself down on a leather-covered couch, where he sat, elbows on knees and his head in his hands. after a while he lifted a drawn face. "it's true, duncan," said he, "and you know it." "i don't know it," i replied stoutly, "any more than you do." he rose in his nervous way and came swiftly to me and clapped both his hands on my frail shoulders and bent over me--he was a little man, as i have told you--and put his face so close to mine that i could feel his breath on my cheek. "upon your soul as a christian you know that man wasn't lying." i looked into his eyes--about six inches from mine. "boyce never murdered althea," i said. "but he is the man--the man i've been looking for." i pushed him away with both hands, using all my strength. it was too horrible. "suppose he is. what then?" he fell back a pace or two. "once i remember saying: 'if ever i get hold of that man--god help him!'" he clenched his fists and started to pace up and down the library, passing and repassing my chair. at last my nerves could stand it no longer and i called on him to halt. "gedge's story is curiously incomplete," said i. "we ought to have crossexamined him more closely. is it likely that boyce should have gone off leaving behind him a witness of his crime whom he had threatened to murder, and who he must have known would have given information as soon as the death was discovered? and don't you think gedge's reason for holding his tongue very unconvincing? his fool hatred of our class, instead of keeping him cynically indifferent, would have made him lodge information at once and gloat over our discomfiture." i could not choose but come to the defence of the unhappy man whom i had learned to call my friend, although, for all my trying, i could conjure up no doubt as to his intimate relation with the tragedy. as sir anthony did not speak, i went on. "you can't judge a man with leonard boyce's record on the ex parte statement of a malevolent beast like gedge. look back. if there had been any affair between althea and boyce, the merest foolish flirtation, even, do you think it would have passed unnoticed? you, edith, betty--i myself--would have cast an uneasy eye. when we were looking about, some months ago, at the time of your sister-in-law's visit, for a possible man, the thought of leonard boyce never entered our heads. the only man you could rush at was young randall holmes, and i laughed you out of the idea. just throw your mind back, anthony, and try to recall any suspicious incident. you can't." i paused rhetorically, expecting a reply. none came. he just sat looking at me in a dead way. i continued my special pleading; and the more i said, the more was i baffled by his dead stare and the more unconvincing platitudes did i find myself uttering. some people may be able to speak vividly to a deaf and dumb creature. on this occasion i tried hard to do so, and failed. after a while my words dribbled out with difficulty and eventually ceased. at last he spoke, in the dull, toneless way of a dead man--presuming that the dead could speak: "you may talk till you're black in the face, but you know as well as i do that the man told the truth--or practically the truth. what he said he saw, he saw. what motives have been at the back of his miserable mind, i don't know. you say i can't recall suspicious incidents. i can. i'll tell you one. i came across them once--about a month before the thing happened--among the greenhouses. i think we were having one of our tennis parties. i heard her using angry words, and when i appeared her face was flushed and there were tears in her eyes. she was taken aback for a second and then she rushed up to me. 'i think he's perfectly horrid. he says that jingo--' pointing to the dog; you remember jingo the sealingham--she was devoted to him--he died last year--'he says that jingo is a mongrel--a throw back.' boyce said he was only teasing her and made pretty apologies. i left it at that. hit a dog or a horse belonging to althea, and you hit althea. that was her way. the incident went out of my mind till this morning. other incidents, too. one thinks pretty quick at times. again, this scoundrel hit me on the raw. boyce never wrote to us. sent us through his mother a conventional word of condolence. edith and i were hurt. that was one of the things that made me speak so angrily of him when he wouldn't come and dine with us." once more i pleaded. "your sealingham incident doesn't impress me. why not take it at its face value? as for the letter of condolence, that may have twenty explanations." he passed his hand over his cropped iron-grey head. "what are you driving at, duncan? you know as well as i do--you know more than i do. i saw it in your face ever since that man opened his mouth." "if you're so sure of everything," said i foolishly, relaxing grip on my self-control, "why did you hound him out of the place for a liar?" he leaped to his feet and spread himself into a fighting attitude, for all the world like a half-dead bantam cock springing into a new lease of combative life. "do you think i'd let a dunghill beast like that crow over me? do you think i'd let him imagine for a minute that anything he said could influence me in my public duty? by god, sir, what kind of a worm do you think i am?" his sudden fury disconcerted me. all this time i had been wondering what kind of catastrophe was going to happen during the next few hours. i am afraid i haven't made clear to you the ghastly racket in my brain. there was the town all beflagged, everyone making holiday, all the pomp and circumstance at our disposal awaiting the signal to be displayed. there was the blind conquering hero almost on his way to local apotheosis. and here were sir anthony and i with the revelation of the man gedge. it was a fantastic, baffling situation. i had been haunted by the dread of discussing it. so in reply to his outburst i simply said: "what are you going to do?" he drew himself up, with his obstinate chin in the air, and looked at me straight. "if god gives me strength, i am going to do what lies before me." at this moment lady fenimore came in. "mr. winterbotham would like to speak to you a minute, anthony. it's something about the school children." "all right, my dear. i'll go to him at once," said sir anthony. "you'll stay and lunch with us, duncan?" i declined on the plea that i should have to nurse myself for a strenuous day. sir anthony might play the roman father, but it was beyond my power to play the roman father's guest. chapter xx how he passed through the ordeal i don't know. if ever a man stood captain of his soul, it was anthony fenimore that day. and his soul was steel-armoured. perhaps, if proof had come to him from an untainted source, it might have modified his attitude. i cannot tell. without doubt the knavery of gedge set aflame his indignation--or rather the fierce pride of the great old tory gentleman. he would have walked through hell-fire sooner than yielded an inch to gedge. so much would scornful defiance have done. but behind all this--and i am as certain of it as i am certain that one day i shall die--burned even fiercer, steadier, and clearer the unquenchable fire of patriotic duty. he was dealing not with a man who had sinned terribly towards him, but with a man who had offered his life over and over again to his country, a man who had given to his country the sight of his eyes, a man on whose breast the king himself had pinned the supreme badge of honour in his gift. he was dealing, not with a private individual, but with a national hero. in his small official capacity as mayor of wellingsford, he was but the mouthpiece of a national sentiment. and more than that. this ceremony was an appeal to the unimaginative, the sluggish, the faint-hearted. in its little way--and please remember that all tremendous enthusiasms are fit by these little fires--it was a proclamation of the undying glory of england. it was impersonal, it was national, it was imperial. in its little way it was of vast, far-reaching importance. i want you to remember these things in order that you should understand the mental processes, or soul processes, or whatever you like, of sir anthony fenimore. picture him. the most unheroic little man you can imagine. clean-shaven, bullet-headed, close-cropped, his face ruddy and wrinkled like a withered apple, his eyes a misty blue, his big nose marked like a network of veins, his hands glazed and reddened, like his face, by wind and weather; standing, even under his mayoral robes, like a jockey. of course he had the undefinable air of breeding; no one could have mistaken his class. but he was an undistinguished, very ordinary looking little man; and indeed he had done nothing for the past half century to distinguish himself above his fellows. there are thousands of his type, masters of english country houses. and of all the thousands, every one brought up against the stern issues of life would have acted like anthony fenimore. i say "would have acted," but anyone who has lived in england during the war knows that they have so acted. these incarnations of the commonplace, the object of the disdain, before the war, of the self-styled "intellectuals"--if the war sweeps the insufferable term into oblivion it will have done some good--these honest unassuming gentlemen have responded heroically to the great appeal; and when the intellectuals have thought of their intellects or their skins, they have thought only of their duty. and it was only the heroical sense of duty that sustained sir anthony fenimore that day. i did not see the reception at the railway station or join the triumphal procession; but went early to the town hall and took my seat on the platform. i glibly say "took my seat." a wheel-chair, sent there previously, was hoisted, with me inside, on to the platform by marigold and a porter. after all these years, i still hate to be publicly paraded, like a grizzled baby, in marigold's arms. for convenience' sake i was posted at the front left-hand corner. the hall soon filled. the first three rows of seats were reserved for the recipients of the municipality's special invitation; the remainder were occupied by the successful applicants for tickets. from my almost solitary perch i watched the fluttering and excited crowd. the town band in the organ gallery at the further end discoursed martial music. from the main door beneath them ran the central gangway to the platform. i recognised many friends. in the front row with her two aunts sat betty, very demure in her widow's hat relieved by its little white band of frilly stuff beneath the brim. she looked unusually pale. i could not help watching her intently and trying to divine how much she knew of the story of boyce and althea. she caught my eye, nodded, and smiled wanly. my situation was uncanny. in this crowded assemblage in front of me, whispering, talking, laughing beneath the blare of the band, not one, save betty, had a suspicion of the tragedy. at times they seemed to melt into a shadow-mass of dreamland .... time crawled on very slowly. anxious forebodings oppressed me. had sir anthony's valiancy stood the test? had he been able to shake hands with his daughter's betrayer? had he broken down during the drive side by side with him, amid the hooraying of the townsfolk? and gedge? had he found some madman's means of proclaiming the scandal aloud? every nerve in my body was strained. marigold, in his uniform and medals and patch and grey service cap plugged over his black wig, stood sentry by the side of the platform next my chair. all of a sudden he pulled out of his side pocket a phial of red liqueur in a medicine glass. he poured out the dose and handed it to me. i turned on him wrathfully. "what the dickens is that?" "dr. cliffe's orders, sir." "when did he order it?" "when i told him what you looked like after interviewing mister daniel gedge. and he said, if you was to look like that again i was to give you this. so i'm giving it to you, sir." there was no arguing with marigold in front of a thousand people. i swallowed the stuff quickly. he put the phial and glass back in his pocket and resumed his wooden sentry attitude by my chair. i must own to feeling better for the draught. but, thought i, if the strain of the situation is so great for me, what must it be for sir anthony? presently the muffled sounds of outside cheering penetrated the hall. the band stopped abruptly, to begin again with "see the conquering hero comes" when the civic procession appeared through the great doors. there was little sir anthony in his robes, grave and imposing, and beside him mrs. boyce, flushed, bright-eyed, and tearful. then came lady fenimore with boyce, black-spectacled, soldierly, bull-necked, his little bronze cross conspicuous among the medals on his breast, his elbow gripped by a weatherbeaten young soldier, one of his captains, as i learned afterwards, home on leave, who had claimed the privilege of guiding his blind footsteps. and behind came the aldermen and the councillors, and the general and his staff, and the lord lieutenant and lady laleham and the other members of the reception committee. the cheering drowned the strains of the "conquering hero." places were taken on the platform. to the right of the mayor sat boyce, to the left his mother. on the table in front were set scrolls and caskets. you see, we had arranged that mrs. boyce should have an address and a casket all to herself. the gallery soon was picturesquely filled with the nurses, and the fire-brigade, bright-helmeted, was massed in the doorway. god gave the steel-hearted little man strength to go through the ordeal. he delivered his carefully prepared oration in a voice that never faltered. the passages referring to boyce's blindness he spoke with an accent of amazing sincerity. when he had ended the responsive audience applauded tumultuously. from my seat by the edge of the platform i watched betty. two red spots burned in her cheeks. the addresses were read, the caskets presented. boyce remained standing, about to respond. he still held the casket in both hands. his fidus achates, guessing his difficulty, sprang up, took it from him, and laid it on the table. boyce turned to him with his charming smile and said: "thanks, old man." again the tumult broke out. men cheered and women wept and waved wet handkerchiefs. and he stood smiling at his unseen audience. when he spoke, his deep, beautifully modulated voice held everyone under its spell, and he spoke modestly and gaily like a brave gentleman. i bent forward, as far as i was able, and scanned his face. never once, during the whole ceremony, did the tell-tale twitch appear at the corners of his lips. he stood there the incarnation of the modern knights sans fear and sans reproach. i cannot tell which of the two, he or sir anthony, the more moved my wondering admiration. each exhibited a glorious defiance. you may say that boyce, receiving in his debonair fashion the encomiums of the man whom he had wronged, was merely exhibiting the familiar callousness of the criminal. if you do, i throw up my brief. i shall have failed utterly to accomplish my object in writing this book. i want no tears of sensibility shed over boyce. i want you to judge him by the evidence that i am trying to put before you. if you judge him as a criminal, it is my poor presentation of the evidence that is at fault. i claim for boyce a certain splendour of character, for all his grievous sins, a splendour which no criminal in the world's history has ever achieved. i beg you therefore to suspend your judgment, until i have finished, as far as my poor powers allow, my unravelling of his tangled skein. and pray remember too that i have sought all through to present you with the facts pari passu with my knowledge of them. i have tried to tell the story through myself. i could think of no other way of creating an essential verisimilitude. yet, even now, writing in the light of full knowledge, i cannot admit that, when boyce in that town hall faced the world--for, in the deep tragic sense wellingsford was his world--anyone knowing as much as i did would have been justified in calling his demeanour criminal callousness. i say that he exhibited a glorious defiance. he defied the concrete gedge. he defied the more abstract, but none the less real, tormenting furies. he defied remorse. in accepting sir anthony's praise he defied the craven in his own soul. after a speech or two more, to which i did not listen, the proceedings in the town hall ended. i drew a breath of relief. no breakdown by sir anthony, no scandalous interruption by gedge, had marred the impressive ceremony. the band in the gallery played "god save the king." the crowd in the body of the hall, who had stood for the anthem, sat down again, evidently waiting for boyce and the notables to pass out. the assemblage on the platform broke up. several members, among them the general, who paused to shake hands with boyce and his mother, left the hall by the private side door. the lord lieutenant and lady laleham followed him soon afterwards. then the less magnificent crowded round boyce, each eager for a personal exchange of words with the hero. sir anthony remained at his post, keeping on the outskirts of the throng, bidding formal adieux to those who went away. presently i saw that boyce was asking for me, for someone pointed me out to his officer attendant, who led him down the steps of the platform and round the edge to my seat. "well, it has gone off all right," said he. "let me introduce captain winslow, more than ever my right-hand man--major meredyth." we exchanged bows. "the old mother's as pleased as punch. she didn't know she was going to get a little box of her own. i should like to have seen her face. i did hear her give one of her little squeals. did you?" "no," said i, "but i saw her face. it was that of a saint in an unexpected beatitude." he laughed. "dear old mother," said he. "she has deserved a show." he turned away unconsciously, and, thinking to address me, addressed the first row of spectators. "i suppose there's a lot of folks here that i know." by chance he seemed to be looking through his black glasses straight at betty a few feet away. she rose impulsively and, before all wellingsford, went up to him with hand outstretched. "there's one at any rate, colonel boyce. i'm betty connor--" "no need to tell me that," said he, bowing. winslow, at his elbow, most scrupulous of prompters, whispered: "she wants to shake hands with you." so their hands met. he kept hers an appreciable second or two in his grasp. "i hope you will accept my congratulations," said betty. "i have already accepted them, very gratefully. my mother conveyed them to me. she was deeply touched by your letter. and may i, too, say how deeply touched i am by your coming here?" betty looked swiftly round and her cheeks flushed, for there were many of us within earshot. she laughed off her embarrassment. "you have developed from a man into a wellingsford institution, and i had to come and see you inaugurated. my aunts, too, are here." she beckoned to them. "they are shyer than i am." the elderly ladies came forward and spoke their pleasant words of congratulation. mrs. holmes and others, encouraged, followed their example. mrs. boyce suddenly swooped from the platform into the middle of the group and kissed betty, who emerged from the excited lady's embrace blushing furiously. she shook hands with betty's aunts and thanked them for their presence; and in the old lady's mind the reconciliation of the two houses was complete. then, with cheeks of a more delicate natural pink than any living valetudinarian of her age could boast of, and with glistening eyes, she made her way to me, and reaching up and drawing me down, kissed me, too. while all this was going on, the body of the hall began to empty. the programme had arranged for nothing more by way of ceremonial to take place. but a public gathering always hopes for something unexpected, and, when it does not happen, takes its disappointment philosophically. i think betty's action must have shown them that the rest of the proceedings were to be purely private and informal. the platform also gradually thinned, until at last, looking round, i saw that only sir anthony and lady fenimore and winterbotham, the town clerk, remained. then lady fenimore joined us. we were about a score, myself perched on the edge and corner of the platform, the rest standing on the floor of the hall in a sector round me, marigold, of course, in the middle of them by my side, like an ill-graven image. as soon as she could lady fenimore came up to me. "don't you think it splendid of betty connor to bury the hatchet so publicly?" she whispered. "the war," said i, "is a solvent of many human complications." "it is indeed." then she added: "i am going to have a little dinner party some time soon for the boyces. i sounded him to-day and he practically promised. i'll ask the lalehams. of course you'll come. now that things have shown themselves so topsy-turvy i've been wondering whether i should ask betty." "does anthony know of this dinner party?" i enquired. "what does it matter whether he does or not?" she laughed. "dinner parties come within my province and i'm mistress of it." of course boyce had half promised. what else could he do without discourtesy? but the banquet which, in her unsuspecting innocence she proposed, seemed to me a horrible meal. doubtless it would seem so to sir anthony. at the moment i did not know whether he intended to tell gedge's story to his wife. at any rate, hitherto, he had not done so. "all the same, my dear edith," i replied, "anthony may have a word to say. i happen to know he has no particular personal friendship for boyce, who, if you'll forgive my saying so, has treated you rather cavalierly for the past two years. anthony's welcome to-day was purely public and official. it had nothing to do with his private feelings." "but they have changed. he was referring to the matter only this morning at breakfast and suggesting things we could do to lighten the poor man's affliction." "i don't think a dinner party would lighten it," i said. "and if i were you, i wouldn't suggest it to anthony." "that's rather mysterious." she looked at me shrewdly. "and there's another mysterious thing. anthony's like a yapping sphinx over it. what were you two talking to gedge about this morning?" "nothing particular." "that's nonsense, duncan. gedge was making himself unpleasant. he never does anything else." "if you want to know," said i, with a convulsive effort of invention, "we heard that he was preparing some sort of demonstration, going to bring down some of his precious anti-war-league people." "he wouldn't have the pluck," she exclaimed. "anyhow," said i, "we thought we had better have him in and read him the riot--or rather the defence of the realm--act. that's all." "then why on earth couldn't anthony tell me?" "you ought to know the mixture of sugar and pepper in your husband's nature better than i do, my dear edith," i replied. her laugh reassured me. i had turned a difficult corner. no doubt she would go to sir anthony with my explanation and either receive his acquiescence or learn the real truth. she was bidding me farewell when sir anthony came along the platform to the chair. i glanced up, but i saw that he did not wish to speak to me. he was looking grim and tired. he called down to his wife: "it's time to move, dear. the troops are still standing outside." she bustled about giving the signal for departure, first running to boyce and taking him by the sleeve. i had not noticed that he had withdrawn with betty a few feet away from the little group. they were interrupted in an animated conversation. at the sight i felt a keen pang of repulsion. those two ought not to talk together as old friends. it outraged decencies. it was all very well for betty to play the magnanimous and patriotic englishwoman. by her first word of welcome she had fulfilled the part. but this flushed, eager talk lay far beyond the scope of patriotic duty. how could they thus converse over the body of the dead althea? with both of them was i indignant. in my inmost heart i felt horribly and vulgarly jealous. i may as well confess it. deeply as i had sworn blood-brotherhood with boyce, regardless of the crimes he might or might not have committed, i could not admit him into that inner brotherhood of which betty and i alone were members. and this is just a roundabout, shame-faced way of saying that, at that moment, i discovered that i was hopelessly, insanely in love with betty. the knowledge came to me in a great wave of dismay. "you'll let me see you again, won't you?" he asked. "if you like." i don't think i heard the words, but i traced them on their lips. they parted. sir anthony descended from the platform and gave his arm to mrs. boyce. lady fenimore still clung to boyce. winterbotham came next, bearing the two caskets, which had been lying neglected on the table. the sparse company followed down the empty hall. marigold signalled to the porter and they hoisted down my chair. betty, who had lingered during the operation, walked by my side. being able now to propel myself, i dismissed marigold to a discreet position in the rear. betty, her face still slightly flushed, said: "i'm waiting for congratulations which seem to be about as overwhelming as snow in august. don't you think i've been extraordinarily good?" "do you feel good?" "more than good," she laughed. "christianlike. aren't we told in the new testament to forgive our enemies?" "'and love those that despitefully use us?'" i misquoted maliciously. a sudden gust of anger often causes us to do worse things than trifle with the text of the sermon on the mount. she turned on me quickly, as though stung. "why not? isn't the sight of him maimed like that enough to melt the heart of a stone?" i replied soberly enough. "it is indeed." i had already betrayed my foolish jealousy. further altercation could only result in my betraying boyce. i did not feel very happy. conscious of having spoken to me with unwonted sharpness, she sought to make amends by laying her hand on my shoulder. "i think, dear," she said, "we're all on rather an emotional edge to-day." we reached the front door of the hall. at the top of the shallow flight of broad stairs the little group that had preceded us stood behind boyce, who was receiving the cheers of the troops--soldiers and volunteers and the godbury school officers' training corps--drawn up in the market square. when the cheers died away the crowd raised cries for a speech. again boyce spoke. "the reception you have given my mother and myself," he said, "we refuse to take personally. it is a reception given to the soldiers, and the mothers and wives of soldiers, of the empire, of whom we just happen to be the lucky representatives. whole regiments, to say nothing of whole armies, can't all, every jack man, receive victoria crosses. but every regiment very jealously counts up its honours. you'll hear men say: 'our regiment has two v.c.s, five d.s.o.s, and twenty distinguished conduct medals.' and the feeling is that all the honours are lumped together and shared by everybody, from the colonel to the drummer-boys. and each individual is proud of his share because he knows that he deserves it. and so it happens that those whom chance has set aside for distinction, like the lucky winners in a sweepstake, are the most embarrassed people you can imagine, because everybody is doing everything that they did every day in the week. for instance, if i began to tell you a thousandth part of the dare-devil deeds of my friend here, captain winslow of my regiment, he would bolt like a rabbit into the town hall and fall on his knees and pray for an earthquake. and whether the earthquake came off or not, i'm sure he would never speak to me again. and they're all like that. but in honouring me you are honouring him, and you're honouring our regiment, and you're honouring the army. and in honouring mrs. boyce, you are honouring that wonderful womanhood of the empire that is standing heroically behind their men in the hell upon god's good earth which is known as the front." it was a soldierlike little speech, delivered with the man's gallant charm. young winslow gripped his arm affectionately and i heard him say--"you are a brute, sir, dragging me into it." the little party descended the steps of the town hall. the words of command rang out. the parade stood at the salute, which boyce acknowledged. guided by winslow and his mother he reached his car, to which he was attended by the mayor and mayoress. after formal leave-taking the boyces and winslow drove off amid the plaudits of the crowd. then sir anthony and lady fenimore. then betty and her aunts. last of all, while the troops were preparing to march away and the crowd was dispersing and all the excitement was over, marigold picked me out of my chair and carried me down to my little grey two-seater. chapter xxi of course, after this (in the words of my young friends) i crocked up. the confounded shell that had played the fool with my legs had also done something silly to my heart. hence these collapses after physical and emotional strain. i had to stay in bed for some days. cliffe told me that as soon as i was fit to travel i must go to bournemouth, where it would be warm. i told cliffe to go to a place where it would be warmer. as neither of us would obey the other, we remained where we were. cliffe informed me that lady fenimore had called him in to see sir anthony, whom she described as being on the obstinate edge of a nervous breakdown. i was sorry to hear it. "i suppose you've tried to send him, too, to bournemouth?" "i haven't," cliffe replied gravely. "he has got something on his mind. i'm sure of it. so is his wife. what's the good of sending him away?" "what do you think is on his mind?" i asked. "how do i know? his wife thinks it must be something to do with boyce's reception. he went home dead-beat, is very irritable, off his food, can't sleep, and swears cantankerously that there's nothing the matter with him,--the usual symptoms. can you throw any light on it?" "certainly not," i replied rather sharply. cliffe said "umph!" in his exasperating professional way and proceeded to feel my pulse. "i don't quite see how friday's mild exertion could account for your breakdown, my friend," he remarked. "i'm so glad you confess, at last, not to seeing everything," said i. i was fearing this physical reaction in sir anthony. it was only the self-assertion of nature. he had gone splendidly through his ordeal, having braced himself up for it. he had not braced himself up, however, sufficiently to go through the other and far longer ordeal of hiding his secret from his wife. so of course he went to pieces. after cliffe had left me, with his desire for information unsatisfied, i rang up wellings park. it was the sunday morning after the reception. to my surprise, sir anthony answered me; for he was an old-fashioned country churchgoer and plague, pestilence, famine, battle, murder and sudden death had never been known to keep him out of his accustomed pew on sunday morning. edith, he informed me, had gone to church; he himself, being as nervous as a cat, had funked it; he was afraid lest he might get up in the middle of the sermon and curse the vicar. "if that's so," said i, "come round here and talk sense. i've something important to say to you." he agreed and shortly afterwards he arrived. i was shocked to see him. his ruddy face had yellowed and the firm flesh had loosened and sagged. i had never noticed that his stubbly hair was so grey. he could scarcely sit still on the chair by my bedside. i told him of cliffe's suspicions. we were a pair of conspirators with unavowable things on our minds which were driving us to nervous catastrophe. edith, said i, was more suspicious even than cliffe. i also told him of our talk about the projected dinner party. "that," he declared, "would drive me stark, staring mad." "so will continuing to hide the truth from edith," said i. "how do you suppose you can carry on like this?" he grew angry. how could he tell edith? how could he make her understand his reason for welcoming boyce? how could he prevent her from blazing the truth abroad and crying aloud for vengeance? what kind of a fool's counsel was i giving him? i let him talk, until, tired with reiteration, he had nothing more to say. then i made him listen to me while i expounded that which was familiar to his obstinate mind--namely, the heroic qualities of his own wife. "it comes to this," said i, by way of peroration, "that you're afraid of edith letting you down, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself." at that he flared out again. how dared i, he asked, eating his words, suggest that he did not trust the most splendid woman god had ever made? didn't i see that he was only trying to shield her from knowledge that might kill her? i retorted by pointing out that worry over his insane behaviour--please remember that above our deep unchangeable mutual affection, a violent surface quarrel was raging--would more surely and swiftly kill her than unhappy knowledge. her quick brain--had already connected gedge, boyce, and his present condition as the main factors of some strange problem. "her quick brain!" i cried. "a half idiot child would have put things together." presently he collapsed, sitting hopelessly, nervelessly in his chair. at last he lifted a piteously humble face. "what would you suggest my doing, duncan?" there seemed to me to be only one thing he could do in order to preserve, if not his reason, at any rate his moral equilibrium in the position which he had contrived for himself. to tell him this had been my object in seeking the interview, and the blessed opportunity only came after an hour's hard wrangle--in current metaphor after an hour's artillery preparation for attack. he looked so battered, poor old anthony, that i felt almost ashamed of the success of my bombardment. "it's not a question of suggesting," said i. "it's a question of things that have to be done. you need a holiday. you've been working here at high pressure for nearly a couple of years. go away. put yourself in the hands of cliffe, and go to bournemouth, or biarritz, or bahia, or any beastly place you can fix up with him to go to. go frankly, for three or four months. go to-morrow. as soon as you're well out of the place, tell edith the whole story. then you can take counsel and comfort together." he was in the state of mind to be impressed by my argument. i followed up my advantage. i undertook to send a ruthless flaming angel of a cliffe to pronounce the inexorable decree of exile. after a few faint-hearted objections he acquiesced in the scheme. i fancy he revolted against even this apparent surrender to gedge, although he was too proud to confess it. no man likes running away. sir anthony also regarded as pusillanimous the proposal to leave his wife in ignorance until he had led her into the trap of holiday. why not put her into his confidence before they started? "that," said i, "is a delicate question which only you yourself can decide. by following my plan you get away at once, which is the most important thing. once comfortably away, you can choose the opportune moment." "there's something in that," he replied; and, after thanking me for my advice, he left me. i do not defend my plan. i admit it was machiavellian. my one desire was to remove these two dear people from wellingsford for a season. just think of the horrible impossibility of their maintaining social relations with the boyces .... by publicly honouring boyce, sir anthony had tied his own hands. it was a pledge to boyce, although the latter did not know it, of condonation. whatever stories gedge might spread abroad, whatever proofs he might display, sir anthony could take no action. but to carry on a semblance of friendship with the man responsible for his daughter's death--for the two of them, mind you, since lady fenimore would sooner or later learn everything--was, as i say, horribly impossible. let them go, then, on their nominal holiday, during which the air might clear. boyce might take his mother away from wellingsford. she would do far more than uproot herself from her home in order to gratify a wish of her adored and blinded son. he would employ his time of darkness in learning to be brave, he had told me. it took some courage to face the associations of dreadful memories unflinchingly, for his mother's sake. should he learn, however, that the fenimores had an inkling of the truth, he would recognise his presence in the place to be an outrage. and such inkling--who would give it him? perhaps i, myself. the boyces would go--the fenimores could return. anything, anything rather than that the fenimores and the boyces should continue to dwell in the same little town. and there was betty--with all the inexplicable feminine whirring inside her--socially reconciled with boyce. where the deuce was this reconciliation going to lead? i have told you how my lunatic love for betty had stood revealed to me. had she chosen to love and marry any ordinary gallant gentleman, god knows i should not have had a word to say. the love that such as i can give a woman can find its only true expression in desiring and contriving her happiness. but that she should sway back to leonard boyce--no, no. i could not bear it. all the shuddering pictures of him rose up before me, the last, that of him standing by the lock gates and suddenly running like a frightened rabbit, with his jaunty soft felt hat squashed shapelessly over his ears. gedge could not have invented that abominable touch of the squashed hat. i have said that possibly i myself might give boyce an inkling of the truth. thinking over the matter in my restless bed, i shrank from doing so. should i not be disingenuously serving my own ends? betty stepped in, whom i wanted for myself. neither could i go to boyce and challenge him for a villain and summon him to quit the town and leave those dear to me at peace. i could not condemn him. i had unshaken faith in the man's noble qualities. that he drowned althea fenimore i did not, could not, believe. after all that had passed between us, i felt my loyalty to him irrevocably pledged. more than ever was i enmeshed in the net of the man's destiny. as yet, however, i could not bear to see him. i could not bear to see betty, who called now and then. for the first time in my life i took refuge in my invalidity, whereby i earned the commendation of cliffe. betty sent me flowers. mrs. boyce sent me grapes and an infallible prescription for heart attacks which, owing to the hopeless mess she had made in trying to copy the wriggles indicating the quantities of the various drugs, was of no practical use. phyllis gedge sent me a few bunches of violets with a shy little note. lady fenimore wrote me an affectionate letter bidding me farewell. they were going to bude in cornwall, anthony having put himself under dr. cliffe's orders like a wonderful lamb. when she came back, she hoped that her two sick men would be restored to health and able to look more favourably upon her projected dinner party. marigold also brought into my bedroom a precious old waterford claret jug which i had loved and secretly coveted for twenty years, with a card attached bearing the inscription "with love from anthony." that was his dumb, british way of informing me that he was taking my advice. when my self-respect would allow me no longer to remain in bed, i got up; but i still shrank from publishing the news of my recovery, in which reluctance i met with the hearty encouragement both of cliffe and marigold. the doctor then informed me that my attack of illness had been very much more serious than i realised, and that unless i made up my mind to lead the most unruffled of cabbage-like existences, he would not answer for what might befall me. if he could have his way, he would carry me off and put me into solitary confinement for a couple of months on a sunny island, where i should hold no communication with the outside world. marigold heard this announcement with smug satisfaction. nothing would please him more than to play gaoler over me. at last, one morning, i said to him: "i'm not going to submit to tyranny any longer. i resume my normal life. i'm at home to anybody who calls. i'm at home to the devil himself." "very good, sir," said marigold. an hour or two afterwards the door was thrown open and there stood on the threshold the most amazing apparition that ever sought admittance into a gentleman's library; an apparition, however, very familiar during these days to english eyes. from the shapeless tam-o'-shanter to the huge boots it was caked in mud. over a filthy sheepskin were slung all kinds of paraphernalia, covered with dirty canvas which made it look a thing of mighty bulges among which a rifle was poked away. it wore a kilt covered by a khaki apron. it also had a dirty and unshaven face. a muddy warrior fresh from the trenches, of course. but what was he doing here? "i see, sir, you don't recognise me," he said with a smile. "good lord!" i cried, with a start, "it's randall." "yes, sir. may i come in?" "come in? what infernal nonsense are you talking?" i held out my hand, and, after greeting him, made him sit down. "now," said i, "what the deuce are you doing in that kit?" "that's what i've been asking myself for the last ten months. anyhow i shan't wear it much longer." "how's that?" "commission, sir," he answered. "oh!" said i. his entrance had been so abrupt and unexpected that i hardly knew as yet what to make of him. speculation as to his doings had led me to imagine him engaged in some elegant fancy occupation on the fringe of the army, if indeed he were serving his country so creditably. i found it hard to reconcile my conception of master randall holmes with this businesslike tommy who called me "sir" every minute. "i'll tell you about it, sir, if you're interested. but first--how is my mother?" "your mother? you haven't seen her yet?" here, at least, was a bit of the old casual randall. he shook his head. "i've only just this minute arrived. left the trenches yesterday. walked from the station. not a soul recognised me. i thought i had better come here first and report, just as i was, and not wait until i had washed and shaved and put on christian clothes again. he looked at me and grinned. "seeing is believing." "your mother is quite well," said i. "haven't you given her any warning of your arrival?" "oh, no!" he answered. "i didn't want any brass bands. besides, as i say, i wanted to see you first. then to look in at the hospital. i suppose phyllis gedge is still at the hospital?" "she is. but i think, my dear chap, your mother has the first call on you." "she wouldn't enjoy my present abominable appearance as much as phyllis," he replied, coolly. "you see, phyllis is responsible for it. i told you she refused to marry me, didn't i, sir? after that, she called me a coward. i had to show her that i wasn't one. it was an awful nuisance, i admit, for i had intended to do something quite different. oh! not gedging or anything of that sort--but--" he dived beneath his sheepskin and brought out a tattered letter case and from a mass of greasy documents (shades of superior oxford!) selected a dirty, ragged bit of newspaper--"but," said he, handing me the fragment, "i think i've succeeded. i don't suppose this caught your eye, but if you look closely into it, you'll see that private r. holmes, st gordon highlanders, a couple of months ago was awarded the distinguished conduct medal. i may be any kind of a fool or knave she likes to call me, but she can't call me a coward." i congratulated him with all my heart, which, after the first shock, was warming towards him rapidly. "but why," i asked, still somewhat bewildered, "didn't you apply for a commission? a year ago you could have got one easily. why enlist? and the st gordons--that's the regular army." he laughed and asked permission to help himself to a cigarette. "by george, that's good," he exclaimed after a few puffs. "that's good after months of woodbines. i found i could stand everything except tommy's cigarettes. everything about me has got as hard as nails, except my palate for tobacco .... why didn't i apply for a commission? any fool could get a commission. it's different now. men are picked and must have seen active service, and then they're sent off to cadet training corps. but last year i could have got one easily. and i might have been kicking my heels about england now." "yet, at the sight of a sam browne belt, phyllis would have surely recanted," said i. "i didn't want the girl i intended to marry and pass my life with to have her head turned by such trappings as a sam browne belt. she has had to be taught that she is going to marry a man. i'm not such a fool as you may have thought me, major," he said, forgetful of his humble rank. "suppose i had got a commission and married her. suppose i had been kept at home and never gone out and never seen a shot fired, like heaps of other fellows, or suppose i had taken the line i had marked out--do you think we should have been assured a happy life? not a bit of it. we might have been happy for twenty years. and then--women are women and can't help themselves--the old word--by george, sir, she spat it at me from a festering sore in her very soul--the old word would have rankled all the time, and some stupid quarrel having arisen, she would have spat it at me again. i wasn't taking any chances of that kind." "my dear boy," said i, subridently, "you seem to be very wise." and he did. so far as i knew anything about humans, male and female, his proposition was incontrovertible. "but where did you gather your wisdom?" "i suppose," he replied seriously, "that my mind is not entirely unaffected by a very expensive education." i looked at the extraordinary figure in sheepskin, bundles and mud, and laughed out loud. the hands of esau and the voice of jacob. the garb of thomas atkins and the voice of balliol. still, as i say, the fellow was perfectly right. his highly trained intelligence had led him to an exact conclusion. the festering sore demanded drastic treatment,--the surgeon's knife. as we talked i saw how coldly his brain had worked. and side by side with that working i saw, to my amusement, the insistent claims of his vanity. the quickest way to the front, where alone he could re-establish his impugned honour was by enlistment in the regular army. for the first time in his life he took a grip on essentials. he knew that by going straight into the heart of the old army his brains, provided they remained in his head, would enable him to accomplish his purpose. as for his choice of regiment, there his vanity guided. you may remember that after his disappearance we first heard of him at aberdeen. now aberdeen is the depot of the gordon highlanders. "what on earth made you go there?" i asked. "i wanted to get among a crowd where i wasn't known, and wasn't ever likely to be known," he replied. "and my instinct was right. i was among farmers from skye and butchers from inverness and drunken scallywags from the slums of aberdeen, and a leaven of old soldiers from all over scotland. i had no idea that such people existed. at first i thought i shouldn't be able to stick it. they gave me a bad time for being an englishman. but soon, i think, they rather liked me. i set my brains to work and made 'em like me. i knew there was everything to learn about these fellows and i went scientifically to work to learn it. and, by heaven, sir, when once they accepted me, i found i had never been in such splendid company in my life." "my dear boy," i cried in a burst of enthusiasm, "have you had breakfast?" "of course i have. at the union jack club--the tommies' place the other side of the river--bacon and eggs and sausages. i thought i'd never stop eating." "have some more?" he laughed. "couldn't think of it." "then," said i, "get yourself a cigar." i pointed to a stack of boxes. "you'll find the corona--coronas the best." as i am not a millionaire i don't offer these coronas to everybody. i myself can only afford to smoke one or two a week. when he had lit it he said: "i was led away from what i wanted to tell you,--my going to aberdeen and plunging into the obscurity of a scottish regiment. i was absolutely determined that none of my friends, none of you good people, should know what an ass i had made of myself. that's why i kept it from my mother. she would have blabbed it all over the place." "but, my good fellow," said i, "why the dickens shouldn't we have known?" "that i was making an ass of myself?" "no, you young idiot!" i cried. "that you were making a man of yourself." "i preferred to wait," said he, coolly, "until i had a reasonable certainty that i had achieved that consummation--or, rather, something that might stand for it in the prejudiced eyes of my dear friends. i knew that you all, ultimately, you and mother and phyllis, would judge by results. well, here they are. i've lived the life of a tommy for ten months. i've been five in the thick of it over there. i've refused stripes over and over again. i've got my d.c.m. i've got my commission through the ranks, practically on the field. and of the draft of two hundred who went out with me only one other and myself remain." "it's a splendid record, my boy," said i. he rose. "don't misunderstand me, major. i'm not bragging. god forbid. i'm only wanting to explain why i kept dark all the time, and why i'm springing smugly and complacently on you now." "i quite understand," said i. "in that case," he laughed, "i can proceed on my rounds." but he did not proceed. he lingered. "there's another matter i should like to mention," he said. "in her last letter my mother told me that the mayor and town council were on the point of giving a civic reception to colonel boyce. has it taken place yet?" "yes," said i. "and did it go off all right?" in spite of wisdom learned at balliol and shell craters, he was still an ingenuous youth. "gedge was perfectly quiet," i answered. he started, as he had for months learned not to start, and into his eyes sprang an alarm that was usually foreign to them. "gedge? how do you know anything about gedge and colonel boyce? good lord! he hasn't been spreading that poisonous stuff over the town?" "that's what you were afraid of when you asked about the reception?" "of course," said he. "and you wanted to have your mind clear on the point before interviewing phyllis." "you're quite right, sir," he replied, a bit shamefacedly. "but if he hasn't been spreading it, how do you know? and," he looked at me sharply, "what do you know?" "you gave your word of honour not to repeat what gedge told you. i think you may be absolved of your promise. gedge came to sir anthony and myself with a lying story about the death of althea fenimore." "yes," said he. "that was it." "sit down for another minute or two," said i, "and let us compare notes." he obeyed. we compared notes. i found that in most essentials the two stories were identical, although gedge had been maudlin drunk when he admitted randall into his confidence. "but in pitching you his yarn," cried randall, "he left out the blackmail. he bragged in his beastly way that colonel boyce was worth a thousand a year to him. all he had to live upon now that the blood-suckers had ruined his business. then he began to weep and slobber--he was a disgusting sight--and he said he would give it all up and beg with his daughter in the streets as soon as he had an opportunity of unmasking 'that shocking wicked fellow.'" "what did you say then?" i asked. "i told him if ever i heard of him spreading such infernal lies abroad, i'd wring his neck." "very good, my boy," said i. "that's practically what sir anthony told him." "sir anthony doesn't believe there's any truth in it?" "sir anthony," said i, boldly, "knows there's not a particle of truth in it. the man's malignancy has taken the form of a fixed idea. he's crack-brained. between us we put the fear of god into him, and i don't think he'll give any more trouble." randall got to his feet again. "i'm very much relieved to hear you say so. i must confess i've been horribly uneasy about the whole thing." he drew a deep breath. "thank goodness i can go to phyllis, as you say, with a clear mind. the last time i saw her i was half crazy." he held out his hand, a dirty, knubbly, ragged-nailed hand--the hand that was once so irritatingly manicured. "good-bye, major. you won't shut the door on me now, will you?" i wrung his hand hard and bade him not be silly, and, looking up at him, said: "what was the other thing quite different you were intending to do before you, let us say, quarreled with phyllis?" he hesitated, his forehead knit in a little web of perplexity. "whatever it was," i continued, "let us have it. i'm your oldest friend, a sort of father. be frank with me and you won't regret it. the splendid work you've done has wiped out everything." "i'm afraid it has," said he ruefully. "wiped it out clean." with a hitch of the shoulders he settled his pack more comfortably. "well, i'll tell you, major. i thought i had brains. i still think i have. i was on the point of getting a job in the secret service--intelligence department. i had the whole thing cut and dried--to get at the ramifications of german espionage in socialistic and so-called intellectual circles in neutral and other countries. it would have been ticklish work, for i should have been carrying my life in my hands. i could have done it well. i started out by being a sort of 'intellectual' myself. all along i wanted to put my brains at the service of my country. i took some time to hit upon the real way. i hit upon it. i learned lots of things from gedge. if he weren't an arrant coward, he might be dangerous. he would be taking german money long ago, but that he's frightened to death of it." he laughed. "it never occurred to you, i suppose, a year ago," he continued, "that i spent most of my days in london working like a horse." "but," i cried--i felt myself flushing purple--and, when i flush purple, the unregenerate old soldier in me uses language of a corresponding hue--"but," i cried--and in this language i asked him why he had told me nothing about it. "the essence of the secret service, sir," replied this maddening young man, "is--well--secrecy." "you had a billet offered to you, of the kind you describe?" "the offer reached me, very much belated, one day when i was half dead, after having performed some humiliating fatigue duty. i think i had persisted in trying to scratch an itching back on parade. military discipline, i need not tell you, major, doesn't take into account the sensitiveness of a recruit's back. it flatly denies such a phenomenon. now i think i can defy anything in god's quaint universe to make me itch. but that's by the way. i tore the letter up and never answered it. you do these things, sir, when the whole universe seems to be a stumbling-block and an offence. phyllis was the stumbling-block and the rest of the cosmos was the other thing. that's why i have reason on my side when i say that, all through phyllis gedge, i made an ass of myself." he clutched his rude coat with both hands. "an ass in sheep's clothing." he drew himself up, saluted, and marched out. he marched out, the young scoundrel, with all the honours of war. chapter xxii so, in drawing a bow at a venture, i had hit the mark. you may remember that i had rapped out the word "blackmail" at gedge; now randall justified the charge. boyce was worth a thousand a year to him. the more i speculated on the danger that might arise from gedge, the easier i grew in my mind. your blackmailer is a notorious saver of his skin. gedge had no desire to bring boyce to justice and thereby incriminate himself. his visit to sir anthony was actuated by sheer malignity. without doubt, he counted on his story being believed. but he knew enough of the hated and envied aristocracy to feel assured that sir anthony would not subject his beloved dead to such ghastly disinterment as a public denunciation of boyce would necessitate. he desired to throw an asphyxiating bomb into the midst of our private circle. he reckoned on the mayor taking some action that would stop the reception and thereby put a public affront on boyce. sir anthony's violent indignation and perhaps my appearance of cold incredulity upset his calculations. he went out of the room a defeated man, with the secret load (as i knew now) of blackmail on his shoulders. i snapped my fingers at gedge. randall seemed to do the same, undesirable father-in-law in prospectu as he was. but that was entirely randall's affair. the stomach that he had for fighting with germans would stand him in good stead against gedge, especially as he had formed so contemptuous an estimate of the latter's valour. i emerged again into my little world. i saw most of my friends. phyllis lay in wait for me at the hospital, radiant and blushing, ostensibly to congratulate me on recovery from my illness, really (little baggage!) to hear from my lips a word or two in praise of randall. apparently he had come, in his warrior garb, seen, and conquered on the spot. i saw mrs. holmes, who, gladdened by the distinguished conduct medallist's return, had wiped from her memory his abominably unfilial behaviour. i saw betty and i saw boyce. now here i come to a point in this chronicle where i am faced by an appalling difficulty. hitherto i have striven to tell you no more about myself and my motives and feelings than was demanded by my purpose of unfolding to you the lives of others. primarily i wanted to explain leonard boyce. i could only do it by showing you how he reacted on myself--myself being an unimportant and uninteresting person. it was all very well when i could stand aside and dispassionately analyse such reactions. the same with regard to my dear betty. but now if i adopted the same method of telling you the story of betty and the story of boyce--the method of reaction, so to speak--i should be merely whining into your ears the dolorous tale of duncan meredyth, paralytic and idiot. the deuce of it is that, for a long time, nothing particular or definite happened. so how can i describe to you a very important period in the lives of betty and boyce and me? i had to resume my intimacy with boyce. the blind and lonely man craved it and claimed it. it would be an unmeaning pretence of modesty to under-estimate the value to him of my friendship. he was a man of intense feelings. torture had closed his heart to the troops of friends that so distinguished a soldier might have had. he granted admittance but to three, his mother, betty and--for some unaccountable reason--myself. on us he concentrated all the strength of his affection. mind you, it was not a case of a maimed creature clinging for support to those who cared for him. in his intercourse with me, he never for a moment suggested that he was seeking help or solace in his affliction. on the contrary, he ruled it out of the conditions of social life. he was as brave as you please. in his laughing scorn of blindness he was the bravest man i have ever known. he learned the confidence of the blind with marvellous facility. his path through darkness was a triumphant march. sometimes, when he re-fought old battles and planned new ones, forecast the strategy of the great advance, word-painted scenes and places, drew character sketches of great leaders and quaint men, i forgot the tragedy of althea fenimore. and when the memory came swiftly back, i wondered whether, after all, gedge's story from first to last had not been a malevolent invention. the man seemed so happy. of course you will say it was my duty to give a hint of gedge's revelation. it was. to my shame, i shirked it. i could not find it in my heart suddenly to dash into his happiness. i awaited an opportunity, a change of mood in him, an allusion to confidences of which i alone of human beings had been the recipient. betty visited me as usual. we talked war and hospital and local gossip for a while and then she seemed to take refuge at the piano. we had one red-letter day, when a sailor cousin of hers, fresh from the north sea, came to luncheon and told us wonders of the navy which we had barely imagined and did not dare to hope for. his tidings gave subject for many a talk. i knew that she was seeing boyce constantly. the former acquaintance of the elders of the two houses flamed into sudden friendship. from a remark artlessly let fall by mrs. boyce, i gathered that the old ladies were deliberately contriving such meetings. boyce and betty referred to each other rarely and casually, but enough to show me that the old feud was at an end. and of what save one thing could the end of a feud between lovers be the beginning? what did she know? knowing all, how could she be drawn back under the man's fascination? the question maddened me. i suffered terribly. at last, one evening, i could bear it no longer. she was playing chopin. the music grated on me. i called out to her: "betty!" she broke off and turned round, with a smile of surprise. again she was wearing the old black evening dress, in which i have told you she looked so beautiful. "no more music, dear. come and talk to me." she crossed the room with her free step and sat near my chair. "what shall i talk about?" she laughed. "leonard boyce." the laughter left her face and she gave me a swift glance. "majy dear, i'd rather not," she said with a little air of finality. "i know that," said i. "i also know that in your eyes i am committing an unwarrantable impertinence." "not at all," she replied politely. "you have the right to talk to me for my good. it's impertinence in me not to wish to hear it." "betty dear," said i, "will you tell me what was the cause of your estrangement?" she stiffened. "no one has the right to ask me that." "a man who loves you very, very dearly," said i, "will claim it. was the cause althea fenimore?" she looked at me almost in frightened amazement. "is that mere guesswork?" "no, dear," said i quietly. "i thought no one knew--except one person. i was not even sure that leonard boyce was aware that i knew." another bow at a venture. "that one person is gedge." "you're right. i suppose he has been talking," she said, greatly agitated. "he has been putting it about all over the place. i've been dreading it." then she sprang to her feet and drew herself up and snapped her fingers in an heroical way. "and if he has said that althea fenimore drowned herself for love of leonard boyce, what is there in it? after all, what has leonard boyce done that he can't be forgiven? men are men and women are women. we've tried for tens of thousands of years to lay down hard and fast lines for the sexes to walk upon, and we've failed miserably. suppose leonard boyce did make love to althea fenimore--trifle with her affections, in the old-fashioned phrase. what then? i'm greatly to blame. it has only lately been brought home to me. instead of staying here while we were engaged, i would have my last fling as an emancipated young woman in london. he consoled himself with althea. when she found he meant nothing, she threw herself into the canal. it was dreadful. it was tragic. he went away and broke with me. i didn't discover the reason till months afterwards. she drowned herself for love of him, it's true. but what was his share in it that he can't be forgiven for? millions of men have been forgiven by women for passing loves. why not he? why not a tremendous man like him? a man who has paid every penalty for wrong, if wrong there was? blind!" she walked about and threw up her hands and halted in front of my chair. "i'll own that until lately i accused him of unforgivable sin--deceiving me and making love to another girl and driving her to suicide. i tore him out of my heart and married willie. we won't speak of that .... but since he has come back, things seem different. his mother has told me that one day when he was asleep she found he was still wearing his identification disc ... there was an old faded photograph of me on the other side ... it had been there all through the war .... you see," she added, after a pause during which her heaving bosom and quivering lip made her maddeningly lovely, "i don't care a brass button for anything that gedge may say." and that was all my clean-souled betty knew about it! she had no idea of deeper faithlessness; no suspicion of boyce's presence with althea on the bank of the canal. she stood pathetic in her half knowledge. my heart ached. from her pure woman's point of view she had been justified in her denunciation of boyce. he had left her without a word. a wall of silence came between them. then she learned the reason. he had trifled with a young girl's affections and out of despair she had drowned herself .... but how had she learned? i had to question her. and it was then that she told me the story of phyllis and her father to which i have made previous allusion: how phyllis, as her father's secretary, had opened a letter which had frightened her; how her father's crafty face had frightened her still more; how she had run to betty for the easing of her heart. and this letter was from leonard boyce. "i cannot afford one penny more," so the letter ran, according to betty's recollection of phyllis's recollection, "but if you remain loyal to our agreement, you will not regret it. if ever i hear of your coupling my name with that of miss fenimore, i'll kill you. i am a man of my word." i think betty crystallised phyllis's looser statement. but the exact wording was immaterial. here was boyce branding himself with complicity in the tragedy of althea, and paying gedge to keep it dark. like sir anthony, betty remembered trivial things that assumed grave significance. there was no room for doubt. catastrophe following on his villainy had kept boyce away from wellingsford, had terrified him out of his engagement. and so her heart had grown bitter against him. you may ask why her knowledge of the world had not led her to suspect blacker wrong; for a man does not pay blackmail because he has led a romantic girl into a wrong notion of the extent of his affection. my only answer is that betty was betty, clean-hearted and clean-souled like the young artemis she resembled. and now she proclaimed that he had expiated his offence. she proclaimed her renewed and passionate interest in the man. i saw that deep down in her heart she had always loved him. after telling me about phyllis, she returned to the point where she had broken off. she supposed that gedge had been talking all over the place. "i don't think so, dear," said i. "so far as i know he has only spoken, first to randall holmes--that was what made him break away from gedge, whose society he had been cultivating for other reasons than those i imagined (you remember telling me phyllis's sorrowful little tale last year?)." she nodded. "and secondly to sir anthony and myself, a few hours before the reception." she clenched her fists and broke out again. "the devil! the incarnate devil! and sir anthony?" "pretended to treat gedge's story as a lie, threw into the fire without reading it an incriminating letter--possibly the letter that phyllis saw, ordered gedge out of the house and, like a great gentleman, went through the ceremony." "does leonard know?" "not that i'm aware of," said i. "he must be told. it's terrible to have an enemy waiting to stab you in the dark--and you blind to boot. why haven't you told him?" why? why? why? it was so hard to keep to the lower key of her conception of things. i made a little gesture signifying i know not what: that it was not my business, that i was not on sufficient terms of intimacy with boyce, that it didn't seem important enough .... my helpless shrug suggested, i suppose, all of these excuses. why hadn't i warned him? cowardice, i suppose. "either you or i must do it," she went on. "you're his friend. he thinks more of you than of any other man in the world. and he's right, dear--" she flashed me a proud glance, sweet and stabbing--"don't i know it?" then suddenly a new idea seemed to pass through her brain. she bent forward and touched the light shawl covering my knees. "for the last month or two you've known what he has done. it hasn't made any difference in your friendship. you must think with me that the past is past, that he has purged his sins, or whatever you like to call them; that he is a man greatly to be forgiven." "yes, dear," said i, with a show of bravery, though i dreaded lest my voice should break, "i think he is a man to be forgiven." her logic was remorseless. with her frank grace she threw herself, in her old attitude, by the side of my chair. "i'm so glad we have had this talk, majy darling. it has made everything between us so clear and beautiful. it is always such a grief to me to think you may not understand. i shall always be the little girl that looked upon you as a wonderful hero and divine dispenser of chocolates. only now the chocolates stand for love and forbearance and sympathy, and all kinds of spiritual goodies." i passed my hand over her hair. "silly child!" "i got it into my head," she continued, "that you were blaming me for--for my reconciliation with leonard. but, my dear, my dear, what woman's heart wouldn't be turned to water at the sight of him? it makes me so happy that you understand. i can't tell you how happy." "are you going to marry him?" i think my voice was steady and kind enough. "possibly. some day. if he asks me." i still stroked her hair. "i wouldn't let it be too soon," said i. her eyes were downcast. "on account of willie?" she murmured. "no, dear. i don't dare touch on that side of things." again a whisper. "why, then?" how could i tell her why without betrayal of boyce? i had to turn the question playfully. i said, "what should i do without my betty?" "do you really care about me so much?" i laughed. there are times when one has to laugh--or overwhelm oneself in dishonour. "now you see my nature in all its vile egotism," said i, and the statement led to a pretty quarrel. but after it was over to our joint satisfaction, she had to return to the distressful main theme of our talk. she harked back to sir anthony, touched on his splendid behaviour, recalled, with a little dismay, the hitherto unnoted fact that, after the ceremony he had held himself aloof from those that thronged round boyce. then, without hint from me, she perceived the significance of the fenimores' retirement from wellingsford. "leonard's ignorance," she said, "leaves him in a frightful position. more than ever he ought to know." "he ought, indeed, my dear," said i. "and i will tell him. i ought to have done so before." i gave my undertaking. i went to bed upbraiding myself for cowardice and resolved to go to boyce the next day. not only fate, but honour and decency forced me to the detested task. alas! next morning i was nailed to my bed by my abominable malady. the attacks had become more frequent of late. cliffe administered restoratives and for the first time he lost his smile and looked worried. you see until quite lately i had had a very tranquil life, deeply interested in other folks' joys and sorrows, but moved by very few of my own. and now there had swooped down on me this ravening pack of emotions which were tearing me to pieces. i lay for a couple of days tortured by physical pain, humiliation and mental anguish. on the evening of the second day, marigold came into the bedroom with a puzzled look on his face. "colonel boyce is here, sir. i told him you were in bed and seeing nobody, but he says he wants to see you on something important. i asked him whether it couldn't wait till to-morrow, and he said that if i would give you a password, vilboek's farm, you'd be sure to see him." "quite right, marigold," said i. "show him in." vilboek's farm! fate had driven him to me, instead of me to him. i would see him though it killed me, and get the horrible business over for ever. marigold led him in and drew up a chair for him by the bedside. after pulling on the lights and drawing the curtains, for the warm may evening was drawing to a close. "anything more, sir, for the present?" he asked. "could i have materials for a whisky and soda to hand?" said boyce. "of course," said i. marigold departed. boyce said: "if you're too ill to stand me, send me away. but if you can stand me, for god's sake let me talk to you." "talk as much as you like," said i. "this is only one of my stupid attacks which a man without legs has to put up with." "but marigold--" "marigold's an old hen," said i. "are you sure you're well enough? that's the curse of not being able to see. tell me frankly." "i'm quite sure," said i. i have never been able to get over the curious embarrassment of talking to a man whose eyes i cannot see. the black spectacles seemed to be like a wall behind which the man hid his thoughts. i watched his lips. once or twice the odd little twitch had appeared at the corners. even with his baffling black spectacles he looked a gallant figure of a man. he was precisely dressed in perfectly fitting dinner jacket and neat black tie; well-groomed from the points of his patent leather shoes to his trim crisp brown hair. and beneath this scrupulousness of attire lay the suggestion of great strength. marigold brought in the tray with decanter, siphon and glasses, and put them on a table, together with cigars and cigarettes, by his side. after a few deft touches, so as to identify the objects, boyce smiled and nodded at marigold. "thanks very much, sergeant," he said. if there is one thing marigold loves, it is to be addressed as "sergeant." "marigold" might indicate a butler, but "sergeant" means a sergeant. "perhaps i might fetch the colonel a more comfortable chair, sir," said he. but boyce laughed, "no, no!" and marigold left us. boyce's ear listened for the click of the door. then he turned to me. "i was rather mean in sending you in that password. but i felt as if i should go mad if i didn't see you. you're the only man living who really knows about me. you're the only human being who can give me a helping hand. it's strange, old man--the halt leading the blind. but so it is. and vilboek's farm is the damned essence of the matter. i've come to you to ask you, for the love of god, to tell me what i am to do." i guessed what had happened. "betty connor has told you something that i was to tell you." "yes," said he. "this afternoon. and in her splendid way she offered to marry me." "what did you say?" "i said that i would give her my answer to-morrow." "and what will that answer be?" "it is for you to tell me," said boyce. "in order to undertake such a terrible responsibility," said i, "i must know the whole truth concerning althea fenimore." "i've come here to tell it to you," said he. chapter xxiii it was to a priest rather than to a man that he made full confession of his grievous sin. he did not attempt to mitigate it or to throw upon another a share of the blame. from that attitude he did not vary a hair's breadth. mea culpa; mea maxima culpa. that was the burthen of his avowal. i, knowing the strange mingling in his nature of brutality and sensitiveness, of animal and spiritual, and knowing something of the unstable character of althea fenimore, may more justly, i think, than he, sketch out the miserable prologue of the drama. that she was madly, recklessly in love with him there can be no doubt. nor can there be doubt that unconsciously she fired the passion in him. the deliberate, cold-blooded seducer of his friend's daughter, such as boyce, in his confession, made himself out to be, is a rare phenomenon. almost invariably it is the woman who tempts--tempts innocently and unknowingly, without intent to allure, still less with thought of wrong--but tempts all the same by the attraction which she cannot conceal, by the soft promise which she cannot keep out of her eyes. that was the beginning of it. betty, whom he loved, and to whom he was engaged, was away from wellingsford. in those days she was very much the young diana, walking in search of chaste adventures, quite contented with the love that lay serenely warm in her heart and thinking little of a passionate man's needs--perhaps starting away from too violent an expression of them--perhaps prohibiting them altogether. the psychology of the pre-war young girl absorbed, even though intellectually and for curiosity's sake, in the feminist movement, is yet to be studied. betty, then, was away. althea, beata possidens, made her artless, innocent appeal for victory. unconsciously she tempted. the man yielded. a touch of the lips in a moment of folly, the man blazed, the woman helpless was consumed. this happened in january, just before althea's supposed visit to scotland. boyce was due at a country house party near carlisle. in the first flush of their madness they agreed upon the wretched plan. she took rooms in the town and he visited her there. whether he or she conceived it, i do not know. if i could judge coldly i should say that it was of feminine inspiration. a man, particularly one of boyce's temperament, who was eager for the possession of a passionately loved woman, would have carried her off to a little eden of their own. a calm consideration of the facts leads to the suggestion of a half-hearted acquiescence on the part of an entangled man in the romantic scheme of an inexperienced girl to whom he had suddenly become all in all. such is my plea in extenuation of boyce's conduct (if plea there can be), seeing that he raised not a shadow of one of his own. you may say that my plea is no excuse for his betrayal; that no man, even if he is tempted, can be pardoned for non-control of his passions. but i am asking for no pardon; i am trying to obtain your understanding. remember what i have told you about boyce, his great bull-neck, his blood-sodden life-preserver, the physical repulsion i felt when he carried me in his arms. in such men the animal instinct is stronger at times than the trained will. whether you give him a measure of your sympathy or not, at any rate do not believe that his short-lived liaison with althea was a matter of deliberate and dastardly seduction. nor must you think that i am setting down anything in disparagement of a child whom i once loved. long ago i touched lightly on the anomaly of althea's character--her mid-victorian sentimentality and softness, combined with her modern spirit of independence. a fatal anomaly; a perilous balance of qualities. once the soft sentimentality was warmed into romantic passion, the modern spirit led it recklessly to a modern conclusion. the liaison was short-lived. the man was remorseful. he loved another woman. very quickly did the poor girl awaken from her dream. "i was cruel," said boyce, fixing me with those awful black spectacles, "i know it. i ought to have married her. but if i had married her, i should have been more cruel. i should have hated her. it would have been an impossible life for both of us. one day i had to tell her so. not brutally. in a normal state i think i am as kind-hearted and gentle as most men. and i couldn't be brutal, feeling an unutterable cur and craving her forgiveness. but i wanted betty and i swore that only one thing should keep me from her." "one thing?" i asked. "the thing that didn't happen," said he. and so it seemed that althea accepted the inevitable. the placid, fatalistic side of her nature asserted itself. pride, too, helped her instinctive feminine secretiveness. she lived for months in her father's house without giving those that were dear to her any occasion for suspicion. in order to preserve the secrecy boyce was bound to continue his visits to wellings park. now and then, when they met alone, she upbraided him bitterly. on the whole, however, he concluded that they had agreed to bury an ugly chapter in their lives. yes, it was an ugly chapter. from such you cannot get away, bury it, as you will, never so deep. "and all the time remember," he said, "that i was mad for betty. the more shy she was, the madder i grew. i could not rest in wellingsford without her. when she came here, i came. when she went to town, i went to town. she was as elusive as a dream. finally i pinned her down to a date for our marriage in august. it was the last time i saw her. she went away to stay with friends. that was the beginning of june. she was to be away two months. i knew, if i had clamoured, she would have made it three. it was the shyness of the exquisite bird in her that fascinated me. i could never touch betty in those days without dreading lest i might soil her feathers. you may laugh at a hulking brute like me saying such things, but that's the way i saw betty, that's the way i felt towards her. i could no more have taken her into my bear's hug and kissed her roughly than i could have smashed a child down with my fist. and yet--my god, man! how i ached for her!" long as i had loved betty in a fatherly way, deeply as i loved her now, the man's unexpected picture of her was a revelation. you see it was only after her marriage, when she had softened and grown a woman and come so near me that i felt the great comfort of her presence when she was by, the need of it when she was away. how could i have known anything of the elusiveness in her maidenhood before which he knelt so reverently? that he so knelt is the keynote of the man's soul untainted by the flesh. it made clear to me the tenderness that lay beneath that which was brutal; the reason of that personal charm which had captivated me against my will; his defencelessness against the furies. so far the narrative has reached the latter part of june. he had spent the month with his mother. as betty had ordained that july should be blank, a month during which the moon should know no changes but only the crescent of diana should shine supreme in the heavens, he had made his mundane arrangements for his fishing excursion to norway. on the afternoon of the rd he paid a farewell call at wellings park. althea, in the final settlement of their relations, had laid it down as a definite condition that he should maintain his usual social intercourse with the family. a few young people were playing tennis. tea was served on the lawn near by the court. althea gave no sign of agitation. she played her game, laughed with her young men, and took casual leave of boyce, wishing him good sport. he drew her a pace aside and murmured: "god bless you for forgiving me." she laughed a reply out loud: "oh, that's all right." when he told me that, i recalled vividly the picture of her, in my garden, on the last afternoon of her life, eating the strawberries which she had brought me for tea. i remembered the little slangy tone in her voice when she had asked me whether i didn't think life was rather rotten. that was the tone in which she had said to him, "oh, that's all right." during the early afternoon on the th, she rang him up on the telephone. chance willed that he should receive the call at first hand. she must see him before he left wellingsford. she had something of the utmost importance to tell him. a matter of life and death. with one awful thought in his mind, he placed his time at her disposal. for what romantic, desperate or tragic reason she appointed the night meeting at the end of the chestnut avenue where the towing-path turns into regions of desolate quietude, he could not tell. he agreed without argument, dreading the possible lack of privacy in their talk over the wires. on that afternoon she came to me, as i have told you, with her strawberries and her declaration of the rottenness of life. they met and walked along the towing-path. it was bright moonlight, but she could not have chosen a lonelier spot, more free from curious eyes or ears. and then took place a scene which it is beyond my power to describe. i can only picture it to myself from boyce's broken, self-accusing talk. he was going away. she would never see him again until he returned to marry another woman. she was making her last frantic bid for happiness. she wept and sobbed and cajoled and upbraided--you know what women at the end of their tether can do. he strove to pacify her by the old arguments which hitherto she had accepted. suddenly she cried: "if you don't marry me i am disgraced for ever." and this brought them to a dead halt. when he came to this point i remembered the diabolical accuracy of gedge's story. boyce said: "there is one usual reason why a man should marry a woman to save her from disgrace. is that the reason?" she said "yes." the light went out of the man's life. "in that case," said he, "there can be no question about it. i will marry you. but why didn't you tell me before?" she said she did not know. she made the faltering excuses of the driven girl. they walked on together and sat on the great bar of the lock gates. "till then," said he, "i had never known what it was to have death in my heart. but i swear to god, meredyth, i played my part like a man. i had done a dastardly thing. there was nothing left for me but to make reparation. in a few moments i tore my life asunder. the girl i had wronged was to be the mother of my child. i accepted the situation. i was as kind to her as i could be. she laid her head on my shoulder and cried, and i put my arm around her. i felt my heart going out to her in remorse and pity and tenderness. a man must be a devil who could feel otherwise.... our lives were bound up together.... i kissed her and she clung to me. then we talked for a while--ways and means.... it was time to go back. we rose. and then--meredyth--this is what she said: "'you swear to marry me?' "'i swear it,' said i. "'in spite of anything?' "i gave my promise. she put her arms round my neck. "'what i've told you is not wholly true. but the moral disgrace is there all the time.' "i took her wrists and disengaged myself and held her and looked at her. "'what do you mean--not wholly true?' i asked. "my god! i shall never forget it." he stuck both his elbows on the bed and clutched his hair and turned his black glasses wide of me. "the child crumpled up. she seemed to shrivel like a leaf in the fire. she said: "'i've tried to lie to you, but i can't. i can't. pity me and forgive me.' "i started back from her in a sudden fury. i could not forgive her. think of the awful revulsion of feeling. foolishly tricked! i was mad with anger. i walked away and left her. i must have walked ten or fifteen yards. then i heard a splash in the water. i turned. she was no longer on the bank. i ran up. i heard a cry. i just saw her sinking. and i couldn't move. as god hears me, it is true. i knew i must dive in and rescue her--i had run up with every impulse to do so; but i could not move. i stood shivering with the paralysis of fear. fear of the deep black water, the steep brick sides of the canal that seemed to stretch away for ever--fear of death, i suppose that was it. i don't know. fear irresistible, unconquerable, gripped me as it had gripped me before, as it has gripped me since. and she drowned before my eyes while i stood like a stone." there was an awful pause. he had told me the end of the tragedy so swiftly and in a voice so keyed to the terror of the scene, that i lay horror-stricken, unable to speak. he buried his face in his hands, and between the fleshy part of the palms i saw the muscles of his lips twitch horribly. i remembered, with a shiver, how i had first seen them twitch, in his mother's house, when he had made his strange, almost passionate apology for fear. and he had all but described this very incident: the reckless, hare-brained devil standing on the bank of a river and letting a wounded comrade drown. i remember how he had defined it: "the sudden thing that hits a man's heart and makes him stand stock-still like a living corpse--unable to move a muscle--all his will-power out of gear--just as a motor is out of gear.... it is as much of a fit as epilepsy." the span of stillness was unbearable. the watch on the little table by my bedside ticked maddeningly. marigold put his head in at the door, apparently to warn me that it was getting late. i waved him imperiously away. boyce did not notice his entrance. presently he raised his head. "i don't know how long i stood there. but i know that when i moved she was long since past help. suddenly there was a sharp crashing noise on the road below. i looked round and saw no one. but it gave me a shock--and i ran. i ran like a madman. and i thought as i ran that, if i were discovered, i should be hanged for murder. for who would believe my story? who would believe it now?" "i believe it, boyce," i said. "yes. you. you know something of the hell my life has been. but who else? he had every motive for the crime, the lawyers would say. they could prove it. but, my god! what motive had i for sending all my gallant fellows to their deaths at vilboek's farm? ... the two things are on all fours--and many other things with them.... my one sane thought through the horror of it all was to get home and into the house unobserved. then i came upon the man gedge, who had spied on me." "i know about that," said i, wishing to spare him from saying more than was necessary. "he told fenimore and me about it." "what was his version?" he asked in a low tone. "i had better hear it." when i had told him, he shook his head. "he lied. he was saving his skin. i was not such a fool, mad as i was, as to leave him like that. he had seen us together. he had seen me alone. to-morrow there would be discovery. i offered him a thousand pounds to say nothing. he haggled. oh! the ghastly business! eventually i suggested that he should come up to london with me by the first train in the morning and discuss the money. i was dreading lest someone should come along the avenue and see me. he agreed. i think i drank a bottle of whisky that night. it kept me alive. we met in my chambers in london. i had sent my man up the day before to do some odds and ends for me. i made a clear breast of it to gedge. he believed the worst. i don't blame him. i bought his silence for a thousand a year. i made arrangements for payment through my bankers. i went to norway. but i went alone. i didn't fish. i put off the two men i was to join. i spent over a month all by myself. i don't think i could tell you a thing about the place. i walked and walked all day until i was exhausted, and got sleep that way. i'm sure i was going mad. i should have gone mad if it hadn't been for the war. i suppose i'm the only englishman living or dead who whooped and danced with exultation when he heard of it. i think my brain must have been a bit touched, for i laughed and cried and jumped about in a pine-wood with a week old newspaper in my hands. i came home. you know the rest." yes, i knew the rest. the woman he had left to drown had been ever before his eyes; the avenging furies in pursuit. this was the torture in his soul that had led him to many a mad challenge of death, who always scorned his defiance. yes, i knew all that he could tell me. but we went on talking. there were a few points i wanted cleared up. why should he have kept up a correspondence with gedge? "i only wrote one foolish angry letter," he replied. and i told him how sir anthony had thrown it unread into the fire. gedge's nocturnal waylaying of him in my front garden was another unsuccessful attempt to tighten the screw. like randall and myself, he had no fear of gedge. of sir anthony he could not speak. he seemed to be crushed by the heroic achievement. it was the only phase of our interview during which, by voice and manner and attitude, he appeared to me like a beaten man. his own bravery at the reception had gone for naught. he was overwhelmed by the hideous insolence of it. "i shall never get that man's voice out of my ears as long as i live," he said hoarsely. after a while he added: "i wonder whether there is any rest or purification for me this side of the grave." i said tentatively, for we had never discussed matters of religion: "if you believe in christ, you must believe in the promise regarding the sins that be as scarlet." but he turned it aside. "in the olden days, men like me turned monk and found salvation in fasting and penance. the times in which we live have changed and we with them, my friend. nos mulamur in illis, as the tag goes." we went on talking--or rather he talked and i listened. now and again he would help himself to a drink or a cigarette, and i marvelled at the clear assurance with which he performed the various little operations. i, lying in bed, lost all sense of pain, almost of personality. my little ailments, my little selfish love of betty, my little humdrum life itself dwindled insignificant before the tragic intensity of this strange, curse-ridden being. and all the time we had not spoken of betty--except the betty of long ago. it was i, finally, who gave him the lead. "and betty?" said i. he held out his hand in a gesture that was almost piteous. "i could tear her from my life. i had no alternative. in the tearing i hurt her cruelly. to know it was not the least of the burning hell i lit for myself. but i couldn't tear her from my heart. when a brute beast like me does love a woman purely and ideally, it's a desperate business. it means god's heaven to him, while it means only an earthly paradise to the ordinary man. it clutches hold of the one bit of immortal soul he has left, and nothing in this world can make it let go. that's why i say it's a desperate business." "yes, i can understand," said i. "i schooled myself to the loss of her. it was part of my punishment. but now she has come back into my life. fate has willed it so. does it mean that i am forgiven?" "by whom?" i asked. "by god?" "by whom else?" "how dare man," said i, "speak for the almighty?" "how is man to know?" "that's a hard question," said i. "i can only think of answering it by saying that a man knows of god's forgiveness by the measure of the peace of god in his soul." "there's none of it in mine, my dear chap, and never will be," said boyce. i strove to help him. for what other purpose had he come to me? "you think then that the sending of betty is a sign and a promise? yes. perhaps it is. what then?" "i must accept it as such," said he. "if there is a god, he would not give me back the woman i love, only to take her away again. what shall i do?" "in what way?" i asked. "she offered to marry me. i am to give her my answer to-morrow. if i were the callous, murdering brute that everyone would have the right to believe i am, i shouldn't have hesitated. if i hadn't been a tortured, damned soul," he cried, bringing his great fist down on the bed, "i shouldn't have come here to ask you what my answer can be. my whole being is infected with horror." he rose and stood over the bed and, with clenched hands, gesticulated to the wall in front of him. "i'm incapable of judging. i only know that i crave her with everything in me. i've got it in my brain that she's my soul's salvation. is my brain right? i don't know. i come to you--a clean, sweet man who knows everything--i don't think there's a crime on my conscience or a foulness in my nature which i haven't confessed to you. you can judge straight as i can't. what answer shall i give to-morrow?" did ever man, in a case of conscience, have a greater responsibility? god forgive me if i solved it wrongly. at any rate, he knows that i was uninfluenced by mean personal considerations. all my life i have tried to have an honourable gentleman and a christian man. according to my lights i saw only one clear course. "sit down, old man," said i. "you're a bit too big for me like that." he felt for his chair, sat down and leaned back. "you've done almost everything," i continued, "that a man can do in expiation of offences. but there is one thing more that you must do in order to find peace. you couldn't find peace if you married betty and left her in ignorance. you must tell betty everything--everything that you have told me. otherwise you would still be hag-ridden. if she learned the horror of the thing afterwards, what would be your position? acquit your conscience now before god and a splendid woman, and i stake my faith in each that neither will fail you." after a few minutes, during which the man's face was like a mask, he said: "that's what i wanted to know. that's what i wanted to be sure of. do you mind ringing your bell for marigold to take me away? i've kept you up abominably." he rose and held out his hand and i had to direct him how it could reach mine. when it did, he gripped it firmly. "it's impossible," said he, "for you to realise what you've done for me to-night. you've made my way absolutely clear to me--for the first time for two years. you're the truest comrade i've ever had, meredyth. god bless you." marigold appeared, answering my summons, and led boyce away. presently he returned. "do you know what time it is, sir?" he asked serenely. "no," said i. "it's half-past one." he busied himself with my arrangements for the night, and administered what i learned afterwards was a double dose of a sleeping draught which cliffe had prescribed for special occasions. i just remember surprise at feeling so drowsy after the intense excitement of the evening, and then i fell asleep. when i awoke in the morning i gathered my wits together and recalled what had taken place. marigold entered on tiptoe and found me already aroused. "i'm sorry to tell you, sir," said he, "that an accident happened to colonel boyce after he left last night." "an accident?" "i suppose so, sir," said marigold. "that's what his chauffeur says. he got out of the car in order to sit by the side of the canal--by the lock gates. he fell in, sir. he's drowned." chapter xxiv it is christmas morning, , the third christmas of the war. the tragedy of boyce's death happened six months ago. since then i have been very ill. the shock, too great for my silly heart, nearly killed me. by all the rules of the game i ought to have died. but i suppose, like a brother officer long since defunct, also a major, one joe bagstock, i am devilish tough. cliffe told me this morning that, apart from a direct hit by a -centimetre shell, he saw no reason, after what i had gone through, why i should not live for another hundred years. "i wash my hands of you," said he. which indeed is pleasant hearing. i don't mind dying a bit, if it is my maker's pleasure; if it would serve any useful purpose; if it would help my country a myriadth part of a millimetre on towards victory. but if it would not matter to the world any more than the demise of a daddy-long-legs, i prefer to live. in fact, i want to live. i have never wanted to live more in all my life. i want to see this fight out. i want to see the light that is coming after the darkness. for, by god! it will come. and i want to live, too, for personal and private reasons. if i could regard myself merely as a helpless incumbrance, a useless jellyfish, absorbing for my maintenance human effort that should be beneficially exerted elsewhere, i think i should be the first to bid them take me out and bury me. but it is my wonderful privilege to look around and see great and beautiful human souls coming to me for guidance and consolation. why this should be i do not rightly know. perhaps my very infirmity has taught me many lessons.... you see, in the years past, my life was not without its lonelinesses. it was so natural for the lusty and joyous to disregard, through mere thoughtlessness, the little weather-beaten cripple in his wheelchair. but when one of these sacrificed an hour's glad life in order to sit by the dull chair in a corner, the cripple did not forget it. he learned in its terrible intensity the meaning of human kindness. and, in his course through the years, or as the years coursed by him, he realised that a pair of gollywog legs was not the worst disability which a human being might suffer. there were gollywog hearts, brains, nerves, temperaments, destinies. perhaps, in this way, he came to the knowledge that in every human being lies the spark of immortal beauty, to be fanned into flame by one little rightly directed breath. at any rate, he learned to love his kind. it is christmas day. i am as happy as a man has a right to be in these fierce times in england. love is all around me. i must tell you little by little. various things have happened during the last six months. at the inquest on the body of leonard boyce, the jury gave a verdict of death by misadventure. the story of the chauffeur, an old soldier servant devoted to boyce, received implicit belief. he had faithfully carried out his master's orders: to conduct him from the road, across the field, and seat him on the boom of the lock gates, where he wanted to remain alone in order to enjoy the quiet of the night and listen to the lap of the water; to return and fetch him in a quarter of an hour. this he did, dreaming of no danger. when he came back he realised what had happened. his master had got up and fallen into the canal. what had really happened only a few of us knew. well, i have told you the man's story. i am not his judge. whether his act was the supreme amende, the supreme act of courage or the supreme act of cowardice, it is not for me to say. i heard nothing of the matter for many weeks, for they took me off to a nursing home and kept me in the deathly stillness of a sepulchre. when i resumed my life in wellingsford i found smiling faces to welcome me. my first public action was to give away phyllis gedge in marriage to randall holmes--randall holmes in the decent kit of an officer and a gentleman. he made this proposition to me on the first evening of my return. "the bride's father," said i, somewhat ironically, "is surely the proper person." "the bride's father," said he, "is miles away, and, like a wise and hoary villain, is likely to remain there." this was news. "gedge has left wellingsford?" i cried. "how did that come about?" he stuck his hands on his hips and looked down on me pityingly. "i'm afraid, sir," said he, "you'll never do adequate justice to my intelligence and my capacity for affairs." then he laughed and i guessed what had occurred. my young friend must have paid a stiff price; but phyllis and peace were worth it; and i have said that randall is a young man of fortune. "my dear boy," said i, "if you have exorcised this devil of a father-in-law of yours out of wellingsford, i'll do any mortal thing you ask." i was almost ecstatic. for think what it meant to those whom i held dear. the man's evil menace was removed from the midst of us. the man's evil voice was silenced. the tragic secrets of the canal would be kept. i looked up at my young friend. there was a grim humour around the corners of his mouth and in his eyes the quiet masterfulness of those who have looked scornfully at death. i realised that he had reached a splendid manhood. i realised that gedge had realised it too; woe be to him if he played randall false. i stuck out my hand. "any mortal thing," i repeated. he regarded me steadily. "anything? do you really mean it?" "you dashed young idiot," i cried, "do you think i'm in the habit of talking through my hat?" "well," said he, "will you look after phyllis when i'm gone?" "gone? gone where? eternity?" "no, no! i've only a fortnight's leave. then i'm off. wherever they send me. secret service. you know. it's no use planking phyllis in a dug-out of her own"--shades of oxford and the albemarle review!--"she'd die of loneliness. and she'd die of culture in the mater's highbrow establishment. whereas, if you would take her in--give her a shake-down here--she wouldn't give much trouble--" he stammered as even the most audacious young warrior must do when making so astounding a proposal. but i bade him not be an ass, but send her along when he had to finish with her; with the result that for some months my pretty little phyllis has been an inmate of my house. marigold keeps a sort of non-commissioned parent's eye on her. to him she seems to be still the child whom he fed solicitously but unemotionally with mrs. marigold's cakes at tea parties years ago. she gives me a daughter's dainty affection. thank god for it! there have been other little changes in wellingsford. mrs. boyce left the town soon after leonard's death, and lives with her sister in london. i had a letter from her this morning--a brave woman's letter. she has no suspicion of the truth. god still tempereth the wind.... out of the innocent generosity of her heart she sent me also, as a keepsake, "a little heavy cane, of which leonard was extraordinarily fond." she will never know that i put it into the fire, and with what strange and solemn thoughts i watched it burn. it is christmas day. dr. cliffe, although he has washed his hands of me, tyrannically keeps me indoors of winter nights, so that i cannot, as usual, dine at wellings park. to counter the fellow's machinations, however, i have prepared a modest feast to which i have bidden sir anthony and lady fenimore and my dearest betty. as to betty-- phyllis comes in radiant, her pretty face pink above an absurd panoply of furs. she has had a long letter from randall from the lord knows where. he will be home on leave in the middle of january. in her excitement she drops prayer-books and hymn-books all over me. then, picking them up, reminds me it is time to go to church. i am an old-fashioned fogey and i go to church on christmas day. i hope our admirable and conscientious vicar won't feel it his duty to tell us to love germans. i simply can't do it. new year's day, . i must finish off this jumble of a chronicle. before us lies the most eventful year in all the old world's history. thank god my beloved england is strong, and great britain and our great empire and immortal france. there is exhilaration in the air; a consciousness of high ideals; an unwavering resolution to attain them; a thrilling faith in their ultimate attainment. no one has died or lost sight or limbs in vain. i look around my own little circle. oswald fenimore, willie connor, reggie dacre, leonard boyce--how many more could i not add to the list? all those little burial grounds in france--which france, with her exquisite sense of beauty, has assigned as british soil for all time--all those burial grounds, each bearing its modest leaden inscription--some, indeed, heart-rendingly inscribed "sacred to the memory of six unknown british soldiers killed in action"--are monuments not to be bedewed with tears of lamentation. from the young lives that have gone there springs imperishable love and strength and wisdom--and the vast determination to use that love and strength and wisdom for the great good of mankind. if there is a god of battles, guiding, in his inscrutable omniscience, the hosts that fight for the eternal verities--for all that man in his straining towards the godhead has striven for since the world began--the men who have died will come into their glory, and those who have mourned will share exultant in the victory. from before the beginning of time mithra has ever been triumphant and his foot on the throat of ahriman. it was in february, , that i began to expand my diary into this narrative,--nearly two years ago. we have passed through the darkness. the dawn is breaking. sursum corda. i was going to tell you about betty when phyllis, with her furs and happiness and hymn-books, interrupted me. i should like to tell you now. but who am i to speak of the mysteries in the soul of a great woman? but i must try. and i can tell you more now than i could on christmas day. last night she insisted on seeing the new year in with me. if i had told marigold that i proposed to sit up after midnight, he would have come in at ten o'clock, picked me up with finger and thumb as any brobdingnagian might have picked up gulliver, and put me straightway to bed. but betty made the announcement in her airily imperious way, and marigold, craven before betty and mrs. marigold, said "very good, madam," as if dr. cliffe and his orders had never existed. at half past ten she packed off the happy and, i must confess, the somewhat sleepy phyllis, and sat down, in her old attitude by the side of my chair, in front of the fire, and opened her dear heart to me. i had guessed what her proud soul had suffered during the last six months. one who loved her as i did could see it in her face, in her eyes, in the little hardening of her voice, in odd little betrayals of feverishness in her manner. but the outside world saw nothing. the steel in her nature carried her through. she left no duty unaccomplished. she gave her confidence to no human being. i, to whom she might have come, was carried off to the sepulchre above mentioned. letters were forbidden. but every day, for all her bleak despair, betty sent me a box of fresh flowers. they would not tell me it was betty who sent them; but i knew. my wonderful betty. when they took off my cerecloths and sent me back to wellingsford, betty was the first to smile her dear welcome. we resumed our old relations. but betty, treating me as an invalid, forbore to speak of leonard boyce. any approach on my part came up against that iron wall of reserve of which i spoke to you long ago. but last night she told me all. what she said i cannot repeat. but she had divined the essential secret of the double tragedy of the canal. it had become obvious to her that he had made the final reparation for a wrong far deeper than she had imagined. she was very clear-eyed and clear-souled. during her long companionship with pain and sorrow and death, she had learned many things. she had been purged by the fire of the war of all resentments, jealousies, harsh judgments, and came forth pure gold.... leonard had been the great love of her life. if you cannot see now why she married willie connor, gave him all that her generous heart could give, and after his death was irresistibly drawn back to boyce, i have written these pages in vain. a few minutes before midnight marigold entered with a tray bearing a cake or two, a pint of champagne and a couple of glasses. while he was preparing to uncork the bottle betty slipped from the room and returned with another glass. "for sergeant marigold," she said. she opened the french window behind the drawn curtains and listened. it was a still clear night. presently the clock of the parish church struck twelve. she came down to the little table by my side and filled the glasses, and the three of us drank the new year in. then betty kissed me and we both shook hands with marigold, who stood very stiff and determined and cleared his throat and swallowed something as though he were expected to make a speech. but betty anticipated him. she put both her hands on his gaunt shoulders and looked up into his ugly face. "you've just wished me a happy new year, sergeant." "i have," said he, "and i mean it." "then will you let me have great happiness in staying here and helping you to look after the major?" he gasped for a moment (as did i) and clutched her arms for an instant in an iron grip. "indeed i will, my dear," said he. then he stepped back a pace and stood rigid, his one eye staring, his weather-beaten face the colour of beetroot. he was blushing. the beads of perspiration appeared below his awful wig. he stammered out something about "ma'am" and "madam." he had never so far forgotten himself in his life. but betty sprang forward and gripped his hand. "it is you who are the dear," she said. "you, the greatest and loyalest friend a man has ever known. and i'll be loyal to you, never fear." by what process of enchantment she got an emotion-filled marigold to the door and shut it behind him, i shall never discover. on its slam she laughed--a queer high note. in one swift movement she was by my knees. and she broke into a passion of tears. for me, i was the most mystified man under heaven. soon she began to speak, her head bowed. "i've come to the end of the tether, majy dear. they've driven me from the hospital--i didn't know how to tell you before--i've been doing all sorts of idiotic things. the doctors say it's a nervous breakdown--i've had rather a bad time--but i thought it contemptible to let one's own wretched little miseries interfere with one's work for the country--so i fought as hard as i could. indeed i did, majy dear. but it seems i've been playing the fool without knowing it,--i haven't slept properly for months--and they've sent me away. oh, they've been all that's kind, of course--i must have at least six months' rest, they say--they talk about nursing homes--i've thought and thought and thought about it until i'm certain. there's only one rest for me, majy dear." she raised a tear-stained, tense and beautiful face and drew herself up so that one arm leaned on my chair, and the other on my shoulder. "and that is to be with the one human being that is left for me to love--oh, really love--you know what i mean--in the world." i could only put my hand on her fair young head and say: "my dear, my dear, you know i love you." "that is why i'm not afraid to speak. perfect love casteth out fear--" i pushed back her hair. "what is it that you want me to do, betty?" i asked. "my life, such as it is, is at your command." she looked me full, unflinchingly in the eyes. "if you would give me the privilege of bearing your name, i should be a proud and happy woman." we remained there, i don't know how long--she with her hand on my shoulder, i caressing her dear hair. it was a tremendous temptation. to have my beloved betty in all her exquisite warm loyalty bound to me for the rest of my crippled life. but i found the courage to say: "my dear, you are young still, with the wonderful future that no one alive can foretell before you, and i am old--" "you're not fifty." "still i am old, i belong to the past--to a sort of affray behind an ant-hill which they called a war. i'm dead, my dear, you are gloriously alive. i'm of the past, as i say. you're of the future. you, my dearest, are the embodiment of the woman of the great war--" i smiled--"the woman of the great war in capital letters. what your destiny is, god knows. but it isn't to be tied to a prehistoric man like me." she rose and stood, with her beautiful bare arms behind her, sweet, magnificent. "i am a woman of the great war. you are quite right. but in a year or so i shall be like other women of the war who have suffered and spent their lives, a woman of the past--not of the future. all sorts of things have been burned up in it." in a quick gesture she stretched out her hands to me. "oh, can't you understand?" i cannot set down the rest of the tender argument. if she had loved me less, she could have lived in my house, like phyllis, without a thought of the conventions. but loving me dearly, she had got it into her feminine head that the sacredness of the marriage tie would crown with dignity and beauty the part she had resolved to play for my happiness. well, if i have yielded i pray it may not be set down to me for selfish exploitation of a woman's exhausted hour. when i said something of the sort, she laughed and cried: "why, i'm bullying you into it!" the first of january, --the dawn to me, a broken derelict, of the annus mirabilis. somehow, foolishly, illogically, i feel that it will be the annus mirabilis for my beloved country. and come--after all--i am, in spite of my legs, a man too of the great war. i have lived in it, and worked in it, and suffered in it--and in it have i won a great thing. so long as one's soul is sound--that is the great matter. just before we parted last night, i said to betty: "the beginning and end of all this business is that you're afraid of marigold." she started back indignantly. "i'm not! i'm not!" i laughed. "the lady protests too much," said i. the clock struck two. marigold appeared at the door. he approached betty. "i think, madam, we ought to let the major go to bed." "i think, marigold," said betty serenely, "we ought to be ashamed of ourselves for keeping him up so late." the end of human bondage by w. somerset maugham i the day broke gray and dull. the clouds hung heavily, and there was a rawness in the air that suggested snow. a woman servant came into a room in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. she glanced mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and went to the child's bed. "wake up, philip," she said. she pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him downstairs. he was only half awake. "your mother wants you," she said. she opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over to a bed in which a woman was lying. it was his mother. she stretched out her arms, and the child nestled by her side. he did not ask why he had been awakened. the woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. she pressed him closer to herself. "are you sleepy, darling?" she said. her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great distance. the child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. he was very happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. he tried to make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he kissed her sleepily. in a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep. the doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side. "oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned. the doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. knowing she would not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again; and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly passed her hand over the left one. she gave a sob. "what's the matter?" said the doctor. "you're tired." she shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. the doctor bent down. "let me take him." she was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. the doctor handed him back to his nurse. "you'd better put him back in his own bed." "very well, sir." the little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. his mother sobbed now broken-heartedly. "what will happen to him, poor child?" the monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the crying ceased. the doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room, upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. he lifted the towel and looked. he was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the woman guessed what he was doing. "was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse. "another boy." the woman did not answer. in a moment the child's nurse came back. she approached the bed. "master philip never woke up," she said. there was a pause. then the doctor felt his patient's pulse once more. "i don't think there's anything i can do just now," he said. "i'll call again after breakfast." "i'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse. they walked downstairs in silence. in the hall the doctor stopped. "you've sent for mrs. carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?" "yes, sir." "d'you know at what time he'll be here?" "no, sir, i'm expecting a telegram." "what about the little boy? i should think he'd be better out of the way." "miss watkin said she'd take him, sir." "who's she?" "she's his godmother, sir. d'you think mrs. carey will get over it, sir?" the doctor shook his head. ii it was a week later. philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room at miss watkin's house in onslow gardens. he was an only child and used to amusing himself. the room was filled with massive furniture, and on each of the sofas were three big cushions. there was a cushion too in each arm-chair. all these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he could hide himself from the red indians who were lurking behind the curtains. he put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of buffaloes that raced across the prairie. presently, hearing the door open, he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand pulled away a chair and the cushions fell down. "you naughty boy, miss watkin will be cross with you." "hulloa, emma!" he said. the nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions, and put them back in their places. "am i to come home?" he asked. "yes, i've come to fetch you." "you've got a new dress on." it was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. her gown was of black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had three large flounces. she wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. she hesitated. the question she had expected did not come, and so she could not give the answer she had prepared. "aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length. "oh, i forgot. how is mamma?" now she was ready. "your mamma is quite well and happy." "oh, i am glad." "your mamma's gone away. you won't ever see her any more." philip did not know what she meant. "why not?" "your mamma's in heaven." she began to cry, and philip, though he did not quite understand, cried too. emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features. she came from devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in london, had never lost the breadth of her accent. her tears increased her emotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. she felt vaguely the pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite unselfish. it seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers. but in a little while she pulled herself together. "your uncle william is waiting in to see you," she said. "go and say good-bye to miss watkin, and we'll go home." "i don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively anxious to hide his tears. "very well, run upstairs and get your hat." he fetched it, and when he came down emma was waiting for him in the hall. he heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. he paused. he knew that miss watkin and her sister were talking to friends, and it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would be sorry for him. "i think i'll go and say good-bye to miss watkin." "i think you'd better," said emma. "go in and tell them i'm coming," he said. he wished to make the most of his opportunity. emma knocked at the door and walked in. he heard her speak. "master philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss." there was a sudden hush of the conversation, and philip limped in. henrietta watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. in those days to dye the hair excited comment, and philip had heard much gossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. she lived with an elder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. two ladies, whom philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously. "my poor child," said miss watkin, opening her arms. she began to cry. philip understood now why she had not been in to luncheon and why she wore a black dress. she could not speak. "i've got to go home," said philip, at last. he disengaged himself from miss watkin's arms, and she kissed him again. then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. one of the strange ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission. though crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would have been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they expected him to go, so he said that emma was waiting for him. he went out of the room. emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the basement, and he waited for her on the landing. he heard henrietta watkin's voice. "his mother was my greatest friend. i can't bear to think that she's dead." "you oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, henrietta," said her sister. "i knew it would upset you." then one of the strangers spoke. "poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world. i see he limps." "yes, he's got a club-foot. it was such a grief to his mother." then emma came back. they called a hansom, and she told the driver where to go. iii when they reached the house mrs. carey had died in--it was in a dreary, respectable street between notting hill gate and high street, kensington--emma led philip into the drawing-room. his uncle was writing letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. one of them, which had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the hall-table. "here's master philip," said emma. mr. carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. then on second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. he was a man of somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair, worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. he was clean-shaven. his features were regular, and it was possible to imagine that in his youth he had been good-looking. on his watch-chain he wore a gold cross. "you're going to live with me now, philip," said mr. carey. "shall you like that?" two years before philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt. "yes." "you must look upon me and your aunt louisa as your father and mother." the child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer. "your dear mother left you in my charge." mr. carey had no great ease in expressing himself. when the news came that his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for london, but on the way thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. he was well over fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a small boy who might be noisy and rough. he had never much liked his sister-in-law. "i'm going to take you down to blackstable tomorrow," he said. "with emma?" the child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it. "i'm afraid emma must go away," said mr. carey. "but i want emma to come with me." philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. mr. carey looked at them helplessly. "i think you'd better leave me alone with master philip for a moment." "very good, sir." though philip clung to her, she released herself gently. mr. carey took the boy on his knee and put his arm round him. "you mustn't cry," he said. "you're too old to have a nurse now. we must see about sending you to school." "i want emma to come with me," the child repeated. "it costs too much money, philip. your father didn't leave very much, and i don't know what's become of it. you must look at every penny you spend." mr. carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. philip's father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house in bruton street. this was six months ago; and mrs. carey, already in delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. she stored her furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience till her child was born. but she had never been used to the management of money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered circumstances. the little she had slipped through her fingers in one way and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn his own living. it was impossible to explain all this to philip and he was sobbing still. "you'd better go to emma," mr. carey said, feeling that she could console the child better than anyone. without a word philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but mr. carey stopped him. "we must go tomorrow, because on saturday i've got to prepare my sermon, and you must tell emma to get your things ready today. you can bring all your toys. and if you want anything to remember your father and mother by you can take one thing for each of them. everything else is going to be sold." the boy slipped out of the room. mr. carey was unused to work, and he turned to his correspondence with resentment. on one side of the desk was a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. one especially seemed preposterous. immediately after mrs. carey's death emma had ordered from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead woman lay. it was sheer waste of money. emma took far too much upon herself. even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have dismissed her. but philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though his heart would break. and she, feeling that he was almost her own son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft words. she promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was going to and about her own home in devonshire--her father kept a turnpike on the high-road that led to exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till philip forgot his tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey. presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped her to lay out his clothes on the bed. she sent him into the nursery to gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily. but at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in which emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his father and mother by. he told emma and asked her what he should take. "you'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy." "uncle william's there." "never mind that. they're your own things now." philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. mr. carey had left the room. philip walked slowly round. they had been in the house so short a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him. it was a stranger's room, and philip saw nothing that struck his fancy. but he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his mother say she liked. with this he walked again rather disconsolately upstairs. outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and listened. though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the handle. he turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. he stood on the threshold for a moment before he had the courage to enter. he was not frightened now, but it seemed strange. he closed the door behind him. the blinds were drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a january afternoon, was dark. on the dressing-table were mrs. carey's brushes and the hand mirror. in a little tray were hairpins. there was a photograph of himself on the chimney-piece and one of his father. he had often been in the room when his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. there was something curious in the look of the chairs. the bed was made as though someone were going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a night-dress. philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. they smelt of the scent his mother used. then he pulled open the drawers, filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. the strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had just gone out for a walk. she would be in presently and would come upstairs to have nursery tea with him. and he seemed to feel her kiss on his lips. it was not true that he would never see her again. it was not true simply because it was impossible. he climbed up on the bed and put his head on the pillow. he lay there quite still. iv philip parted from emma with tears, but the journey to blackstable amused him, and, when they arrived, he was resigned and cheerful. blackstable was sixty miles from london. giving their luggage to a porter, mr. carey set out to walk with philip to the vicarage; it took them little more than five minutes, and, when they reached it, philip suddenly remembered the gate. it was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges; and it was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and forwards on it. they walked through the garden to the front-door. this was only used by visitors and on sundays, and on special occasions, as when the vicar went up to london or came back. the traffic of the house took place through a side-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener and for beggars and tramps. it was a fairly large house of yellow brick, with a red roof, built about five and twenty years before in an ecclesiastical style. the front-door was like a church porch, and the drawing-room windows were gothic. mrs. carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in the drawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. when she heard it she went to the door. "there's aunt louisa," said mr. carey, when he saw her. "run and give her a kiss." philip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and then stopped. mrs. carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the same age as her husband, with a face extraordinarily filled with deep wrinkles, and pale blue eyes. her gray hair was arranged in ringlets according to the fashion of her youth. she wore a black dress, and her only ornament was a gold chain, from which hung a cross. she had a shy manner and a gentle voice. "did you walk, william?" she said, almost reproachfully, as she kissed her husband. "i didn't think of it," he answered, with a glance at his nephew. "it didn't hurt you to walk, philip, did it?" she asked the child. "no. i always walk." he was a little surprised at their conversation. aunt louisa told him to come in, and they entered the hall. it was paved with red and yellow tiles, on which alternately were a greek cross and the lamb of god. an imposing staircase led out of the hall. it was of polished pine, with a peculiar smell, and had been put in because fortunately, when the church was reseated, enough wood remained over. the balusters were decorated with emblems of the four evangelists. "i've had the stove lighted as i thought you'd be cold after your journey," said mrs. carey. it was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only lighted if the weather was very bad and the vicar had a cold. it was not lighted if mrs. carey had a cold. coal was expensive. besides, mary ann, the maid, didn't like fires all over the place. if they wanted all them fires they must keep a second girl. in the winter mr. and mrs. carey lived in the dining-room so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not get out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by mr. carey on sunday afternoons for his nap. but every saturday he had a fire in the study so that he could write his sermon. aunt louisa took philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny bed-room that looked out on the drive. immediately in front of the window was a large tree, which philip remembered now because the branches were so low that it was possible to climb quite high up it. "a small room for a small boy," said mrs. carey. "you won't be frightened at sleeping alone?" "oh, no." on his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse, and mrs. carey had had little to do with him. she looked at him now with some uncertainty. "can you wash your own hands, or shall i wash them for you?" "i can wash myself," he answered firmly. "well, i shall look at them when you come down to tea," said mrs. carey. she knew nothing about children. after it was settled that philip should come down to blackstable, mrs. carey had thought much how she should treat him; she was anxious to do her duty; but now he was there she found herself just as shy of him as he was of her. she hoped he would not be noisy and rough, because her husband did not like rough and noisy boys. mrs. carey made an excuse to leave philip alone, but in a moment came back and knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he could pour out the water himself. then she went downstairs and rang the bell for tea. the dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two sides of it, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big table in the middle; and at one end an imposing mahogany sideboard with a looking-glass in it. in one corner stood a harmonium. on each side of the fireplace were chairs covered in stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and was called the husband, and the other had none and was called the wife. mrs. carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she preferred a chair that was not too comfortable; there was always a lot to do, and if her chair had had arms she might not be so ready to leave it. mr. carey was making up the fire when philip came in, and he pointed out to his nephew that there were two pokers. one was large and bright and polished and unused, and was called the vicar; and the other, which was much smaller and had evidently passed through many fires, was called the curate. "what are we waiting for?" said mr. carey. "i told mary ann to make you an egg. i thought you'd be hungry after your journey." mrs. carey thought the journey from london to blackstable very tiring. she seldom travelled herself, for the living was only three hundred a year, and, when her husband wanted a holiday, since there was not money for two, he went by himself. he was very fond of church congresses and usually managed to go up to london once a year; and once he had been to paris for the exhibition, and two or three times to switzerland. mary ann brought in the egg, and they sat down. the chair was much too low for philip, and for a moment neither mr. carey nor his wife knew what to do. "i'll put some books under him," said mary ann. she took from the top of the harmonium the large bible and the prayer-book from which the vicar was accustomed to read prayers, and put them on philip's chair. "oh, william, he can't sit on the bible," said mrs. carey, in a shocked tone. "couldn't you get him some books out of the study?" mr. carey considered the question for an instant. "i don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top, mary ann," he said. "the book of common prayer is the composition of men like ourselves. it has no claim to divine authorship." "i hadn't thought of that, william," said aunt louisa. philip perched himself on the books, and the vicar, having said grace, cut the top off his egg. "there," he said, handing it to philip, "you can eat my top if you like." philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so took what he could. "how have the chickens been laying since i went away?" asked the vicar. "oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day." "how did you like that top, philip?" asked his uncle. "very much, thank you." "you shall have another one on sunday afternoon." mr. carey always had a boiled egg at tea on sunday, so that he might be fortified for the evening service. v philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. philip's father had been much younger than the vicar of blackstable. after a brilliant career at st. luke's hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began to earn money in considerable sums. he spent it freely. when the parson set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription, he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: mr. carey, thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. then henry carey married a patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations, but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding. the parson, on his visits to her when he came to london, held himself with reserve. he felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he deplored. he heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept hospitality without making some return. he had seen grapes in the dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the vicarage garden. now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the vicar felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume the city which would not mend its way to his warning. poor philip was practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends now? he heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it was a mercy that providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to itself: she had no more idea of money than a child. when philip had been a week at blackstable an incident happened which seemed to irritate his uncle very much. one morning he found on the breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the late mrs. carey's house in london. it was addressed to her. when the parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of mrs. carey. they showed the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features. there was in the large dark eyes a sadness which philip did not remember. the first sight of the dead woman gave mr. carey a little shock, but this was quickly followed by perplexity. the photographs seemed quite recent, and he could not imagine who had ordered them. "d'you know anything about these, philip?" he asked. "i remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "miss watkin scolded her.... she said: i wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up." mr. carey looked at philip for an instant. the child spoke in a clear treble. he recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him. "you'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said mr. carey. "i'll put the others away." he sent one to miss watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to be taken. one day mrs. carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; emma had taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement: suddenly mrs. carey felt desperately alone in the world. a great fear seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was expecting in a fortnight. her son was nine years old. how could he be expected to remember her? she could not bear to think that he would grow up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately, because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. she had no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years before. she wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. he could not forget her then, not forget utterly. she knew that if she called her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her, and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to struggle or argue. she got out of bed and began to dress herself. she had been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the ground. but she went on. she was unused to doing her own hair and, when she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. she could never do it as her maid did. it was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep rich gold. her eyebrows were straight and dark. she put on a black skirt, but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of a white damask which was fashionable in those days. she looked at herself in the glass. her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her beautiful mouth emphatic. she could not restrain a sob. but she could not afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired; and she put on the furs which henry had given her the christmas before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped downstairs with beating heart. she got safely out of the house and drove to a photographer. she paid for a dozen photographs. she was obliged to ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant, seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she insisted on staying till the end. at last it was finished, and she drove back again to the dingy little house in kensington which she hated with all her heart. it was a horrible house to die in. she found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and emma ran down the steps to help her. they had been frightened when they found her room empty. at first they thought she must have gone to miss watkin, and the cook was sent round. miss watkin came back with her and was waiting anxiously in the drawing-room. she came downstairs now full of anxiety and reproaches; but the exertion had been more than mrs. carey was fit for, and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. she fell heavily into emma's arms and was carried upstairs. she remained unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. it was next day, when she was a little better, that miss watkin got some explanation out of her. philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither of the ladies paid attention to him. he only understood vaguely what they were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in his memory. "i wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up." "i can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said mr. carey. "two would have done." vi one day was very like another at the vicarage. soon after breakfast mary ann brought in the times. mr. carey shared it with two neighbours. he had it from ten till one, when the gardener took it over to mr. ellis at the limes, with whom it remained till seven; then it was taken to miss brooks at the manor house, who, since she got it late, had the advantage of keeping it. in summer mrs. carey, when she was making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. when the vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to do the shopping. philip accompanied her. blackstable was a fishing village. it consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank, the doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round the little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor people; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. when mrs. carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this fixed her eyes on the pavement. it was a scandal to which the vicar had never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the high street: he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent their erection. shopping in blackstable was not a simple matter; for dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers; mrs. carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the difference to a tradesman's faith. there were two butchers who went to church, and they would not understand that the vicar could not deal with both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of going for six months to one and for six months to the other. the butcher who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come to church, and the vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat was, mr. carey would be forced to leave him for ever. mrs. carey often stopped at the bank to deliver a message to josiah graves, the manager, who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. he was a tall, thin man with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to philip he seemed extremely old. he kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish church, it was generally considered (in blackstable) that the choir he led was the best in kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit from the bishop for confirmation or from the rural dean to preach at the harvest thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. but he had no hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory consultation with the vicar, and the vicar, though always ready to be saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. he really seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish. mr. carey constantly told his wife that if josiah graves did not take care he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but mrs. carey advised him to bear with josiah graves: he meant well, and it was not his fault if he was not quite a gentleman. the vicar, finding his comfort in the practice of a christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged himself by calling the churchwarden bismarck behind his back. once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and mrs. carey still thought of that anxious time with dismay. the conservative candidate had announced his intention of addressing a meeting at blackstable; and josiah graves, having arranged that it should take place in the mission hall, went to mr. carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few words. it appeared that the candidate had asked josiah graves to take the chair. this was more than mr. carey could put up with. he had firm views upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the vicar was there. he reminded josiah graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was the person of the parish. josiah graves answered that he was the first to recognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics, and in his turn he reminded the vicar that their blessed saviour had enjoined upon them to render unto caesar the things that were caesar's. to this mr. carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his purpose, himself had sole authority over the mission hall, and if he were not asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political meeting. josiah graves told mr. carey that he might do as he chose, and for his part he thought the wesleyan chapel would be an equally suitable place. then mr. carey said that if josiah graves set foot in what was little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in a christian parish. josiah graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and that very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. his sister, miss graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of the maternity club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby linen, coals, and five shillings. mr. carey said he was at last master in his own house. but soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts of things that he knew nothing about; and josiah graves, after the first moment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in life. mrs. carey and miss graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put the matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her brother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these gentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of anxiety a reconciliation was effected. it was to both their interests, but they ascribed it to a common love for their redeemer. the meeting was held at the mission hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. mr. carey and josiah graves both made speeches. when mrs. carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies talked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of mrs. wilson--mr. wilson was the richest man in blackstable, he was thought to have at least five hundred a year, and he had married his cook--philip sat demurely in the stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. the windows were never opened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had a stuffy smell which seemed to philip to have a mysterious connection with banking. then mrs. carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they continued their way. when the shopping was done they often went down a side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt (and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and nets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in on each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. mrs. carey stood for a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while philip searched for flat stones to play ducks and drakes. then they walked slowly back. they looked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to mrs. wigram the doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home. dinner was at one o'clock; and on monday, tuesday, and wednesday it consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on thursday, friday, and saturday of mutton. on sunday they ate one of their own chickens. in the afternoon philip did his lessons, he was taught latin and mathematics by his uncle who knew neither, and french and the piano by his aunt. of french she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. uncle william used to tell philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was asked. she often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage. there were few people whom the careys cared to ask there, and their parties consisted always of the curate, josiah graves with his sister, dr. wigram and his wife. after tea miss graves played one or two of mendelssohn's songs without words, and mrs. carey sang when the swallows homeward fly, or trot, trot, my pony. but the careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. they preferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon. mrs. carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like losing. they had cold supper at eight. it was a scrappy meal because mary ann resented getting anything ready after tea, and mrs. carey helped to clear away. mrs. carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a little stewed fruit to follow, but the vicar had a slice of cold meat. immediately after supper mrs. carey rang the bell for prayers, and then philip went to bed. he rebelled against being undressed by mary ann and after a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress himself. at nine o'clock mary ann brought in the eggs and the plate. mrs. carey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. she then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. mr. carey continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed. when philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening he should have his bath. it was never easy to get plenty of hot water, since the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two persons to have a bath on the same day. the only man who had a bathroom in blackstable was mr. wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. mary ann had her bath in the kitchen on monday night, because she liked to begin the week clean. uncle william could not have his on saturday, because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired after a bath, so he had it on friday. mrs. carey had hers on thursday for the same reason. it looked as though saturday were naturally indicated for philip, but mary ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on saturday night: what with all the cooking on sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't know what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on saturday night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. mrs. carey was shy about bathing a boy, and of course the vicar had his sermon. but the vicar insisted that philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's day. mary ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after eighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they might show some consideration--and philip said he didn't want anyone to bath him, but could very well bath himself. this settled it. mary ann said she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he should go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the lord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly washed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was saturday night. vii sunday was a day crowded with incident. mr. carey was accustomed to say that he was the only man in his parish who worked seven days a week. the household got up half an hour earlier than usual. no lying abed for a poor parson on the day of rest, mr. carey remarked as mary ann knocked at the door punctually at eight. it took mrs. carey longer to dress, and she got down to breakfast at nine, a little breathless, only just before her husband. mr. carey's boots stood in front of the fire to warm. prayers were longer than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. after breakfast the vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and philip was privileged to cut off the crust. he was sent to the study to fetch a marble paperweight, with which mr. carey pressed the bread till it was thin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small squares. the amount was regulated by the weather. on a very bad day few people came to church, and on a very fine one, though many came, few stayed for communion. there were most when it was dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not so fine that people wanted to hurry away. then mrs. carey brought the communion plate out of the safe, which stood in the pantry, and the vicar polished it with a chamois leather. at ten the fly drove up, and mr. carey got into his boots. mrs. carey took several minutes to put on her bonnet, during which the vicar, in a voluminous cloak, stood in the hall with just such an expression on his face as would have become an early christian about to be led into the arena. it was extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife could not be ready in time on sunday morning. at last she came, in black satin; the vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's wife at any time, but on sundays he was determined that she should wear black; now and then, in conspiracy with miss graves, she ventured a white feather or a pink rose in her bonnet, but the vicar insisted that it should disappear; he said he would not go to church with the scarlet woman: mrs. carey sighed as a woman but obeyed as a wife. they were about to step into the carriage when the vicar remembered that no one had given him his egg. they knew that he must have an egg for his voice, there were two women in the house, and no one had the least regard for his comfort. mrs. carey scolded mary ann, and mary ann answered that she could not think of everything. she hurried away to fetch an egg, and mrs. carey beat it up in a glass of sherry. the vicar swallowed it at a gulp. the communion plate was stowed in the carriage, and they set off. the fly came from the red lion and had a peculiar smell of stale straw. they drove with both windows closed so that the vicar should not catch cold. the sexton was waiting at the porch to take the communion plate, and while the vicar went to the vestry mrs. carey and philip settled themselves in the vicarage pew. mrs. carey placed in front of her the sixpenny bit she was accustomed to put in the plate, and gave philip threepence for the same purpose. the church filled up gradually and the service began. philip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted mrs. carey put a gentle hand on his arm and looked at him reproachfully. he regained interest when the final hymn was sung and mr. graves passed round with the plate. when everyone had gone mrs. carey went into miss graves' pew to have a few words with her while they were waiting for the gentlemen, and philip went to the vestry. his uncle, the curate, and mr. graves were still in their surplices. mr. carey gave him the remains of the consecrated bread and told him he might eat it. he had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it seemed blasphemous to throw it away, but philip's keen appetite relieved him from the duty. then they counted the money. it consisted of pennies, sixpences and threepenny bits. there were always two single shillings, one put in the plate by the vicar and the other by mr. graves; and sometimes there was a florin. mr. graves told the vicar who had given this. it was always a stranger to blackstable, and mr. carey wondered who he was. but miss graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell mrs. carey that the stranger came from london, was married and had children. during the drive home mrs. carey passed the information on, and the vicar made up his mind to call on him and ask for a subscription to the additional curates society. mr. carey asked if philip had behaved properly; and mrs. carey remarked that mrs. wigram had a new mantle, mr. cox was not in church, and somebody thought that miss phillips was engaged. when they reached the vicarage they all felt that they deserved a substantial dinner. when this was over mrs. carey went to her room to rest, and mr. carey lay down on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks. they had tea at five, and the vicar ate an egg to support himself for evensong. mrs. carey did not go to this so that mary ann might, but she read the service through and the hymns. mr. carey walked to church in the evening, and philip limped along by his side. the walk through the darkness along the country road strangely impressed him, and the church with all its lights in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very friendly. at first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew used to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk more easily for the feeling of protection. they had supper when they got home. mr. carey's slippers were waiting for him on a footstool in front of the fire and by their side philip's, one the shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen and odd. he was dreadfully tired when he went up to bed, and he did not resist when mary ann undressed him. she kissed him after she tucked him up, and he began to love her. viii philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother lived. he made friends with mary ann. she was a chubby little person of thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it; but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her master and mistress. her father and mother lived in a little house off harbour street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. her stories of the sea touched philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round the harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. one evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil communications corrupted good manners. he disliked the fisher folk, who were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. but philip was more comfortable in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took his toys and played there. his aunt was not sorry. she did not like disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. if he fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he went to school. mrs. carey thought philip very young for this, and her heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. sometimes she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when mary ann explained the joke. mrs. carey could not see anything amusing in what she heard, and she smiled with constraint. "he seems happier with mary ann than with us, william," she said, when she returned to her sewing. "one can see he's been very badly brought up. he wants licking into shape." on the second sunday after philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred. mr. carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. josiah graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which the vicar had adorned the altar. he had bought them second-hand in tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. but josiah graves said they were popish. this was a taunt that always aroused the vicar. he had been at oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the established church of edward manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for the church of rome. he would willingly have made the service more ornate than had been usual in the low-church parish of blackstable, and in his secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. he drew the line at incense. he hated the word protestant. he called himself a catholic. he was accustomed to say that papists required an epithet, they were roman catholic; but the church of england was catholic in the best, the fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. he was pleased to think that his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he had possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. he often related that on one of his holidays in boulogne, one of those holidays upon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was sitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to preach a sermon. he dismissed his curates when they married, having decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. but when at an election the liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue letters: this way to rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to prosecute the leaders of the liberal party in blackstable. he made up his mind now that nothing josiah graves said would induce him to remove the candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered bismarck to himself once or twice irritably. suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. he pulled the handkerchief off his face, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the dining-room. philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around him. he had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation had just brought the structure down in noisy ruin. "what are you doing with those bricks, philip? you know you're not allowed to play games on sunday." philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit was, flushed deeply. "i always used to play at home," he answered. "i'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as that." philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be supposed that his mother had consented to it. he hung his head and did not answer. "don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on sunday? what d'you suppose it's called the day of rest for? you're going to church tonight, and how can you face your maker when you've been breaking one of his laws in the afternoon?" mr. carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him while philip did so. "you're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "think of the grief you're causing your poor mother in heaven." philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to letting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent the sobs from escaping. mr. carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to turn over the pages of a book. philip stood at the window. the vicarage was set back from the highroad to tercanbury, and from the dining-room one saw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green fields. sheep were grazing in them. the sky was forlorn and gray. philip felt infinitely unhappy. presently mary ann came in to lay the tea, and aunt louisa descended the stairs. "have you had a nice little nap, william?" she asked. "no," he answered. "philip made so much noise that i couldn't sleep a wink." this was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own thoughts; and philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made a noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept before or after. when mrs. carey asked for an explanation the vicar narrated the facts. "he hasn't even said he was sorry," he finished. "oh, philip, i'm sure you're sorry," said mrs. carey, anxious that the child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be. philip did not reply. he went on munching his bread and butter. he did not know what power it was in him that prevented him from making any expression of regret. he felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined to cry, but no word would issue from his lips. "you needn't make it worse by sulking," said mr. carey. tea was finished in silence. mrs. carey looked at philip surreptitiously now and then, but the vicar elaborately ignored him. when philip saw his uncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got his hat and coat, but when the vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said: "i don't wish you to go to church tonight, philip. i don't think you're in a proper frame of mind to enter the house of god." philip did not say a word. he felt it was a deep humiliation that was placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. he stood silently watching his uncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. mrs. carey as usual went to the door to see him off. then she turned to philip. "never mind, philip, you won't be a naughty boy next sunday, will you, and then your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening." she took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room. "shall you and i read the service together, philip, and we'll sing the hymns at the harmonium. would you like that?" philip shook his head decidedly. mrs. carey was taken aback. if he would not read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with him. "then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she asked helplessly. philip broke his silence at last. "i want to be left alone," he said. "philip, how can you say anything so unkind? don't you know that your uncle and i only want your good? don't you love me at all?" "i hate you. i wish you was dead." mrs. carey gasped. he said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a start. she had nothing to say. she sat down in her husband's chair; and as she thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her eager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, even though it was clearly god's will that she should be childless, she could scarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached so--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her cheeks. philip watched her in amazement. she took out her handkerchief, and now she cried without restraint. suddenly philip realised that she was crying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. he went up to her silently and kissed her. it was the first kiss he had ever given her without being asked. and the poor lady, so small in her black satin, shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little boy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart would break. but her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt that the strangeness between them was gone. she loved him now with a new love because he had made her suffer. ix on the following sunday, when the vicar was making his preparations to go into the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were conducted with ceremony--and mrs. carey was about to go upstairs, philip asked: "what shall i do if i'm not allowed to play?" "can't you sit still for once and be quiet?" "i can't sit still till tea-time." mr. carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could not suggest that philip should go into the garden. "i know what you can do. you can learn by heart the collect for the day." he took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted. "it's not a long one. if you can say it without a mistake when i come in to tea you shall have the top of my egg." mrs. carey drew up philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him. "the devil finds work for idle hands to do," said mr. carey. he put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. he loosened his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the sofa. but thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, mrs. carey brought him a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his feet. she drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes, and since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. the vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep. he snored softly. it was the sixth sunday after epiphany, and the collect began with the words: o god, whose blessed son was manifested that he might destroy the works of the devil, and make us the sons of god, and heirs of eternal life. philip read it through. he could make no sense of it. he began saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him, and the construction of the sentence was strange. he could not get more than two lines in his head. and his attention was constantly wandering: there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long twig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in the field beyond the garden. it seemed as though there were knots inside his brain. then panic seized him that he would not know the words by tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory. mrs. carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so wide awake that she came downstairs. she thought she would hear philip his collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle. his uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in the right place. but when mrs. carey came to the dining-room and was about to go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. her heart gave a little jump. she turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door. she walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and then cautiously looked in. philip was still sitting on the chair she had put him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was sobbing desperately. she saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders. mrs. carey was frightened. a thing that had always struck her about the child was that he seemed so collected. she had never seen him cry. and now she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his feelings: he hid himself to weep. without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she burst into the drawing-room. "william, william," she said. "the boy's crying as though his heart would break." mr. carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs. "what's he got to cry about?" "i don't know.... oh, william, we can't let the boy be unhappy. d'you think it's our fault? if we'd had children we'd have known what to do." mr. carey looked at her in perplexity. he felt extraordinarily helpless. "he can't be crying because i gave him the collect to learn. it's not more than ten lines." "don't you think i might take him some picture books to look at, william? there are some of the holy land. there couldn't be anything wrong in that." "very well, i don't mind." mrs. carey went into the study. to collect books was mr. carey's only passion, and he never went into tercanbury without spending an hour or two in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty volumes. he never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading, but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were illustrated, and mend the bindings. he welcomed wet days because on them he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the russia leather of some battered quarto. he had many volumes of old travels, with steel engravings, and mrs. carey quickly found two which described palestine. she coughed elaborately at the door so that philip should have time to compose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him in the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. when she went in philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands so that she might not see he had been crying. "do you know the collect yet?" she said. he did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his voice. she was oddly embarrassed. "i can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp. "oh, well, never mind," she said. "you needn't. i've got some picture books for you to look at. come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them together." philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. he looked down so that she should not see his eyes. she put her arms round him. "look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed lord was born." she showed him an eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets. in the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting two arabs and some camels. philip passed his hand over the picture as if he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads. "read what it says," he asked. mrs. carey in her even voice read the opposite page. it was a romantic narrative of some eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but fragrant with the emotion with which the east came to the generation that followed byron and chateaubriand. in a moment or two philip interrupted her. "i want to see another picture." when mary ann came in and mrs. carey rose to help her lay the cloth. philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations. it was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for tea. he had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart; he had forgotten his tears. next day it was raining, and he asked for the book again. mrs. carey gave it him joyfully. talking over his future with her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this eagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of jesus seemed a good sign. it looked as though the boy's mind addressed itself naturally to holy things. but in a day or two he asked for more books. mr. carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with rome. philip took it greedily. the pictures led him to a new amusement. he began to read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys. then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps because the first impression on his mind was made by an eastern town, he found his chief amusement in those which described the levant. his heart beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but there was one, in a book on constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his imagination. it was called the hall of the thousand columns. it was a byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the darkness had ever been seen again. and philip wondered whether the boat went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last to some strange mansion. one day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon lane's translation of the thousand nights and a night. he was captured first by the illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again and again. he could think of nothing else. he forgot the life about him. he had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner. insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of reading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day a source of bitter disappointment. presently he began to read other things. his brain was precocious. his uncle and aunt, seeing that he occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble themselves about him. mr. carey had so many books that he did not know them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one time and another because they were cheap. haphazard among the sermons and homilies, the travels, the lives of the saints, the fathers, the histories of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these philip at last discovered. he chose them by their titles, and the first he read was the lancashire witches, and then he read the admirable crichton, and then many more. whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe. the summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. and here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the vicarage, reading, reading passionately. time passed and it was july; august came: on sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. neither the vicar nor mrs. carey went out of the garden much during this period; for they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from london with aversion. the house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if philip would like to go and play with them; but mrs. carey returned a polite refusal. she was afraid that philip would be corrupted by little boys from london. he was going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved from contamination. she liked to see in him an infant samuel. x the careys made up their minds to send philip to king's school at tercanbury. the neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. it was united by long tradition to the cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary canon, and a past headmaster was the archdeacon. boys were encouraged there to aspire to holy orders, and the education was such as might prepare an honest lad to spend his life in god's service. a preparatory school was attached to it, and to this it was arranged that philip should go. mr. carey took him into tercanbury one thursday afternoon towards the end of september. all day philip had been excited and rather frightened. he knew little of school life but what he had read in the stories of the boy's own paper. he had also read eric, or little by little. when they got out of the train at tercanbury, philip felt sick with apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. the high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. there was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy, untidy man came out and fetched philip's tin trunk and his play-box. they were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a forbidding rigidity. they waited for the headmaster. "what's mr. watson like?" asked philip, after a while. "you'll see for yourself." there was another pause. mr. carey wondered why the headmaster did not come. presently philip made an effort and spoke again. "tell him i've got a club-foot," he said. before mr. carey could speak the door burst open and mr. watson swept into the room. to philip he seemed gigantic. he was a man of over six feet high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror in philip's heart. he shook hands with mr. carey, and then took philip's small hand in his. "well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted. philip reddened and found no word to answer. "how old are you?" "nine," said philip. "you must say sir," said his uncle. "i expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed cheerily. to give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers. philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch. "i've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... you'll like that, won't you?" he added to philip. "only eight of you in there. you won't feel so strange." then the door opened, and mrs. watson came in. she was a dark woman with black hair, neatly parted in the middle. she had curiously thick lips and a small round nose. her eyes were large and black. there was a singular coldness in her appearance. she seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still. her husband introduced mr. carey to her, and then gave philip a friendly push towards her. "this is a new boy, helen, his name's carey." without a word she shook hands with philip and then sat down, not speaking, while the headmaster asked mr. carey how much philip knew and what books he had been working with. the vicar of blackstable was a little embarrassed by mr. watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two got up. "i think i'd better leave philip with you now." "that's all right," said mr. watson. "he'll be safe with me. he'll get on like a house on fire. won't you, young fellow?" without waiting for an answer from philip the big man burst into a great bellow of laughter. mr. carey kissed philip on the forehead and went away. "come along, young fellow," shouted mr. watson. "i'll show you the school-room." he swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and philip hurriedly limped behind him. he was taken into a long, bare room with two tables that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms. "nobody much here yet," said mr. watson. "i'll just show you the playground, and then i'll leave you to shift for yourself." mr. watson led the way. philip found himself in a large play-ground with high brick walls on three sides of it. on the fourth side was an iron railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the buildings of king's school. one small boy was wandering disconsolately, kicking up the gravel as he walked. "hulloa, venning," shouted mr. watson. "when did you turn up?" the small boy came forward and shook hands. "here's a new boy. he's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully him." the headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them. "what's your name?" "carey." "what's your father?" "he's dead." "oh! does your mother wash?" "my mother's dead, too." philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little. "well, did she wash?" he went on. "yes," said philip indignantly. "she was a washerwoman then?" "no, she wasn't." "then she didn't wash." the little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. then he caught sight of philip's feet. "what's the matter with your foot?" philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. he hid it behind the one which was whole. "i've got a club-foot," he answered. "how did you get it?" "i've always had it." "let's have a look." "no." "don't then." the little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on philip's shin, which philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. the pain was so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the surprise. he did not know why venning kicked him. he had not the presence of mind to give him a black eye. besides, the boy was smaller than he, and he had read in the boy's own paper that it was a mean thing to hit anyone smaller than yourself. while philip was nursing his shin a third boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. in a little while he noticed that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his feet. he grew hot and uncomfortable. but others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what wonderful cricket they had played. a few new boys appeared, and with these presently philip found himself talking. he was shy and nervous. he was anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to say. he was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite willingly. one boy asked him whether he could play cricket. "no," answered philip. "i've got a club-foot." the boy looked down quickly and reddened. philip saw that he felt he had asked an unseemly question. he was too shy to apologise and looked at philip awkwardly. xi next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke philip he looked round his cubicle in astonishment. then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he was. "are you awake, singer?" the partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was a green curtain in front. in those days there was little thought of ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was aired in the morning. philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. it was a cold morning, and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his prayers were more acceptable to god if he said them in his nightshirt than if he waited till he was dressed. this did not surprise him, for he was beginning to realise that he was the creature of a god who appreciated the discomfort of his worshippers. then he washed. there were two baths for the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. the rest of his washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. the boys chatted gaily while they dressed. philip was all ears. then another bell sounded, and they ran downstairs. they took their seats on the forms on each side of the two long tables in the school-room; and mr. watson, followed by his wife and the servants, came in and sat down. mr. watson read prayers in an impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. philip listened with anxiety. then mr. watson read a chapter from the bible, and the servants trooped out. in a moment the untidy youth brought in two large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and butter. philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and followed their example. they all had potted meats and such like, which they had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or bacon, upon which mr. watson made a profit. when he had asked mr. carey whether philip was to have these, mr. carey replied that he did not think boys should be spoilt. mr. watson quite agreed with him--he considered nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it. philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up his mind, when he wrote to aunt louisa, to ask for them. after breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. here the day-boys were gradually assembling. they were sons of the local clergy, of the officers at the depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as the old town possessed. presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into school. this consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one, leading out of it, used by mr. watson, who taught the first form. to attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower second. philip was put in the last. the master, a red-faced man with a pleasant voice, was called rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the time passed quickly. philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven and they were let out for ten minutes' rest. the whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. the new boys were told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along opposite walls. they began to play pig in the middle. the old boys ran from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was seized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still free. philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made straight for the ground he covered. then one of them had the brilliant idea of imitating philip's clumsy run. other boys saw it and began to laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round philip, limping grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. they lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with helpless merriment. one of them tripped philip up and he fell, heavily as he always fell, and cut his knee. they laughed all the louder when he got up. a boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if another had not caught him. the game was forgotten in the entertainment of philip's deformity. one of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the ground and rolled about in laughter: philip was completely scared. he could not make out why they were laughing at him. his heart beat so that he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. he stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him, mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he did not move. he did not want them to see him run any more. he was using all his strength to prevent himself from crying. suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. philip's knee was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. for some minutes mr. rice could not control his form. they were excited still by the strange novelty, and philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his feet. he tucked them under the bench. in the afternoon they went up to play football, but mr. watson stopped philip on the way out after dinner. "i suppose you can't play football, carey?" he asked him. philip blushed self-consciously. "no, sir." "very well. you'd better go up to the field. you can walk as far as that, can't you?" philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same. "yes, sir." the boys went in charge of mr. rice, who glanced at philip and seeing he had not changed, asked why he was not going to play. "mr. watson said i needn't, sir," said philip. "why?" there were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of shame came over philip. he looked down without answering. others gave the reply. "he's got a club-foot, sir." "oh, i see." mr. rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and he was suddenly embarrassed. his instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but he was too shy to do so. he made his voice gruff and loud. "now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? get on with you." some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in groups of two or three. "you'd better come along with me, carey," said the master "you don't know the way, do you?" philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat. "i can't go very fast, sir." "then i'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile. philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said a gentle word to him. he suddenly felt less unhappy. but at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was called singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in philip's. "i say, let's look at your foot," he said. "no," answered philip. he jumped into bed quickly. "don't say no to me," said singer. "come on, mason." the boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words he slipped in. they made for philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off him, but he held them tightly. "why can't you leave me alone?" he cried. singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat philip's hands clenched on the blanket. philip cried out. "why don't you show us your foot quietly?" "i won't." in desperation philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him, but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. he began to turn it. "oh, don't, don't," said philip. "you'll break my arm." "stop still then and put out your foot." philip gave a sob and a gasp. the boy gave the arm another wrench. the pain was unendurable. "all right. i'll do it," said philip. he put out his foot. singer still kept his hand on philip's wrist. he looked curiously at the deformity. "isn't it beastly?" said mason. another came in and looked too. "ugh," he said, in disgust. "my word, it is rum," said singer, making a face. "is it hard?" he touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautiously, as though it were something that had a life of its own. suddenly they heard mr. watson's heavy tread on the stairs. they threw the clothes back on philip and dashed like rabbits into their cubicles. mr. watson came into the dormitory. raising himself on tiptoe he could see over the rod that bore the green curtain, and he looked into two or three of the cubicles. the little boys were safely in bed. he put out the light and went out. singer called out to philip, but he did not answer. he had got his teeth in the pillow so that his sobbing should be inaudible. he was not crying for the pain they had caused him, nor for the humiliation he had suffered when they looked at his foot, but with rage at himself because, unable to stand the torture, he had put out his foot of his own accord. and then he felt the misery of his life. it seemed to his childish mind that this unhappiness must go on for ever. for no particular reason he remembered that cold morning when emma had taken him out of bed and put him beside his mother. he had not thought of it once since it happened, but now he seemed to feel the warmth of his mother's body against his and her arms around him. suddenly it seemed to him that his life was a dream, his mother's death, and the life at the vicarage, and these two wretched days at school, and he would awake in the morning and be back again at home. his tears dried as he thought of it. he was too unhappy, it must be nothing but a dream, and his mother was alive, and emma would come up presently and go to bed. he fell asleep. but when he awoke next morning it was to the clanging of a bell, and the first thing his eyes saw was the green curtain of his cubicle. xii as time went on philip's deformity ceased to interest. it was accepted like one boy's red hair and another's unreasonable corpulence. but meanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. he never ran if he could help it, because he knew it made his limp more conspicuous, and he adopted a peculiar walk. he stood still as much as he could, with his club-foot behind the other, so that it should not attract notice, and he was constantly on the look out for any reference to it. because he could not join in the games which other boys played, their life remained strange to him; he only interested himself from the outside in their doings; and it seemed to him that there was a barrier between them and him. sometimes they seemed to think that it was his fault if he could not play football, and he was unable to make them understand. he was left a good deal to himself. he had been inclined to talkativeness, but gradually he became silent. he began to think of the difference between himself and others. the biggest boy in his dormitory, singer, took a dislike to him, and philip, small for his age, had to put up with a good deal of hard treatment. about half-way through the term a mania ran through the school for a game called nibs. it was a game for two, played on a table or a form with steel pens. you had to push your nib with the finger-nail so as to get the point of it over your opponent's, while he manoeuvred to prevent this and to get the point of his nib over the back of yours; when this result was achieved you breathed on the ball of your thumb, pressed it hard on the two nibs, and if you were able then to lift them without dropping either, both nibs became yours. soon nothing was seen but boys playing this game, and the more skilful acquired vast stores of nibs. but in a little while mr. watson made up his mind that it was a form of gambling, forbade the game, and confiscated all the nibs in the boys' possession. philip had been very adroit, and it was with a heavy heart that he gave up his winning; but his fingers itched to play still, and a few days later, on his way to the football field, he went into a shop and bought a pennyworth of j pens. he carried them loose in his pocket and enjoyed feeling them. presently singer found out that he had them. singer had given up his nibs too, but he had kept back a very large one, called a jumbo, which was almost unconquerable, and he could not resist the opportunity of getting philip's js out of him. though philip knew that he was at a disadvantage with his small nibs, he had an adventurous disposition and was willing to take the risk; besides, he was aware that singer would not allow him to refuse. he had not played for a week and sat down to the game now with a thrill of excitement. he lost two of his small nibs quickly, and singer was jubilant, but the third time by some chance the jumbo slipped round and philip was able to push his j across it. he crowed with triumph. at that moment mr. watson came in. "what are you doing?" he asked. he looked from singer to philip, but neither answered. "don't you know that i've forbidden you to play that idiotic game?" philip's heart beat fast. he knew what was coming and was dreadfully frightened, but in his fright there was a certain exultation. he had never been swished. of course it would hurt, but it was something to boast about afterwards. "come into my study." the headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side singer whispered to philip: "we're in for it." mr. watson pointed to singer. "bend over," he said. philip, very white, saw the boy quiver at each stroke, and after the third he heard him cry out. three more followed. "that'll do. get up." singer stood up. the tears were streaming down his face. philip stepped forward. mr. watson looked at him for a moment. "i'm not going to cane you. you're a new boy. and i can't hit a cripple. go away, both of you, and don't be naughty again." when they got back into the school-room a group of boys, who had learned in some mysterious way what was happening, were waiting for them. they set upon singer at once with eager questions. singer faced them, his face red with the pain and marks of tears still on his cheeks. he pointed with his head at philip, who was standing a little behind him. "he got off because he's a cripple," he said angrily. philip stood silent and flushed. he felt that they looked at him with contempt. "how many did you get?" one boy asked singer. but he did not answer. he was angry because he had been hurt "don't ask me to play nibs with you again," he said to philip. "it's jolly nice for you. you don't risk anything." "i didn't ask you." "didn't you!" he quickly put out his foot and tripped philip up. philip was always rather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily to the ground. "cripple," said singer. for the rest of the term he tormented philip cruelly, and, though philip tried to keep out of his way, the school was so small that it was impossible; he tried being friendly and jolly with him; he abased himself, so far as to buy him a knife; but though singer took the knife he was not placated. once or twice, driven beyond endurance, he hit and kicked the bigger boy, but singer was so much stronger that philip was helpless, and he was always forced after more or less torture to beg his pardon. it was that which rankled with philip: he could not bear the humiliation of apologies, which were wrung from him by pain greater than he could bear. and what made it worse was that there seemed no end to his wretchedness; singer was only eleven and would not go to the upper school till he was thirteen. philip realised that he must live two years with a tormentor from whom there was no escape. he was only happy while he was working and when he got into bed. and often there recurred to him then that queer feeling that his life with all its misery was nothing but a dream, and that he would awake in the morning in his own little bed in london. xiii two years passed, and philip was nearly twelve. he was in the first form, within two or three places of the top, and after christmas when several boys would be leaving for the senior school he would be head boy. he had already quite a collection of prizes, worthless books on bad paper, but in gorgeous bindings decorated with the arms of the school: his position had freed him from bullying, and he was not unhappy. his fellows forgave him his success because of his deformity. "after all, it's jolly easy for him to get prizes," they said, "there's nothing he can do but swat." he had lost his early terror of mr. watson. he had grown used to the loud voice, and when the headmaster's heavy hand was laid on his shoulder philip discerned vaguely the intention of a caress. he had the good memory which is more useful for scholastic achievements than mental power, and he knew mr. watson expected him to leave the preparatory school with a scholarship. but he had grown very self-conscious. the new-born child does not realise that his body is more a part of himself than surrounding objects, and will play with his toes without any feeling that they belong to him more than the rattle by his side; and it is only by degrees, through pain, that he understands the fact of the body. and experiences of the same kind are necessary for the individual to become conscious of himself; but here there is the difference that, although everyone becomes equally conscious of his body as a separate and complete organism, everyone does not become equally conscious of himself as a complete and separate personality. the feeling of apartness from others comes to most with puberty, but it is not always developed to such a degree as to make the difference between the individual and his fellows noticeable to the individual. it is such as he, as little conscious of himself as the bee in a hive, who are the lucky in life, for they have the best chance of happiness: their activities are shared by all, and their pleasures are only pleasures because they are enjoyed in common; you will see them on whit-monday dancing on hampstead heath, shouting at a football match, or from club windows in pall mall cheering a royal procession. it is because of them that man has been called a social animal. philip passed from the innocence of childhood to bitter consciousness of himself by the ridicule which his club-foot had excited. the circumstances of his case were so peculiar that he could not apply to them the ready-made rules which acted well enough in ordinary affairs, and he was forced to think for himself. the many books he had read filled his mind with ideas which, because he only half understood them, gave more scope to his imagination. beneath his painful shyness something was growing up within him, and obscurely he realised his personality. but at times it gave him odd surprises; he did things, he knew not why, and afterwards when he thought of them found himself all at sea. there was a boy called luard between whom and philip a friendship had arisen, and one day, when they were playing together in the school-room, luard began to perform some trick with an ebony pen-holder of philip's. "don't play the giddy ox," said philip. "you'll only break it." "i shan't." but no sooner were the words out of the boy's mouth than the pen-holder snapped in two. luard looked at philip with dismay. "oh, i say, i'm awfully sorry." the tears rolled down philip's cheeks, but he did not answer. "i say, what's the matter?" said luard, with surprise. "i'll get you another one exactly the same." "it's not about the pen-holder i care," said philip, in a trembling voice, "only it was given me by my mater, just before she died." "i say, i'm awfully sorry, carey." "it doesn't matter. it wasn't your fault." philip took the two pieces of the pen-holder and looked at them. he tried to restrain his sobs. he felt utterly miserable. and yet he could not tell why, for he knew quite well that he had bought the pen-holder during his last holidays at blackstable for one and twopence. he did not know in the least what had made him invent that pathetic story, but he was quite as unhappy as though it had been true. the pious atmosphere of the vicarage and the religious tone of the school had made philip's conscience very sensitive; he absorbed insensibly the feeling about him that the tempter was ever on the watch to gain his immortal soul; and though he was not more truthful than most boys he never told a lie without suffering from remorse. when he thought over this incident he was very much distressed, and made up his mind that he must go to luard and tell him that the story was an invention. though he dreaded humiliation more than anything in the world, he hugged himself for two or three days at the thought of the agonising joy of humiliating himself to the glory of god. but he never got any further. he satisfied his conscience by the more comfortable method of expressing his repentance only to the almighty. but he could not understand why he should have been so genuinely affected by the story he was making up. the tears that flowed down his grubby cheeks were real tears. then by some accident of association there occurred to him that scene when emma had told him of his mother's death, and, though he could not speak for crying, he had insisted on going in to say good-bye to the misses watkin so that they might see his grief and pity him. xiv then a wave of religiosity passed through the school. bad language was no longer heard, and the little nastinesses of small boys were looked upon with hostility; the bigger boys, like the lords temporal of the middle ages, used the strength of their arms to persuade those weaker than themselves to virtuous courses. philip, his restless mind avid for new things, became very devout. he heard soon that it was possible to join a bible league, and wrote to london for particulars. these consisted in a form to be filled up with the applicant's name, age, and school; a solemn declaration to be signed that he would read a set portion of holy scripture every night for a year; and a request for half a crown; this, it was explained, was demanded partly to prove the earnestness of the applicant's desire to become a member of the league, and partly to cover clerical expenses. philip duly sent the papers and the money, and in return received a calendar worth about a penny, on which was set down the appointed passage to be read each day, and a sheet of paper on one side of which was a picture of the good shepherd and a lamb, and on the other, decoratively framed in red lines, a short prayer which had to be said before beginning to read. every evening he undressed as quickly as possible in order to have time for his task before the gas was put out. he read industriously, as he read always, without criticism, stories of cruelty, deceit, ingratitude, dishonesty, and low cunning. actions which would have excited his horror in the life about him, in the reading passed through his mind without comment, because they were committed under the direct inspiration of god. the method of the league was to alternate a book of the old testament with a book of the new, and one night philip came across these words of jesus christ: if ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is done to the fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done. and all this, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive. they made no particular impression on him, but it happened that two or three days later, being sunday, the canon in residence chose them for the text of his sermon. even if philip had wanted to hear this it would have been impossible, for the boys of king's school sit in the choir, and the pulpit stands at the corner of the transept so that the preacher's back is almost turned to them. the distance also is so great that it needs a man with a fine voice and a knowledge of elocution to make himself heard in the choir; and according to long usage the canons of tercanbury are chosen for their learning rather than for any qualities which might be of use in a cathedral church. but the words of the text, perhaps because he had read them so short a while before, came clearly enough to philip's ears, and they seemed on a sudden to have a personal application. he thought about them through most of the sermon, and that night, on getting into bed, he turned over the pages of the gospel and found once more the passage. though he believed implicitly everything he saw in print, he had learned already that in the bible things that said one thing quite clearly often mysteriously meant another. there was no one he liked to ask at school, so he kept the question he had in mind till the christmas holidays, and then one day he made an opportunity. it was after supper and prayers were just finished. mrs. carey was counting the eggs that mary ann had brought in as usual and writing on each one the date. philip stood at the table and pretended to turn listlessly the pages of the bible. "i say, uncle william, this passage here, does it really mean that?" he put his finger against it as though he had come across it accidentally. mr. carey looked up over his spectacles. he was holding the blackstable times in front of the fire. it had come in that evening damp from the press, and the vicar always aired it for ten minutes before he began to read. "what passage is that?" he asked. "why, this about if you have faith you can remove mountains." "if it says so in the bible it is so, philip," said mrs. carey gently, taking up the plate-basket. philip looked at his uncle for an answer. "it's a matter of faith." "d'you mean to say that if you really believed you could move mountains you could?" "by the grace of god," said the vicar. "now, say good-night to your uncle, philip," said aunt louisa. "you're not wanting to move a mountain tonight, are you?" philip allowed himself to be kissed on the forehead by his uncle and preceded mrs. carey upstairs. he had got the information he wanted. his little room was icy, and he shivered when he put on his nightshirt. but he always felt that his prayers were more pleasing to god when he said them under conditions of discomfort. the coldness of his hands and feet were an offering to the almighty. and tonight he sank on his knees; buried his face in his hands, and prayed to god with all his might that he would make his club-foot whole. it was a very small thing beside the moving of mountains. he knew that god could do it if he wished, and his own faith was complete. next morning, finishing his prayers with the same request, he fixed a date for the miracle. "oh, god, in thy loving mercy and goodness, if it be thy will, please make my foot all right on the night before i go back to school." he was glad to get his petition into a formula, and he repeated it later in the dining-room during the short pause which the vicar always made after prayers, before he rose from his knees. he said it again in the evening and again, shivering in his nightshirt, before he got into bed. and he believed. for once he looked forward with eagerness to the end of the holidays. he laughed to himself as he thought of his uncle's astonishment when he ran down the stairs three at a time; and after breakfast he and aunt louisa would have to hurry out and buy a new pair of boots. at school they would be astounded. "hulloa, carey, what have you done with your foot?" "oh, it's all right now," he would answer casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. he would be able to play football. his heart leaped as he saw himself running, running, faster than any of the other boys. at the end of the easter term there were the sports, and he would be able to go in for the races; he rather fancied himself over the hurdles. it would be splendid to be like everyone else, not to be stared at curiously by new boys who did not know about his deformity, nor at the baths in summer to need incredible precautions, while he was undressing, before he could hide his foot in the water. he prayed with all the power of his soul. no doubts assailed him. he was confident in the word of god. and the night before he was to go back to school he went up to bed tremulous with excitement. there was snow on the ground, and aunt louisa had allowed herself the unaccustomed luxury of a fire in her bed-room; but in philip's little room it was so cold that his fingers were numb, and he had great difficulty in undoing his collar. his teeth chattered. the idea came to him that he must do something more than usual to attract the attention of god, and he turned back the rug which was in front of his bed so that he could kneel on the bare boards; and then it struck him that his nightshirt was a softness that might displease his maker, so he took it off and said his prayers naked. when he got into bed he was so cold that for some time he could not sleep, but when he did, it was so soundly that mary ann had to shake him when she brought in his hot water next morning. she talked to him while she drew the curtains, but he did not answer; he had remembered at once that this was the morning for the miracle. his heart was filled with joy and gratitude. his first instinct was to put down his hand and feel the foot which was whole now, but to do this seemed to doubt the goodness of god. he knew that his foot was well. but at last he made up his mind, and with the toes of his right foot he just touched his left. then he passed his hand over it. he limped downstairs just as mary ann was going into the dining-room for prayers, and then he sat down to breakfast. "you're very quiet this morning, philip," said aunt louisa presently. "he's thinking of the good breakfast he'll have at school to-morrow," said the vicar. when philip answered, it was in a way that always irritated his uncle, with something that had nothing to do with the matter in hand. he called it a bad habit of wool-gathering. "supposing you'd asked god to do something," said philip, "and really believed it was going to happen, like moving a mountain, i mean, and you had faith, and it didn't happen, what would it mean?" "what a funny boy you are!" said aunt louisa. "you asked about moving mountains two or three weeks ago." "it would just mean that you hadn't got faith," answered uncle william. philip accepted the explanation. if god had not cured him, it was because he did not really believe. and yet he did not see how he could believe more than he did. but perhaps he had not given god enough time. he had only asked him for nineteen days. in a day or two he began his prayer again, and this time he fixed upon easter. that was the day of his son's glorious resurrection, and god in his happiness might be mercifully inclined. but now philip added other means of attaining his desire: he began to wish, when he saw a new moon or a dappled horse, and he looked out for shooting stars; during exeat they had a chicken at the vicarage, and he broke the lucky bone with aunt louisa and wished again, each time that his foot might be made whole. he was appealing unconsciously to gods older to his race than the god of israel. and he bombarded the almighty with his prayer, at odd times of the day, whenever it occurred to him, in identical words always, for it seemed to him important to make his request in the same terms. but presently the feeling came to him that this time also his faith would not be great enough. he could not resist the doubt that assailed him. he made his own experience into a general rule. "i suppose no one ever has faith enough," he said. it was like the salt which his nurse used to tell him about: you could catch any bird by putting salt on his tail; and once he had taken a little bag of it into kensington gardens. but he could never get near enough to put the salt on a bird's tail. before easter he had given up the struggle. he felt a dull resentment against his uncle for taking him in. the text which spoke of the moving of mountains was just one of those that said one thing and meant another. he thought his uncle had been playing a practical joke on him. xv the king's school at tercanbury, to which philip went when he was thirteen, prided itself on its antiquity. it traced its origin to an abbey school, founded before the conquest, where the rudiments of learning were taught by augustine monks; and, like many another establishment of this sort, on the destruction of the monasteries it had been reorganised by the officers of king henry viii and thus acquired its name. since then, pursuing its modest course, it had given to the sons of the local gentry and of the professional people of kent an education sufficient to their needs. one or two men of letters, beginning with a poet, than whom only shakespeare had a more splendid genius, and ending with a writer of prose whose view of life has affected profoundly the generation of which philip was a member, had gone forth from its gates to achieve fame; it had produced one or two eminent lawyers, but eminent lawyers are common, and one or two soldiers of distinction; but during the three centuries since its separation from the monastic order it had trained especially men of the church, bishops, deans, canons, and above all country clergymen: there were boys in the school whose fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, had been educated there and had all been rectors of parishes in the diocese of tercanbury; and they came to it with their minds made up already to be ordained. but there were signs notwithstanding that even there changes were coming; for a few, repeating what they had heard at home, said that the church was no longer what it used to be. it wasn't so much the money; but the class of people who went in for it weren't the same; and two or three boys knew curates whose fathers were tradesmen: they'd rather go out to the colonies (in those days the colonies were still the last hope of those who could get nothing to do in england) than be a curate under some chap who wasn't a gentleman. at king's school, as at blackstable vicarage, a tradesman was anyone who was not lucky enough to own land (and here a fine distinction was made between the gentleman farmer and the landowner), or did not follow one of the four professions to which it was possible for a gentleman to belong. among the day-boys, of whom there were about a hundred and fifty, sons of the local gentry and of the men stationed at the depot, those whose fathers were engaged in business were made to feel the degradation of their state. the masters had no patience with modern ideas of education, which they read of sometimes in the times or the guardian, and hoped fervently that king's school would remain true to its old traditions. the dead languages were taught with such thoroughness that an old boy seldom thought of homer or virgil in after life without a qualm of boredom; and though in the common room at dinner one or two bolder spirits suggested that mathematics were of increasing importance, the general feeling was that they were a less noble study than the classics. neither german nor chemistry was taught, and french only by the form-masters; they could keep order better than a foreigner, and, since they knew the grammar as well as any frenchman, it seemed unimportant that none of them could have got a cup of coffee in the restaurant at boulogne unless the waiter had known a little english. geography was taught chiefly by making boys draw maps, and this was a favourite occupation, especially when the country dealt with was mountainous: it was possible to waste a great deal of time in drawing the andes or the apennines. the masters, graduates of oxford or cambridge, were ordained and unmarried; if by chance they wished to marry they could only do so by accepting one of the smaller livings at the disposal of the chapter; but for many years none of them had cared to leave the refined society of tercanbury, which owing to the cavalry depot had a martial as well as an ecclesiastical tone, for the monotony of life in a country rectory; and they were now all men of middle age. the headmaster, on the other hand, was obliged to be married and he conducted the school till age began to tell upon him. when he retired he was rewarded with a much better living than any of the under-masters could hope for, and an honorary canonry. but a year before philip entered the school a great change had come over it. it had been obvious for some time that dr. fleming, who had been headmaster for the quarter of a century, was become too deaf to continue his work to the greater glory of god; and when one of the livings on the outskirts of the city fell vacant, with a stipend of six hundred a year, the chapter offered it to him in such a manner as to imply that they thought it high time for him to retire. he could nurse his ailments comfortably on such an income. two or three curates who had hoped for preferment told their wives it was scandalous to give a parish that needed a young, strong, and energetic man to an old fellow who knew nothing of parochial work, and had feathered his nest already; but the mutterings of the unbeneficed clergy do not reach the ears of a cathedral chapter. and as for the parishioners they had nothing to say in the matter, and therefore nobody asked for their opinion. the wesleyans and the baptists both had chapels in the village. when dr. fleming was thus disposed of it became necessary to find a successor. it was contrary to the traditions of the school that one of the lower-masters should be chosen. the common-room was unanimous in desiring the election of mr. watson, headmaster of the preparatory school; he could hardly be described as already a master of king's school, they had all known him for twenty years, and there was no danger that he would make a nuisance of himself. but the chapter sprang a surprise on them. it chose a man called perkins. at first nobody knew who perkins was, and the name favourably impressed no one; but before the shock of it had passed away, it was realised that perkins was the son of perkins the linendraper. dr. fleming informed the masters just before dinner, and his manner showed his consternation. such of them as were dining in, ate their meal almost in silence, and no reference was made to the matter till the servants had left the room. then they set to. the names of those present on this occasion are unimportant, but they had been known to generations of school-boys as sighs, tar, winks, squirts, and pat. they all knew tom perkins. the first thing about him was that he was not a gentleman. they remembered him quite well. he was a small, dark boy, with untidy black hair and large eyes. he looked like a gipsy. he had come to the school as a day-boy, with the best scholarship on their endowment, so that his education had cost him nothing. of course he was brilliant. at every speech-day he was loaded with prizes. he was their show-boy, and they remembered now bitterly their fear that he would try to get some scholarship at one of the larger public schools and so pass out of their hands. dr. fleming had gone to the linendraper his father--they all remembered the shop, perkins and cooper, in st. catherine's street--and said he hoped tom would remain with them till he went to oxford. the school was perkins and cooper's best customer, and mr. perkins was only too glad to give the required assurance. tom perkins continued to triumph, he was the finest classical scholar that dr. fleming remembered, and on leaving the school took with him the most valuable scholarship they had to offer. he got another at magdalen and settled down to a brilliant career at the university. the school magazine recorded the distinctions he achieved year after year, and when he got his double first dr. fleming himself wrote a few words of eulogy on the front page. it was with greater satisfaction that they welcomed his success, since perkins and cooper had fallen upon evil days: cooper drank like a fish, and just before tom perkins took his degree the linendrapers filed their petition in bankruptcy. in due course tom perkins took holy orders and entered upon the profession for which he was so admirably suited. he had been an assistant master at wellington and then at rugby. but there was quite a difference between welcoming his success at other schools and serving under his leadership in their own. tar had frequently given him lines, and squirts had boxed his ears. they could not imagine how the chapter had made such a mistake. no one could be expected to forget that he was the son of a bankrupt linendraper, and the alcoholism of cooper seemed to increase the disgrace. it was understood that the dean had supported his candidature with zeal, so the dean would probably ask him to dinner; but would the pleasant little dinners in the precincts ever be the same when tom perkins sat at the table? and what about the depot? he really could not expect officers and gentlemen to receive him as one of themselves. it would do the school incalculable harm. parents would be dissatisfied, and no one could be surprised if there were wholesale withdrawals. and then the indignity of calling him mr. perkins! the masters thought by way of protest of sending in their resignations in a body, but the uneasy fear that they would be accepted with equanimity restrained them. "the only thing is to prepare ourselves for changes," said sighs, who had conducted the fifth form for five and twenty years with unparalleled incompetence. and when they saw him they were not reassured. dr. fleming invited them to meet him at luncheon. he was now a man of thirty-two, tall and lean, but with the same wild and unkempt look they remembered on him as a boy. his clothes, ill-made and shabby, were put on untidily. his hair was as black and as long as ever, and he had plainly never learned to brush it; it fell over his forehead with every gesture, and he had a quick movement of the hand with which he pushed it back from his eyes. he had a black moustache and a beard which came high up on his face almost to the cheek-bones, he talked to the masters quite easily, as though he had parted from them a week or two before; he was evidently delighted to see them. he seemed unconscious of the strangeness of the position and appeared not to notice any oddness in being addressed as mr. perkins. when he bade them good-bye, one of the masters, for something to say, remarked that he was allowing himself plenty of time to catch his train. "i want to go round and have a look at the shop," he answered cheerfully. there was a distinct embarrassment. they wondered that he could be so tactless, and to make it worse dr. fleming had not heard what he said. his wife shouted it in his ear. "he wants to go round and look at his father's old shop." only tom perkins was unconscious of the humiliation which the whole party felt. he turned to mrs. fleming. "who's got it now, d'you know?" she could hardly answer. she was very angry. "it's still a linendraper's," she said bitterly. "grove is the name. we don't deal there any more." "i wonder if he'd let me go over the house." "i expect he would if you explain who you are." it was not till the end of dinner that evening that any reference was made in the common-room to the subject that was in all their minds. then it was sighs who asked: "well, what did you think of our new head?" they thought of the conversation at luncheon. it was hardly a conversation; it was a monologue. perkins had talked incessantly. he talked very quickly, with a flow of easy words and in a deep, resonant voice. he had a short, odd little laugh which showed his white teeth. they had followed him with difficulty, for his mind darted from subject to subject with a connection they did not always catch. he talked of pedagogics, and this was natural enough; but he had much to say of modern theories in germany which they had never heard of and received with misgiving. he talked of the classics, but he had been to greece, and he discoursed of archaeology; he had once spent a winter digging; they could not see how that helped a man to teach boys to pass examinations, he talked of politics. it sounded odd to them to hear him compare lord beaconsfield with alcibiades. he talked of mr. gladstone and home rule. they realised that he was a liberal. their hearts sank. he talked of german philosophy and of french fiction. they could not think a man profound whose interests were so diverse. it was winks who summed up the general impression and put it into a form they all felt conclusively damning. winks was the master of the upper third, a weak-kneed man with drooping eye-lids, he was too tall for his strength, and his movements were slow and languid. he gave an impression of lassitude, and his nickname was eminently appropriate. "he's very enthusiastic," said winks. enthusiasm was ill-bred. enthusiasm was ungentlemanly. they thought of the salvation army with its braying trumpets and its drums. enthusiasm meant change. they had goose-flesh when they thought of all the pleasant old habits which stood in imminent danger. they hardly dared to look forward to the future. "he looks more of a gipsy than ever," said one, after a pause. "i wonder if the dean and chapter knew that he was a radical when they elected him," another observed bitterly. but conversation halted. they were too much disturbed for words. when tar and sighs were walking together to the chapter house on speech-day a week later, tar, who had a bitter tongue, remarked to his colleague: "well, we've seen a good many speech-days here, haven't we? i wonder if we shall see another." sighs was more melancholy even than usual. "if anything worth having comes along in the way of a living i don't mind when i retire." xvi a year passed, and when philip came to the school the old masters were all in their places; but a good many changes had taken place notwithstanding their stubborn resistance, none the less formidable because it was concealed under an apparent desire to fall in with the new head's ideas. though the form-masters still taught french to the lower school, another master had come, with a degree of doctor of philology from the university of heidelberg and a record of three years spent in a french lycee, to teach french to the upper forms and german to anyone who cared to take it up instead of greek. another master was engaged to teach mathematics more systematically than had been found necessary hitherto. neither of these was ordained. this was a real revolution, and when the pair arrived the older masters received them with distrust. a laboratory had been fitted up, army classes were instituted; they all said the character of the school was changing. and heaven only knew what further projects mr. perkins turned in that untidy head of his. the school was small as public schools go, there were not more than two hundred boarders; and it was difficult for it to grow larger, for it was huddled up against the cathedral; the precincts, with the exception of a house in which some of the masters lodged, were occupied by the cathedral clergy; and there was no more room for building. but mr. perkins devised an elaborate scheme by which he might obtain sufficient space to make the school double its present size. he wanted to attract boys from london. he thought it would be good for them to be thrown in contact with the kentish lads, and it would sharpen the country wits of these. "it's against all our traditions," said sighs, when mr. perkins made the suggestion to him. "we've rather gone out of our way to avoid the contamination of boys from london." "oh, what nonsense!" said mr. perkins. no one had ever told the form-master before that he talked nonsense, and he was meditating an acid reply, in which perhaps he might insert a veiled reference to hosiery, when mr. perkins in his impetuous way attacked him outrageously. "that house in the precincts--if you'd only marry i'd get the chapter to put another couple of stories on, and we'd make dormitories and studies, and your wife could help you." the elderly clergyman gasped. why should he marry? he was fifty-seven, a man couldn't marry at fifty-seven. he couldn't start looking after a house at his time of life. he didn't want to marry. if the choice lay between that and the country living he would much sooner resign. all he wanted now was peace and quietness. "i'm not thinking of marrying," he said. mr. perkins looked at him with his dark, bright eyes, and if there was a twinkle in them poor sighs never saw it. "what a pity! couldn't you marry to oblige me? it would help me a great deal with the dean and chapter when i suggest rebuilding your house." but mr. perkins' most unpopular innovation was his system of taking occasionally another man's form. he asked it as a favour, but after all it was a favour which could not be refused, and as tar, otherwise mr. turner, said, it was undignified for all parties. he gave no warning, but after morning prayers would say to one of the masters: "i wonder if you'd mind taking the sixth today at eleven. we'll change over, shall we?" they did not know whether this was usual at other schools, but certainly it had never been done at tercanbury. the results were curious. mr. turner, who was the first victim, broke the news to his form that the headmaster would take them for latin that day, and on the pretence that they might like to ask him a question or two so that they should not make perfect fools of themselves, spent the last quarter of an hour of the history lesson in construing for them the passage of livy which had been set for the day; but when he rejoined his class and looked at the paper on which mr. perkins had written the marks, a surprise awaited him; for the two boys at the top of the form seemed to have done very ill, while others who had never distinguished themselves before were given full marks. when he asked eldridge, his cleverest boy, what was the meaning of this the answer came sullenly: "mr. perkins never gave us any construing to do. he asked me what i knew about general gordon." mr. turner looked at him in astonishment. the boys evidently felt they had been hardly used, and he could not help agreeing with their silent dissatisfaction. he could not see either what general gordon had to do with livy. he hazarded an inquiry afterwards. "eldridge was dreadfully put out because you asked him what he knew about general gordon," he said to the headmaster, with an attempt at a chuckle. mr. perkins laughed. "i saw they'd got to the agrarian laws of caius gracchus, and i wondered if they knew anything about the agrarian troubles in ireland. but all they knew about ireland was that dublin was on the liffey. so i wondered if they'd ever heard of general gordon." then the horrid fact was disclosed that the new head had a mania for general information. he had doubts about the utility of examinations on subjects which had been crammed for the occasion. he wanted common sense. sighs grew more worried every month; he could not get the thought out of his head that mr. perkins would ask him to fix a day for his marriage; and he hated the attitude the head adopted towards classical literature. there was no doubt that he was a fine scholar, and he was engaged on a work which was quite in the right tradition: he was writing a treatise on the trees in latin literature; but he talked of it flippantly, as though it were a pastime of no great importance, like billiards, which engaged his leisure but was not to be considered with seriousness. and squirts, the master of the middle third, grew more ill-tempered every day. it was in his form that philip was put on entering the school. the rev. b. b. gordon was a man by nature ill-suited to be a schoolmaster: he was impatient and choleric. with no one to call him to account, with only small boys to face him, he had long lost all power of self-control. he began his work in a rage and ended it in a passion. he was a man of middle height and of a corpulent figure; he had sandy hair, worn very short and now growing gray, and a small bristly moustache. his large face, with indistinct features and small blue eyes, was naturally red, but during his frequent attacks of anger it grew dark and purple. his nails were bitten to the quick, for while some trembling boy was construing he would sit at his desk shaking with the fury that consumed him, and gnaw his fingers. stories, perhaps exaggerated, were told of his violence, and two years before there had been some excitement in the school when it was heard that one father was threatening a prosecution: he had boxed the ears of a boy named walters with a book so violently that his hearing was affected and the boy had to be taken away from the school. the boy's father lived in tercanbury, and there had been much indignation in the city, the local paper had referred to the matter; but mr. walters was only a brewer, so the sympathy was divided. the rest of the boys, for reasons best known to themselves, though they loathed the master, took his side in the affair, and, to show their indignation that the school's business had been dealt with outside, made things as uncomfortable as they could for walters' younger brother, who still remained. but mr. gordon had only escaped the country living by the skin of his teeth, and he had never hit a boy since. the right the masters possessed to cane boys on the hand was taken away from them, and squirts could no longer emphasize his anger by beating his desk with the cane. he never did more now than take a boy by the shoulders and shake him. he still made a naughty or refractory lad stand with one arm stretched out for anything from ten minutes to half an hour, and he was as violent as before with his tongue. no master could have been more unfitted to teach things to so shy a boy as philip. he had come to the school with fewer terrors than he had when first he went to mr. watson's. he knew a good many boys who had been with him at the preparatory school. he felt more grownup, and instinctively realised that among the larger numbers his deformity would be less noticeable. but from the first day mr. gordon struck terror in his heart; and the master, quick to discern the boys who were frightened of him, seemed on that account to take a peculiar dislike to him. philip had enjoyed his work, but now he began to look upon the hours passed in school with horror. rather than risk an answer which might be wrong and excite a storm of abuse from the master, he would sit stupidly silent, and when it came towards his turn to stand up and construe he grew sick and white with apprehension. his happy moments were those when mr. perkins took the form. he was able to gratify the passion for general knowledge which beset the headmaster; he had read all sorts of strange books beyond his years, and often mr. perkins, when a question was going round the room, would stop at philip with a smile that filled the boy with rapture, and say: "now, carey, you tell them." the good marks he got on these occasions increased mr. gordon's indignation. one day it came to philip's turn to translate, and the master sat there glaring at him and furiously biting his thumb. he was in a ferocious mood. philip began to speak in a low voice. "don't mumble," shouted the master. something seemed to stick in philip's throat. "go on. go on. go on." each time the words were screamed more loudly. the effect was to drive all he knew out of philip's head, and he looked at the printed page vacantly. mr. gordon began to breathe heavily. "if you don't know why don't you say so? do you know it or not? did you hear all this construed last time or not? why don't you speak? speak, you blockhead, speak!" the master seized the arms of his chair and grasped them as though to prevent himself from falling upon philip. they knew that in past days he often used to seize boys by the throat till they almost choked. the veins in his forehead stood out and his face grew dark and threatening. he was a man insane. philip had known the passage perfectly the day before, but now he could remember nothing. "i don't know it," he gasped. "why don't you know it? let's take the words one by one. we'll soon see if you don't know it." philip stood silent, very white, trembling a little, with his head bent down on the book. the master's breathing grew almost stertorous. "the headmaster says you're clever. i don't know how he sees it. general information." he laughed savagely. "i don't know what they put you in his form for, blockhead." he was pleased with the word, and he repeated it at the top of his voice. "blockhead! blockhead! club-footed blockhead!" that relieved him a little. he saw philip redden suddenly. he told him to fetch the black book. philip put down his caesar and went silently out. the black book was a sombre volume in which the names of boys were written with their misdeeds, and when a name was down three times it meant a caning. philip went to the headmaster's house and knocked at his study-door. mr. perkins was seated at his table. "may i have the black book, please, sir." "there it is," answered mr. perkins, indicating its place by a nod of his head. "what have you been doing that you shouldn't?" "i don't know, sir." mr. perkins gave him a quick look, but without answering went on with his work. philip took the book and went out. when the hour was up, a few minutes later, he brought it back. "let me have a look at it," said the headmaster. "i see mr. gordon has black-booked you for 'gross impertinence.' what was it?" "i don't know, sir. mr. gordon said i was a club-footed blockhead." mr. perkins looked at him again. he wondered whether there was sarcasm behind the boy's reply, but he was still much too shaken. his face was white and his eyes had a look of terrified distress. mr. perkins got up and put the book down. as he did so he took up some photographs. "a friend of mine sent me some pictures of athens this morning," he said casually. "look here, there's the akropolis." he began explaining to philip what he saw. the ruin grew vivid with his words. he showed him the theatre of dionysus and explained in what order the people sat, and how beyond they could see the blue aegean. and then suddenly he said: "i remember mr. gordon used to call me a gipsy counter-jumper when i was in his form." and before philip, his mind fixed on the photographs, had time to gather the meaning of the remark, mr. perkins was showing him a picture of salamis, and with his finger, a finger of which the nail had a little black edge to it, was pointing out how the greek ships were placed and how the persian. xvii philip passed the next two years with comfortable monotony. he was not bullied more than other boys of his size; and his deformity, withdrawing him from games, acquired for him an insignificance for which he was grateful. he was not popular, and he was very lonely. he spent a couple of terms with winks in the upper third. winks, with his weary manner and his drooping eyelids, looked infinitely bored. he did his duty, but he did it with an abstracted mind. he was kind, gentle, and foolish. he had a great belief in the honour of boys; he felt that the first thing to make them truthful was not to let it enter your head for a moment that it was possible for them to lie. "ask much," he quoted, "and much shall be given to you." life was easy in the upper third. you knew exactly what lines would come to your turn to construe, and with the crib that passed from hand to hand you could find out all you wanted in two minutes; you could hold a latin grammar open on your knees while questions were passing round; and winks never noticed anything odd in the fact that the same incredible mistake was to be found in a dozen different exercises. he had no great faith in examinations, for he noticed that boys never did so well in them as in form: it was disappointing, but not significant. in due course they were moved up, having learned little but a cheerful effrontery in the distortion of truth, which was possibly of greater service to them in after life than an ability to read latin at sight. then they fell into the hands of tar. his name was turner; he was the most vivacious of the old masters, a short man with an immense belly, a black beard turning now to gray, and a swarthy skin. in his clerical dress there was indeed something in him to suggest the tar-barrel; and though on principle he gave five hundred lines to any boy on whose lips he overheard his nickname, at dinner-parties in the precincts he often made little jokes about it. he was the most worldly of the masters; he dined out more frequently than any of the others, and the society he kept was not so exclusively clerical. the boys looked upon him as rather a dog. he left off his clerical attire during the holidays and had been seen in switzerland in gay tweeds. he liked a bottle of wine and a good dinner, and having once been seen at the cafe royal with a lady who was very probably a near relation, was thenceforward supposed by generations of schoolboys to indulge in orgies the circumstantial details of which pointed to an unbounded belief in human depravity. mr. turner reckoned that it took him a term to lick boys into shape after they had been in the upper third; and now and then he let fall a sly hint, which showed that he knew perfectly what went on in his colleague's form. he took it good-humouredly. he looked upon boys as young ruffians who were more apt to be truthful if it was quite certain a lie would be found out, whose sense of honour was peculiar to themselves and did not apply to dealings with masters, and who were least likely to be troublesome when they learned that it did not pay. he was proud of his form and as eager at fifty-five that it should do better in examinations than any of the others as he had been when he first came to the school. he had the choler of the obese, easily roused and as easily calmed, and his boys soon discovered that there was much kindliness beneath the invective with which he constantly assailed them. he had no patience with fools, but was willing to take much trouble with boys whom he suspected of concealing intelligence behind their wilfulness. he was fond of inviting them to tea; and, though vowing they never got a look in with him at the cakes and muffins, for it was the fashion to believe that his corpulence pointed to a voracious appetite, and his voracious appetite to tapeworms, they accepted his invitations with real pleasure. philip was now more comfortable, for space was so limited that there were only studies for boys in the upper school, and till then he had lived in the great hall in which they all ate and in which the lower forms did preparation in a promiscuity which was vaguely distasteful to him. now and then it made him restless to be with people and he wanted urgently to be alone. he set out for solitary walks into the country. there was a little stream, with pollards on both sides of it, that ran through green fields, and it made him happy, he knew not why, to wander along its banks. when he was tired he lay face-downward on the grass and watched the eager scurrying of minnows and of tadpoles. it gave him a peculiar satisfaction to saunter round the precincts. on the green in the middle they practised at nets in the summer, but during the rest of the year it was quiet: boys used to wander round sometimes arm in arm, or a studious fellow with abstracted gaze walked slowly, repeating to himself something he had to learn by heart. there was a colony of rooks in the great elms, and they filled the air with melancholy cries. along one side lay the cathedral with its great central tower, and philip, who knew as yet nothing of beauty, felt when he looked at it a troubling delight which he could not understand. when he had a study (it was a little square room looking on a slum, and four boys shared it), he bought a photograph of that view of the cathedral, and pinned it up over his desk. and he found himself taking a new interest in what he saw from the window of the fourth form room. it looked on to old lawns, carefully tended, and fine trees with foliage dense and rich. it gave him an odd feeling in his heart, and he did not know if it was pain or pleasure. it was the first dawn of the aesthetic emotion. it accompanied other changes. his voice broke. it was no longer quite under his control, and queer sounds issued from his throat. then he began to go to the classes which were held in the headmaster's study, immediately after tea, to prepare boys for confirmation. philip's piety had not stood the test of time, and he had long since given up his nightly reading of the bible; but now, under the influence of mr. perkins, with this new condition of the body which made him so restless, his old feelings revived, and he reproached himself bitterly for his backsliding. the fires of hell burned fiercely before his mind's eye. if he had died during that time when he was little better than an infidel he would have been lost; he believed implicitly in pain everlasting, he believed in it much more than in eternal happiness; and he shuddered at the dangers he had run. since the day on which mr. perkins had spoken kindly to him, when he was smarting under the particular form of abuse which he could least bear, philip had conceived for his headmaster a dog-like adoration. he racked his brains vainly for some way to please him. he treasured the smallest word of commendation which by chance fell from his lips. and when he came to the quiet little meetings in his house he was prepared to surrender himself entirely. he kept his eyes fixed on mr. perkins' shining eyes, and sat with mouth half open, his head a little thrown forward so as to miss no word. the ordinariness of the surroundings made the matters they dealt with extraordinarily moving. and often the master, seized himself by the wonder of his subject, would push back the book in front of him, and with his hands clasped together over his heart, as though to still the beating, would talk of the mysteries of their religion. sometimes philip did not understand, but he did not want to understand, he felt vaguely that it was enough to feel. it seemed to him then that the headmaster, with his black, straggling hair and his pale face, was like those prophets of israel who feared not to take kings to task; and when he thought of the redeemer he saw him only with the same dark eyes and those wan cheeks. mr. perkins took this part of his work with great seriousness. there was never here any of that flashing humour which made the other masters suspect him of flippancy. finding time for everything in his busy day, he was able at certain intervals to take separately for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes the boys whom he was preparing for confirmation. he wanted to make them feel that this was the first consciously serious step in their lives; he tried to grope into the depths of their souls; he wanted to instil in them his own vehement devotion. in philip, notwithstanding his shyness, he felt the possibility of a passion equal to his own. the boy's temperament seemed to him essentially religious. one day he broke off suddenly from the subject on which he had been talking. "have you thought at all what you're going to be when you grow up?" he asked. "my uncle wants me to be ordained," said philip. "and you?" philip looked away. he was ashamed to answer that he felt himself unworthy. "i don't know any life that's so full of happiness as ours. i wish i could make you feel what a wonderful privilege it is. one can serve god in every walk, but we stand nearer to him. i don't want to influence you, but if you made up your mind--oh, at once--you couldn't help feeling that joy and relief which never desert one again." philip did not answer, but the headmaster read in his eyes that he realised already something of what he tried to indicate. "if you go on as you are now you'll find yourself head of the school one of these days, and you ought to be pretty safe for a scholarship when you leave. have you got anything of your own?" "my uncle says i shall have a hundred a year when i'm twenty-one." "you'll be rich. i had nothing." the headmaster hesitated a moment, and then, idly drawing lines with a pencil on the blotting paper in front of him, went on. "i'm afraid your choice of professions will be rather limited. you naturally couldn't go in for anything that required physical activity." philip reddened to the roots of his hair, as he always did when any reference was made to his club-foot. mr. perkins looked at him gravely. "i wonder if you're not oversensitive about your misfortune. has it ever struck you to thank god for it?" philip looked up quickly. his lips tightened. he remembered how for months, trusting in what they told him, he had implored god to heal him as he had healed the leper and made the blind to see. "as long as you accept it rebelliously it can only cause you shame. but if you looked upon it as a cross that was given you to bear only because your shoulders were strong enough to bear it, a sign of god's favour, then it would be a source of happiness to you instead of misery." he saw that the boy hated to discuss the matter and he let him go. but philip thought over all that the headmaster had said, and presently, his mind taken up entirely with the ceremony that was before him, a mystical rapture seized him. his spirit seemed to free itself from the bonds of the flesh and he seemed to be living a new life. he aspired to perfection with all the passion that was in him. he wanted to surrender himself entirely to the service of god, and he made up his mind definitely that he would be ordained. when the great day arrived, his soul deeply moved by all the preparation, by the books he had studied and above all by the overwhelming influence of the head, he could hardly contain himself for fear and joy. one thought had tormented him. he knew that he would have to walk alone through the chancel, and he dreaded showing his limp thus obviously, not only to the whole school, who were attending the service, but also to the strangers, people from the city or parents who had come to see their sons confirmed. but when the time came he felt suddenly that he could accept the humiliation joyfully; and as he limped up the chancel, very small and insignificant beneath the lofty vaulting of the cathedral, he offered consciously his deformity as a sacrifice to the god who loved him. xviii but philip could not live long in the rarefied air of the hilltops. what had happened to him when first he was seized by the religious emotion happened to him now. because he felt so keenly the beauty of faith, because the desire for self-sacrifice burned in his heart with such a gem-like glow, his strength seemed inadequate to his ambition. he was tired out by the violence of his passion. his soul was filled on a sudden with a singular aridity. he began to forget the presence of god which had seemed so surrounding; and his religious exercises, still very punctually performed, grew merely formal. at first he blamed himself for this falling away, and the fear of hell-fire urged him to renewed vehemence; but the passion was dead, and gradually other interests distracted his thoughts. philip had few friends. his habit of reading isolated him: it became such a need that after being in company for some time he grew tired and restless; he was vain of the wider knowledge he had acquired from the perusal of so many books, his mind was alert, and he had not the skill to hide his contempt for his companions' stupidity. they complained that he was conceited; and, since he excelled only in matters which to them were unimportant, they asked satirically what he had to be conceited about. he was developing a sense of humour, and found that he had a knack of saying bitter things, which caught people on the raw; he said them because they amused him, hardly realising how much they hurt, and was much offended when he found that his victims regarded him with active dislike. the humiliations he suffered when first he went to school had caused in him a shrinking from his fellows which he could never entirely overcome; he remained shy and silent. but though he did everything to alienate the sympathy of other boys he longed with all his heart for the popularity which to some was so easily accorded. these from his distance he admired extravagantly; and though he was inclined to be more sarcastic with them than with others, though he made little jokes at their expense, he would have given anything to change places with them. indeed he would gladly have changed places with the dullest boy in the school who was whole of limb. he took to a singular habit. he would imagine that he was some boy whom he had a particular fancy for; he would throw his soul, as it were, into the other's body, talk with his voice and laugh with his heart; he would imagine himself doing all the things the other did. it was so vivid that he seemed for a moment really to be no longer himself. in this way he enjoyed many intervals of fantastic happiness. at the beginning of the christmas term which followed on his confirmation philip found himself moved into another study. one of the boys who shared it was called rose. he was in the same form as philip, and philip had always looked upon him with envious admiration. he was not good-looking; though his large hands and big bones suggested that he would be a tall man, he was clumsily made; but his eyes were charming, and when he laughed (he was constantly laughing) his face wrinkled all round them in a jolly way. he was neither clever nor stupid, but good enough at his work and better at games. he was a favourite with masters and boys, and he in his turn liked everyone. when philip was put in the study he could not help seeing that the others, who had been together for three terms, welcomed him coldly. it made him nervous to feel himself an intruder; but he had learned to hide his feelings, and they found him quiet and unobtrusive. with rose, because he was as little able as anyone else to resist his charm, philip was even more than usually shy and abrupt; and whether on account of this, unconsciously bent upon exerting the fascination he knew was his only by the results, or whether from sheer kindness of heart, it was rose who first took philip into the circle. one day, quite suddenly, he asked philip if he would walk to the football field with him. philip flushed. "i can't walk fast enough for you," he said. "rot. come on." and just before they were setting out some boy put his head in the study-door and asked rose to go with him. "i can't," he answered. "i've already promised carey." "don't bother about me," said philip quickly. "i shan't mind." "rot," said rose. he looked at philip with those good-natured eyes of his and laughed. philip felt a curious tremor in his heart. in a little while, their friendship growing with boyish rapidity, the pair were inseparable. other fellows wondered at the sudden intimacy, and rose was asked what he saw in philip. "oh, i don't know," he answered. "he's not half a bad chap really." soon they grew accustomed to the two walking into chapel arm in arm or strolling round the precincts in conversation; wherever one was the other could be found also, and, as though acknowledging his proprietorship, boys who wanted rose would leave messages with carey. philip at first was reserved. he would not let himself yield entirely to the proud joy that filled him; but presently his distrust of the fates gave way before a wild happiness. he thought rose the most wonderful fellow he had ever seen. his books now were insignificant; he could not bother about them when there was something infinitely more important to occupy him. rose's friends used to come in to tea in the study sometimes or sit about when there was nothing better to do--rose liked a crowd and the chance of a rag--and they found that philip was quite a decent fellow. philip was happy. when the last day of term came he and rose arranged by which train they should come back, so that they might meet at the station and have tea in the town before returning to school. philip went home with a heavy heart. he thought of rose all through the holidays, and his fancy was active with the things they would do together next term. he was bored at the vicarage, and when on the last day his uncle put him the usual question in the usual facetious tone: "well, are you glad to be going back to school?" philip answered joyfully. "rather." in order to be sure of meeting rose at the station he took an earlier train than he usually did, and he waited about the platform for an hour. when the train came in from faversham, where he knew rose had to change, he ran along it excitedly. but rose was not there. he got a porter to tell him when another train was due, and he waited; but again he was disappointed; and he was cold and hungry, so he walked, through side-streets and slums, by a short cut to the school. he found rose in the study, with his feet on the chimney-piece, talking eighteen to the dozen with half a dozen boys who were sitting on whatever there was to sit on. he shook hands with philip enthusiastically, but philip's face fell, for he realised that rose had forgotten all about their appointment. "i say, why are you so late?" said rose. "i thought you were never coming." "you were at the station at half-past four," said another boy. "i saw you when i came." philip blushed a little. he did not want rose to know that he had been such a fool as to wait for him. "i had to see about a friend of my people's," he invented readily. "i was asked to see her off." but his disappointment made him a little sulky. he sat in silence, and when spoken to answered in monosyllables. he was making up his mind to have it out with rose when they were alone. but when the others had gone rose at once came over and sat on the arm of the chair in which philip was lounging. "i say, i'm jolly glad we're in the same study this term. ripping, isn't it?" he seemed so genuinely pleased to see philip that philip's annoyance vanished. they began as if they had not been separated for five minutes to talk eagerly of the thousand things that interested them. xix at first philip had been too grateful for rose's friendship to make any demands on him. he took things as they came and enjoyed life. but presently he began to resent rose's universal amiability; he wanted a more exclusive attachment, and he claimed as a right what before he had accepted as a favour. he watched jealously rose's companionship with others; and though he knew it was unreasonable could not help sometimes saying bitter things to him. if rose spent an hour playing the fool in another study, philip would receive him when he returned to his own with a sullen frown. he would sulk for a day, and he suffered more because rose either did not notice his ill-humour or deliberately ignored it. not seldom philip, knowing all the time how stupid he was, would force a quarrel, and they would not speak to one another for a couple of days. but philip could not bear to be angry with him long, and even when convinced that he was in the right, would apologise humbly. then for a week they would be as great friends as ever. but the best was over, and philip could see that rose often walked with him merely from old habit or from fear of his anger; they had not so much to say to one another as at first, and rose was often bored. philip felt that his lameness began to irritate him. towards the end of the term two or three boys caught scarlet fever, and there was much talk of sending them all home in order to escape an epidemic; but the sufferers were isolated, and since no more were attacked it was supposed that the outbreak was stopped. one of the stricken was philip. he remained in hospital through the easter holidays, and at the beginning of the summer term was sent home to the vicarage to get a little fresh air. the vicar, notwithstanding medical assurance that the boy was no longer infectious, received him with suspicion; he thought it very inconsiderate of the doctor to suggest that his nephew's convalescence should be spent by the seaside, and consented to have him in the house only because there was nowhere else he could go. philip went back to school at half-term. he had forgotten the quarrels he had had with rose, but remembered only that he was his greatest friend. he knew that he had been silly. he made up his mind to be more reasonable. during his illness rose had sent him in a couple of little notes, and he had ended each with the words: "hurry up and come back." philip thought rose must be looking forward as much to his return as he was himself to seeing rose. he found that owing to the death from scarlet fever of one of the boys in the sixth there had been some shifting in the studies and rose was no longer in his. it was a bitter disappointment. but as soon as he arrived he burst into rose's study. rose was sitting at his desk, working with a boy called hunter, and turned round crossly as philip came in. "who the devil's that?" he cried. and then, seeing philip: "oh, it's you." philip stopped in embarrassment. "i thought i'd come in and see how you were." "we were just working." hunter broke into the conversation. "when did you get back?" "five minutes ago." they sat and looked at him as though he was disturbing them. they evidently expected him to go quickly. philip reddened. "i'll be off. you might look in when you've done," he said to rose. "all right." philip closed the door behind him and limped back to his own study. he felt frightfully hurt. rose, far from seeming glad to see him, had looked almost put out. they might never have been more than acquaintances. though he waited in his study, not leaving it for a moment in case just then rose should come, his friend never appeared; and next morning when he went in to prayers he saw rose and hunter singing along arm in arm. what he could not see for himself others told him. he had forgotten that three months is a long time in a schoolboy's life, and though he had passed them in solitude rose had lived in the world. hunter had stepped into the vacant place. philip found that rose was quietly avoiding him. but he was not the boy to accept a situation without putting it into words; he waited till he was sure rose was alone in his study and went in. "may i come in?" he asked. rose looked at him with an embarrassment that made him angry with philip. "yes, if you want to." "it's very kind of you," said philip sarcastically. "what d'you want?" "i say, why have you been so rotten since i came back?" "oh, don't be an ass," said rose. "i don't know what you see in hunter." "that's my business." philip looked down. he could not bring himself to say what was in his heart. he was afraid of humiliating himself. rose got up. "i've got to go to the gym," he said. when he was at the door philip forced himself to speak. "i say, rose, don't be a perfect beast." "oh, go to hell." rose slammed the door behind him and left philip alone. philip shivered with rage. he went back to his study and turned the conversation over in his mind. he hated rose now, he wanted to hurt him, he thought of biting things he might have said to him. he brooded over the end to their friendship and fancied that others were talking of it. in his sensitiveness he saw sneers and wonderings in other fellows' manner when they were not bothering their heads with him at all. he imagined to himself what they were saying. "after all, it wasn't likely to last long. i wonder he ever stuck carey at all. blighter!" to show his indifference he struck up a violent friendship with a boy called sharp whom he hated and despised. he was a london boy, with a loutish air, a heavy fellow with the beginnings of a moustache on his lip and bushy eyebrows that joined one another across the bridge of his nose. he had soft hands and manners too suave for his years. he spoke with the suspicion of a cockney accent. he was one of those boys who are too slack to play games, and he exercised great ingenuity in making excuses to avoid such as were compulsory. he was regarded by boys and masters with a vague dislike, and it was from arrogance that philip now sought his society. sharp in a couple of terms was going to germany for a year. he hated school, which he looked upon as an indignity to be endured till he was old enough to go out into the world. london was all he cared for, and he had many stories to tell of his doings there during the holidays. from his conversation--he spoke in a soft, deep-toned voice--there emerged the vague rumour of the london streets by night. philip listened to him at once fascinated and repelled. with his vivid fancy he seemed to see the surging throng round the pit-door of theatres, and the glitter of cheap restaurants, bars where men, half drunk, sat on high stools talking with barmaids; and under the street lamps the mysterious passing of dark crowds bent upon pleasure. sharp lent him cheap novels from holywell row, which philip read in his cubicle with a sort of wonderful fear. once rose tried to effect a reconciliation. he was a good-natured fellow, who did not like having enemies. "i say, carey, why are you being such a silly ass? it doesn't do you any good cutting me and all that." "i don't know what you mean," answered philip. "well, i don't see why you shouldn't talk." "you bore me," said philip. "please yourself." rose shrugged his shoulders and left him. philip was very white, as he always became when he was moved, and his heart beat violently. when rose went away he felt suddenly sick with misery. he did not know why he had answered in that fashion. he would have given anything to be friends with rose. he hated to have quarrelled with him, and now that he saw he had given him pain he was very sorry. but at the moment he had not been master of himself. it seemed that some devil had seized him, forcing him to say bitter things against his will, even though at the time he wanted to shake hands with rose and meet him more than halfway. the desire to wound had been too strong for him. he had wanted to revenge himself for the pain and the humiliation he had endured. it was pride: it was folly too, for he knew that rose would not care at all, while he would suffer bitterly. the thought came to him that he would go to rose, and say: "i say, i'm sorry i was such a beast. i couldn't help it. let's make it up." but he knew he would never be able to do it. he was afraid that rose would sneer at him. he was angry with himself, and when sharp came in a little while afterwards he seized upon the first opportunity to quarrel with him. philip had a fiendish instinct for discovering other people's raw spots, and was able to say things that rankled because they were true. but sharp had the last word. "i heard rose talking about you to mellor just now," he said. "mellor said: why didn't you kick him? it would teach him manners. and rose said: i didn't like to. damned cripple." philip suddenly became scarlet. he could not answer, for there was a lump in his throat that almost choked him. xx philip was moved into the sixth, but he hated school now with all his heart, and, having lost his ambition, cared nothing whether he did ill or well. he awoke in the morning with a sinking heart because he must go through another day of drudgery. he was tired of having to do things because he was told; and the restrictions irked him, not because they were unreasonable, but because they were restrictions. he yearned for freedom. he was weary of repeating things that he knew already and of the hammering away, for the sake of a thick-witted fellow, at something that he understood from the beginning. with mr. perkins you could work or not as you chose. he was at once eager and abstracted. the sixth form room was in a part of the old abbey which had been restored, and it had a gothic window: philip tried to cheat his boredom by drawing this over and over again; and sometimes out of his head he drew the great tower of the cathedral or the gateway that led into the precincts. he had a knack for drawing. aunt louisa during her youth had painted in water colours, and she had several albums filled with sketches of churches, old bridges, and picturesque cottages. they were often shown at the vicarage tea-parties. she had once given philip a paint-box as a christmas present, and he had started by copying her pictures. he copied them better than anyone could have expected, and presently he did little pictures of his own. mrs. carey encouraged him. it was a good way to keep him out of mischief, and later on his sketches would be useful for bazaars. two or three of them had been framed and hung in his bed-room. but one day, at the end of the morning's work, mr. perkins stopped him as he was lounging out of the form-room. "i want to speak to you, carey." philip waited. mr. perkins ran his lean fingers through his beard and looked at philip. he seemed to be thinking over what he wanted to say. "what's the matter with you, carey?" he said abruptly. philip, flushing, looked at him quickly. but knowing him well by now, without answering, he waited for him to go on. "i've been dissatisfied with you lately. you've been slack and inattentive. you seem to take no interest in your work. it's been slovenly and bad." "i'm very sorry, sir," said philip. "is that all you have to say for yourself?" philip looked down sulkily. how could he answer that he was bored to death? "you know, this term you'll go down instead of up. i shan't give you a very good report." philip wondered what he would say if he knew how the report was treated. it arrived at breakfast, mr. carey glanced at it indifferently, and passed it over to philip. "there's your report. you'd better see what it says," he remarked, as he ran his fingers through the wrapper of a catalogue of second-hand books. philip read it. "is it good?" asked aunt louisa. "not so good as i deserve," answered philip, with a smile, giving it to her. "i'll read it afterwards when i've got my spectacles," she said. but after breakfast mary ann came in to say the butcher was there, and she generally forgot. mr. perkins went on. "i'm disappointed with you. and i can't understand. i know you can do things if you want to, but you don't seem to want to any more. i was going to make you a monitor next term, but i think i'd better wait a bit." philip flushed. he did not like the thought of being passed over. he tightened his lips. "and there's something else. you must begin thinking of your scholarship now. you won't get anything unless you start working very seriously." philip was irritated by the lecture. he was angry with the headmaster, and angry with himself. "i don't think i'm going up to oxford," he said. "why not? i thought your idea was to be ordained." "i've changed my mind." "why?" philip did not answer. mr. perkins, holding himself oddly as he always did, like a figure in one of perugino's pictures, drew his fingers thoughtfully through his beard. he looked at philip as though he were trying to understand and then abruptly told him he might go. apparently he was not satisfied, for one evening, a week later, when philip had to go into his study with some papers, he resumed the conversation; but this time he adopted a different method: he spoke to philip not as a schoolmaster with a boy but as one human being with another. he did not seem to care now that philip's work was poor, that he ran small chance against keen rivals of carrying off the scholarship necessary for him to go to oxford: the important matter was his changed intention about his life afterwards. mr. perkins set himself to revive his eagerness to be ordained. with infinite skill he worked on his feelings, and this was easier since he was himself genuinely moved. philip's change of mind caused him bitter distress, and he really thought he was throwing away his chance of happiness in life for he knew not what. his voice was very persuasive. and philip, easily moved by the emotion of others, very emotional himself notwithstanding a placid exterior--his face, partly by nature but also from the habit of all these years at school, seldom except by his quick flushing showed what he felt--philip was deeply touched by what the master said. he was very grateful to him for the interest he showed, and he was conscience-stricken by the grief which he felt his behaviour caused him. it was subtly flattering to know that with the whole school to think about mr. perkins should trouble with him, but at the same time something else in him, like another person standing at his elbow, clung desperately to two words. "i won't. i won't. i won't." he felt himself slipping. he was powerless against the weakness that seemed to well up in him; it was like the water that rises up in an empty bottle held over a full basin; and he set his teeth, saying the words over and over to himself. "i won't. i won't. i won't." at last mr. perkins put his hand on philip's shoulder. "i don't want to influence you," he said. "you must decide for yourself. pray to almighty god for help and guidance." when philip came out of the headmaster's house there was a light rain falling. he went under the archway that led to the precincts, there was not a soul there, and the rooks were silent in the elms. he walked round slowly. he felt hot, and the rain did him good. he thought over all that mr. perkins had said, calmly now that he was withdrawn from the fervour of his personality, and he was thankful he had not given way. in the darkness he could but vaguely see the great mass of the cathedral: he hated it now because of the irksomeness of the long services which he was forced to attend. the anthem was interminable, and you had to stand drearily while it was being sung; you could not hear the droning sermon, and your body twitched because you had to sit still when you wanted to move about. then philip thought of the two services every sunday at blackstable. the church was bare and cold, and there was a smell all about one of pomade and starched clothes. the curate preached once and his uncle preached once. as he grew up he had learned to know his uncle; philip was downright and intolerant, and he could not understand that a man might sincerely say things as a clergyman which he never acted up to as a man. the deception outraged him. his uncle was a weak and selfish man, whose chief desire it was to be saved trouble. mr. perkins had spoken to him of the beauty of a life dedicated to the service of god. philip knew what sort of lives the clergy led in the corner of east anglia which was his home. there was the vicar of whitestone, a parish a little way from blackstable: he was a bachelor and to give himself something to do had lately taken up farming: the local paper constantly reported the cases he had in the county court against this one and that, labourers he would not pay their wages to or tradesmen whom he accused of cheating him; scandal said he starved his cows, and there was much talk about some general action which should be taken against him. then there was the vicar of ferne, a bearded, fine figure of a man: his wife had been forced to leave him because of his cruelty, and she had filled the neighbourhood with stories of his immorality. the vicar of surle, a tiny hamlet by the sea, was to be seen every evening in the public house a stone's throw from his vicarage; and the churchwardens had been to mr. carey to ask his advice. there was not a soul for any of them to talk to except small farmers or fishermen; there were long winter evenings when the wind blew, whistling drearily through the leafless trees, and all around they saw nothing but the bare monotony of ploughed fields; and there was poverty, and there was lack of any work that seemed to matter; every kink in their characters had free play; there was nothing to restrain them; they grew narrow and eccentric: philip knew all this, but in his young intolerance he did not offer it as an excuse. he shivered at the thought of leading such a life; he wanted to get out into the world. xxi mr. perkins soon saw that his words had had no effect on philip, and for the rest of the term ignored him. he wrote a report which was vitriolic. when it arrived and aunt louisa asked philip what it was like, he answered cheerfully. "rotten." "is it?" said the vicar. "i must look at it again." "do you think there's any use in my staying on at tercanbury? i should have thought it would be better if i went to germany for a bit." "what has put that in your head?" said aunt louisa. "don't you think it's rather a good idea?" sharp had already left king's school and had written to philip from hanover. he was really starting life, and it made philip more restless to think of it. he felt he could not bear another year of restraint. "but then you wouldn't get a scholarship." "i haven't a chance of getting one anyhow. and besides, i don't know that i particularly want to go to oxford." "but if you're going to be ordained, philip?" aunt louisa exclaimed in dismay. "i've given up that idea long ago." mrs. carey looked at him with startled eyes, and then, used to self-restraint, she poured out another cup of tea for his uncle. they did not speak. in a moment philip saw tears slowly falling down her cheeks. his heart was suddenly wrung because he caused her pain. in her tight black dress, made by the dressmaker down the street, with her wrinkled face and pale tired eyes, her gray hair still done in the frivolous ringlets of her youth, she was a ridiculous but strangely pathetic figure. philip saw it for the first time. afterwards, when the vicar was shut up in his study with the curate, he put his arms round her waist. "i say, i'm sorry you're upset, aunt louisa," he said. "but it's no good my being ordained if i haven't a real vocation, is it?" "i'm so disappointed, philip," she moaned. "i'd set my heart on it. i thought you could be your uncle's curate, and then when our time came--after all, we can't last for ever, can we?--you might have taken his place." philip shivered. he was seized with panic. his heart beat like a pigeon in a trap beating with its wings. his aunt wept softly, her head upon his shoulder. "i wish you'd persuade uncle william to let me leave tercanbury. i'm so sick of it." but the vicar of blackstable did not easily alter any arrangements he had made, and it had always been intended that philip should stay at king's school till he was eighteen, and should then go to oxford. at all events he would not hear of philip leaving then, for no notice had been given and the term's fee would have to be paid in any case. "then will you give notice for me to leave at christmas?" said philip, at the end of a long and often bitter conversation. "i'll write to mr. perkins about it and see what he says." "oh, i wish to goodness i were twenty-one. it is awful to be at somebody else's beck and call." "philip, you shouldn't speak to your uncle like that," said mrs. carey gently. "but don't you see that perkins will want me to stay? he gets so much a head for every chap in the school." "why don't you want to go to oxford?" "what's the good if i'm not going into the church?" "you can't go into the church: you're in the church already," said the vicar. "ordained then," replied philip impatiently. "what are you going to be, philip?" asked mrs. carey. "i don't know. i've not made up my mind. but whatever i am, it'll be useful to know foreign languages. i shall get far more out of a year in germany than by staying on at that hole." he would not say that he felt oxford would be little better than a continuation of his life at school. he wished immensely to be his own master. besides he would be known to a certain extent among old schoolfellows, and he wanted to get away from them all. he felt that his life at school had been a failure. he wanted to start fresh. it happened that his desire to go to germany fell in with certain ideas which had been of late discussed at blackstable. sometimes friends came to stay with the doctor and brought news of the world outside; and the visitors spending august by the sea had their own way of looking at things. the vicar had heard that there were people who did not think the old-fashioned education so useful nowadays as it had been in the past, and modern languages were gaining an importance which they had not had in his own youth. his own mind was divided, for a younger brother of his had been sent to germany when he failed in some examination, thus creating a precedent but since he had there died of typhoid it was impossible to look upon the experiment as other than dangerous. the result of innumerable conversations was that philip should go back to tercanbury for another term, and then should leave. with this agreement philip was not dissatisfied. but when he had been back a few days the headmaster spoke to him. "i've had a letter from your uncle. it appears you want to go to germany, and he asks me what i think about it." philip was astounded. he was furious with his guardian for going back on his word. "i thought it was settled, sir," he said. "far from it. i've written to say i think it the greatest mistake to take you away." philip immediately sat down and wrote a violent letter to his uncle. he did not measure his language. he was so angry that he could not get to sleep till quite late that night, and he awoke in the early morning and began brooding over the way they had treated him. he waited impatiently for an answer. in two or three days it came. it was a mild, pained letter from aunt louisa, saying that he should not write such things to his uncle, who was very much distressed. he was unkind and unchristian. he must know they were only trying to do their best for him, and they were so much older than he that they must be better judges of what was good for him. philip clenched his hands. he had heard that statement so often, and he could not see why it was true; they did not know the conditions as he did, why should they accept it as self-evident that their greater age gave them greater wisdom? the letter ended with the information that mr. carey had withdrawn the notice he had given. philip nursed his wrath till the next half-holiday. they had them on tuesdays and thursdays, since on saturday afternoons they had to go to a service in the cathedral. he stopped behind when the rest of the sixth went out. "may i go to blackstable this afternoon, please, sir?" he asked. "no," said the headmaster briefly. "i wanted to see my uncle about something very important." "didn't you hear me say no?" philip did not answer. he went out. he felt almost sick with humiliation, the humiliation of having to ask and the humiliation of the curt refusal. he hated the headmaster now. philip writhed under that despotism which never vouchsafed a reason for the most tyrannous act. he was too angry to care what he did, and after dinner walked down to the station, by the back ways he knew so well, just in time to catch the train to blackstable. he walked into the vicarage and found his uncle and aunt sitting in the dining-room. "hulloa, where have you sprung from?" said the vicar. it was very clear that he was not pleased to see him. he looked a little uneasy. "i thought i'd come and see you about my leaving. i want to know what you mean by promising me one thing when i was here, and doing something different a week after." he was a little frightened at his own boldness, but he had made up his mind exactly what words to use, and, though his heart beat violently, he forced himself to say them. "have you got leave to come here this afternoon?" "no. i asked perkins and he refused. if you like to write and tell him i've been here you can get me into a really fine old row." mrs. carey sat knitting with trembling hands. she was unused to scenes and they agitated her extremely. "it would serve you right if i told him," said mr. carey. "if you like to be a perfect sneak you can. after writing to perkins as you did you're quite capable of it." it was foolish of philip to say that, because it gave the vicar exactly the opportunity he wanted. "i'm not going to sit still while you say impertinent things to me," he said with dignity. he got up and walked quickly out of the room into his study. philip heard him shut the door and lock it. "oh, i wish to god i were twenty-one. it is awful to be tied down like this." aunt louisa began to cry quietly. "oh, philip, you oughtn't to have spoken to your uncle like that. do please go and tell him you're sorry." "i'm not in the least sorry. he's taking a mean advantage. of course it's just waste of money keeping me on at school, but what does he care? it's not his money. it was cruel to put me under the guardianship of people who know nothing about things." "philip." philip in his voluble anger stopped suddenly at the sound of her voice. it was heart-broken. he had not realised what bitter things he was saying. "philip, how can you be so unkind? you know we are only trying to do our best for you, and we know that we have no experience; it isn't as if we'd had any children of our own: that's why we consulted mr. perkins." her voice broke. "i've tried to be like a mother to you. i've loved you as if you were my own son." she was so small and frail, there was something so pathetic in her old-maidish air, that philip was touched. a great lump came suddenly in his throat and his eyes filled with tears. "i'm so sorry," he said. "i didn't mean to be beastly." he knelt down beside her and took her in his arms, and kissed her wet, withered cheeks. she sobbed bitterly, and he seemed to feel on a sudden the pity of that wasted life. she had never surrendered herself before to such a display of emotion. "i know i've not been what i wanted to be to you, philip, but i didn't know how. it's been just as dreadful for me to have no children as for you to have no mother." philip forgot his anger and his own concerns, but thought only of consoling her, with broken words and clumsy little caresses. then the clock struck, and he had to bolt off at once to catch the only train that would get him back to tercanbury in time for call-over. as he sat in the corner of the railway carriage he saw that he had done nothing. he was angry with himself for his weakness. it was despicable to have allowed himself to be turned from his purpose by the pompous airs of the vicar and the tears of his aunt. but as the result of he knew not what conversations between the couple another letter was written to the headmaster. mr. perkins read it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. he showed it to philip. it ran: dear mr. perkins, forgive me for troubling you again about my ward, but both his aunt and i have been uneasy about him. he seems very anxious to leave school, and his aunt thinks he is unhappy. it is very difficult for us to know what to do as we are not his parents. he does not seem to think he is doing very well and he feels it is wasting his money to stay on. i should be very much obliged if you would have a talk to him, and if he is still of the same mind perhaps it would be better if he left at christmas as i originally intended. yours very truly, william carey. philip gave him back the letter. he felt a thrill of pride in his triumph. he had got his own way, and he was satisfied. his will had gained a victory over the wills of others. "it's not much good my spending half an hour writing to your uncle if he changes his mind the next letter he gets from you," said the headmaster irritably. philip said nothing, and his face was perfectly placid; but he could not prevent the twinkle in his eyes. mr. perkins noticed it and broke into a little laugh. "you've rather scored, haven't you?" he said. then philip smiled outright. he could not conceal his exultation. "is it true that you're very anxious to leave?" "yes, sir." "are you unhappy here?" philip blushed. he hated instinctively any attempt to get into the depths of his feelings. "oh, i don't know, sir." mr. perkins, slowly dragging his fingers through his beard, looked at him thoughtfully. he seemed to speak almost to himself. "of course schools are made for the average. the holes are all round, and whatever shape the pegs are they must wedge in somehow. one hasn't time to bother about anything but the average." then suddenly he addressed himself to philip: "look here, i've got a suggestion to make to you. it's getting on towards the end of the term now. another term won't kill you, and if you want to go to germany you'd better go after easter than after christmas. it'll be much pleasanter in the spring than in midwinter. if at the end of the next term you still want to go i'll make no objection. what d'you say to that?" "thank you very much, sir." philip was so glad to have gained the last three months that he did not mind the extra term. the school seemed less of a prison when he knew that before easter he would be free from it for ever. his heart danced within him. that evening in chapel he looked round at the boys, standing according to their forms, each in his due place, and he chuckled with satisfaction at the thought that soon he would never see them again. it made him regard them almost with a friendly feeling. his eyes rested on rose. rose took his position as a monitor very seriously: he had quite an idea of being a good influence in the school; it was his turn to read the lesson that evening, and he read it very well. philip smiled when he thought that he would be rid of him for ever, and it would not matter in six months whether rose was tall and straight-limbed; and where would the importance be that he was a monitor and captain of the eleven? philip looked at the masters in their gowns. gordon was dead, he had died of apoplexy two years before, but all the rest were there. philip knew now what a poor lot they were, except turner perhaps, there was something of a man in him; and he writhed at the thought of the subjection in which they had held him. in six months they would not matter either. their praise would mean nothing to him, and he would shrug his shoulders at their censure. philip had learned not to express his emotions by outward signs, and shyness still tormented him, but he had often very high spirits; and then, though he limped about demurely, silent and reserved, it seemed to be hallooing in his heart. he seemed to himself to walk more lightly. all sorts of ideas danced through his head, fancies chased one another so furiously that he could not catch them; but their coming and their going filled him with exhilaration. now, being happy, he was able to work, and during the remaining weeks of the term set himself to make up for his long neglect. his brain worked easily, and he took a keen pleasure in the activity of his intellect. he did very well in the examinations that closed the term. mr. perkins made only one remark: he was talking to him about an essay he had written, and, after the usual criticisms, said: "so you've made up your mind to stop playing the fool for a bit, have you?" he smiled at him with his shining teeth, and philip, looking down, gave an embarrassed smile. the half dozen boys who expected to divide between them the various prizes which were given at the end of the summer term had ceased to look upon philip as a serious rival, but now they began to regard him with some uneasiness. he told no one that he was leaving at easter and so was in no sense a competitor, but left them to their anxieties. he knew that rose flattered himself on his french, for he had spent two or three holidays in france; and he expected to get the dean's prize for english essay; philip got a good deal of satisfaction in watching his dismay when he saw how much better philip was doing in these subjects than himself. another fellow, norton, could not go to oxford unless he got one of the scholarships at the disposal of the school. he asked philip if he was going in for them. "have you any objection?" asked philip. it entertained him to think that he held someone else's future in his hand. there was something romantic in getting these various rewards actually in his grasp, and then leaving them to others because he disdained them. at last the breaking-up day came, and he went to mr. perkins to bid him good-bye. "you don't mean to say you really want to leave?" philip's face fell at the headmaster's evident surprise. "you said you wouldn't put any objection in the way, sir," he answered. "i thought it was only a whim that i'd better humour. i know you're obstinate and headstrong. what on earth d'you want to leave for now? you've only got another term in any case. you can get the magdalen scholarship easily; you'll get half the prizes we've got to give." philip looked at him sullenly. he felt that he had been tricked; but he had the promise, and perkins would have to stand by it. "you'll have a very pleasant time at oxford. you needn't decide at once what you're going to do afterwards. i wonder if you realise how delightful the life is up there for anyone who has brains." "i've made all my arrangements now to go to germany, sir," said philip. "are they arrangements that couldn't possibly be altered?" asked mr. perkins, with his quizzical smile. "i shall be very sorry to lose you. in schools the rather stupid boys who work always do better than the clever boy who's idle, but when the clever boy works--why then, he does what you've done this term." philip flushed darkly. he was unused to compliments, and no one had ever told him he was clever. the headmaster put his hand on philip's shoulder. "you know, driving things into the heads of thick-witted boys is dull work, but when now and then you have the chance of teaching a boy who comes half-way towards you, who understands almost before you've got the words out of your mouth, why, then teaching is the most exhilarating thing in the world." philip was melted by kindness; it had never occurred to him that it mattered really to mr. perkins whether he went or stayed. he was touched and immensely flattered. it would be pleasant to end up his school-days with glory and then go to oxford: in a flash there appeared before him the life which he had heard described from boys who came back to play in the o.k.s. match or in letters from the university read out in one of the studies. but he was ashamed; he would look such a fool in his own eyes if he gave in now; his uncle would chuckle at the success of the headmaster's ruse. it was rather a come-down from the dramatic surrender of all these prizes which were in his reach, because he disdained to take them, to the plain, ordinary winning of them. it only required a little more persuasion, just enough to save his self-respect, and philip would have done anything that mr. perkins wished; but his face showed nothing of his conflicting emotions. it was placid and sullen. "i think i'd rather go, sir," he said. mr. perkins, like many men who manage things by their personal influence, grew a little impatient when his power was not immediately manifest. he had a great deal of work to do, and could not waste more time on a boy who seemed to him insanely obstinate. "very well, i promised to let you if you really wanted it, and i keep my promise. when do you go to germany?" philip's heart beat violently. the battle was won, and he did not know whether he had not rather lost it. "at the beginning of may, sir," he answered. "well, you must come and see us when you get back." he held out his hand. if he had given him one more chance philip would have changed his mind, but he seemed to look upon the matter as settled. philip walked out of the house. his school-days were over, and he was free; but the wild exultation to which he had looked forward at that moment was not there. he walked round the precincts slowly, and a profound depression seized him. he wished now that he had not been foolish. he did not want to go, but he knew he could never bring himself to go to the headmaster and tell him he would stay. that was a humiliation he could never put upon himself. he wondered whether he had done right. he was dissatisfied with himself and with all his circumstances. he asked himself dully whether whenever you got your way you wished afterwards that you hadn't. xxii philip's uncle had an old friend, called miss wilkinson, who lived in berlin. she was the daughter of a clergyman, and it was with her father, the rector of a village in lincolnshire, that mr. carey had spent his last curacy; on his death, forced to earn her living, she had taken various situations as a governess in france and germany. she had kept up a correspondence with mrs. carey, and two or three times had spent her holidays at blackstable vicarage, paying as was usual with the careys' unfrequent guests a small sum for her keep. when it became clear that it was less trouble to yield to philip's wishes than to resist them, mrs. carey wrote to ask her for advice. miss wilkinson recommended heidelberg as an excellent place to learn german in and the house of frau professor erlin as a comfortable home. philip might live there for thirty marks a week, and the professor himself, a teacher at the local high school, would instruct him. philip arrived in heidelberg one morning in may. his things were put on a barrow and he followed the porter out of the station. the sky was bright blue, and the trees in the avenue through which they passed were thick with leaves; there was something in the air fresh to philip, and mingled with the timidity he felt at entering on a new life, among strangers, was a great exhilaration. he was a little disconsolate that no one had come to meet him, and felt very shy when the porter left him at the front door of a big white house. an untidy lad let him in and took him into a drawing-room. it was filled with a large suite covered in green velvet, and in the middle was a round table. on this in water stood a bouquet of flowers tightly packed together in a paper frill like the bone of a mutton chop, and carefully spaced round it were books in leather bindings. there was a musty smell. presently, with an odour of cooking, the frau professor came in, a short, very stout woman with tightly dressed hair and a red face; she had little eyes, sparkling like beads, and an effusive manner. she took both philip's hands and asked him about miss wilkinson, who had twice spent a few weeks with her. she spoke in german and in broken english. philip could not make her understand that he did not know miss wilkinson. then her two daughters appeared. they seemed hardly young to philip, but perhaps they were not more than twenty-five: the elder, thekla, was as short as her mother, with the same, rather shifty air, but with a pretty face and abundant dark hair; anna, her younger sister, was tall and plain, but since she had a pleasant smile philip immediately preferred her. after a few minutes of polite conversation the frau professor took philip to his room and left him. it was in a turret, looking over the tops of the trees in the anlage; and the bed was in an alcove, so that when you sat at the desk it had not the look of a bed-room at all. philip unpacked his things and set out all his books. he was his own master at last. a bell summoned him to dinner at one o'clock, and he found the frau professor's guests assembled in the drawing-room. he was introduced to her husband, a tall man of middle age with a large fair head, turning now to gray, and mild blue eyes. he spoke to philip in correct, rather archaic english, having learned it from a study of the english classics, not from conversation; and it was odd to hear him use words colloquially which philip had only met in the plays of shakespeare. frau professor erlin called her establishment a family and not a pension; but it would have required the subtlety of a metaphysician to find out exactly where the difference lay. when they sat down to dinner in a long dark apartment that led out of the drawing-room, philip, feeling very shy, saw that there were sixteen people. the frau professor sat at one end and carved. the service was conducted, with a great clattering of plates, by the same clumsy lout who had opened the door for him; and though he was quick it happened that the first persons to be served had finished before the last had received their appointed portions. the frau professor insisted that nothing but german should be spoken, so that philip, even if his bashfulness had permitted him to be talkative, was forced to hold his tongue. he looked at the people among whom he was to live. by the frau professor sat several old ladies, but philip did not give them much of his attention. there were two young girls, both fair and one of them very pretty, whom philip heard addressed as fraulein hedwig and fraulein cacilie. fraulein cacilie had a long pig-tail hanging down her back. they sat side by side and chattered to one another, with smothered laughter: now and then they glanced at philip and one of them said something in an undertone; they both giggled, and philip blushed awkwardly, feeling that they were making fun of him. near them sat a chinaman, with a yellow face and an expansive smile, who was studying western conditions at the university. he spoke so quickly, with a queer accent, that the girls could not always understand him, and then they burst out laughing. he laughed too, good-humouredly, and his almond eyes almost closed as he did so. there were two or three american men, in black coats, rather yellow and dry of skin: they were theological students; philip heard the twang of their new england accent through their bad german, and he glanced at them with suspicion; for he had been taught to look upon americans as wild and desperate barbarians. afterwards, when they had sat for a little on the stiff green velvet chairs of the drawing-room, fraulein anna asked philip if he would like to go for a walk with them. philip accepted the invitation. they were quite a party. there were the two daughters of the frau professor, the two other girls, one of the american students, and philip. philip walked by the side of anna and fraulein hedwig. he was a little fluttered. he had never known any girls. at blackstable there were only the farmers' daughters and the girls of the local tradesmen. he knew them by name and by sight, but he was timid, and he thought they laughed at his deformity. he accepted willingly the difference which the vicar and mrs. carey put between their own exalted rank and that of the farmers. the doctor had two daughters, but they were both much older than philip and had been married to successive assistants while philip was still a small boy. at school there had been two or three girls of more boldness than modesty whom some of the boys knew; and desperate stories, due in all probability to the masculine imagination, were told of intrigues with them; but philip had always concealed under a lofty contempt the terror with which they filled him. his imagination and the books he had read had inspired in him a desire for the byronic attitude; and he was torn between a morbid self-consciousness and a conviction that he owed it to himself to be gallant. he felt now that he should be bright and amusing, but his brain seemed empty and he could not for the life of him think of anything to say. fraulein anna, the frau professor's daughter, addressed herself to him frequently from a sense of duty, but the other said little: she looked at him now and then with sparkling eyes, and sometimes to his confusion laughed outright. philip felt that she thought him perfectly ridiculous. they walked along the side of a hill among pine-trees, and their pleasant odour caused philip a keen delight. the day was warm and cloudless. at last they came to an eminence from which they saw the valley of the rhine spread out before them under the sun. it was a vast stretch of country, sparkling with golden light, with cities in the distance; and through it meandered the silver ribband of the river. wide spaces are rare in the corner of kent which philip knew, the sea offers the only broad horizon, and the immense distance he saw now gave him a peculiar, an indescribable thrill. he felt suddenly elated. though he did not know it, it was the first time that he had experienced, quite undiluted with foreign emotions, the sense of beauty. they sat on a bench, the three of them, for the others had gone on, and while the girls talked in rapid german, philip, indifferent to their proximity, feasted his eyes. "by jove, i am happy," he said to himself unconsciously. xxiii philip thought occasionally of the king's school at tercanbury, and laughed to himself as he remembered what at some particular moment of the day they were doing. now and then he dreamed that he was there still, and it gave him an extraordinary satisfaction, on awaking, to realise that he was in his little room in the turret. from his bed he could see the great cumulus clouds that hung in the blue sky. he revelled in his freedom. he could go to bed when he chose and get up when the fancy took him. there was no one to order him about. it struck him that he need not tell any more lies. it had been arranged that professor erlin should teach him latin and german; a frenchman came every day to give him lessons in french; and the frau professor had recommended for mathematics an englishman who was taking a philological degree at the university. this was a man named wharton. philip went to him every morning. he lived in one room on the top floor of a shabby house. it was dirty and untidy, and it was filled with a pungent odour made up of many different stinks. he was generally in bed when philip arrived at ten o'clock, and he jumped out, put on a filthy dressing-gown and felt slippers, and, while he gave instruction, ate his simple breakfast. he was a short man, stout from excessive beer drinking, with a heavy moustache and long, unkempt hair. he had been in germany for five years and was become very teutonic. he spoke with scorn of cambridge where he had taken his degree and with horror of the life which awaited him when, having taken his doctorate in heidelberg, he must return to england and a pedagogic career. he adored the life of the german university with its happy freedom and its jolly companionships. he was a member of a burschenschaft, and promised to take philip to a kneipe. he was very poor and made no secret that the lessons he was giving philip meant the difference between meat for his dinner and bread and cheese. sometimes after a heavy night he had such a headache that he could not drink his coffee, and he gave his lesson with heaviness of spirit. for these occasions he kept a few bottles of beer under the bed, and one of these and a pipe would help him to bear the burden of life. "a hair of the dog that bit him," he would say as he poured out the beer, carefully so that the foam should not make him wait too long to drink. then he would talk to philip of the university, the quarrels between rival corps, the duels, and the merits of this and that professor. philip learnt more of life from him than of mathematics. sometimes wharton would sit back with a laugh and say: "look here, we've not done anything today. you needn't pay me for the lesson." "oh, it doesn't matter," said philip. this was something new and very interesting, and he felt that it was of greater import than trigonometry, which he never could understand. it was like a window on life that he had a chance of peeping through, and he looked with a wildly beating heart. "no, you can keep your dirty money," said wharton. "but how about your dinner?" said philip, with a smile, for he knew exactly how his master's finances stood. wharton had even asked him to pay him the two shillings which the lesson cost once a week rather than once a month, since it made things less complicated. "oh, never mind my dinner. it won't be the first time i've dined off a bottle of beer, and my mind's never clearer than when i do." he dived under the bed (the sheets were gray with want of washing), and fished out another bottle. philip, who was young and did not know the good things of life, refused to share it with him, so he drank alone. "how long are you going to stay here?" asked wharton. both he and philip had given up with relief the pretence of mathematics. "oh, i don't know. i suppose about a year. then my people want me to go to oxford." wharton gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. it was a new experience for philip to learn that there were persons who did not look upon that seat of learning with awe. "what d'you want to go there for? you'll only be a glorified schoolboy. why don't you matriculate here? a year's no good. spend five years here. you know, there are two good things in life, freedom of thought and freedom of action. in france you get freedom of action: you can do what you like and nobody bothers, but you must think like everybody else. in germany you must do what everybody else does, but you may think as you choose. they're both very good things. i personally prefer freedom of thought. but in england you get neither: you're ground down by convention. you can't think as you like and you can't act as you like. that's because it's a democratic nation. i expect america's worse." he leaned back cautiously, for the chair on which he sat had a ricketty leg, and it was disconcerting when a rhetorical flourish was interrupted by a sudden fall to the floor. "i ought to go back to england this year, but if i can scrape together enough to keep body and soul on speaking terms i shall stay another twelve months. but then i shall have to go. and i must leave all this"--he waved his arm round the dirty garret, with its unmade bed, the clothes lying on the floor, a row of empty beer bottles against the wall, piles of unbound, ragged books in every corner--"for some provincial university where i shall try and get a chair of philology. and i shall play tennis and go to tea-parties." he interrupted himself and gave philip, very neatly dressed, with a clean collar on and his hair well-brushed, a quizzical look. "and, my god! i shall have to wash." philip reddened, feeling his own spruceness an intolerable reproach; for of late he had begun to pay some attention to his toilet, and he had come out from england with a pretty selection of ties. the summer came upon the country like a conqueror. each day was beautiful. the sky had an arrogant blue which goaded the nerves like a spur. the green of the trees in the anlage was violent and crude; and the houses, when the sun caught them, had a dazzling white which stimulated till it hurt. sometimes on his way back from wharton philip would sit in the shade on one of the benches in the anlage, enjoying the coolness and watching the patterns of light which the sun, shining through the leaves, made on the ground. his soul danced with delight as gaily as the sunbeams. he revelled in those moments of idleness stolen from his work. sometimes he sauntered through the streets of the old town. he looked with awe at the students of the corps, their cheeks gashed and red, who swaggered about in their coloured caps. in the afternoons he wandered about the hills with the girls in the frau professor's house, and sometimes they went up the river and had tea in a leafy beer-garden. in the evenings they walked round and round the stadtgarten, listening to the band. philip soon learned the various interests of the household. fraulein thekla, the professor's elder daughter, was engaged to a man in england who had spent twelve months in the house to learn german, and their marriage was to take place at the end of the year. but the young man wrote that his father, an india-rubber merchant who lived in slough, did not approve of the union, and fraulein thekla was often in tears. sometimes she and her mother might be seen, with stern eyes and determined mouths, looking over the letters of the reluctant lover. thekla painted in water colour, and occasionally she and philip, with another of the girls to keep them company, would go out and paint little pictures. the pretty fraulein hedwig had amorous troubles too. she was the daughter of a merchant in berlin and a dashing hussar had fallen in love with her, a von if you please: but his parents opposed a marriage with a person of her condition, and she had been sent to heidelberg to forget him. she could never, never do this, and corresponded with him continually, and he was making every effort to induce an exasperating father to change his mind. she told all this to philip with pretty sighs and becoming blushes, and showed him the photograph of the gay lieutenant. philip liked her best of all the girls at the frau professor's, and on their walks always tried to get by her side. he blushed a great deal when the others chaffed him for his obvious preference. he made the first declaration in his life to fraulein hedwig, but unfortunately it was an accident, and it happened in this manner. in the evenings when they did not go out, the young women sang little songs in the green velvet drawing-room, while fraulein anna, who always made herself useful, industriously accompanied. fraulein hedwig's favourite song was called ich liebe dich, i love you; and one evening after she had sung this, when philip was standing with her on the balcony, looking at the stars, it occurred to him to make some remark about it. he began: "ich liebe dich." his german was halting, and he looked about for the word he wanted. the pause was infinitesimal, but before he could go on fraulein hedwig said: "ach, herr carey, sie mussen mir nicht du sagen--you mustn't talk to me in the second person singular." philip felt himself grow hot all over, for he would never have dared to do anything so familiar, and he could think of nothing on earth to say. it would be ungallant to explain that he was not making an observation, but merely mentioning the title of a song. "entschuldigen sie," he said. "i beg your pardon." "it does not matter," she whispered. she smiled pleasantly, quietly took his hand and pressed it, then turned back into the drawing-room. next day he was so embarrassed that he could not speak to her, and in his shyness did all that was possible to avoid her. when he was asked to go for the usual walk he refused because, he said, he had work to do. but fraulein hedwig seized an opportunity to speak to him alone. "why are you behaving in this way?" she said kindly. "you know, i'm not angry with you for what you said last night. you can't help it if you love me. i'm flattered. but although i'm not exactly engaged to hermann i can never love anyone else, and i look upon myself as his bride." philip blushed again, but he put on quite the expression of a rejected lover. "i hope you'll be very happy," he said. xxiv professor erlin gave philip a lesson every day. he made out a list of books which philip was to read till he was ready for the final achievement of faust, and meanwhile, ingeniously enough, started him on a german translation of one of the plays by shakespeare which philip had studied at school. it was the period in germany of goethe's highest fame. notwithstanding his rather condescending attitude towards patriotism he had been adopted as the national poet, and seemed since the war of seventy to be one of the most significant glories of national unity. the enthusiastic seemed in the wildness of the walpurgisnacht to hear the rattle of artillery at gravelotte. but one mark of a writer's greatness is that different minds can find in him different inspirations; and professor erlin, who hated the prussians, gave his enthusiastic admiration to goethe because his works, olympian and sedate, offered the only refuge for a sane mind against the onslaughts of the present generation. there was a dramatist whose name of late had been much heard at heidelberg, and the winter before one of his plays had been given at the theatre amid the cheers of adherents and the hisses of decent people. philip heard discussions about it at the frau professor's long table, and at these professor erlin lost his wonted calm: he beat the table with his fist, and drowned all opposition with the roar of his fine deep voice. it was nonsense and obscene nonsense. he forced himself to sit the play out, but he did not know whether he was more bored or nauseated. if that was what the theatre was coming to, then it was high time the police stepped in and closed the playhouses. he was no prude and could laugh as well as anyone at the witty immorality of a farce at the palais royal, but here was nothing but filth. with an emphatic gesture he held his nose and whistled through his teeth. it was the ruin of the family, the uprooting of morals, the destruction of germany. "aber, adolf," said the frau professor from the other end of the table. "calm yourself." he shook his fist at her. he was the mildest of creatures and ventured upon no action of his life without consulting her. "no, helene, i tell you this," he shouted. "i would sooner my daughters were lying dead at my feet than see them listening to the garbage of that shameless fellow." the play was the doll's house and the author was henrik ibsen. professor erlin classed him with richard wagner, but of him he spoke not with anger but with good-humoured laughter. he was a charlatan but a successful charlatan, and in that was always something for the comic spirit to rejoice in. "verruckter kerl! a madman!" he said. he had seen lohengrin and that passed muster. it was dull but no worse. but siegfried! when he mentioned it professor erlin leaned his head on his hand and bellowed with laughter. not a melody in it from beginning to end! he could imagine richard wagner sitting in his box and laughing till his sides ached at the sight of all the people who were taking it seriously. it was the greatest hoax of the nineteenth century. he lifted his glass of beer to his lips, threw back his head, and drank till the glass was empty. then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said: "i tell you young people that before the nineteenth century is out wagner will be as dead as mutton. wagner! i would give all his works for one opera by donizetti." xxv the oddest of philip's masters was his teacher of french. monsieur ducroz was a citizen of geneva. he was a tall old man, with a sallow skin and hollow cheeks; his gray hair was thin and long. he wore shabby black clothes, with holes at the elbows of his coat and frayed trousers. his linen was very dirty. philip had never seen him in a clean collar. he was a man of few words, who gave his lesson conscientiously but without enthusiasm, arriving as the clock struck and leaving on the minute. his charges were very small. he was taciturn, and what philip learnt about him he learnt from others: it appeared that he had fought with garibaldi against the pope, but had left italy in disgust when it was clear that all his efforts for freedom, by which he meant the establishment of a republic, tended to no more than an exchange of yokes; he had been expelled from geneva for it was not known what political offences. philip looked upon him with puzzled surprise; for he was very unlike his idea of the revolutionary: he spoke in a low voice and was extraordinarily polite; he never sat down till he was asked to; and when on rare occasions he met philip in the street took off his hat with an elaborate gesture; he never laughed, he never even smiled. a more complete imagination than philip's might have pictured a youth of splendid hope, for he must have been entering upon manhood in when kings, remembering their brother of france, went about with an uneasy crick in their necks; and perhaps that passion for liberty which passed through europe, sweeping before it what of absolutism and tyranny had reared its head during the reaction from the revolution of , filled no breast with a hotter fire. one might fancy him, passionate with theories of human equality and human rights, discussing, arguing, fighting behind barricades in paris, flying before the austrian cavalry in milan, imprisoned here, exiled from there, hoping on and upborne ever with the word which seemed so magical, the word liberty; till at last, broken with disease and starvation, old, without means to keep body and soul together but such lessons as he could pick up from poor students, he found himself in that little neat town under the heel of a personal tyranny greater than any in europe. perhaps his taciturnity hid a contempt for the human race which had abandoned the great dreams of his youth and now wallowed in sluggish ease; or perhaps these thirty years of revolution had taught him that men are unfit for liberty, and he thought that he had spent his life in the pursuit of that which was not worth the finding. or maybe he was tired out and waited only with indifference for the release of death. one day philip, with the bluntness of his age, asked him if it was true he had been with garibaldi. the old man did not seem to attach any importance to the question. he answered quite quietly in as low a voice as usual. "oui, monsieur." "they say you were in the commune?" "do they? shall we get on with our work?" he held the book open and philip, intimidated, began to translate the passage he had prepared. one day monsieur ducroz seemed to be in great pain. he had been scarcely able to drag himself up the many stairs to philip's room: and when he arrived sat down heavily, his sallow face drawn, with beads of sweat on his forehead, trying to recover himself. "i'm afraid you're ill," said philip. "it's of no consequence." but philip saw that he was suffering, and at the end of the hour asked whether he would not prefer to give no more lessons till he was better. "no," said the old man, in his even low voice. "i prefer to go on while i am able." philip, morbidly nervous when he had to make any reference to money, reddened. "but it won't make any difference to you," he said. "i'll pay for the lessons just the same. if you wouldn't mind i'd like to give you the money for next week in advance." monsieur ducroz charged eighteen pence an hour. philip took a ten-mark piece out of his pocket and shyly put it on the table. he could not bring himself to offer it as if the old man were a beggar. "in that case i think i won't come again till i'm better." he took the coin and, without anything more than the elaborate bow with which he always took his leave, went out. "bonjour, monsieur." philip was vaguely disappointed. thinking he had done a generous thing, he had expected that monsieur ducroz would overwhelm him with expressions of gratitude. he was taken aback to find that the old teacher accepted the present as though it were his due. he was so young, he did not realise how much less is the sense of obligation in those who receive favours than in those who grant them. monsieur ducroz appeared again five or six days later. he tottered a little more and was very weak, but seemed to have overcome the severity of the attack. he was no more communicative than he had been before. he remained mysterious, aloof, and dirty. he made no reference to his illness till after the lesson: and then, just as he was leaving, at the door, which he held open, he paused. he hesitated, as though to speak were difficult. "if it hadn't been for the money you gave me i should have starved. it was all i had to live on." he made his solemn, obsequious bow, and went out. philip felt a little lump in his throat. he seemed to realise in a fashion the hopeless bitterness of the old man's struggle, and how hard life was for him when to himself it was so pleasant. xxvi philip had spent three months in heidelberg when one morning the frau professor told him that an englishman named hayward was coming to stay in the house, and the same evening at supper he saw a new face. for some days the family had lived in a state of excitement. first, as the result of heaven knows what scheming, by dint of humble prayers and veiled threats, the parents of the young englishman to whom fraulein thekla was engaged had invited her to visit them in england, and she had set off with an album of water colours to show how accomplished she was and a bundle of letters to prove how deeply the young man had compromised himself. a week later fraulein hedwig with radiant smiles announced that the lieutenant of her affections was coming to heidelberg with his father and mother. exhausted by the importunity of their son and touched by the dowry which fraulein hedwig's father offered, the lieutenant's parents had consented to pass through heidelberg to make the young woman's acquaintance. the interview was satisfactory and fraulein hedwig had the satisfaction of showing her lover in the stadtgarten to the whole of frau professor erlin's household. the silent old ladies who sat at the top of the table near the frau professor were in a flutter, and when fraulein hedwig said she was to go home at once for the formal engagement to take place, the frau professor, regardless of expense, said she would give a maibowle. professor erlin prided himself on his skill in preparing this mild intoxicant, and after supper the large bowl of hock and soda, with scented herbs floating in it and wild strawberries, was placed with solemnity on the round table in the drawing-room. fraulein anna teased philip about the departure of his lady-love, and he felt very uncomfortable and rather melancholy. fraulein hedwig sang several songs, fraulein anna played the wedding march, and the professor sang die wacht am rhein. amid all this jollification philip paid little attention to the new arrival. they had sat opposite one another at supper, but philip was chattering busily with fraulein hedwig, and the stranger, knowing no german, had eaten his food in silence. philip, observing that he wore a pale blue tie, had on that account taken a sudden dislike to him. he was a man of twenty-six, very fair, with long, wavy hair through which he passed his hand frequently with a careless gesture. his eyes were large and blue, but the blue was very pale, and they looked rather tired already. he was clean-shaven, and his mouth, notwithstanding its thin lips, was well-shaped. fraulein anna took an interest in physiognomy, and she made philip notice afterwards how finely shaped was his skull, and how weak was the lower part of his face. the head, she remarked, was the head of a thinker, but the jaw lacked character. fraulein anna, foredoomed to a spinster's life, with her high cheek-bones and large misshapen nose, laid great stress upon character. while they talked of him he stood a little apart from the others, watching the noisy party with a good-humoured but faintly supercilious expression. he was tall and slim. he held himself with a deliberate grace. weeks, one of the american students, seeing him alone, went up and began to talk to him. the pair were oddly contrasted: the american very neat in his black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, thin and dried-up, with something of ecclesiastical unction already in his manner; and the englishman in his loose tweed suit, large-limbed and slow of gesture. philip did not speak to the newcomer till next day. they found themselves alone on the balcony of the drawing-room before dinner. hayward addressed him. "you're english, aren't you?" "yes." "is the food always as bad it was last night?" "it's always about the same." "beastly, isn't it?" "beastly." philip had found nothing wrong with the food at all, and in fact had eaten it in large quantities with appetite and enjoyment, but he did not want to show himself a person of so little discrimination as to think a dinner good which another thought execrable. fraulein thekla's visit to england made it necessary for her sister to do more in the house, and she could not often spare the time for long walks; and fraulein cacilie, with her long plait of fair hair and her little snub-nosed face, had of late shown a certain disinclination for society. fraulein hedwig was gone, and weeks, the american who generally accompanied them on their rambles, had set out for a tour of south germany. philip was left a good deal to himself. hayward sought his acquaintance; but philip had an unfortunate trait: from shyness or from some atavistic inheritance of the cave-dweller, he always disliked people on first acquaintance; and it was not till he became used to them that he got over his first impression. it made him difficult of access. he received hayward's advances very shyly, and when hayward asked him one day to go for a walk he accepted only because he could not think of a civil excuse. he made his usual apology, angry with himself for the flushing cheeks he could not control, and trying to carry it off with a laugh. "i'm afraid i can't walk very fast." "good heavens, i don't walk for a wager. i prefer to stroll. don't you remember the chapter in marius where pater talks of the gentle exercise of walking as the best incentive to conversation?" philip was a good listener; though he often thought of clever things to say, it was seldom till after the opportunity to say them had passed; but hayward was communicative; anyone more experienced than philip might have thought he liked to hear himself talk. his supercilious attitude impressed philip. he could not help admiring, and yet being awed by, a man who faintly despised so many things which philip had looked upon as almost sacred. he cast down the fetish of exercise, damning with the contemptuous word pot-hunters all those who devoted themselves to its various forms; and philip did not realise that he was merely putting up in its stead the other fetish of culture. they wandered up to the castle, and sat on the terrace that overlooked the town. it nestled in the valley along the pleasant neckar with a comfortable friendliness. the smoke from the chimneys hung over it, a pale blue haze; and the tall roofs, the spires of the churches, gave it a pleasantly medieval air. there was a homeliness in it which warmed the heart. hayward talked of richard feverel and madame bovary, of verlaine, dante, and matthew arnold. in those days fitzgerald's translation of omar khayyam was known only to the elect, and hayward repeated it to philip. he was very fond of reciting poetry, his own and that of others, which he did in a monotonous sing-song. by the time they reached home philip's distrust of hayward was changed to enthusiastic admiration. they made a practice of walking together every afternoon, and philip learned presently something of hayward's circumstances. he was the son of a country judge, on whose death some time before he had inherited three hundred a year. his record at charterhouse was so brilliant that when he went to cambridge the master of trinity hall went out of his way to express his satisfaction that he was going to that college. he prepared himself for a distinguished career. he moved in the most intellectual circles: he read browning with enthusiasm and turned up his well-shaped nose at tennyson; he knew all the details of shelley's treatment of harriet; he dabbled in the history of art (on the walls of his rooms were reproductions of pictures by g. f. watts, burne-jones, and botticelli); and he wrote not without distinction verses of a pessimistic character. his friends told one another that he was a man of excellent gifts, and he listened to them willingly when they prophesied his future eminence. in course of time he became an authority on art and literature. he came under the influence of newman's apologia; the picturesqueness of the roman catholic faith appealed to his esthetic sensibility; and it was only the fear of his father's wrath (a plain, blunt man of narrow ideas, who read macaulay) which prevented him from 'going over.' when he only got a pass degree his friends were astonished; but he shrugged his shoulders and delicately insinuated that he was not the dupe of examiners. he made one feel that a first class was ever so slightly vulgar. he described one of the vivas with tolerant humour; some fellow in an outrageous collar was asking him questions in logic; it was infinitely tedious, and suddenly he noticed that he wore elastic-sided boots: it was grotesque and ridiculous; so he withdrew his mind and thought of the gothic beauty of the chapel at king's. but he had spent some delightful days at cambridge; he had given better dinners than anyone he knew; and the conversation in his rooms had been often memorable. he quoted to philip the exquisite epigram: "they told me, herakleitus, they told me you were dead." and now, when he related again the picturesque little anecdote about the examiner and his boots, he laughed. "of course it was folly," he said, "but it was a folly in which there was something fine." philip, with a little thrill, thought it magnificent. then hayward went to london to read for the bar. he had charming rooms in clement's inn, with panelled walls, and he tried to make them look like his old rooms at the hall. he had ambitions that were vaguely political, he described himself as a whig, and he was put up for a club which was of liberal but gentlemanly flavour. his idea was to practise at the bar (he chose the chancery side as less brutal), and get a seat for some pleasant constituency as soon as the various promises made him were carried out; meanwhile he went a great deal to the opera, and made acquaintance with a small number of charming people who admired the things that he admired. he joined a dining-club of which the motto was, the whole, the good, and the beautiful. he formed a platonic friendship with a lady some years older than himself, who lived in kensington square; and nearly every afternoon he drank tea with her by the light of shaded candles, and talked of george meredith and walter pater. it was notorious that any fool could pass the examinations of the bar council, and he pursued his studies in a dilatory fashion. when he was ploughed for his final he looked upon it as a personal affront. at the same time the lady in kensington square told him that her husband was coming home from india on leave, and was a man, though worthy in every way, of a commonplace mind, who would not understand a young man's frequent visits. hayward felt that life was full of ugliness, his soul revolted from the thought of affronting again the cynicism of examiners, and he saw something rather splendid in kicking away the ball which lay at his feet. he was also a good deal in debt: it was difficult to live in london like a gentleman on three hundred a year; and his heart yearned for the venice and florence which john ruskin had so magically described. he felt that he was unsuited to the vulgar bustle of the bar, for he had discovered that it was not sufficient to put your name on a door to get briefs; and modern politics seemed to lack nobility. he felt himself a poet. he disposed of his rooms in clement's inn and went to italy. he had spent a winter in florence and a winter in rome, and now was passing his second summer abroad in germany so that he might read goethe in the original. hayward had one gift which was very precious. he had a real feeling for literature, and he could impart his own passion with an admirable fluency. he could throw himself into sympathy with a writer and see all that was best in him, and then he could talk about him with understanding. philip had read a great deal, but he had read without discrimination everything that he happened to come across, and it was very good for him now to meet someone who could guide his taste. he borrowed books from the small lending library which the town possessed and began reading all the wonderful things that hayward spoke of. he did not read always with enjoyment but invariably with perseverance. he was eager for self-improvement. he felt himself very ignorant and very humble. by the end of august, when weeks returned from south germany, philip was completely under hayward's influence. hayward did not like weeks. he deplored the american's black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, and spoke with a scornful shrug of his new england conscience. philip listened complacently to the abuse of a man who had gone out of his way to be kind to him, but when weeks in his turn made disagreeable remarks about hayward he lost his temper. "your new friend looks like a poet," said weeks, with a thin smile on his careworn, bitter mouth. "he is a poet." "did he tell you so? in america we should call him a pretty fair specimen of a waster." "well, we're not in america," said philip frigidly. "how old is he? twenty-five? and he does nothing but stay in pensions and write poetry." "you don't know him," said philip hotly. "oh yes, i do: i've met a hundred and forty-seven of him." weeks' eyes twinkled, but philip, who did not understand american humour, pursed his lips and looked severe. weeks to philip seemed a man of middle age, but he was in point of fact little more than thirty. he had a long, thin body and the scholar's stoop; his head was large and ugly; he had pale scanty hair and an earthy skin; his thin mouth and thin, long nose, and the great protuberance of his frontal bones, gave him an uncouth look. he was cold and precise in his manner, a bloodless man, without passion; but he had a curious vein of frivolity which disconcerted the serious-minded among whom his instincts naturally threw him. he was studying theology in heidelberg, but the other theological students of his own nationality looked upon him with suspicion. he was very unorthodox, which frightened them; and his freakish humour excited their disapproval. "how can you have known a hundred and forty-seven of him?" asked philip seriously. "i've met him in the latin quarter in paris, and i've met him in pensions in berlin and munich. he lives in small hotels in perugia and assisi. he stands by the dozen before the botticellis in florence, and he sits on all the benches of the sistine chapel in rome. in italy he drinks a little too much wine, and in germany he drinks a great deal too much beer. he always admires the right thing whatever the right thing is, and one of these days he's going to write a great work. think of it, there are a hundred and forty-seven great works reposing in the bosoms of a hundred and forty-seven great men, and the tragic thing is that not one of those hundred and forty-seven great works will ever be written. and yet the world goes on." weeks spoke seriously, but his gray eyes twinkled a little at the end of his long speech, and philip flushed when he saw that the american was making fun of him. "you do talk rot," he said crossly. xxvii weeks had two little rooms at the back of frau erlin's house, and one of them, arranged as a parlour, was comfortable enough for him to invite people to sit in. after supper, urged perhaps by the impish humour which was the despair of his friends in cambridge, mass., he often asked philip and hayward to come in for a chat. he received them with elaborate courtesy and insisted on their sitting in the only two comfortable chairs in the room. though he did not drink himself, with a politeness of which philip recognised the irony, he put a couple of bottles of beer at hayward's elbow, and he insisted on lighting matches whenever in the heat of argument hayward's pipe went out. at the beginning of their acquaintance hayward, as a member of so celebrated a university, had adopted a patronising attitude towards weeks, who was a graduate of harvard; and when by chance the conversation turned upon the greek tragedians, a subject upon which hayward felt he spoke with authority, he had assumed the air that it was his part to give information rather than to exchange ideas. weeks had listened politely, with smiling modesty, till hayward finished; then he asked one or two insidious questions, so innocent in appearance that hayward, not seeing into what a quandary they led him, answered blandly; weeks made a courteous objection, then a correction of fact, after that a quotation from some little known latin commentator, then a reference to a german authority; and the fact was disclosed that he was a scholar. with smiling ease, apologetically, weeks tore to pieces all that hayward had said; with elaborate civility he displayed the superficiality of his attainments. he mocked him with gentle irony. philip could not help seeing that hayward looked a perfect fool, and hayward had not the sense to hold his tongue; in his irritation, his self-assurance undaunted, he attempted to argue: he made wild statements and weeks amicably corrected them; he reasoned falsely and weeks proved that he was absurd: weeks confessed that he had taught greek literature at harvard. hayward gave a laugh of scorn. "i might have known it. of course you read greek like a schoolmaster," he said. "i read it like a poet." "and do you find it more poetic when you don't quite know what it means? i thought it was only in revealed religion that a mistranslation improved the sense." at last, having finished the beer, hayward left weeks' room hot and dishevelled; with an angry gesture he said to philip: "of course the man's a pedant. he has no real feeling for beauty. accuracy is the virtue of clerks. it's the spirit of the greeks that we aim at. weeks is like that fellow who went to hear rubenstein and complained that he played false notes. false notes! what did they matter when he played divinely?" philip, not knowing how many incompetent people have found solace in these false notes, was much impressed. hayward could never resist the opportunity which weeks offered him of regaining ground lost on a previous occasion, and weeks was able with the greatest ease to draw him into a discussion. though he could not help seeing how small his attainments were beside the american's, his british pertinacity, his wounded vanity (perhaps they are the same thing), would not allow him to give up the struggle. hayward seemed to take a delight in displaying his ignorance, self-satisfaction, and wrongheadedness. whenever hayward said something which was illogical, weeks in a few words would show the falseness of his reasoning, pause for a moment to enjoy his triumph, and then hurry on to another subject as though christian charity impelled him to spare the vanquished foe. philip tried sometimes to put in something to help his friend, and weeks gently crushed him, but so kindly, differently from the way in which he answered hayward, that even philip, outrageously sensitive, could not feel hurt. now and then, losing his calm as he felt himself more and more foolish, hayward became abusive, and only the american's smiling politeness prevented the argument from degenerating into a quarrel. on these occasions when hayward left weeks' room he muttered angrily: "damned yankee!" that settled it. it was a perfect answer to an argument which had seemed unanswerable. though they began by discussing all manner of subjects in weeks' little room eventually the conversation always turned to religion: the theological student took a professional interest in it, and hayward welcomed a subject in which hard facts need not disconcert him; when feeling is the gauge you can snap your angers at logic, and when your logic is weak that is very agreeable. hayward found it difficult to explain his beliefs to philip without a great flow of words; but it was clear (and this fell in with philip's idea of the natural order of things), that he had been brought up in the church by law established. though he had now given up all idea of becoming a roman catholic, he still looked upon that communion with sympathy. he had much to say in its praise, and he compared favourably its gorgeous ceremonies with the simple services of the church of england. he gave philip newman's apologia to read, and philip, finding it very dull, nevertheless read it to the end. "read it for its style, not for its matter," said hayward. he talked enthusiastically of the music at the oratory, and said charming things about the connection between incense and the devotional spirit. weeks listened to him with his frigid smile. "you think it proves the truth of roman catholicism that john henry newman wrote good english and that cardinal manning has a picturesque appearance?" hayward hinted that he had gone through much trouble with his soul. for a year he had swum in a sea of darkness. he passed his fingers through his fair, waving hair and told them that he would not for five hundred pounds endure again those agonies of mind. fortunately he had reached calm waters at last. "but what do you believe?" asked philip, who was never satisfied with vague statements. "i believe in the whole, the good, and the beautiful." hayward with his loose large limbs and the fine carriage of his head looked very handsome when he said this, and he said it with an air. "is that how you would describe your religion in a census paper?" asked weeks, in mild tones. "i hate the rigid definition: it's so ugly, so obvious. if you like i will say that i believe in the church of the duke of wellington and mr. gladstone." "that's the church of england," said philip. "oh wise young man!" retorted hayward, with a smile which made philip blush, for he felt that in putting into plain words what the other had expressed in a paraphrase, he had been guilty of vulgarity. "i belong to the church of england. but i love the gold and the silk which clothe the priest of rome, and his celibacy, and the confessional, and purgatory: and in the darkness of an italian cathedral, incense-laden and mysterious, i believe with all my heart in the miracle of the mass. in venice i have seen a fisherwoman come in, barefoot, throw down her basket of fish by her side, fall on her knees, and pray to the madonna; and that i felt was the real faith, and i prayed and believed with her. but i believe also in aphrodite and apollo and the great god pan." he had a charming voice, and he chose his words as he spoke; he uttered them almost rhythmically. he would have gone on, but weeks opened a second bottle of beer. "let me give you something to drink." hayward turned to philip with the slightly condescending gesture which so impressed the youth. "now are you satisfied?" he asked. philip, somewhat bewildered, confessed that he was. "i'm disappointed that you didn't add a little buddhism," said weeks. "and i confess i have a sort of sympathy for mahomet; i regret that you should have left him out in the cold." hayward laughed, for he was in a good humour with himself that evening, and the ring of his sentences still sounded pleasant in his ears. he emptied his glass. "i didn't expect you to understand me," he answered. "with your cold american intelligence you can only adopt the critical attitude. emerson and all that sort of thing. but what is criticism? criticism is purely destructive; anyone can destroy, but not everyone can build up. you are a pedant, my dear fellow. the important thing is to construct: i am constructive; i am a poet." weeks looked at him with eyes which seemed at the same time to be quite grave and yet to be smiling brightly. "i think, if you don't mind my saying so, you're a little drunk." "nothing to speak of," answered hayward cheerfully. "and not enough for me to be unable to overwhelm you in argument. but come, i have unbosomed my soul; now tell us what your religion is." weeks put his head on one side so that he looked like a sparrow on a perch. "i've been trying to find that out for years. i think i'm a unitarian." "but that's a dissenter," said philip. he could not imagine why they both burst into laughter, hayward uproariously, and weeks with a funny chuckle. "and in england dissenters aren't gentlemen, are they?" asked weeks. "well, if you ask me point-blank, they're not," replied philip rather crossly. he hated being laughed at, and they laughed again. "and will you tell me what a gentleman is?" asked weeks. "oh, i don't know; everyone knows what it is." "are you a gentleman?" no doubt had ever crossed philip's mind on the subject, but he knew it was not a thing to state of oneself. "if a man tells you he's a gentleman you can bet your boots he isn't," he retorted. "am i a gentleman?" philip's truthfulness made it difficult for him to answer, but he was naturally polite. "oh, well, you're different," he said. "you're american, aren't you?" "i suppose we may take it that only englishmen are gentlemen," said weeks gravely. philip did not contradict him. "couldn't you give me a few more particulars?" asked weeks. philip reddened, but, growing angry, did not care if he made himself ridiculous. "i can give you plenty." he remembered his uncle's saying that it took three generations to make a gentleman: it was a companion proverb to the silk purse and the sow's ear. "first of all he's the son of a gentleman, and he's been to a public school, and to oxford or cambridge." "edinburgh wouldn't do, i suppose?" asked weeks. "and he talks english like a gentleman, and he wears the right sort of things, and if he's a gentleman he can always tell if another chap's a gentleman." it seemed rather lame to philip as he went on, but there it was: that was what he meant by the word, and everyone he had ever known had meant that too. "it is evident to me that i am not a gentleman," said weeks. "i don't see why you should have been so surprised because i was a dissenter." "i don't quite know what a unitarian is," said philip. weeks in his odd way again put his head on one side: you almost expected him to twitter. "a unitarian very earnestly disbelieves in almost everything that anybody else believes, and he has a very lively sustaining faith in he doesn't quite know what." "i don't see why you should make fun of me," said philip. "i really want to know." "my dear friend, i'm not making fun of you. i have arrived at that definition after years of great labour and the most anxious, nerve-racking study." when philip and hayward got up to go, weeks handed philip a little book in a paper cover. "i suppose you can read french pretty well by now. i wonder if this would amuse you." philip thanked him and, taking the book, looked at the title. it was renan's vie de jesus. xxviii it occurred neither to hayward nor to weeks that the conversations which helped them to pass an idle evening were being turned over afterwards in philip's active brain. it had never struck him before that religion was a matter upon which discussion was possible. to him it meant the church of england, and not to believe in its tenets was a sign of wilfulness which could not fail of punishment here or hereafter. there was some doubt in his mind about the chastisement of unbelievers. it was possible that a merciful judge, reserving the flames of hell for the heathen--mahommedans, buddhists, and the rest--would spare dissenters and roman catholics (though at the cost of how much humiliation when they were made to realise their error!), and it was also possible that he would be pitiful to those who had had no chance of learning the truth,--this was reasonable enough, though such were the activities of the missionary society there could not be many in this condition--but if the chance had been theirs and they had neglected it (in which category were obviously roman catholics and dissenters), the punishment was sure and merited. it was clear that the miscreant was in a parlous state. perhaps philip had not been taught it in so many words, but certainly the impression had been given him that only members of the church of england had any real hope of eternal happiness. one of the things that philip had heard definitely stated was that the unbeliever was a wicked and a vicious man; but weeks, though he believed in hardly anything that philip believed, led a life of christian purity. philip had received little kindness in his life, and he was touched by the american's desire to help him: once when a cold kept him in bed for three days, weeks nursed him like a mother. there was neither vice nor wickedness in him, but only sincerity and loving-kindness. it was evidently possible to be virtuous and unbelieving. also philip had been given to understand that people adhered to other faiths only from obstinacy or self-interest: in their hearts they knew they were false; they deliberately sought to deceive others. now, for the sake of his german he had been accustomed on sunday mornings to attend the lutheran service, but when hayward arrived he began instead to go with him to mass. he noticed that, whereas the protestant church was nearly empty and the congregation had a listless air, the jesuit on the other hand was crowded and the worshippers seemed to pray with all their hearts. they had not the look of hypocrites. he was surprised at the contrast; for he knew of course that the lutherans, whose faith was closer to that of the church of england, on that account were nearer the truth than the roman catholics. most of the men--it was largely a masculine congregation--were south germans; and he could not help saying to himself that if he had been born in south germany he would certainly have been a roman catholic. he might just as well have been born in a roman catholic country as in england; and in england as well in a wesleyan, baptist, or methodist family as in one that fortunately belonged to the church by law established. he was a little breathless at the danger he had run. philip was on friendly terms with the little chinaman who sat at table with him twice each day. his name was sung. he was always smiling, affable, and polite. it seemed strange that he should frizzle in hell merely because he was a chinaman; but if salvation was possible whatever a man's faith was, there did not seem to be any particular advantage in belonging to the church of england. philip, more puzzled than he had ever been in his life, sounded weeks. he had to be careful, for he was very sensitive to ridicule; and the acidulous humour with which the american treated the church of england disconcerted him. weeks only puzzled him more. he made philip acknowledge that those south germans whom he saw in the jesuit church were every bit as firmly convinced of the truth of roman catholicism as he was of that of the church of england, and from that he led him to admit that the mahommedan and the buddhist were convinced also of the truth of their respective religions. it looked as though knowing that you were right meant nothing; they all knew they were right. weeks had no intention of undermining the boy's faith, but he was deeply interested in religion, and found it an absorbing topic of conversation. he had described his own views accurately when he said that he very earnestly disbelieved in almost everything that other people believed. once philip asked him a question, which he had heard his uncle put when the conversation at the vicarage had fallen upon some mildly rationalistic work which was then exciting discussion in the newspapers. "but why should you be right and all those fellows like st. anselm and st. augustine be wrong?" "you mean that they were very clever and learned men, while you have grave doubts whether i am either?" asked weeks. "yes," answered philip uncertainly, for put in that way his question seemed impertinent. "st. augustine believed that the earth was flat and that the sun turned round it." "i don't know what that proves." "why, it proves that you believe with your generation. your saints lived in an age of faith, when it was practically impossible to disbelieve what to us is positively incredible." "then how d'you know that we have the truth now?" "i don't." philip thought this over for a moment, then he said: "i don't see why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn't be just as wrong as what they believed in the past." "neither do i." "then how can you believe anything at all?" "i don't know." philip asked weeks what he thought of hayward's religion. "men have always formed gods in their own image," said weeks. "he believes in the picturesque." philip paused for a little while, then he said: "i don't see why one should believe in god at all." the words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realised that he had ceased to do so. it took his breath away like a plunge into cold water. he looked at weeks with startled eyes. suddenly he felt afraid. he left weeks as quickly as he could. he wanted to be alone. it was the most startling experience that he had ever had. he tried to think it all out; it was very exciting, since his whole life seemed concerned (he thought his decision on this matter must profoundly affect its course) and a mistake might lead to eternal damnation; but the more he reflected the more convinced he was; and though during the next few weeks he read books, aids to scepticism, with eager interest it was only to confirm him in what he felt instinctively. the fact was that he had ceased to believe not for this reason or the other, but because he had not the religious temperament. faith had been forced upon him from the outside. it was a matter of environment and example. a new environment and a new example gave him the opportunity to find himself. he put off the faith of his childhood quite simply, like a cloak that he no longer needed. at first life seemed strange and lonely without the belief which, though he never realised it, had been an unfailing support. he felt like a man who has leaned on a stick and finds himself forced suddenly to walk without assistance. it really seemed as though the days were colder and the nights more solitary. but he was upheld by the excitement; it seemed to make life a more thrilling adventure; and in a little while the stick which he had thrown aside, the cloak which had fallen from his shoulders, seemed an intolerable burden of which he had been eased. the religious exercises which for so many years had been forced upon him were part and parcel of religion to him. he thought of the collects and epistles which he had been made to learn by heart, and the long services at the cathedral through which he had sat when every limb itched with the desire for movement; and he remembered those walks at night through muddy roads to the parish church at blackstable, and the coldness of that bleak building; he sat with his feet like ice, his fingers numb and heavy, and all around was the sickly odour of pomatum. oh, he had been so bored! his heart leaped when he saw he was free from all that. he was surprised at himself because he ceased to believe so easily, and, not knowing that he felt as he did on account of the subtle workings of his inmost nature, he ascribed the certainty he had reached to his own cleverness. he was unduly pleased with himself. with youth's lack of sympathy for an attitude other than its own he despised not a little weeks and hayward because they were content with the vague emotion which they called god and would not take the further step which to himself seemed so obvious. one day he went alone up a certain hill so that he might see a view which, he knew not why, filled him always with wild exhilaration. it was autumn now, but often the days were cloudless still, and then the sky seemed to glow with a more splendid light: it was as though nature consciously sought to put a fuller vehemence into the remaining days of fair weather. he looked down upon the plain, a-quiver with the sun, stretching vastly before him: in the distance were the roofs of mannheim and ever so far away the dimness of worms. here and there a more piercing glitter was the rhine. the tremendous spaciousness of it was glowing with rich gold. philip, as he stood there, his heart beating with sheer joy, thought how the tempter had stood with jesus on a high mountain and shown him the kingdoms of the earth. to philip, intoxicated with the beauty of the scene, it seemed that it was the whole world which was spread before him, and he was eager to step down and enjoy it. he was free from degrading fears and free from prejudice. he could go his way without the intolerable dread of hell-fire. suddenly he realised that he had lost also that burden of responsibility which made every action of his life a matter of urgent consequence. he could breathe more freely in a lighter air. he was responsible only to himself for the things he did. freedom! he was his own master at last. from old habit, unconsciously he thanked god that he no longer believed in him. drunk with pride in his intelligence and in his fearlessness, philip entered deliberately upon a new life. but his loss of faith made less difference in his behaviour than he expected. though he had thrown on one side the christian dogmas it never occurred to him to criticise the christian ethics; he accepted the christian virtues, and indeed thought it fine to practise them for their own sake, without a thought of reward or punishment. there was small occasion for heroism in the frau professor's house, but he was a little more exactly truthful than he had been, and he forced himself to be more than commonly attentive to the dull, elderly ladies who sometimes engaged him in conversation. the gentle oath, the violent adjective, which are typical of our language and which he had cultivated before as a sign of manliness, he now elaborately eschewed. having settled the whole matter to his satisfaction he sought to put it out of his mind, but that was more easily said than done; and he could not prevent the regrets nor stifle the misgivings which sometimes tormented him. he was so young and had so few friends that immortality had no particular attractions for him, and he was able without trouble to give up belief in it; but there was one thing which made him wretched; he told himself that he was unreasonable, he tried to laugh himself out of such pathos; but the tears really came to his eyes when he thought that he would never see again the beautiful mother whose love for him had grown more precious as the years since her death passed on. and sometimes, as though the influence of innumerable ancestors, godfearing and devout, were working in him unconsciously, there seized him a panic fear that perhaps after all it was all true, and there was, up there behind the blue sky, a jealous god who would punish in everlasting flames the atheist. at these times his reason could offer him no help, he imagined the anguish of a physical torment which would last endlessly, he felt quite sick with fear and burst into a violent sweat. at last he would say to himself desperately: "after all, it's not my fault. i can't force myself to believe. if there is a god after all and he punishes me because i honestly don't believe in him i can't help it." xxix winter set in. weeks went to berlin to attend the lectures of paulssen, and hayward began to think of going south. the local theatre opened its doors. philip and hayward went to it two or three times a week with the praiseworthy intention of improving their german, and philip found it a more diverting manner of perfecting himself in the language than listening to sermons. they found themselves in the midst of a revival of the drama. several of ibsen's plays were on the repertory for the winter; sudermann's die ehre was then a new play, and on its production in the quiet university town caused the greatest excitement; it was extravagantly praised and bitterly attacked; other dramatists followed with plays written under the modern influence, and philip witnessed a series of works in which the vileness of mankind was displayed before him. he had never been to a play in his life till then (poor touring companies sometimes came to the assembly rooms at blackstable, but the vicar, partly on account of his profession, partly because he thought it would be vulgar, never went to see them) and the passion of the stage seized him. he felt a thrill the moment he got into the little, shabby, ill-lit theatre. soon he came to know the peculiarities of the small company, and by the casting could tell at once what were the characteristics of the persons in the drama; but this made no difference to him. to him it was real life. it was a strange life, dark and tortured, in which men and women showed to remorseless eyes the evil that was in their hearts: a fair face concealed a depraved mind; the virtuous used virtue as a mask to hide their secret vice, the seeming-strong fainted within with their weakness; the honest were corrupt, the chaste were lewd. you seemed to dwell in a room where the night before an orgy had taken place: the windows had not been opened in the morning; the air was foul with the dregs of beer, and stale smoke, and flaring gas. there was no laughter. at most you sniggered at the hypocrite or the fool: the characters expressed themselves in cruel words that seemed wrung out of their hearts by shame and anguish. philip was carried away by the sordid intensity of it. he seemed to see the world again in another fashion, and this world too he was anxious to know. after the play was over he went to a tavern and sat in the bright warmth with hayward to eat a sandwich and drink a glass of beer. all round were little groups of students, talking and laughing; and here and there was a family, father and mother, a couple of sons and a girl; and sometimes the girl said a sharp thing, and the father leaned back in his chair and laughed, laughed heartily. it was very friendly and innocent. there was a pleasant homeliness in the scene, but for this philip had no eyes. his thoughts ran on the play he had just come from. "you do feel it's life, don't you?" he said excitedly. "you know, i don't think i can stay here much longer. i want to get to london so that i can really begin. i want to have experiences. i'm so tired of preparing for life: i want to live it now." sometimes hayward left philip to go home by himself. he would never exactly reply to philip's eager questioning, but with a merry, rather stupid laugh, hinted at a romantic amour; he quoted a few lines of rossetti, and once showed philip a sonnet in which passion and purple, pessimism and pathos, were packed together on the subject of a young lady called trude. hayward surrounded his sordid and vulgar little adventures with a glow of poetry, and thought he touched hands with pericles and pheidias because to describe the object of his attentions he used the word hetaira instead of one of those, more blunt and apt, provided by the english language. philip in the daytime had been led by curiosity to pass through the little street near the old bridge, with its neat white houses and green shutters, in which according to hayward the fraulein trude lived; but the women, with brutal faces and painted cheeks, who came out of their doors and cried out to him, filled him with fear; and he fled in horror from the rough hands that sought to detain him. he yearned above all things for experience and felt himself ridiculous because at his age he had not enjoyed that which all fiction taught him was the most important thing in life; but he had the unfortunate gift of seeing things as they were, and the reality which was offered him differed too terribly from the ideal of his dreams. he did not know how wide a country, arid and precipitous, must be crossed before the traveller through life comes to an acceptance of reality. it is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. it looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. they must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. the strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to it in his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself. the companionship of hayward was the worst possible thing for philip. he was a man who saw nothing for himself, but only through a literary atmosphere, and he was dangerous because he had deceived himself into sincerity. he honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion, his vacillation for the artistic temperament, and his idleness for philosophic calm. his mind, vulgar in its effort at refinement, saw everything a little larger than life size, with the outlines blurred, in a golden mist of sentimentality. he lied and never knew that he lied, and when it was pointed out to him said that lies were beautiful. he was an idealist. xxx philip was restless and dissatisfied. hayward's poetic allusions troubled his imagination, and his soul yearned for romance. at least that was how he put it to himself. and it happened that an incident was taking place in frau erlin's house which increased philip's preoccupation with the matter of sex. two or three times on his walks among the hills he had met fraulein cacilie wandering by herself. he had passed her with a bow, and a few yards further on had seen the chinaman. he thought nothing of it; but one evening on his way home, when night had already fallen, he passed two people walking very close together. hearing his footstep, they separated quickly, and though he could not see well in the darkness he was almost certain they were cacilie and herr sung. their rapid movement apart suggested that they had been walking arm in arm. philip was puzzled and surprised. he had never paid much attention to fraulein cacilie. she was a plain girl, with a square face and blunt features. she could not have been more than sixteen, since she still wore her long fair hair in a plait. that evening at supper he looked at her curiously; and, though of late she had talked little at meals, she addressed him. "where did you go for your walk today, herr carey?" she asked. "oh, i walked up towards the konigstuhl." "i didn't go out," she volunteered. "i had a headache." the chinaman, who sat next to her, turned round. "i'm so sorry," he said. "i hope it's better now." fraulein cacilie was evidently uneasy, for she spoke again to philip. "did you meet many people on the way?" philip could not help reddening when he told a downright lie. "no. i don't think i saw a living soul." he fancied that a look of relief passed across her eyes. soon, however, there could be no doubt that there was something between the pair, and other people in the frau professor's house saw them lurking in dark places. the elderly ladies who sat at the head of the table began to discuss what was now a scandal. the frau professor was angry and harassed. she had done her best to see nothing. the winter was at hand, and it was not as easy a matter then as in the summer to keep her house full. herr sung was a good customer: he had two rooms on the ground floor, and he drank a bottle of moselle at each meal. the frau professor charged him three marks a bottle and made a good profit. none of her other guests drank wine, and some of them did not even drink beer. neither did she wish to lose fraulein cacilie, whose parents were in business in south america and paid well for the frau professor's motherly care; and she knew that if she wrote to the girl's uncle, who lived in berlin, he would immediately take her away. the frau professor contented herself with giving them both severe looks at table and, though she dared not be rude to the chinaman, got a certain satisfaction out of incivility to cacilie. but the three elderly ladies were not content. two were widows, and one, a dutchwoman, was a spinster of masculine appearance; they paid the smallest possible sum for their pension, and gave a good deal of trouble, but they were permanent and therefore had to be put up with. they went to the frau professor and said that something must be done; it was disgraceful, and the house was ceasing to be respectable. the frau professor tried obstinacy, anger, tears, but the three old ladies routed her, and with a sudden assumption of virtuous indignation she said that she would put a stop to the whole thing. after luncheon she took cacilie into her bed-room and began to talk very seriously to her; but to her amazement the girl adopted a brazen attitude; she proposed to go about as she liked; and if she chose to walk with the chinaman she could not see it was anybody's business but her own. the frau professor threatened to write to her uncle. "then onkel heinrich will put me in a family in berlin for the winter, and that will be much nicer for me. and herr sung will come to berlin too." the frau professor began to cry. the tears rolled down her coarse, red, fat cheeks; and cacilie laughed at her. "that will mean three rooms empty all through the winter," she said. then the frau professor tried another plan. she appealed to fraulein cacilie's better nature: she was kind, sensible, tolerant; she treated her no longer as a child, but as a grown woman. she said that it wouldn't be so dreadful, but a chinaman, with his yellow skin and flat nose, and his little pig's eyes! that's what made it so horrible. it filled one with disgust to think of it. "bitte, bitte," said cacilie, with a rapid intake of the breath. "i won't listen to anything against him." "but it's not serious?" gasped frau erlin. "i love him. i love him. i love him." "gott im himmel!" the frau professor stared at her with horrified surprise; she had thought it was no more than naughtiness on the child's part, and innocent, folly. but the passion in her voice revealed everything. cacilie looked at her for a moment with flaming eyes, and then with a shrug of her shoulders went out of the room. frau erlin kept the details of the interview to herself, and a day or two later altered the arrangement of the table. she asked herr sung if he would not come and sit at her end, and he with his unfailing politeness accepted with alacrity. cacilie took the change indifferently. but as if the discovery that the relations between them were known to the whole household made them more shameless, they made no secret now of their walks together, and every afternoon quite openly set out to wander about the hills. it was plain that they did not care what was said of them. at last even the placidity of professor erlin was moved, and he insisted that his wife should speak to the chinaman. she took him aside in his turn and expostulated; he was ruining the girl's reputation, he was doing harm to the house, he must see how wrong and wicked his conduct was; but she was met with smiling denials; herr sung did not know what she was talking about, he was not paying any attention to fraulein cacilie, he never walked with her; it was all untrue, every word of it. "ach, herr sung, how can you say such things? you've been seen again and again." "no, you're mistaken. it's untrue." he looked at her with an unceasing smile, which showed his even, little white teeth. he was quite calm. he denied everything. he denied with bland effrontery. at last the frau professor lost her temper and said the girl had confessed she loved him. he was not moved. he continued to smile. "nonsense! nonsense! it's all untrue." she could get nothing out of him. the weather grew very bad; there was snow and frost, and then a thaw with a long succession of cheerless days, on which walking was a poor amusement. one evening when philip had just finished his german lesson with the herr professor and was standing for a moment in the drawing-room, talking to frau erlin, anna came quickly in. "mamma, where is cacilie?" she said. "i suppose she's in her room." "there's no light in it." the frau professor gave an exclamation, and she looked at her daughter in dismay. the thought which was in anna's head had flashed across hers. "ring for emil," she said hoarsely. this was the stupid lout who waited at table and did most of the housework. he came in. "emil, go down to herr sung's room and enter without knocking. if anyone is there say you came in to see about the stove." no sign of astonishment appeared on emil's phlegmatic face. he went slowly downstairs. the frau professor and anna left the door open and listened. presently they heard emil come up again, and they called him. "was anyone there?" asked the frau professor. "yes, herr sung was there." "was he alone?" the beginning of a cunning smile narrowed his mouth. "no, fraulein cacilie was there." "oh, it's disgraceful," cried the frau professor. now he smiled broadly. "fraulein cacilie is there every evening. she spends hours at a time there." frau professor began to wring her hands. "oh, how abominable! but why didn't you tell me?" "it was no business of mine," he answered, slowly shrugging his shoulders. "i suppose they paid you well. go away. go." he lurched clumsily to the door. "they must go away, mamma," said anna. "and who is going to pay the rent? and the taxes are falling due. it's all very well for you to say they must go away. if they go away i can't pay the bills." she turned to philip, with tears streaming down her face. "ach, herr carey, you will not say what you have heard. if fraulein forster--" this was the dutch spinster--"if fraulein forster knew she would leave at once. and if they all go we must close the house. i cannot afford to keep it." "of course i won't say anything." "if she stays, i will not speak to her," said anna. that evening at supper fraulein cacilie, redder than usual, with a look of obstinacy on her face, took her place punctually; but herr sung did not appear, and for a while philip thought he was going to shirk the ordeal. at last he came, very smiling, his little eyes dancing with the apologies he made for his late arrival. he insisted as usual on pouring out the frau professor a glass of his moselle, and he offered a glass to fraulein forster. the room was very hot, for the stove had been alight all day and the windows were seldom opened. emil blundered about, but succeeded somehow in serving everyone quickly and with order. the three old ladies sat in silence, visibly disapproving: the frau professor had scarcely recovered from her tears; her husband was silent and oppressed. conversation languished. it seemed to philip that there was something dreadful in that gathering which he had sat with so often; they looked different under the light of the two hanging lamps from what they had ever looked before; he was vaguely uneasy. once he caught cacilie's eye, and he thought she looked at him with hatred and contempt. the room was stifling. it was as though the beastly passion of that pair troubled them all; there was a feeling of oriental depravity; a faint savour of joss-sticks, a mystery of hidden vices, seemed to make their breath heavy. philip could feel the beating of the arteries in his forehead. he could not understand what strange emotion distracted him; he seemed to feel something infinitely attractive, and yet he was repelled and horrified. for several days things went on. the air was sickly with the unnatural passion which all felt about them, and the nerves of the little household seemed to grow exasperated. only herr sung remained unaffected; he was no less smiling, affable, and polite than he had been before: one could not tell whether his manner was a triumph of civilisation or an expression of contempt on the part of the oriental for the vanquished west. cacilie was flaunting and cynical. at last even the frau professor could bear the position no longer. suddenly panic seized her; for professor erlin with brutal frankness had suggested the possible consequences of an intrigue which was now manifest to everyone, and she saw her good name in heidelberg and the repute of her house ruined by a scandal which could not possibly be hidden. for some reason, blinded perhaps by her interests, this possibility had never occurred to her; and now, her wits muddled by a terrible fear, she could hardly be prevented from turning the girl out of the house at once. it was due to anna's good sense that a cautious letter was written to the uncle in berlin suggesting that cacilie should be taken away. but having made up her mind to lose the two lodgers, the frau professor could not resist the satisfaction of giving rein to the ill-temper she had curbed so long. she was free now to say anything she liked to cacilie. "i have written to your uncle, cacilie, to take you away. i cannot have you in my house any longer." her little round eyes sparkled when she noticed the sudden whiteness of the girl's face. "you're shameless. shameless," she went on. she called her foul names. "what did you say to my uncle heinrich, frau professor?" the girl asked, suddenly falling from her attitude of flaunting independence. "oh, he'll tell you himself. i expect to get a letter from him tomorrow." next day, in order to make the humiliation more public, at supper she called down the table to cacilie. "i have had a letter from your uncle, cacilie. you are to pack your things tonight, and we will put you in the train tomorrow morning. he will meet you himself in berlin at the central bahnhof." "very good, frau professor." herr sung smiled in the frau professor's eyes, and notwithstanding her protests insisted on pouring out a glass of wine for her. the frau professor ate her supper with a good appetite. but she had triumphed unwisely. just before going to bed she called the servant. "emil, if fraulein cacilie's box is ready you had better take it downstairs tonight. the porter will fetch it before breakfast." the servant went away and in a moment came back. "fraulein cacilie is not in her room, and her bag has gone." with a cry the frau professor hurried along: the box was on the floor, strapped and locked; but there was no bag, and neither hat nor cloak. the dressing-table was empty. breathing heavily, the frau professor ran downstairs to the chinaman's rooms, she had not moved so quickly for twenty years, and emil called out after her to beware she did not fall; she did not trouble to knock, but burst in. the rooms were empty. the luggage had gone, and the door into the garden, still open, showed how it had been got away. in an envelope on the table were notes for the money due on the month's board and an approximate sum for extras. groaning, suddenly overcome by her haste, the frau professor sank obesely on to a sofa. there could be no doubt. the pair had gone off together. emil remained stolid and unmoved. xxxi hayward, after saying for a month that he was going south next day and delaying from week to week out of inability to make up his mind to the bother of packing and the tedium of a journey, had at last been driven off just before christmas by the preparations for that festival. he could not support the thought of a teutonic merry-making. it gave him goose-flesh to think of the season's aggressive cheerfulness, and in his desire to avoid the obvious he determined to travel on christmas eve. philip was not sorry to see him off, for he was a downright person and it irritated him that anybody should not know his own mind. though much under hayward's influence, he would not grant that indecision pointed to a charming sensitiveness; and he resented the shadow of a sneer with which hayward looked upon his straight ways. they corresponded. hayward was an admirable letter-writer, and knowing his talent took pains with his letters. his temperament was receptive to the beautiful influences with which he came in contact, and he was able in his letters from rome to put a subtle fragrance of italy. he thought the city of the ancient romans a little vulgar, finding distinction only in the decadence of the empire; but the rome of the popes appealed to his sympathy, and in his chosen words, quite exquisitely, there appeared a rococo beauty. he wrote of old church music and the alban hills, and of the languor of incense and the charm of the streets by night, in the rain, when the pavements shone and the light of the street lamps was mysterious. perhaps he repeated these admirable letters to various friends. he did not know what a troubling effect they had upon philip; they seemed to make his life very humdrum. with the spring hayward grew dithyrambic. he proposed that philip should come down to italy. he was wasting his time at heidelberg. the germans were gross and life there was common; how could the soul come to her own in that prim landscape? in tuscany the spring was scattering flowers through the land, and philip was nineteen; let him come and they could wander through the mountain towns of umbria. their names sang in philip's heart. and cacilie too, with her lover, had gone to italy. when he thought of them philip was seized with a restlessness he could not account for. he cursed his fate because he had no money to travel, and he knew his uncle would not send him more than the fifteen pounds a month which had been agreed upon. he had not managed his allowance very well. his pension and the price of his lessons left him very little over, and he had found going about with hayward expensive. hayward had often suggested excursions, a visit to the play, or a bottle of wine, when philip had come to the end of his month's money; and with the folly of his age he had been unwilling to confess he could not afford an extravagance. luckily hayward's letters came seldom, and in the intervals philip settled down again to his industrious life. he had matriculated at the university and attended one or two courses of lectures. kuno fischer was then at the height of his fame and during the winter had been lecturing brilliantly on schopenhauer. it was philip's introduction to philosophy. he had a practical mind and moved uneasily amid the abstract; but he found an unexpected fascination in listening to metaphysical disquisitions; they made him breathless; it was a little like watching a tight-rope dancer doing perilous feats over an abyss; but it was very exciting. the pessimism of the subject attracted his youth; and he believed that the world he was about to enter was a place of pitiless woe and of darkness. that made him none the less eager to enter it; and when, in due course, mrs. carey, acting as the correspondent for his guardian's views, suggested that it was time for him to come back to england, he agreed with enthusiasm. he must make up his mind now what he meant to do. if he left heidelberg at the end of july they could talk things over during august, and it would be a good time to make arrangements. the date of his departure was settled, and mrs. carey wrote to him again. she reminded him of miss wilkinson, through whose kindness he had gone to frau erlin's house at heidelberg, and told him that she had arranged to spend a few weeks with them at blackstable. she would be crossing from flushing on such and such a day, and if he travelled at the same time he could look after her and come on to blackstable in her company. philip's shyness immediately made him write to say that he could not leave till a day or two afterwards. he pictured himself looking out for miss wilkinson, the embarrassment of going up to her and asking if it were she (and he might so easily address the wrong person and be snubbed), and then the difficulty of knowing whether in the train he ought to talk to her or whether he could ignore her and read his book. at last he left heidelberg. for three months he had been thinking of nothing but the future; and he went without regret. he never knew that he had been happy there. fraulein anna gave him a copy of der trompeter von sackingen and in return he presented her with a volume of william morris. very wisely neither of them ever read the other's present. xxxii philip was surprised when he saw his uncle and aunt. he had never noticed before that they were quite old people. the vicar received him with his usual, not unamiable indifference. he was a little stouter, a little balder, a little grayer. philip saw how insignificant he was. his face was weak and self-indulgent. aunt louisa took him in her arms and kissed him; and tears of happiness flowed down her cheeks. philip was touched and embarrassed; he had not known with what a hungry love she cared for him. "oh, the time has seemed long since you've been away, philip," she cried. she stroked his hands and looked into his face with glad eyes. "you've grown. you're quite a man now." there was a very small moustache on his upper lip. he had bought a razor and now and then with infinite care shaved the down off his smooth chin. "we've been so lonely without you." and then shyly, with a little break in her voice, she asked: "you are glad to come back to your home, aren't you?" "yes, rather." she was so thin that she seemed almost transparent, the arms she put round his neck were frail bones that reminded you of chicken bones, and her faded face was oh! so wrinkled. the gray curls which she still wore in the fashion of her youth gave her a queer, pathetic look; and her little withered body was like an autumn leaf, you felt it might be blown away by the first sharp wind. philip realised that they had done with life, these two quiet little people: they belonged to a past generation, and they were waiting there patiently, rather stupidly, for death; and he, in his vigour and his youth, thirsting for excitement and adventure, was appalled at the waste. they had done nothing, and when they went it would be just as if they had never been. he felt a great pity for aunt louisa, and he loved her suddenly because she loved him. then miss wilkinson, who had kept discreetly out of the way till the careys had had a chance of welcoming their nephew, came into the room. "this is miss wilkinson, philip," said mrs. carey. "the prodigal has returned," she said, holding out her hand. "i have brought a rose for the prodigal's buttonhole." with a gay smile she pinned to philip's coat the flower she had just picked in the garden. he blushed and felt foolish. he knew that miss wilkinson was the daughter of his uncle william's last rector, and he had a wide acquaintance with the daughters of clergymen. they wore ill-cut clothes and stout boots. they were generally dressed in black, for in philip's early years at blackstable homespuns had not reached east anglia, and the ladies of the clergy did not favour colours. their hair was done very untidily, and they smelt aggressively of starched linen. they considered the feminine graces unbecoming and looked the same whether they were old or young. they bore their religion arrogantly. the closeness of their connection with the church made them adopt a slightly dictatorial attitude to the rest of mankind. miss wilkinson was very different. she wore a white muslin gown stamped with gay little bunches of flowers, and pointed, high-heeled shoes, with open-work stockings. to philip's inexperience it seemed that she was wonderfully dressed; he did not see that her frock was cheap and showy. her hair was elaborately dressed, with a neat curl in the middle of the forehead: it was very black, shiny and hard, and it looked as though it could never be in the least disarranged. she had large black eyes and her nose was slightly aquiline; in profile she had somewhat the look of a bird of prey, but full face she was prepossessing. she smiled a great deal, but her mouth was large and when she smiled she tried to hide her teeth, which were big and rather yellow. but what embarrassed philip most was that she was heavily powdered: he had very strict views on feminine behaviour and did not think a lady ever powdered; but of course miss wilkinson was a lady because she was a clergyman's daughter, and a clergyman was a gentleman. philip made up his mind to dislike her thoroughly. she spoke with a slight french accent; and he did not know why she should, since she had been born and bred in the heart of england. he thought her smile affected, and the coy sprightliness of her manner irritated him. for two or three days he remained silent and hostile, but miss wilkinson apparently did not notice it. she was very affable. she addressed her conversation almost exclusively to him, and there was something flattering in the way she appealed constantly to his sane judgment. she made him laugh too, and philip could never resist people who amused him: he had a gift now and then of saying neat things; and it was pleasant to have an appreciative listener. neither the vicar nor mrs. carey had a sense of humour, and they never laughed at anything he said. as he grew used to miss wilkinson, and his shyness left him, he began to like her better; he found the french accent picturesque; and at a garden party which the doctor gave she was very much better dressed than anyone else. she wore a blue foulard with large white spots, and philip was tickled at the sensation it caused. "i'm certain they think you're no better than you should be," he told her, laughing. "it's the dream of my life to be taken for an abandoned hussy," she answered. one day when miss wilkinson was in her room he asked aunt louisa how old she was. "oh, my dear, you should never ask a lady's age; but she's certainly too old for you to marry." the vicar gave his slow, obese smile. "she's no chicken, louisa," he said. "she was nearly grown up when we were in lincolnshire, and that was twenty years ago. she wore a pigtail hanging down her back." "she may not have been more than ten," said philip. "she was older than that," said aunt louisa. "i think she was near twenty," said the vicar. "oh no, william. sixteen or seventeen at the outside." "that would make her well over thirty," said philip. at that moment miss wilkinson tripped downstairs, singing a song by benjamin goddard. she had put her hat on, for she and philip were going for a walk, and she held out her hand for him to button her glove. he did it awkwardly. he felt embarrassed but gallant. conversation went easily between them now, and as they strolled along they talked of all manner of things. she told philip about berlin, and he told her of his year in heidelberg. as he spoke, things which had appeared of no importance gained a new interest: he described the people at frau erlin's house; and to the conversations between hayward and weeks, which at the time seemed so significant, he gave a little twist, so that they looked absurd. he was flattered at miss wilkinson's laughter. "i'm quite frightened of you," she said. "you're so sarcastic." then she asked him playfully whether he had not had any love affairs at heidelberg. without thinking, he frankly answered that he had not; but she refused to believe him. "how secretive you are!" she said. "at your age is it likely?" he blushed and laughed. "you want to know too much," he said. "ah, i thought so," she laughed triumphantly. "look at him blushing." he was pleased that she should think he had been a sad dog, and he changed the conversation so as to make her believe he had all sorts of romantic things to conceal. he was angry with himself that he had not. there had been no opportunity. miss wilkinson was dissatisfied with her lot. she resented having to earn her living and told philip a long story of an uncle of her mother's, who had been expected to leave her a fortune but had married his cook and changed his will. she hinted at the luxury of her home and compared her life in lincolnshire, with horses to ride and carriages to drive in, with the mean dependence of her present state. philip was a little puzzled when he mentioned this afterwards to aunt louisa, and she told him that when she knew the wilkinsons they had never had anything more than a pony and a dog-cart; aunt louisa had heard of the rich uncle, but as he was married and had children before emily was born she could never have had much hope of inheriting his fortune. miss wilkinson had little good to say of berlin, where she was now in a situation. she complained of the vulgarity of german life, and compared it bitterly with the brilliance of paris, where she had spent a number of years. she did not say how many. she had been governess in the family of a fashionable portrait-painter, who had married a jewish wife of means, and in their house she had met many distinguished people. she dazzled philip with their names. actors from the comedie francaise had come to the house frequently, and coquelin, sitting next her at dinner, had told her he had never met a foreigner who spoke such perfect french. alphonse daudet had come also, and he had given her a copy of sappho: he had promised to write her name in it, but she had forgotten to remind him. she treasured the volume none the less and she would lend it to philip. then there was maupassant. miss wilkinson with a rippling laugh looked at philip knowingly. what a man, but what a writer! hayward had talked of maupassant, and his reputation was not unknown to philip. "did he make love to you?" he asked. the words seemed to stick funnily in his throat, but he asked them nevertheless. he liked miss wilkinson very much now, and was thrilled by her conversation, but he could not imagine anyone making love to her. "what a question!" she cried. "poor guy, he made love to every woman he met. it was a habit that he could not break himself of." she sighed a little, and seemed to look back tenderly on the past. "he was a charming man," she murmured. a greater experience than philip's would have guessed from these words the probabilities of the encounter: the distinguished writer invited to luncheon en famille, the governess coming in sedately with the two tall girls she was teaching; the introduction: "notre miss anglaise." "mademoiselle." and the luncheon during which the miss anglaise sat silent while the distinguished writer talked to his host and hostess. but to philip her words called up much more romantic fancies. "do tell me all about him," he said excitedly. "there's nothing to tell," she said truthfully, but in such a manner as to convey that three volumes would scarcely have contained the lurid facts. "you mustn't be curious." she began to talk of paris. she loved the boulevards and the bois. there was grace in every street, and the trees in the champs elysees had a distinction which trees had not elsewhere. they were sitting on a stile now by the high-road, and miss wilkinson looked with disdain upon the stately elms in front of them. and the theatres: the plays were brilliant, and the acting was incomparable. she often went with madame foyot, the mother of the girls she was educating, when she was trying on clothes. "oh, what a misery to be poor!" she cried. "these beautiful things, it's only in paris they know how to dress, and not to be able to afford them! poor madame foyot, she had no figure. sometimes the dressmaker used to whisper to me: 'ah, mademoiselle, if she only had your figure.'" philip noticed then that miss wilkinson had a robust form and was proud of it. "men are so stupid in england. they only think of the face. the french, who are a nation of lovers, know how much more important the figure is." philip had never thought of such things before, but he observed now that miss wilkinson's ankles were thick and ungainly. he withdrew his eyes quickly. "you should go to france. why don't you go to paris for a year? you would learn french, and it would--deniaiser you." "what is that?" asked philip. she laughed slyly. "you must look it out in the dictionary. englishmen do not know how to treat women. they are so shy. shyness is ridiculous in a man. they don't know how to make love. they can't even tell a woman she is charming without looking foolish." philip felt himself absurd. miss wilkinson evidently expected him to behave very differently; and he would have been delighted to say gallant and witty things, but they never occurred to him; and when they did he was too much afraid of making a fool of himself to say them. "oh, i love paris," sighed miss wilkinson. "but i had to go to berlin. i was with the foyots till the girls married, and then i could get nothing to do, and i had the chance of this post in berlin. they're relations of madame foyot, and i accepted. i had a tiny apartment in the rue breda, on the cinquieme: it wasn't at all respectable. you know about the rue breda--ces dames, you know." philip nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, but vaguely suspecting, and anxious she should not think him too ignorant. "but i didn't care. je suis libre, n'est-ce pas?" she was very fond of speaking french, which indeed she spoke well. "once i had such a curious adventure there." she paused a little and philip pressed her to tell it. "you wouldn't tell me yours in heidelberg," she said. "they were so unadventurous," he retorted. "i don't know what mrs. carey would say if she knew the sort of things we talk about together." "you don't imagine i shall tell her." "will you promise?" when he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had a room on the floor above her--but she interrupted herself. "why don't you go in for art? you paint so prettily." "not well enough for that." "that is for others to judge. je m'y connais, and i believe you have the making of a great artist." "can't you see uncle william's face if i suddenly told him i wanted to go to paris and study art?" "you're your own master, aren't you?" "you're trying to put me off. please go on with the story." miss wilkinson, with a little laugh, went on. the art-student had passed her several times on the stairs, and she had paid no particular attention. she saw that he had fine eyes, and he took off his hat very politely. and one day she found a letter slipped under her door. it was from him. he told her that he had adored her for months, and that he waited about the stairs for her to pass. oh, it was a charming letter! of course she did not reply, but what woman could help being flattered? and next day there was another letter! it was wonderful, passionate, and touching. when next she met him on the stairs she did not know which way to look. and every day the letters came, and now he begged her to see him. he said he would come in the evening, vers neuf heures, and she did not know what to do. of course it was impossible, and he might ring and ring, but she would never open the door; and then while she was waiting for the tinkling of the bell, all nerves, suddenly he stood before her. she had forgotten to shut the door when she came in. "c'etait une fatalite." "and what happened then?" asked philip. "that is the end of the story," she replied, with a ripple of laughter. philip was silent for a moment. his heart beat quickly, and strange emotions seemed to be hustling one another in his heart. he saw the dark staircase and the chance meetings, and he admired the boldness of the letters--oh, he would never have dared to do that--and then the silent, almost mysterious entrance. it seemed to him the very soul of romance. "what was he like?" "oh, he was handsome. charmant garcon." "do you know him still?" philip felt a slight feeling of irritation as he asked this. "he treated me abominably. men are always the same. you're heartless, all of you." "i don't know about that," said philip, not without embarrassment. "let us go home," said miss wilkinson. xxxiii philip could not get miss wilkinson's story out of his head. it was clear enough what she meant even though she cut it short, and he was a little shocked. that sort of thing was all very well for married women, he had read enough french novels to know that in france it was indeed the rule, but miss wilkinson was english and unmarried; her father was a clergyman. then it struck him that the art-student probably was neither the first nor the last of her lovers, and he gasped: he had never looked upon miss wilkinson like that; it seemed incredible that anyone should make love to her. in his ingenuousness he doubted her story as little as he doubted what he read in books, and he was angry that such wonderful things never happened to him. it was humiliating that if miss wilkinson insisted upon his telling her of his adventures in heidelberg he would have nothing to tell. it was true that he had some power of invention, but he was not sure whether he could persuade her that he was steeped in vice; women were full of intuition, he had read that, and she might easily discover that he was fibbing. he blushed scarlet as he thought of her laughing up her sleeve. miss wilkinson played the piano and sang in a rather tired voice; but her songs, massenet, benjamin goddard, and augusta holmes, were new to philip; and together they spent many hours at the piano. one day she wondered if he had a voice and insisted on trying it. she told him he had a pleasant baritone and offered to give him lessons. at first with his usual bashfulness he refused, but she insisted, and then every morning at a convenient time after breakfast she gave him an hour's lesson. she had a natural gift for teaching, and it was clear that she was an excellent governess. she had method and firmness. though her french accent was so much part of her that it remained, all the mellifluousness of her manner left her when she was engaged in teaching. she put up with no nonsense. her voice became a little peremptory, and instinctively she suppressed inattention and corrected slovenliness. she knew what she was about and put philip to scales and exercises. when the lesson was over she resumed without effort her seductive smiles, her voice became again soft and winning, but philip could not so easily put away the pupil as she the pedagogue; and this impression convicted with the feelings her stories had aroused in him. he looked at her more narrowly. he liked her much better in the evening than in the morning. in the morning she was rather lined and the skin of her neck was just a little rough. he wished she would hide it, but the weather was very warm just then and she wore blouses which were cut low. she was very fond of white; in the morning it did not suit her. at night she often looked very attractive, she put on a gown which was almost a dinner dress, and she wore a chain of garnets round her neck; the lace about her bosom and at her elbows gave her a pleasant softness, and the scent she wore (at blackstable no one used anything but eau de cologne, and that only on sundays or when suffering from a sick headache) was troubling and exotic. she really looked very young then. philip was much exercised over her age. he added twenty and seventeen together, and could not bring them to a satisfactory total. he asked aunt louisa more than once why she thought miss wilkinson was thirty-seven: she didn't look more than thirty, and everyone knew that foreigners aged more rapidly than english women; miss wilkinson had lived so long abroad that she might almost be called a foreigner. he personally wouldn't have thought her more than twenty-six. "she's more than that," said aunt louisa. philip did not believe in the accuracy of the careys' statements. all they distinctly remembered was that miss wilkinson had not got her hair up the last time they saw her in lincolnshire. well, she might have been twelve then: it was so long ago and the vicar was always so unreliable. they said it was twenty years ago, but people used round figures, and it was just as likely to be eighteen years, or seventeen. seventeen and twelve were only twenty-nine, and hang it all, that wasn't old, was it? cleopatra was forty-eight when antony threw away the world for her sake. it was a fine summer. day after day was hot and cloudless; but the heat was tempered by the neighbourhood of the sea, and there was a pleasant exhilaration in the air, so that one was excited and not oppressed by the august sunshine. there was a pond in the garden in which a fountain played; water lilies grew in it and gold fish sunned themselves on the surface. philip and miss wilkinson used to take rugs and cushions there after dinner and lie on the lawn in the shade of a tall hedge of roses. they talked and read all the afternoon. they smoked cigarettes, which the vicar did not allow in the house; he thought smoking a disgusting habit, and used frequently to say that it was disgraceful for anyone to grow a slave to a habit. he forgot that he was himself a slave to afternoon tea. one day miss wilkinson gave philip la vie de boheme. she had found it by accident when she was rummaging among the books in the vicar's study. it had been bought in a lot with something mr. carey wanted and had remained undiscovered for ten years. philip began to read murger's fascinating, ill-written, absurd masterpiece, and fell at once under its spell. his soul danced with joy at that picture of starvation which is so good-humoured, of squalor which is so picturesque, of sordid love which is so romantic, of bathos which is so moving. rodolphe and mimi, musette and schaunard! they wander through the gray streets of the latin quarter, finding refuge now in one attic, now in another, in their quaint costumes of louis philippe, with their tears and their smiles, happy-go-lucky and reckless. who can resist them? it is only when you return to the book with a sounder judgment that you find how gross their pleasures were, how vulgar their minds; and you feel the utter worthlessness, as artists and as human beings, of that gay procession. philip was enraptured. "don't you wish you were going to paris instead of london?" asked miss wilkinson, smiling at his enthusiasm. "it's too late now even if i did," he answered. during the fortnight he had been back from germany there had been much discussion between himself and his uncle about his future. he had refused definitely to go to oxford, and now that there was no chance of his getting scholarships even mr. carey came to the conclusion that he could not afford it. his entire fortune had consisted of only two thousand pounds, and though it had been invested in mortgages at five per cent, he had not been able to live on the interest. it was now a little reduced. it would be absurd to spend two hundred a year, the least he could live on at a university, for three years at oxford which would lead him no nearer to earning his living. he was anxious to go straight to london. mrs. carey thought there were only four professions for a gentleman, the army, the navy, the law, and the church. she had added medicine because her brother-in-law practised it, but did not forget that in her young days no one ever considered the doctor a gentleman. the first two were out of the question, and philip was firm in his refusal to be ordained. only the law remained. the local doctor had suggested that many gentlemen now went in for engineering, but mrs. carey opposed the idea at once. "i shouldn't like philip to go into trade," she said. "no, he must have a profession," answered the vicar. "why not make him a doctor like his father?" "i should hate it," said philip. mrs. carey was not sorry. the bar seemed out of the question, since he was not going to oxford, for the careys were under the impression that a degree was still necessary for success in that calling; and finally it was suggested that he should become articled to a solicitor. they wrote to the family lawyer, albert nixon, who was co-executor with the vicar of blackstable for the late henry carey's estate, and asked him whether he would take philip. in a day or two the answer came back that he had not a vacancy, and was very much opposed to the whole scheme; the profession was greatly overcrowded, and without capital or connections a man had small chance of becoming more than a managing clerk; he suggested, however, that philip should become a chartered accountant. neither the vicar nor his wife knew in the least what this was, and philip had never heard of anyone being a chartered accountant; but another letter from the solicitor explained that the growth of modern businesses and the increase of companies had led to the formation of many firms of accountants to examine the books and put into the financial affairs of their clients an order which old-fashioned methods had lacked. some years before a royal charter had been obtained, and the profession was becoming every year more respectable, lucrative, and important. the chartered accountants whom albert nixon had employed for thirty years happened to have a vacancy for an articled pupil, and would take philip for a fee of three hundred pounds. half of this would be returned during the five years the articles lasted in the form of salary. the prospect was not exciting, but philip felt that he must decide on something, and the thought of living in london over-balanced the slight shrinking he felt. the vicar of blackstable wrote to ask mr. nixon whether it was a profession suited to a gentleman; and mr. nixon replied that, since the charter, men were going into it who had been to public schools and a university; moreover, if philip disliked the work and after a year wished to leave, herbert carter, for that was the accountant's name, would return half the money paid for the articles. this settled it, and it was arranged that philip should start work on the fifteenth of september. "i have a full month before me," said philip. "and then you go to freedom and i to bondage," returned miss wilkinson. her holidays were to last six weeks, and she would be leaving blackstable only a day or two before philip. "i wonder if we shall ever meet again," she said. "i don't know why not." "oh, don't speak in that practical way. i never knew anyone so unsentimental." philip reddened. he was afraid that miss wilkinson would think him a milksop: after all she was a young woman, sometimes quite pretty, and he was getting on for twenty; it was absurd that they should talk of nothing but art and literature. he ought to make love to her. they had talked a good deal of love. there was the art-student in the rue breda, and then there was the painter in whose family she had lived so long in paris: he had asked her to sit for him, and had started to make love to her so violently that she was forced to invent excuses not to sit to him again. it was clear enough that miss wilkinson was used to attentions of that sort. she looked very nice now in a large straw hat: it was hot that afternoon, the hottest day they had had, and beads of sweat stood in a line on her upper lip. he called to mind fraulein cacilie and herr sung. he had never thought of cacilie in an amorous way, she was exceedingly plain; but now, looking back, the affair seemed very romantic. he had a chance of romance too. miss wilkinson was practically french, and that added zest to a possible adventure. when he thought of it at night in bed, or when he sat by himself in the garden reading a book, he was thrilled by it; but when he saw miss wilkinson it seemed less picturesque. at all events, after what she had told him, she would not be surprised if he made love to her. he had a feeling that she must think it odd of him to make no sign: perhaps it was only his fancy, but once or twice in the last day or two he had imagined that there was a suspicion of contempt in her eyes. "a penny for your thoughts," said miss wilkinson, looking at him with a smile. "i'm not going to tell you," he answered. he was thinking that he ought to kiss her there and then. he wondered if she expected him to do it; but after all he didn't see how he could without any preliminary business at all. she would just think him mad, or she might slap his face; and perhaps she would complain to his uncle. he wondered how herr sung had started with fraulein cacilie. it would be beastly if she told his uncle: he knew what his uncle was, he would tell the doctor and josiah graves; and he would look a perfect fool. aunt louisa kept on saying that miss wilkinson was thirty-seven if she was a day; he shuddered at the thought of the ridicule he would be exposed to; they would say she was old enough to be his mother. "twopence for your thoughts," smiled miss wilkinson. "i was thinking about you," he answered boldly. that at all events committed him to nothing. "what were you thinking?" "ah, now you want to know too much." "naughty boy!" said miss wilkinson. there it was again! whenever he had succeeded in working himself up she said something which reminded him of the governess. she called him playfully a naughty boy when he did not sing his exercises to her satisfaction. this time he grew quite sulky. "i wish you wouldn't treat me as if i were a child." "are you cross?" "very." "i didn't mean to." she put out her hand and he took it. once or twice lately when they shook hands at night he had fancied she slightly pressed his hand, but this time there was no doubt about it. he did not quite know what he ought to say next. here at last was his chance of an adventure, and he would be a fool not to take it; but it was a little ordinary, and he had expected more glamour. he had read many descriptions of love, and he felt in himself none of that uprush of emotion which novelists described; he was not carried off his feet in wave upon wave of passion; nor was miss wilkinson the ideal: he had often pictured to himself the great violet eyes and the alabaster skin of some lovely girl, and he had thought of himself burying his face in the rippling masses of her auburn hair. he could not imagine himself burying his face in miss wilkinson's hair, it always struck him as a little sticky. all the same it would be very satisfactory to have an intrigue, and he thrilled with the legitimate pride he would enjoy in his conquest. he owed it to himself to seduce her. he made up his mind to kiss miss wilkinson; not then, but in the evening; it would be easier in the dark, and after he had kissed her the rest would follow. he would kiss her that very evening. he swore an oath to that effect. he laid his plans. after supper he suggested that they should take a stroll in the garden. miss wilkinson accepted, and they sauntered side by side. philip was very nervous. he did not know why, but the conversation would not lead in the right direction; he had decided that the first thing to do was to put his arm round her waist; but he could not suddenly put his arm round her waist when she was talking of the regatta which was to be held next week. he led her artfully into the darkest parts of the garden, but having arrived there his courage failed him. they sat on a bench, and he had really made up his mind that here was his opportunity when miss wilkinson said she was sure there were earwigs and insisted on moving. they walked round the garden once more, and philip promised himself he would take the plunge before they arrived at that bench again; but as they passed the house, they saw mrs. carey standing at the door. "hadn't you young people better come in? i'm sure the night air isn't good for you." "perhaps we had better go in," said philip. "i don't want you to catch cold." he said it with a sigh of relief. he could attempt nothing more that night. but afterwards, when he was alone in his room, he was furious with himself. he had been a perfect fool. he was certain that miss wilkinson expected him to kiss her, otherwise she wouldn't have come into the garden. she was always saying that only frenchmen knew how to treat women. philip had read french novels. if he had been a frenchman he would have seized her in his arms and told her passionately that he adored her; he would have pressed his lips on her nuque. he did not know why frenchmen always kissed ladies on the nuque. he did not himself see anything so very attractive in the nape of the neck. of course it was much easier for frenchmen to do these things; the language was such an aid; philip could never help feeling that to say passionate things in english sounded a little absurd. he wished now that he had never undertaken the siege of miss wilkinson's virtue; the first fortnight had been so jolly, and now he was wretched; but he was determined not to give in, he would never respect himself again if he did, and he made up his mind irrevocably that the next night he would kiss her without fail. next day when he got up he saw it was raining, and his first thought was that they would not be able to go into the garden that evening. he was in high spirits at breakfast. miss wilkinson sent mary ann in to say that she had a headache and would remain in bed. she did not come down till tea-time, when she appeared in a becoming wrapper and a pale face; but she was quite recovered by supper, and the meal was very cheerful. after prayers she said she would go straight to bed, and she kissed mrs. carey. then she turned to philip. "good gracious!" she cried. "i was just going to kiss you too." "why don't you?" he said. she laughed and held out her hand. she distinctly pressed his. the following day there was not a cloud in the sky, and the garden was sweet and fresh after the rain. philip went down to the beach to bathe and when he came home ate a magnificent dinner. they were having a tennis party at the vicarage in the afternoon and miss wilkinson put on her best dress. she certainly knew how to wear her clothes, and philip could not help noticing how elegant she looked beside the curate's wife and the doctor's married daughter. there were two roses in her waistband. she sat in a garden chair by the side of the lawn, holding a red parasol over herself, and the light on her face was very becoming. philip was fond of tennis. he served well and as he ran clumsily played close to the net: notwithstanding his club-foot he was quick, and it was difficult to get a ball past him. he was pleased because he won all his sets. at tea he lay down at miss wilkinson's feet, hot and panting. "flannels suit you," she said. "you look very nice this afternoon." he blushed with delight. "i can honestly return the compliment. you look perfectly ravishing." she smiled and gave him a long look with her black eyes. after supper he insisted that she should come out. "haven't you had enough exercise for one day?" "it'll be lovely in the garden tonight. the stars are all out." he was in high spirits. "d'you know, mrs. carey has been scolding me on your account?" said miss wilkinson, when they were sauntering through the kitchen garden. "she says i mustn't flirt with you." "have you been flirting with me? i hadn't noticed it." "she was only joking." "it was very unkind of you to refuse to kiss me last night." "if you saw the look your uncle gave me when i said what i did!" "was that all that prevented you?" "i prefer to kiss people without witnesses." "there are no witnesses now." philip put his arm round her waist and kissed her lips. she only laughed a little and made no attempt to withdraw. it had come quite naturally. philip was very proud of himself. he said he would, and he had. it was the easiest thing in the world. he wished he had done it before. he did it again. "oh, you mustn't," she said. "why not?" "because i like it," she laughed. xxxiv next day after dinner they took their rugs and cushions to the fountain, and their books; but they did not read. miss wilkinson made herself comfortable and she opened the red sun-shade. philip was not at all shy now, but at first she would not let him kiss her. "it was very wrong of me last night," she said. "i couldn't sleep, i felt i'd done so wrong." "what nonsense!" he cried. "i'm sure you slept like a top." "what do you think your uncle would say if he knew?" "there's no reason why he should know." he leaned over her, and his heart went pit-a-pat. "why d'you want to kiss me?" he knew he ought to reply: "because i love you." but he could not bring himself to say it. "why do you think?" he asked instead. she looked at him with smiling eyes and touched his face with the tips of her fingers. "how smooth your face is," she murmured. "i want shaving awfully," he said. it was astonishing how difficult he found it to make romantic speeches. he found that silence helped him much more than words. he could look inexpressible things. miss wilkinson sighed. "do you like me at all?" "yes, awfully." when he tried to kiss her again she did not resist. he pretended to be much more passionate than he really was, and he succeeded in playing a part which looked very well in his own eyes. "i'm beginning to be rather frightened of you," said miss wilkinson. "you'll come out after supper, won't you?" he begged. "not unless you promise to behave yourself." "i'll promise anything." he was catching fire from the flame he was partly simulating, and at tea-time he was obstreperously merry. miss wilkinson looked at him nervously. "you mustn't have those shining eyes," she said to him afterwards. "what will your aunt louisa think?" "i don't care what she thinks." miss wilkinson gave a little laugh of pleasure. they had no sooner finished supper than he said to her: "are you going to keep me company while i smoke a cigarette?" "why don't you let miss wilkinson rest?" said mrs. carey. "you must remember she's not as young as you." "oh, i'd like to go out, mrs. carey," she said, rather acidly. "after dinner walk a mile, after supper rest a while," said the vicar. "your aunt is very nice, but she gets on my nerves sometimes," said miss wilkinson, as soon as they closed the side-door behind them. philip threw away the cigarette he had just lighted, and flung his arms round her. she tried to push him away. "you promised you'd be good, philip." "you didn't think i was going to keep a promise like that?" "not so near the house, philip," she said. "supposing someone should come out suddenly?" he led her to the kitchen garden where no one was likely to come, and this time miss wilkinson did not think of earwigs. he kissed her passionately. it was one of the things that puzzled him that he did not like her at all in the morning, and only moderately in the afternoon, but at night the touch of her hand thrilled him. he said things that he would never have thought himself capable of saying; he could certainly never have said them in the broad light of day; and he listened to himself with wonder and satisfaction. "how beautifully you make love," she said. that was what he thought himself. "oh, if i could only say all the things that burn my heart!" he murmured passionately. it was splendid. it was the most thrilling game he had ever played; and the wonderful thing was that he felt almost all he said. it was only that he exaggerated a little. he was tremendously interested and excited in the effect he could see it had on her. it was obviously with an effort that at last she suggested going in. "oh, don't go yet," he cried. "i must," she muttered. "i'm frightened." he had a sudden intuition what was the right thing to do then. "i can't go in yet. i shall stay here and think. my cheeks are burning. i want the night-air. good-night." he held out his hand seriously, and she took it in silence. he thought she stifled a sob. oh, it was magnificent! when, after a decent interval during which he had been rather bored in the dark garden by himself, he went in he found that miss wilkinson had already gone to bed. after that things were different between them. the next day and the day after philip showed himself an eager lover. he was deliciously flattered to discover that miss wilkinson was in love with him: she told him so in english, and she told him so in french. she paid him compliments. no one had ever informed him before that his eyes were charming and that he had a sensual mouth. he had never bothered much about his personal appearance, but now, when occasion presented, he looked at himself in the glass with satisfaction. when he kissed her it was wonderful to feel the passion that seemed to thrill her soul. he kissed her a good deal, for he found it easier to do that than to say the things he instinctively felt she expected of him. it still made him feel a fool to say he worshipped her. he wished there were someone to whom he could boast a little, and he would willingly have discussed minute points of his conduct. sometimes she said things that were enigmatic, and he was puzzled. he wished hayward had been there so that he could ask him what he thought she meant, and what he had better do next. he could not make up his mind whether he ought to rush things or let them take their time. there were only three weeks more. "i can't bear to think of that," she said. "it breaks my heart. and then perhaps we shall never see one another again." "if you cared for me at all, you wouldn't be so unkind to me," he whispered. "oh, why can't you be content to let it go on as it is? men are always the same. they're never satisfied." and when he pressed her, she said: "but don't you see it's impossible. how can we here?" he proposed all sorts of schemes, but she would not have anything to do with them. "i daren't take the risk. it would be too dreadful if your aunt found out." a day or two later he had an idea which seemed brilliant. "look here, if you had a headache on sunday evening and offered to stay at home and look after the house, aunt louisa would go to church." generally mrs. carey remained in on sunday evening in order to allow mary ann to go to church, but she would welcome the opportunity of attending evensong. philip had not found it necessary to impart to his relations the change in his views on christianity which had occurred in germany; they could not be expected to understand; and it seemed less trouble to go to church quietly. but he only went in the morning. he regarded this as a graceful concession to the prejudices of society and his refusal to go a second time as an adequate assertion of free thought. when he made the suggestion, miss wilkinson did not speak for a moment, then shook her head. "no, i won't," she said. but on sunday at tea-time she surprised philip. "i don't think i'll come to church this evening," she said suddenly. "i've really got a dreadful headache." mrs. carey, much concerned, insisted on giving her some 'drops' which she was herself in the habit of using. miss wilkinson thanked her, and immediately after tea announced that she would go to her room and lie down. "are you sure there's nothing you'll want?" asked mrs. carey anxiously. "quite sure, thank you." "because, if there isn't, i think i'll go to church. i don't often have the chance of going in the evening." "oh yes, do go." "i shall be in," said philip. "if miss wilkinson wants anything, she can always call me." "you'd better leave the drawing-room door open, philip, so that if miss wilkinson rings, you'll hear." "certainly," said philip. so after six o'clock philip was left alone in the house with miss wilkinson. he felt sick with apprehension. he wished with all his heart that he had not suggested the plan; but it was too late now; he must take the opportunity which he had made. what would miss wilkinson think of him if he did not! he went into the hall and listened. there was not a sound. he wondered if miss wilkinson really had a headache. perhaps she had forgotten his suggestion. his heart beat painfully. he crept up the stairs as softly as he could, and he stopped with a start when they creaked. he stood outside miss wilkinson's room and listened; he put his hand on the knob of the door-handle. he waited. it seemed to him that he waited for at least five minutes, trying to make up his mind; and his hand trembled. he would willingly have bolted, but he was afraid of the remorse which he knew would seize him. it was like getting on the highest diving-board in a swimming-bath; it looked nothing from below, but when you got up there and stared down at the water your heart sank; and the only thing that forced you to dive was the shame of coming down meekly by the steps you had climbed up. philip screwed up his courage. he turned the handle softly and walked in. he seemed to himself to be trembling like a leaf. miss wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table with her back to the door, and she turned round quickly when she heard it open. "oh, it's you. what d'you want?" she had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing in her petticoat. it was short and only came down to the top of her boots; the upper part of it was black, of some shiny material, and there was a red flounce. she wore a camisole of white calico with short arms. she looked grotesque. philip's heart sank as he stared at her; she had never seemed so unattractive; but it was too late now. he closed the door behind him and locked it. xxxv philip woke early next morning. his sleep had been restless; but when he stretched his legs and looked at the sunshine that slid through the venetian blinds, making patterns on the floor, he sighed with satisfaction. he was delighted with himself. he began to think of miss wilkinson. she had asked him to call her emily, but, he knew not why, he could not; he always thought of her as miss wilkinson. since she chid him for so addressing her, he avoided using her name at all. during his childhood he had often heard a sister of aunt louisa, the widow of a naval officer, spoken of as aunt emily. it made him uncomfortable to call miss wilkinson by that name, nor could he think of any that would have suited her better. she had begun as miss wilkinson, and it seemed inseparable from his impression of her. he frowned a little: somehow or other he saw her now at her worst; he could not forget his dismay when she turned round and he saw her in her camisole and the short petticoat; he remembered the slight roughness of her skin and the sharp, long lines on the side of the neck. his triumph was short-lived. he reckoned out her age again, and he did not see how she could be less than forty. it made the affair ridiculous. she was plain and old. his quick fancy showed her to him, wrinkled, haggard, made-up, in those frocks which were too showy for her position and too young for her years. he shuddered; he felt suddenly that he never wanted to see her again; he could not bear the thought of kissing her. he was horrified with himself. was that love? he took as long as he could over dressing in order to put back the moment of seeing her, and when at last he went into the dining-room it was with a sinking heart. prayers were over, and they were sitting down at breakfast. "lazybones," miss wilkinson cried gaily. he looked at her and gave a little gasp of relief. she was sitting with her back to the window. she was really quite nice. he wondered why he had thought such things about her. his self-satisfaction returned to him. he was taken aback by the change in her. she told him in a voice thrilling with emotion immediately after breakfast that she loved him; and when a little later they went into the drawing-room for his singing lesson and she sat down on the music-stool she put up her face in the middle of a scale and said: "embrasse-moi." when he bent down she flung her arms round his neck. it was slightly uncomfortable, for she held him in such a position that he felt rather choked. "ah, je t'aime. je t'aime. je t'aime," she cried, with her extravagantly french accent. philip wished she would speak english. "i say, i don't know if it's struck you that the gardener's quite likely to pass the window any minute." "ah, je m'en fiche du jardinier. je m'en refiche, et je m'en contrefiche." philip thought it was very like a french novel, and he did not know why it slightly irritated him. at last he said: "well, i think i'll tootle along to the beach and have a dip." "oh, you're not going to leave me this morning--of all mornings?" philip did not quite know why he should not, but it did not matter. "would you like me to stay?" he smiled. "oh, you darling! but no, go. go. i want to think of you mastering the salt sea waves, bathing your limbs in the broad ocean." he got his hat and sauntered off. "what rot women talk!" he thought to himself. but he was pleased and happy and flattered. she was evidently frightfully gone on him. as he limped along the high street of blackstable he looked with a tinge of superciliousness at the people he passed. he knew a good many to nod to, and as he gave them a smile of recognition he thought to himself, if they only knew! he did want someone to know very badly. he thought he would write to hayward, and in his mind composed the letter. he would talk of the garden and the roses, and the little french governess, like an exotic flower amongst them, scented and perverse: he would say she was french, because--well, she had lived in france so long that she almost was, and besides it would be shabby to give the whole thing away too exactly, don't you know; and he would tell hayward how he had seen her first in her pretty muslin dress and of the flower she had given him. he made a delicate idyl of it: the sunshine and the sea gave it passion and magic, and the stars added poetry, and the old vicarage garden was a fit and exquisite setting. there was something meredithian about it: it was not quite lucy feverel and not quite clara middleton; but it was inexpressibly charming. philip's heart beat quickly. he was so delighted with his fancies that he began thinking of them again as soon as he crawled back, dripping and cold, into his bathing-machine. he thought of the object of his affections. she had the most adorable little nose and large brown eyes--he would describe her to hayward--and masses of soft brown hair, the sort of hair it was delicious to bury your face in, and a skin which was like ivory and sunshine, and her cheek was like a red, red rose. how old was she? eighteen perhaps, and he called her musette. her laughter was like a rippling brook, and her voice was so soft, so low, it was the sweetest music he had ever heard. "what are you thinking about?" philip stopped suddenly. he was walking slowly home. "i've been waving at you for the last quarter of a mile. you are absent-minded." miss wilkinson was standing in front of him, laughing at his surprise. "i thought i'd come and meet you." "that's awfully nice of you," he said. "did i startle you?" "you did a bit," he admitted. he wrote his letter to hayward all the same. there were eight pages of it. the fortnight that remained passed quickly, and though each evening, when they went into the garden after supper, miss wilkinson remarked that one day more had gone, philip was in too cheerful spirits to let the thought depress him. one night miss wilkinson suggested that it would be delightful if she could exchange her situation in berlin for one in london. then they could see one another constantly. philip said it would be very jolly, but the prospect aroused no enthusiasm in him; he was looking forward to a wonderful life in london, and he preferred not to be hampered. he spoke a little too freely of all he meant to do, and allowed miss wilkinson to see that already he was longing to be off. "you wouldn't talk like that if you loved me," she cried. he was taken aback and remained silent. "what a fool i've been," she muttered. to his surprise he saw that she was crying. he had a tender heart, and hated to see anyone miserable. "oh, i'm awfully sorry. what have i done? don't cry." "oh, philip, don't leave me. you don't know what you mean to me. i have such a wretched life, and you've made me so happy." he kissed her silently. there really was anguish in her tone, and he was frightened. it had never occurred to him that she meant what she said quite, quite seriously. "i'm awfully sorry. you know i'm frightfully fond of you. i wish you would come to london." "you know i can't. places are almost impossible to get, and i hate english life." almost unconscious that he was acting a part, moved by her distress, he pressed her more and more. her tears vaguely flattered him, and he kissed her with real passion. but a day or two later she made a real scene. there was a tennis-party at the vicarage, and two girls came, daughters of a retired major in an indian regiment who had lately settled in blackstable. they were very pretty, one was philip's age and the other was a year or two younger. being used to the society of young men (they were full of stories of hill-stations in india, and at that time the stories of rudyard kipling were in every hand) they began to chaff philip gaily; and he, pleased with the novelty--the young ladies at blackstable treated the vicar's nephew with a certain seriousness--was gay and jolly. some devil within him prompted him to start a violent flirtation with them both, and as he was the only young man there, they were quite willing to meet him half-way. it happened that they played tennis quite well and philip was tired of pat-ball with miss wilkinson (she had only begun to play when she came to blackstable), so when he arranged the sets after tea he suggested that miss wilkinson should play against the curate's wife, with the curate as her partner; and he would play later with the new-comers. he sat down by the elder miss o'connor and said to her in an undertone: "we'll get the duffers out of the way first, and then we'll have a jolly set afterwards." apparently miss wilkinson overheard him, for she threw down her racket, and, saying she had a headache, went away. it was plain to everyone that she was offended. philip was annoyed that she should make the fact public. the set was arranged without her, but presently mrs. carey called him. "philip, you've hurt emily's feelings. she's gone to her room and she's crying." "what about?" "oh, something about a duffer's set. do go to her, and say you didn't mean to be unkind, there's a good boy." "all right." he knocked at miss wilkinson's door, but receiving no answer went in. he found her lying face downwards on her bed, weeping. he touched her on the shoulder. "i say, what on earth's the matter?" "leave me alone. i never want to speak to you again." "what have i done? i'm awfully sorry if i've hurt your feelings. i didn't mean to. i say, do get up." "oh, i'm so unhappy. how could you be cruel to me? you know i hate that stupid game. i only play because i want to play with you." she got up and walked towards the dressing-table, but after a quick look in the glass sank into a chair. she made her handkerchief into a ball and dabbed her eyes with it. "i've given you the greatest thing a woman can give a man--oh, what a fool i was--and you have no gratitude. you must be quite heartless. how could you be so cruel as to torment me by flirting with those vulgar girls. we've only got just over a week. can't you even give me that?" philip stood over her rather sulkily. he thought her behaviour childish. he was vexed with her for having shown her ill-temper before strangers. "but you know i don't care twopence about either of the o'connors. why on earth should you think i do?" miss wilkinson put away her handkerchief. her tears had made marks on her powdered face, and her hair was somewhat disarranged. her white dress did not suit her very well just then. she looked at philip with hungry, passionate eyes. "because you're twenty and so's she," she said hoarsely. "and i'm old." philip reddened and looked away. the anguish of her tone made him feel strangely uneasy. he wished with all his heart that he had never had anything to do with miss wilkinson. "i don't want to make you unhappy," he said awkwardly. "you'd better go down and look after your friends. they'll wonder what has become of you." "all right." he was glad to leave her. the quarrel was quickly followed by a reconciliation, but the few days that remained were sometimes irksome to philip. he wanted to talk of nothing but the future, and the future invariably reduced miss wilkinson to tears. at first her weeping affected him, and feeling himself a beast he redoubled his protestations of undying passion; but now it irritated him: it would have been all very well if she had been a girl, but it was silly of a grown-up woman to cry so much. she never ceased reminding him that he was under a debt of gratitude to her which he could never repay. he was willing to acknowledge this since she made a point of it, but he did not really know why he should be any more grateful to her than she to him. he was expected to show his sense of obligation in ways which were rather a nuisance: he had been a good deal used to solitude, and it was a necessity to him sometimes; but miss wilkinson looked upon it as an unkindness if he was not always at her beck and call. the miss o'connors asked them both to tea, and philip would have liked to go, but miss wilkinson said she only had five days more and wanted him entirely to herself. it was flattering, but a bore. miss wilkinson told him stories of the exquisite delicacy of frenchmen when they stood in the same relation to fair ladies as he to miss wilkinson. she praised their courtesy, their passion for self-sacrifice, their perfect tact. miss wilkinson seemed to want a great deal. philip listened to her enumeration of the qualities which must be possessed by the perfect lover, and he could not help feeling a certain satisfaction that she lived in berlin. "you will write to me, won't you? write to me every day. i want to know everything you're doing. you must keep nothing from me." "i shall be awfully, busy" he answered. "i'll write as often as i can." she flung her arms passionately round his neck. he was embarrassed sometimes by the demonstrations of her affection. he would have preferred her to be more passive. it shocked him a little that she should give him so marked a lead: it did not tally altogether with his prepossessions about the modesty of the feminine temperament. at length the day came on which miss wilkinson was to go, and she came down to breakfast, pale and subdued, in a serviceable travelling dress of black and white check. she looked a very competent governess. philip was silent too, for he did not quite know what to say that would fit the circumstance; and he was terribly afraid that, if he said something flippant, miss wilkinson would break down before his uncle and make a scene. they had said their last good-bye to one another in the garden the night before, and philip was relieved that there was now no opportunity for them to be alone. he remained in the dining-room after breakfast in case miss wilkinson should insist on kissing him on the stairs. he did not want mary ann, now a woman hard upon middle age with a sharp tongue, to catch them in a compromising position. mary ann did not like miss wilkinson and called her an old cat. aunt louisa was not very well and could not come to the station, but the vicar and philip saw her off. just as the train was leaving she leaned out and kissed mr. carey. "i must kiss you too, philip," she said. "all right," he said, blushing. he stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly. the train started, and miss wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and wept disconsolately. philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a distinct sensation of relief. "well, did you see her safely off?" asked aunt louisa, when they got in. "yes, she seemed rather weepy. she insisted on kissing me and philip." "oh, well, at her age it's not dangerous." mrs. carey pointed to the sideboard. "there's a letter for you, philip. it came by the second post." it was from hayward and ran as follows: my dear boy, i answer your letter at once. i ventured to read it to a great friend of mine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very precious to me, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and literature; and we agreed that it was charming. you wrote from your heart and you do not know the delightful naivete which is in every line. and because you love you write like a poet. ah, dear boy, that is the real thing: i felt the glow of your young passion, and your prose was musical from the sincerity of your emotion. you must be happy! i wish i could have been present unseen in that enchanted garden while you wandered hand in hand, like daphnis and chloe, amid the flowers. i can see you, my daphnis, with the light of young love in your eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while chloe in your arms, so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne'er consent--consented. roses and violets and honeysuckle! oh, my friend, i envy you. it is so good to think that your first love should have been pure poetry. treasure the moments, for the immortal gods have given you the greatest gift of all, and it will be a sweet, sad memory till your dying day. you will never again enjoy that careless rapture. first love is best love; and she is beautiful and you are young, and all the world is yours. i felt my pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you told me that you buried your face in her long hair. i am sure that it is that exquisite chestnut which seems just touched with gold. i would have you sit under a leafy tree side by side, and read together romeo and juliet; and then i would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kiss the ground on which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is the homage of a poet to her radiant youth and to your love for her. yours always, g. etheridge hayward. "what damned rot!" said philip, when he finished the letter. miss wilkinson oddly enough had suggested that they should read romeo and juliet together; but philip had firmly declined. then, as he put the letter in his pocket, he felt a queer little pang of bitterness because reality seemed so different from the ideal. xxxvi a few days later philip went to london. the curate had recommended rooms in barnes, and these philip engaged by letter at fourteen shillings a week. he reached them in the evening; and the landlady, a funny little old woman with a shrivelled body and a deeply wrinkled face, had prepared high tea for him. most of the sitting-room was taken up by the sideboard and a square table; against one wall was a sofa covered with horsehair, and by the fireplace an arm-chair to match: there was a white antimacassar over the back of it, and on the seat, because the springs were broken, a hard cushion. after having his tea he unpacked and arranged his books, then he sat down and tried to read; but he was depressed. the silence in the street made him slightly uncomfortable, and he felt very much alone. next day he got up early. he put on his tail-coat and the tall hat which he had worn at school; but it was very shabby, and he made up his mind to stop at the stores on his way to the office and buy a new one. when he had done this he found himself in plenty of time and so walked along the strand. the office of messrs. herbert carter & co. was in a little street off chancery lane, and he had to ask his way two or three times. he felt that people were staring at him a great deal, and once he took off his hat to see whether by chance the label had been left on. when he arrived he knocked at the door; but no one answered, and looking at his watch he found it was barely half past nine; he supposed he was too early. he went away and ten minutes later returned to find an office-boy, with a long nose, pimply face, and a scotch accent, opening the door. philip asked for mr. herbert carter. he had not come yet. "when will he be here?" "between ten and half past." "i'd better wait," said philip. "what are you wanting?" asked the office-boy. philip was nervous, but tried to hide the fact by a jocose manner. "well, i'm going to work here if you have no objection." "oh, you're the new articled clerk? you'd better come in. mr. goodworthy'll be here in a while." philip walked in, and as he did so saw the office-boy--he was about the same age as philip and called himself a junior clerk--look at his foot. he flushed and, sitting down, hid it behind the other. he looked round the room. it was dark and very dingy. it was lit by a skylight. there were three rows of desks in it and against them high stools. over the chimney-piece was a dirty engraving of a prize-fight. presently a clerk came in and then another; they glanced at philip and in an undertone asked the office-boy (philip found his name was macdougal) who he was. a whistle blew, and macdougal got up. "mr. goodworthy's come. he's the managing clerk. shall i tell him you're here?" "yes, please," said philip. the office-boy went out and in a moment returned. "will you come this way?" philip followed him across the passage and was shown into a room, small and barely furnished, in which a little, thin man was standing with his back to the fireplace. he was much below the middle height, but his large head, which seemed to hang loosely on his body, gave him an odd ungainliness. his features were wide and flattened, and he had prominent, pale eyes; his thin hair was sandy; he wore whiskers that grew unevenly on his face, and in places where you would have expected the hair to grow thickly there was no hair at all. his skin was pasty and yellow. he held out his hand to philip, and when he smiled showed badly decayed teeth. he spoke with a patronising and at the same time a timid air, as though he sought to assume an importance which he did not feel. he said he hoped philip would like the work; there was a good deal of drudgery about it, but when you got used to it, it was interesting; and one made money, that was the chief thing, wasn't it? he laughed with his odd mixture of superiority and shyness. "mr. carter will be here presently," he said. "he's a little late on monday mornings sometimes. i'll call you when he comes. in the meantime i must give you something to do. do you know anything about book-keeping or accounts?" "i'm afraid not," answered philip. "i didn't suppose you would. they don't teach you things at school that are much use in business, i'm afraid." he considered for a moment. "i think i can find you something to do." he went into the next room and after a little while came out with a large cardboard box. it contained a vast number of letters in great disorder, and he told philip to sort them out and arrange them alphabetically according to the names of the writers. "i'll take you to the room in which the articled clerk generally sits. there's a very nice fellow in it. his name is watson. he's a son of watson, crag, and thompson--you know--the brewers. he's spending a year with us to learn business." mr. goodworthy led philip through the dingy office, where now six or eight clerks were working, into a narrow room behind. it had been made into a separate apartment by a glass partition, and here they found watson sitting back in a chair, reading the sportsman. he was a large, stout young man, elegantly dressed, and he looked up as mr. goodworthy entered. he asserted his position by calling the managing clerk goodworthy. the managing clerk objected to the familiarity, and pointedly called him mr. watson, but watson, instead of seeing that it was a rebuke, accepted the title as a tribute to his gentlemanliness. "i see they've scratched rigoletto," he said to philip, as soon as they were left alone. "have they?" said philip, who knew nothing about horse-racing. he looked with awe upon watson's beautiful clothes. his tail-coat fitted him perfectly, and there was a valuable pin artfully stuck in the middle of an enormous tie. on the chimney-piece rested his tall hat; it was saucy and bell-shaped and shiny. philip felt himself very shabby. watson began to talk of hunting--it was such an infernal bore having to waste one's time in an infernal office, he would only be able to hunt on saturdays--and shooting: he had ripping invitations all over the country and of course he had to refuse them. it was infernal luck, but he wasn't going to put up with it long; he was only in this internal hole for a year, and then he was going into the business, and he would hunt four days a week and get all the shooting there was. "you've got five years of it, haven't you?" he said, waving his arm round the tiny room. "i suppose so," said philip. "i daresay i shall see something of you. carter does our accounts, you know." philip was somewhat overpowered by the young gentleman's condescension. at blackstable they had always looked upon brewing with civil contempt, the vicar made little jokes about the beerage, and it was a surprising experience for philip to discover that watson was such an important and magnificent fellow. he had been to winchester and to oxford, and his conversation impressed the fact upon one with frequency. when he discovered the details of philip's education his manner became more patronising still. "of course, if one doesn't go to a public school those sort of schools are the next best thing, aren't they?" philip asked about the other men in the office. "oh, i don't bother about them much, you know," said watson. "carter's not a bad sort. we have him to dine now and then. all the rest are awful bounders." presently watson applied himself to some work he had in hand, and philip set about sorting his letters. then mr. goodworthy came in to say that mr. carter had arrived. he took philip into a large room next door to his own. there was a big desk in it, and a couple of big arm-chairs; a turkey carpet adorned the floor, and the walls were decorated with sporting prints. mr. carter was sitting at the desk and got up to shake hands with philip. he was dressed in a long frock coat. he looked like a military man; his moustache was waxed, his gray hair was short and neat, he held himself upright, he talked in a breezy way, he lived at enfield. he was very keen on games and the good of the country. he was an officer in the hertfordshire yeomanry and chairman of the conservative association. when he was told that a local magnate had said no one would take him for a city man, he felt that he had not lived in vain. he talked to philip in a pleasant, off-hand fashion. mr. goodworthy would look after him. watson was a nice fellow, perfect gentleman, good sportsman--did philip hunt? pity, the sport for gentlemen. didn't have much chance of hunting now, had to leave that to his son. his son was at cambridge, he'd sent him to rugby, fine school rugby, nice class of boys there, in a couple of years his son would be articled, that would be nice for philip, he'd like his son, thorough sportsman. he hoped philip would get on well and like the work, he mustn't miss his lectures, they were getting up the tone of the profession, they wanted gentlemen in it. well, well, mr. goodworthy was there. if he wanted to know anything mr. goodworthy would tell him. what was his handwriting like? ah well, mr. goodworthy would see about that. philip was overwhelmed by so much gentlemanliness: in east anglia they knew who were gentlemen and who weren't, but the gentlemen didn't talk about it. xxxvii at first the novelty of the work kept philip interested. mr. carter dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of accounts. mr. carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only mr. goodworthy who made use of his accomplishment. now and then philip with one of the more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he came to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which were in low water. now and then long lists of figures were given him to add up. he attended lectures for his first examination. mr. goodworthy repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to it. philip left the office at six and walked across the river to waterloo. his supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening reading. on saturday afternoons he went to the national gallery. hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled out of ruskin's works, and with this in hand he went industriously through room after room: he read carefully what the critic had said about a picture and then in a determined fashion set himself to see the same things in it. his sundays were difficult to get through. he knew no one in london and spent them by himself. mr. nixon, the solicitor, asked him to spend a sunday at hampstead, and philip passed a happy day with a set of exuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on the heath, and came away with a general invitation to come again whenever he liked; but he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for a formal invitation. naturally enough it never came, for with numbers of friends of their own the nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boy whose claim upon their hospitality was so small. so on sundays he got up late and took a walk along the tow-path. at barnes the river is muddy, dingy, and tidal; it has neither the graceful charm of the thames above the locks nor the romance of the crowded stream below london bridge. in the afternoon he walked about the common; and that is gray and dingy too; it is neither country nor town; the gorse is stunted; and all about is the litter of civilisation. he went to a play every saturday night and stood cheerfully for an hour or more at the gallery-door. it was not worth while to go back to barnes for the interval between the closing of the museum and his meal in an a. b. c. shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands. he strolled up bond street or through the burlington arcade, and when he was tired went and sat down in the park or in wet weather in the public library in st. martin's lane. he looked at the people walking about and envied them because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatred because they were happy and he was miserable. he had never imagined that it was possible to be so lonely in a great city. sometimes when he was standing at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a conversation; but philip had the country boy's suspicion of strangers and answered in such a way as to prevent any further acquaintance. after the play was over, obliged to keep to himself all he thought about it, he hurried across the bridge to waterloo. when he got back to his rooms, in which for economy no fire had been lit, his heart sank. it was horribly cheerless. he began to loathe his lodgings and the long solitary evenings he spent in them. sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not read, and then he sat looking into the fire hour after hour in bitter wretchedness. he had spent three months in london now, and except for that one sunday at hampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks. one evening watson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a music-hall together; but he felt shy and uncomfortable. watson talked all the time of things he did not care about, and while he looked upon watson as a philistine he could not help admiring him. he was angry because watson obviously set no store on his culture, and with his way of taking himself at the estimate at which he saw others held him he began to despise the acquirements which till then had seemed to him not unimportant. he felt for the first time the humiliation of poverty. his uncle sent him fourteen pounds a month and he had had to buy a good many clothes. his evening suit cost him five guineas. he had not dared tell watson that it was bought in the strand. watson said there was only one tailor in london. "i suppose you don't dance," said watson, one day, with a glance at philip's club-foot. "no," said philip. "pity. i've been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. i could have introduced you to some jolly girls." once or twice, hating the thought of going back to barnes, philip had remained in town, and late in the evening wandered through the west end till he found some house at which there was a party. he stood among the little group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guests arrive, and he listened to the music that floated through the window. sometimes, notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony and stood for a moment to get some fresh air; and philip, imagining that they were in love with one another, turned away and limped along the street with a heavy hurt. he would never be able to stand in that man's place. he felt that no woman could ever really look upon him without distaste for his deformity. that reminded him of miss wilkinson. he thought of her without satisfaction. before parting they had made an arrangement that she should write to charing cross post office till he was able to send her an address, and when he went there he found three letters from her. she wrote on blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in french. philip wondered why she could not write in english like a sensible woman, and her passionate expressions, because they reminded him of a french novel, left him cold. she upbraided him for not having written, and when he answered he excused himself by saying that he had been busy. he did not quite know how to start the letter. he could not bring himself to use dearest or darling, and he hated to address her as emily, so finally he began with the word dear. it looked odd, standing by itself, and rather silly, but he made it do. it was the first love letter he had ever written, and he was conscious of its tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts of vehement things, how he thought of her every minute of the day and how he longed to kiss her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the thought of her red lips, but some inexplicable modesty prevented him; and instead he told her of his new rooms and his office. the answer came by return of post, angry, heart-broken, reproachful: how could he be so cold? did he not know that she hung on his letters? she had given him all that a woman could give, and this was her reward. was he tired of her already? then, because he did not reply for several days, miss wilkinson bombarded him with letters. she could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post, and it never brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night after night, she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if he did not love her why did he not say so? she added that she could not live without him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. she told him he was cold and selfish and ungrateful. it was all in french, and philip knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he was worried all the same. he did not want to make her unhappy. in a little while she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, she would arrange to come over to london for christmas. philip wrote back that he would like nothing better, only he had already an engagement to spend christmas with friends in the country, and he did not see how he could break it. she answered that she did not wish to force herself on him, it was quite evident that he did not wish to see her; she was deeply hurt, and she never thought he would repay with such cruelty all her kindness. her letter was touching, and philip thought he saw marks of her tears on the paper; he wrote an impulsive reply saying that he was dreadfully sorry and imploring her to come; but it was with relief that he received her answer in which she said that she found it would be impossible for her to get away. presently when her letters came his heart sank: he delayed opening them, for he knew what they would contain, angry reproaches and pathetic appeals; they would make him feel a perfect beast, and yet he did not see with what he had to blame himself. he put off his answer from day to day, and then another letter would come, saying she was ill and lonely and miserable. "i wish to god i'd never had anything to do with her," he said. he admired watson because he arranged these things so easily. the young man had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touring companies, and his account of the affair filled philip with envious amazement. but after a time watson's young affections changed, and one day he described the rupture to philip. "i thought it was no good making any bones about it so i just told her i'd had enough of her," he said. "didn't she make an awful scene?" asked philip. "the usual thing, you know, but i told her it was no good trying on that sort of thing with me." "did she cry?" "she began to, but i can't stand women when they cry, so i said she'd better hook it." philip's sense of humour was growing keener with advancing years. "and did she hook it?" he asked smiling. "well, there wasn't anything else for her to do, was there?" meanwhile the christmas holidays approached. mrs. carey had been ill all through november, and the doctor suggested that she and the vicar should go to cornwall for a couple of weeks round christmas so that she should get back her strength. the result was that philip had nowhere to go, and he spent christmas day in his lodgings. under hayward's influence he had persuaded himself that the festivities that attend this season were vulgar and barbaric, and he made up his mind that he would take no notice of the day; but when it came, the jollity of all around affected him strangely. his landlady and her husband were spending the day with a married daughter, and to save trouble philip announced that he would take his meals out. he went up to london towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey and some christmas pudding by himself at gatti's, and since he had nothing to do afterwards went to westminster abbey for the afternoon service. the streets were almost empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupied look; they did not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, and hardly anyone was alone. to philip they all seemed happy. he felt himself more solitary than he had ever done in his life. his intention had been to kill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but he could not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking, laughing, and making merry; so he went back to waterloo, and on his way through the westminster bridge road bought some ham and a couple of mince pies and went back to barnes. he ate his food in his lonely little room and spent the evening with a book. his depression was almost intolerable. when he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen to watson's account of the short holiday. they had had some jolly girls staying with them, and after dinner they had cleared out the drawing-room and had a dance. "i didn't get to bed till three and i don't know how i got there then. by george, i was squiffy." at last philip asked desperately: "how does one get to know people in london?" watson looked at him with surprise and with a slightly contemptuous amusement. "oh, i don't know, one just knows them. if you go to dances you soon get to know as many people as you can do with." philip hated watson, and yet he would have given anything to change places with him. the old feeling that he had had at school came back to him, and he tried to throw himself into the other's skin, imagining what life would be if he were watson. xxxviii at the end of the year there was a great deal to do. philip went to various places with a clerk named thompson and spent the day monotonously calling out items of expenditure, which the other checked; and sometimes he was given long pages of figures to add up. he had never had a head for figures, and he could only do this slowly. thompson grew irritated at his mistakes. his fellow-clerk was a long, lean man of forty, sallow, with black hair and a ragged moustache; he had hollow cheeks and deep lines on each side of his nose. he took a dislike to philip because he was an articled clerk. because he could put down three hundred guineas and keep himself for five years philip had the chance of a career; while he, with his experience and ability, had no possibility of ever being more than a clerk at thirty-five shillings a week. he was a cross-grained man, oppressed by a large family, and he resented the superciliousness which he fancied he saw in philip. he sneered at philip because he was better educated than himself, and he mocked at philip's pronunciation; he could not forgive him because he spoke without a cockney accent, and when he talked to him sarcastically exaggerated his aitches. at first his manner was merely gruff and repellent, but as he discovered that philip had no gift for accountancy he took pleasure in humiliating him; his attacks were gross and silly, but they wounded philip, and in self-defence he assumed an attitude of superiority which he did not feel. "had a bath this morning?" thompson said when philip came to the office late, for his early punctuality had not lasted. "yes, haven't you?" "no, i'm not a gentleman, i'm only a clerk. i have a bath on saturday night." "i suppose that's why you're more than usually disagreeable on monday." "will you condescend to do a few sums in simple addition today? i'm afraid it's asking a great deal from a gentleman who knows latin and greek." "your attempts at sarcasm are not very happy." but philip could not conceal from himself that the other clerks, ill-paid and uncouth, were more useful than himself. once or twice mr. goodworthy grew impatient with him. "you really ought to be able to do better than this by now," he said. "you're not even as smart as the office-boy." philip listened sulkily. he did not like being blamed, and it humiliated him, when, having been given accounts to make fair copies of, mr. goodworthy was not satisfied and gave them to another clerk to do. at first the work had been tolerable from its novelty, but now it grew irksome; and when he discovered that he had no aptitude for it, he began to hate it. often, when he should have been doing something that was given him, he wasted his time drawing little pictures on the office note-paper. he made sketches of watson in every conceivable attitude, and watson was impressed by his talent. it occurred to him to take the drawings home, and he came back next day with the praises of his family. "i wonder you didn't become a painter," he said. "only of course there's no money in it." it chanced that mr. carter two or three days later was dining with the watsons, and the sketches were shown him. the following morning he sent for philip. philip saw him seldom and stood in some awe of him. "look here, young fellow, i don't care what you do out of office-hours, but i've seen those sketches of yours and they're on office-paper, and mr. goodworthy tells me you're slack. you won't do any good as a chartered accountant unless you look alive. it's a fine profession, and we're getting a very good class of men in it, but it's a profession in which you have to..." he looked for the termination of his phrase, but could not find exactly what he wanted, so finished rather tamely, "in which you have to look alive." perhaps philip would have settled down but for the agreement that if he did not like the work he could leave after a year, and get back half the money paid for his articles. he felt that he was fit for something better than to add up accounts, and it was humiliating that he did so ill something which seemed contemptible. the vulgar scenes with thompson got on his nerves. in march watson ended his year at the office and philip, though he did not care for him, saw him go with regret. the fact that the other clerks disliked them equally, because they belonged to a class a little higher than their own, was a bond of union. when philip thought that he must spend over four years more with that dreary set of fellows his heart sank. he had expected wonderful things from london and it had given him nothing. he hated it now. he did not know a soul, and he had no idea how he was to get to know anyone. he was tired of going everywhere by himself. he began to feel that he could not stand much more of such a life. he would lie in bed at night and think of the joy of never seeing again that dingy office or any of the men in it, and of getting away from those drab lodgings. a great disappointment befell him in the spring. hayward had announced his intention of coming to london for the season, and philip had looked forward very much to seeing him again. he had read so much lately and thought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to discuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself in abstract things. he was quite excited at the thought of talking his fill with someone, and he was wretched when hayward wrote to say that the spring was lovelier than ever he had known it in italy, and he could not bear to tear himself away. he went on to ask why philip did not come. what was the use of squandering the days of his youth in an office when the world was beautiful? the letter proceeded. i wonder you can bear it. i think of fleet street and lincoln's inn now with a shudder of disgust. there are only two things in the world that make life worth living, love and art. i cannot imagine you sitting in an office over a ledger, and do you wear a tall hat and an umbrella and a little black bag? my feeling is that one should look upon life as an adventure, one should burn with the hard, gem-like flame, and one should take risks, one should expose oneself to danger. why do you not go to paris and study art? i always thought you had talent. the suggestion fell in with the possibility that philip for some time had been vaguely turning over in his mind. it startled him at first, but he could not help thinking of it, and in the constant rumination over it he found his only escape from the wretchedness of his present state. they all thought he had talent; at heidelberg they had admired his water colours, miss wilkinson had told him over and over again that they were chasing; even strangers like the watsons had been struck by his sketches. la vie de boheme had made a deep impression on him. he had brought it to london and when he was most depressed he had only to read a few pages to be transported into those chasing attics where rodolphe and the rest of them danced and loved and sang. he began to think of paris as before he had thought of london, but he had no fear of a second disillusion; he yearned for romance and beauty and love, and paris seemed to offer them all. he had a passion for pictures, and why should he not be able to paint as well as anybody else? he wrote to miss wilkinson and asked her how much she thought he could live on in paris. she told him that he could manage easily on eighty pounds a year, and she enthusiastically approved of his project. she told him he was too good to be wasted in an office. who would be a clerk when he might be a great artist, she asked dramatically, and she besought philip to believe in himself: that was the great thing. but philip had a cautious nature. it was all very well for hayward to talk of taking risks, he had three hundred a year in gilt-edged securities; philip's entire fortune amounted to no more than eighteen-hundred pounds. he hesitated. then it chanced that one day mr. goodworthy asked him suddenly if he would like to go to paris. the firm did the accounts for a hotel in the faubourg st. honore, which was owned by an english company, and twice a year mr. goodworthy and a clerk went over. the clerk who generally went happened to be ill, and a press of work prevented any of the others from getting away. mr. goodworthy thought of philip because he could best be spared, and his articles gave him some claim upon a job which was one of the pleasures of the business. philip was delighted. "you'll 'ave to work all day," said mr. goodworthy, "but we get our evenings to ourselves, and paris is paris." he smiled in a knowing way. "they do us very well at the hotel, and they give us all our meals, so it don't cost one anything. that's the way i like going to paris, at other people's expense." when they arrived at calais and philip saw the crowd of gesticulating porters his heart leaped. "this is the real thing," he said to himself. he was all eyes as the train sped through the country; he adored the sand dunes, their colour seemed to him more lovely than anything he had ever seen; and he was enchanted with the canals and the long lines of poplars. when they got out of the gare du nord, and trundled along the cobbled streets in a ramshackle, noisy cab, it seemed to him that he was breathing a new air so intoxicating that he could hardly restrain himself from shouting aloud. they were met at the door of the hotel by the manager, a stout, pleasant man, who spoke tolerable english; mr. goodworthy was an old friend and he greeted them effusively; they dined in his private room with his wife, and to philip it seemed that he had never eaten anything so delicious as the beefsteak aux pommes, nor drunk such nectar as the vin ordinaire, which were set before them. to mr. goodworthy, a respectable householder with excellent principles, the capital of france was a paradise of the joyously obscene. he asked the manager next morning what there was to be seen that was 'thick.' he thoroughly enjoyed these visits of his to paris; he said they kept you from growing rusty. in the evenings, after their work was over and they had dined, he took philip to the moulin rouge and the folies bergeres. his little eyes twinkled and his face wore a sly, sensual smile as he sought out the pornographic. he went into all the haunts which were specially arranged for the foreigner, and afterwards said that a nation could come to no good which permitted that sort of thing. he nudged philip when at some revue a woman appeared with practically nothing on, and pointed out to him the most strapping of the courtesans who walked about the hall. it was a vulgar paris that he showed philip, but philip saw it with eyes blinded with illusion. in the early morning he would rush out of the hotel and go to the champs elysees, and stand at the place de la concorde. it was june, and paris was silvery with the delicacy of the air. philip felt his heart go out to the people. here he thought at last was romance. they spent the inside of a week there, leaving on sunday, and when philip late at night reached his dingy rooms in barnes his mind was made up; he would surrender his articles, and go to paris to study art; but so that no one should think him unreasonable he determined to stay at the office till his year was up. he was to have his holiday during the last fortnight in august, and when he went away he would tell herbert carter that he had no intention of returning. but though philip could force himself to go to the office every day he could not even pretend to show any interest in the work. his mind was occupied with the future. after the middle of july there was nothing much to do and he escaped a good deal by pretending he had to go to lectures for his first examination. the time he got in this way he spent in the national gallery. he read books about paris and books about painting. he was steeped in ruskin. he read many of vasari's lives of the painters. he liked that story of correggio, and he fancied himself standing before some great masterpiece and crying: anch' io son' pittore. his hesitation had left him now, and he was convinced that he had in him the makings of a great painter. "after all, i can only try," he said to himself. "the great thing in life is to take risks." at last came the middle of august. mr. carter was spending the month in scotland, and the managing clerk was in charge of the office. mr. goodworthy had seemed pleasantly disposed to philip since their trip to paris, and now that philip knew he was so soon to be free, he could look upon the funny little man with tolerance. "you're going for your holiday tomorrow, carey?" he said to him in the evening. all day philip had been telling himself that this was the last time he would ever sit in that hateful office. "yes, this is the end of my year." "i'm afraid you've not done very well. mr. carter's very dissatisfied with you." "not nearly so dissatisfied as i am with mr. carter," returned philip cheerfully. "i don't think you should speak like that, carey." "i'm not coming back. i made the arrangement that if i didn't like accountancy mr. carter would return me half the money i paid for my articles and i could chuck it at the end of a year." "you shouldn't come to such a decision hastily." "for ten months i've loathed it all, i've loathed the work, i've loathed the office, i loathe london. i'd rather sweep a crossing than spend my days here." "well, i must say, i don't think you're very fitted for accountancy." "good-bye," said philip, holding out his hand. "i want to thank you for your kindness to me. i'm sorry if i've been troublesome. i knew almost from the beginning i was no good." "well, if you really do make up your mind it is good-bye. i don't know what you're going to do, but if you're in the neighbourhood at any time come in and see us." philip gave a little laugh. "i'm afraid it sounds very rude, but i hope from the bottom of my heart that i shall never set eyes on any of you again." xxxix the vicar of blackstable would have nothing to do with the scheme which philip laid before him. he had a great idea that one should stick to whatever one had begun. like all weak men he laid an exaggerated stress on not changing one's mind. "you chose to be an accountant of your own free will," he said. "i just took that because it was the only chance i saw of getting up to town. i hate london, i hate the work, and nothing will induce me to go back to it." mr. and mrs. carey were frankly shocked at philip's idea of being an artist. he should not forget, they said, that his father and mother were gentlefolk, and painting wasn't a serious profession; it was bohemian, disreputable, immoral. and then paris! "so long as i have anything to say in the matter, i shall not allow you to live in paris," said the vicar firmly. it was a sink of iniquity. the scarlet woman and she of babylon flaunted their vileness there; the cities of the plain were not more wicked. "you've been brought up like a gentleman and christian, and i should be false to the trust laid upon me by your dead father and mother if i allowed you to expose yourself to such temptation." "well, i know i'm not a christian and i'm beginning to doubt whether i'm a gentleman," said philip. the dispute grew more violent. there was another year before philip took possession of his small inheritance, and during that time mr. carey proposed only to give him an allowance if he remained at the office. it was clear to philip that if he meant not to continue with accountancy he must leave it while he could still get back half the money that had been paid for his articles. the vicar would not listen. philip, losing all reserve, said things to wound and irritate. "you've got no right to waste my money," he said at last. "after all it's my money, isn't it? i'm not a child. you can't prevent me from going to paris if i make up my mind to. you can't force me to go back to london." "all i can do is to refuse you money unless you do what i think fit." "well, i don't care, i've made up my mind to go to paris. i shall sell my clothes, and my books, and my father's jewellery." aunt louisa sat by in silence, anxious and unhappy. she saw that philip was beside himself, and anything she said then would but increase his anger. finally the vicar announced that he wished to hear nothing more about it and with dignity left the room. for the next three days neither philip nor he spoke to one another. philip wrote to hayward for information about paris, and made up his mind to set out as soon as he got a reply. mrs. carey turned the matter over in her mind incessantly; she felt that philip included her in the hatred he bore her husband, and the thought tortured her. she loved him with all her heart. at length she spoke to him; she listened attentively while he poured out all his disillusionment of london and his eager ambition for the future. "i may be no good, but at least let me have a try. i can't be a worse failure than i was in that beastly office. and i feel that i can paint. i know i've got it in me." she was not so sure as her husband that they did right in thwarting so strong an inclination. she had read of great painters whose parents had opposed their wish to study, the event had shown with what folly; and after all it was just as possible for a painter to lead a virtuous life to the glory of god as for a chartered accountant. "i'm so afraid of your going to paris," she said piteously. "it wouldn't be so bad if you studied in london." "if i'm going in for painting i must do it thoroughly, and it's only in paris that you can get the real thing." at his suggestion mrs. carey wrote to the solicitor, saying that philip was discontented with his work in london, and asking what he thought of a change. mr. nixon answered as follows: dear mrs. carey, i have seen mr. herbert carter, and i am afraid i must tell you that philip has not done so well as one could have wished. if he is very strongly set against the work, perhaps it is better that he should take the opportunity there is now to break his articles. i am naturally very disappointed, but as you know you can take a horse to the water, but you can't make him drink. yours very sincerely, albert nixon. the letter was shown to the vicar, but served only to increase his obstinacy. he was willing enough that philip should take up some other profession, he suggested his father's calling, medicine, but nothing would induce him to pay an allowance if philip went to paris. "it's a mere excuse for self-indulgence and sensuality," he said. "i'm interested to hear you blame self-indulgence in others," retorted philip acidly. but by this time an answer had come from hayward, giving the name of a hotel where philip could get a room for thirty francs a month and enclosing a note of introduction to the massiere of a school. philip read the letter to mrs. carey and told her he proposed to start on the first of september. "but you haven't got any money?" she said. "i'm going into tercanbury this afternoon to sell the jewellery." he had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or three rings, some links, and two pins. one of them was a pearl and might fetch a considerable sum. "it's a very different thing, what a thing's worth and what it'll fetch," said aunt louisa. philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle's stock phrases. "i know, but at the worst i think i can get a hundred pounds on the lot, and that'll keep me till i'm twenty-one." mrs. carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little black bonnet, and went to the bank. in an hour she came back. she went to philip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an envelope. "what's this?" he asked. "it's a little present for you," she answered, smiling shyly. he opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sack bulging with sovereigns. "i couldn't bear to let you sell your father's jewellery. it's the money i had in the bank. it comes to very nearly a hundred pounds." philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes. "oh, my dear, i can't take it," he said. "it's most awfully good of you, but i couldn't bear to take it." when mrs. carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and this money, carefully watched, had been used by her to meet any unforeseen expense, any urgent charity, or to buy christmas and birthday presents for her husband and for philip. in the course of years it had diminished sadly, but it was still with the vicar a subject for jesting. he talked of his wife as a rich woman and he constantly spoke of the 'nest egg.' "oh, please take it, philip. i'm so sorry i've been extravagant, and there's only that left. but it'll make me so happy if you'll accept it." "but you'll want it," said philip. "no, i don't think i shall. i was keeping it in case your uncle died before me. i thought it would be useful to have a little something i could get at immediately if i wanted it, but i don't think i shall live very much longer now." "oh, my dear, don't say that. why, of course you're going to live for ever. i can't possibly spare you." "oh, i'm not sorry." her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but in a moment, drying them, she smiled bravely. "at first, i used to pray to god that he might not take me first, because i didn't want your uncle to be left alone, i didn't want him to have all the suffering, but now i know that it wouldn't mean so much to your uncle as it would mean to me. he wants to live more than i do, i've never been the wife he wanted, and i daresay he'd marry again if anything happened to me. so i should like to go first. you don't think it's selfish of me, philip, do you? but i couldn't bear it if he went." philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. he did not know why the sight he had of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely ashamed. it was incomprehensible that she should care so much for a man who was so indifferent, so selfish, so grossly self-indulgent; and he divined dimly that in her heart she knew his indifference and his selfishness, knew them and loved him humbly all the same. "you will take the money, philip?" she said, gently stroking his hand. "i know you can do without it, but it'll give me so much happiness. i've always wanted to do something for you. you see, i never had a child of my own, and i've loved you as if you were my son. when you were a little boy, though i knew it was wicked, i used to wish almost that you might be ill, so that i could nurse you day and night. but you were only ill once and then it was at school. i should so like to help you. it's the only chance i shall ever have. and perhaps some day when you're a great artist you won't forget me, but you'll remember that i gave you your start." "it's very good of you," said philip. "i'm very grateful." a smile came into her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness. "oh, i'm so glad." xl a few days later mrs. carey went to the station to see philip off. she stood at the door of the carriage, trying to keep back her tears. philip was restless and eager. he wanted to be gone. "kiss me once more," she said. he leaned out of the window and kissed her. the train started, and she stood on the wooden platform of the little station, waving her handkerchief till it was out of sight. her heart was dreadfully heavy, and the few hundred yards to the vicarage seemed very, very long. it was natural enough that he should be eager to go, she thought, he was a boy and the future beckoned to him; but she--she clenched her teeth so that she should not cry. she uttered a little inward prayer that god would guard him, and keep him out of temptation, and give him happiness and good fortune. but philip ceased to think of her a moment after he had settled down in his carriage. he thought only of the future. he had written to mrs. otter, the massiere to whom hayward had given him an introduction, and had in his pocket an invitation to tea on the following day. when he arrived in paris he had his luggage put on a cab and trundled off slowly through the gay streets, over the bridge, and along the narrow ways of the latin quarter. he had taken a room at the hotel des deux ecoles, which was in a shabby street off the boulevard du montparnasse; it was convenient for amitrano's school at which he was going to work. a waiter took his box up five flights of stairs, and philip was shown into a tiny room, fusty from unopened windows, the greater part of which was taken up by a large wooden bed with a canopy over it of red rep; there were heavy curtains on the windows of the same dingy material; the chest of drawers served also as a washing-stand; and there was a massive wardrobe of the style which is connected with the good king louis philippe. the wall-paper was discoloured with age; it was dark gray, and there could be vaguely seen on it garlands of brown leaves. to philip the room seemed quaint and charming. though it was late he felt too excited to sleep and, going out, made his way into the boulevard and walked towards the light. this led him to the station; and the square in front of it, vivid with arc-lamps, noisy with the yellow trams that seemed to cross it in all directions, made him laugh aloud with joy. there were cafes all round, and by chance, thirsty and eager to get a nearer sight of the crowd, philip installed himself at a little table outside the cafe de versailles. every other table was taken, for it was a fine night; and philip looked curiously at the people, here little family groups, there a knot of men with odd-shaped hats and beards talking loudly and gesticulating; next to him were two men who looked like painters with women who philip hoped were not their lawful wives; behind him he heard americans loudly arguing on art. his soul was thrilled. he sat till very late, tired out but too happy to move, and when at last he went to bed he was wide awake; he listened to the manifold noise of paris. next day about tea-time he made his way to the lion de belfort, and in a new street that led out of the boulevard raspail found mrs. otter. she was an insignificant woman of thirty, with a provincial air and a deliberately lady-like manner; she introduced him to her mother. he discovered presently that she had been studying in paris for three years and later that she was separated from her husband. she had in her small drawing-room one or two portraits which she had painted, and to philip's inexperience they seemed extremely accomplished. "i wonder if i shall ever be able to paint as well as that," he said to her. "oh, i expect so," she replied, not without self-satisfaction. "you can't expect to do everything all at once, of course." she was very kind. she gave him the address of a shop where he could get a portfolio, drawing-paper, and charcoal. "i shall be going to amitrano's about nine tomorrow, and if you'll be there then i'll see that you get a good place and all that sort of thing." she asked him what he wanted to do, and philip felt that he should not let her see how vague he was about the whole matter. "well, first i want to learn to draw," he said. "i'm so glad to hear you say that. people always want to do things in such a hurry. i never touched oils till i'd been here for two years, and look at the result." she gave a glance at the portrait of her mother, a sticky piece of painting that hung over the piano. "and if i were you, i would be very careful about the people you get to know. i wouldn't mix myself up with any foreigners. i'm very careful myself." philip thanked her for the suggestion, but it seemed to him odd. he did not know that he particularly wanted to be careful. "we live just as we would if we were in england," said mrs. otter's mother, who till then had spoken little. "when we came here we brought all our own furniture over." philip looked round the room. it was filled with a massive suite, and at the window were the same sort of white lace curtains which aunt louisa put up at the vicarage in summer. the piano was draped in liberty silk and so was the chimney-piece. mrs. otter followed his wandering eye. "in the evening when we close the shutters one might really feel one was in england." "and we have our meals just as if we were at home," added her mother. "a meat breakfast in the morning and dinner in the middle of the day." when he left mrs. otter philip went to buy drawing materials; and next morning at the stroke of nine, trying to seem self-assured, he presented himself at the school. mrs. otter was already there, and she came forward with a friendly smile. he had been anxious about the reception he would have as a nouveau, for he had read a good deal of the rough joking to which a newcomer was exposed at some of the studios; but mrs. otter had reassured him. "oh, there's nothing like that here," she said. "you see, about half our students are ladies, and they set a tone to the place." the studio was large and bare, with gray walls, on which were pinned the studies that had received prizes. a model was sitting in a chair with a loose wrap thrown over her, and about a dozen men and women were standing about, some talking and others still working on their sketch. it was the first rest of the model. "you'd better not try anything too difficult at first," said mrs. otter. "put your easel here. you'll find that's the easiest pose." philip placed an easel where she indicated, and mrs. otter introduced him to a young woman who sat next to him. "mr. carey--miss price. mr. carey's never studied before, you won't mind helping him a little just at first will you?" then she turned to the model. "la pose." the model threw aside the paper she had been reading, la petite republique, and sulkily, throwing off her gown, got on to the stand. she stood, squarely on both feet with her hands clasped behind her head. "it's a stupid pose," said miss price. "i can't imagine why they chose it." when philip entered, the people in the studio had looked at him curiously, and the model gave him an indifferent glance, but now they ceased to pay attention to him. philip, with his beautiful sheet of paper in front of him, stared awkwardly at the model. he did not know how to begin. he had never seen a naked woman before. she was not young and her breasts were shrivelled. she had colourless, fair hair that fell over her forehead untidily, and her face was covered with large freckles. he glanced at miss price's work. she had only been working on it two days, and it looked as though she had had trouble; her paper was in a mess from constant rubbing out, and to philip's eyes the figure looked strangely distorted. "i should have thought i could do as well as that," he said to himself. he began on the head, thinking that he would work slowly downwards, but, he could not understand why, he found it infinitely more difficult to draw a head from the model than to draw one from his imagination. he got into difficulties. he glanced at miss price. she was working with vehement gravity. her brow was wrinkled with eagerness, and there was an anxious look in her eyes. it was hot in the studio, and drops of sweat stood on her forehead. she was a girl of twenty-six, with a great deal of dull gold hair; it was handsome hair, but it was carelessly done, dragged back from her forehead and tied in a hurried knot. she had a large face, with broad, flat features and small eyes; her skin was pasty, with a singular unhealthiness of tone, and there was no colour in the cheeks. she had an unwashed air and you could not help wondering if she slept in her clothes. she was serious and silent. when the next pause came, she stepped back to look at her work. "i don't know why i'm having so much bother," she said. "but i mean to get it right." she turned to philip. "how are you getting on?" "not at all," he answered, with a rueful smile. she looked at what he had done. "you can't expect to do anything that way. you must take measurements. and you must square out your paper." she showed him rapidly how to set about the business. philip was impressed by her earnestness, but repelled by her want of charm. he was grateful for the hints she gave him and set to work again. meanwhile other people had come in, mostly men, for the women always arrived first, and the studio for the time of year (it was early yet) was fairly full. presently there came in a young man with thin, black hair, an enormous nose, and a face so long that it reminded you of a horse. he sat down next to philip and nodded across him to miss price. "you're very late," she said. "are you only just up?" "it was such a splendid day, i thought i'd lie in bed and think how beautiful it was out." philip smiled, but miss price took the remark seriously. "that seems a funny thing to do, i should have thought it would be more to the point to get up and enjoy it." "the way of the humorist is very hard," said the young man gravely. he did not seem inclined to work. he looked at his canvas; he was working in colour, and had sketched in the day before the model who was posing. he turned to philip. "have you just come out from england?" "yes." "how did you find your way to amitrano's?" "it was the only school i knew of." "i hope you haven't come with the idea that you will learn anything here which will be of the smallest use to you." "it's the best school in paris," said miss price. "it's the only one where they take art seriously." "should art be taken seriously?" the young man asked; and since miss price replied only with a scornful shrug, he added: "but the point is, all schools are bad. they are academical, obviously. why this is less injurious than most is that the teaching is more incompetent than elsewhere. because you learn nothing...." "but why d'you come here then?" interrupted philip. "i see the better course, but do not follow it. miss price, who is cultured, will remember the latin of that." "i wish you would leave me out of your conversation, mr. clutton," said miss price brusquely. "the only way to learn to paint," he went on, imperturbable, "is to take a studio, hire a model, and just fight it out for yourself." "that seems a simple thing to do," said philip. "it only needs money," replied clutton. he began to paint, and philip looked at him from the corner of his eye. he was long and desperately thin; his huge bones seemed to protrude from his body; his elbows were so sharp that they appeared to jut out through the arms of his shabby coat. his trousers were frayed at the bottom, and on each of his boots was a clumsy patch. miss price got up and went over to philip's easel. "if mr. clutton will hold his tongue for a moment, i'll just help you a little," she said. "miss price dislikes me because i have humour," said clutton, looking meditatively at his canvas, "but she detests me because i have genius." he spoke with solemnity, and his colossal, misshapen nose made what he said very quaint. philip was obliged to laugh, but miss price grew darkly red with anger. "you're the only person who has ever accused you of genius." "also i am the only person whose opinion is of the least value to me." miss price began to criticise what philip had done. she talked glibly of anatomy and construction, planes and lines, and of much else which philip did not understand. she had been at the studio a long time and knew the main points which the masters insisted upon, but though she could show what was wrong with philip's work she could not tell him how to put it right. "it's awfully kind of you to take so much trouble with me," said philip. "oh, it's nothing," she answered, flushing awkwardly. "people did the same for me when i first came, i'd do it for anyone." "miss price wants to indicate that she is giving you the advantage of her knowledge from a sense of duty rather than on account of any charms of your person," said clutton. miss price gave him a furious look, and went back to her own drawing. the clock struck twelve, and the model with a cry of relief stepped down from the stand. miss price gathered up her things. "some of us go to gravier's for lunch," she said to philip, with a look at clutton. "i always go home myself." "i'll take you to gravier's if you like," said clutton. philip thanked him and made ready to go. on his way out mrs. otter asked him how he had been getting on. "did fanny price help you?" she asked. "i put you there because i know she can do it if she likes. she's a disagreeable, ill-natured girl, and she can't draw herself at all, but she knows the ropes, and she can be useful to a newcomer if she cares to take the trouble." on the way down the street clutton said to him: "you've made an impression on fanny price. you'd better look out." philip laughed. he had never seen anyone on whom he wished less to make an impression. they came to the cheap little restaurant at which several of the students ate, and clutton sat down at a table at which three or four men were already seated. for a franc, they got an egg, a plate of meat, cheese, and a small bottle of wine. coffee was extra. they sat on the pavement, and yellow trams passed up and down the boulevard with a ceaseless ringing of bells. "by the way, what's your name?" said clutton, as they took their seats. "carey." "allow me to introduce an old and trusted friend, carey by name," said clutton gravely. "mr. flanagan, mr. lawson." they laughed and went on with their conversation. they talked of a thousand things, and they all talked at once. no one paid the smallest attention to anyone else. they talked of the places they had been to in the summer, of studios, of the various schools; they mentioned names which were unfamiliar to philip, monet, manet, renoir, pissarro, degas. philip listened with all his ears, and though he felt a little out of it, his heart leaped with exultation. the time flew. when clutton got up he said: "i expect you'll find me here this evening if you care to come. you'll find this about the best place for getting dyspepsia at the lowest cost in the quarter." xli philip walked down the boulevard du montparnasse. it was not at all like the paris he had seen in the spring during his visit to do the accounts of the hotel st. georges--he thought already of that part of his life with a shudder--but reminded him of what he thought a provincial town must be. there was an easy-going air about it, and a sunny spaciousness which invited the mind to day-dreaming. the trimness of the trees, the vivid whiteness of the houses, the breadth, were very agreeable; and he felt himself already thoroughly at home. he sauntered along, staring at the people; there seemed an elegance about the most ordinary, workmen with their broad red sashes and their wide trousers, little soldiers in dingy, charming uniforms. he came presently to the avenue de l'observatoire, and he gave a sigh of pleasure at the magnificent, yet so graceful, vista. he came to the gardens of the luxembourg: children were playing, nurses with long ribbons walked slowly two by two, busy men passed through with satchels under their arms, youths strangely dressed. the scene was formal and dainty; nature was arranged and ordered, but so exquisitely, that nature unordered and unarranged seemed barbaric. philip was enchanted. it excited him to stand on that spot of which he had read so much; it was classic ground to him; and he felt the awe and the delight which some old don might feel when for the first time he looked on the smiling plain of sparta. as he wandered he chanced to see miss price sitting by herself on a bench. he hesitated, for he did not at that moment want to see anyone, and her uncouth way seemed out of place amid the happiness he felt around him; but he had divined her sensitiveness to affront, and since she had seen him thought it would be polite to speak to her. "what are you doing here?" she said, as he came up. "enjoying myself. aren't you?" "oh, i come here every day from four to five. i don't think one does any good if one works straight through." "may i sit down for a minute?" he said. "if you want to." "that doesn't sound very cordial," he laughed. "i'm not much of a one for saying pretty things." philip, a little disconcerted, was silent as he lit a cigarette. "did clutton say anything about my work?" she asked suddenly. "no, i don't think he did," said philip. "he's no good, you know. he thinks he's a genius, but he isn't. he's too lazy, for one thing. genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. the only thing is to peg away. if one only makes up one's mind badly enough to do a thing one can't help doing it." she spoke with a passionate strenuousness which was rather striking. she wore a sailor hat of black straw, a white blouse which was not quite clean, and a brown skirt. she had no gloves on, and her hands wanted washing. she was so unattractive that philip wished he had not begun to talk to her. he could not make out whether she wanted him to stay or go. "i'll do anything i can for you," she said all at once, without reference to anything that had gone before. "i know how hard it is." "thank you very much," said philip, then in a moment: "won't you come and have tea with me somewhere?" she looked at him quickly and flushed. when she reddened her pasty skin acquired a curiously mottled look, like strawberries and cream that had gone bad. "no, thanks. what d'you think i want tea for? i've only just had lunch." "i thought it would pass the time," said philip. "if you find it long you needn't bother about me, you know. i don't mind being left alone." at that moment two men passed, in brown velveteens, enormous trousers, and basque caps. they were young, but both wore beards. "i say, are those art-students?" said philip. "they might have stepped out of the vie de boheme." "they're americans," said miss price scornfully. "frenchmen haven't worn things like that for thirty years, but the americans from the far west buy those clothes and have themselves photographed the day after they arrive in paris. that's about as near to art as they ever get. but it doesn't matter to them, they've all got money." philip liked the daring picturesqueness of the americans' costume; he thought it showed the romantic spirit. miss price asked him the time. "i must be getting along to the studio," she said. "are you going to the sketch classes?" philip did not know anything about them, and she told him that from five to six every evening a model sat, from whom anyone who liked could go and draw at the cost of fifty centimes. they had a different model every day, and it was very good practice. "i don't suppose you're good enough yet for that. you'd better wait a bit." "i don't see why i shouldn't try. i haven't got anything else to do." they got up and walked to the studio. philip could not tell from her manner whether miss price wished him to walk with her or preferred to walk alone. he remained from sheer embarrassment, not knowing how to leave her; but she would not talk; she answered his questions in an ungracious manner. a man was standing at the studio door with a large dish into which each person as he went in dropped his half franc. the studio was much fuller than it had been in the morning, and there was not the preponderance of english and americans; nor were women there in so large a proportion. philip felt the assemblage was more the sort of thing he had expected. it was very warm, and the air quickly grew fetid. it was an old man who sat this time, with a vast gray beard, and philip tried to put into practice the little he had learned in the morning; but he made a poor job of it; he realised that he could not draw nearly as well as he thought. he glanced enviously at one or two sketches of men who sat near him, and wondered whether he would ever be able to use the charcoal with that mastery. the hour passed quickly. not wishing to press himself upon miss price he sat down at some distance from her, and at the end, as he passed her on his way out, she asked him brusquely how he had got on. "not very well," he smiled. "if you'd condescended to come and sit near me i could have given you some hints. i suppose you thought yourself too grand." "no, it wasn't that. i was afraid you'd think me a nuisance." "when i do that i'll tell you sharp enough." philip saw that in her uncouth way she was offering him help. "well, tomorrow i'll just force myself upon you." "i don't mind," she answered. philip went out and wondered what he should do with himself till dinner. he was eager to do something characteristic. absinthe! of course it was indicated, and so, sauntering towards the station, he seated himself outside a cafe and ordered it. he drank with nausea and satisfaction. he found the taste disgusting, but the moral effect magnificent; he felt every inch an art-student; and since he drank on an empty stomach his spirits presently grew very high. he watched the crowds, and felt all men were his brothers. he was happy. when he reached gravier's the table at which clutton sat was full, but as soon as he saw philip limping along he called out to him. they made room. the dinner was frugal, a plate of soup, a dish of meat, fruit, cheese, and half a bottle of wine; but philip paid no attention to what he ate. he took note of the men at the table. flanagan was there again: he was an american, a short, snub-nosed youth with a jolly face and a laughing mouth. he wore a norfolk jacket of bold pattern, a blue stock round his neck, and a tweed cap of fantastic shape. at that time impressionism reigned in the latin quarter, but its victory over the older schools was still recent; and carolus-duran, bouguereau, and their like were set up against manet, monet, and degas. to appreciate these was still a sign of grace. whistler was an influence strong with the english and his compatriots, and the discerning collected japanese prints. the old masters were tested by new standards. the esteem in which raphael had been for centuries held was a matter of derision to wise young men. they offered to give all his works for velasquez' head of philip iv in the national gallery. philip found that a discussion on art was raging. lawson, whom he had met at luncheon, sat opposite to him. he was a thin youth with a freckled face and red hair. he had very bright green eyes. as philip sat down he fixed them on him and remarked suddenly: "raphael was only tolerable when he painted other people's pictures. when he painted peruginos or pinturichios he was charming; when he painted raphaels he was," with a scornful shrug, "raphael." lawson spoke so aggressively that philip was taken aback, but he was not obliged to answer because flanagan broke in impatiently. "oh, to hell with art!" he cried. "let's get ginny." "you were ginny last night, flanagan," said lawson. "nothing to what i mean to be tonight," he answered. "fancy being in pa-ris and thinking of nothing but art all the time." he spoke with a broad western accent. "my, it is good to be alive." he gathered himself together and then banged his fist on the table. "to hell with art, i say." "you not only say it, but you say it with tiresome iteration," said clutton severely. there was another american at the table. he was dressed like those fine fellows whom philip had seen that afternoon in the luxembourg. he had a handsome face, thin, ascetic, with dark eyes; he wore his fantastic garb with the dashing air of a buccaneer. he had a vast quantity of dark hair which fell constantly over his eyes, and his most frequent gesture was to throw back his head dramatically to get some long wisp out of the way. he began to talk of the olympia by manet, which then hung in the luxembourg. "i stood in front of it for an hour today, and i tell you it's not a good picture." lawson put down his knife and fork. his green eyes flashed fire, he gasped with rage; but he could be seen imposing calm upon himself. "it's very interesting to hear the mind of the untutored savage," he said. "will you tell us why it isn't a good picture?" before the american could answer someone else broke in vehemently. "d'you mean to say you can look at the painting of that flesh and say it's not good?" "i don't say that. i think the right breast is very well painted." "the right breast be damned," shouted lawson. "the whole thing's a miracle of painting." he began to describe in detail the beauties of the picture, but at this table at gravier's they who spoke at length spoke for their own edification. no one listened to him. the american interrupted angrily. "you don't mean to say you think the head's good?" lawson, white with passion now, began to defend the head; but clutton, who had been sitting in silence with a look on his face of good-humoured scorn, broke in. "give him the head. we don't want the head. it doesn't affect the picture." "all right, i'll give you the head," cried lawson. "take the head and be damned to you." "what about the black line?" cried the american, triumphantly pushing back a wisp of hair which nearly fell in his soup. "you don't see a black line round objects in nature." "oh, god, send down fire from heaven to consume the blasphemer," said lawson. "what has nature got to do with it? no one knows what's in nature and what isn't! the world sees nature through the eyes of the artist. why, for centuries it saw horses jumping a fence with all their legs extended, and by heaven, sir, they were extended. it saw shadows black until monet discovered they were coloured, and by heaven, sir, they were black. if we choose to surround objects with a black line, the world will see the black line, and there will be a black line; and if we paint grass red and cows blue, it'll see them red and blue, and, by heaven, they will be red and blue." "to hell with art," murmured flanagan. "i want to get ginny." lawson took no notice of the interruption. "now look here, when olympia was shown at the salon, zola--amid the jeers of the philistines and the hisses of the pompiers, the academicians, and the public, zola said: 'i look forward to the day when manet's picture will hang in the louvre opposite the odalisque of ingres, and it will not be the odalisque which will gain by comparison.' it'll be there. every day i see the time grow nearer. in ten years the olympia will be in the louvre." "never," shouted the american, using both hands now with a sudden desperate attempt to get his hair once for all out of the way. "in ten years that picture will be dead. it's only a fashion of the moment. no picture can live that hasn't got something which that picture misses by a million miles." "and what is that?" "great art can't exist without a moral element." "oh god!" cried lawson furiously. "i knew it was that. he wants morality." he joined his hands and held them towards heaven in supplication. "oh, christopher columbus, christopher columbus, what did you do when you discovered america?" "ruskin says..." but before he could add another word, clutton rapped with the handle of his knife imperiously on the table. "gentlemen," he said in a stern voice, and his huge nose positively wrinkled with passion, "a name has been mentioned which i never thought to hear again in decent society. freedom of speech is all very well, but we must observe the limits of common propriety. you may talk of bouguereau if you will: there is a cheerful disgustingness in the sound which excites laughter; but let us not sully our chaste lips with the names of j. ruskin, g. f. watts, or e. b. jones." "who was ruskin anyway?" asked flanagan. "he was one of the great victorians. he was a master of english style." "ruskin's style--a thing of shreds and purple patches," said lawson. "besides, damn the great victorians. whenever i open a paper and see death of a great victorian, i thank heaven there's one more of them gone. their only talent was longevity, and no artist should be allowed to live after he's forty; by then a man has done his best work, all he does after that is repetition. don't you think it was the greatest luck in the world for them that keats, shelley, bonnington, and byron died early? what a genius we should think swinburne if he had perished on the day the first series of poems and ballads was published!" the suggestion pleased, for no one at the table was more than twenty-four, and they threw themselves upon it with gusto. they were unanimous for once. they elaborated. someone proposed a vast bonfire made out of the works of the forty academicians into which the great victorians might be hurled on their fortieth birthday. the idea was received with acclamation. carlyle and ruskin, tennyson, browning, g. f. watts, e. b. jones, dickens, thackeray, they were hurried into the flames; mr. gladstone, john bright, and cobden; there was a moment's discussion about george meredith, but matthew arnold and emerson were given up cheerfully. at last came walter pater. "not walter pater," murmured philip. lawson stared at him for a moment with his green eyes and then nodded. "you're quite right, walter pater is the only justification for mona lisa. d'you know cronshaw? he used to know pater." "who's cronshaw?" asked philip. "cronshaw's a poet. he lives here. let's go to the lilas." la closerie des lilas was a cafe to which they often went in the evening after dinner, and here cronshaw was invariably to be found between the hours of nine at night and two in the morning. but flanagan had had enough of intellectual conversation for one evening, and when lawson made his suggestion, turned to philip. "oh gee, let's go where there are girls," he said. "come to the gaite montparnasse, and we'll get ginny." "i'd rather go and see cronshaw and keep sober," laughed philip. xlii there was a general disturbance. flanagan and two or three more went on to the music-hall, while philip walked slowly with clutton and lawson to the closerie des lilas. "you must go to the gaite montparnasse," said lawson to him. "it's one of the loveliest things in paris. i'm going to paint it one of these days." philip, influenced by hayward, looked upon music-halls with scornful eyes, but he had reached paris at a time when their artistic possibilities were just discovered. the peculiarities of lighting, the masses of dingy red and tarnished gold, the heaviness of the shadows and the decorative lines, offered a new theme; and half the studios in the quarter contained sketches made in one or other of the local theatres. men of letters, following in the painters' wake, conspired suddenly to find artistic value in the turns; and red-nosed comedians were lauded to the skies for their sense of character; fat female singers, who had bawled obscurely for twenty years, were discovered to possess inimitable drollery; there were those who found an aesthetic delight in performing dogs; while others exhausted their vocabulary to extol the distinction of conjurers and trick-cyclists. the crowd too, under another influence, was become an object of sympathetic interest. with hayward, philip had disdained humanity in the mass; he adopted the attitude of one who wraps himself in solitariness and watches with disgust the antics of the vulgar; but clutton and lawson talked of the multitude with enthusiasm. they described the seething throng that filled the various fairs of paris, the sea of faces, half seen in the glare of acetylene, half hidden in the darkness, and the blare of trumpets, the hooting of whistles, the hum of voices. what they said was new and strange to philip. they told him about cronshaw. "have you ever read any of his work?" "no," said philip. "it came out in the yellow book." they looked upon him, as painters often do writers, with contempt because he was a layman, with tolerance because he practised an art, and with awe because he used a medium in which themselves felt ill-at-ease. "he's an extraordinary fellow. you'll find him a bit disappointing at first, he only comes out at his best when he's drunk." "and the nuisance is," added clutton, "that it takes him a devil of a time to get drunk." when they arrived at the cafe lawson told philip that they would have to go in. there was hardly a bite in the autumn air, but cronshaw had a morbid fear of draughts and even in the warmest weather sat inside. "he knows everyone worth knowing," lawson explained. "he knew pater and oscar wilde, and he knows mallarme and all those fellows." the object of their search sat in the most sheltered corner of the cafe, with his coat on and the collar turned up. he wore his hat pressed well down on his forehead so that he should avoid cold air. he was a big man, stout but not obese, with a round face, a small moustache, and little, rather stupid eyes. his head did not seem quite big enough for his body. it looked like a pea uneasily poised on an egg. he was playing dominoes with a frenchman, and greeted the new-comers with a quiet smile; he did not speak, but as if to make room for them pushed away the little pile of saucers on the table which indicated the number of drinks he had already consumed. he nodded to philip when he was introduced to him, and went on with the game. philip's knowledge of the language was small, but he knew enough to tell that cronshaw, although he had lived in paris for several years, spoke french execrably. at last he leaned back with a smile of triumph. "je vous ai battu," he said, with an abominable accent. "garcong!" he called the waiter and turned to philip. "just out from england? see any cricket?" philip was a little confused at the unexpected question. "cronshaw knows the averages of every first-class cricketer for the last twenty years," said lawson, smiling. the frenchman left them for friends at another table, and cronshaw, with the lazy enunciation which was one of his peculiarities, began to discourse on the relative merits of kent and lancashire. he told them of the last test match he had seen and described the course of the game wicket by wicket. "that's the only thing i miss in paris," he said, as he finished the bock which the waiter had brought. "you don't get any cricket." philip was disappointed, and lawson, pardonably anxious to show off one of the celebrities of the quarter, grew impatient. cronshaw was taking his time to wake up that evening, though the saucers at his side indicated that he had at least made an honest attempt to get drunk. clutton watched the scene with amusement. he fancied there was something of affectation in cronshaw's minute knowledge of cricket; he liked to tantalise people by talking to them of things that obviously bored them; clutton threw in a question. "have you seen mallarme lately?" cronshaw looked at him slowly, as if he were turning the inquiry over in his mind, and before he answered rapped on the marble table with one of the saucers. "bring my bottle of whiskey," he called out. he turned again to philip. "i keep my own bottle of whiskey. i can't afford to pay fifty centimes for every thimbleful." the waiter brought the bottle, and cronshaw held it up to the light. "they've been drinking it. waiter, who's been helping himself to my whiskey?" "mais personne, monsieur cronshaw." "i made a mark on it last night, and look at it." "monsieur made a mark, but he kept on drinking after that. at that rate monsieur wastes his time in making marks." the waiter was a jovial fellow and knew cronshaw intimately. cronshaw gazed at him. "if you give me your word of honour as a nobleman and a gentleman that nobody but i has been drinking my whiskey, i'll accept your statement." this remark, translated literally into the crudest french, sounded very funny, and the lady at the comptoir could not help laughing. "il est impayable," she murmured. cronshaw, hearing her, turned a sheepish eye upon her; she was stout, matronly, and middle-aged; and solemnly kissed his hand to her. she shrugged her shoulders. "fear not, madam," he said heavily. "i have passed the age when i am tempted by forty-five and gratitude." he poured himself out some whiskey and water, and slowly drank it. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "he talked very well." lawson and clutton knew that cronshaw's remark was an answer to the question about mallarme. cronshaw often went to the gatherings on tuesday evenings when the poet received men of letters and painters, and discoursed with subtle oratory on any subject that was suggested to him. cronshaw had evidently been there lately. "he talked very well, but he talked nonsense. he talked about art as though it were the most important thing in the world." "if it isn't, what are we here for?" asked philip. "what you're here for i don't know. it is no business of mine. but art is a luxury. men attach importance only to self-preservation and the propagation of their species. it is only when these instincts are satisfied that they consent to occupy themselves with the entertainment which is provided for them by writers, painters, and poets." cronshaw stopped for a moment to drink. he had pondered for twenty years the problem whether he loved liquor because it made him talk or whether he loved conversation because it made him thirsty. then he said: "i wrote a poem yesterday." without being asked he began to recite it, very slowly, marking the rhythm with an extended forefinger. it was possibly a very fine poem, but at that moment a young woman came in. she had scarlet lips, and it was plain that the vivid colour of her cheeks was not due to the vulgarity of nature; she had blackened her eyelashes and eyebrows, and painted both eyelids a bold blue, which was continued to a triangle at the corner of the eyes. it was fantastic and amusing. her dark hair was done over her ears in the fashion made popular by mlle. cleo de merode. philip's eyes wandered to her, and cronshaw, having finished the recitation of his verses, smiled upon him indulgently. "you were not listening," he said. "oh yes, i was." "i do not blame you, for you have given an apt illustration of the statement i just made. what is art beside love? i respect and applaud your indifference to fine poetry when you can contemplate the meretricious charms of this young person." she passed by the table at which they were sitting, and he took her arm. "come and sit by my side, dear child, and let us play the divine comedy of love." "fichez-moi la paix," she said, and pushing him on one side continued her perambulation. "art," he continued, with a wave of the hand, "is merely the refuge which the ingenious have invented, when they were supplied with food and women, to escape the tediousness of life." cronshaw filled his glass again, and began to talk at length. he spoke with rotund delivery. he chose his words carefully. he mingled wisdom and nonsense in the most astounding manner, gravely making fun of his hearers at one moment, and at the next playfully giving them sound advice. he talked of art, and literature, and life. he was by turns devout and obscene, merry and lachrymose. he grew remarkably drunk, and then he began to recite poetry, his own and milton's, his own and shelley's, his own and kit marlowe's. at last lawson, exhausted, got up to go home. "i shall go too," said philip. clutton, the most silent of them all, remained behind listening, with a sardonic smile on his lips, to cronshaw's maunderings. lawson accompanied philip to his hotel and then bade him good-night. but when philip got to bed he could not sleep. all these new ideas that had been flung before him carelessly seethed in his brain. he was tremendously excited. he felt in himself great powers. he had never before been so self-confident. "i know i shall be a great artist," he said to himself. "i feel it in me." a thrill passed through him as another thought came, but even to himself he would not put it into words: "by george, i believe i've got genius." he was in fact very drunk, but as he had not taken more than one glass of beer, it could have been due only to a more dangerous intoxicant than alcohol. xliii on tuesdays and fridays masters spent the morning at amitrano's, criticising the work done. in france the painter earns little unless he paints portraits and is patronised by rich americans; and men of reputation are glad to increase their incomes by spending two or three hours once a week at one of the numerous studios where art is taught. tuesday was the day upon which michel rollin came to amitrano's. he was an elderly man, with a white beard and a florid complexion, who had painted a number of decorations for the state, but these were an object of derision to the students he instructed: he was a disciple of ingres, impervious to the progress of art and angrily impatient with that tas de farceurs whose names were manet, degas, monet, and sisley; but he was an excellent teacher, helpful, polite, and encouraging. foinet, on the other hand, who visited the studio on fridays, was a difficult man to get on with. he was a small, shrivelled person, with bad teeth and a bilious air, an untidy gray beard, and savage eyes; his voice was high and his tone sarcastic. he had had pictures bought by the luxembourg, and at twenty-five looked forward to a great career; but his talent was due to youth rather than to personality, and for twenty years he had done nothing but repeat the landscape which had brought him his early success. when he was reproached with monotony, he answered: "corot only painted one thing. why shouldn't i?" he was envious of everyone else's success, and had a peculiar, personal loathing of the impressionists; for he looked upon his own failure as due to the mad fashion which had attracted the public, sale bete, to their works. the genial disdain of michel rollin, who called them impostors, was answered by him with vituperation, of which crapule and canaille were the least violent items; he amused himself with abuse of their private lives, and with sardonic humour, with blasphemous and obscene detail, attacked the legitimacy of their births and the purity of their conjugal relations: he used an oriental imagery and an oriental emphasis to accentuate his ribald scorn. nor did he conceal his contempt for the students whose work he examined. by them he was hated and feared; the women by his brutal sarcasm he reduced often to tears, which again aroused his ridicule; and he remained at the studio, notwithstanding the protests of those who suffered too bitterly from his attacks, because there could be no doubt that he was one of the best masters in paris. sometimes the old model who kept the school ventured to remonstrate with him, but his expostulations quickly gave way before the violent insolence of the painter to abject apologies. it was foinet with whom philip first came in contact. he was already in the studio when philip arrived. he went round from easel to easel, with mrs. otter, the massiere, by his side to interpret his remarks for the benefit of those who could not understand french. fanny price, sitting next to philip, was working feverishly. her face was sallow with nervousness, and every now and then she stopped to wipe her hands on her blouse; for they were hot with anxiety. suddenly she turned to philip with an anxious look, which she tried to hide by a sullen frown. "d'you think it's good?" she asked, nodding at her drawing. philip got up and looked at it. he was astounded; he felt she must have no eye at all; the thing was hopelessly out of drawing. "i wish i could draw half as well myself," he answered. "you can't expect to, you've only just come. it's a bit too much to expect that you should draw as well as i do. i've been here two years." fanny price puzzled philip. her conceit was stupendous. philip had already discovered that everyone in the studio cordially disliked her; and it was no wonder, for she seemed to go out of her way to wound people. "i complained to mrs. otter about foinet," she said now. "the last two weeks he hasn't looked at my drawings. he spends about half an hour on mrs. otter because she's the massiere. after all i pay as much as anybody else, and i suppose my money's as good as theirs. i don't see why i shouldn't get as much attention as anybody else." she took up her charcoal again, but in a moment put it down with a groan. "i can't do any more now. i'm so frightfully nervous." she looked at foinet, who was coming towards them with mrs. otter. mrs. otter, meek, mediocre, and self-satisfied, wore an air of importance. foinet sat down at the easel of an untidy little englishwoman called ruth chalice. she had the fine black eyes, languid but passionate, the thin face, ascetic but sensual, the skin like old ivory, which under the influence of burne-jones were cultivated at that time by young ladies in chelsea. foinet seemed in a pleasant mood; he did not say much to her, but with quick, determined strokes of her charcoal pointed out her errors. miss chalice beamed with pleasure when he rose. he came to clutton, and by this time philip was nervous too but mrs. otter had promised to make things easy for him. foinet stood for a moment in front of clutton's work, biting his thumb silently, then absent-mindedly spat out upon the canvas the little piece of skin which he had bitten off. "that's a fine line," he said at last, indicating with his thumb what pleased him. "you're beginning to learn to draw." clutton did not answer, but looked at the master with his usual air of sardonic indifference to the world's opinion. "i'm beginning to think you have at least a trace of talent." mrs. otter, who did not like clutton, pursed her lips. she did not see anything out of the way in his work. foinet sat down and went into technical details. mrs. otter grew rather tired of standing. clutton did not say anything, but nodded now and then, and foinet felt with satisfaction that he grasped what he said and the reasons of it; most of them listened to him, but it was clear they never understood. then foinet got up and came to philip. "he only arrived two days ago," mrs. otter hurried to explain. "he's a beginner. he's never studied before." "ca se voit," the master said. "one sees that." he passed on, and mrs. otter murmured to him: "this is the young lady i told you about." he looked at her as though she were some repulsive animal, and his voice grew more rasping. "it appears that you do not think i pay enough attention to you. you have been complaining to the massiere. well, show me this work to which you wish me to give attention." fanny price coloured. the blood under her unhealthy skin seemed to be of a strange purple. without answering she pointed to the drawing on which she had been at work since the beginning of the week. foinet sat down. "well, what do you wish me to say to you? do you wish me to tell you it is good? it isn't. do you wish me to tell you it is well drawn? it isn't. do you wish me to say it has merit? it hasn't. do you wish me to show you what is wrong with it? it is all wrong. do you wish me to tell you what to do with it? tear it up. are you satisfied now?" miss price became very white. she was furious because he had said all this before mrs. otter. though she had been in france so long and could understand french well enough, she could hardly speak two words. "he's got no right to treat me like that. my money's as good as anyone else's. i pay him to teach me. that's not teaching me." "what does she say? what does she say?" asked foinet. mrs. otter hesitated to translate, and miss price repeated in execrable french. "je vous paye pour m'apprendre." his eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his fist. "mais, nom de dieu, i can't teach you. i could more easily teach a camel." he turned to mrs. otter. "ask her, does she do this for amusement, or does she expect to earn money by it?" "i'm going to earn my living as an artist," miss price answered. "then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time. it would not matter that you have no talent, talent does not run about the streets in these days, but you have not the beginning of an aptitude. how long have you been here? a child of five after two lessons would draw better than you do. i only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt. you're more likely to earn your living as a bonne a tout faire than as a painter. look." he seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it to the paper. he cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines. he drew rapidly and spoke at the same time, spitting out the words with venom. "look, those arms are not the same length. that knee, it's grotesque. i tell you a child of five. you see, she's not standing on her legs. that foot!" with each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the drawing upon which fanny price had spent so much time and eager trouble was unrecognisable, a confusion of lines and smudges. at last he flung down the charcoal and stood up. "take my advice, mademoiselle, try dressmaking." he looked at his watch. "it's twelve. a la semaine prochaine, messieurs." miss price gathered up her things slowly. philip waited behind after the others to say to her something consolatory. he could think of nothing but: "i say, i'm awfully sorry. what a beast that man is!" she turned on him savagely. "is that what you're waiting about for? when i want your sympathy i'll ask for it. please get out of my way." she walked past him, out of the studio, and philip, with a shrug of the shoulders, limped along to gravier's for luncheon. "it served her right," said lawson, when philip told him what had happened. "ill-tempered slut." lawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid it, never went to the studio when foinet was coming. "i don't want other people's opinion of my work," he said. "i know myself if it's good or bad." "you mean you don't want other people's bad opinion of your work," answered clutton dryly. in the afternoon philip thought he would go to the luxembourg to see the pictures, and walking through the garden he saw fanny price sitting in her accustomed seat. he was sore at the rudeness with which she had met his well-meant attempt to say something pleasant, and passed as though he had not caught sight of her. but she got up at once and came towards him. "are you trying to cut me?" she said. "no, of course not. i thought perhaps you didn't want to be spoken to." "where are you going?" "i wanted to have a look at the manet, i've heard so much about it." "would you like me to come with you? i know the luxembourg rather well. i could show you one or two good things." he understood that, unable to bring herself to apologise directly, she made this offer as amends. "it's awfully kind of you. i should like it very much." "you needn't say yes if you'd rather go alone," she said suspiciously. "i wouldn't." they walked towards the gallery. caillebotte's collection had lately been placed on view, and the student for the first time had the opportunity to examine at his ease the works of the impressionists. till then it had been possible to see them only at durand-ruel's shop in the rue lafitte (and the dealer, unlike his fellows in england, who adopt towards the painter an attitude of superiority, was always pleased to show the shabbiest student whatever he wanted to see), or at his private house, to which it was not difficult to get a card of admission on tuesdays, and where you might see pictures of world-wide reputation. miss price led philip straight up to manet's olympia. he looked at it in astonished silence. "do you like it?" asked miss price. "i don't know," he answered helplessly. "you can take it from me that it's the best thing in the gallery except perhaps whistler's portrait of his mother." she gave him a certain time to contemplate the masterpiece and then took him to a picture representing a railway-station. "look, here's a monet," she said. "it's the gare st. lazare." "but the railway lines aren't parallel," said philip. "what does that matter?" she asked, with a haughty air. philip felt ashamed of himself. fanny price had picked up the glib chatter of the studios and had no difficulty in impressing philip with the extent of her knowledge. she proceeded to explain the pictures to him, superciliously but not without insight, and showed him what the painters had attempted and what he must look for. she talked with much gesticulation of the thumb, and philip, to whom all she said was new, listened with profound but bewildered interest. till now he had worshipped watts and burne-jones. the pretty colour of the first, the affected drawing of the second, had entirely satisfied his aesthetic sensibilities. their vague idealism, the suspicion of a philosophical idea which underlay the titles they gave their pictures, accorded very well with the functions of art as from his diligent perusal of ruskin he understood it; but here was something quite different: here was no moral appeal; and the contemplation of these works could help no one to lead a purer and a higher life. he was puzzled. at last he said: "you know, i'm simply dead. i don't think i can absorb anything more profitably. let's go and sit down on one of the benches." "it's better not to take too much art at a time," miss price answered. when they got outside he thanked her warmly for the trouble she had taken. "oh, that's all right," she said, a little ungraciously. "i do it because i enjoy it. we'll go to the louvre tomorrow if you like, and then i'll take you to durand-ruel's." "you're really awfully good to me." "you don't think me such a beast as the most of them do." "i don't," he smiled. "they think they'll drive me away from the studio; but they won't; i shall stay there just exactly as long as it suits me. all that this morning, it was lucy otter's doing, i know it was. she always has hated me. she thought after that i'd take myself off. i daresay she'd like me to go. she's afraid i know too much about her." miss price told him a long, involved story, which made out that mrs. otter, a humdrum and respectable little person, had scabrous intrigues. then she talked of ruth chalice, the girl whom foinet had praised that morning. "she's been with every one of the fellows at the studio. she's nothing better than a street-walker. and she's dirty. she hasn't had a bath for a month. i know it for a fact." philip listened uncomfortably. he had heard already that various rumours were in circulation about miss chalice; but it was ridiculous to suppose that mrs. otter, living with her mother, was anything but rigidly virtuous. the woman walking by his side with her malignant lying positively horrified him. "i don't care what they say. i shall go on just the same. i know i've got it in me. i feel i'm an artist. i'd sooner kill myself than give it up. oh, i shan't be the first they've all laughed at in the schools and then he's turned out the only genius of the lot. art's the only thing i care for, i'm willing to give my whole life to it. it's only a question of sticking to it and pegging away." she found discreditable motives for everyone who would not take her at her own estimate of herself. she detested clutton. she told philip that his friend had no talent really; it was just flashy and superficial; he couldn't compose a figure to save his life. and lawson: "little beast, with his red hair and his freckles. he's so afraid of foinet that he won't let him see his work. after all, i don't funk it, do i? i don't care what foinet says to me, i know i'm a real artist." they reached the street in which she lived, and with a sigh of relief philip left her. xliv but notwithstanding when miss price on the following sunday offered to take him to the louvre philip accepted. she showed him mona lisa. he looked at it with a slight feeling of disappointment, but he had read till he knew by heart the jewelled words with which walter pater has added beauty to the most famous picture in the world; and these now he repeated to miss price. "that's all literature," she said, a little contemptuously. "you must get away from that." she showed him the rembrandts, and she said many appropriate things about them. she stood in front of the disciples at emmaus. "when you feel the beauty of that," she said, "you'll know something about painting." she showed him the odalisque and la source of ingres. fanny price was a peremptory guide, she would not let him look at the things he wished, and attempted to force his admiration for all she admired. she was desperately in earnest with her study of art, and when philip, passing in the long gallery a window that looked out on the tuileries, gay, sunny, and urbane, like a picture by raffaelli, exclaimed: "i say, how jolly! do let's stop here a minute." she said, indifferently: "yes, it's all right. but we've come here to look at pictures." the autumn air, blithe and vivacious, elated philip; and when towards mid-day they stood in the great court-yard of the louvre, he felt inclined to cry like flanagan: to hell with art. "i say, do let's go to one of those restaurants in the boul' mich' and have a snack together, shall we?" he suggested. miss price gave him a suspicious look. "i've got my lunch waiting for me at home," she answered. "that doesn't matter. you can eat it tomorrow. do let me stand you a lunch." "i don't know why you want to." "it would give me pleasure," he replied, smiling. they crossed the river, and at the corner of the boulevard st. michel there was a restaurant. "let's go in there." "no, i won't go there, it looks too expensive." she walked on firmly, and philip was obliged to follow. a few steps brought them to a smaller restaurant, where a dozen people were already lunching on the pavement under an awning; on the window was announced in large white letters: dejeuner . , vin compris. "we couldn't have anything cheaper than this, and it looks quite all right." they sat down at a vacant table and waited for the omelette which was the first article on the bill of fare. philip gazed with delight upon the passers-by. his heart went out to them. he was tired but very happy. "i say, look at that man in the blouse. isn't he ripping!" he glanced at miss price, and to his astonishment saw that she was looking down at her plate, regardless of the passing spectacle, and two heavy tears were rolling down her cheeks. "what on earth's the matter?" he exclaimed. "if you say anything to me i shall get up and go at once," she answered. he was entirely puzzled, but fortunately at that moment the omelette came. he divided it in two and they began to eat. philip did his best to talk of indifferent things, and it seemed as though miss price were making an effort on her side to be agreeable; but the luncheon was not altogether a success. philip was squeamish, and the way in which miss price ate took his appetite away. she ate noisily, greedily, a little like a wild beast in a menagerie, and after she had finished each course rubbed the plate with pieces of bread till it was white and shining, as if she did not wish to lose a single drop of gravy. they had camembert cheese, and it disgusted philip to see that she ate rind and all of the portion that was given her. she could not have eaten more ravenously if she were starving. miss price was unaccountable, and having parted from her on one day with friendliness he could never tell whether on the next she would not be sulky and uncivil; but he learned a good deal from her: though she could not draw well herself, she knew all that could be taught, and her constant suggestions helped his progress. mrs. otter was useful to him too, and sometimes miss chalice criticised his work; he learned from the glib loquacity of lawson and from the example of clutton. but fanny price hated him to take suggestions from anyone but herself, and when he asked her help after someone else had been talking to him she would refuse with brutal rudeness. the other fellows, lawson, clutton, flanagan, chaffed him about her. "you be careful, my lad," they said, "she's in love with you." "oh, what nonsense," he laughed. the thought that miss price could be in love with anyone was preposterous. it made him shudder when he thought of her uncomeliness, the bedraggled hair and the dirty hands, the brown dress she always wore, stained and ragged at the hem: he supposed she was hard up, they were all hard up, but she might at least be clean; and it was surely possible with a needle and thread to make her skirt tidy. philip began to sort his impressions of the people he was thrown in contact with. he was not so ingenuous as in those days which now seemed so long ago at heidelberg, and, beginning to take a more deliberate interest in humanity, he was inclined to examine and to criticise. he found it difficult to know clutton any better after seeing him every day for three months than on the first day of their acquaintance. the general impression at the studio was that he was able; it was supposed that he would do great things, and he shared the general opinion; but what exactly he was going to do neither he nor anybody else quite knew. he had worked at several studios before amitrano's, at julian's, the beaux arts, and macpherson's, and was remaining longer at amitrano's than anywhere because he found himself more left alone. he was not fond of showing his work, and unlike most of the young men who were studying art neither sought nor gave advice. it was said that in the little studio in the rue campagne premiere, which served him for work-room and bed-room, he had wonderful pictures which would make his reputation if only he could be induced to exhibit them. he could not afford a model but painted still life, and lawson constantly talked of a plate of apples which he declared was a masterpiece. he was fastidious, and, aiming at something he did not quite fully grasp, was constantly dissatisfied with his work as a whole: perhaps a part would please him, the forearm or the leg and foot of a figure, a glass or a cup in a still-life; and he would cut this out and keep it, destroying the rest of the canvas; so that when people invited themselves to see his work he could truthfully answer that he had not a single picture to show. in brittany he had come across a painter whom nobody else had heard of, a queer fellow who had been a stockbroker and taken up painting at middle-age, and he was greatly influenced by his work. he was turning his back on the impressionists and working out for himself painfully an individual way not only of painting but of seeing. philip felt in him something strangely original. at gravier's where they ate, and in the evening at the versailles or at the closerie des lilas clutton was inclined to taciturnity. he sat quietly, with a sardonic expression on his gaunt face, and spoke only when the opportunity occurred to throw in a witticism. he liked a butt and was most cheerful when someone was there on whom he could exercise his sarcasm. he seldom talked of anything but painting, and then only with the one or two persons whom he thought worth while. philip wondered whether there was in him really anything: his reticence, the haggard look of him, the pungent humour, seemed to suggest personality, but might be no more than an effective mask which covered nothing. with lawson on the other hand philip soon grew intimate. he had a variety of interests which made him an agreeable companion. he read more than most of the students and though his income was small, loved to buy books. he lent them willingly; and philip became acquainted with flaubert and balzac, with verlaine, heredia, and villiers de l'isle adam. they went to plays together and sometimes to the gallery of the opera comique. there was the odeon quite near them, and philip soon shared his friend's passion for the tragedians of louis xiv and the sonorous alexandrine. in the rue taitbout were the concerts rouge, where for seventy-five centimes they could hear excellent music and get into the bargain something which it was quite possible to drink: the seats were uncomfortable, the place was crowded, the air thick with caporal horrible to breathe, but in their young enthusiasm they were indifferent. sometimes they went to the bal bullier. on these occasions flanagan accompanied them. his excitability and his roisterous enthusiasm made them laugh. he was an excellent dancer, and before they had been ten minutes in the room he was prancing round with some little shop-girl whose acquaintance he had just made. the desire of all of them was to have a mistress. it was part of the paraphernalia of the art-student in paris. it gave consideration in the eyes of one's fellows. it was something to boast about. but the difficulty was that they had scarcely enough money to keep themselves, and though they argued that french-women were so clever it cost no more to keep two then one, they found it difficult to meet young women who were willing to take that view of the circumstances. they had to content themselves for the most part with envying and abusing the ladies who received protection from painters of more settled respectability than their own. it was extraordinary how difficult these things were in paris. lawson would become acquainted with some young thing and make an appointment; for twenty-four hours he would be all in a flutter and describe the charmer at length to everyone he met; but she never by any chance turned up at the time fixed. he would come to gravier's very late, ill-tempered, and exclaim: "confound it, another rabbit! i don't know why it is they don't like me. i suppose it's because i don't speak french well, or my red hair. it's too sickening to have spent over a year in paris without getting hold of anyone." "you don't go the right way to work," said flanagan. he had a long and enviable list of triumphs to narrate, and though they took leave not to believe all he said, evidence forced them to acknowledge that he did not altogether lie. but he sought no permanent arrangement. he only had two years in paris: he had persuaded his people to let him come and study art instead of going to college; but at the end of that period he was to return to seattle and go into his father's business. he had made up his mind to get as much fun as possible into the time, and demanded variety rather than duration in his love affairs. "i don't know how you get hold of them," said lawson furiously. "there's no difficulty about that, sonny," answered flanagan. "you just go right in. the difficulty is to get rid of them. that's where you want tact." philip was too much occupied with his work, the books he was reading, the plays he saw, the conversation he listened to, to trouble himself with the desire for female society. he thought there would be plenty of time for that when he could speak french more glibly. it was more than a year now since he had seen miss wilkinson, and during his first weeks in paris he had been too busy to answer a letter she had written to him just before he left blackstable. when another came, knowing it would be full of reproaches and not being just then in the mood for them, he put it aside, intending to open it later; but he forgot and did not run across it till a month afterwards, when he was turning out a drawer to find some socks that had no holes in them. he looked at the unopened letter with dismay. he was afraid that miss wilkinson had suffered a good deal, and it made him feel a brute; but she had probably got over the suffering by now, at all events the worst of it. it suggested itself to him that women were often very emphatic in their expressions. these did not mean so much as when men used them. he had quite made up his mind that nothing would induce him ever to see her again. he had not written for so long that it seemed hardly worth while to write now. he made up his mind not to read the letter. "i daresay she won't write again," he said to himself. "she can't help seeing the thing's over. after all, she was old enough to be my mother; she ought to have known better." for an hour or two he felt a little uncomfortable. his attitude was obviously the right one, but he could not help a feeling of dissatisfaction with the whole business. miss wilkinson, however, did not write again; nor did she, as he absurdly feared, suddenly appear in paris to make him ridiculous before his friends. in a little while he clean forgot her. meanwhile he definitely forsook his old gods. the amazement with which at first he had looked upon the works of the impressionists, changed to admiration; and presently he found himself talking as emphatically as the rest on the merits of manet, monet, and degas. he bought a photograph of a drawing by ingres of the odalisque and a photograph of the olympia. they were pinned side by side over his washing-stand so that he could contemplate their beauty while he shaved. he knew now quite positively that there had been no painting of landscape before monet; and he felt a real thrill when he stood in front of rembrandt's disciples at emmaus or velasquez' lady with the flea-bitten nose. that was not her real name, but by that she was distinguished at gravier's to emphasise the picture's beauty notwithstanding the somewhat revolting peculiarity of the sitter's appearance. with ruskin, burne-jones, and watts, he had put aside his bowler hat and the neat blue tie with white spots which he had worn on coming to paris; and now disported himself in a soft, broad-brimmed hat, a flowing black cravat, and a cape of romantic cut. he walked along the boulevard du montparnasse as though he had known it all his life, and by virtuous perseverance he had learnt to drink absinthe without distaste. he was letting his hair grow, and it was only because nature is unkind and has no regard for the immortal longings of youth that he did not attempt a beard. xlv philip soon realised that the spirit which informed his friends was cronshaw's. it was from him that lawson got his paradoxes; and even clutton, who strained after individuality, expressed himself in the terms he had insensibly acquired from the older man. it was his ideas that they bandied about at table, and on his authority they formed their judgments. they made up for the respect with which unconsciously they treated him by laughing at his foibles and lamenting his vices. "of course, poor old cronshaw will never do any good," they said. "he's quite hopeless." they prided themselves on being alone in appreciating his genius; and though, with the contempt of youth for the follies of middle-age, they patronised him among themselves, they did not fail to look upon it as a feather in their caps if he had chosen a time when only one was there to be particularly wonderful. cronshaw never came to gravier's. for the last four years he had lived in squalid conditions with a woman whom only lawson had once seen, in a tiny apartment on the sixth floor of one of the most dilapidated houses on the quai des grands augustins: lawson described with gusto the filth, the untidiness, the litter. "and the stink nearly blew your head off." "not at dinner, lawson," expostulated one of the others. but he would not deny himself the pleasure of giving picturesque details of the odours which met his nostril. with a fierce delight in his own realism he described the woman who had opened the door for him. she was dark, small, and fat, quite young, with black hair that seemed always on the point of coming down. she wore a slatternly blouse and no corsets. with her red cheeks, large sensual mouth, and shining, lewd eyes, she reminded you of the bohemienne in the louvre by franz hals. she had a flaunting vulgarity which amused and yet horrified. a scrubby, unwashed baby was playing on the floor. it was known that the slut deceived cronshaw with the most worthless ragamuffins of the quarter, and it was a mystery to the ingenuous youths who absorbed his wisdom over a cafe table that cronshaw with his keen intellect and his passion for beauty could ally himself to such a creature. but he seemed to revel in the coarseness of her language and would often report some phrase which reeked of the gutter. he referred to her ironically as la fille de mon concierge. cronshaw was very poor. he earned a bare subsistence by writing on the exhibitions of pictures for one or two english papers, and he did a certain amount of translating. he had been on the staff of an english paper in paris, but had been dismissed for drunkenness; he still however did odd jobs for it, describing sales at the hotel drouot or the revues at music-halls. the life of paris had got into his bones, and he would not change it, notwithstanding its squalor, drudgery, and hardship, for any other in the world. he remained there all through the year, even in summer when everyone he knew was away, and felt himself only at ease within a mile of the boulevard st. michel. but the curious thing was that he had never learnt to speak french passably, and he kept in his shabby clothes bought at la belle jardiniere an ineradicably english appearance. he was a man who would have made a success of life a century and a half ago when conversation was a passport to good company and inebriety no bar. "i ought to have lived in the eighteen hundreds," he said himself. "what i want is a patron. i should have published my poems by subscription and dedicated them to a nobleman. i long to compose rhymed couplets upon the poodle of a countess. my soul yearns for the love of chamber-maids and the conversation of bishops." he quoted the romantic rolla, "je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vieux." he liked new faces, and he took a fancy to philip, who seemed to achieve the difficult feat of talking just enough to suggest conversation and not too much to prevent monologue. philip was captivated. he did not realise that little that cronshaw said was new. his personality in conversation had a curious power. he had a beautiful and a sonorous voice, and a manner of putting things which was irresistible to youth. all he said seemed to excite thought, and often on the way home lawson and philip would walk to and from one another's hotels, discussing some point which a chance word of cronshaw had suggested. it was disconcerting to philip, who had a youthful eagerness for results, that cronshaw's poetry hardly came up to expectation. it had never been published in a volume, but most of it had appeared in periodicals; and after a good deal of persuasion cronshaw brought down a bundle of pages torn out of the yellow book, the saturday review, and other journals, on each of which was a poem. philip was taken aback to find that most of them reminded him either of henley or of swinburne. it needed the splendour of cronshaw's delivery to make them personal. he expressed his disappointment to lawson, who carelessly repeated his words; and next time philip went to the closerie des lilas the poet turned to him with his sleek smile: "i hear you don't think much of my verses." philip was embarrassed. "i don't know about that," he answered. "i enjoyed reading them very much." "do not attempt to spare my feelings," returned cronshaw, with a wave of his fat hand. "i do not attach any exaggerated importance to my poetical works. life is there to be lived rather than to be written about. my aim is to search out the manifold experience that it offers, wringing from each moment what of emotion it presents. i look upon my writing as a graceful accomplishment which does not absorb but rather adds pleasure to existence. and as for posterity--damn posterity." philip smiled, for it leaped to one's eyes that the artist in life had produced no more than a wretched daub. cronshaw looked at him meditatively and filled his glass. he sent the waiter for a packet of cigarettes. "you are amused because i talk in this fashion and you know that i am poor and live in an attic with a vulgar trollop who deceives me with hair-dressers and garcons de cafe; i translate wretched books for the british public, and write articles upon contemptible pictures which deserve not even to be abused. but pray tell me what is the meaning of life?" "i say, that's rather a difficult question. won't you give the answer yourself?" "no, because it's worthless unless you yourself discover it. but what do you suppose you are in the world for?" philip had never asked himself, and he thought for a moment before replying. "oh, i don't know: i suppose to do one's duty, and make the best possible use of one's faculties, and avoid hurting other people." "in short, to do unto others as you would they should do unto you?" "i suppose so." "christianity." "no, it isn't," said philip indignantly. "it has nothing to do with christianity. it's just abstract morality." "but there's no such thing as abstract morality." "in that case, supposing under the influence of liquor you left your purse behind when you leave here and i picked it up, why do you imagine that i should return it to you? it's not the fear of the police." "it's the dread of hell if you sin and the hope of heaven if you are virtuous." "but i believe in neither." "that may be. neither did kant when he devised the categorical imperative. you have thrown aside a creed, but you have preserved the ethic which was based upon it. to all intents you are a christian still, and if there is a god in heaven you will undoubtedly receive your reward. the almighty can hardly be such a fool as the churches make out. if you keep his laws i don't think he can care a packet of pins whether you believe in him or not." "but if i left my purse behind you would certainly return it to me," said philip. "not from motives of abstract morality, but only from fear of the police." "it's a thousand to one that the police would never find out." "my ancestors have lived in a civilised state so long that the fear of the police has eaten into my bones. the daughter of my concierge would not hesitate for a moment. you answer that she belongs to the criminal classes; not at all, she is merely devoid of vulgar prejudice." "but then that does away with honour and virtue and goodness and decency and everything," said philip. "have you ever committed a sin?" "i don't know, i suppose so," answered philip. "you speak with the lips of a dissenting minister. i have never committed a sin." cronshaw in his shabby great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his hat well down on his head, with his red fat face and his little gleaming eyes, looked extraordinarily comic; but philip was too much in earnest to laugh. "have you never done anything you regret?" "how can i regret when what i did was inevitable?" asked cronshaw in return. "but that's fatalism." "the illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that i am ready to accept it. i act as though i were a free agent. but when an action is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe from all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing i could do could have prevented it. it was inevitable. if it was good i can claim no merit; if it was bad i can accept no censure." "my brain reels," said philip. "have some whiskey," returned cronshaw, passing over the bottle. "there's nothing like it for clearing the head. you must expect to be thick-witted if you insist upon drinking beer." philip shook his head, and cronshaw proceeded: "you're not a bad fellow, but you won't drink. sobriety disturbs conversation. but when i speak of good and bad..." philip saw he was taking up the thread of his discourse, "i speak conventionally. i attach no meaning to those words. i refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions and ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. the terms vice and virtue have no signification for me. i do not confer praise or blame: i accept. i am the measure of all things. i am the centre of the world." "but there are one or two other people in the world," objected philip. "i speak only for myself. i know them only as they limit my activities. round each of them too the world turns, and each one for himself is the centre of the universe. my right over them extends only as far as my power. what i can do is the only limit of what i may do. because we are gregarious we live in society, and society holds together by means of force, force of arms (that is the policeman) and force of public opinion (that is mrs. grundy). you have society on one hand and the individual on the other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation. it is might against might. i stand alone, bound to accept society and not unwilling, since in return for the taxes i pay it protects me, a weakling, against the tyranny of another stronger than i am; but i submit to its laws because i must; i do not acknowledge their justice: i do not know justice, i only know power. and when i have paid for the policeman who protects me and, if i live in a country where conscription is in force, served in the army which guards my house and land from the invader, i am quits with society: for the rest i counter its might with my wiliness. it makes laws for its self-preservation, and if i break them it imprisons or kills me: it has the might to do so and therefore the right. if i break the laws i will accept the vengeance of the state, but i will not regard it as punishment nor shall i feel myself convicted of wrong-doing. society tempts me to its service by honours and riches and the good opinion of my fellows; but i am indifferent to their good opinion, i despise honours and i can do very well without riches." "but if everyone thought like you things would go to pieces at once." "i have nothing to do with others, i am only concerned with myself. i take advantage of the fact that the majority of mankind are led by certain rewards to do things which directly or indirectly tend to my convenience." "it seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at things," said philip. "but are you under the impression that men ever do anything except for selfish reasons?" "yes." "it is impossible that they should. you will find as you grow older that the first thing needful to make the world a tolerable place to live in is to recognise the inevitable selfishness of humanity. you demand unselfishness from others, which is a preposterous claim that they should sacrifice their desires to yours. why should they? when you are reconciled to the fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask less from your fellows. they will not disappoint you, and you will look upon them more charitably. men seek but one thing in life--their pleasure." "no, no, no!" cried philip. cronshaw chuckled. "you rear like a frightened colt, because i use a word to which your christianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. you have a hierarchy of values; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with a little thrill of self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness. you think pleasure is only of the senses; the wretched slaves who manufactured your morality despised a satisfaction which they had small means of enjoying. you would not be so frightened if i had spoken of happiness instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind wanders from the sty of epicurus to his garden. but i will speak of pleasure, for i see that men aim at that, and i do not know that they aim at happiness. it is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of your virtues. man performs actions because they are good for him, and when they are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if he finds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for society he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure that i drink another whiskey and soda. i, less of a humbug than you, neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration." "but have you never known people do things they didn't want to instead of things they did?" "no. you put your question foolishly. what you mean is that people accept an immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure. the objection is as foolish as your manner of putting it. it is clear that men accept an immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure, but only because they expect a greater pleasure in the future. often the pleasure is illusory, but their error in calculation is no refutation of the rule. you are puzzled because you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are only of the senses; but, child, a man who dies for his country dies because he likes it as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it. it is a law of creation. if it were possible for men to prefer pain to pleasure the human race would have long since become extinct." "but if all that is true," cried philip, "what is the use of anything? if you take away duty and goodness and beauty why are we brought into the world?" "here comes the gorgeous east to suggest an answer," smiled cronshaw. he pointed to two persons who at that moment opened the door of the cafe, and, with a blast of cold air, entered. they were levantines, itinerant vendors of cheap rugs, and each bore on his arm a bundle. it was sunday evening, and the cafe was very full. they passed among the tables, and in that atmosphere heavy and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank with humanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery. they were clad in european, shabby clothes, their thin great-coats were threadbare, but each wore a tarbouch. their faces were gray with cold. one was of middle age, with a black beard, but the other was a youth of eighteen, with a face deeply scarred by smallpox and with one eye only. they passed by cronshaw and philip. "allah is great, and mahomet is his prophet," said cronshaw impressively. the elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel used to blows. with a sidelong glance at the door and a quick surreptitious movement he showed a pornographic picture. "are you masr-ed-deen, the merchant of alexandria, or is it from far bagdad that you bring your goods, o, my uncle; and yonder one-eyed youth, do i see in him one of the three kings of whom scheherazade told stories to her lord?" the pedlar's smile grew more ingratiating, though he understood no word of what cronshaw said, and like a conjurer he produced a sandalwood box. "nay, show us the priceless web of eastern looms," quoth cronshaw. "for i would point a moral and adorn a tale." the levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow, vulgar, hideous, and grotesque. "thirty-five francs," he said. "o, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of samarkand, and those colours were never made in the vats of bokhara." "twenty-five francs," smiled the pedlar obsequiously. "ultima thule was the place of its manufacture, even birmingham the place of my birth." "fifteen francs," cringed the bearded man. "get thee gone, fellow," said cronshaw. "may wild asses defile the grave of thy maternal grandmother." imperturbably, but smiling no more, the levantine passed with his wares to another table. cronshaw turned to philip. "have you ever been to the cluny, the museum? there you will see persian carpets of the most exquisite hue and of a pattern the beautiful intricacy of which delights and amazes the eye. in them you will see the mystery and the sensual beauty of the east, the roses of hafiz and the wine-cup of omar; but presently you will see more. you were asking just now what was the meaning of life. go and look at those persian carpets, and one of these days the answer will come to you." "you are cryptic," said philip. "i am drunk," answered cronshaw. xlvi philip did not find living in paris as cheap as he had been led to believe and by february had spent most of the money with which he started. he was too proud to appeal to his guardian, nor did he wish aunt louisa to know that his circumstances were straitened, since he was certain she would make an effort to send him something from her own pocket, and he knew how little she could afford to. in three months he would attain his majority and come into possession of his small fortune. he tided over the interval by selling the few trinkets which he had inherited from his father. at about this time lawson suggested that they should take a small studio which was vacant in one of the streets that led out of the boulevard raspail. it was very cheap. it had a room attached, which they could use as a bed-room; and since philip was at the school every morning lawson could have the undisturbed use of the studio then; lawson, after wandering from school to school, had come to the conclusion that he could work best alone, and proposed to get a model in three or four days a week. at first philip hesitated on account of the expense, but they reckoned it out; and it seemed (they were so anxious to have a studio of their own that they calculated pragmatically) that the cost would not be much greater than that of living in a hotel. though the rent and the cleaning by the concierge would come to a little more, they would save on the petit dejeuner, which they could make themselves. a year or two earlier philip would have refused to share a room with anyone, since he was so sensitive about his deformed foot, but his morbid way of looking at it was growing less marked: in paris it did not seem to matter so much, and, though he never by any chance forgot it himself, he ceased to feel that other people were constantly noticing it. they moved in, bought a couple of beds, a washing-stand, a few chairs, and felt for the first time the thrill of possession. they were so excited that the first night they went to bed in what they could call a home they lay awake talking till three in the morning; and next day found lighting the fire and making their own coffee, which they had in pyjamas, such a jolly business that philip did not get to amitrano's till nearly eleven. he was in excellent spirits. he nodded to fanny price. "how are you getting on?" he asked cheerily. "what does that matter to you?" she asked in reply. philip could not help laughing. "don't jump down my throat. i was only trying to make myself polite." "i don't want your politeness." "d'you think it's worth while quarrelling with me too?" asked philip mildly. "there are so few people you're on speaking terms with, as it is." "that's my business, isn't it?" "quite." he began to work, vaguely wondering why fanny price made herself so disagreeable. he had come to the conclusion that he thoroughly disliked her. everyone did. people were only civil to her at all from fear of the malice of her tongue; for to their faces and behind their backs she said abominable things. but philip was feeling so happy that he did not want even miss price to bear ill-feeling towards him. he used the artifice which had often before succeeded in banishing her ill-humour. "i say, i wish you'd come and look at my drawing. i've got in an awful mess." "thank you very much, but i've got something better to do with my time." philip stared at her in surprise, for the one thing she could be counted upon to do with alacrity was to give advice. she went on quickly in a low voice, savage with fury. "now that lawson's gone you think you'll put up with me. thank you very much. go and find somebody else to help you. i don't want anybody else's leavings." lawson had the pedagogic instinct; whenever he found anything out he was eager to impart it; and because he taught with delight he talked with profit. philip, without thinking anything about it, had got into the habit of sitting by his side; it never occurred to him that fanny price was consumed with jealousy, and watched his acceptance of someone else's tuition with ever-increasing anger. "you were very glad to put up with me when you knew nobody here," she said bitterly, "and as soon as you made friends with other people you threw me aside, like an old glove"--she repeated the stale metaphor with satisfaction--"like an old glove. all right, i don't care, but i'm not going to be made a fool of another time." there was a suspicion of truth in what she said, and it made philip angry enough to answer what first came into his head. "hang it all, i only asked your advice because i saw it pleased you." she gave a gasp and threw him a sudden look of anguish. then two tears rolled down her cheeks. she looked frowsy and grotesque. philip, not knowing what on earth this new attitude implied, went back to his work. he was uneasy and conscience-stricken; but he would not go to her and say he was sorry if he had caused her pain, because he was afraid she would take the opportunity to snub him. for two or three weeks she did not speak to him, and, after philip had got over the discomfort of being cut by her, he was somewhat relieved to be free from so difficult a friendship. he had been a little disconcerted by the air of proprietorship she assumed over him. she was an extraordinary woman. she came every day to the studio at eight o'clock, and was ready to start working when the model was in position; she worked steadily, talking to no one, struggling hour after hour with difficulties she could not overcome, and remained till the clock struck twelve. her work was hopeless. there was not in it the smallest approach even to the mediocre achievement at which most of the young persons were able after some months to arrive. she wore every day the same ugly brown dress, with the mud of the last wet day still caked on the hem and with the raggedness, which philip had noticed the first time he saw her, still unmended. but one day she came up to him, and with a scarlet face asked whether she might speak to him afterwards. "of course, as much as you like," smiled philip. "i'll wait behind at twelve." he went to her when the day's work was over. "will you walk a little bit with me?" she said, looking away from him with embarrassment. "certainly." they walked for two or three minutes in silence. "d'you remember what you said to me the other day?" she asked then on a sudden. "oh, i say, don't let's quarrel," said philip. "it really isn't worth while." she gave a quick, painful inspiration. "i don't want to quarrel with you. you're the only friend i had in paris. i thought you rather liked me. i felt there was something between us. i was drawn towards you--you know what i mean, your club-foot." philip reddened and instinctively tried to walk without a limp. he did not like anyone to mention the deformity. he knew what fanny price meant. she was ugly and uncouth, and because he was deformed there was between them a certain sympathy. he was very angry with her, but he forced himself not to speak. "you said you only asked my advice to please me. don't you think my work's any good?" "i've only seen your drawing at amitrano's. it's awfully hard to judge from that." "i was wondering if you'd come and look at my other work. i've never asked anyone else to look at it. i should like to show it to you." "it's awfully kind of you. i'd like to see it very much." "i live quite near here," she said apologetically. "it'll only take you ten minutes." "oh, that's all right," he said. they were walking along the boulevard, and she turned down a side street, then led him into another, poorer still, with cheap shops on the ground floor, and at last stopped. they climbed flight after flight of stairs. she unlocked a door, and they went into a tiny attic with a sloping roof and a small window. this was closed and the room had a musty smell. though it was very cold there was no fire and no sign that there had been one. the bed was unmade. a chair, a chest of drawers which served also as a wash-stand, and a cheap easel, were all the furniture. the place would have been squalid enough in any case, but the litter, the untidiness, made the impression revolting. on the chimney-piece, scattered over with paints and brushes, were a cup, a dirty plate, and a tea-pot. "if you'll stand over there i'll put them on the chair so that you can see them better." she showed him twenty small canvases, about eighteen by twelve. she placed them on the chair, one after the other, watching his face; he nodded as he looked at each one. "you do like them, don't you?" she said anxiously, after a bit. "i just want to look at them all first," he answered. "i'll talk afterwards." he was collecting himself. he was panic-stricken. he did not know what to say. it was not only that they were ill-drawn, or that the colour was put on amateurishly by someone who had no eye for it; but there was no attempt at getting the values, and the perspective was grotesque. it looked like the work of a child of five, but a child would have had some naivete and might at least have made an attempt to put down what he saw; but here was the work of a vulgar mind chock full of recollections of vulgar pictures. philip remembered that she had talked enthusiastically about monet and the impressionists, but here were only the worst traditions of the royal academy. "there," she said at last, "that's the lot." philip was no more truthful than anybody else, but he had a great difficulty in telling a thundering, deliberate lie, and he blushed furiously when he answered: "i think they're most awfully good." a faint colour came into her unhealthy cheeks, and she smiled a little. "you needn't say so if you don't think so, you know. i want the truth." "but i do think so." "haven't you got any criticism to offer? there must be some you don't like as well as others." philip looked round helplessly. he saw a landscape, the typical picturesque 'bit' of the amateur, an old bridge, a creeper-clad cottage, and a leafy bank. "of course i don't pretend to know anything about it," he said. "but i wasn't quite sure about the values of that." she flushed darkly and taking up the picture quickly turned its back to him. "i don't know why you should have chosen that one to sneer at. it's the best thing i've ever done. i'm sure my values are all right. that's a thing you can't teach anyone, you either understand values or you don't." "i think they're all most awfully good," repeated philip. she looked at them with an air of self-satisfaction. "i don't think they're anything to be ashamed of." philip looked at his watch. "i say, it's getting late. won't you let me give you a little lunch?" "i've got my lunch waiting for me here." philip saw no sign of it, but supposed perhaps the concierge would bring it up when he was gone. he was in a hurry to get away. the mustiness of the room made his head ache. xlvii in march there was all the excitement of sending in to the salon. clutton, characteristically, had nothing ready, and he was very scornful of the two heads that lawson sent; they were obviously the work of a student, straight-forward portraits of models, but they had a certain force; clutton, aiming at perfection, had no patience with efforts which betrayed hesitancy, and with a shrug of the shoulders told lawson it was an impertinence to exhibit stuff which should never have been allowed out of his studio; he was not less contemptuous when the two heads were accepted. flanagan tried his luck too, but his picture was refused. mrs. otter sent a blameless portrait de ma mere, accomplished and second-rate; and was hung in a very good place. hayward, whom philip had not seen since he left heidelberg, arrived in paris to spend a few days in time to come to the party which lawson and philip were giving in their studio to celebrate the hanging of lawson's pictures. philip had been eager to see hayward again, but when at last they met, he experienced some disappointment. hayward had altered a little in appearance: his fine hair was thinner, and with the rapid wilting of the very fair, he was becoming wizened and colourless; his blue eyes were paler than they had been, and there was a muzziness about his features. on the other hand, in mind he did not seem to have changed at all, and the culture which had impressed philip at eighteen aroused somewhat the contempt of philip at twenty-one. he had altered a good deal himself, and regarding with scorn all his old opinions of art, life, and letters, had no patience with anyone who still held them. he was scarcely conscious of the fact that he wanted to show off before hayward, but when he took him round the galleries he poured out to him all the revolutionary opinions which himself had so recently adopted. he took him to manet's olympia and said dramatically: "i would give all the old masters except velasquez, rembrandt, and vermeer for that one picture." "who was vermeer?" asked hayward. "oh, my dear fellow, don't you know vermeer? you're not civilised. you mustn't live a moment longer without making his acquaintance. he's the one old master who painted like a modern." he dragged hayward out of the luxembourg and hurried him off to the louvre. "but aren't there any more pictures here?" asked hayward, with the tourist's passion for thoroughness. "nothing of the least consequence. you can come and look at them by yourself with your baedeker." when they arrived at the louvre philip led his friend down the long gallery. "i should like to see the gioconda," said hayward. "oh, my dear fellow, it's only literature," answered philip. at last, in a small room, philip stopped before the lacemaker of vermeer van delft. "there, that's the best picture in the louvre. it's exactly like a manet." with an expressive, eloquent thumb philip expatiated on the charming work. he used the jargon of the studios with overpowering effect. "i don't know that i see anything so wonderful as all that in it," said hayward. "of course it's a painter's picture," said philip. "i can quite believe the layman would see nothing much in it." "the what?" said hayward. "the layman." like most people who cultivate an interest in the arts, hayward was extremely anxious to be right. he was dogmatic with those who did not venture to assert themselves, but with the self-assertive he was very modest. he was impressed by philip's assurance, and accepted meekly philip's implied suggestion that the painter's arrogant claim to be the sole possible judge of painting has anything but its impertinence to recommend it. a day or two later philip and lawson gave their party. cronshaw, making an exception in their favour, agreed to eat their food; and miss chalice offered to come and cook for them. she took no interest in her own sex and declined the suggestion that other girls should be asked for her sake. clutton, flanagan, potter, and two others made up the party. furniture was scarce, so the model stand was used as a table, and the guests were to sit on portmanteaux if they liked, and if they didn't on the floor. the feast consisted of a pot-au-feu, which miss chalice had made, of a leg of mutton roasted round the corner and brought round hot and savoury (miss chalice had cooked the potatoes, and the studio was redolent of the carrots she had fried; fried carrots were her specialty); and this was to be followed by poires flambees, pears with burning brandy, which cronshaw had volunteered to make. the meal was to finish with an enormous fromage de brie, which stood near the window and added fragrant odours to all the others which filled the studio. cronshaw sat in the place of honour on a gladstone bag, with his legs curled under him like a turkish bashaw, beaming good-naturedly on the young people who surrounded him. from force of habit, though the small studio with the stove lit was very hot, he kept on his great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his bowler hat: he looked with satisfaction on the four large fiaschi of chianti which stood in front of him in a row, two on each side of a bottle of whiskey; he said it reminded him of a slim fair circassian guarded by four corpulent eunuchs. hayward in order to put the rest of them at their ease had clothed himself in a tweed suit and a trinity hall tie. he looked grotesquely british. the others were elaborately polite to him, and during the soup they talked of the weather and the political situation. there was a pause while they waited for the leg of mutton, and miss chalice lit a cigarette. "rapunzel, rapunzel, let down your hair," she said suddenly. with an elegant gesture she untied a ribbon so that her tresses fell over her shoulders. she shook her head. "i always feel more comfortable with my hair down." with her large brown eyes, thin, ascetic face, her pale skin, and broad forehead, she might have stepped out of a picture by burne-jones. she had long, beautiful hands, with fingers deeply stained by nicotine. she wore sweeping draperies, mauve and green. there was about her the romantic air of high street, kensington. she was wantonly aesthetic; but she was an excellent creature, kind and good natured; and her affectations were but skin-deep. there was a knock at the door, and they all gave a shout of exultation. miss chalice rose and opened. she took the leg of mutton and held it high above her, as though it were the head of john the baptist on a platter; and, the cigarette still in her mouth, advanced with solemn, hieratic steps. "hail, daughter of herodias," cried cronshaw. the mutton was eaten with gusto, and it did one good to see what a hearty appetite the pale-faced lady had. clutton and potter sat on each side of her, and everyone knew that neither had found her unduly coy. she grew tired of most people in six weeks, but she knew exactly how to treat afterwards the gentlemen who had laid their young hearts at her feet. she bore them no ill-will, though having loved them she had ceased to do so, and treated them with friendliness but without familiarity. now and then she looked at lawson with melancholy eyes. the poires flambees were a great success, partly because of the brandy, and partly because miss chalice insisted that they should be eaten with the cheese. "i don't know whether it's perfectly delicious, or whether i'm just going to vomit," she said, after she had thoroughly tried the mixture. coffee and cognac followed with sufficient speed to prevent any untoward consequence, and they settled down to smoke in comfort. ruth chalice, who could do nothing that was not deliberately artistic, arranged herself in a graceful attitude by cronshaw and just rested her exquisite head on his shoulder. she looked into the dark abyss of time with brooding eyes, and now and then with a long meditative glance at lawson she sighed deeply. then came the summer, and restlessness seized these young people. the blue skies lured them to the sea, and the pleasant breeze sighing through the leaves of the plane-trees on the boulevard drew them towards the country. everyone made plans for leaving paris; they discussed what was the most suitable size for the canvases they meant to take; they laid in stores of panels for sketching; they argued about the merits of various places in brittany. flanagan and potter went to concarneau; mrs. otter and her mother, with a natural instinct for the obvious, went to pont-aven; philip and lawson made up their minds to go to the forest of fontainebleau, and miss chalice knew of a very good hotel at moret where there was lots of stuff to paint; it was near paris, and neither philip nor lawson was indifferent to the railway fare. ruth chalice would be there, and lawson had an idea for a portrait of her in the open air. just then the salon was full of portraits of people in gardens, in sunlight, with blinking eyes and green reflections of sunlit leaves on their faces. they asked clutton to go with them, but he preferred spending the summer by himself. he had just discovered cezanne, and was eager to go to provence; he wanted heavy skies from which the hot blue seemed to drip like beads of sweat, and broad white dusty roads, and pale roofs out of which the sun had burnt the colour, and olive trees gray with heat. the day before they were to start, after the morning class, philip, putting his things together, spoke to fanny price. "i'm off tomorrow," he said cheerfully. "off where?" she said quickly. "you're not going away?" her face fell. "i'm going away for the summer. aren't you?" "no, i'm staying in paris. i thought you were going to stay too. i was looking forward...." she stopped and shrugged her shoulders. "but won't it be frightfully hot here? it's awfully bad for you." "much you care if it's bad for me. where are you going?" "moret." "chalice is going there. you're not going with her?" "lawson and i are going. and she's going there too. i don't know that we're actually going together." she gave a low guttural sound, and her large face grew dark and red. "how filthy! i thought you were a decent fellow. you were about the only one here. she's been with clutton and potter and flanagan, even with old foinet--that's why he takes so much trouble about her--and now two of you, you and lawson. it makes me sick." "oh, what nonsense! she's a very decent sort. one treats her just as if she were a man." "oh, don't speak to me, don't speak to me." "but what can it matter to you?" asked philip. "it's really no business of yours where i spend my summer." "i was looking forward to it so much," she gasped, speaking it seemed almost to herself. "i didn't think you had the money to go away, and there wouldn't have been anyone else here, and we could have worked together, and we'd have gone to see things." then her thoughts flung back to ruth chalice. "the filthy beast," she cried. "she isn't fit to speak to." philip looked at her with a sinking heart. he was not a man to think girls were in love with him; he was too conscious of his deformity, and he felt awkward and clumsy with women; but he did not know what else this outburst could mean. fanny price, in the dirty brown dress, with her hair falling over her face, sloppy, untidy, stood before him; and tears of anger rolled down her cheeks. she was repellent. philip glanced at the door, instinctively hoping that someone would come in and put an end to the scene. "i'm awfully sorry," he said. "you're just the same as all of them. you take all you can get, and you don't even say thank you. i've taught you everything you know. no one else would take any trouble with you. has foinet ever bothered about you? and i can tell you this--you can work here for a thousand years and you'll never do any good. you haven't got any talent. you haven't got any originality. and it's not only me--they all say it. you'll never be a painter as long as you live." "that is no business of yours either, is it?" said philip, flushing. "oh, you think it's only my temper. ask clutton, ask lawson, ask chalice. never, never, never. you haven't got it in you." philip shrugged his shoulders and walked out. she shouted after him. "never, never, never." moret was in those days an old-fashioned town of one street at the edge of the forest of fontainebleau, and the ecu d'or was a hotel which still had about it the decrepit air of the ancien regime. it faced the winding river, the loing; and miss chalice had a room with a little terrace overlooking it, with a charming view of the old bridge and its fortified gateway. they sat here in the evenings after dinner, drinking coffee, smoking, and discussing art. there ran into the river, a little way off, a narrow canal bordered by poplars, and along the banks of this after their day's work they often wandered. they spent all day painting. like most of their generation they were obsessed by the fear of the picturesque, and they turned their backs on the obvious beauty of the town to seek subjects which were devoid of a prettiness they despised. sisley and monet had painted the canal with its poplars, and they felt a desire to try their hands at what was so typical of france; but they were frightened of its formal beauty, and set themselves deliberately to avoid it. miss chalice, who had a clever dexterity which impressed lawson notwithstanding his contempt for feminine art, started a picture in which she tried to circumvent the commonplace by leaving out the tops of the trees; and lawson had the brilliant idea of putting in his foreground a large blue advertisement of chocolat menier in order to emphasise his abhorrence of the chocolate box. philip began now to paint in oils. he experienced a thrill of delight when first he used that grateful medium. he went out with lawson in the morning with his little box and sat by him painting a panel; it gave him so much satisfaction that he did not realise he was doing no more than copy; he was so much under his friend's influence that he saw only with his eyes. lawson painted very low in tone, and they both saw the emerald of the grass like dark velvet, while the brilliance of the sky turned in their hands to a brooding ultramarine. through july they had one fine day after another; it was very hot; and the heat, searing philip's heart, filled him with languor; he could not work; his mind was eager with a thousand thoughts. often he spent the mornings by the side of the canal in the shade of the poplars, reading a few lines and then dreaming for half an hour. sometimes he hired a rickety bicycle and rode along the dusty road that led to the forest, and then lay down in a clearing. his head was full of romantic fancies. the ladies of watteau, gay and insouciant, seemed to wander with their cavaliers among the great trees, whispering to one another careless, charming things, and yet somehow oppressed by a nameless fear. they were alone in the hotel but for a fat frenchwoman of middle age, a rabelaisian figure with a broad, obscene laugh. she spent the day by the river patiently fishing for fish she never caught, and philip sometimes went down and talked to her. he found out that she had belonged to a profession whose most notorious member for our generation was mrs. warren, and having made a competence she now lived the quiet life of the bourgeoise. she told philip lewd stories. "you must go to seville," she said--she spoke a little broken english. "the most beautiful women in the world." she leered and nodded her head. her triple chin, her large belly, shook with inward laughter. it grew so hot that it was almost impossible to sleep at night. the heat seemed to linger under the trees as though it were a material thing. they did not wish to leave the starlit night, and the three of them would sit on the terrace of ruth chalice's room, silent, hour after hour, too tired to talk any more, but in voluptuous enjoyment of the stillness. they listened to the murmur of the river. the church clock struck one and two and sometimes three before they could drag themselves to bed. suddenly philip became aware that ruth chalice and lawson were lovers. he divined it in the way the girl looked at the young painter, and in his air of possession; and as philip sat with them he felt a kind of effluence surrounding them, as though the air were heavy with something strange. the revelation was a shock. he had looked upon miss chalice as a very good fellow and he liked to talk to her, but it had never seemed to him possible to enter into a closer relationship. one sunday they had all gone with a tea-basket into the forest, and when they came to a glade which was suitably sylvan, miss chalice, because it was idyllic, insisted on taking off her shoes and stockings. it would have been very charming only her feet were rather large and she had on both a large corn on the third toe. philip felt it made her proceeding a little ridiculous. but now he looked upon her quite differently; there was something softly feminine in her large eyes and her olive skin; he felt himself a fool not to have seen that she was attractive. he thought he detected in her a touch of contempt for him, because he had not had the sense to see that she was there, in his way, and in lawson a suspicion of superiority. he was envious of lawson, and he was jealous, not of the individual concerned, but of his love. he wished that he was standing in his shoes and feeling with his heart. he was troubled, and the fear seized him that love would pass him by. he wanted a passion to seize him, he wanted to be swept off his feet and borne powerless in a mighty rush he cared not whither. miss chalice and lawson seemed to him now somehow different, and the constant companionship with them made him restless. he was dissatisfied with himself. life was not giving him what he wanted, and he had an uneasy feeling that he was losing his time. the stout frenchwoman soon guessed what the relations were between the couple, and talked of the matter to philip with the utmost frankness. "and you," she said, with the tolerant smile of one who had fattened on the lust of her fellows, "have you got a petite amie?" "no," said philip, blushing. "and why not? c'est de votre age." he shrugged his shoulders. he had a volume of verlaine in his hands, and he wandered off. he tried to read, but his passion was too strong. he thought of the stray amours to which he had been introduced by flanagan, the sly visits to houses in a cul-de-sac, with the drawing-room in utrecht velvet, and the mercenary graces of painted women. he shuddered. he threw himself on the grass, stretching his limbs like a young animal freshly awaked from sleep; and the rippling water, the poplars gently tremulous in the faint breeze, the blue sky, were almost more than he could bear. he was in love with love. in his fancy he felt the kiss of warm lips on his, and around his neck the touch of soft hands. he imagined himself in the arms of ruth chalice, he thought of her dark eyes and the wonderful texture of her skin; he was mad to have let such a wonderful adventure slip through his fingers. and if lawson had done it why should not he? but this was only when he did not see her, when he lay awake at night or dreamed idly by the side of the canal; when he saw her he felt suddenly quite different; he had no desire to take her in his arms, and he could not imagine himself kissing her. it was very curious. away from her he thought her beautiful, remembering only her magnificent eyes and the creamy pallor of her face; but when he was with her he saw only that she was flat-chested and that her teeth were slightly decayed; he could not forget the corns on her toes. he could not understand himself. would he always love only in absence and be prevented from enjoying anything when he had the chance by that deformity of vision which seemed to exaggerate the revolting? he was not sorry when a change in the weather, announcing the definite end of the long summer, drove them all back to paris. xlviii when philip returned to amitrano's he found that fanny price was no longer working there. she had given up the key of her locker. he asked mrs. otter whether she knew what had become of her; and mrs. otter, with a shrug of the shoulders, answered that she had probably gone back to england. philip was relieved. he was profoundly bored by her ill-temper. moreover she insisted on advising him about his work, looked upon it as a slight when he did not follow her precepts, and would not understand that he felt himself no longer the duffer he had been at first. soon he forgot all about her. he was working in oils now and he was full of enthusiasm. he hoped to have something done of sufficient importance to send to the following year's salon. lawson was painting a portrait of miss chalice. she was very paintable, and all the young men who had fallen victims to her charm had made portraits of her. a natural indolence, joined with a passion for picturesque attitude, made her an excellent sitter; and she had enough technical knowledge to offer useful criticisms. since her passion for art was chiefly a passion to live the life of artists, she was quite content to neglect her own work. she liked the warmth of the studio, and the opportunity to smoke innumerable cigarettes; and she spoke in a low, pleasant voice of the love of art and the art of love. she made no clear distinction between the two. lawson was painting with infinite labour, working till he could hardly stand for days and then scraping out all he had done. he would have exhausted the patience of anyone but ruth chalice. at last he got into a hopeless muddle. "the only thing is to take a new canvas and start fresh," he said. "i know exactly what i want now, and it won't take me long." philip was present at the time, and miss chalice said to him: "why don't you paint me too? you'll be able to learn a lot by watching mr. lawson." it was one of miss chalice's delicacies that she always addressed her lovers by their surnames. "i should like it awfully if lawson wouldn't mind." "i don't care a damn," said lawson. it was the first time that philip set about a portrait, and he began with trepidation but also with pride. he sat by lawson and painted as he saw him paint. he profited by the example and by the advice which both lawson and miss chalice freely gave him. at last lawson finished and invited clutton in to criticise. clutton had only just come back to paris. from provence he had drifted down to spain, eager to see velasquez at madrid, and thence he had gone to toledo. he stayed there three months, and he was returned with a name new to the young men: he had wonderful things to say of a painter called el greco, who it appeared could only be studied in toledo. "oh yes, i know about him," said lawson, "he's the old master whose distinction it is that he painted as badly as the moderns." clutton, more taciturn than ever, did not answer, but he looked at lawson with a sardonic air. "are you going to show us the stuff you've brought back from spain?" asked philip. "i didn't paint in spain, i was too busy." "what did you do then?" "i thought things out. i believe i'm through with the impressionists; i've got an idea they'll seem very thin and superficial in a few years. i want to make a clean sweep of everything i've learnt and start fresh. when i came back i destroyed everything i'd painted. i've got nothing in my studio now but an easel, my paints, and some clean canvases." "what are you going to do?" "i don't know yet. i've only got an inkling of what i want." he spoke slowly, in a curious manner, as though he were straining to hear something which was only just audible. there seemed to be a mysterious force in him which he himself did not understand, but which was struggling obscurely to find an outlet. his strength impressed you. lawson dreaded the criticism he asked for and had discounted the blame he thought he might get by affecting a contempt for any opinion of clutton's; but philip knew there was nothing which would give him more pleasure than clutton's praise. clutton looked at the portrait for some time in silence, then glanced at philip's picture, which was standing on an easel. "what's that?" he asked. "oh, i had a shot at a portrait too." "the sedulous ape," he murmured. he turned away again to lawson's canvas. philip reddened but did not speak. "well, what d'you think of it?" asked lawson at length. "the modelling's jolly good," said clutton. "and i think it's very well drawn." "d'you think the values are all right?" "quite." lawson smiled with delight. he shook himself in his clothes like a wet dog. "i say, i'm jolly glad you like it." "i don't. i don't think it's of the smallest importance." lawson's face fell, and he stared at clutton with astonishment: he had no notion what he meant, clutton had no gift of expression in words, and he spoke as though it were an effort. what he had to say was confused, halting, and verbose; but philip knew the words which served as the text of his rambling discourse. clutton, who never read, had heard them first from cronshaw; and though they had made small impression, they had remained in his memory; and lately, emerging on a sudden, had acquired the character of a revelation: a good painter had two chief objects to paint, namely, man and the intention of his soul. the impressionists had been occupied with other problems, they had painted man admirably, but they had troubled themselves as little as the english portrait painters of the eighteenth century with the intention of his soul. "but when you try to get that you become literary," said lawson, interrupting. "let me paint the man like manet, and the intention of his soul can go to the devil." "that would be all very well if you could beat manet at his own game, but you can't get anywhere near him. you can't feed yourself on the day before yesterday, it's ground which has been swept dry. you must go back. it's when i saw the grecos that i felt one could get something more out of portraits than we knew before." "it's just going back to ruskin," cried lawson. "no--you see, he went for morality: i don't care a damn for morality: teaching doesn't come in, ethics and all that, but passion and emotion. the greatest portrait painters have painted both, man and the intention of his soul; rembrandt and el greco; it's only the second-raters who've only painted man. a lily of the valley would be lovely even if it didn't smell, but it's more lovely because it has perfume. that picture"--he pointed to lawson's portrait--"well, the drawing's all right and so's the modelling all right, but just conventional; it ought to be drawn and modelled so that you know the girl's a lousy slut. correctness is all very well: el greco made his people eight feet high because he wanted to express something he couldn't get any other way." "damn el greco," said lawson, "what's the good of jawing about a man when we haven't a chance of seeing any of his work?" clutton shrugged his shoulders, smoked a cigarette in silence, and went away. philip and lawson looked at one another. "there's something in what he says," said philip. lawson stared ill-temperedly at his picture. "how the devil is one to get the intention of the soul except by painting exactly what one sees?" about this time philip made a new friend. on monday morning models assembled at the school in order that one might be chosen for the week, and one day a young man was taken who was plainly not a model by profession. philip's attention was attracted by the manner in which he held himself: when he got on to the stand he stood firmly on both feet, square, with clenched hands, and with his head defiantly thrown forward; the attitude emphasised his fine figure; there was no fat on him, and his muscles stood out as though they were of iron. his head, close-cropped, was well-shaped, and he wore a short beard; he had large, dark eyes and heavy eyebrows. he held the pose hour after hour without appearance of fatigue. there was in his mien a mixture of shame and of determination. his air of passionate energy excited philip's romantic imagination, and when, the sitting ended, he saw him in his clothes, it seemed to him that he wore them as though he were a king in rags. he was uncommunicative, but in a day or two mrs. otter told philip that the model was a spaniard and that he had never sat before. "i suppose he was starving," said philip. "have you noticed his clothes? they're quite neat and decent, aren't they?" it chanced that potter, one of the americans who worked at amitrano's, was going to italy for a couple of months, and offered his studio to philip. philip was pleased. he was growing a little impatient of lawson's peremptory advice and wanted to be by himself. at the end of the week he went up to the model and on the pretence that his drawing was not finished asked whether he would come and sit to him one day. "i'm not a model," the spaniard answered. "i have other things to do next week." "come and have luncheon with me now, and we'll talk about it," said philip, and as the other hesitated, he added with a smile: "it won't hurt you to lunch with me." with a shrug of the shoulders the model consented, and they went off to a cremerie. the spaniard spoke broken french, fluent but difficult to follow, and philip managed to get on well enough with him. he found out that he was a writer. he had come to paris to write novels and kept himself meanwhile by all the expedients possible to a penniless man; he gave lessons, he did any translations he could get hold of, chiefly business documents, and at last had been driven to make money by his fine figure. sitting was well paid, and what he had earned during the last week was enough to keep him for two more; he told philip, amazed, that he could live easily on two francs a day; but it filled him with shame that he was obliged to show his body for money, and he looked upon sitting as a degradation which only hunger could excuse. philip explained that he did not want him to sit for the figure, but only for the head; he wished to do a portrait of him which he might send to the next salon. "but why should you want to paint me?" asked the spaniard. philip answered that the head interested him, he thought he could do a good portrait. "i can't afford the time. i grudge every minute that i have to rob from my writing." "but it would only be in the afternoon. i work at the school in the morning. after all, it's better to sit to me than to do translations of legal documents." there were legends in the latin quarter of a time when students of different countries lived together intimately, but this was long since passed, and now the various nations were almost as much separated as in an oriental city. at julian's and at the beaux arts a french student was looked upon with disfavour by his fellow-countrymen when he consorted with foreigners, and it was difficult for an englishman to know more than quite superficially any native inhabitants of the city in which he dwelt. indeed, many of the students after living in paris for five years knew no more french than served them in shops and lived as english a life as though they were working in south kensington. philip, with his passion for the romantic, welcomed the opportunity to get in touch with a spaniard; he used all his persuasiveness to overcome the man's reluctance. "i'll tell you what i'll do," said the spaniard at last. "i'll sit to you, but not for money, for my own pleasure." philip expostulated, but the other was firm, and at length they arranged that he should come on the following monday at one o'clock. he gave philip a card on which was printed his name: miguel ajuria. miguel sat regularly, and though he refused to accept payment he borrowed fifty francs from philip every now and then: it was a little more expensive than if philip had paid for the sittings in the usual way; but gave the spaniard a satisfactory feeling that he was not earning his living in a degrading manner. his nationality made philip regard him as a representative of romance, and he asked him about seville and granada, velasquez and calderon. but miguel had no patience with the grandeur of his country. for him, as for so many of his compatriots, france was the only country for a man of intelligence and paris the centre of the world. "spain is dead," he cried. "it has no writers, it has no art, it has nothing." little by little, with the exuberant rhetoric of his race, he revealed his ambitions. he was writing a novel which he hoped would make his name. he was under the influence of zola, and he had set his scene in paris. he told philip the story at length. to philip it seemed crude and stupid; the naive obscenity--c'est la vie, mon cher, c'est la vie, he cried--the naive obscenity served only to emphasise the conventionality of the anecdote. he had written for two years, amid incredible hardships, denying himself all the pleasures of life which had attracted him to paris, fighting with starvation for art's sake, determined that nothing should hinder his great achievement. the effort was heroic. "but why don't you write about spain?" cried philip. "it would be so much more interesting. you know the life." "but paris is the only place worth writing about. paris is life." one day he brought part of the manuscript, and in his bad french, translating excitedly as he went along so that philip could scarcely understand, he read passages. it was lamentable. philip, puzzled, looked at the picture he was painting: the mind behind that broad brow was trivial; and the flashing, passionate eyes saw nothing in life but the obvious. philip was not satisfied with his portrait, and at the end of a sitting he nearly always scraped out what he had done. it was all very well to aim at the intention of the soul: who could tell what that was when people seemed a mass of contradictions? he liked miguel, and it distressed him to realise that his magnificent struggle was futile: he had everything to make a good writer but talent. philip looked at his own work. how could you tell whether there was anything in it or whether you were wasting your time? it was clear that the will to achieve could not help you and confidence in yourself meant nothing. philip thought of fanny price; she had a vehement belief in her talent; her strength of will was extraordinary. "if i thought i wasn't going to be really good, i'd rather give up painting," said philip. "i don't see any use in being a second-rate painter." then one morning when he was going out, the concierge called out to him that there was a letter. nobody wrote to him but his aunt louisa and sometimes hayward, and this was a handwriting he did not know. the letter was as follows: please come at once when you get this. i couldn't put up with it any more. please come yourself. i can't bear the thought that anyone else should touch me. i want you to have everything. f. price i have not had anything to eat for three days. philip felt on a sudden sick with fear. he hurried to the house in which she lived. he was astonished that she was in paris at all. he had not seen her for months and imagined she had long since returned to england. when he arrived he asked the concierge whether she was in. "yes, i've not seen her go out for two days." philip ran upstairs and knocked at the door. there was no reply. he called her name. the door was locked, and on bending down he found the key was in the lock. "oh, my god, i hope she hasn't done something awful," he cried aloud. he ran down and told the porter that she was certainly in the room. he had had a letter from her and feared a terrible accident. he suggested breaking open the door. the porter, who had been sullen and disinclined to listen, became alarmed; he could not take the responsibility of breaking into the room; they must go for the commissaire de police. they walked together to the bureau, and then they fetched a locksmith. philip found that miss price had not paid the last quarter's rent: on new year's day she had not given the concierge the present which old-established custom led him to regard as a right. the four of them went upstairs, and they knocked again at the door. there was no reply. the locksmith set to work, and at last they entered the room. philip gave a cry and instinctively covered his eyes with his hands. the wretched woman was hanging with a rope round her neck, which she had tied to a hook in the ceiling fixed by some previous tenant to hold up the curtains of the bed. she had moved her own little bed out of the way and had stood on a chair, which had been kicked away. it was lying on its side on the floor. they cut her down. the body was quite cold. xlix the story which philip made out in one way and another was terrible. one of the grievances of the women-students was that fanny price would never share their gay meals in restaurants, and the reason was obvious: she had been oppressed by dire poverty. he remembered the luncheon they had eaten together when first he came to paris and the ghoulish appetite which had disgusted him: he realised now that she ate in that manner because she was ravenous. the concierge told him what her food had consisted of. a bottle of milk was left for her every day and she brought in her own loaf of bread; she ate half the loaf and drank half the milk at mid-day when she came back from the school, and consumed the rest in the evening. it was the same day after day. philip thought with anguish of what she must have endured. she had never given anyone to understand that she was poorer than the rest, but it was clear that her money had been coming to an end, and at last she could not afford to come any more to the studio. the little room was almost bare of furniture, and there were no other clothes than the shabby brown dress she had always worn. philip searched among her things for the address of some friend with whom he could communicate. he found a piece of paper on which his own name was written a score of times. it gave him a peculiar shock. he supposed it was true that she had loved him; he thought of the emaciated body, in the brown dress, hanging from the nail in the ceiling; and he shuddered. but if she had cared for him why did she not let him help her? he would so gladly have done all he could. he felt remorseful because he had refused to see that she looked upon him with any particular feeling, and now these words in her letter were infinitely pathetic: i can't bear the thought that anyone else should touch me. she had died of starvation. philip found at length a letter signed: your loving brother, albert. it was two or three weeks old, dated from some road in surbiton, and refused a loan of five pounds. the writer had his wife and family to think of, he didn't feel justified in lending money, and his advice was that fanny should come back to london and try to get a situation. philip telegraphed to albert price, and in a little while an answer came: "deeply distressed. very awkward to leave my business. is presence essential. price." philip wired a succinct affirmative, and next morning a stranger presented himself at the studio. "my name's price," he said, when philip opened the door. he was a commonish man in black with a band round his bowler hat; he had something of fanny's clumsy look; he wore a stubbly moustache, and had a cockney accent. philip asked him to come in. he cast sidelong glances round the studio while philip gave him details of the accident and told him what he had done. "i needn't see her, need i?" asked albert price. "my nerves aren't very strong, and it takes very little to upset me." he began to talk freely. he was a rubber-merchant, and he had a wife and three children. fanny was a governess, and he couldn't make out why she hadn't stuck to that instead of coming to paris. "me and mrs. price told her paris was no place for a girl. and there's no money in art--never 'as been." it was plain enough that he had not been on friendly terms with his sister, and he resented her suicide as a last injury that she had done him. he did not like the idea that she had been forced to it by poverty; that seemed to reflect on the family. the idea struck him that possibly there was a more respectable reason for her act. "i suppose she 'adn't any trouble with a man, 'ad she? you know what i mean, paris and all that. she might 'ave done it so as not to disgrace herself." philip felt himself reddening and cursed his weakness. price's keen little eyes seemed to suspect him of an intrigue. "i believe your sister to have been perfectly virtuous," he answered acidly. "she killed herself because she was starving." "well, it's very 'ard on her family, mr. carey. she only 'ad to write to me. i wouldn't have let my sister want." philip had found the brother's address only by reading the letter in which he refused a loan; but he shrugged his shoulders: there was no use in recrimination. he hated the little man and wanted to have done with him as soon as possible. albert price also wished to get through the necessary business quickly so that he could get back to london. they went to the tiny room in which poor fanny had lived. albert price looked at the pictures and the furniture. "i don't pretend to know much about art," he said. "i suppose these pictures would fetch something, would they?" "nothing," said philip. "the furniture's not worth ten shillings." albert price knew no french and philip had to do everything. it seemed that it was an interminable process to get the poor body safely hidden away under ground: papers had to be obtained in one place and signed in another; officials had to be seen. for three days philip was occupied from morning till night. at last he and albert price followed the hearse to the cemetery at montparnasse. "i want to do the thing decent," said albert price, "but there's no use wasting money." the short ceremony was infinitely dreadful in the cold gray morning. half a dozen people who had worked with fanny price at the studio came to the funeral, mrs. otter because she was massiere and thought it her duty, ruth chalice because she had a kind heart, lawson, clutton, and flanagan. they had all disliked her during her life. philip, looking across the cemetery crowded on all sides with monuments, some poor and simple, others vulgar, pretentious, and ugly, shuddered. it was horribly sordid. when they came out albert price asked philip to lunch with him. philip loathed him now and he was tired; he had not been sleeping well, for he dreamed constantly of fanny price in the torn brown dress, hanging from the nail in the ceiling; but he could not think of an excuse. "you take me somewhere where we can get a regular slap-up lunch. all this is the very worst thing for my nerves." "lavenue's is about the best place round here," answered philip. albert price settled himself on a velvet seat with a sigh of relief. he ordered a substantial luncheon and a bottle of wine. "well, i'm glad that's over," he said. he threw out a few artful questions, and philip discovered that he was eager to hear about the painter's life in paris. he represented it to himself as deplorable, but he was anxious for details of the orgies which his fancy suggested to him. with sly winks and discreet sniggering he conveyed that he knew very well that there was a great deal more than philip confessed. he was a man of the world, and he knew a thing or two. he asked philip whether he had ever been to any of those places in montmartre which are celebrated from temple bar to the royal exchange. he would like to say he had been to the moulin rouge. the luncheon was very good and the wine excellent. albert price expanded as the processes of digestion went satisfactorily forwards. "let's 'ave a little brandy," he said when the coffee was brought, "and blow the expense." he rubbed his hands. "you know, i've got 'alf a mind to stay over tonight and go back tomorrow. what d'you say to spending the evening together?" "if you mean you want me to take you round montmartre tonight, i'll see you damned," said philip. "i suppose it wouldn't be quite the thing." the answer was made so seriously that philip was tickled. "besides it would be rotten for your nerves," he said gravely. albert price concluded that he had better go back to london by the four o'clock train, and presently he took leave of philip. "well, good-bye, old man," he said. "i tell you what, i'll try and come over to paris again one of these days and i'll look you up. and then we won't 'alf go on the razzle." philip was too restless to work that afternoon, so he jumped on a bus and crossed the river to see whether there were any pictures on view at durand-ruel's. after that he strolled along the boulevard. it was cold and wind-swept. people hurried by wrapped up in their coats, shrunk together in an effort to keep out of the cold, and their faces were pinched and careworn. it was icy underground in the cemetery at montparnasse among all those white tombstones. philip felt lonely in the world and strangely homesick. he wanted company. at that hour cronshaw would be working, and clutton never welcomed visitors; lawson was painting another portrait of ruth chalice and would not care to be disturbed. he made up his mind to go and see flanagan. he found him painting, but delighted to throw up his work and talk. the studio was comfortable, for the american had more money than most of them, and warm; flanagan set about making tea. philip looked at the two heads that he was sending to the salon. "it's awful cheek my sending anything," said flanagan, "but i don't care, i'm going to send. d'you think they're rotten?" "not so rotten as i should have expected," said philip. they showed in fact an astounding cleverness. the difficulties had been avoided with skill, and there was a dash about the way in which the paint was put on which was surprising and even attractive. flanagan, without knowledge or technique, painted with the loose brush of a man who has spent a lifetime in the practice of the art. "if one were forbidden to look at any picture for more than thirty seconds you'd be a great master, flanagan," smiled philip. these young people were not in the habit of spoiling one another with excessive flattery. "we haven't got time in america to spend more than thirty seconds in looking at any picture," laughed the other. flanagan, though he was the most scatter-brained person in the world, had a tenderness of heart which was unexpected and charming. whenever anyone was ill he installed himself as sick-nurse. his gaiety was better than any medicine. like many of his countrymen he had not the english dread of sentimentality which keeps so tight a hold on emotion; and, finding nothing absurd in the show of feeling, could offer an exuberant sympathy which was often grateful to his friends in distress. he saw that philip was depressed by what he had gone through and with unaffected kindliness set himself boisterously to cheer him up. he exaggerated the americanisms which he knew always made the englishmen laugh and poured out a breathless stream of conversation, whimsical, high-spirited, and jolly. in due course they went out to dinner and afterwards to the gaite montparnasse, which was flanagan's favourite place of amusement. by the end of the evening he was in his most extravagant humour. he had drunk a good deal, but any inebriety from which he suffered was due much more to his own vivacity than to alcohol. he proposed that they should go to the bal bullier, and philip, feeling too tired to go to bed, willingly enough consented. they sat down at a table on the platform at the side, raised a little from the level of the floor so that they could watch the dancing, and drank a bock. presently flanagan saw a friend and with a wild shout leaped over the barrier on to the space where they were dancing. philip watched the people. bullier was not the resort of fashion. it was thursday night and the place was crowded. there were a number of students of the various faculties, but most of the men were clerks or assistants in shops; they wore their everyday clothes, ready-made tweeds or queer tail-coats, and their hats, for they had brought them in with them, and when they danced there was no place to put them but their heads. some of the women looked like servant-girls, and some were painted hussies, but for the most part they were shop-girls. they were poorly-dressed in cheap imitation of the fashions on the other side of the river. the hussies were got up to resemble the music-hall artiste or the dancer who enjoyed notoriety at the moment; their eyes were heavy with black and their cheeks impudently scarlet. the hall was lit by great white lights, low down, which emphasised the shadows on the faces; all the lines seemed to harden under it, and the colours were most crude. it was a sordid scene. philip leaned over the rail, staring down, and he ceased to hear the music. they danced furiously. they danced round the room, slowly, talking very little, with all their attention given to the dance. the room was hot, and their faces shone with sweat. it seemed to philip that they had thrown off the guard which people wear on their expression, the homage to convention, and he saw them now as they really were. in that moment of abandon they were strangely animal: some were foxy and some were wolf-like; and others had the long, foolish face of sheep. their skins were sallow from the unhealthy life they led and the poor food they ate. their features were blunted by mean interests, and their little eyes were shifty and cunning. there was nothing of nobility in their bearing, and you felt that for all of them life was a long succession of petty concerns and sordid thoughts. the air was heavy with the musty smell of humanity. but they danced furiously as though impelled by some strange power within them, and it seemed to philip that they were driven forward by a rage for enjoyment. they were seeking desperately to escape from a world of horror. the desire for pleasure which cronshaw said was the only motive of human action urged them blindly on, and the very vehemence of the desire seemed to rob it of all pleasure. they were hurried on by a great wind, helplessly, they knew not why and they knew not whither. fate seemed to tower above them, and they danced as though everlasting darkness were beneath their feet. their silence was vaguely alarming. it was as if life terrified them and robbed them of power of speech so that the shriek which was in their hearts died at their throats. their eyes were haggard and grim; and notwithstanding the beastly lust that disfigured them, and the meanness of their faces, and the cruelty, notwithstanding the stupidness which was worst of all, the anguish of those fixed eyes made all that crowd terrible and pathetic. philip loathed them, and yet his heart ached with the infinite pity which filled him. he took his coat from the cloak-room and went out into the bitter coldness of the night. l philip could not get the unhappy event out of his head. what troubled him most was the uselessness of fanny's effort. no one could have worked harder than she, nor with more sincerity; she believed in herself with all her heart; but it was plain that self-confidence meant very little, all his friends had it, miguel ajuria among the rest; and philip was shocked by the contrast between the spaniard's heroic endeavour and the triviality of the thing he attempted. the unhappiness of philip's life at school had called up in him the power of self-analysis; and this vice, as subtle as drug-taking, had taken possession of him so that he had now a peculiar keenness in the dissection of his feelings. he could not help seeing that art affected him differently from others. a fine picture gave lawson an immediate thrill. his appreciation was instinctive. even flanagan felt certain things which philip was obliged to think out. his own appreciation was intellectual. he could not help thinking that if he had in him the artistic temperament (he hated the phrase, but could discover no other) he would feel beauty in the emotional, unreasoning way in which they did. he began to wonder whether he had anything more than a superficial cleverness of the hand which enabled him to copy objects with accuracy. that was nothing. he had learned to despise technical dexterity. the important thing was to feel in terms of paint. lawson painted in a certain way because it was his nature to, and through the imitativeness of a student sensitive to every influence, there pierced individuality. philip looked at his own portrait of ruth chalice, and now that three months had passed he realised that it was no more than a servile copy of lawson. he felt himself barren. he painted with the brain, and he could not help knowing that the only painting worth anything was done with the heart. he had very little money, barely sixteen hundred pounds, and it would be necessary for him to practise the severest economy. he could not count on earning anything for ten years. the history of painting was full of artists who had earned nothing at all. he must resign himself to penury; and it was worth while if he produced work which was immortal; but he had a terrible fear that he would never be more than second-rate. was it worth while for that to give up one's youth, and the gaiety of life, and the manifold chances of being? he knew the existence of foreign painters in paris enough to see that the lives they led were narrowly provincial. he knew some who had dragged along for twenty years in the pursuit of a fame which always escaped them till they sunk into sordidness and alcoholism. fanny's suicide had aroused memories, and philip heard ghastly stories of the way in which one person or another had escaped from despair. he remembered the scornful advice which the master had given poor fanny: it would have been well for her if she had taken it and given up an attempt which was hopeless. philip finished his portrait of miguel ajuria and made up his mind to send it to the salon. flanagan was sending two pictures, and he thought he could paint as well as flanagan. he had worked so hard on the portrait that he could not help feeling it must have merit. it was true that when he looked at it he felt that there was something wrong, though he could not tell what; but when he was away from it his spirits went up and he was not dissatisfied. he sent it to the salon and it was refused. he did not mind much, since he had done all he could to persuade himself that there was little chance that it would be taken, till flanagan a few days later rushed in to tell lawson and philip that one of his pictures was accepted. with a blank face philip offered his congratulations, and flanagan was so busy congratulating himself that he did not catch the note of irony which philip could not prevent from coming into his voice. lawson, quicker-witted, observed it and looked at philip curiously. his own picture was all right, he knew that a day or two before, and he was vaguely resentful of philip's attitude. but he was surprised at the sudden question which philip put him as soon as the american was gone. "if you were in my place would you chuck the whole thing?" "what do you mean?" "i wonder if it's worth while being a second-rate painter. you see, in other things, if you're a doctor or if you're in business, it doesn't matter so much if you're mediocre. you make a living and you get along. but what is the good of turning out second-rate pictures?" lawson was fond of philip and, as soon as he thought he was seriously distressed by the refusal of his picture, he set himself to console him. it was notorious that the salon had refused pictures which were afterwards famous; it was the first time philip had sent, and he must expect a rebuff; flanagan's success was explicable, his picture was showy and superficial: it was just the sort of thing a languid jury would see merit in. philip grew impatient; it was humiliating that lawson should think him capable of being seriously disturbed by so trivial a calamity and would not realise that his dejection was due to a deep-seated distrust of his powers. of late clutton had withdrawn himself somewhat from the group who took their meals at gravier's, and lived very much by himself. flanagan said he was in love with a girl, but clutton's austere countenance did not suggest passion; and philip thought it more probable that he separated himself from his friends so that he might grow clear with the new ideas which were in him. but that evening, when the others had left the restaurant to go to a play and philip was sitting alone, clutton came in and ordered dinner. they began to talk, and finding clutton more loquacious and less sardonic than usual, philip determined to take advantage of his good humour. "i say i wish you'd come and look at my picture," he said. "i'd like to know what you think of it." "no, i won't do that." "why not?" asked philip, reddening. the request was one which they all made of one another, and no one ever thought of refusing. clutton shrugged his shoulders. "people ask you for criticism, but they only want praise. besides, what's the good of criticism? what does it matter if your picture is good or bad?" "it matters to me." "no. the only reason that one paints is that one can't help it. it's a function like any of the other functions of the body, only comparatively few people have got it. one paints for oneself: otherwise one would commit suicide. just think of it, you spend god knows how long trying to get something on to canvas, putting the sweat of your soul into it, and what is the result? ten to one it will be refused at the salon; if it's accepted, people glance at it for ten seconds as they pass; if you're lucky some ignorant fool will buy it and put it on his walls and look at it as little as he looks at his dining-room table. criticism has nothing to do with the artist. it judges objectively, but the objective doesn't concern the artist." clutton put his hands over his eyes so that he might concentrate his mind on what he wanted to say. "the artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees, and is impelled to express it and, he doesn't know why, he can only express his feeling by lines and colours. it's like a musician; he'll read a line or two, and a certain combination of notes presents itself to him: he doesn't know why such and such words call forth in him such and such notes; they just do. and i'll tell you another reason why criticism is meaningless: a great painter forces the world to see nature as he sees it; but in the next generation another painter sees the world in another way, and then the public judges him not by himself but by his predecessor. so the barbizon people taught our fathers to look at trees in a certain manner, and when monet came along and painted differently, people said: but trees aren't like that. it never struck them that trees are exactly how a painter chooses to see them. we paint from within outwards--if we force our vision on the world it calls us great painters; if we don't it ignores us; but we are the same. we don't attach any meaning to greatness or to smallness. what happens to our work afterwards is unimportant; we have got all we could out of it while we were doing it." there was a pause while clutton with voracious appetite devoured the food that was set before him. philip, smoking a cheap cigar, observed him closely. the ruggedness of the head, which looked as though it were carved from a stone refractory to the sculptor's chisel, the rough mane of dark hair, the great nose, and the massive bones of the jaw, suggested a man of strength; and yet philip wondered whether perhaps the mask concealed a strange weakness. clutton's refusal to show his work might be sheer vanity: he could not bear the thought of anyone's criticism, and he would not expose himself to the chance of a refusal from the salon; he wanted to be received as a master and would not risk comparisons with other work which might force him to diminish his own opinion of himself. during the eighteen months philip had known him clutton had grown more harsh and bitter; though he would not come out into the open and compete with his fellows, he was indignant with the facile success of those who did. he had no patience with lawson, and the pair were no longer on the intimate terms upon which they had been when philip first knew them. "lawson's all right," he said contemptuously, "he'll go back to england, become a fashionable portrait painter, earn ten thousand a year and be an a. r. a. before he's forty. portraits done by hand for the nobility and gentry!" philip, too, looked into the future, and he saw clutton in twenty years, bitter, lonely, savage, and unknown; still in paris, for the life there had got into his bones, ruling a small cenacle with a savage tongue, at war with himself and the world, producing little in his increasing passion for a perfection he could not reach; and perhaps sinking at last into drunkenness. of late philip had been captivated by an idea that since one had only one life it was important to make a success of it, but he did not count success by the acquiring of money or the achieving of fame; he did not quite know yet what he meant by it, perhaps variety of experience and the making the most of his abilities. it was plain anyway that the life which clutton seemed destined to was failure. its only justification would be the painting of imperishable masterpieces. he recollected cronshaw's whimsical metaphor of the persian carpet; he had thought of it often; but cronshaw with his faun-like humour had refused to make his meaning clear: he repeated that it had none unless one discovered it for oneself. it was this desire to make a success of life which was at the bottom of philip's uncertainty about continuing his artistic career. but clutton began to talk again. "d'you remember my telling you about that chap i met in brittany? i saw him the other day here. he's just off to tahiti. he was broke to the world. he was a brasseur d'affaires, a stockbroker i suppose you call it in english; and he had a wife and family, and he was earning a large income. he chucked it all to become a painter. he just went off and settled down in brittany and began to paint. he hadn't got any money and did the next best thing to starving." "and what about his wife and family?" asked philip. "oh, he dropped them. he left them to starve on their own account." "it sounds a pretty low-down thing to do." "oh, my dear fellow, if you want to be a gentleman you must give up being an artist. they've got nothing to do with one another. you hear of men painting pot-boilers to keep an aged mother--well, it shows they're excellent sons, but it's no excuse for bad work. they're only tradesmen. an artist would let his mother go to the workhouse. there's a writer i know over here who told me that his wife died in childbirth. he was in love with her and he was mad with grief, but as he sat at the bedside watching her die he found himself making mental notes of how she looked and what she said and the things he was feeling. gentlemanly, wasn't it?" "but is your friend a good painter?" asked philip. "no, not yet, he paints just like pissarro. he hasn't found himself, but he's got a sense of colour and a sense of decoration. but that isn't the question. it's the feeling, and that he's got. he's behaved like a perfect cad to his wife and children, he's always behaving like a perfect cad; the way he treats the people who've helped him--and sometimes he's been saved from starvation merely by the kindness of his friends--is simply beastly. he just happens to be a great artist." philip pondered over the man who was willing to sacrifice everything, comfort, home, money, love, honour, duty, for the sake of getting on to canvas with paint the emotion which the world gave him. it was magnificent, and yet his courage failed him. thinking of cronshaw recalled to him the fact that he had not seen him for a week, and so, when clutton left him, he wandered along to the cafe in which he was certain to find the writer. during the first few months of his stay in paris philip had accepted as gospel all that cronshaw said, but philip had a practical outlook and he grew impatient with the theories which resulted in no action. cronshaw's slim bundle of poetry did not seem a substantial result for a life which was sordid. philip could not wrench out of his nature the instincts of the middle-class from which he came; and the penury, the hack work which cronshaw did to keep body and soul together, the monotony of existence between the slovenly attic and the cafe table, jarred with his respectability. cronshaw was astute enough to know that the young man disapproved of him, and he attacked his philistinism with an irony which was sometimes playful but often very keen. "you're a tradesman," he told philip, "you want to invest life in consols so that it shall bring you in a safe three per cent. i'm a spendthrift, i run through my capital. i shall spend my last penny with my last heartbeat." the metaphor irritated philip, because it assumed for the speaker a romantic attitude and cast a slur upon the position which philip instinctively felt had more to say for it than he could think of at the moment. but this evening philip, undecided, wanted to talk about himself. fortunately it was late already and cronshaw's pile of saucers on the table, each indicating a drink, suggested that he was prepared to take an independent view of things in general. "i wonder if you'd give me some advice," said philip suddenly. "you won't take it, will you?" philip shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "i don't believe i shall ever do much good as a painter. i don't see any use in being second-rate. i'm thinking of chucking it." "why shouldn't you?" philip hesitated for an instant. "i suppose i like the life." a change came over cronshaw's placid, round face. the corners of the mouth were suddenly depressed, the eyes sunk dully in their orbits; he seemed to become strangely bowed and old. "this?" he cried, looking round the cafe in which they sat. his voice really trembled a little. "if you can get out of it, do while there's time." philip stared at him with astonishment, but the sight of emotion always made him feel shy, and he dropped his eyes. he knew that he was looking upon the tragedy of failure. there was silence. philip thought that cronshaw was looking upon his own life; and perhaps he considered his youth with its bright hopes and the disappointments which wore out the radiancy; the wretched monotony of pleasure, and the black future. philip's eyes rested on the little pile of saucers, and he knew that cronshaw's were on them too. li two months passed. it seemed to philip, brooding over these matters, that in the true painters, writers, musicians, there was a power which drove them to such complete absorption in their work as to make it inevitable for them to subordinate life to art. succumbing to an influence they never realised, they were merely dupes of the instinct that possessed them, and life slipped through their fingers unlived. but he had a feeling that life was to be lived rather than portrayed, and he wanted to search out the various experiences of it and wring from each moment all the emotion that it offered. he made up his mind at length to take a certain step and abide by the result, and, having made up his mind, he determined to take the step at once. luckily enough the next morning was one of foinet's days, and he resolved to ask him point-blank whether it was worth his while to go on with the study of art. he had never forgotten the master's brutal advice to fanny price. it had been sound. philip could never get fanny entirely out of his head. the studio seemed strange without her, and now and then the gesture of one of the women working there or the tone of a voice would give him a sudden start, reminding him of her: her presence was more noticable now she was dead than it had ever been during her life; and he often dreamed of her at night, waking with a cry of terror. it was horrible to think of all the suffering she must have endured. philip knew that on the days foinet came to the studio he lunched at a little restaurant in the rue d'odessa, and he hurried his own meal so that he could go and wait outside till the painter came out. philip walked up and down the crowded street and at last saw monsieur foinet walking, with bent head, towards him; philip was very nervous, but he forced himself to go up to him. "pardon, monsieur, i should like to speak to you for one moment." foinet gave him a rapid glance, recognised him, but did not smile a greeting. "speak," he said. "i've been working here nearly two years now under you. i wanted to ask you to tell me frankly if you think it worth while for me to continue." philip's voice was trembling a little. foinet walked on without looking up. philip, watching his face, saw no trace of expression upon it. "i don't understand." "i'm very poor. if i have no talent i would sooner do something else." "don't you know if you have talent?" "all my friends know they have talent, but i am aware some of them are mistaken." foinet's bitter mouth outlined the shadow of a smile, and he asked: "do you live near here?" philip told him where his studio was. foinet turned round. "let us go there? you shall show me your work." "now?" cried philip. "why not?" philip had nothing to say. he walked silently by the master's side. he felt horribly sick. it had never struck him that foinet would wish to see his things there and then; he meant, so that he might have time to prepare himself, to ask him if he would mind coming at some future date or whether he might bring them to foinet's studio. he was trembling with anxiety. in his heart he hoped that foinet would look at his picture, and that rare smile would come into his face, and he would shake philip's hand and say: "pas mal. go on, my lad. you have talent, real talent." philip's heart swelled at the thought. it was such a relief, such a joy! now he could go on with courage; and what did hardship matter, privation, and disappointment, if he arrived at last? he had worked very hard, it would be too cruel if all that industry were futile. and then with a start he remembered that he had heard fanny price say just that. they arrived at the house, and philip was seized with fear. if he had dared he would have asked foinet to go away. he did not want to know the truth. they went in and the concierge handed him a letter as they passed. he glanced at the envelope and recognised his uncle's handwriting. foinet followed him up the stairs. philip could think of nothing to say; foinet was mute, and the silence got on his nerves. the professor sat down; and philip without a word placed before him the picture which the salon had rejected; foinet nodded but did not speak; then philip showed him the two portraits he had made of ruth chalice, two or three landscapes which he had painted at moret, and a number of sketches. "that's all," he said presently, with a nervous laugh. monsieur foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it. "you have very little private means?" he asked at last. "very little," answered philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at his heart. "not enough to live on." "there is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's means of livelihood. i have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. they are hypocrites or fools. money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. the only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for the shilling you earn. you will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. they have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. they do not know how mean it makes you. it exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. it is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. i pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art." philip quietly put away the various things which he had shown. "i'm afraid that sounds as if you didn't think i had much chance." monsieur foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders. "you have a certain manual dexterity. with hard work and perseverance there is no reason why you should not become a careful, not incompetent painter. you would find hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds who painted as well. i see no talent in anything you have shown me. i see industry and intelligence. you will never be anything but mediocre." philip obliged himself to answer quite steadily. "i'm very grateful to you for having taken so much trouble. i can't thank you enough." monsieur foinet got up and made as if to go, but he changed his mind and, stopping, put his hand on philip's shoulder. "but if you were to ask me my advice, i should say: take your courage in both hands and try your luck at something else. it sounds very hard, but let me tell you this: i would give all i have in the world if someone had given me that advice when i was your age and i had taken it." philip looked up at him with surprise. the master forced his lips into a smile, but his eyes remained grave and sad. "it is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late. it does not improve the temper." he gave a little laugh as he said the last words and quickly walked out of the room. philip mechanically took up the letter from his uncle. the sight of his handwriting made him anxious, for it was his aunt who always wrote to him. she had been ill for the last three months, and he had offered to go over to england and see her; but she, fearing it would interfere with his work, had refused. she did not want him to put himself to inconvenience; she said she would wait till august and then she hoped he would come and stay at the vicarage for two or three weeks. if by any chance she grew worse she would let him know, since she did not wish to die without seeing him again. if his uncle wrote to him it must be because she was too ill to hold a pen. philip opened the letter. it ran as follows: my dear philip, i regret to inform you that your dear aunt departed this life early this morning. she died very suddenly, but quite peacefully. the change for the worse was so rapid that we had no time to send for you. she was fully prepared for the end and entered into rest with the complete assurance of a blessed resurrection and with resignation to the divine will of our blessed lord jesus christ. your aunt would have liked you to be present at the funeral so i trust you will come as soon as you can. there is naturally a great deal of work thrown upon my shoulders and i am very much upset. i trust that you will be able to do everything for me. your affectionate uncle, william carey. lii next day philip arrived at blackstable. since the death of his mother he had never lost anyone closely connected with him; his aunt's death shocked him and filled him also with a curious fear; he felt for the first time his own mortality. he could not realise what life would be for his uncle without the constant companionship of the woman who had loved and tended him for forty years. he expected to find him broken down with hopeless grief. he dreaded the first meeting; he knew that he could say nothing which would be of use. he rehearsed to himself a number of apposite speeches. he entered the vicarage by the side-door and went into the dining-room. uncle william was reading the paper. "your train was late," he said, looking up. philip was prepared to give way to his emotion, but the matter-of-fact reception startled him. his uncle, subdued but calm, handed him the paper. "there's a very nice little paragraph about her in the blackstable times," he said. philip read it mechanically. "would you like to come up and see her?" philip nodded and together they walked upstairs. aunt louisa was lying in the middle of the large bed, with flowers all round her. "would you like to say a short prayer?" said the vicar. he sank on his knees, and because it was expected of him philip followed his example. he looked at the little shrivelled face. he was only conscious of one emotion: what a wasted life! in a minute mr. carey gave a cough, and stood up. he pointed to a wreath at the foot of the bed. "that's from the squire," he said. he spoke in a low voice as though he were in church, but one felt that, as a clergyman, he found himself quite at home. "i expect tea is ready." they went down again to the dining-room. the drawn blinds gave a lugubrious aspect. the vicar sat at the end of the table at which his wife had always sat and poured out the tea with ceremony. philip could not help feeling that neither of them should have been able to eat anything, but when he saw that his uncle's appetite was unimpaired he fell to with his usual heartiness. they did not speak for a while. philip set himself to eat an excellent cake with the air of grief which he felt was decent. "things have changed a great deal since i was a curate," said the vicar presently. "in my young days the mourners used always to be given a pair of black gloves and a piece of black silk for their hats. poor louisa used to make the silk into dresses. she always said that twelve funerals gave her a new dress." then he told philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four of them already; when mrs. rawlingson, wife of the vicar at ferne, had died she had had thirty-two; but probably a good many more would come the next day; the funeral would start at eleven o'clock from the vicarage, and they should beat mrs. rawlingson easily. louisa never liked mrs. rawlingson. "i shall take the funeral myself. i promised louisa i would never let anyone else bury her." philip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a second piece of cake. under the circumstances he could not help thinking it greedy. "mary ann certainly makes capital cakes. i'm afraid no one else will make such good ones." "she's not going?" cried philip, with astonishment. mary ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember. she never forgot his birthday, but made a point always of sending him a trifle, absurd but touching. he had a real affection for her. "yes," answered mr. carey. "i didn't think it would do to have a single woman in the house." "but, good heavens, she must be over forty." "yes, i think she is. but she's been rather troublesome lately, she's been inclined to take too much on herself, and i thought this was a very good opportunity to give her notice." "it's certainly one which isn't likely to recur," said philip. he took out a cigarette, but his uncle prevented him from lighting it. "not till after the funeral, philip," he said gently. "all right," said philip. "it wouldn't be quite respectful to smoke in the house so long as your poor aunt louisa is upstairs." josiah graves, churchwarden and manager of the bank, came back to dinner at the vicarage after the funeral. the blinds had been drawn up, and philip, against his will, felt a curious sensation of relief. the body in the house had made him uncomfortable: in life the poor woman had been all that was kind and gentle; and yet, when she lay upstairs in her bed-room, cold and stark, it seemed as though she cast upon the survivors a baleful influence. the thought horrified philip. he found himself alone for a minute or two in the dining-room with the churchwarden. "i hope you'll be able to stay with your uncle a while," he said. "i don't think he ought to be left alone just yet." "i haven't made any plans," answered philip. "if he wants me i shall be very pleased to stay." by way of cheering the bereaved husband the churchwarden during dinner talked of a recent fire at blackstable which had partly destroyed the wesleyan chapel. "i hear they weren't insured," he said, with a little smile. "that won't make any difference," said the vicar. "they'll get as much money as they want to rebuild. chapel people are always ready to give money." "i see that holden sent a wreath." holden was the dissenting minister, and, though for christ's sake who died for both of them, mr. carey nodded to him in the street, he did not speak to him. "i think it was very pushing," he remarked. "there were forty-one wreaths. yours was beautiful. philip and i admired it very much." "don't mention it," said the banker. he had noticed with satisfaction that it was larger than anyone's else. it had looked very well. they began to discuss the people who attended the funeral. shops had been closed for it, and the churchwarden took out of his pocket the notice which had been printed: "owing to the funeral of mrs. carey this establishment will not be opened till one o'clock." "it was my idea," he said. "i think it was very nice of them to close," said the vicar. "poor louisa would have appreciated that." philip ate his dinner. mary ann had treated the day as sunday, and they had roast chicken and a gooseberry tart. "i suppose you haven't thought about a tombstone yet?" said the churchwarden. "yes, i have. i thought of a plain stone cross. louisa was always against ostentation." "i don't think one can do much better than a cross. if you're thinking of a text, what do you say to: with christ, which is far better?" the vicar pursed his lips. it was just like bismarck to try and settle everything himself. he did not like that text; it seemed to cast an aspersion on himself. "i don't think i should put that. i much prefer: the lord has given and the lord has taken away." "oh, do you? that always seems to me a little indifferent." the vicar answered with some acidity, and mr. graves replied in a tone which the widower thought too authoritative for the occasion. things were going rather far if he could not choose his own text for his own wife's tombstone. there was a pause, and then the conversation drifted to parish matters. philip went into the garden to smoke his pipe. he sat on a bench, and suddenly began to laugh hysterically. a few days later his uncle expressed the hope that he would spend the next few weeks at blackstable. "yes, that will suit me very well," said philip. "i suppose it'll do if you go back to paris in september." philip did not reply. he had thought much of what foinet said to him, but he was still so undecided that he did not wish to speak of the future. there would be something fine in giving up art because he was convinced that he could not excel; but unfortunately it would seem so only to himself: to others it would be an admission of defeat, and he did not want to confess that he was beaten. he was an obstinate fellow, and the suspicion that his talent did not lie in one direction made him inclined to force circumstances and aim notwithstanding precisely in that direction. he could not bear that his friends should laugh at him. this might have prevented him from ever taking the definite step of abandoning the study of painting, but the different environment made him on a sudden see things differently. like many another he discovered that crossing the channel makes things which had seemed important singularly futile. the life which had been so charming that he could not bear to leave it now seemed inept; he was seized with a distaste for the cafes, the restaurants with their ill-cooked food, the shabby way in which they all lived. he did not care any more what his friends thought about him: cronshaw with his rhetoric, mrs. otter with her respectability, ruth chalice with her affectations, lawson and clutton with their quarrels; he felt a revulsion from them all. he wrote to lawson and asked him to send over all his belongings. a week later they arrived. when he unpacked his canvases he found himself able to examine his work without emotion. he noticed the fact with interest. his uncle was anxious to see his pictures. though he had so greatly disapproved of philip's desire to go to paris, he accepted the situation now with equanimity. he was interested in the life of students and constantly put philip questions about it. he was in fact a little proud of him because he was a painter, and when people were present made attempts to draw him out. he looked eagerly at the studies of models which philip showed him. philip set before him his portrait of miguel ajuria. "why did you paint him?" asked mr. carey. "oh, i wanted a model, and his head interested me." "as you haven't got anything to do here i wonder you don't paint me." "it would bore you to sit." "i think i should like it." "we must see about it." philip was amused at his uncle's vanity. it was clear that he was dying to have his portrait painted. to get something for nothing was a chance not to be missed. for two or three days he threw out little hints. he reproached philip for laziness, asked him when he was going to start work, and finally began telling everyone he met that philip was going to paint him. at last there came a rainy day, and after breakfast mr. carey said to philip: "now, what d'you say to starting on my portrait this morning?" philip put down the book he was reading and leaned back in his chair. "i've given up painting," he said. "why?" asked his uncle in astonishment. "i don't think there's much object in being a second-rate painter, and i came to the conclusion that i should never be anything else." "you surprise me. before you went to paris you were quite certain that you were a genius." "i was mistaken," said philip. "i should have thought now you'd taken up a profession you'd have the pride to stick to it. it seems to me that what you lack is perseverance." philip was a little annoyed that his uncle did not even see how truly heroic his determination was. "'a rolling stone gathers no moss,'" proceeded the clergyman. philip hated that proverb above all, and it seemed to him perfectly meaningless. his uncle had repeated it often during the arguments which had preceded his departure from business. apparently it recalled that occasion to his guardian. "you're no longer a boy, you know; you must begin to think of settling down. first you insist on becoming a chartered accountant, and then you get tired of that and you want to become a painter. and now if you please you change your mind again. it points to..." he hesitated for a moment to consider what defects of character exactly it indicated, and philip finished the sentence. "irresolution, incompetence, want of foresight, and lack of determination." the vicar looked up at his nephew quickly to see whether he was laughing at him. philip's face was serious, but there was a twinkle in his eyes which irritated him. philip should really be getting more serious. he felt it right to give him a rap over the knuckles. "your money matters have nothing to do with me now. you're your own master; but i think you should remember that your money won't last for ever, and the unlucky deformity you have doesn't exactly make it easier for you to earn your living." philip knew by now that whenever anyone was angry with him his first thought was to say something about his club-foot. his estimate of the human race was determined by the fact that scarcely anyone failed to resist the temptation. but he had trained himself not to show any sign that the reminder wounded him. he had even acquired control over the blushing which in his boyhood had been one of his torments. "as you justly remark," he answered, "my money matters have nothing to do with you and i am my own master." "at all events you will do me the justice to acknowledge that i was justified in my opposition when you made up your mind to become an art-student." "i don't know so much about that. i daresay one profits more by the mistakes one makes off one's own bat than by doing the right thing on somebody's else advice. i've had my fling, and i don't mind settling down now." "what at?" philip was not prepared for the question, since in fact he had not made up his mind. he had thought of a dozen callings. "the most suitable thing you could do is to enter your father's profession and become a doctor." "oddly enough that is precisely what i intend." he had thought of doctoring among other things, chiefly because it was an occupation which seemed to give a good deal of personal freedom, and his experience of life in an office had made him determine never to have anything more to do with one; his answer to the vicar slipped out almost unawares, because it was in the nature of a repartee. it amused him to make up his mind in that accidental way, and he resolved then and there to enter his father's old hospital in the autumn. "then your two years in paris may be regarded as so much wasted time?" "i don't know about that. i had a very jolly two years, and i learned one or two useful things." "what?" philip reflected for an instant, and his answer was not devoid of a gentle desire to annoy. "i learned to look at hands, which i'd never looked at before. and instead of just looking at houses and trees i learned to look at houses and trees against the sky. and i learned also that shadows are not black but coloured." "i suppose you think you're very clever. i think your flippancy is quite inane." liii taking the paper with him mr. carey retired to his study. philip changed his chair for that in which his uncle had been sitting (it was the only comfortable one in the room), and looked out of the window at the pouring rain. even in that sad weather there was something restful about the green fields that stretched to the horizon. there was an intimate charm in the landscape which he did not remember ever to have noticed before. two years in france had opened his eyes to the beauty of his own countryside. he thought with a smile of his uncle's remark. it was lucky that the turn of his mind tended to flippancy. he had begun to realise what a great loss he had sustained in the death of his father and mother. that was one of the differences in his life which prevented him from seeing things in the same way as other people. the love of parents for their children is the only emotion which is quite disinterested. among strangers he had grown up as best he could, but he had seldom been used with patience or forbearance. he prided himself on his self-control. it had been whipped into him by the mockery of his fellows. then they called him cynical and callous. he had acquired calmness of demeanour and under most circumstances an unruffled exterior, so that now he could not show his feelings. people told him he was unemotional; but he knew that he was at the mercy of his emotions: an accidental kindness touched him so much that sometimes he did not venture to speak in order not to betray the unsteadiness of his voice. he remembered the bitterness of his life at school, the humiliation which he had endured, the banter which had made him morbidly afraid of making himself ridiculous; and he remembered the loneliness he had felt since, faced with the world, the disillusion and the disappointment caused by the difference between what it promised to his active imagination and what it gave. but notwithstanding he was able to look at himself from the outside and smile with amusement. "by jove, if i weren't flippant, i should hang myself," he thought cheerfully. his mind went back to the answer he had given his uncle when he asked him what he had learnt in paris. he had learnt a good deal more than he told him. a conversation with cronshaw had stuck in his memory, and one phrase he had used, a commonplace one enough, had set his brain working. "my dear fellow," cronshaw said, "there's no such thing as abstract morality." when philip ceased to believe in christianity he felt that a great weight was taken from his shoulders; casting off the responsibility which weighed down every action, when every action was infinitely important for the welfare of his immortal soul, he experienced a vivid sense of liberty. but he knew now that this was an illusion. when he put away the religion in which he had been brought up, he had kept unimpaired the morality which was part and parcel of it. he made up his mind therefore to think things out for himself. he determined to be swayed by no prejudices. he swept away the virtues and the vices, the established laws of good and evil, with the idea of finding out the rules of life for himself. he did not know whether rules were necessary at all. that was one of the things he wanted to discover. clearly much that seemed valid seemed so only because he had been taught it from his earliest youth. he had read a number of books, but they did not help him much, for they were based on the morality of christianity; and even the writers who emphasised the fact that they did not believe in it were never satisfied till they had framed a system of ethics in accordance with that of the sermon on the mount. it seemed hardly worth while to read a long volume in order to learn that you ought to behave exactly like everybody else. philip wanted to find out how he ought to behave, and he thought he could prevent himself from being influenced by the opinions that surrounded him. but meanwhile he had to go on living, and, until he formed a theory of conduct, he made himself a provisional rule. "follow your inclinations with due regard to the policeman round the corner." he thought the best thing he had gained in paris was a complete liberty of spirit, and he felt himself at last absolutely free. in a desultory way he had read a good deal of philosophy, and he looked forward with delight to the leisure of the next few months. he began to read at haphazard. he entered upon each system with a little thrill of excitement, expecting to find in each some guide by which he could rule his conduct; he felt himself like a traveller in unknown countries and as he pushed forward the enterprise fascinated him; he read emotionally, as other men read pure literature, and his heart leaped as he discovered in noble words what himself had obscurely felt. his mind was concrete and moved with difficulty in regions of the abstract; but, even when he could not follow the reasoning, it gave him a curious pleasure to follow the tortuosities of thoughts that threaded their nimble way on the edge of the incomprehensible. sometimes great philosophers seemed to have nothing to say to him, but at others he recognised a mind with which he felt himself at home. he was like the explorer in central africa who comes suddenly upon wide uplands, with great trees in them and stretches of meadow, so that he might fancy himself in an english park. he delighted in the robust common sense of thomas hobbes; spinoza filled him with awe, he had never before come in contact with a mind so noble, so unapproachable and austere; it reminded him of that statue by rodin, l'age d'airain, which he passionately admired; and then there was hume: the scepticism of that charming philosopher touched a kindred note in philip; and, revelling in the lucid style which seemed able to put complicated thought into simple words, musical and measured, he read as he might have read a novel, a smile of pleasure on his lips. but in none could he find exactly what he wanted. he had read somewhere that every man was born a platonist, an aristotelian, a stoic, or an epicurean; and the history of george henry lewes (besides telling you that philosophy was all moonshine) was there to show that the thought of each philosopher was inseparably connected with the man he was. when you knew that you could guess to a great extent the philosophy he wrote. it looked as though you did not act in a certain way because you thought in a certain way, but rather that you thought in a certain way because you were made in a certain way. truth had nothing to do with it. there was no such thing as truth. each man was his own philosopher, and the elaborate systems which the great men of the past had composed were only valid for the writers. the thing then was to discover what one was and one's system of philosophy would devise itself. it seemed to philip that there were three things to find out: man's relation to the world he lives in, man's relation with the men among whom he lives, and finally man's relation to himself. he made an elaborate plan of study. the advantage of living abroad is that, coming in contact with the manners and customs of the people among whom you live, you observe them from the outside and see that they have not the necessity which those who practise them believe. you cannot fail to discover that the beliefs which to you are self-evident to the foreigner are absurd. the year in germany, the long stay in paris, had prepared philip to receive the sceptical teaching which came to him now with such a feeling of relief. he saw that nothing was good and nothing was evil; things were merely adapted to an end. he read the origin of species. it seemed to offer an explanation of much that troubled him. he was like an explorer now who has reasoned that certain natural features must present themselves, and, beating up a broad river, finds here the tributary that he expected, there the fertile, populated plains, and further on the mountains. when some great discovery is made the world is surprised afterwards that it was not accepted at once, and even on those who acknowledge its truth the effect is unimportant. the first readers of the origin of species accepted it with their reason; but their emotions, which are the ground of conduct, were untouched. philip was born a generation after this great book was published, and much that horrified its contemporaries had passed into the feeling of the time, so that he was able to accept it with a joyful heart. he was intensely moved by the grandeur of the struggle for life, and the ethical rule which it suggested seemed to fit in with his predispositions. he said to himself that might was right. society stood on one side, an organism with its own laws of growth and self-preservation, while the individual stood on the other. the actions which were to the advantage of society it termed virtuous and those which were not it called vicious. good and evil meant nothing more than that. sin was a prejudice from which the free man should rid himself. society had three arms in its contest with the individual, laws, public opinion, and conscience: the first two could be met by guile, guile is the only weapon of the weak against the strong: common opinion put the matter well when it stated that sin consisted in being found out; but conscience was the traitor within the gates; it fought in each heart the battle of society, and caused the individual to throw himself, a wanton sacrifice, to the prosperity of his enemy. for it was clear that the two were irreconcilable, the state and the individual conscious of himself. that uses the individual for its own ends, trampling upon him if he thwarts it, rewarding him with medals, pensions, honours, when he serves it faithfully; this, strong only in his independence, threads his way through the state, for convenience' sake, paying in money or service for certain benefits, but with no sense of obligation; and, indifferent to the rewards, asks only to be left alone. he is the independent traveller, who uses cook's tickets because they save trouble, but looks with good-humoured contempt on the personally conducted parties. the free man can do no wrong. he does everything he likes--if he can. his power is the only measure of his morality. he recognises the laws of the state and he can break them without sense of sin, but if he is punished he accepts the punishment without rancour. society has the power. but if for the individual there was no right and no wrong, then it seemed to philip that conscience lost its power. it was with a cry of triumph that he seized the knave and flung him from his breast. but he was no nearer to the meaning of life than he had been before. why the world was there and what men had come into existence for at all was as inexplicable as ever. surely there must be some reason. he thought of cronshaw's parable of the persian carpet. he offered it as a solution of the riddle, and mysteriously he stated that it was no answer at all unless you found it out for yourself. "i wonder what the devil he meant," philip smiled. and so, on the last day of september, eager to put into practice all these new theories of life, philip, with sixteen hundred pounds and his club-foot, set out for the second time to london to make his third start in life. liv the examination philip had passed before he was articled to a chartered accountant was sufficient qualification for him to enter a medical school. he chose st. luke's because his father had been a student there, and before the end of the summer session had gone up to london for a day in order to see the secretary. he got a list of rooms from him, and took lodgings in a dingy house which had the advantage of being within two minutes' walk of the hospital. "you'll have to arrange about a part to dissect," the secretary told him. "you'd better start on a leg; they generally do; they seem to think it easier." philip found that his first lecture was in anatomy, at eleven, and about half past ten he limped across the road, and a little nervously made his way to the medical school. just inside the door a number of notices were pinned up, lists of lectures, football fixtures, and the like; and these he looked at idly, trying to seem at his ease. young men and boys dribbled in and looked for letters in the rack, chatted with one another, and passed downstairs to the basement, in which was the student's reading-room. philip saw several fellows with a desultory, timid look dawdling around, and surmised that, like himself, they were there for the first time. when he had exhausted the notices he saw a glass door which led into what was apparently a museum, and having still twenty minutes to spare he walked in. it was a collection of pathological specimens. presently a boy of about eighteen came up to him. "i say, are you first year?" he said. "yes," answered philip. "where's the lecture room, d'you know? it's getting on for eleven." "we'd better try to find it." they walked out of the museum into a long, dark corridor, with the walls painted in two shades of red, and other youths walking along suggested the way to them. they came to a door marked anatomy theatre. philip found that there were a good many people already there. the seats were arranged in tiers, and just as philip entered an attendant came in, put a glass of water on the table in the well of the lecture-room and then brought in a pelvis and two thigh-bones, right and left. more men entered and took their seats and by eleven the theatre was fairly full. there were about sixty students. for the most part they were a good deal younger than philip, smooth-faced boys of eighteen, but there were a few who were older than he: he noticed one tall man, with a fierce red moustache, who might have been thirty; another little fellow with black hair, only a year or two younger; and there was one man with spectacles and a beard which was quite gray. the lecturer came in, mr. cameron, a handsome man with white hair and clean-cut features. he called out the long list of names. then he made a little speech. he spoke in a pleasant voice, with well-chosen words, and he seemed to take a discreet pleasure in their careful arrangement. he suggested one or two books which they might buy and advised the purchase of a skeleton. he spoke of anatomy with enthusiasm: it was essential to the study of surgery; a knowledge of it added to the appreciation of art. philip pricked up his ears. he heard later that mr. cameron lectured also to the students at the royal academy. he had lived many years in japan, with a post at the university of tokyo, and he flattered himself on his appreciation of the beautiful. "you will have to learn many tedious things," he finished, with an indulgent smile, "which you will forget the moment you have passed your final examination, but in anatomy it is better to have learned and lost than never to have learned at all." he took up the pelvis which was lying on the table and began to describe it. he spoke well and clearly. at the end of the lecture the boy who had spoken to philip in the pathological museum and sat next to him in the theatre suggested that they should go to the dissecting-room. philip and he walked along the corridor again, and an attendant told them where it was. as soon as they entered philip understood what the acrid smell was which he had noticed in the passage. he lit a pipe. the attendant gave a short laugh. "you'll soon get used to the smell. i don't notice it myself." he asked philip's name and looked at a list on the board. "you've got a leg--number four." philip saw that another name was bracketed with his own. "what's the meaning of that?" he asked. "we're very short of bodies just now. we've had to put two on each part." the dissecting-room was a large apartment painted like the corridors, the upper part a rich salmon and the dado a dark terra-cotta. at regular intervals down the long sides of the room, at right angles with the wall, were iron slabs, grooved like meat-dishes; and on each lay a body. most of them were men. they were very dark from the preservative in which they had been kept, and the skin had almost the look of leather. they were extremely emaciated. the attendant took philip up to one of the slabs. a youth was standing by it. "is your name carey?" he asked. "yes." "oh, then we've got this leg together. it's lucky it's a man, isn't it?" "why?" asked philip. "they generally always like a male better," said the attendant. "a female's liable to have a lot of fat about her." philip looked at the body. the arms and legs were so thin that there was no shape in them, and the ribs stood out so that the skin over them was tense. a man of about forty-five with a thin, gray beard, and on his skull scanty, colourless hair: the eyes were closed and the lower jaw sunken. philip could not feel that this had ever been a man, and yet in the row of them there was something terrible and ghastly. "i thought i'd start at two," said the young man who was dissecting with philip. "all right, i'll be here then." he had bought the day before the case of instruments which was needful, and now he was given a locker. he looked at the boy who had accompanied him into the dissecting-room and saw that he was white. "make you feel rotten?" philip asked him. "i've never seen anyone dead before." they walked along the corridor till they came to the entrance of the school. philip remembered fanny price. she was the first dead person he had ever seen, and he remembered how strangely it had affected him. there was an immeasurable distance between the quick and the dead: they did not seem to belong to the same species; and it was strange to think that but a little while before they had spoken and moved and eaten and laughed. there was something horrible about the dead, and you could imagine that they might cast an evil influence on the living. "what d'you say to having something to eat?" said his new friend to philip. they went down into the basement, where there was a dark room fitted up as a restaurant, and here the students were able to get the same sort of fare as they might have at an aerated bread shop. while they ate (philip had a scone and butter and a cup of chocolate), he discovered that his companion was called dunsford. he was a fresh-complexioned lad, with pleasant blue eyes and curly, dark hair, large-limbed, slow of speech and movement. he had just come from clifton. "are you taking the conjoint?" he asked philip. "yes, i want to get qualified as soon as i can." "i'm taking it too, but i shall take the f. r. c. s. afterwards. i'm going in for surgery." most of the students took the curriculum of the conjoint board of the college of surgeons and the college of physicians; but the more ambitious or the more industrious added to this the longer studies which led to a degree from the university of london. when philip went to st. luke's changes had recently been made in the regulations, and the course took five years instead of four as it had done for those who registered before the autumn of . dunsford was well up in his plans and told philip the usual course of events. the "first conjoint" examination consisted of biology, anatomy, and chemistry; but it could be taken in sections, and most fellows took their biology three months after entering the school. this science had been recently added to the list of subjects upon which the student was obliged to inform himself, but the amount of knowledge required was very small. when philip went back to the dissecting-room, he was a few minutes late, since he had forgotten to buy the loose sleeves which they wore to protect their shirts, and he found a number of men already working. his partner had started on the minute and was busy dissecting out cutaneous nerves. two others were engaged on the second leg, and more were occupied with the arms. "you don't mind my having started?" "that's all right, fire away," said philip. he took the book, open at a diagram of the dissected part, and looked at what they had to find. "you're rather a dab at this," said philip. "oh, i've done a good deal of dissecting before, animals, you know, for the pre sci." there was a certain amount of conversation over the dissecting-table, partly about the work, partly about the prospects of the football season, the demonstrators, and the lectures. philip felt himself a great deal older than the others. they were raw schoolboys. but age is a matter of knowledge rather than of years; and newson, the active young man who was dissecting with him, was very much at home with his subject. he was perhaps not sorry to show off, and he explained very fully to philip what he was about. philip, notwithstanding his hidden stores of wisdom, listened meekly. then philip took up the scalpel and the tweezers and began working while the other looked on. "ripping to have him so thin," said newson, wiping his hands. "the blighter can't have had anything to eat for a month." "i wonder what he died of," murmured philip. "oh, i don't know, any old thing, starvation chiefly, i suppose.... i say, look out, don't cut that artery." "it's all very fine to say, don't cut that artery," remarked one of the men working on the opposite leg. "silly old fool's got an artery in the wrong place." "arteries always are in the wrong place," said newson. "the normal's the one thing you practically never get. that's why it's called the normal." "don't say things like that," said philip, "or i shall cut myself." "if you cut yourself," answered newson, full of information, "wash it at once with antiseptic. it's the one thing you've got to be careful about. there was a chap here last year who gave himself only a prick, and he didn't bother about it, and he got septicaemia." "did he get all right?" "oh, no, he died in a week. i went and had a look at him in the p. m. room." philip's back ached by the time it was proper to have tea, and his luncheon had been so light that he was quite ready for it. his hands smelt of that peculiar odour which he had first noticed that morning in the corridor. he thought his muffin tasted of it too. "oh, you'll get used to that," said newson. "when you don't have the good old dissecting-room stink about, you feel quite lonely." "i'm not going to let it spoil my appetite," said philip, as he followed up the muffin with a piece of cake. lv philip's ideas of the life of medical students, like those of the public at large, were founded on the pictures which charles dickens drew in the middle of the nineteenth century. he soon discovered that bob sawyer, if he ever existed, was no longer at all like the medical student of the present. it is a mixed lot which enters upon the medical profession, and naturally there are some who are lazy and reckless. they think it is an easy life, idle away a couple of years; and then, because their funds come to an end or because angry parents refuse any longer to support them, drift away from the hospital. others find the examinations too hard for them; one failure after another robs them of their nerve; and, panic-stricken, they forget as soon as they come into the forbidding buildings of the conjoint board the knowledge which before they had so pat. they remain year after year, objects of good-humoured scorn to younger men: some of them crawl through the examination of the apothecaries hall; others become non-qualified assistants, a precarious position in which they are at the mercy of their employer; their lot is poverty, drunkenness, and heaven only knows their end. but for the most part medical students are industrious young men of the middle-class with a sufficient allowance to live in the respectable fashion they have been used to; many are the sons of doctors who have already something of the professional manner; their career is mapped out: as soon as they are qualified they propose to apply for a hospital appointment, after holding which (and perhaps a trip to the far east as a ship's doctor), they will join their father and spend the rest of their days in a country practice. one or two are marked out as exceptionally brilliant: they will take the various prizes and scholarships which are open each year to the deserving, get one appointment after another at the hospital, go on the staff, take a consulting-room in harley street, and, specialising in one subject or another, become prosperous, eminent, and titled. the medical profession is the only one which a man may enter at any age with some chance of making a living. among the men of philip's year were three or four who were past their first youth: one had been in the navy, from which according to report he had been dismissed for drunkenness; he was a man of thirty, with a red face, a brusque manner, and a loud voice. another was a married man with two children, who had lost money through a defaulting solicitor; he had a bowed look as if the world were too much for him; he went about his work silently, and it was plain that he found it difficult at his age to commit facts to memory. his mind worked slowly. his effort at application was painful to see. philip made himself at home in his tiny rooms. he arranged his books and hung on the walls such pictures and sketches as he possessed. above him, on the drawing-room floor, lived a fifth-year man called griffiths; but philip saw little of him, partly because he was occupied chiefly in the wards and partly because he had been to oxford. such of the students as had been to a university kept a good deal together: they used a variety of means natural to the young in order to impress upon the less fortunate a proper sense of their inferiority; the rest of the students found their olympian serenity rather hard to bear. griffiths was a tall fellow, with a quantity of curly red hair and blue eyes, a white skin and a very red mouth; he was one of those fortunate people whom everybody liked, for he had high spirits and a constant gaiety. he strummed a little on the piano and sang comic songs with gusto; and evening after evening, while philip was reading in his solitary room, he heard the shouts and the uproarious laughter of griffiths' friends above him. he thought of those delightful evenings in paris when they would sit in the studio, lawson and he, flanagan and clutton, and talk of art and morals, the love-affairs of the present, and the fame of the future. he felt sick at heart. he found that it was easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its results. the worst of it was that the work seemed to him very tedious. he had got out of the habit of being asked questions by demonstrators. his attention wandered at lectures. anatomy was a dreary science, a mere matter of learning by heart an enormous number of facts; dissection bored him; he did not see the use of dissecting out laboriously nerves and arteries when with much less trouble you could see in the diagrams of a book or in the specimens of the pathological museum exactly where they were. he made friends by chance, but not intimate friends, for he seemed to have nothing in particular to say to his companions. when he tried to interest himself in their concerns, he felt that they found him patronising. he was not of those who can talk of what moves them without caring whether it bores or not the people they talk to. one man, hearing that he had studied art in paris, and fancying himself on his taste, tried to discuss art with him; but philip was impatient of views which did not agree with his own; and, finding quickly that the other's ideas were conventional, grew monosyllabic. philip desired popularity but could bring himself to make no advances to others. a fear of rebuff prevented him from affability, and he concealed his shyness, which was still intense, under a frigid taciturnity. he was going through the same experience as he had done at school, but here the freedom of the medical students' life made it possible for him to live a good deal by himself. it was through no effort of his that he became friendly with dunsford, the fresh-complexioned, heavy lad whose acquaintance he had made at the beginning of the session. dunsford attached himself to philip merely because he was the first person he had known at st. luke's. he had no friends in london, and on saturday nights he and philip got into the habit of going together to the pit of a music-hall or the gallery of a theatre. he was stupid, but he was good-humoured and never took offence; he always said the obvious thing, but when philip laughed at him merely smiled. he had a very sweet smile. though philip made him his butt, he liked him; he was amused by his candour and delighted with his agreeable nature: dunsford had the charm which himself was acutely conscious of not possessing. they often went to have tea at a shop in parliament street, because dunsford admired one of the young women who waited. philip did not find anything attractive in her. she was tall and thin, with narrow hips and the chest of a boy. "no one would look at her in paris," said philip scornfully. "she's got a ripping face," said dunsford. "what does the face matter?" she had the small regular features, the blue eyes, and the broad low brow, which the victorian painters, lord leighton, alma tadema, and a hundred others, induced the world they lived in to accept as a type of greek beauty. she seemed to have a great deal of hair: it was arranged with peculiar elaboration and done over the forehead in what she called an alexandra fringe. she was very anaemic. her thin lips were pale, and her skin was delicate, of a faint green colour, without a touch of red even in the cheeks. she had very good teeth. she took great pains to prevent her work from spoiling her hands, and they were small, thin, and white. she went about her duties with a bored look. dunsford, very shy with women, had never succeeded in getting into conversation with her; and he urged philip to help him. "all i want is a lead," he said, "and then i can manage for myself." philip, to please him, made one or two remarks, but she answered with monosyllables. she had taken their measure. they were boys, and she surmised they were students. she had no use for them. dunsford noticed that a man with sandy hair and a bristly moustache, who looked like a german, was favoured with her attention whenever he came into the shop; and then it was only by calling her two or three times that they could induce her to take their order. she used the clients whom she did not know with frigid insolence, and when she was talking to a friend was perfectly indifferent to the calls of the hurried. she had the art of treating women who desired refreshment with just that degree of impertinence which irritated them without affording them an opportunity of complaining to the management. one day dunsford told him her name was mildred. he had heard one of the other girls in the shop address her. "what an odious name," said philip. "why?" asked dunsford. "i like it." "it's so pretentious." it chanced that on this day the german was not there, and, when she brought the tea, philip, smiling, remarked: "your friend's not here today." "i don't know what you mean," she said coldly. "i was referring to the nobleman with the sandy moustache. has he left you for another?" "some people would do better to mind their own business," she retorted. she left them, and, since for a minute or two there was no one to attend to, sat down and looked at the evening paper which a customer had left behind him. "you are a fool to put her back up," said dunsford. "i'm really quite indifferent to the attitude of her vertebrae," replied philip. but he was piqued. it irritated him that when he tried to be agreeable with a woman she should take offence. when he asked for the bill, he hazarded a remark which he meant to lead further. "are we no longer on speaking terms?" he smiled. "i'm here to take orders and to wait on customers. i've got nothing to say to them, and i don't want them to say anything to me." she put down the slip of paper on which she had marked the sum they had to pay, and walked back to the table at which she had been sitting. philip flushed with anger. "that's one in the eye for you, carey," said dunsford, when they got outside. "ill-mannered slut," said philip. "i shan't go there again." his influence with dunsford was strong enough to get him to take their tea elsewhere, and dunsford soon found another young woman to flirt with. but the snub which the waitress had inflicted on him rankled. if she had treated him with civility he would have been perfectly indifferent to her; but it was obvious that she disliked him rather than otherwise, and his pride was wounded. he could not suppress a desire to be even with her. he was impatient with himself because he had so petty a feeling, but three or four days' firmness, during which he would not go to the shop, did not help him to surmount it; and he came to the conclusion that it would be least trouble to see her. having done so he would certainly cease to think of her. pretexting an appointment one afternoon, for he was not a little ashamed of his weakness, he left dunsford and went straight to the shop which he had vowed never again to enter. he saw the waitress the moment he came in and sat down at one of her tables. he expected her to make some reference to the fact that he had not been there for a week, but when she came up for his order she said nothing. he had heard her say to other customers: "you're quite a stranger." she gave no sign that she had ever seen him before. in order to see whether she had really forgotten him, when she brought his tea, he asked: "have you seen my friend tonight?" "no, he's not been in here for some days." he wanted to use this as the beginning of a conversation, but he was strangely nervous and could think of nothing to say. she gave him no opportunity, but at once went away. he had no chance of saying anything till he asked for his bill. "filthy weather, isn't it?" he said. it was mortifying that he had been forced to prepare such a phrase as that. he could not make out why she filled him with such embarrassment. "it don't make much difference to me what the weather is, having to be in here all day." there was an insolence in her tone that peculiarly irritated him. a sarcasm rose to his lips, but he forced himself to be silent. "i wish to god she'd say something really cheeky," he raged to himself, "so that i could report her and get her sacked. it would serve her damned well right." lvi he could not get her out of his mind. he laughed angrily at his own foolishness: it was absurd to care what an anaemic little waitress said to him; but he was strangely humiliated. though no one knew of the humiliation but dunsford, and he had certainly forgotten, philip felt that he could have no peace till he had wiped it out. he thought over what he had better do. he made up his mind that he would go to the shop every day; it was obvious that he had made a disagreeable impression on her, but he thought he had the wits to eradicate it; he would take care not to say anything at which the most susceptible person could be offended. all this he did, but it had no effect. when he went in and said good-evening she answered with the same words, but when once he omitted to say it in order to see whether she would say it first, she said nothing at all. he murmured in his heart an expression which though frequently applicable to members of the female sex is not often used of them in polite society; but with an unmoved face he ordered his tea. he made up his mind not to speak a word, and left the shop without his usual good-night. he promised himself that he would not go any more, but the next day at tea-time he grew restless. he tried to think of other things, but he had no command over his thoughts. at last he said desperately: "after all there's no reason why i shouldn't go if i want to." the struggle with himself had taken a long time, and it was getting on for seven when he entered the shop. "i thought you weren't coming," the girl said to him, when he sat down. his heart leaped in his bosom and he felt himself reddening. "i was detained. i couldn't come before." "cutting up people, i suppose?" "not so bad as that." "you are a stoodent, aren't you?" "yes." but that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. she went away and, since at that late hour there was nobody else at her tables, she immersed herself in a novelette. this was before the time of the sixpenny reprints. there was a regular supply of inexpensive fiction written to order by poor hacks for the consumption of the illiterate. philip was elated; she had addressed him of her own accord; he saw the time approaching when his turn would come and he would tell her exactly what he thought of her. it would be a great comfort to express the immensity of his contempt. he looked at her. it was true that her profile was beautiful; it was extraordinary how english girls of that class had so often a perfection of outline which took your breath away, but it was as cold as marble; and the faint green of her delicate skin gave an impression of unhealthiness. all the waitresses were dressed alike, in plain black dresses, with a white apron, cuffs, and a small cap. on a half sheet of paper that he had in his pocket philip made a sketch of her as she sat leaning over her book (she outlined the words with her lips as she read), and left it on the table when he went away. it was an inspiration, for next day, when he came in, she smiled at him. "i didn't know you could draw," she said. "i was an art-student in paris for two years." "i showed that drawing you left be'ind you last night to the manageress and she was struck with it. was it meant to be me?" "it was," said philip. when she went for his tea, one of the other girls came up to him. "i saw that picture you done of miss rogers. it was the very image of her," she said. that was the first time he had heard her name, and when he wanted his bill he called her by it. "i see you know my name," she said, when she came. "your friend mentioned it when she said something to me about that drawing." "she wants you to do one of her. don't you do it. if you once begin you'll have to go on, and they'll all be wanting you to do them." then without a pause, with peculiar inconsequence, she said: "where's that young fellow that used to come with you? has he gone away?" "fancy your remembering him," said philip. "he was a nice-looking young fellow." philip felt quite a peculiar sensation in his heart. he did not know what it was. dunsford had jolly curling hair, a fresh complexion, and a beautiful smile. philip thought of these advantages with envy. "oh, he's in love," said he, with a little laugh. philip repeated every word of the conversation to himself as he limped home. she was quite friendly with him now. when opportunity arose he would offer to make a more finished sketch of her, he was sure she would like that; her face was interesting, the profile was lovely, and there was something curiously fascinating about the chlorotic colour. he tried to think what it was like; at first he thought of pea soup; but, driving away that idea angrily, he thought of the petals of a yellow rosebud when you tore it to pieces before it had burst. he had no ill-feeling towards her now. "she's not a bad sort," he murmured. it was silly of him to take offence at what she had said; it was doubtless his own fault; she had not meant to make herself disagreeable: he ought to be accustomed by now to making at first sight a bad impression on people. he was flattered at the success of his drawing; she looked upon him with more interest now that she was aware of this small talent. he was restless next day. he thought of going to lunch at the tea-shop, but he was certain there would be many people there then, and mildred would not be able to talk to him. he had managed before this to get out of having tea with dunsford, and, punctually at half past four (he had looked at his watch a dozen times), he went into the shop. mildred had her back turned to him. she was sitting down, talking to the german whom philip had seen there every day till a fortnight ago and since then had not seen at all. she was laughing at what he said. philip thought she had a common laugh, and it made him shudder. he called her, but she took no notice; he called her again; then, growing angry, for he was impatient, he rapped the table loudly with his stick. she approached sulkily. "how d'you do?" he said. "you seem to be in a great hurry." she looked down at him with the insolent manner which he knew so well. "i say, what's the matter with you?" he asked. "if you'll kindly give your order i'll get what you want. i can't stand talking all night." "tea and toasted bun, please," philip answered briefly. he was furious with her. he had the star with him and read it elaborately when she brought the tea. "if you'll give me my bill now i needn't trouble you again," he said icily. she wrote out the slip, placed it on the table, and went back to the german. soon she was talking to him with animation. he was a man of middle height, with the round head of his nation and a sallow face; his moustache was large and bristling; he had on a tail-coat and gray trousers, and he wore a massive gold watch-chain. philip thought the other girls looked from him to the pair at the table and exchanged significant glances. he felt certain they were laughing at him, and his blood boiled. he detested mildred now with all his heart. he knew that the best thing he could do was to cease coming to the tea-shop, but he could not bear to think that he had been worsted in the affair, and he devised a plan to show her that he despised her. next day he sat down at another table and ordered his tea from another waitress. mildred's friend was there again and she was talking to him. she paid no attention to philip, and so when he went out he chose a moment when she had to cross his path: as he passed he looked at her as though he had never seen her before. he repeated this for three or four days. he expected that presently she would take the opportunity to say something to him; he thought she would ask why he never came to one of her tables now, and he had prepared an answer charged with all the loathing he felt for her. he knew it was absurd to trouble, but he could not help himself. she had beaten him again. the german suddenly disappeared, but philip still sat at other tables. she paid no attention to him. suddenly he realised that what he did was a matter of complete indifference to her; he could go on in that way till doomsday, and it would have no effect. "i've not finished yet," he said to himself. the day after he sat down in his old seat, and when she came up said good-evening as though he had not ignored her for a week. his face was placid, but he could not prevent the mad beating of his heart. at that time the musical comedy had lately leaped into public favour, and he was sure that mildred would be delighted to go to one. "i say," he said suddenly, "i wonder if you'd dine with me one night and come to the belle of new york. i'll get a couple of stalls." he added the last sentence in order to tempt her. he knew that when the girls went to the play it was either in the pit, or, if some man took them, seldom to more expensive seats than the upper circle. mildred's pale face showed no change of expression. "i don't mind," she said. "when will you come?" "i get off early on thursdays." they made arrangements. mildred lived with an aunt at herne hill. the play began at eight so they must dine at seven. she proposed that he should meet her in the second-class waiting-room at victoria station. she showed no pleasure, but accepted the invitation as though she conferred a favour. philip was vaguely irritated. lvii philip arrived at victoria station nearly half an hour before the time which mildred had appointed, and sat down in the second-class waiting-room. he waited and she did not come. he began to grow anxious, and walked into the station watching the incoming suburban trains; the hour which she had fixed passed, and still there was no sign of her. philip was impatient. he went into the other waiting-rooms and looked at the people sitting in them. suddenly his heart gave a great thud. "there you are. i thought you were never coming." "i like that after keeping me waiting all this time. i had half a mind to go back home again." "but you said you'd come to the second-class waiting-room." "i didn't say any such thing. it isn't exactly likely i'd sit in the second-class room when i could sit in the first is it?" though philip was sure he had not made a mistake, he said nothing, and they got into a cab. "where are we dining?" she asked. "i thought of the adelphi restaurant. will that suit you?" "i don't mind where we dine." she spoke ungraciously. she was put out by being kept waiting and answered philip's attempt at conversation with monosyllables. she wore a long cloak of some rough, dark material and a crochet shawl over her head. they reached the restaurant and sat down at a table. she looked round with satisfaction. the red shades to the candles on the tables, the gold of the decorations, the looking-glasses, lent the room a sumptuous air. "i've never been here before." she gave philip a smile. she had taken off her cloak; and he saw that she wore a pale blue dress, cut square at the neck; and her hair was more elaborately arranged than ever. he had ordered champagne and when it came her eyes sparkled. "you are going it," she said. "because i've ordered fiz?" he asked carelessly, as though he never drank anything else. "i was surprised when you asked me to do a theatre with you." conversation did not go very easily, for she did not seem to have much to say; and philip was nervously conscious that he was not amusing her. she listened carelessly to his remarks, with her eyes on other diners, and made no pretence that she was interested in him. he made one or two little jokes, but she took them quite seriously. the only sign of vivacity he got was when he spoke of the other girls in the shop; she could not bear the manageress and told him all her misdeeds at length. "i can't stick her at any price and all the air she gives herself. sometimes i've got more than half a mind to tell her something she doesn't think i know anything about." "what is that?" asked philip. "well, i happen to know that she's not above going to eastbourne with a man for the week-end now and again. one of the girls has a married sister who goes there with her husband, and she's seen her. she was staying at the same boarding-house, and she 'ad a wedding-ring on, and i know for one she's not married." philip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her more affable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a success. he noticed that she held her knife as though it were a pen-holder, and when she drank protruded her little finger. he started several topics of conversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered with irritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughing with the german. they finished dinner and went to the play. philip was a very cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with scorn. he thought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it seemed to him that they did these things much better in france; but mildred enjoyed herself thoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached, looking at philip now and then when something tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and she applauded rapturously. "this is the seventh time i've been," she said, after the first act, "and i don't mind if i come seven times more." she was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls. she pointed out to philip those who were painted and those who wore false hair. "it is horrible, these west-end people," she said. "i don't know how they can do it." she put her hand to her hair. "mine's all my own, every bit of it." she found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to say something disagreeable. it made philip uneasy. he supposed that next day she would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out and that he had bored her to death. he disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, he wanted to be with her. on the way home he asked: "i hope you've enjoyed yourself?" "rather." "will you come out with me again one evening?" "i don't mind." he could never get beyond such expressions as that. her indifference maddened him. "that sounds as if you didn't much care if you came or not." "oh, if you don't take me out some other fellow will. i need never want for men who'll take me to the theatre." philip was silent. they came to the station, and he went to the booking-office. "i've got my season," she said. "i thought i'd take you home as it's rather late, if you don't mind." "oh, i don't mind if it gives you any pleasure." he took a single first for her and a return for himself. "well, you're not mean, i will say that for you," she said, when he opened the carriage-door. philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other people entered and it was impossible to speak. they got out at herne hill, and he accompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived. "i'll say good-night to you here," she said, holding out her hand. "you'd better not come up to the door. i know what people are, and i don't want to have anybody talking." she said good-night and walked quickly away. he could see the white shawl in the darkness. he thought she might turn round, but she did not. philip saw which house she went into, and in a moment he walked along to look at it. it was a trim, common little house of yellow brick, exactly like all the other little houses in the street. he stood outside for a few minutes, and presently the window on the top floor was darkened. philip strolled slowly back to the station. the evening had been unsatisfactory. he felt irritated, restless, and miserable. when he lay in bed he seemed still to see her sitting in the corner of the railway carriage, with the white crochet shawl over her head. he did not know how he was to get through the hours that must pass before his eyes rested on her again. he thought drowsily of her thin face, with its delicate features, and the greenish pallor of her skin. he was not happy with her, but he was unhappy away from her. he wanted to sit by her side and look at her, he wanted to touch her, he wanted... the thought came to him and he did not finish it, suddenly he grew wide awake... he wanted to kiss the thin, pale mouth with its narrow lips. the truth came to him at last. he was in love with her. it was incredible. he had often thought of falling in love, and there was one scene which he had pictured to himself over and over again. he saw himself coming into a ball-room; his eyes fell on a little group of men and women talking; and one of the women turned round. her eyes fell upon him, and he knew that the gasp in his throat was in her throat too. he stood quite still. she was tall and dark and beautiful with eyes like the night; she was dressed in white, and in her black hair shone diamonds; they stared at one another, forgetting that people surrounded them. he went straight up to her, and she moved a little towards him. both felt that the formality of introduction was out of place. he spoke to her. "i've been looking for you all my life," he said. "you've come at last," she murmured. "will you dance with me?" she surrendered herself to his outstretched hands and they danced. (philip always pretended that he was not lame.) she danced divinely. "i've never danced with anyone who danced like you," she said. she tore up her programme, and they danced together the whole evening. "i'm so thankful that i waited for you," he said to her. "i knew that in the end i must meet you." people in the ball-room stared. they did not care. they did not wish to hide their passion. at last they went into the garden. he flung a light cloak over her shoulders and put her in a waiting cab. they caught the midnight train to paris; and they sped through the silent, star-lit night into the unknown. he thought of this old fancy of his, and it seemed impossible that he should be in love with mildred rogers. her name was grotesque. he did not think her pretty; he hated the thinness of her, only that evening he had noticed how the bones of her chest stood out in evening-dress; he went over her features one by one; he did not like her mouth, and the unhealthiness of her colour vaguely repelled him. she was common. her phrases, so bald and few, constantly repeated, showed the emptiness of her mind; he recalled her vulgar little laugh at the jokes of the musical comedy; and he remembered the little finger carefully extended when she held her glass to her mouth; her manners like her conversation, were odiously genteel. he remembered her insolence; sometimes he had felt inclined to box her ears; and suddenly, he knew not why, perhaps it was the thought of hitting her or the recollection of her tiny, beautiful ears, he was seized by an uprush of emotion. he yearned for her. he thought of taking her in his arms, the thin, fragile body, and kissing her pale mouth: he wanted to pass his fingers down the slightly greenish cheeks. he wanted her. he had thought of love as a rapture which seized one so that all the world seemed spring-like, he had looked forward to an ecstatic happiness; but this was not happiness; it was a hunger of the soul, it was a painful yearning, it was a bitter anguish, he had never known before. he tried to think when it had first come to him. he did not know. he only remembered that each time he had gone into the shop, after the first two or three times, it had been with a little feeling in the heart that was pain; and he remembered that when she spoke to him he felt curiously breathless. when she left him it was wretchedness, and when she came to him again it was despair. he stretched himself in his bed as a dog stretches himself. he wondered how he was going to endure that ceaseless aching of his soul. lviii philip woke early next morning, and his first thought was of mildred. it struck him that he might meet her at victoria station and walk with her to the shop. he shaved quickly, scrambled into his clothes, and took a bus to the station. he was there by twenty to eight and watched the incoming trains. crowds poured out of them, clerks and shop-people at that early hour, and thronged up the platform: they hurried along, sometimes in pairs, here and there a group of girls, but more often alone. they were white, most of them, ugly in the early morning, and they had an abstracted look; the younger ones walked lightly, as though the cement of the platform were pleasant to tread, but the others went as though impelled by a machine: their faces were set in an anxious frown. at last philip saw mildred, and he went up to her eagerly. "good-morning," he said. "i thought i'd come and see how you were after last night." she wore an old brown ulster and a sailor hat. it was very clear that she was not pleased to see him. "oh, i'm all right. i haven't got much time to waste." "d'you mind if i walk down victoria street with you?" "i'm none too early. i shall have to walk fast," she answered, looking down at philip's club-foot. he turned scarlet. "i beg your pardon. i won't detain you." "you can please yourself." she went on, and he with a sinking heart made his way home to breakfast. he hated her. he knew he was a fool to bother about her; she was not the sort of woman who would ever care two straws for him, and she must look upon his deformity with distaste. he made up his mind that he would not go in to tea that afternoon, but, hating himself, he went. she nodded to him as he came in and smiled. "i expect i was rather short with you this morning," she said. "you see, i didn't expect you, and it came like a surprise." "oh, it doesn't matter at all." he felt that a great weight had suddenly been lifted from him. he was infinitely grateful for one word of kindness. "why don't you sit down?" he asked. "nobody's wanting you just now." "i don't mind if i do." he looked at her, but could think of nothing to say; he racked his brains anxiously, seeking for a remark which should keep her by him; he wanted to tell her how much she meant to him; but he did not know how to make love now that he loved in earnest. "where's your friend with the fair moustache? i haven't seen him lately." "oh, he's gone back to birmingham. he's in business there. he only comes up to london every now and again." "is he in love with you?" "you'd better ask him," she said, with a laugh. "i don't know what it's got to do with you if he is." a bitter answer leaped to his tongue, but he was learning self-restraint. "i wonder why you say things like that," was all he permitted himself to say. she looked at him with those indifferent eyes of hers. "it looks as if you didn't set much store on me," he added. "why should i?" "no reason at all." he reached over for his paper. "you are quick-tempered," she said, when she saw the gesture. "you do take offence easily." he smiled and looked at her appealingly. "will you do something for me?" he asked. "that depends what it is." "let me walk back to the station with you tonight." "i don't mind." he went out after tea and went back to his rooms, but at eight o'clock, when the shop closed, he was waiting outside. "you are a caution," she said, when she came out. "i don't understand you." "i shouldn't have thought it was very difficult," he answered bitterly. "did any of the girls see you waiting for me?" "i don't know and i don't care." "they all laugh at you, you know. they say you're spoony on me." "much you care," he muttered. "now then, quarrelsome." at the station he took a ticket and said he was going to accompany her home. "you don't seem to have much to do with your time," she said. "i suppose i can waste it in my own way." they seemed to be always on the verge of a quarrel. the fact was that he hated himself for loving her. she seemed to be constantly humiliating him, and for each snub that he endured he owed her a grudge. but she was in a friendly mood that evening, and talkative: she told him that her parents were dead; she gave him to understand that she did not have to earn her living, but worked for amusement. "my aunt doesn't like my going to business. i can have the best of everything at home. i don't want you to think i work because i need to." philip knew that she was not speaking the truth. the gentility of her class made her use this pretence to avoid the stigma attached to earning her living. "my family's very well-connected," she said. philip smiled faintly, and she noticed it. "what are you laughing at?" she said quickly. "don't you believe i'm telling you the truth?" "of course i do," he answered. she looked at him suspiciously, but in a moment could not resist the temptation to impress him with the splendour of her early days. "my father always kept a dog-cart, and we had three servants. we had a cook and a housemaid and an odd man. we used to grow beautiful roses. people used to stop at the gate and ask who the house belonged to, the roses were so beautiful. of course it isn't very nice for me having to mix with them girls in the shop, it's not the class of person i've been used to, and sometimes i really think i'll give up business on that account. it's not the work i mind, don't think that; but it's the class of people i have to mix with." they were sitting opposite one another in the train, and philip, listening sympathetically to what she said, was quite happy. he was amused at her naivete and slightly touched. there was a very faint colour in her cheeks. he was thinking that it would be delightful to kiss the tip of her chin. "the moment you come into the shop i saw you was a gentleman in every sense of the word. was your father a professional man?" "he was a doctor." "you can always tell a professional man. there's something about them, i don't know what it is, but i know at once." they walked along from the station together. "i say, i want you to come and see another play with me," he said. "i don't mind," she said. "you might go so far as to say you'd like to." "why?" "it doesn't matter. let's fix a day. would saturday night suit you?" "yes, that'll do." they made further arrangements, and then found themselves at the corner of the road in which she lived. she gave him her hand, and he held it. "i say, i do so awfully want to call you mildred." "you may if you like, i don't care." "and you'll call me philip, won't you?" "i will if i can think of it. it seems more natural to call you mr. carey." he drew her slightly towards him, but she leaned back. "what are you doing?" "won't you kiss me good-night?" he whispered. "impudence!" she said. she snatched away her hand and hurried towards her house. philip bought tickets for saturday night. it was not one of the days on which she got off early and therefore she would have no time to go home and change; but she meant to bring a frock up with her in the morning and hurry into her clothes at the shop. if the manageress was in a good temper she would let her go at seven. philip had agreed to wait outside from a quarter past seven onwards. he looked forward to the occasion with painful eagerness, for in the cab on the way from the theatre to the station he thought she would let him kiss her. the vehicle gave every facility for a man to put his arm round a girl's waist (an advantage which the hansom had over the taxi of the present day), and the delight of that was worth the cost of the evening's entertainment. but on saturday afternoon when he went in to have tea, in order to confirm the arrangements, he met the man with the fair moustache coming out of the shop. he knew by now that he was called miller. he was a naturalized german, who had anglicised his name, and he had lived many years in england. philip had heard him speak, and, though his english was fluent and natural, it had not quite the intonation of the native. philip knew that he was flirting with mildred, and he was horribly jealous of him; but he took comfort in the coldness of her temperament, which otherwise distressed him; and, thinking her incapable of passion, he looked upon his rival as no better off than himself. but his heart sank now, for his first thought was that miller's sudden appearance might interfere with the jaunt which he had so looked forward to. he entered, sick with apprehension. the waitress came up to him, took his order for tea, and presently brought it. "i'm awfully sorry," she said, with an expression on her face of real distress. "i shan't be able to come tonight after all." "why?" said philip. "don't look so stern about it," she laughed. "it's not my fault. my aunt was taken ill last night, and it's the girl's night out so i must go and sit with her. she can't be left alone, can she?" "it doesn't matter. i'll see you home instead." "but you've got the tickets. it would be a pity to waste them." he took them out of his pocket and deliberately tore them up. "what are you doing that for?" "you don't suppose i want to go and see a rotten musical comedy by myself, do you? i only took seats there for your sake." "you can't see me home if that's what you mean?" "you've made other arrangements." "i don't know what you mean by that. you're just as selfish as all the rest of them. you only think of yourself. it's not my fault if my aunt's queer." she quickly wrote out his bill and left him. philip knew very little about women, or he would have been aware that one should accept their most transparent lies. he made up his mind that he would watch the shop and see for certain whether mildred went out with the german. he had an unhappy passion for certainty. at seven he stationed himself on the opposite pavement. he looked about for miller, but did not see him. in ten minutes she came out, she had on the cloak and shawl which she had worn when he took her to the shaftesbury theatre. it was obvious that she was not going home. she saw him before he had time to move away, started a little, and then came straight up to him. "what are you doing here?" she said. "taking the air," he answered. "you're spying on me, you dirty little cad. i thought you was a gentleman." "did you think a gentleman would be likely to take any interest in you?" he murmured. there was a devil within him which forced him to make matters worse. he wanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting him. "i suppose i can change my mind if i like. i'm not obliged to come out with you. i tell you i'm going home, and i won't be followed or spied upon." "have you seen miller today?" "that's no business of yours. in point of fact i haven't, so you're wrong again." "i saw him this afternoon. he'd just come out of the shop when i went in." "well, what if he did? i can go out with him if i want to, can't i? i don't know what you've got to say to it." "he's keeping you waiting, isn't he?" "well, i'd rather wait for him than have you wait for me. put that in your pipe and smoke it. and now p'raps you'll go off home and mind your own business in future." his mood changed suddenly from anger to despair, and his voice trembled when he spoke. "i say, don't be beastly with me, mildred. you know i'm awfully fond of you. i think i love you with all my heart. won't you change your mind? i was looking forward to this evening so awfully. you see, he hasn't come, and he can't care twopence about you really. won't you dine with me? i'll get some more tickets, and we'll go anywhere you like." "i tell you i won't. it's no good you talking. i've made up my mind, and when i make up my mind i keep to it." he looked at her for a moment. his heart was torn with anguish. people were hurrying past them on the pavement, and cabs and omnibuses rolled by noisily. he saw that mildred's eyes were wandering. she was afraid of missing miller in the crowd. "i can't go on like this," groaned philip. "it's too degrading. if i go now i go for good. unless you'll come with me tonight you'll never see me again." "you seem to think that'll be an awful thing for me. all i say is, good riddance to bad rubbish." "then good-bye." he nodded and limped away slowly, for he hoped with all his heart that she would call him back. at the next lamp-post he stopped and looked over his shoulder. he thought she might beckon to him--he was willing to forget everything, he was ready for any humiliation--but she had turned away, and apparently had ceased to trouble about him. he realised that she was glad to be quit of him. lix philip passed the evening wretchedly. he had told his landlady that he would not be in, so there was nothing for him to eat, and he had to go to gatti's for dinner. afterwards he went back to his rooms, but griffiths on the floor above him was having a party, and the noisy merriment made his own misery more hard to bear. he went to a music-hall, but it was saturday night and there was standing-room only: after half an hour of boredom his legs grew tired and he went home. he tried to read, but he could not fix his attention; and yet it was necessary that he should work hard. his examination in biology was in little more than a fortnight, and, though it was easy, he had neglected his lectures of late and was conscious that he knew nothing. it was only a viva, however, and he felt sure that in a fortnight he could find out enough about the subject to scrape through. he had confidence in his intelligence. he threw aside his book and gave himself up to thinking deliberately of the matter which was in his mind all the time. he reproached himself bitterly for his behaviour that evening. why had he given her the alternative that she must dine with him or else never see him again? of course she refused. he should have allowed for her pride. he had burnt his ships behind him. it would not be so hard to bear if he thought that she was suffering now, but he knew her too well: she was perfectly indifferent to him. if he hadn't been a fool he would have pretended to believe her story; he ought to have had the strength to conceal his disappointment and the self-control to master his temper. he could not tell why he loved her. he had read of the idealisation that takes place in love, but he saw her exactly as she was. she was not amusing or clever, her mind was common; she had a vulgar shrewdness which revolted him, she had no gentleness nor softness. as she would have put it herself, she was on the make. what aroused her admiration was a clever trick played on an unsuspecting person; to 'do' somebody always gave her satisfaction. philip laughed savagely as he thought of her gentility and the refinement with which she ate her food; she could not bear a coarse word, so far as her limited vocabulary reached she had a passion for euphemisms, and she scented indecency everywhere; she never spoke of trousers but referred to them as nether garments; she thought it slightly indelicate to blow her nose and did it in a deprecating way. she was dreadfully anaemic and suffered from the dyspepsia which accompanies that ailing. philip was repelled by her flat breast and narrow hips, and he hated the vulgar way in which she did her hair. he loathed and despised himself for loving her. the fact remained that he was helpless. he felt just as he had felt sometimes in the hands of a bigger boy at school. he had struggled against the superior strength till his own strength was gone, and he was rendered quite powerless--he remembered the peculiar languor he had felt in his limbs, almost as though he were paralysed--so that he could not help himself at all. he might have been dead. he felt just that same weakness now. he loved the woman so that he knew he had never loved before. he did not mind her faults of person or of character, he thought he loved them too: at all events they meant nothing to him. it did not seem himself that was concerned; he felt that he had been seized by some strange force that moved him against his will, contrary to his interests; and because he had a passion for freedom he hated the chains which bound him. he laughed at himself when he thought how often he had longed to experience the overwhelming passion. he cursed himself because he had given way to it. he thought of the beginnings; nothing of all this would have happened if he had not gone into the shop with dunsford. the whole thing was his own fault. except for his ridiculous vanity he would never have troubled himself with the ill-mannered slut. at all events the occurrences of that evening had finished the whole affair. unless he was lost to all sense of shame he could not go back. he wanted passionately to get rid of the love that obsessed him; it was degrading and hateful. he must prevent himself from thinking of her. in a little while the anguish he suffered must grow less. his mind went back to the past. he wondered whether emily wilkinson and fanny price had endured on his account anything like the torment that he suffered now. he felt a pang of remorse. "i didn't know then what it was like," he said to himself. he slept very badly. the next day was sunday, and he worked at his biology. he sat with the book in front of him, forming the words with his lips in order to fix his attention, but he could remember nothing. he found his thoughts going back to mildred every minute, and he repeated to himself the exact words of the quarrel they had had. he had to force himself back to his book. he went out for a walk. the streets on the south side of the river were dingy enough on week-days, but there was an energy, a coming and going, which gave them a sordid vivacity; but on sundays, with no shops open, no carts in the roadway, silent and depressed, they were indescribably dreary. philip thought that day would never end. but he was so tired that he slept heavily, and when monday came he entered upon life with determination. christmas was approaching, and a good many of the students had gone into the country for the short holiday between the two parts of the winter session; but philip had refused his uncle's invitation to go down to blackstable. he had given the approaching examination as his excuse, but in point of fact he had been unwilling to leave london and mildred. he had neglected his work so much that now he had only a fortnight to learn what the curriculum allowed three months for. he set to work seriously. he found it easier each day not to think of mildred. he congratulated himself on his force of character. the pain he suffered was no longer anguish, but a sort of soreness, like what one might be expected to feel if one had been thrown off a horse and, though no bones were broken, were bruised all over and shaken. philip found that he was able to observe with curiosity the condition he had been in during the last few weeks. he analysed his feelings with interest. he was a little amused at himself. one thing that struck him was how little under those circumstances it mattered what one thought; the system of personal philosophy, which had given him great satisfaction to devise, had not served him. he was puzzled by this. but sometimes in the street he would see a girl who looked so like mildred that his heart seemed to stop beating. then he could not help himself, he hurried on to catch her up, eager and anxious, only to find that it was a total stranger. men came back from the country, and he went with dunsford to have tea at an a. b. c. shop. the well-known uniform made him so miserable that he could not speak. the thought came to him that perhaps she had been transferred to another establishment of the firm for which she worked, and he might suddenly find himself face to face with her. the idea filled him with panic, so that he feared dunsford would see that something was the matter with him: he could not think of anything to say; he pretended to listen to what dunsford was talking about; the conversation maddened him; and it was all he could do to prevent himself from crying out to dunsford for heaven's sake to hold his tongue. then came the day of his examination. philip, when his turn arrived, went forward to the examiner's table with the utmost confidence. he answered three or four questions. then they showed him various specimens; he had been to very few lectures and, as soon as he was asked about things which he could not learn from books, he was floored. he did what he could to hide his ignorance, the examiner did not insist, and soon his ten minutes were over. he felt certain he had passed; but next day, when he went up to the examination buildings to see the result posted on the door, he was astounded not to find his number among those who had satisfied the examiners. in amazement he read the list three times. dunsford was with him. "i say, i'm awfully sorry you're ploughed," he said. he had just inquired philip's number. philip turned and saw by his radiant face that dunsford had passed. "oh, it doesn't matter a bit," said philip. "i'm jolly glad you're all right. i shall go up again in july." he was very anxious to pretend he did not mind, and on their way back along the embankment insisted on talking of indifferent things. dunsford good-naturedly wanted to discuss the causes of philip's failure, but philip was obstinately casual. he was horribly mortified; and the fact that dunsford, whom he looked upon as a very pleasant but quite stupid fellow, had passed made his own rebuff harder to bear. he had always been proud of his intelligence, and now he asked himself desperately whether he was not mistaken in the opinion he held of himself. in the three months of the winter session the students who had joined in october had already shaken down into groups, and it was clear which were brilliant, which were clever or industrious, and which were 'rotters.' philip was conscious that his failure was a surprise to no one but himself. it was tea-time, and he knew that a lot of men would be having tea in the basement of the medical school: those who had passed the examination would be exultant, those who disliked him would look at him with satisfaction, and the poor devils who had failed would sympathise with him in order to receive sympathy. his instinct was not to go near the hospital for a week, when the affair would be no more thought of, but, because he hated so much to go just then, he went: he wanted to inflict suffering upon himself. he forgot for the moment his maxim of life to follow his inclinations with due regard for the policeman round the corner; or, if he acted in accordance with it, there must have been some strange morbidity in his nature which made him take a grim pleasure in self-torture. but later on, when he had endured the ordeal to which he forced himself, going out into the night after the noisy conversation in the smoking-room, he was seized with a feeling of utter loneliness. he seemed to himself absurd and futile. he had an urgent need of consolation, and the temptation to see mildred was irresistible. he thought bitterly that there was small chance of consolation from her; but he wanted to see her even if he did not speak to her; after all, she was a waitress and would be obliged to serve him. she was the only person in the world he cared for. there was no use in hiding that fact from himself. of course it would be humiliating to go back to the shop as though nothing had happened, but he had not much self-respect left. though he would not confess it to himself, he had hoped each day that she would write to him; she knew that a letter addressed to the hospital would find him; but she had not written: it was evident that she cared nothing if she saw him again or not. and he kept on repeating to himself: "i must see her. i must see her." the desire was so great that he could not give the time necessary to walk, but jumped in a cab. he was too thrifty to use one when it could possibly be avoided. he stood outside the shop for a minute or two. the thought came to him that perhaps she had left, and in terror he walked in quickly. he saw her at once. he sat down and she came up to him. "a cup of tea and a muffin, please," he ordered. he could hardly speak. he was afraid for a moment that he was going to cry. "i almost thought you was dead," she said. she was smiling. smiling! she seemed to have forgotten completely that last scene which philip had repeated to himself a hundred times. "i thought if you'd wanted to see me you'd write," he answered. "i've got too much to do to think about writing letters." it seemed impossible for her to say a gracious thing. philip cursed the fate which chained him to such a woman. she went away to fetch his tea. "would you like me to sit down for a minute or two?" she said, when she brought it. "yes." "where have you been all this time?" "i've been in london." "i thought you'd gone away for the holidays. why haven't you been in then?" philip looked at her with haggard, passionate eyes. "don't you remember that i said i'd never see you again?" "what are you doing now then?" she seemed anxious to make him drink up the cup of his humiliation; but he knew her well enough to know that she spoke at random; she hurt him frightfully, and never even tried to. he did not answer. "it was a nasty trick you played on me, spying on me like that. i always thought you was a gentleman in every sense of the word." "don't be beastly to me, mildred. i can't bear it." "you are a funny feller. i can't make you out." "it's very simple. i'm such a blasted fool as to love you with all my heart and soul, and i know that you don't care twopence for me." "if you had been a gentleman i think you'd have come next day and begged my pardon." she had no mercy. he looked at her neck and thought how he would like to jab it with the knife he had for his muffin. he knew enough anatomy to make pretty certain of getting the carotid artery. and at the same time he wanted to cover her pale, thin face with kisses. "if i could only make you understand how frightfully i'm in love with you." "you haven't begged my pardon yet." he grew very white. she felt that she had done nothing wrong on that occasion. she wanted him now to humble himself. he was very proud. for one instant he felt inclined to tell her to go to hell, but he dared not. his passion made him abject. he was willing to submit to anything rather than not see her. "i'm very sorry, mildred. i beg your pardon." he had to force the words out. it was a horrible effort. "now you've said that i don't mind telling you that i wish i had come out with you that evening. i thought miller was a gentleman, but i've discovered my mistake now. i soon sent him about his business." philip gave a little gasp. "mildred, won't you come out with me tonight? let's go and dine somewhere." "oh, i can't. my aunt'll be expecting me home." "i'll send her a wire. you can say you've been detained in the shop; she won't know any better. oh, do come, for god's sake. i haven't seen you for so long, and i want to talk to you." she looked down at her clothes. "never mind about that. we'll go somewhere where it doesn't matter how you're dressed. and we'll go to a music-hall afterwards. please say yes. it would give me so much pleasure." she hesitated a moment; he looked at her with pitifully appealing eyes. "well, i don't mind if i do. i haven't been out anywhere since i don't know how long." it was with the greatest difficulty he could prevent himself from seizing her hand there and then to cover it with kisses. lx they dined in soho. philip was tremulous with joy. it was not one of the more crowded of those cheap restaurants where the respectable and needy dine in the belief that it is bohemian and the assurance that it is economical. it was a humble establishment, kept by a good man from rouen and his wife, that philip had discovered by accident. he had been attracted by the gallic look of the window, in which was generally an uncooked steak on one plate and on each side two dishes of raw vegetables. there was one seedy french waiter, who was attempting to learn english in a house where he never heard anything but french; and the customers were a few ladies of easy virtue, a menage or two, who had their own napkins reserved for them, and a few queer men who came in for hurried, scanty meals. here mildred and philip were able to get a table to themselves. philip sent the waiter for a bottle of burgundy from the neighbouring tavern, and they had a potage aux herbes, a steak from the window aux pommes, and an omelette au kirsch. there was really an air of romance in the meal and in the place. mildred, at first a little reserved in her appreciation--"i never quite trust these foreign places, you never know what there is in these messed up dishes"--was insensibly moved by it. "i like this place, philip," she said. "you feel you can put your elbows on the table, don't you?" a tall fellow came in, with a mane of gray hair and a ragged thin beard. he wore a dilapidated cloak and a wide-awake hat. he nodded to philip, who had met him there before. "he looks like an anarchist," said mildred. "he is, one of the most dangerous in europe. he's been in every prison on the continent and has assassinated more persons than any gentleman unhung. he always goes about with a bomb in his pocket, and of course it makes conversation a little difficult because if you don't agree with him he lays it on the table in a marked manner." she looked at the man with horror and surprise, and then glanced suspiciously at philip. she saw that his eyes were laughing. she frowned a little. "you're getting at me." he gave a little shout of joy. he was so happy. but mildred didn't like being laughed at. "i don't see anything funny in telling lies." "don't be cross." he took her hand, which was lying on the table, and pressed it gently. "you are lovely, and i could kiss the ground you walk on," he said. the greenish pallor of her skin intoxicated him, and her thin white lips had an extraordinary fascination. her anaemia made her rather short of breath, and she held her mouth slightly open. it seemed to add somehow to the attractiveness of her face. "you do like me a bit, don't you?" he asked. "well, if i didn't i suppose i shouldn't be here, should i? you're a gentleman in every sense of the word, i will say that for you." they had finished their dinner and were drinking coffee. philip, throwing economy to the winds, smoked a three-penny cigar. "you can't imagine what a pleasure it is to me just to sit opposite and look at you. i've yearned for you. i was sick for a sight of you." mildred smiled a little and faintly flushed. she was not then suffering from the dyspepsia which generally attacked her immediately after a meal. she felt more kindly disposed to philip than ever before, and the unaccustomed tenderness in her eyes filled him with joy. he knew instinctively that it was madness to give himself into her hands; his only chance was to treat her casually and never allow her to see the untamed passions that seethed in his breast; she would only take advantage of his weakness; but he could not be prudent now: he told her all the agony he had endured during the separation from her; he told her of his struggles with himself, how he had tried to get over his passion, thought he had succeeded, and how he found out that it was as strong as ever. he knew that he had never really wanted to get over it. he loved her so much that he did not mind suffering. he bared his heart to her. he showed her proudly all his weakness. nothing would have pleased him more than to sit on in the cosy, shabby restaurant, but he knew that mildred wanted entertainment. she was restless and, wherever she was, wanted after a while to go somewhere else. he dared not bore her. "i say, how about going to a music-hall?" he said. he thought rapidly that if she cared for him at all she would say she preferred to stay there. "i was just thinking we ought to be going if we are going," she answered. "come on then." philip waited impatiently for the end of the performance. he had made up his mind exactly what to do, and when they got into the cab he passed his arm, as though almost by accident, round her waist. but he drew it back quickly with a little cry. he had pricked himself. she laughed. "there, that comes of putting your arm where it's got no business to be," she said. "i always know when men try and put their arm round my waist. that pin always catches them." "i'll be more careful." he put his arm round again. she made no objection. "i'm so comfortable," he sighed blissfully. "so long as you're happy," she retorted. they drove down st. james' street into the park, and philip quickly kissed her. he was strangely afraid of her, and it required all his courage. she turned her lips to him without speaking. she neither seemed to mind nor to like it. "if you only knew how long i've wanted to do that," he murmured. he tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away. "once is enough," she said. on the chance of kissing her a second time he travelled down to herne hill with her, and at the end of the road in which she lived he asked her: "won't you give me another kiss?" she looked at him indifferently and then glanced up the road to see that no one was in sight. "i don't mind." he seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately, but she pushed him away. "mind my hat, silly. you are clumsy," she said. lxi he saw her then every day. he began going to lunch at the shop, but mildred stopped him: she said it made the girls talk; so he had to content himself with tea; but he always waited about to walk with her to the station; and once or twice a week they dined together. he gave her little presents, a gold bangle, gloves, handkerchiefs, and the like. he was spending more than he could afford, but he could not help it: it was only when he gave her anything that she showed any affection. she knew the price of everything, and her gratitude was in exact proportion with the value of his gift. he did not care. he was too happy when she volunteered to kiss him to mind by what means he got her demonstrativeness. he discovered that she found sundays at home tedious, so he went down to herne hill in the morning, met her at the end of the road, and went to church with her. "i always like to go to church once," she said. "it looks well, doesn't it?" then she went back to dinner, he got a scrappy meal at a hotel, and in the afternoon they took a walk in brockwell park. they had nothing much to say to one another, and philip, desperately afraid she was bored (she was very easily bored), racked his brain for topics of conversation. he realised that these walks amused neither of them, but he could not bear to leave her, and did all he could to lengthen them till she became tired and out of temper. he knew that she did not care for him, and he tried to force a love which his reason told him was not in her nature: she was cold. he had no claim on her, but he could not help being exacting. now that they were more intimate he found it less easy to control his temper; he was often irritable and could not help saying bitter things. often they quarrelled, and she would not speak to him for a while; but this always reduced him to subjection, and he crawled before her. he was angry with himself for showing so little dignity. he grew furiously jealous if he saw her speaking to any other man in the shop, and when he was jealous he seemed to be beside himself. he would deliberately insult her, leave the shop and spend afterwards a sleepless night tossing on his bed, by turns angry and remorseful. next day he would go to the shop and appeal for forgiveness. "don't be angry with me," he said. "i'm so awfully fond of you that i can't help myself." "one of these days you'll go too far," she answered. he was anxious to come to her home in order that the greater intimacy should give him an advantage over the stray acquaintances she made during her working-hours; but she would not let him. "my aunt would think it so funny," she said. he suspected that her refusal was due only to a disinclination to let him see her aunt. mildred had represented her as the widow of a professional man (that was her formula of distinction), and was uneasily conscious that the good woman could hardly be called distinguished. philip imagined that she was in point of fact the widow of a small tradesman. he knew that mildred was a snob. but he found no means by which he could indicate to her that he did not mind how common the aunt was. their worst quarrel took place one evening at dinner when she told him that a man had asked her to go to a play with him. philip turned pale, and his face grew hard and stern. "you're not going?" he said. "why shouldn't i? he's a very nice gentlemanly fellow." "i'll take you anywhere you like." "but that isn't the same thing. i can't always go about with you. besides he's asked me to fix my own day, and i'll just go one evening when i'm not going out with you. it won't make any difference to you." "if you had any sense of decency, if you had any gratitude, you wouldn't dream of going." "i don't know what you mean by gratitude. if you're referring to the things you've given me you can have them back. i don't want them." her voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got. "it's not very lively, always going about with you. it's always do you love me, do you love me, till i just get about sick of it." he knew it was madness to go on asking her that, but he could not help himself. "oh, i like you all right," she would answer. "is that all? i love you with all my heart." "i'm not that sort, i'm not one to say much." "if you knew how happy just one word would make me!" "well, what i always say is, people must take me as they find me, and if they don't like it they can lump it." but sometimes she expressed herself more plainly still, and, when he asked the question, answered: "oh, don't go on at that again." then he became sulky and silent. he hated her. and now he said: "oh, well, if you feel like that about it i wonder you condescend to come out with me at all." "it's not my seeking, you can be very sure of that, you just force me to." his pride was bitterly hurt, and he answered madly. "you think i'm just good enough to stand you dinners and theatres when there's no one else to do it, and when someone else turns up i can go to hell. thank you, i'm about sick of being made a convenience." "i'm not going to be talked to like that by anyone. i'll just show you how much i want your dirty dinner." she got up, put on her jacket, and walked quickly out of the restaurant. philip sat on. he determined he would not move, but ten minutes afterwards he jumped in a cab and followed her. he guessed that she would take a 'bus to victoria, so that they would arrive about the same time. he saw her on the platform, escaped her notice, and went down to herne hill in the same train. he did not want to speak to her till she was on the way home and could not escape him. as soon as she had turned out of the main street, brightly lit and noisy with traffic, he caught her up. "mildred," he called. she walked on and would neither look at him nor answer. he repeated her name. then she stopped and faced him. "what d'you want? i saw you hanging about victoria. why don't you leave me alone?" "i'm awfully sorry. won't you make it up?" "no, i'm sick of your temper and your jealousy. i don't care for you, i never have cared for you, and i never shall care for you. i don't want to have anything more to do with you." she walked on quickly, and he had to hurry to keep up with her. "you never make allowances for me," he said. "it's all very well to be jolly and amiable when you're indifferent to anyone. it's very hard when you're as much in love as i am. have mercy on me. i don't mind that you don't care for me. after all you can't help it. i only want you to let me love you." she walked on, refusing to speak, and philip saw with agony that they had only a few hundred yards to go before they reached her house. he abased himself. he poured out an incoherent story of love and penitence. "if you'll only forgive me this time i promise you you'll never have to complain of me in future. you can go out with whoever you choose. i'll be only too glad if you'll come with me when you've got nothing better to do." she stopped again, for they had reached the corner at which he always left her. "now you can take yourself off. i won't have you coming up to the door." "i won't go till you say you'll forgive me." "i'm sick and tired of the whole thing." he hesitated a moment, for he had an instinct that he could say something that would move her. it made him feel almost sick to utter the words. "it is cruel, i have so much to put up with. you don't know what it is to be a cripple. of course you don't like me. i can't expect you to." "philip, i didn't mean that," she answered quickly, with a sudden break of pity in her voice. "you know it's not true." he was beginning to act now, and his voice was husky and low. "oh, i've felt it," he said. she took his hand and looked at him, and her own eyes were filled with tears. "i promise you it never made any difference to me. i never thought about it after the first day or two." he kept a gloomy, tragic silence. he wanted her to think he was overcome with emotion. "you know i like you awfully, philip. only you are so trying sometimes. let's make it up." she put up her lips to his, and with a sigh of relief he kissed her. "now are you happy again?" she asked. "madly." she bade him good-night and hurried down the road. next day he took her in a little watch with a brooch to pin on her dress. she had been hankering for it. but three or four days later, when she brought him his tea, mildred said to him: "you remember what you promised the other night? you mean to keep that, don't you?" "yes." he knew exactly what she meant and was prepared for her next words. "because i'm going out with that gentleman i told you about tonight." "all right. i hope you'll enjoy yourself." "you don't mind, do you?" he had himself now under excellent control. "i don't like it," he smiled, "but i'm not going to make myself more disagreeable than i can help." she was excited over the outing and talked about it willingly. philip wondered whether she did so in order to pain him or merely because she was callous. he was in the habit of condoning her cruelty by the thought of her stupidity. she had not the brains to see when she was wounding him. "it's not much fun to be in love with a girl who has no imagination and no sense of humour," he thought, as he listened. but the want of these things excused her. he felt that if he had not realised this he could never forgive her for the pain she caused him. "he's got seats for the tivoli," she said. "he gave me my choice and i chose that. and we're going to dine at the cafe royal. he says it's the most expensive place in london." "he's a gentleman in every sense of the word," thought philip, but he clenched his teeth to prevent himself from uttering a syllable. philip went to the tivoli and saw mildred with her companion, a smooth-faced young man with sleek hair and the spruce look of a commercial traveller, sitting in the second row of the stalls. mildred wore a black picture hat with ostrich feathers in it, which became her well. she was listening to her host with that quiet smile which philip knew; she had no vivacity of expression, and it required broad farce to excite her laughter; but philip could see that she was interested and amused. he thought to himself bitterly that her companion, flashy and jovial, exactly suited her. her sluggish temperament made her appreciate noisy people. philip had a passion for discussion, but no talent for small-talk. he admired the easy drollery of which some of his friends were masters, lawson for instance, and his sense of inferiority made him shy and awkward. the things which interested him bored mildred. she expected men to talk about football and racing, and he knew nothing of either. he did not know the catchwords which only need be said to excite a laugh. printed matter had always been a fetish to philip, and now, in order to make himself more interesting, he read industriously the sporting times. lxii philip did not surrender himself willingly to the passion that consumed him. he knew that all things human are transitory and therefore that it must cease one day or another. he looked forward to that day with eager longing. love was like a parasite in his heart, nourishing a hateful existence on his life's blood; it absorbed his existence so intensely that he could take pleasure in nothing else. he had been used to delight in the grace of st. james' park, and often he sat and looked at the branches of a tree silhouetted against the sky, it was like a japanese print; and he found a continual magic in the beautiful thames with its barges and its wharfs; the changing sky of london had filled his soul with pleasant fancies. but now beauty meant nothing to him. he was bored and restless when he was not with mildred. sometimes he thought he would console his sorrow by looking at pictures, but he walked through the national gallery like a sight-seer; and no picture called up in him a thrill of emotion. he wondered if he could ever care again for all the things he had loved. he had been devoted to reading, but now books were meaningless; and he spent his spare hours in the smoking-room of the hospital club, turning over innumerable periodicals. this love was a torment, and he resented bitterly the subjugation in which it held him; he was a prisoner and he longed for freedom. sometimes he awoke in the morning and felt nothing; his soul leaped, for he thought he was free; he loved no longer; but in a little while, as he grew wide awake, the pain settled in his heart, and he knew that he was not cured yet. though he yearned for mildred so madly he despised her. he thought to himself that there could be no greater torture in the world than at the same time to love and to contemn. philip, burrowing as was his habit into the state of his feelings, discussing with himself continually his condition, came to the conclusion that he could only cure himself of his degrading passion by making mildred his mistress. it was sexual hunger that he suffered from, and if he could satisfy this he might free himself from the intolerable chains that bound him. he knew that mildred did not care for him at all in that way. when he kissed her passionately she withdrew herself from him with instinctive distaste. she had no sensuality. sometimes he had tried to make her jealous by talking of adventures in paris, but they did not interest her; once or twice he had sat at other tables in the tea-shop and affected to flirt with the waitress who attended them, but she was entirely indifferent. he could see that it was no pretence on her part. "you didn't mind my not sitting at one of your tables this afternoon?" he asked once, when he was walking to the station with her. "yours seemed to be all full." this was not a fact, but she did not contradict him. even if his desertion meant nothing to her he would have been grateful if she had pretended it did. a reproach would have been balm to his soul. "i think it's silly of you to sit at the same table every day. you ought to give the other girls a turn now and again." but the more he thought of it the more he was convinced that complete surrender on her part was his only way to freedom. he was like a knight of old, metamorphosed by magic spells, who sought the potions which should restore him to his fair and proper form. philip had only one hope. mildred greatly desired to go to paris. to her, as to most english people, it was the centre of gaiety and fashion: she had heard of the magasin du louvre, where you could get the very latest thing for about half the price you had to pay in london; a friend of hers had passed her honeymoon in paris and had spent all day at the louvre; and she and her husband, my dear, they never went to bed till six in the morning all the time they were there; the moulin rouge and i don't know what all. philip did not care that if she yielded to his desires it would only be the unwilling price she paid for the gratification of her wish. he did not care upon what terms he satisfied his passion. he had even had a mad, melodramatic idea to drug her. he had plied her with liquor in the hope of exciting her, but she had no taste for wine; and though she liked him to order champagne because it looked well, she never drank more than half a glass. she liked to leave untouched a large glass filled to the brim. "it shows the waiters who you are," she said. philip chose an opportunity when she seemed more than usually friendly. he had an examination in anatomy at the end of march. easter, which came a week later, would give mildred three whole days holiday. "i say, why don't you come over to paris then?" he suggested. "we'd have such a ripping time." "how could you? it would cost no end of money." philip had thought of that. it would cost at least five-and-twenty pounds. it was a large sum to him. he was willing to spend his last penny on her. "what does that matter? say you'll come, darling." "what next, i should like to know. i can't see myself going away with a man that i wasn't married to. you oughtn't to suggest such a thing." "what does it matter?" he enlarged on the glories of the rue de la paix and the garish splendour of the folies bergeres. he described the louvre and the bon marche. he told her about the cabaret du neant, the abbaye, and the various haunts to which foreigners go. he painted in glowing colours the side of paris which he despised. he pressed her to come with him. "you know, you say you love me, but if you really loved me you'd want to marry me. you've never asked me to marry you." "you know i can't afford it. after all, i'm in my first year, i shan't earn a penny for six years." "oh, i'm not blaming you. i wouldn't marry you if you went down on your bended knees to me." he had thought of marriage more than once, but it was a step from which he shrank. in paris he had come by the opinion that marriage was a ridiculous institution of the philistines. he knew also that a permanent tie would ruin him. he had middle-class instincts, and it seemed a dreadful thing to him to marry a waitress. a common wife would prevent him from getting a decent practice. besides, he had only just enough money to last him till he was qualified; he could not keep a wife even if they arranged not to have children. he thought of cronshaw bound to a vulgar slattern, and he shuddered with dismay. he foresaw what mildred, with her genteel ideas and her mean mind, would become: it was impossible for him to marry her. but he decided only with his reason; he felt that he must have her whatever happened; and if he could not get her without marrying her he would do that; the future could look after itself. it might end in disaster; he did not care. when he got hold of an idea it obsessed him, he could think of nothing else, and he had a more than common power to persuade himself of the reasonableness of what he wished to do. he found himself overthrowing all the sensible arguments which had occurred to him against marriage. each day he found that he was more passionately devoted to her; and his unsatisfied love became angry and resentful. "by george, if i marry her i'll make her pay for all the suffering i've endured," he said to himself. at last he could bear the agony no longer. after dinner one evening in the little restaurant in soho, to which now they often went, he spoke to her. "i say, did you mean it the other day that you wouldn't marry me if i asked you?" "yes, why not?" "because i can't live without you. i want you with me always. i've tried to get over it and i can't. i never shall now. i want you to marry me." she had read too many novelettes not to know how to take such an offer. "i'm sure i'm very grateful to you, philip. i'm very much flattered at your proposal." "oh, don't talk rot. you will marry me, won't you?" "d'you think we should be happy?" "no. but what does that matter?" the words were wrung out of him almost against his will. they surprised her. "well, you are a funny chap. why d'you want to marry me then? the other day you said you couldn't afford it." "i think i've got about fourteen hundred pounds left. two can live just as cheaply as one. that'll keep us till i'm qualified and have got through with my hospital appointments, and then i can get an assistantship." "it means you wouldn't be able to earn anything for six years. we should have about four pounds a week to live on till then, shouldn't we?" "not much more than three. there are all my fees to pay." "and what would you get as an assistant?" "three pounds a week." "d'you mean to say you have to work all that time and spend a small fortune just to earn three pounds a week at the end of it? i don't see that i should be any better off than i am now." he was silent for a moment. "d'you mean to say you won't marry me?" he asked hoarsely. "does my great love mean nothing to you at all?" "one has to think of oneself in those things, don't one? i shouldn't mind marrying, but i don't want to marry if i'm going to be no better off than what i am now. i don't see the use of it." "if you cared for me you wouldn't think of all that." "p'raps not." he was silent. he drank a glass of wine in order to get rid of the choking in his throat. "look at that girl who's just going out," said mildred. "she got them furs at the bon marche at brixton. i saw them in the window last time i went down there." philip smiled grimly. "what are you laughing at?" she asked. "it's true. and i said to my aunt at the time, i wouldn't buy anything that had been in the window like that, for everyone to know how much you paid for it." "i can't understand you. you make me frightfully unhappy, and in the next breath you talk rot that has nothing to do with what we're speaking about." "you are nasty to me," she answered, aggrieved. "i can't help noticing those furs, because i said to my aunt..." "i don't care a damn what you said to your aunt," he interrupted impatiently. "i wish you wouldn't use bad language when you speak to me philip. you know i don't like it." philip smiled a little, but his eyes were wild. he was silent for a while. he looked at her sullenly. he hated, despised, and loved her. "if i had an ounce of sense i'd never see you again," he said at last. "if you only knew how heartily i despise myself for loving you!" "that's not a very nice thing to say to me," she replied sulkily. "it isn't," he laughed. "let's go to the pavilion." "that's what's so funny in you, you start laughing just when one doesn't expect you to. and if i make you that unhappy why d'you want to take me to the pavilion? i'm quite ready to go home." "merely because i'm less unhappy with you than away from you." "i should like to know what you really think of me." he laughed outright. "my dear, if you did you'd never speak to me again." lxiii philip did not pass the examination in anatomy at the end of march. he and dunsford had worked at the subject together on philip's skeleton, asking each other questions till both knew by heart every attachment and the meaning of every nodule and groove on the human bones; but in the examination room philip was seized with panic, and failed to give right answers to questions from a sudden fear that they might be wrong. he knew he was ploughed and did not even trouble to go up to the building next day to see whether his number was up. the second failure put him definitely among the incompetent and idle men of his year. he did not care much. he had other things to think of. he told himself that mildred must have senses like anybody else, it was only a question of awakening them; he had theories about woman, the rip at heart, and thought that there must come a time with everyone when she would yield to persistence. it was a question of watching for the opportunity, keeping his temper, wearing her down with small attentions, taking advantage of the physical exhaustion which opened the heart to tenderness, making himself a refuge from the petty vexations of her work. he talked to her of the relations between his friends in paris and the fair ladies they admired. the life he described had a charm, an easy gaiety, in which was no grossness. weaving into his own recollections the adventures of mimi and rodolphe, of musette and the rest of them, he poured into mildred's ears a story of poverty made picturesque by song and laughter, of lawless love made romantic by beauty and youth. he never attacked her prejudices directly, but sought to combat them by the suggestion that they were suburban. he never let himself be disturbed by her inattention, nor irritated by her indifference. he thought he had bored her. by an effort he made himself affable and entertaining; he never let himself be angry, he never asked for anything, he never complained, he never scolded. when she made engagements and broke them, he met her next day with a smiling face; when she excused herself, he said it did not matter. he never let her see that she pained him. he understood that his passionate grief had wearied her, and he took care to hide every sentiment which could be in the least degree troublesome. he was heroic. though she never mentioned the change, for she did not take any conscious notice of it, it affected her nevertheless: she became more confidential with him; she took her little grievances to him, and she always had some grievance against the manageress of the shop, one of her fellow waitresses, or her aunt; she was talkative enough now, and though she never said anything that was not trivial philip was never tired of listening to her. "i like you when you don't want to make love to me," she told him once. "that's flattering for me," he laughed. she did not realise how her words made his heart sink nor what an effort it needed for him to answer so lightly. "oh, i don't mind your kissing me now and then. it doesn't hurt me and it gives you pleasure." occasionally she went so far as to ask him to take her out to dinner, and the offer, coming from her, filled him with rapture. "i wouldn't do it to anyone else," she said, by way of apology. "but i know i can with you." "you couldn't give me greater pleasure," he smiled. she asked him to give her something to eat one evening towards the end of april. "all right," he said. "where would you like to go afterwards?" "oh, don't let's go anywhere. let's just sit and talk. you don't mind, do you?" "rather not." he thought she must be beginning to care for him. three months before the thought of an evening spent in conversation would have bored her to death. it was a fine day, and the spring added to philip's high spirits. he was content with very little now. "i say, won't it be ripping when the summer comes along," he said, as they drove along on the top of a 'bus to soho--she had herself suggested that they should not be so extravagant as to go by cab. "we shall be able to spend every sunday on the river. we'll take our luncheon in a basket." she smiled slightly, and he was encouraged to take her hand. she did not withdraw it. "i really think you're beginning to like me a bit," he smiled. "you are silly, you know i like you, or else i shouldn't be here, should i?" they were old customers at the little restaurant in soho by now, and the patronne gave them a smile as they came in. the waiter was obsequious. "let me order the dinner tonight," said mildred. philip, thinking her more enchanting than ever, gave her the menu, and she chose her favourite dishes. the range was small, and they had eaten many times all that the restaurant could provide. philip was gay. he looked into her eyes, and he dwelt on every perfection of her pale cheek. when they had finished mildred by way of exception took a cigarette. she smoked very seldom. "i don't like to see a lady smoking," she said. she hesitated a moment and then spoke. "were you surprised, my asking you to take me out and give me a bit of dinner tonight?" "i was delighted." "i've got something to say to you, philip." he looked at her quickly, his heart sank, but he had trained himself well. "well, fire away," he said, smiling. "you're not going to be silly about it, are you? the fact is i'm going to get married." "are you?" said philip. he could think of nothing else to say. he had considered the possibility often and had imagined to himself what he would do and say. he had suffered agonies when he thought of the despair he would suffer, he had thought of suicide, of the mad passion of anger that would seize him; but perhaps he had too completely anticipated the emotion he would experience, so that now he felt merely exhausted. he felt as one does in a serious illness when the vitality is so low that one is indifferent to the issue and wants only to be left alone. "you see, i'm getting on," she said. "i'm twenty-four and it's time i settled down." he was silent. he looked at the patronne sitting behind the counter, and his eye dwelt on a red feather one of the diners wore in her hat. mildred was nettled. "you might congratulate me," she said. "i might, mightn't i? i can hardly believe it's true. i've dreamt it so often. it rather tickles me that i should have been so jolly glad that you asked me to take you out to dinner. whom are you going to marry?" "miller," she answered, with a slight blush. "miller?" cried philip, astounded. "but you've not seen him for months." "he came in to lunch one day last week and asked me then. he's earning very good money. he makes seven pounds a week now and he's got prospects." philip was silent again. he remembered that she had always liked miller; he amused her; there was in his foreign birth an exotic charm which she felt unconsciously. "i suppose it was inevitable," he said at last. "you were bound to accept the highest bidder. when are you going to marry?" "on saturday next. i have given notice." philip felt a sudden pang. "as soon as that?" "we're going to be married at a registry office. emil prefers it." philip felt dreadfully tired. he wanted to get away from her. he thought he would go straight to bed. he called for the bill. "i'll put you in a cab and send you down to victoria. i daresay you won't have to wait long for a train." "won't you come with me?" "i think i'd rather not if you don't mind." "it's just as you please," she answered haughtily. "i suppose i shall see you at tea-time tomorrow?" "no, i think we'd better make a full stop now. i don't see why i should go on making myself unhappy. i've paid the cab." he nodded to her and forced a smile on his lips, then jumped on a 'bus and made his way home. he smoked a pipe before he went to bed, but he could hardly keep his eyes open. he suffered no pain. he fell into a heavy sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. lxiv but about three in the morning philip awoke and could not sleep again. he began to think of mildred. he tried not to, but could not help himself. he repeated to himself the same thing time after time till his brain reeled. it was inevitable that she should marry: life was hard for a girl who had to earn her own living; and if she found someone who could give her a comfortable home she should not be blamed if she accepted. philip acknowledged that from her point of view it would have been madness to marry him: only love could have made such poverty bearable, and she did not love him. it was no fault of hers; it was a fact that must be accepted like any other. philip tried to reason with himself. he told himself that deep down in his heart was mortified pride; his passion had begun in wounded vanity, and it was this at bottom which caused now a great part of his wretchedness. he despised himself as much as he despised her. then he made plans for the future, the same plans over and over again, interrupted by recollections of kisses on her soft pale cheek and by the sound of her voice with its trailing accent; he had a great deal of work to do, since in the summer he was taking chemistry as well as the two examinations he had failed in. he had separated himself from his friends at the hospital, but now he wanted companionship. there was one happy occurrence: hayward a fortnight before had written to say that he was passing through london and had asked him to dinner; but philip, unwilling to be bothered, had refused. he was coming back for the season, and philip made up his mind to write to him. he was thankful when eight o'clock struck and he could get up. he was pale and weary. but when he had bathed, dressed, and had breakfast, he felt himself joined up again with the world at large; and his pain was a little easier to bear. he did not feel like going to lectures that morning, but went instead to the army and navy stores to buy mildred a wedding-present. after much wavering he settled on a dressing-bag. it cost twenty pounds, which was much more than he could afford, but it was showy and vulgar: he knew she would be aware exactly how much it cost; he got a melancholy satisfaction in choosing a gift which would give her pleasure and at the same time indicate for himself the contempt he had for her. philip had looked forward with apprehension to the day on which mildred was to be married; he was expecting an intolerable anguish; and it was with relief that he got a letter from hayward on saturday morning to say that he was coming up early on that very day and would fetch philip to help him to find rooms. philip, anxious to be distracted, looked up a time-table and discovered the only train hayward was likely to come by; he went to meet him, and the reunion of the friends was enthusiastic. they left the luggage at the station, and set off gaily. hayward characteristically proposed that first of all they should go for an hour to the national gallery; he had not seen pictures for some time, and he stated that it needed a glimpse to set him in tune with life. philip for months had had no one with whom he could talk of art and books. since the paris days hayward had immersed himself in the modern french versifiers, and, such a plethora of poets is there in france, he had several new geniuses to tell philip about. they walked through the gallery pointing out to one another their favourite pictures; one subject led to another; they talked excitedly. the sun was shining and the air was warm. "let's go and sit in the park," said hayward. "we'll look for rooms after luncheon." the spring was pleasant there. it was a day upon which one felt it good merely to live. the young green of the trees was exquisite against the sky; and the sky, pale and blue, was dappled with little white clouds. at the end of the ornamental water was the gray mass of the horse guards. the ordered elegance of the scene had the charm of an eighteenth-century picture. it reminded you not of watteau, whose landscapes are so idyllic that they recall only the woodland glens seen in dreams, but of the more prosaic jean-baptiste pater. philip's heart was filled with lightness. he realised, what he had only read before, that art (for there was art in the manner in which he looked upon nature) might liberate the soul from pain. they went to an italian restaurant for luncheon and ordered themselves a fiaschetto of chianti. lingering over the meal they talked on. they reminded one another of the people they had known at heidelberg, they spoke of philip's friends in paris, they talked of books, pictures, morals, life; and suddenly philip heard a clock strike three. he remembered that by this time mildred was married. he felt a sort of stitch in his heart, and for a minute or two he could not hear what hayward was saying. but he filled his glass with chianti. he was unaccustomed to alcohol and it had gone to his head. for the time at all events he was free from care. his quick brain had lain idle for so many months that he was intoxicated now with conversation. he was thankful to have someone to talk to who would interest himself in the things that interested him. "i say don't let's waste this beautiful day in looking for rooms. i'll put you up tonight. you can look for rooms tomorrow or monday." "all right. what shall we do?" answered hayward. "let's get on a penny steamboat and go down to greenwich." the idea appealed to hayward, and they jumped into a cab which took them to westminster bridge. they got on the steamboat just as she was starting. presently philip, a smile on his lips, spoke. "i remember when first i went to paris, clutton, i think it was, gave a long discourse on the subject that beauty is put into things by painters and poets. they create beauty. in themselves there is nothing to choose between the campanile of giotto and a factory chimney. and then beautiful things grow rich with the emotion that they have aroused in succeeding generations. that is why old things are more beautiful than modern. the ode on a grecian urn is more lovely now than when it was written, because for a hundred years lovers have read it and the sick at heart taken comfort in its lines." philip left hayward to infer what in the passing scene had suggested these words to him, and it was a delight to know that he could safely leave the inference. it was in sudden reaction from the life he had been leading for so long that he was now deeply affected. the delicate iridescence of the london air gave the softness of a pastel to the gray stone of the buildings; and in the wharfs and storehouses there was the severity of grace of a japanese print. they went further down; and the splendid channel, a symbol of the great empire, broadened, and it was crowded with traffic; philip thought of the painters and the poets who had made all these things so beautiful, and his heart was filled with gratitude. they came to the pool of london, and who can describe its majesty? the imagination thrills, and heaven knows what figures people still its broad stream, doctor johnson with boswell by his side, an old pepys going on board a man-o'-war: the pageant of english history, and romance, and high adventure. philip turned to hayward with shining eyes. "dear charles dickens," he murmured, smiling a little at his own emotion. "aren't you rather sorry you chucked painting?" asked hayward. "no." "i suppose you like doctoring?" "no, i hate it, but there was nothing else to do. the drudgery of the first two years is awful, and unfortunately i haven't got the scientific temperament." "well, you can't go on changing professions." "oh, no. i'm going to stick to this. i think i shall like it better when i get into the wards. i have an idea that i'm more interested in people than in anything else in the world. and as far as i can see, it's the only profession in which you have your freedom. you carry your knowledge in your head; with a box of instruments and a few drugs you can make your living anywhere." "aren't you going to take a practice then?" "not for a good long time at any rate," philip answered. "as soon as i've got through my hospital appointments i shall get a ship; i want to go to the east--the malay archipelago, siam, china, and all that sort of thing--and then i shall take odd jobs. something always comes along, cholera duty in india and things like that. i want to go from place to place. i want to see the world. the only way a poor man can do that is by going in for the medical." they came to greenwich then. the noble building of inigo jones faced the river grandly. "i say, look, that must be the place where poor jack dived into the mud for pennies," said philip. they wandered in the park. ragged children were playing in it, and it was noisy with their cries: here and there old seamen were basking in the sun. there was an air of a hundred years ago. "it seems a pity you wasted two years in paris," said hayward. "waste? look at the movement of that child, look at the pattern which the sun makes on the ground, shining through the trees, look at that sky--why, i should never have seen that sky if i hadn't been to paris." hayward thought that philip choked a sob, and he looked at him with astonishment. "what's the matter with you?" "nothing. i'm sorry to be so damned emotional, but for six months i've been starved for beauty." "you used to be so matter of fact. it's very interesting to hear you say that." "damn it all, i don't want to be interesting," laughed philip. "let's go and have a stodgy tea." lxv hayward's visit did philip a great deal of good. each day his thoughts dwelt less on mildred. he looked back upon the past with disgust. he could not understand how he had submitted to the dishonour of such a love; and when he thought of mildred it was with angry hatred, because she had submitted him to so much humiliation. his imagination presented her to him now with her defects of person and manner exaggerated, so that he shuddered at the thought of having been connected with her. "it just shows how damned weak i am," he said to himself. the adventure was like a blunder that one had committed at a party so horrible that one felt nothing could be done to excuse it: the only remedy was to forget. his horror at the degradation he had suffered helped him. he was like a snake casting its skin and he looked upon the old covering with nausea. he exulted in the possession of himself once more; he realised how much of the delight of the world he had lost when he was absorbed in that madness which they called love; he had had enough of it; he did not want to be in love any more if love was that. philip told hayward something of what he had gone through. "wasn't it sophocles," he asked, "who prayed for the time when he would be delivered from the wild beast of passion that devoured his heart-strings?" philip seemed really to be born again. he breathed the circumambient air as though he had never breathed it before, and he took a child's pleasure in all the facts of the world. he called his period of insanity six months' hard labour. hayward had only been settled in london a few days when philip received from blackstable, where it had been sent, a card for a private view at some picture gallery. he took hayward, and, on looking at the catalogue, saw that lawson had a picture in it. "i suppose he sent the card," said philip. "let's go and find him, he's sure to be in front of his picture." this, a profile of ruth chalice, was tucked away in a corner, and lawson was not far from it. he looked a little lost, in his large soft hat and loose, pale clothes, amongst the fashionable throng that had gathered for the private view. he greeted philip with enthusiasm, and with his usual volubility told him that he had come to live in london, ruth chalice was a hussy, he had taken a studio, paris was played out, he had a commission for a portrait, and they'd better dine together and have a good old talk. philip reminded him of his acquaintance with hayward, and was entertained to see that lawson was slightly awed by hayward's elegant clothes and grand manner. they sat upon him better than they had done in the shabby little studio which lawson and philip had shared. at dinner lawson went on with his news. flanagan had gone back to america. clutton had disappeared. he had come to the conclusion that a man had no chance of doing anything so long as he was in contact with art and artists: the only thing was to get right away. to make the step easier he had quarrelled with all his friends in paris. he developed a talent for telling them home truths, which made them bear with fortitude his declaration that he had done with that city and was settling in gerona, a little town in the north of spain which had attracted him when he saw it from the train on his way to barcelona. he was living there now alone. "i wonder if he'll ever do any good," said philip. he was interested in the human side of that struggle to express something which was so obscure in the man's mind that he was become morbid and querulous. philip felt vaguely that he was himself in the same case, but with him it was the conduct of his life as a whole that perplexed him. that was his means of self-expression, and what he must do with it was not clear. but he had no time to continue with this train of thought, for lawson poured out a frank recital of his affair with ruth chalice. she had left him for a young student who had just come from england, and was behaving in a scandalous fashion. lawson really thought someone ought to step in and save the young man. she would ruin him. philip gathered that lawson's chief grievance was that the rupture had come in the middle of a portrait he was painting. "women have no real feeling for art," he said. "they only pretend they have." but he finished philosophically enough: "however, i got four portraits out of her, and i'm not sure if the last i was working on would ever have been a success." philip envied the easy way in which the painter managed his love affairs. he had passed eighteen months pleasantly enough, had got an excellent model for nothing, and had parted from her at the end with no great pang. "and what about cronshaw?" asked philip. "oh, he's done for," answered lawson, with the cheerful callousness of his youth. "he'll be dead in six months. he got pneumonia last winter. he was in the english hospital for seven weeks, and when he came out they told him his only chance was to give up liquor." "poor devil," smiled the abstemious philip. "he kept off for a bit. he used to go to the lilas all the same, he couldn't keep away from that, but he used to drink hot milk, avec de la fleur d'oranger, and he was damned dull." "i take it you did not conceal the fact from him." "oh, he knew it himself. a little while ago he started on whiskey again. he said he was too old to turn over any new leaves. he would rather be happy for six months and die at the end of it than linger on for five years. and then i think he's been awfully hard up lately. you see, he didn't earn anything while he was ill, and the slut he lives with has been giving him a rotten time." "i remember, the first time i saw him i admired him awfully," said philip. "i thought he was wonderful. it is sickening that vulgar, middle-class virtue should pay." "of course he was a rotter. he was bound to end in the gutter sooner or later," said lawson. philip was hurt because lawson would not see the pity of it. of course it was cause and effect, but in the necessity with which one follows the other lay all tragedy of life. "oh, i'd forgotten," said lawson. "just after you left he sent round a present for you. i thought you'd be coming back and i didn't bother about it, and then i didn't think it worth sending on; but it'll come over to london with the rest of my things, and you can come to my studio one day and fetch it away if you want it." "you haven't told me what it is yet." "oh, it's only a ragged little bit of carpet. i shouldn't think it's worth anything. i asked him one day what the devil he'd sent the filthy thing for. he told me he'd seen it in a shop in the rue de rennes and bought it for fifteen francs. it appears to be a persian rug. he said you'd asked him the meaning of life and that was the answer. but he was very drunk." philip laughed. "oh yes, i know. i'll take it. it was a favourite wheeze of his. he said i must find out for myself, or else the answer meant nothing." lxvi philip worked well and easily; he had a good deal to do, since he was taking in july the three parts of the first conjoint examination, two of which he had failed in before; but he found life pleasant. he made a new friend. lawson, on the lookout for models, had discovered a girl who was understudying at one of the theatres, and in order to induce her to sit to him arranged a little luncheon-party one sunday. she brought a chaperon with her; and to her philip, asked to make a fourth, was instructed to confine his attentions. he found this easy, since she turned out to be an agreeable chatterbox with an amusing tongue. she asked philip to go and see her; she had rooms in vincent square, and was always in to tea at five o'clock; he went, was delighted with his welcome, and went again. mrs. nesbit was not more than twenty-five, very small, with a pleasant, ugly face; she had very bright eyes, high cheekbones, and a large mouth: the excessive contrasts of her colouring reminded one of a portrait by one of the modern french painters; her skin was very white, her cheeks were very red, her thick eyebrows, her hair, were very black. the effect was odd, a little unnatural, but far from unpleasing. she was separated from her husband and earned her living and her child's by writing penny novelettes. there were one or two publishers who made a specialty of that sort of thing, and she had as much work as she could do. it was ill-paid, she received fifteen pounds for a story of thirty thousand words; but she was satisfied. "after all, it only costs the reader twopence," she said, "and they like the same thing over and over again. i just change the names and that's all. when i'm bored i think of the washing and the rent and clothes for baby, and i go on again." besides, she walked on at various theatres where they wanted supers and earned by this when in work from sixteen shillings to a guinea a week. at the end of her day she was so tired that she slept like a top. she made the best of her difficult lot. her keen sense of humour enabled her to get amusement out of every vexatious circumstance. sometimes things went wrong, and she found herself with no money at all; then her trifling possessions found their way to a pawnshop in the vauxhall bridge road, and she ate bread and butter till things grew brighter. she never lost her cheerfulness. philip was interested in her shiftless life, and she made him laugh with the fantastic narration of her struggles. he asked her why she did not try her hand at literary work of a better sort, but she knew that she had no talent, and the abominable stuff she turned out by the thousand words was not only tolerably paid, but was the best she could do. she had nothing to look forward to but a continuation of the life she led. she seemed to have no relations, and her friends were as poor as herself. "i don't think of the future," she said. "as long as i have enough money for three weeks' rent and a pound or two over for food i never bother. life wouldn't be worth living if i worried over the future as well as the present. when things are at their worst i find something always happens." soon philip grew in the habit of going in to tea with her every day, and so that his visits might not embarrass her he took in a cake or a pound of butter or some tea. they started to call one another by their christian names. feminine sympathy was new to him, and he delighted in someone who gave a willing ear to all his troubles. the hours went quickly. he did not hide his admiration for her. she was a delightful companion. he could not help comparing her with mildred; and he contrasted with the one's obstinate stupidity, which refused interest to everything she did not know, the other's quick appreciation and ready intelligence. his heart sank when he thought that he might have been tied for life to such a woman as mildred. one evening he told norah the whole story of his love. it was not one to give him much reason for self-esteem, and it was very pleasant to receive such charming sympathy. "i think you're well out of it," she said, when he had finished. she had a funny way at times of holding her head on one side like an aberdeen puppy. she was sitting in an upright chair, sewing, for she had no time to do nothing, and philip had made himself comfortable at her feet. "i can't tell you how heartily thankful i am it's all over," he sighed. "poor thing, you must have had a rotten time," she murmured, and by way of showing her sympathy put her hand on his shoulder. he took it and kissed it, but she withdrew it quickly. "why did you do that?" she asked, with a blush. "have you any objection?" she looked at him for a moment with twinkling eyes, and she smiled. "no," she said. he got up on his knees and faced her. she looked into his eyes steadily, and her large mouth trembled with a smile. "well?" she said. "you know, you are a ripper. i'm so grateful to you for being nice to me. i like you so much." "don't be idiotic," she said. philip took hold of her elbows and drew her towards him. she made no resistance, but bent forward a little, and he kissed her red lips. "why did you do that?" she asked again. "because it's comfortable." she did not answer, but a tender look came into her eyes, and she passed her hand softly over his hair. "you know, it's awfully silly of you to behave like this. we were such good friends. it would be so jolly to leave it at that." "if you really want to appeal to my better nature," replied philip, "you'll do well not to stroke my cheek while you're doing it." she gave a little chuckle, but she did not stop. "it's very wrong of me, isn't it?" she said. philip, surprised and a little amused, looked into her eyes, and as he looked he saw them soften and grow liquid, and there was an expression in them that enchanted him. his heart was suddenly stirred, and tears came to his eyes. "norah, you're not fond of me, are you?" he asked, incredulously. "you clever boy, you ask such stupid questions." "oh, my dear, it never struck me that you could be." he flung his arms round her and kissed her, while she, laughing, blushing, and crying, surrendered herself willingly to his embrace. presently he released her and sitting back on his heels looked at her curiously. "well, i'm blowed!" he said. "why?" "i'm so surprised." "and pleased?" "delighted," he cried with all his heart, "and so proud and so happy and so grateful." he took her hands and covered them with kisses. this was the beginning for philip of a happiness which seemed both solid and durable. they became lovers but remained friends. there was in norah a maternal instinct which received satisfaction in her love for philip; she wanted someone to pet, and scold, and make a fuss of; she had a domestic temperament and found pleasure in looking after his health and his linen. she pitied his deformity, over which he was so sensitive, and her pity expressed itself instinctively in tenderness. she was young, strong, and healthy, and it seemed quite natural to her to give her love. she had high spirits and a merry soul. she liked philip because he laughed with her at all the amusing things in life that caught her fancy, and above all she liked him because he was he. when she told him this he answered gaily: "nonsense. you like me because i'm a silent person and never want to get a word in." philip did not love her at all. he was extremely fond of her, glad to be with her, amused and interested by her conversation. she restored his belief in himself and put healing ointments, as it were, on all the bruises of his soul. he was immensely flattered that she cared for him. he admired her courage, her optimism, her impudent defiance of fate; she had a little philosophy of her own, ingenuous and practical. "you know, i don't believe in churches and parsons and all that," she said, "but i believe in god, and i don't believe he minds much about what you do as long as you keep your end up and help a lame dog over a stile when you can. and i think people on the whole are very nice, and i'm sorry for those who aren't." "and what about afterwards?" asked philip. "oh, well, i don't know for certain, you know," she smiled, "but i hope for the best. and anyhow there'll be no rent to pay and no novelettes to write." she had a feminine gift for delicate flattery. she thought that philip did a brave thing when he left paris because he was conscious he could not be a great artist; and he was enchanted when she expressed enthusiastic admiration for him. he had never been quite certain whether this action indicated courage or infirmity of purpose. it was delightful to realise that she considered it heroic. she ventured to tackle him on a subject which his friends instinctively avoided. "it's very silly of you to be so sensitive about your club-foot," she said. she saw him blush darkly, but went on. "you know, people don't think about it nearly as much as you do. they notice it the first time they see you, and then they forget about it." he would not answer. "you're not angry with me, are you?" "no." she put her arm round his neck. "you know, i only speak about it because i love you. i don't want it to make you unhappy." "i think you can say anything you choose to me," he answered, smiling. "i wish i could do something to show you how grateful i am to you." she took him in hand in other ways. she would not let him be bearish and laughed at him when he was out of temper. she made him more urbane. "you can make me do anything you like," he said to her once. "d'you mind?" "no, i want to do what you like." he had the sense to realise his happiness. it seemed to him that she gave him all that a wife could, and he preserved his freedom; she was the most charming friend he had ever had, with a sympathy that he had never found in a man. the sexual relationship was no more than the strongest link in their friendship. it completed it, but was not essential. and because philip's appetites were satisfied, he became more equable and easier to live with. he felt in complete possession of himself. he thought sometimes of the winter, during which he had been obsessed by a hideous passion, and he was filled with loathing for mildred and with horror of himself. his examinations were approaching, and norah was as interested in them as he. he was flattered and touched by her eagerness. she made him promise to come at once and tell her the results. he passed the three parts this time without mishap, and when he went to tell her she burst into tears. "oh, i'm so glad, i was so anxious." "you silly little thing," he laughed, but he was choking. no one could help being pleased with the way she took it. "and what are you going to do now?" she asked. "i can take a holiday with a clear conscience. i have no work to do till the winter session begins in october." "i suppose you'll go down to your uncle's at blackstable?" "you suppose quite wrong. i'm going to stay in london and play with you." "i'd rather you went away." "why? are you tired of me?" she laughed and put her hands on his shoulders. "because you've been working hard, and you look utterly washed out. you want some fresh air and a rest. please go." he did not answer for a moment. he looked at her with loving eyes. "you know, i'd never believe it of anyone but you. you're only thinking of my good. i wonder what you see in me." "will you give me a good character with my month's notice?" she laughed gaily. "i'll say that you're thoughtful and kind, and you're not exacting; you never worry, you're not troublesome, and you're easy to please." "all that's nonsense," she said, "but i'll tell you one thing: i'm one of the few persons i ever met who are able to learn from experience." lxvii philip looked forward to his return to london with impatience. during the two months he spent at blackstable norah wrote to him frequently, long letters in a bold, large hand, in which with cheerful humour she described the little events of the daily round, the domestic troubles of her landlady, rich food for laughter, the comic vexations of her rehearsals--she was walking on in an important spectacle at one of the london theatres--and her odd adventures with the publishers of novelettes. philip read a great deal, bathed, played tennis, and sailed. at the beginning of october he settled down in london to work for the second conjoint examination. he was eager to pass it, since that ended the drudgery of the curriculum; after it was done with the student became an out-patients' clerk, and was brought in contact with men and women as well as with text-books. philip saw norah every day. lawson had been spending the summer at poole, and had a number of sketches to show of the harbour and of the beach. he had a couple of commissions for portraits and proposed to stay in london till the bad light drove him away. hayward, in london too, intended to spend the winter abroad, but remained week after week from sheer inability to make up his mind to go. hayward had run to fat during the last two or three years--it was five years since philip first met him in heidelberg--and he was prematurely bald. he was very sensitive about it and wore his hair long to conceal the unsightly patch on the crown of his head. his only consolation was that his brow was now very noble. his blue eyes had lost their colour; they had a listless droop; and his mouth, losing the fulness of youth, was weak and pale. he still talked vaguely of the things he was going to do in the future, but with less conviction; and he was conscious that his friends no longer believed in him: when he had drank two or three glasses of whiskey he was inclined to be elegiac. "i'm a failure," he murmured, "i'm unfit for the brutality of the struggle of life. all i can do is to stand aside and let the vulgar throng hustle by in their pursuit of the good things." he gave you the impression that to fail was a more delicate, a more exquisite thing, than to succeed. he insinuated that his aloofness was due to distaste for all that was common and low. he talked beautifully of plato. "i should have thought you'd got through with plato by now," said philip impatiently. "would you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. he was not inclined to pursue the subject. he had discovered of late the effective dignity of silence. "i don't see the use of reading the same thing over and over again," said philip. "that's only a laborious form of idleness." "but are you under the impression that you have so great a mind that you can understand the most profound writer at a first reading?" "i don't want to understand him, i'm not a critic. i'm not interested in him for his sake but for mine." "why d'you read then?" "partly for pleasure, because it's a habit and i'm just as uncomfortable if i don't read as if i don't smoke, and partly to know myself. when i read a book i seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then i come across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for me, and it becomes part of me; i've got out of the book all that's any use to me, and i can't get anything more if i read it a dozen times. you see, it seems to me, one's like a closed bud, and most of what one reads and does has no effect at all; but there are certain things that have a peculiar significance for one, and they open a petal; and the petals open one by one; and at last the flower is there." philip was not satisfied with his metaphor, but he did not know how else to explain a thing which he felt and yet was not clear about. "you want to do things, you want to become things," said hayward, with a shrug of the shoulders. "it's so vulgar." philip knew hayward very well by now. he was weak and vain, so vain that you had to be on the watch constantly not to hurt his feelings; he mingled idleness and idealism so that he could not separate them. at lawson's studio one day he met a journalist, who was charmed by his conversation, and a week later the editor of a paper wrote to suggest that he should do some criticism for him. for forty-eight hours hayward lived in an agony of indecision. he had talked of getting occupation of this sort so long that he had not the face to refuse outright, but the thought of doing anything filled him with panic. at last he declined the offer and breathed freely. "it would have interfered with my work," he told philip. "what work?" asked philip brutally. "my inner life," he answered. then he went on to say beautiful things about amiel, the professor of geneva, whose brilliancy promised achievement which was never fulfilled; till at his death the reason of his failure and the excuse were at once manifest in the minute, wonderful journal which was found among his papers. hayward smiled enigmatically. but hayward could still talk delightfully about books; his taste was exquisite and his discrimination elegant; and he had a constant interest in ideas, which made him an entertaining companion. they meant nothing to him really, since they never had any effect on him; but he treated them as he might have pieces of china in an auction-room, handling them with pleasure in their shape and their glaze, pricing them in his mind; and then, putting them back into their case, thought of them no more. and it was hayward who made a momentous discovery. one evening, after due preparation, he took philip and lawson to a tavern situated in beak street, remarkable not only in itself and for its history--it had memories of eighteenth-century glories which excited the romantic imagination--but for its snuff, which was the best in london, and above all for its punch. hayward led them into a large, long room, dingily magnificent, with huge pictures on the walls of nude women: they were vast allegories of the school of haydon; but smoke, gas, and the london atmosphere had given them a richness which made them look like old masters. the dark panelling, the massive, tarnished gold of the cornice, the mahogany tables, gave the room an air of sumptuous comfort, and the leather-covered seats along the wall were soft and easy. there was a ram's head on a table opposite the door, and this contained the celebrated snuff. they ordered punch. they drank it. it was hot rum punch. the pen falters when it attempts to treat of the excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this narrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous terms, jewelled, exotic phrases rise to the excited fancy. it warmed the blood and cleared the head; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to utter wit and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. only one of its qualities was comparable to anything else: it had the warmth of a good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words. charles lamb, with his infinite tact, attempting to, might have drawn charming pictures of the life of his day; lord byron in a stanza of don juan, aiming at the impossible, might have achieved the sublime; oscar wilde, heaping jewels of ispahan upon brocades of byzantium, might have created a troubling beauty. considering it, the mind reeled under visions of the feasts of elagabalus; and the subtle harmonies of debussy mingled with the musty, fragrant romance of chests in which have been kept old clothes, ruffs, hose, doublets, of a forgotten generation, and the wan odour of lilies of the valley and the savour of cheddar cheese. hayward discovered the tavern at which this priceless beverage was to be obtained by meeting in the street a man called macalister who had been at cambridge with him. he was a stockbroker and a philosopher. he was accustomed to go to the tavern once a week; and soon philip, lawson, and hayward got into the habit of meeting there every tuesday evening: change of manners made it now little frequented, which was an advantage to persons who took pleasure in conversation. macalister was a big-boned fellow, much too short for his width, with a large, fleshy face and a soft voice. he was a student of kant and judged everything from the standpoint of pure reason. he was fond of expounding his doctrines. philip listened with excited interest. he had long come to the conclusion that nothing amused him more than metaphysics, but he was not so sure of their efficacy in the affairs of life. the neat little system which he had formed as the result of his meditations at blackstable had not been of conspicuous use during his infatuation for mildred. he could not be positive that reason was much help in the conduct of life. it seemed to him that life lived itself. he remembered very vividly the violence of the emotion which had possessed him and his inability, as if he were tied down to the ground with ropes, to react against it. he read many wise things in books, but he could only judge from his own experience (he did not know whether he was different from other people); he did not calculate the pros and cons of an action, the benefits which must befall him if he did it, the harm which might result from the omission; but his whole being was urged on irresistibly. he did not act with a part of himself but altogether. the power that possessed him seemed to have nothing to do with reason: all that reason did was to point out the methods of obtaining what his whole soul was striving for. macalister reminded him of the categorical imperative. "act so that every action of yours should be capable of becoming a universal rule of action for all men." "that seems to me perfect nonsense," said philip. "you're a bold man to say that of anything stated by immanuel kant," retorted macalister. "why? reverence for what somebody said is a stultifying quality: there's a damned sight too much reverence in the world. kant thought things not because they were true, but because he was kant." "well, what is your objection to the categorical imperative?" (they talked as though the fate of empires were in the balance.) "it suggests that one can choose one's course by an effort of will. and it suggests that reason is the surest guide. why should its dictates be any better than those of passion? they're different. that's all." "you seem to be a contented slave of your passions." "a slave because i can't help myself, but not a contented one," laughed philip. while he spoke he thought of that hot madness which had driven him in pursuit of mildred. he remembered how he had chafed against it and how he had felt the degradation of it. "thank god, i'm free from all that now," he thought. and yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether he spoke sincerely. when he was under the influence of passion he had felt a singular vigour, and his mind had worked with unwonted force. he was more alive, there was an excitement in sheer being, an eager vehemence of soul, which made life now a trifle dull. for all the misery he had endured there was a compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming existence. but philip's unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the freedom of the will, and macalister, with his well-stored memory, brought out argument after argument. he had a mind that delighted in dialectics, and he forced philip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners from which he could only escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him up with logic and battered him with authorities. at last philip said: "well, i can't say anything about other people. i can only speak for myself. the illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that i can't get away from it, but i believe it is only an illusion. but it is an illusion which is one of the strongest motives of my actions. before i do anything i feel that i have choice, and that influences what i do; but afterwards, when the thing is done, i believe that it was inevitable from all eternity." "what do you deduce from that?" asked hayward. "why, merely the futility of regret. it's no good crying over spilt milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it." lxviii one morning philip on getting up felt his head swim, and going back to bed suddenly discovered he was ill. all his limbs ached and he shivered with cold. when the landlady brought in his breakfast he called to her through the open door that he was not well, and asked for a cup of tea and a piece of toast. a few minutes later there was a knock at his door, and griffiths came in. they had lived in the same house for over a year, but had never done more than nod to one another in the passage. "i say, i hear you're seedy," said griffiths. "i thought i'd come in and see what was the matter with you." philip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the whole thing. he would be all right in an hour or two. "well, you'd better let me take your temperature," said griffiths. "it's quite unnecessary," answered philip irritably. "come on." philip put the thermometer in his mouth. griffiths sat on the side of the bed and chatted brightly for a moment, then he took it out and looked at it. "now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed, and i'll bring old deacon in to have a look at you." "nonsense," said philip. "there's nothing the matter. i wish you wouldn't bother about me." "but it isn't any bother. you've got a temperature and you must stay in bed. you will, won't you?" there was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling of gravity and kindliness, which was infinitely attractive. "you've got a wonderful bed-side manner," philip murmured, closing his eyes with a smile. griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the bedclothes, and tucked him up. he went into philip's sitting-room to look for a siphon, could not find one, and fetched it from his own room. he drew down the blind. "now, go to sleep and i'll bring the old man round as soon as he's done the wards." it seemed hours before anyone came to philip. his head felt as if it would split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he was going to cry. then there was a knock at the door and griffiths, healthy, strong, and cheerful, came in. "here's doctor deacon," he said. the physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom philip knew only by sight. a few questions, a brief examination, and the diagnosis. "what d'you make it?" he asked griffiths, smiling. "influenza." "quite right." doctor deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room. "wouldn't you like to go to the hospital? they'll put you in a private ward, and you can be better looked after than you can here." "i'd rather stay where i am," said philip. he did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new surroundings. he did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the dreary cleanliness of the hospital. "i can look after him, sir," said griffiths at once. "oh, very well." he wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left. "now you've got to do exactly as i tell you," said griffiths. "i'm day-nurse and night-nurse all in one." "it's very kind of you, but i shan't want anything," said philip. griffiths put his hand on philip's forehead, a large cool, dry hand, and the touch seemed to him good. "i'm just going to take this round to the dispensary to have it made up, and then i'll come back." in a little while he brought the medicine and gave philip a dose. then he went upstairs to fetch his books. "you won't mind my working in your room this afternoon, will you?" he said, when he came down. "i'll leave the door open so that you can give me a shout if you want anything." later in the day philip, awaking from an uneasy doze, heard voices in his sitting-room. a friend had come in to see griffiths. "i say, you'd better not come in tonight," he heard griffiths saying. and then a minute or two afterwards someone else entered the room and expressed his surprise at finding griffiths there. philip heard him explain. "i'm looking after a second year's man who's got these rooms. the wretched blighter's down with influenza. no whist tonight, old man." presently griffiths was left alone and philip called him. "i say, you're not putting off a party tonight, are you?" he asked. "not on your account. i must work at my surgery." "don't put it off. i shall be all right. you needn't bother about me." "that's all right." philip grew worse. as the night came on he became slightly delirious, but towards morning he awoke from a restless sleep. he saw griffiths get out of an arm-chair, go down on his knees, and with his fingers put piece after piece of coal on the fire. he was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown. "what are you doing here?" he asked. "did i wake you up? i tried to make up the fire without making a row." "why aren't you in bed? what's the time?" "about five. i thought i'd better sit up with you tonight. i brought an arm-chair in as i thought if i put a mattress down i should sleep so soundly that i shouldn't hear you if you wanted anything." "i wish you wouldn't be so good to me," groaned philip. "suppose you catch it?" "then you shall nurse me, old man," said griffiths, with a laugh. in the morning griffiths drew up the blind. he looked pale and tired after his night's watch, but was full of spirits. "now, i'm going to wash you," he said to philip cheerfully. "i can wash myself," said philip, ashamed. "nonsense. if you were in the small ward a nurse would wash you, and i can do it just as well as a nurse." philip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed griffiths to wash his hands and face, his feet, his chest and back. he did it with charming tenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream of friendly chatter; then he changed the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the pillow, and arranged the bed-clothes. "i should like sister arthur to see me. it would make her sit up. deacon's coming in to see you early." "i can't imagine why you should be so good to me," said philip. "it's good practice for me. it's rather a lark having a patient." griffiths gave him his breakfast and went off to get dressed and have something to eat. a few minutes before ten he came back with a bunch of grapes and a few flowers. "you are awfully kind," said philip. he was in bed for five days. norah and griffiths nursed him between them. though griffiths was the same age as philip he adopted towards him a humorous, motherly attitude. he was a thoughtful fellow, gentle and encouraging; but his greatest quality was a vitality which seemed to give health to everyone with whom he came in contact. philip was unused to the petting which most people enjoy from mothers or sisters and he was deeply touched by the feminine tenderness of this strong young man. philip grew better. then griffiths, sitting idly in philip's room, amused him with gay stories of amorous adventure. he was a flirtatious creature, capable of carrying on three or four affairs at a time; and his account of the devices he was forced to in order to keep out of difficulties made excellent hearing. he had a gift for throwing a romantic glamour over everything that happened to him. he was crippled with debts, everything he had of any value was pawned, but he managed always to be cheerful, extravagant, and generous. he was the adventurer by nature. he loved people of doubtful occupations and shifty purposes; and his acquaintance among the riff-raff that frequents the bars of london was enormous. loose women, treating him as a friend, told him the troubles, difficulties, and successes of their lives; and card-sharpers, respecting his impecuniosity, stood him dinners and lent him five-pound notes. he was ploughed in his examinations time after time; but he bore this cheerfully, and submitted with such a charming grace to the parental expostulations that his father, a doctor in practice at leeds, had not the heart to be seriously angry with him. "i'm an awful fool at books," he said cheerfully, "but i can't work." life was much too jolly. but it was clear that when he had got through the exuberance of his youth, and was at last qualified, he would be a tremendous success in practice. he would cure people by the sheer charm of his manner. philip worshipped him as at school he had worshipped boys who were tall and straight and high of spirits. by the time he was well they were fast friends, and it was a peculiar satisfaction to philip that griffiths seemed to enjoy sitting in his little parlour, wasting philip's time with his amusing chatter and smoking innumerable cigarettes. philip took him sometimes to the tavern off regent street. hayward found him stupid, but lawson recognised his charm and was eager to paint him; he was a picturesque figure with his blue eyes, white skin, and curly hair. often they discussed things he knew nothing about, and then he sat quietly, with a good-natured smile on his handsome face, feeling quite rightly that his presence was sufficient contribution to the entertainment of the company. when he discovered that macalister was a stockbroker he was eager for tips; and macalister, with his grave smile, told him what fortunes he could have made if he had bought certain stock at certain times. it made philip's mouth water, for in one way and another he was spending more than he had expected, and it would have suited him very well to make a little money by the easy method macalister suggested. "next time i hear of a really good thing i'll let you know," said the stockbroker. "they do come along sometimes. it's only a matter of biding one's time." philip could not help thinking how delightful it would be to make fifty pounds, so that he could give norah the furs she so badly needed for the winter. he looked at the shops in regent street and picked out the articles he could buy for the money. she deserved everything. she made his life very happy. lxix one afternoon, when he went back to his rooms from the hospital to wash and tidy himself before going to tea as usual with norah, as he let himself in with his latch-key, his landlady opened the door for him. "there's a lady waiting to see you," she said. "me?" exclaimed philip. he was surprised. it would only be norah, and he had no idea what had brought her. "i shouldn't 'ave let her in, only she's been three times, and she seemed that upset at not finding you, so i told her she could wait." he pushed past the explaining landlady and burst into the room. his heart turned sick. it was mildred. she was sitting down, but got up hurriedly as he came in. she did not move towards him nor speak. he was so surprised that he did not know what he was saying. "what the hell d'you want?" he asked. she did not answer, but began to cry. she did not put her hands to her eyes, but kept them hanging by the side of her body. she looked like a housemaid applying for a situation. there was a dreadful humility in her bearing. philip did not know what feelings came over him. he had a sudden impulse to turn round and escape from the room. "i didn't think i'd ever see you again," he said at last. "i wish i was dead," she moaned. philip left her standing where she was. he could only think at the moment of steadying himself. his knees were shaking. he looked at her, and he groaned in despair. "what's the matter?" he said. "he's left me--emil." philip's heart bounded. he knew then that he loved her as passionately as ever. he had never ceased to love her. she was standing before him humble and unresisting. he wished to take her in his arms and cover her tear-stained face with kisses. oh, how long the separation had been! he did not know how he could have endured it. "you'd better sit down. let me give you a drink." he drew the chair near the fire and she sat in it. he mixed her whiskey and soda, and, sobbing still, she drank it. she looked at him with great, mournful eyes. there were large black lines under them. she was thinner and whiter than when last he had seen her. "i wish i'd married you when you asked me," she said. philip did not know why the remark seemed to swell his heart. he could not keep the distance from her which he had forced upon himself. he put his hand on her shoulder. "i'm awfully sorry you're in trouble." she leaned her head against his bosom and burst into hysterical crying. her hat was in the way and she took it off. he had never dreamt that she was capable of crying like that. he kissed her again and again. it seemed to ease her a little. "you were always good to me, philip," she said. "that's why i knew i could come to you." "tell me what's happened." "oh, i can't, i can't," she cried out, breaking away from him. he sank down on his knees beside her and put his cheek against hers. "don't you know that there's nothing you can't tell me? i can never blame you for anything." she told him the story little by little, and sometimes she sobbed so much that he could hardly understand. "last monday week he went up to birmingham, and he promised to be back on thursday, and he never came, and he didn't come on the friday, so i wrote to ask what was the matter, and he never answered the letter. and i wrote and said that if i didn't hear from him by return i'd go up to birmingham, and this morning i got a solicitor's letter to say i had no claim on him, and if i molested him he'd seek the protection of the law." "but it's absurd," cried philip. "a man can't treat his wife like that. had you had a row?" "oh, yes, we'd had a quarrel on the sunday, and he said he was sick of me, but he'd said it before, and he'd come back all right. i didn't think he meant it. he was frightened, because i told him a baby was coming. i kept it from him as long as i could. then i had to tell him. he said it was my fault, and i ought to have known better. if you'd only heard the things he said to me! but i found out precious quick that he wasn't a gentleman. he left me without a penny. he hadn't paid the rent, and i hadn't got the money to pay it, and the woman who kept the house said such things to me--well, i might have been a thief the way she talked." "i thought you were going to take a flat." "that's what he said, but we just took furnished apartments in highbury. he was that mean. he said i was extravagant, he didn't give me anything to be extravagant with." she had an extraordinary way of mixing the trivial with the important. philip was puzzled. the whole thing was incomprehensible. "no man could be such a blackguard." "you don't know him. i wouldn't go back to him now not if he was to come and ask me on his bended knees. i was a fool ever to think of him. and he wasn't earning the money he said he was. the lies he told me!" philip thought for a minute or two. he was so deeply moved by her distress that he could not think of himself. "would you like me to go to birmingham? i could see him and try to make things up." "oh, there's no chance of that. he'll never come back now, i know him." "but he must provide for you. he can't get out of that. i don't know anything about these things, you'd better go and see a solicitor." "how can i? i haven't got the money." "i'll pay all that. i'll write a note to my own solicitor, the sportsman who was my father's executor. would you like me to come with you now? i expect he'll still be at his office." "no, give me a letter to him. i'll go alone." she was a little calmer now. he sat down and wrote a note. then he remembered that she had no money. he had fortunately changed a cheque the day before and was able to give her five pounds. "you are good to me, philip," she said. "i'm so happy to be able to do something for you." "are you fond of me still?" "just as fond as ever." she put up her lips and he kissed her. there was a surrender in the action which he had never seen in her before. it was worth all the agony he had suffered. she went away and he found that she had been there for two hours. he was extraordinarily happy. "poor thing, poor thing," he murmured to himself, his heart glowing with a greater love than he had ever felt before. he never thought of norah at all till about eight o'clock a telegram came. he knew before opening it that it was from her. is anything the matter? norah. he did not know what to do nor what to answer. he could fetch her after the play, in which she was walking on, was over and stroll home with her as he sometimes did; but his whole soul revolted against the idea of seeing her that evening. he thought of writing to her, but he could not bring himself to address her as usual, dearest norah. he made up his mind to telegraph. sorry. could not get away, philip. he visualised her. he was slightly repelled by the ugly little face, with its high cheekbones and the crude colour. there was a coarseness in her skin which gave him goose-flesh. he knew that his telegram must be followed by some action on his part, but at all events it postponed it. next day he wired again. regret, unable to come. will write. mildred had suggested coming at four in the afternoon, and he would not tell her that the hour was inconvenient. after all she came first. he waited for her impatiently. he watched for her at the window and opened the front-door himself. "well? did you see nixon?" "yes," she answered. "he said it wasn't any good. nothing's to be done. i must just grin and bear it." "but that's impossible," cried philip. she sat down wearily. "did he give any reasons?" he asked. she gave him a crumpled letter. "there's your letter, philip. i never took it. i couldn't tell you yesterday, i really couldn't. emil didn't marry me. he couldn't. he had a wife already and three children." philip felt a sudden pang of jealousy and anguish. it was almost more than he could bear. "that's why i couldn't go back to my aunt. there's no one i can go to but you." "what made you go away with him?" philip asked, in a low voice which he struggled to make firm. "i don't know. i didn't know he was a married man at first, and when he told me i gave him a piece of my mind. and then i didn't see him for months, and when he came to the shop again and asked me i don't know what came over me. i felt as if i couldn't help it. i had to go with him." "were you in love with him?" "i don't know. i couldn't hardly help laughing at the things he said. and there was something about him--he said i'd never regret it, he promised to give me seven pounds a week--he said he was earning fifteen, and it was all a lie, he wasn't. and then i was sick of going to the shop every morning, and i wasn't getting on very well with my aunt; she wanted to treat me as a servant instead of a relation, said i ought to do my own room, and if i didn't do it nobody was going to do it for me. oh, i wish i hadn't. but when he came to the shop and asked me i felt i couldn't help it." philip moved away from her. he sat down at the table and buried his face in his hands. he felt dreadfully humiliated. "you're not angry with me, philip?" she asked piteously. "no," he answered, looking up but away from her, "only i'm awfully hurt." "why?" "you see, i was so dreadfully in love with you. i did everything i could to make you care for me. i thought you were incapable of loving anyone. it's so horrible to know that you were willing to sacrifice everything for that bounder. i wonder what you saw in him." "i'm awfully sorry, philip. i regretted it bitterly afterwards, i promise you that." he thought of emil miller, with his pasty, unhealthy look, his shifty blue eyes, and the vulgar smartness of his appearance; he always wore bright red knitted waistcoats. philip sighed. she got up and went to him. she put her arm round his neck. "i shall never forget that you offered to marry me, philip." he took her hand and looked up at her. she bent down and kissed him. "philip, if you want me still i'll do anything you like now. i know you're a gentleman in every sense of the word." his heart stood still. her words made him feel slightly sick. "it's awfully good of you, but i couldn't." "don't you care for me any more?" "yes, i love you with all my heart." "then why shouldn't we have a good time while we've got the chance? you see, it can't matter now." he released himself from her. "you don't understand. i've been sick with love for you ever since i saw you, but now--that man. i've unfortunately got a vivid imagination. the thought of it simply disgusts me." "you are funny," she said. he took her hand again and smiled at her. "you mustn't think i'm not grateful. i can never thank you enough, but you see, it's just stronger than i am." "you are a good friend, philip." they went on talking, and soon they had returned to the familiar companionship of old days. it grew late. philip suggested that they should dine together and go to a music-hall. she wanted some persuasion, for she had an idea of acting up to her situation, and felt instinctively that it did not accord with her distressed condition to go to a place of entertainment. at last philip asked her to go simply to please him, and when she could look upon it as an act of self-sacrifice she accepted. she had a new thoughtfulness which delighted philip. she asked him to take her to the little restaurant in soho to which they had so often been; he was infinitely grateful to her, because her suggestion showed that happy memories were attached to it. she grew much more cheerful as dinner proceeded. the burgundy from the public house at the corner warmed her heart, and she forgot that she ought to preserve a dolorous countenance. philip thought it safe to speak to her of the future. "i suppose you haven't got a brass farthing, have you?" he asked, when an opportunity presented itself. "only what you gave me yesterday, and i had to give the landlady three pounds of that." "well, i'd better give you a tenner to go on with. i'll go and see my solicitor and get him to write to miller. we can make him pay up something, i'm sure. if we can get a hundred pounds out of him it'll carry you on till after the baby comes." "i wouldn't take a penny from him. i'd rather starve." "but it's monstrous that he should leave you in the lurch like this." "i've got my pride to consider." it was a little awkward for philip. he needed rigid economy to make his own money last till he was qualified, and he must have something over to keep him during the year he intended to spend as house physician and house surgeon either at his own or at some other hospital. but mildred had told him various stories of emil's meanness, and he was afraid to remonstrate with her in case she accused him too of want of generosity. "i wouldn't take a penny piece from him. i'd sooner beg my bread. i'd have seen about getting some work to do long before now, only it wouldn't be good for me in the state i'm in. you have to think of your health, don't you?" "you needn't bother about the present," said philip. "i can let you have all you want till you're fit to work again." "i knew i could depend on you. i told emil he needn't think i hadn't got somebody to go to. i told him you was a gentleman in every sense of the word." by degrees philip learned how the separation had come about. it appeared that the fellow's wife had discovered the adventure he was engaged in during his periodical visits to london, and had gone to the head of the firm that employed him. she threatened to divorce him, and they announced that they would dismiss him if she did. he was passionately devoted to his children and could not bear the thought of being separated from them. when he had to choose between his wife and his mistress he chose his wife. he had been always anxious that there should be no child to make the entanglement more complicated; and when mildred, unable longer to conceal its approach, informed him of the fact, he was seized with panic. he picked a quarrel and left her without more ado. "when d'you expect to be confined?" asked philip. "at the beginning of march." "three months." it was necessary to discuss plans. mildred declared she would not remain in the rooms at highbury, and philip thought it more convenient too that she should be nearer to him. he promised to look for something next day. she suggested the vauxhall bridge road as a likely neighbourhood. "and it would be near for afterwards," she said. "what do you mean?" "well, i should only be able to stay there about two months or a little more, and then i should have to go into a house. i know a very respectable place, where they have a most superior class of people, and they take you for four guineas a week and no extras. of course the doctor's extra, but that's all. a friend of mine went there, and the lady who keeps it is a thorough lady. i mean to tell her that my husband's an officer in india and i've come to london for my baby, because it's better for my health." it seemed extraordinary to philip to hear her talking in this way. with her delicate little features and her pale face she looked cold and maidenly. when he thought of the passions that burnt within her, so unexpected, his heart was strangely troubled. his pulse beat quickly. lxx philip expected to find a letter from norah when he got back to his rooms, but there was nothing; nor did he receive one the following morning. the silence irritated and at the same time alarmed him. they had seen one another every day he had been in london since the previous june; and it must seem odd to her that he should let two days go by without visiting her or offering a reason for his absence; he wondered whether by an unlucky chance she had seen him with mildred. he could not bear to think that she was hurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind to call on her that afternoon. he was almost inclined to reproach her because he had allowed himself to get on such intimate terms with her. the thought of continuing them filled him with disgust. he found two rooms for mildred on the second floor of a house in the vauxhall bridge road. they were noisy, but he knew that she liked the rattle of traffic under her windows. "i don't like a dead and alive street where you don't see a soul pass all day," she said. "give me a bit of life." then he forced himself to go to vincent square. he was sick with apprehension when he rang the bell. he had an uneasy sense that he was treating norah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she had a quick temper, and he hated scenes: perhaps the best way would be to tell her frankly that mildred had come back to him and his love for her was as violent as it had ever been; he was very sorry, but he had nothing to offer norah any more. then he thought of her anguish, for he knew she loved him; it had flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful; but now it was horrible. she had not deserved that he should inflict pain upon her. he asked himself how she would greet him now, and as he walked up the stairs all possible forms of her behaviour flashed across his mind. he knocked at the door. he felt that he was pale, and wondered how to conceal his nervousness. she was writing away industriously, but she sprang to her feet as he entered. "i recognised your step," she cried. "where have you been hiding yourself, you naughty boy?" she came towards him joyfully and put her arms round his neck. she was delighted to see him. he kissed her, and then, to give himself countenance, said he was dying for tea. she bustled the fire to make the kettle boil. "i've been awfully busy," he said lamely. she began to chatter in her bright way, telling him of a new commission she had to provide a novelette for a firm which had not hitherto employed her. she was to get fifteen guineas for it. "it's money from the clouds. i'll tell you what we'll do, we'll stand ourselves a little jaunt. let's go and spend a day at oxford, shall we? i'd love to see the colleges." he looked at her to see whether there was any shadow of reproach in her eyes; but they were as frank and merry as ever: she was overjoyed to see him. his heart sank. he could not tell her the brutal truth. she made some toast for him, and cut it into little pieces, and gave it him as though he were a child. "is the brute fed?" she asked. he nodded, smiling; and she lit a cigarette for him. then, as she loved to do, she came and sat on his knees. she was very light. she leaned back in his arms with a sigh of delicious happiness. "say something nice to me," she murmured. "what shall i say?" "you might by an effort of imagination say that you rather liked me." "you know i do that." he had not the heart to tell her then. he would give her peace at all events for that day, and perhaps he might write to her. that would be easier. he could not bear to think of her crying. she made him kiss her, and as he kissed her he thought of mildred and mildred's pale, thin lips. the recollection of mildred remained with him all the time, like an incorporated form, but more substantial than a shadow; and the sight continually distracted his attention. "you're very quiet today," norah said. her loquacity was a standing joke between them, and he answered: "you never let me get a word in, and i've got out of the habit of talking." "but you're not listening, and that's bad manners." he reddened a little, wondering whether she had some inkling of his secret; he turned away his eyes uneasily. the weight of her irked him this afternoon, and he did not want her to touch him. "my foot's gone to sleep," he said. "i'm so sorry," she cried, jumping up. "i shall have to bant if i can't break myself of this habit of sitting on gentlemen's knees." he went through an elaborate form of stamping his foot and walking about. then he stood in front of the fire so that she should not resume her position. while she talked he thought that she was worth ten of mildred; she amused him much more and was jollier to talk to; she was cleverer, and she had a much nicer nature. she was a good, brave, honest little woman; and mildred, he thought bitterly, deserved none of these epithets. if he had any sense he would stick to norah, she would make him much happier than he would ever be with mildred: after all she loved him, and mildred was only grateful for his help. but when all was said the important thing was to love rather than to be loved; and he yearned for mildred with his whole soul. he would sooner have ten minutes with her than a whole afternoon with norah, he prized one kiss of her cold lips more than all norah could give him. "i can't help myself," he thought. "i've just got her in my bones." he did not care if she was heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid and grasping, he loved her. he would rather have misery with the one than happiness with the other. when he got up to go norah said casually: "well, i shall see you tomorrow, shan't i?" "yes," he answered. he knew that he would not be able to come, since he was going to help mildred with her moving, but he had not the courage to say so. he made up his mind that he would send a wire. mildred saw the rooms in the morning, was satisfied with them, and after luncheon philip went up with her to highbury. she had a trunk for her clothes and another for the various odds and ends, cushions, lampshades, photograph frames, with which she had tried to give the apartments a home-like air; she had two or three large cardboard boxes besides, but in all there was no more than could be put on the roof of a four-wheeler. as they drove through victoria street philip sat well back in the cab in case norah should happen to be passing. he had not had an opportunity to telegraph and could not do so from the post office in the vauxhall bridge road, since she would wonder what he was doing in that neighbourhood; and if he was there he could have no excuse for not going into the neighbouring square where she lived. he made up his mind that he had better go in and see her for half an hour; but the necessity irritated him: he was angry with norah, because she forced him to vulgar and degrading shifts. but he was happy to be with mildred. it amused him to help her with the unpacking; and he experienced a charming sense of possession in installing her in these lodgings which he had found and was paying for. he would not let her exert herself. it was a pleasure to do things for her, and she had no desire to do what somebody else seemed desirous to do for her. he unpacked her clothes and put them away. she was not proposing to go out again, so he got her slippers and took off her boots. it delighted him to perform menial offices. "you do spoil me," she said, running her fingers affectionately through his hair, while he was on his knees unbuttoning her boots. he took her hands and kissed them. "it is nipping to have you here." he arranged the cushions and the photograph frames. she had several jars of green earthenware. "i'll get you some flowers for them," he said. he looked round at his work proudly. "as i'm not going out any more i think i'll get into a tea-gown," she said. "undo me behind, will you?" she turned round as unconcernedly as though he were a woman. his sex meant nothing to her. but his heart was filled with gratitude for the intimacy her request showed. he undid the hooks and eyes with clumsy fingers. "that first day i came into the shop i never thought i'd be doing this for you now," he said, with a laugh which he forced. "somebody must do it," she answered. she went into the bed-room and slipped into a pale blue tea-gown decorated with a great deal of cheap lace. then philip settled her on a sofa and made tea for her. "i'm afraid i can't stay and have it with you," he said regretfully. "i've got a beastly appointment. but i shall be back in half an hour." he wondered what he should say if she asked him what the appointment was, but she showed no curiosity. he had ordered dinner for the two of them when he took the rooms, and proposed to spend the evening with her quietly. he was in such a hurry to get back that he took a tram along the vauxhall bridge road. he thought he had better break the fact to norah at once that he could not stay more than a few minutes. "i say, i've got only just time to say how d'you do," he said, as soon as he got into her rooms. "i'm frightfully busy." her face fell. "why, what's the matter?" it exasperated him that she should force him to tell lies, and he knew that he reddened when he answered that there was a demonstration at the hospital which he was bound to go to. he fancied that she looked as though she did not believe him, and this irritated him all the more. "oh, well, it doesn't matter," she said. "i shall have you all tomorrow." he looked at her blankly. it was sunday, and he had been looking forward to spending the day with mildred. he told himself that he must do that in common decency; he could not leave her by herself in a strange house. "i'm awfully sorry, i'm engaged tomorrow." he knew this was the beginning of a scene which he would have given anything to avoid. the colour on norah's cheeks grew brighter. "but i've asked the gordons to lunch"--they were an actor and his wife who were touring the provinces and in london for sunday--"i told you about it a week ago." "i'm awfully sorry, i forgot." he hesitated. "i'm afraid i can't possibly come. isn't there somebody else you can get?" "what are you doing tomorrow then?" "i wish you wouldn't cross-examine me." "don't you want to tell me?" "i don't in the least mind telling you, but it's rather annoying to be forced to account for all one's movements." norah suddenly changed. with an effort of self-control she got the better of her temper, and going up to him took his hands. "don't disappoint me tomorrow, philip, i've been looking forward so much to spending the day with you. the gordons want to see you, and we'll have such a jolly time." "i'd love to if i could." "i'm not very exacting, am i? i don't often ask you to do anything that's a bother. won't you get out of your horrid engagement--just this once?" "i'm awfully sorry, i don't see how i can," he replied sullenly. "tell me what it is," she said coaxingly. he had had time to invent something. "griffiths' two sisters are up for the week-end and we're taking them out." "is that all?" she said joyfully. "griffiths can so easily get another man." he wished he had thought of something more urgent than that. it was a clumsy lie. "no, i'm awfully sorry, i can't--i've promised and i mean to keep my promise." "but you promised me too. surely i come first." "i wish you wouldn't persist," he said. she flared up. "you won't come because you don't want to. i don't know what you've been doing the last few days, you've been quite different." he looked at his watch. "i'm afraid i'll have to be going," he said. "you won't come tomorrow?" "no." "in that case you needn't trouble to come again," she cried, losing her temper for good. "that's just as you like," he answered. "don't let me detain you any longer," she added ironically. he shrugged his shoulders and walked out. he was relieved that it had gone no worse. there had been no tears. as he walked along he congratulated himself on getting out of the affair so easily. he went into victoria street and bought a few flowers to take in to mildred. the little dinner was a great success. philip had sent in a small pot of caviare, which he knew she was very fond of, and the landlady brought them up some cutlets with vegetables and a sweet. philip had ordered burgundy, which was her favourite wine. with the curtains drawn, a bright fire, and one of mildred's shades on the lamp, the room was cosy. "it's really just like home," smiled philip. "i might be worse off, mightn't i?" she answered. when they finished, philip drew two arm-chairs in front of the fire, and they sat down. he smoked his pipe comfortably. he felt happy and generous. "what would you like to do tomorrow?" he asked. "oh, i'm going to tulse hill. you remember the manageress at the shop, well, she's married now, and she's asked me to go and spend the day with her. of course she thinks i'm married too." philip's heart sank. "but i refused an invitation so that i might spend sunday with you." he thought that if she loved him she would say that in that case she would stay with him. he knew very well that norah would not have hesitated. "well, you were a silly to do that. i've promised to go for three weeks and more." "but how can you go alone?" "oh, i shall say that emil's away on business. her husband's in the glove trade, and he's a very superior fellow." philip was silent, and bitter feelings passed through his heart. she gave him a sidelong glance. "you don't grudge me a little pleasure, philip? you see, it's the last time i shall be able to go anywhere for i don't know how long, and i had promised." he took her hand and smiled. "no, darling, i want you to have the best time you can. i only want you to be happy." there was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face downwards, on the sofa, and philip idly took it up. it was a twopenny novelette, and the author was courtenay paget. that was the name under which norah wrote. "i do like his books," said mildred. "i read them all. they're so refined." he remembered what norah had said of herself. "i have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids. they think me so genteel." lxxi philip, in return for griffiths' confidences, had told him the details of his own complicated amours, and on sunday morning, after breakfast when they sat by the fire in their dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the scene of the previous day. griffiths congratulated him because he had got out of his difficulties so easily. "it's the simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a woman," he remarked sententiously, "but it's a devil of a nuisance to get out of it." philip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the back for his skill in managing the business. at all events he was immensely relieved. he thought of mildred enjoying herself in tulse hill, and he found in himself a real satisfaction because she was happy. it was an act of self-sacrifice on his part that he did not grudge her pleasure even though paid for by his own disappointment, and it filled his heart with a comfortable glow. but on monday morning he found on his table a letter from norah. she wrote: dearest, i'm sorry i was cross on saturday. forgive me and come to tea in the afternoon as usual. i love you. your norah. his heart sank, and he did not know what to do. he took the note to griffiths and showed it to him. "you'd better leave it unanswered," said he. "oh, i can't," cried philip. "i should be miserable if i thought of her waiting and waiting. you don't know what it is to be sick for the postman's knock. i do, and i can't expose anybody else to that torture." "my dear fellow, one can't break that sort of affair off without somebody suffering. you must just set your teeth to that. one thing is, it doesn't last very long." philip felt that norah had not deserved that he should make her suffer; and what did griffiths know about the degrees of anguish she was capable of? he remembered his own pain when mildred had told him she was going to be married. he did not want anyone to experience what he had experienced then. "if you're so anxious not to give her pain, go back to her," said griffiths. "i can't do that." he got up and walked up and down the room nervously. he was angry with norah because she had not let the matter rest. she must have seen that he had no more love to give her. they said women were so quick at seeing those things. "you might help me," he said to griffiths. "my dear fellow, don't make such a fuss about it. people do get over these things, you know. she probably isn't so wrapped up in you as you think, either. one's always rather apt to exaggerate the passion one's inspired other people with." he paused and looked at philip with amusement. "look here, there's only one thing you can do. write to her, and tell her the thing's over. put it so that there can be no mistake about it. it'll hurt her, but it'll hurt her less if you do the thing brutally than if you try half-hearted ways." philip sat down and wrote the following letter: my dear norah, i am sorry to make you unhappy, but i think we had better let things remain where we left them on saturday. i don't think there's any use in letting these things drag on when they've ceased to be amusing. you told me to go and i went. i do not propose to come back. good-bye. philip carey. he showed the letter to griffiths and asked him what he thought of it. griffiths read it and looked at philip with twinkling eyes. he did not say what he felt. "i think that'll do the trick," he said. philip went out and posted it. he passed an uncomfortable morning, for he imagined with great detail what norah would feel when she received his letter. he tortured himself with the thought of her tears. but at the same time he was relieved. imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief seen, and he was free now to love mildred with all his soul. his heart leaped at the thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day's work at the hospital was over. when as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no sooner put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him. "may i come in? i've been waiting for you for half an hour." it was norah. he felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. she spoke gaily. there was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to indicate that there was a rupture between them. he felt himself cornered. he was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile. "yes, do," he said. he opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. he was nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a cigarette and lit one for himself. she looked at him brightly. "why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? if i'd taken it seriously it would have made me perfectly wretched." "it was meant seriously," he answered gravely. "don't be so silly. i lost my temper the other day, and i wrote and apologised. you weren't satisfied, so i've come here to apologise again. after all, you're your own master and i have no claims upon you. i don't want you to do anything you don't want to." she got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went towards him impulsively, with outstretched hands. "let's make friends again, philip. i'm so sorry if i offended you." he could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not look at her. "i'm afraid it's too late," he said. she let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his knees. "philip, don't be silly. i'm quick-tempered too and i can understand that i hurt you, but it's so stupid to sulk over it. what's the good of making us both unhappy? it's been so jolly, our friendship." she passed her fingers slowly over his hand. "i love you, philip." he got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other side of the room. "i'm awfully sorry, i can't do anything. the whole thing's over." "d'you mean to say you don't love me any more?" "i'm afraid so." "you were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and you took that one?" he did not answer. she looked at him steadily for a time which seemed intolerable. she was sitting on the floor where he had left her, leaning against the arm-chair. she began to cry quite silently, without trying to hide her face, and the large tears rolled down her cheeks one after the other. she did not sob. it was horribly painful to see her. philip turned away. "i'm awfully sorry to hurt you. it's not my fault if i don't love you." she did not answer. she merely sat there, as though she were overwhelmed, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. it would have been easier to bear if she had reproached him. he had thought her temper would get the better of her, and he was prepared for that. at the back of his mind was a feeling that a real quarrel, in which each said to the other cruel things, would in some way be a justification of his behaviour. the time passed. at last he grew frightened by her silent crying; he went into his bed-room and got a glass of water; he leaned over her. "won't you drink a little? it'll relieve you." she put her lips listlessly to the glass and drank two or three mouthfuls. then in an exhausted whisper she asked him for a handkerchief. she dried her eyes. "of course i knew you never loved me as much as i loved you," she moaned. "i'm afraid that's always the case," he said. "there's always one who loves and one who lets himself be loved." he thought of mildred, and a bitter pain traversed his heart. norah did not answer for a long time. "i'd been so miserably unhappy, and my life was so hateful," she said at last. she did not speak to him, but to herself. he had never heard her before complain of the life she had led with her husband or of her poverty. he had always admired the bold front she displayed to the world. "and then you came along and you were so good to me. and i admired you because you were clever and it was so heavenly to have someone i could put my trust in. i loved you. i never thought it could come to an end. and without any fault of mine at all." her tears began to flow again, but now she was more mistress of herself, and she hid her face in philip's handkerchief. she tried hard to control herself. "give me some more water," she said. she wiped her eyes. "i'm sorry to make such a fool of myself. i was so unprepared." "i'm awfully sorry, norah. i want you to know that i'm very grateful for all you've done for me." he wondered what it was she saw in him. "oh, it's always the same," she sighed, "if you want men to behave well to you, you must be beastly to them; if you treat them decently they make you suffer for it." she got up from the floor and said she must go. she gave philip a long, steady look. then she sighed. "it's so inexplicable. what does it all mean?" philip took a sudden determination. "i think i'd better tell you, i don't want you to think too badly of me, i want you to see that i can't help myself. mildred's come back." the colour came to her face. "why didn't you tell me at once? i deserved that surely." "i was afraid to." she looked at herself in the glass and set her hat straight. "will you call me a cab," she said. "i don't feel i can walk." he went to the door and stopped a passing hansom; but when she followed him into the street he was startled to see how white she was. there was a heaviness in her movements as though she had suddenly grown older. she looked so ill that he had not the heart to let her go alone. "i'll drive back with you if you don't mind." she did not answer, and he got into the cab. they drove along in silence over the bridge, through shabby streets in which children, with shrill cries, played in the road. when they arrived at her door she did not immediately get out. it seemed as though she could not summon enough strength to her legs to move. "i hope you'll forgive me, norah," he said. she turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that they were bright again with tears, but she forced a smile to her lips. "poor fellow, you're quite worried about me. you mustn't bother. i don't blame you. i shall get over it all right." lightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him that she bore no ill-feeling, the gesture was scarcely more than suggested; then she jumped out of the cab and let herself into her house. philip paid the hansom and walked to mildred's lodgings. there was a curious heaviness in his heart. he was inclined to reproach himself. but why? he did not know what else he could have done. passing a fruiterer's, he remembered that mildred was fond of grapes. he was so grateful that he could show his love for her by recollecting every whim she had. lxxii for the next three months philip went every day to see mildred. he took his books with him and after tea worked, while mildred lay on the sofa reading novels. sometimes he would look up and watch her for a minute. a happy smile crossed his lips. she would feel his eyes upon her. "don't waste your time looking at me, silly. go on with your work," she said. "tyrant," he answered gaily. he put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth for dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her. she was a little cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour and a quick tongue. mildred had become great friends with her and had given her an elaborate but mendacious account of the circumstances which had brought her to the pass she was in. the good-hearted little woman was touched and found no trouble too great to make mildred comfortable. mildred's sense of propriety had suggested that philip should pass himself off as her brother. they dined together, and philip was delighted when he had ordered something which tempted mildred's capricious appetite. it enchanted him to see her sitting opposite him, and every now and then from sheer joy he took her hand and pressed it. after dinner she sat in the arm-chair by the fire, and he settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against her knees, and smoked. often they did not talk at all, and sometimes philip noticed that she had fallen into a doze. he dared not move then in case he woke her, and he sat very quietly, looking lazily into the fire and enjoying his happiness. "had a nice little nap?" he smiled, when she woke. "i've not been sleeping," she answered. "i only just closed my eyes." she would never acknowledge that she had been asleep. she had a phlegmatic temperament, and her condition did not seriously inconvenience her. she took a lot of trouble about her health and accepted the advice of anyone who chose to offer it. she went for a 'constitutional' every morning that it was fine and remained out a definite time. when it was not too cold she sat in st. james' park. but the rest of the day she spent quite happily on her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting with the landlady; she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told philip with abundant detail the history of the landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room floor, and of the people who lived in the next house on either side. now and then she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to philip about the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she should die; she gave him a full account of the confinements of the landlady and of the lady on the drawing-room floor (mildred did not know her; "i'm one to keep myself to myself," she said, "i'm not one to go about with anybody.") and she narrated details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the most part she looked forward to the occurrence with equanimity. "after all, i'm not the first one to have a baby, am i? and the doctor says i shan't have any trouble. you see, it isn't as if i wasn't well made." mrs. owen, the owner of the house she was going to when her time came, had recommended a doctor, and mildred saw him once a week. he was to charge fifteen guineas. "of course i could have got it done cheaper, but mrs. owen strongly recommended him, and i thought it wasn't worth while to spoil the ship for a coat of tar." "if you feel happy and comfortable i don't mind a bit about the expense," said philip. she accepted all that philip did for her as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and on his side he loved to spend money on her: each five-pound note he gave her caused him a little thrill of happiness and pride; he gave her a good many, for she was not economical. "i don't know where the money goes to," she said herself, "it seems to slip through my fingers like water." "it doesn't matter," said philip. "i'm so glad to be able to do anything i can for you." she could not sew well and so did not make the necessary things for the baby; she told philip it was much cheaper in the end to buy them. philip had lately sold one of the mortgages in which his money had been put; and now, with five hundred pounds in the bank waiting to be invested in something that could be more easily realised, he felt himself uncommonly well-to-do. they talked often of the future. philip was anxious that mildred should keep the child with her, but she refused: she had her living to earn, and it would be more easy to do this if she had not also to look after a baby. her plan was to get back into one of the shops of the company for which she had worked before, and the child could be put with some decent woman in the country. "i can find someone who'll look after it well for seven and sixpence a week. it'll be better for the baby and better for me." it seemed callous to philip, but when he tried to reason with her she pretended to think he was concerned with the expense. "you needn't worry about that," she said. "i shan't ask you to pay for it." "you know i don't care how much i pay." at the bottom of her heart was the hope that the child would be still-born. she did no more than hint it, but philip saw that the thought was there. he was shocked at first; and then, reasoning with himself, he was obliged to confess that for all concerned such an event was to be desired. "it's all very fine to say this and that," mildred remarked querulously, "but it's jolly difficult for a girl to earn her living by herself; it doesn't make it any easier when she's got a baby." "fortunately you've got me to fall back on," smiled philip, taking her hand. "you've been good to me, philip." "oh, what rot!" "you can't say i didn't offer anything in return for what you've done." "good heavens, i don't want a return. if i've done anything for you, i've done it because i love you. you owe me nothing. i don't want you to do anything unless you love me." he was a little horrified by her feeling that her body was a commodity which she could deliver indifferently as an acknowledgment for services rendered. "but i do want to, philip. you've been so good to me." "well, it won't hurt for waiting. when you're all right again we'll go for our little honeymoon." "you are naughty," she said, smiling. mildred expected to be confined early in march, and as soon as she was well enough she was to go to the seaside for a fortnight: that would give philip a chance to work without interruption for his examination; after that came the easter holidays, and they had arranged to go to paris together. philip talked endlessly of the things they would do. paris was delightful then. they would take a room in a little hotel he knew in the latin quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of charming little restaurants; they would go to the play, and he would take her to music halls. it would amuse her to meet his friends. he had talked to her about cronshaw, she would see him; and there was lawson, he had gone to paris for a couple of months; and they would go to the bal bullier; there were excursions; they would make trips to versailles, chartres, fontainebleau. "it'll cost a lot of money," she said. "oh, damn the expense. think how i've been looking forward to it. don't you know what it means to me? i've never loved anyone but you. i never shall." she listened to his enthusiasm with smiling eyes. he thought he saw in them a new tenderness, and he was grateful to her. she was much gentler than she used to be. there was in her no longer the superciliousness which had irritated him. she was so accustomed to him now that she took no pains to keep up before him any pretences. she no longer troubled to do her hair with the old elaboration, but just tied it in a knot; and she left off the vast fringe which she generally wore: the more careless style suited her. her face was so thin that it made her eyes seem very large; there were heavy lines under them, and the pallor of her cheeks made their colour more profound. she had a wistful look which was infinitely pathetic. there seemed to philip to be in her something of the madonna. he wished they could continue in that same way always. he was happier than he had ever been in his life. he used to leave her at ten o'clock every night, for she liked to go to bed early, and he was obliged to put in another couple of hours' work to make up for the lost evening. he generally brushed her hair for her before he went. he had made a ritual of the kisses he gave her when he bade her good-night; first he kissed the palms of her hands (how thin the fingers were, the nails were beautiful, for she spent much time in manicuring them,) then he kissed her closed eyes, first the right one and then the left, and at last he kissed her lips. he went home with a heart overflowing with love. he longed for an opportunity to gratify the desire for self-sacrifice which consumed him. presently the time came for her to move to the nursing-home where she was to be confined. philip was then able to visit her only in the afternoons. mildred changed her story and represented herself as the wife of a soldier who had gone to india to join his regiment, and philip was introduced to the mistress of the establishment as her brother-in-law. "i have to be rather careful what i say," she told him, "as there's another lady here whose husband's in the indian civil." "i wouldn't let that disturb me if i were you," said philip. "i'm convinced that her husband and yours went out on the same boat." "what boat?" she asked innocently. "the flying dutchman." mildred was safely delivered of a daughter, and when philip was allowed to see her the child was lying by her side. mildred was very weak, but relieved that everything was over. she showed him the baby, and herself looked at it curiously. "it's a funny-looking little thing, isn't it? i can't believe it's mine." it was red and wrinkled and odd. philip smiled when he looked at it. he did not quite know what to say; and it embarrassed him because the nurse who owned the house was standing by his side; and he felt by the way she was looking at him that, disbelieving mildred's complicated story, she thought he was the father. "what are you going to call her?" asked philip. "i can't make up my mind if i shall call her madeleine or cecilia." the nurse left them alone for a few minutes, and philip bent down and kissed mildred on the mouth. "i'm so glad it's all over happily, darling." she put her thin arms round his neck. "you have been a brick to me, phil dear." "now i feel that you're mine at last. i've waited so long for you, my dear." they heard the nurse at the door, and philip hurriedly got up. the nurse entered. there was a slight smile on her lips. lxxiii three weeks later philip saw mildred and her baby off to brighton. she had made a quick recovery and looked better than he had ever seen her. she was going to a boarding-house where she had spent a couple of weekends with emil miller, and had written to say that her husband was obliged to go to germany on business and she was coming down with her baby. she got pleasure out of the stories she invented, and she showed a certain fertility of invention in the working out of the details. mildred proposed to find in brighton some woman who would be willing to take charge of the baby. philip was startled at the callousness with which she insisted on getting rid of it so soon, but she argued with common sense that the poor child had much better be put somewhere before it grew used to her. philip had expected the maternal instinct to make itself felt when she had had the baby two or three weeks and had counted on this to help him persuade her to keep it; but nothing of the sort occurred. mildred was not unkind to her baby; she did all that was necessary; it amused her sometimes, and she talked about it a good deal; but at heart she was indifferent to it. she could not look upon it as part of herself. she fancied it resembled its father already. she was continually wondering how she would manage when it grew older; and she was exasperated with herself for being such a fool as to have it at all. "if i'd only known then all i do now," she said. she laughed at philip, because he was anxious about its welfare. "you couldn't make more fuss if you was the father," she said. "i'd like to see emil getting into such a stew about it." philip's mind was full of the stories he had heard of baby-farming and the ghouls who ill-treat the wretched children that selfish, cruel parents have put in their charge. "don't be so silly," said mildred. "that's when you give a woman a sum down to look after a baby. but when you're going to pay so much a week it's to their interest to look after it well." philip insisted that mildred should place the child with people who had no children of their own and would promise to take no other. "don't haggle about the price," he said. "i'd rather pay half a guinea a week than run any risk of the kid being starved or beaten." "you're a funny old thing, philip," she laughed. to him there was something very touching in the child's helplessness. it was small, ugly, and querulous. its birth had been looked forward to with shame and anguish. nobody wanted it. it was dependent on him, a stranger, for food, shelter, and clothes to cover its nakedness. as the train started he kissed mildred. he would have kissed the baby too, but he was afraid she would laugh at him. "you will write to me, darling, won't you? and i shall look forward to your coming back with oh! such impatience." "mind you get through your exam." he had been working for it industriously, and now with only ten days before him he made a final effort. he was very anxious to pass, first to save himself time and expense, for money had been slipping through his fingers during the last four months with incredible speed; and then because this examination marked the end of the drudgery: after that the student had to do with medicine, midwifery, and surgery, the interest of which was more vivid than the anatomy and physiology with which he had been hitherto concerned. philip looked forward with interest to the rest of the curriculum. nor did he want to have to confess to mildred that he had failed: though the examination was difficult and the majority of candidates were ploughed at the first attempt, he knew that she would think less well of him if he did not succeed; she had a peculiarly humiliating way of showing what she thought. mildred sent him a postcard to announce her safe arrival, and he snatched half an hour every day to write a long letter to her. he had always a certain shyness in expressing himself by word of mouth, but he found he could tell her, pen in hand, all sorts of things which it would have made him feel ridiculous to say. profiting by the discovery he poured out to her his whole heart. he had never been able to tell her before how his adoration filled every part of him so that all his actions, all his thoughts, were touched with it. he wrote to her of the future, the happiness that lay before him, and the gratitude which he owed her. he asked himself (he had often asked himself before but had never put it into words) what it was in her that filled him with such extravagant delight; he did not know; he knew only that when she was with him he was happy, and when she was away from him the world was on a sudden cold and gray; he knew only that when he thought of her his heart seemed to grow big in his body so that it was difficult to breathe (as if it pressed against his lungs) and it throbbed, so that the delight of her presence was almost pain; his knees shook, and he felt strangely weak as though, not having eaten, he were tremulous from want of food. he looked forward eagerly to her answers. he did not expect her to write often, for he knew that letter-writing came difficultly to her; and he was quite content with the clumsy little note that arrived in reply to four of his. she spoke of the boarding-house in which she had taken a room, of the weather and the baby, told him she had been for a walk on the front with a lady-friend whom she had met in the boarding-house and who had taken such a fancy to baby, she was going to the theatre on saturday night, and brighton was filling up. it touched philip because it was so matter-of-fact. the crabbed style, the formality of the matter, gave him a queer desire to laugh and to take her in his arms and kiss her. he went into the examination with happy confidence. there was nothing in either of the papers that gave him trouble. he knew that he had done well, and though the second part of the examination was viva voce and he was more nervous, he managed to answer the questions adequately. he sent a triumphant telegram to mildred when the result was announced. when he got back to his rooms philip found a letter from her, saying that she thought it would be better for her to stay another week in brighton. she had found a woman who would be glad to take the baby for seven shillings a week, but she wanted to make inquiries about her, and she was herself benefiting so much by the sea-air that she was sure a few days more would do her no end of good. she hated asking philip for money, but would he send some by return, as she had had to buy herself a new hat, she couldn't go about with her lady-friend always in the same hat, and her lady-friend was so dressy. philip had a moment of bitter disappointment. it took away all his pleasure at getting through his examination. "if she loved me one quarter as much as i love her she couldn't bear to stay away a day longer than necessary." he put the thought away from him quickly; it was pure selfishness; of course her health was more important than anything else. but he had nothing to do now; he might spend the week with her in brighton, and they could be together all day. his heart leaped at the thought. it would be amusing to appear before mildred suddenly with the information that he had taken a room in the boarding-house. he looked out trains. but he paused. he was not certain that she would be pleased to see him; she had made friends in brighton; he was quiet, and she liked boisterous joviality; he realised that she amused herself more with other people than with him. it would torture him if he felt for an instant that he was in the way. he was afraid to risk it. he dared not even write and suggest that, with nothing to keep him in town, he would like to spend the week where he could see her every day. she knew he had nothing to do; if she wanted him to come she would have asked him to. he dared not risk the anguish he would suffer if he proposed to come and she made excuses to prevent him. he wrote to her next day, sent her a five-pound note, and at the end of his letter said that if she were very nice and cared to see him for the week-end he would be glad to run down; but she was by no means to alter any plans she had made. he awaited her answer with impatience. in it she said that if she had only known before she could have arranged it, but she had promised to go to a music-hall on the saturday night; besides, it would make the people at the boarding-house talk if he stayed there. why did he not come on sunday morning and spend the day? they could lunch at the metropole, and she would take him afterwards to see the very superior lady-like person who was going to take the baby. sunday. he blessed the day because it was fine. as the train approached brighton the sun poured through the carriage window. mildred was waiting for him on the platform. "how jolly of you to come and meet me!" he cried, as he seized her hands. "you expected me, didn't you?" "i hoped you would. i say, how well you're looking." "it's done me a rare lot of good, but i think i'm wise to stay here as long as i can. and there are a very nice class of people at the boarding-house. i wanted cheering up after seeing nobody all these months. it was dull sometimes." she looked very smart in her new hat, a large black straw with a great many inexpensive flowers on it; and round her neck floated a long boa of imitation swansdown. she was still very thin, and she stooped a little when she walked (she had always done that,) but her eyes did not seem so large; and though she never had any colour, her skin had lost the earthy look it had. they walked down to the sea. philip, remembering he had not walked with her for months, grew suddenly conscious of his limp and walked stiffly in the attempt to conceal it. "are you glad to see me?" he asked, love dancing madly in his heart. "of course i am. you needn't ask that." "by the way, griffiths sends you his love." "what cheek!" he had talked to her a great deal of griffiths. he had told her how flirtatious he was and had amused her often with the narration of some adventure which griffiths under the seal of secrecy had imparted to him. mildred had listened, with some pretence of disgust sometimes, but generally with curiosity; and philip, admiringly, had enlarged upon his friend's good looks and charm. "i'm sure you'll like him just as much as i do. he's so jolly and amusing, and he's such an awfully good sort." philip told her how, when they were perfect strangers, griffiths had nursed him through an illness; and in the telling griffiths' self-sacrifice lost nothing. "you can't help liking him," said philip. "i don't like good-looking men," said mildred. "they're too conceited for me." "he wants to know you. i've talked to him about you an awful lot." "what have you said?" asked mildred. philip had no one but griffiths to talk to of his love for mildred, and little by little had told him the whole story of his connection with her. he described her to him fifty times. he dwelt amorously on every detail of her appearance, and griffiths knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped and how white her face was, and he laughed at philip when he talked of the charm of her pale, thin lips. "by jove, i'm glad i don't take things so badly as that," he said. "life wouldn't be worth living." philip smiled. griffiths did not know the delight of being so madly in love that it was like meat and wine and the air one breathed and whatever else was essential to existence. griffiths knew that philip had looked after the girl while she was having her baby and was now going away with her. "well, i must say you've deserved to get something," he remarked. "it must have cost you a pretty penny. it's lucky you can afford it." "i can't," said philip. "but what do i care!" since it was early for luncheon, philip and mildred sat in one of the shelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched the people pass. there were the brighton shop-boys who walked in twos and threes, swinging their canes, and there were the brighton shop-girls who tripped along in giggling bunches. they could tell the people who had come down from london for the day; the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. there were many jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, little corpulent men with a gesticulative manner. there were middle-aged gentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large hotels, carefully dressed; and they walked industriously after too substantial a breakfast to give themselves an appetite for too substantial a luncheon: they exchanged the time of day with friends and talked of dr. brighton or london-by-the-sea. here and there a well-known actor passed, elaborately unconscious of the attention he excited: sometimes he wore patent leather boots, a coat with an astrakhan collar, and carried a silver-knobbed stick; and sometimes, looking as though he had come from a day's shooting, he strolled in knickerbockers, and ulster of harris tweed, and a tweed hat on the back of his head. the sun shone on the blue sea, and the blue sea was trim and neat. after luncheon they went to hove to see the woman who was to take charge of the baby. she lived in a small house in a back street, but it was clean and tidy. her name was mrs. harding. she was an elderly, stout person, with gray hair and a red, fleshy face. she looked motherly in her cap, and philip thought she seemed kind. "won't you find it an awful nuisance to look after a baby?" he asked her. she explained that her husband was a curate, a good deal older than herself, who had difficulty in getting permanent work since vicars wanted young men to assist them; he earned a little now and then by doing locums when someone took a holiday or fell ill, and a charitable institution gave them a small pension; but her life was lonely, it would be something to do to look after a child, and the few shillings a week paid for it would help her to keep things going. she promised that it should be well fed. "quite the lady, isn't she?" said mildred, when they went away. they went back to have tea at the metropole. mildred liked the crowd and the band. philip was tired of talking, and he watched her face as she looked with keen eyes at the dresses of the women who came in. she had a peculiar sharpness for reckoning up what things cost, and now and then she leaned over to him and whispered the result of her meditations. "d'you see that aigrette there? that cost every bit of seven guineas." or: "look at that ermine, philip. that's rabbit, that is--that's not ermine." she laughed triumphantly. "i'd know it a mile off." philip smiled happily. he was glad to see her pleasure, and the ingenuousness of her conversation amused and touched him. the band played sentimental music. after dinner they walked down to the station, and philip took her arm. he told her what arrangements he had made for their journey to france. she was to come up to london at the end of the week, but she told him that she could not go away till the saturday of the week after that. he had already engaged a room in a hotel in paris. he was looking forward eagerly to taking the tickets. "you won't mind going second-class, will you? we mustn't be extravagant, and it'll be all the better if we can do ourselves pretty well when we get there." he had talked to her a hundred times of the quarter. they would wander through its pleasant old streets, and they would sit idly in the charming gardens of the luxembourg. if the weather was fine perhaps, when they had had enough of paris, they might go to fontainebleau. the trees would be just bursting into leaf. the green of the forest in spring was more beautiful than anything he knew; it was like a song, and it was like the happy pain of love. mildred listened quietly. he turned to her and tried to look deep into her eyes. "you do want to come, don't you?" he said. "of course i do," she smiled. "you don't know how i'm looking forward to it. i don't know how i shall get through the next days. i'm so afraid something will happen to prevent it. it maddens me sometimes that i can't tell you how much i love you. and at last, at last..." he broke off. they reached the station, but they had dawdled on the way, and philip had barely time to say good-night. he kissed her quickly and ran towards the wicket as fast as he could. she stood where he left her. he was strangely grotesque when he ran. lxxiv the following saturday mildred returned, and that evening philip kept her to himself. he took seats for the play, and they drank champagne at dinner. it was her first gaiety in london for so long that she enjoyed everything ingenuously. she cuddled up to philip when they drove from the theatre to the room he had taken for her in pimlico. "i really believe you're quite glad to see me," he said. she did not answer, but gently pressed his hand. demonstrations of affection were so rare with her that philip was enchanted. "i've asked griffiths to dine with us tomorrow," he told her. "oh, i'm glad you've done that. i wanted to meet him." there was no place of entertainment to take her to on sunday night, and philip was afraid she would be bored if she were alone with him all day. griffiths was amusing; he would help them to get through the evening; and philip was so fond of them both that he wanted them to know and to like one another. he left mildred with the words: "only six days more." they had arranged to dine in the gallery at romano's on sunday, because the dinner was excellent and looked as though it cost a good deal more than it did. philip and mildred arrived first and had to wait some time for griffiths. "he's an unpunctual devil," said philip. "he's probably making love to one of his numerous flames." but presently he appeared. he was a handsome creature, tall and thin; his head was placed well on the body, it gave him a conquering air which was attractive; and his curly hair, his bold, friendly blue eyes, his red mouth, were charming. philip saw mildred look at him with appreciation, and he felt a curious satisfaction. griffiths greeted them with a smile. "i've heard a great deal about you," he said to mildred, as he took her hand. "not so much as i've heard about you," she answered. "nor so bad," said philip. "has he been blackening my character?" griffiths laughed, and philip saw that mildred noticed how white and regular his teeth were and how pleasant his smile. "you ought to feel like old friends," said philip. "i've talked so much about you to one another." griffiths was in the best possible humour, for, having at length passed his final examination, he was qualified, and he had just been appointed house-surgeon at a hospital in the north of london. he was taking up his duties at the beginning of may and meanwhile was going home for a holiday; this was his last week in town, and he was determined to get as much enjoyment into it as he could. he began to talk the gay nonsense which philip admired because he could not copy it. there was nothing much in what he said, but his vivacity gave it point. there flowed from him a force of life which affected everyone who knew him; it was almost as sensible as bodily warmth. mildred was more lively than philip had ever known her, and he was delighted to see that his little party was a success. she was amusing herself enormously. she laughed louder and louder. she quite forgot the genteel reserve which had become second nature to her. presently griffiths said: "i say, it's dreadfully difficult for me to call you mrs. miller. philip never calls you anything but mildred." "i daresay she won't scratch your eyes out if you call her that too," laughed philip. "then she must call me harry." philip sat silent while they chattered away and thought how good it was to see people happy. now and then griffiths teased him a little, kindly, because he was always so serious. "i believe he's quite fond of you, philip," smiled mildred. "he isn't a bad old thing," answered griffiths, and taking philip's hand he shook it gaily. it seemed an added charm in griffiths that he liked philip. they were all sober people, and the wine they had drunk went to their heads. griffiths became more talkative and so boisterous that philip, amused, had to beg him to be quiet. he had a gift for story-telling, and his adventures lost nothing of their romance and their laughter in his narration. he played in all of them a gallant, humorous part. mildred, her eyes shining with excitement, urged him on. he poured out anecdote after anecdote. when the lights began to be turned out she was astonished. "my word, the evening has gone quickly. i thought it wasn't more than half past nine." they got up to go and when she said good-bye, she added: "i'm coming to have tea at philip's room tomorrow. you might look in if you can." "all right," he smiled. on the way back to pimlico mildred talked of nothing but griffiths. she was taken with his good looks, his well-cut clothes, his voice, his gaiety. "i am glad you like him," said philip. "d'you remember you were rather sniffy about meeting him?" "i think it's so nice of him to be so fond of you, philip. he is a nice friend for you to have." she put up her face to philip for him to kiss her. it was a thing she did rarely. "i have enjoyed myself this evening, philip. thank you so much." "don't be so absurd," he laughed, touched by her appreciation so that he felt the moisture come to his eyes. she opened her door and just before she went in, turned again to philip. "tell harry i'm madly in love with him," she said. "all right," he laughed. "good-night." next day, when they were having tea, griffiths came in. he sank lazily into an arm-chair. there was something strangely sensual in the slow movements of his large limbs. philip remained silent, while the others chattered away, but he was enjoying himself. he admired them both so much that it seemed natural enough for them to admire one another. he did not care if griffiths absorbed mildred's attention, he would have her to himself during the evening: he had something of the attitude of a loving husband, confident in his wife's affection, who looks on with amusement while she flirts harmlessly with a stranger. but at half past seven he looked at his watch and said: "it's about time we went out to dinner, mildred." there was a moment's pause, and griffiths seemed to be considering. "well, i'll be getting along," he said at last. "i didn't know it was so late." "are you doing anything tonight?" asked mildred. "no." there was another silence. philip felt slightly irritated. "i'll just go and have a wash," he said, and to mildred he added: "would you like to wash your hands?" she did not answer him. "why don't you come and dine with us?" she said to griffiths. he looked at philip and saw him staring at him sombrely. "i dined with you last night," he laughed. "i should be in the way." "oh, that doesn't matter," insisted mildred. "make him come, philip. he won't be in the way, will he?" "let him come by all means if he'd like to." "all right, then," said griffiths promptly. "i'll just go upstairs and tidy myself." the moment he left the room philip turned to mildred angrily. "why on earth did you ask him to dine with us?" "i couldn't help myself. it would have looked so funny to say nothing when he said he wasn't doing anything." "oh, what rot! and why the hell did you ask him if he was doing anything?" mildred's pale lips tightened a little. "i want a little amusement sometimes. i get tired always being alone with you." they heard griffiths coming heavily down the stairs, and philip went into his bed-room to wash. they dined in the neighbourhood in an italian restaurant. philip was cross and silent, but he quickly realised that he was showing to disadvantage in comparison with griffiths, and he forced himself to hide his annoyance. he drank a good deal of wine to destroy the pain that was gnawing at his heart, and he set himself to talk. mildred, as though remorseful for what she had said, did all she could to make herself pleasant to him. she was kindly and affectionate. presently philip began to think he had been a fool to surrender to a feeling of jealousy. after dinner when they got into a hansom to drive to a music-hall mildred, sitting between the two men, of her own accord gave him her hand. his anger vanished. suddenly, he knew not how, he grew conscious that griffiths was holding her other hand. the pain seized him again violently, it was a real physical pain, and he asked himself, panic-stricken, what he might have asked himself before, whether mildred and griffiths were in love with one another. he could not see anything of the performance on account of the mist of suspicion, anger, dismay, and wretchedness which seemed to be before his eyes; but he forced himself to conceal the fact that anything was the matter; he went on talking and laughing. then a strange desire to torture himself seized him, and he got up, saying he wanted to go and drink something. mildred and griffiths had never been alone together for a moment. he wanted to leave them by themselves. "i'll come too," said griffiths. "i've got rather a thirst on." "oh, nonsense, you stay and talk to mildred." philip did not know why he said that. he was throwing them together now to make the pain he suffered more intolerable. he did not go to the bar, but up into the balcony, from where he could watch them and not be seen. they had ceased to look at the stage and were smiling into one another's eyes. griffiths was talking with his usual happy fluency and mildred seemed to hang on his lips. philip's head began to ache frightfully. he stood there motionless. he knew he would be in the way if he went back. they were enjoying themselves without him, and he was suffering, suffering. time passed, and now he had an extraordinary shyness about rejoining them. he knew they had not thought of him at all, and he reflected bitterly that he had paid for the dinner and their seats in the music-hall. what a fool they were making of him! he was hot with shame. he could see how happy they were without him. his instinct was to leave them to themselves and go home, but he had not his hat and coat, and it would necessitate endless explanations. he went back. he felt a shadow of annoyance in mildred's eyes when she saw him, and his heart sank. "you've been a devil of a time," said griffiths, with a smile of welcome. "i met some men i knew. i've been talking to them, and i couldn't get away. i thought you'd be all right together." "i've been enjoying myself thoroughly," said griffiths. "i don't know about mildred." she gave a little laugh of happy complacency. there was a vulgar sound in the ring of it that horrified philip. he suggested that they should go. "come on," said griffiths, "we'll both drive you home." philip suspected that she had suggested that arrangement so that she might not be left alone with him. in the cab he did not take her hand nor did she offer it, and he knew all the time that she was holding griffiths'. his chief thought was that it was all so horribly vulgar. as they drove along he asked himself what plans they had made to meet without his knowledge, he cursed himself for having left them alone, he had actually gone out of his way to enable them to arrange things. "let's keep the cab," said philip, when they reached the house in which mildred was lodging. "i'm too tired to walk home." on the way back griffiths talked gaily and seemed indifferent to the fact that philip answered in monosyllables. philip felt he must notice that something was the matter. philip's silence at last grew too significant to struggle against, and griffiths, suddenly nervous, ceased talking. philip wanted to say something, but he was so shy he could hardly bring himself to, and yet the time was passing and the opportunity would be lost. it was best to get at the truth at once. he forced himself to speak. "are you in love with mildred?" he asked suddenly. "i?" griffiths laughed. "is that what you've been so funny about this evening? of course not, my dear old man." he tried to slip his hand through philip's arm, but philip drew himself away. he knew griffiths was lying. he could not bring himself to force griffiths to tell him that he had not been holding the girl's hand. he suddenly felt very weak and broken. "it doesn't matter to you, harry," he said. "you've got so many women--don't take her away from me. it means my whole life. i've been so awfully wretched." his voice broke, and he could not prevent the sob that was torn from him. he was horribly ashamed of himself. "my dear old boy, you know i wouldn't do anything to hurt you. i'm far too fond of you for that. i was only playing the fool. if i'd known you were going to take it like that i'd have been more careful." "is that true?" asked philip. "i don't care a twopenny damn for her. i give you my word of honour." philip gave a sigh of relief. the cab stopped at their door. lxxv next day philip was in a good temper. he was very anxious not to bore mildred with too much of his society, and so had arranged that he should not see her till dinner-time. she was ready when he fetched her, and he chaffed her for her unwonted punctuality. she was wearing a new dress he had given her. he remarked on its smartness. "it'll have to go back and be altered," she said. "the skirt hangs all wrong." "you'll have to make the dressmaker hurry up if you want to take it to paris with you." "it'll be ready in time for that." "only three more whole days. we'll go over by the eleven o'clock, shall we?" "if you like." he would have her for nearly a month entirely to himself. his eyes rested on her with hungry adoration. he was able to laugh a little at his own passion. "i wonder what it is i see in you," he smiled. "that's a nice thing to say," she answered. her body was so thin that one could almost see her skeleton. her chest was as flat as a boy's. her mouth, with its narrow pale lips, was ugly, and her skin was faintly green. "i shall give you blaud's pills in quantities when we're away," said philip, laughing. "i'm going to bring you back fat and rosy." "i don't want to get fat," she said. she did not speak of griffiths, and presently while they were dining philip half in malice, for he felt sure of himself and his power over her, said: "it seems to me you were having a great flirtation with harry last night?" "i told you i was in love with him," she laughed. "i'm glad to know that he's not in love with you." "how d'you know?" "i asked him." she hesitated a moment, looking at philip, and a curious gleam came into her eyes. "would you like to read a letter i had from him this morning?" she handed him an envelope and philip recognised griffiths' bold, legible writing. there were eight pages. it was well written, frank and charming; it was the letter of a man who was used to making love to women. he told mildred that he loved her passionately, he had fallen in love with her the first moment he saw her; he did not want to love her, for he knew how fond philip was of her, but he could not help himself. philip was such a dear, and he was very much ashamed of himself, but it was not his fault, he was just carried away. he paid her delightful compliments. finally he thanked her for consenting to lunch with him next day and said he was dreadfully impatient to see her. philip noticed that the letter was dated the night before; griffiths must have written it after leaving philip, and had taken the trouble to go out and post it when philip thought he was in bed. he read it with a sickening palpitation of his heart, but gave no outward sign of surprise. he handed it back to mildred with a smile, calmly. "did you enjoy your lunch?" "rather," she said emphatically. he felt that his hands were trembling, so he put them under the table. "you mustn't take griffiths too seriously. he's just a butterfly, you know." she took the letter and looked at it again. "i can't help it either," she said, in a voice which she tried to make nonchalant. "i don't know what's come over me." "it's a little awkward for me, isn't it?" said philip. she gave him a quick look. "you're taking it pretty calmly, i must say." "what do you expect me to do? do you want me to tear out my hair in handfuls?" "i knew you'd be angry with me." "the funny thing is, i'm not at all. i ought to have known this would happen. i was a fool to bring you together. i know perfectly well that he's got every advantage over me; he's much jollier, and he's very handsome, he's more amusing, he can talk to you about the things that interest you." "i don't know what you mean by that. if i'm not clever i can't help it, but i'm not the fool you think i am, not by a long way, i can tell you. you're a bit too superior for me, my young friend." "d'you want to quarrel with me?" he asked mildly. "no, but i don't see why you should treat me as if i was i don't know what." "i'm sorry, i didn't mean to offend you. i just wanted to talk things over quietly. we don't want to make a mess of them if we can help it. i saw you were attracted by him and it seemed to me very natural. the only thing that really hurts me is that he should have encouraged you. he knew how awfully keen i was on you. i think it's rather shabby of him to have written that letter to you five minutes after he told me he didn't care twopence about you." "if you think you're going to make me like him any the less by saying nasty things about him, you're mistaken." philip was silent for a moment. he did not know what words he could use to make her see his point of view. he wanted to speak coolly and deliberately, but he was in such a turmoil of emotion that he could not clear his thoughts. "it's not worth while sacrificing everything for an infatuation that you know can't last. after all, he doesn't care for anyone more than ten days, and you're rather cold; that sort of thing doesn't mean very much to you." "that's what you think." she made it more difficult for him by adopting a cantankerous tone. "if you're in love with him you can't help it. i'll just bear it as best i can. we get on very well together, you and i, and i've not behaved badly to you, have i? i've always known that you're not in love with me, but you like me all right, and when we get over to paris you'll forget about griffiths. if you make up your mind to put him out of your thoughts you won't find it so hard as all that, and i've deserved that you should do something for me." she did not answer, and they went on eating their dinner. when the silence grew oppressive philip began to talk of indifferent things. he pretended not to notice that mildred was inattentive. her answers were perfunctory, and she volunteered no remarks of her own. at last she interrupted abruptly what he was saying: "philip, i'm afraid i shan't be able to go away on saturday. the doctor says i oughtn't to." he knew this was not true, but he answered: "when will you be able to come away?" she glanced at him, saw that his face was white and rigid, and looked nervously away. she was at that moment a little afraid of him. "i may as well tell you and have done with it, i can't come away with you at all." "i thought you were driving at that. it's too late to change your mind now. i've got the tickets and everything." "you said you didn't wish me to go unless i wanted it too, and i don't." "i've changed my mind. i'm not going to have any more tricks played with me. you must come." "i like you very much, philip, as a friend. but i can't bear to think of anything else. i don't like you that way. i couldn't, philip." "you were quite willing to a week ago." "it was different then." "you hadn't met griffiths?" "you said yourself i couldn't help it if i'm in love with him." her face was set into a sulky look, and she kept her eyes fixed on her plate. philip was white with rage. he would have liked to hit her in the face with his clenched fist, and in fancy he saw how she would look with a black eye. there were two lads of eighteen dining at a table near them, and now and then they looked at mildred; he wondered if they envied him dining with a pretty girl; perhaps they were wishing they stood in his shoes. it was mildred who broke the silence. "what's the good of our going away together? i'd be thinking of him all the time. it wouldn't be much fun for you." "that's my business," he answered. she thought over all his reply implicated, and she reddened. "but that's just beastly." "what of it?" "i thought you were a gentleman in every sense of the word." "you were mistaken." his reply entertained him, and he laughed as he said it. "for god's sake don't laugh," she cried. "i can't come away with you, philip. i'm awfully sorry. i know i haven't behaved well to you, but one can't force themselves." "have you forgotten that when you were in trouble i did everything for you? i planked out the money to keep you till your baby was born, i paid for your doctor and everything, i paid for you to go to brighton, and i'm paying for the keep of your baby, i'm paying for your clothes, i'm paying for every stitch you've got on now." "if you was a gentleman you wouldn't throw what you've done for me in my face." "oh, for goodness' sake, shut up. what d'you suppose i care if i'm a gentleman or not? if i were a gentleman i shouldn't waste my time with a vulgar slut like you. i don't care a damn if you like me or not. i'm sick of being made a blasted fool of. you're jolly well coming to paris with me on saturday or you can take the consequences." her cheeks were red with anger, and when she answered her voice had the hard commonness which she concealed generally by a genteel enunciation. "i never liked you, not from the beginning, but you forced yourself on me, i always hated it when you kissed me. i wouldn't let you touch me now not if i was starving." philip tried to swallow the food on his plate, but the muscles of his throat refused to act. he gulped down something to drink and lit a cigarette. he was trembling in every part. he did not speak. he waited for her to move, but she sat in silence, staring at the white tablecloth. if they had been alone he would have flung his arms round her and kissed her passionately; he fancied the throwing back of her long white throat as he pressed upon her mouth with his lips. they passed an hour without speaking, and at last philip thought the waiter began to stare at them curiously. he called for the bill. "shall we go?" he said then, in an even tone. she did not reply, but gathered together her bag and her gloves. she put on her coat. "when are you seeing griffiths again?" "tomorrow," she answered indifferently. "you'd better talk it over with him." she opened her bag mechanically and saw a piece of paper in it. she took it out. "here's the bill for this dress," she said hesitatingly. "what of it?" "i promised i'd give her the money tomorrow." "did you?" "does that mean you won't pay for it after having told me i could get it?" "it does." "i'll ask harry," she said, flushing quickly. "he'll be glad to help you. he owes me seven pounds at the moment, and he pawned his microscope last week, because he was so broke." "you needn't think you can frighten me by that. i'm quite capable of earning my own living." "it's the best thing you can do. i don't propose to give you a farthing more." she thought of her rent due on saturday and the baby's keep, but did not say anything. they left the restaurant, and in the street philip asked her: "shall i call a cab for you? i'm going to take a little stroll." "i haven't got any money. i had to pay a bill this afternoon." "it won't hurt you to walk. if you want to see me tomorrow i shall be in about tea-time." he took off his hat and sauntered away. he looked round in a moment and saw that she was standing helplessly where he had left her, looking at the traffic. he went back and with a laugh pressed a coin into her hand. "here's two bob for you to get home with." before she could speak he hurried away. lxxvi next day, in the afternoon, philip sat in his room and wondered whether mildred would come. he had slept badly. he had spent the morning in the club of the medical school, reading one newspaper after another. it was the vacation and few students he knew were in london, but he found one or two people to talk to, he played a game of chess, and so wore out the tedious hours. after luncheon he felt so tired, his head was aching so, that he went back to his lodgings and lay down; he tried to read a novel. he had not seen griffiths. he was not in when philip returned the night before; he heard him come back, but he did not as usual look into philip's room to see if he was asleep; and in the morning philip heard him go out early. it was clear that he wanted to avoid him. suddenly there was a light tap at his door. philip sprang to his feet and opened it. mildred stood on the threshold. she did not move. "come in," said philip. he closed the door after her. she sat down. she hesitated to begin. "thank you for giving me that two shillings last night," she said. "oh, that's all right." she gave him a faint smile. it reminded philip of the timid, ingratiating look of a puppy that has been beaten for naughtiness and wants to reconcile himself with his master. "i've been lunching with harry," she said. "have you?" "if you still want me to go away with you on saturday, philip, i'll come." a quick thrill of triumph shot through his heart, but it was a sensation that only lasted an instant; it was followed by a suspicion. "because of the money?" he asked. "partly," she answered simply. "harry can't do anything. he owes five weeks here, and he owes you seven pounds, and his tailor's pressing him for money. he'd pawn anything he could, but he's pawned everything already. i had a job to put the woman off about my new dress, and on saturday there's the book at my lodgings, and i can't get work in five minutes. it always means waiting some little time till there's a vacancy." she said all this in an even, querulous tone, as though she were recounting the injustices of fate, which had to be borne as part of the natural order of things. philip did not answer. he knew what she told him well enough. "you said partly," he observed at last. "well, harry says you've been a brick to both of us. you've been a real good friend to him, he says, and you've done for me what p'raps no other man would have done. we must do the straight thing, he says. and he said what you said about him, that he's fickle by nature, he's not like you, and i should be a fool to throw you away for him. he won't last and you will, he says so himself." "d'you want to come away with me?" asked philip. "i don't mind." he looked at her, and the corners of his mouth turned down in an expression of misery. he had triumphed indeed, and he was going to have his way. he gave a little laugh of derision at his own humiliation. she looked at him quickly, but did not speak. "i've looked forward with all my soul to going away with you, and i thought at last, after all that wretchedness, i was going to be happy..." he did not finish what he was going to say. and then on a sudden, without warning, mildred broke into a storm of tears. she was sitting in the chair in which norah had sat and wept, and like her she hid her face on the back of it, towards the side where there was a little bump formed by the sagging in the middle, where the head had rested. "i'm not lucky with women," thought philip. her thin body was shaken with sobs. philip had never seen a woman cry with such an utter abandonment. it was horribly painful, and his heart was torn. without realising what he did, he went up to her and put his arms round her; she did not resist, but in her wretchedness surrendered herself to his comforting. he whispered to her little words of solace. he scarcely knew what he was saying, he bent over her and kissed her repeatedly. "are you awfully unhappy?" he said at last. "i wish i was dead," she moaned. "i wish i'd died when the baby come." her hat was in her way, and philip took it off for her. he placed her head more comfortably in the chair, and then he went and sat down at the table and looked at her. "it is awful, love, isn't it?" he said. "fancy anyone wanting to be in love." presently the violence of her sobbing diminished and she sat in the chair, exhausted, with her head thrown back and her arms hanging by her side. she had the grotesque look of one of those painters' dummies used to hang draperies on. "i didn't know you loved him so much as all that," said philip. he understood griffiths' love well enough, for he put himself in griffiths' place and saw with his eyes, touched with his hands; he was able to think himself in griffiths' body, and he kissed her with his lips, smiled at her with his smiling blue eyes. it was her emotion that surprised him. he had never thought her capable of passion, and this was passion: there was no mistaking it. something seemed to give way in his heart; it really felt to him as though something were breaking, and he felt strangely weak. "i don't want to make you unhappy. you needn't come away with me if you don't want to. i'll give you the money all the same." she shook her head. "no, i said i'd come, and i'll come." "what's the good, if you're sick with love for him?" "yes, that's the word. i'm sick with love. i know it won't last, just as well as he does, but just now..." she paused and shut her eyes as though she were going to faint. a strange idea came to philip, and he spoke it as it came, without stopping to think it out. "why don't you go away with him?" "how can i? you know we haven't got the money." "i'll give you the money." "you?" she sat up and looked at him. her eyes began to shine, and the colour came into her cheeks. "perhaps the best thing would be to get it over, and then you'd come back to me." now that he had made the suggestion he was sick with anguish, and yet the torture of it gave him a strange, subtle sensation. she stared at him with open eyes. "oh, how could we, on your money? harry wouldn't think of it." "oh yes, he would, if you persuaded him." her objections made him insist, and yet he wanted her with all his heart to refuse vehemently. "i'll give you a fiver, and you can go away from saturday to monday. you could easily do that. on monday he's going home till he takes up his appointment at the north london." "oh, philip, do you mean that?" she cried, clasping her hands. "if you could only let us go--i would love you so much afterwards, i'd do anything for you. i'm sure i shall get over it if you'll only do that. would you really give us the money?" "yes," he said. she was entirely changed now. she began to laugh. he could see that she was insanely happy. she got up and knelt down by philip's side, taking his hands. "you are a brick, philip. you're the best fellow i've ever known. won't you be angry with me afterwards?" he shook his head, smiling, but with what agony in his heart! "may i go and tell harry now? and can i say to him that you don't mind? he won't consent unless you promise it doesn't matter. oh, you don't know how i love him! and afterwards i'll do anything you like. i'll come over to paris with you or anywhere on monday." she got up and put on her hat. "where are you going?" "i'm going to ask him if he'll take me." "already?" "d'you want me to stay? i'll stay if you like." she sat down, but he gave a little laugh. "no, it doesn't matter, you'd better go at once. there's only one thing: i can't bear to see griffiths just now, it would hurt me too awfully. say i have no ill-feeling towards him or anything like that, but ask him to keep out of my way." "all right." she sprang up and put on her gloves. "i'll let you know what he says." "you'd better dine with me tonight." "very well." she put up her face for him to kiss her, and when he pressed his lips to hers she threw her arms round his neck. "you are a darling, philip." she sent him a note a couple of hours later to say that she had a headache and could not dine with him. philip had almost expected it. he knew that she was dining with griffiths. he was horribly jealous, but the sudden passion which had seized the pair of them seemed like something that had come from the outside, as though a god had visited them with it, and he felt himself helpless. it seemed so natural that they should love one another. he saw all the advantages that griffiths had over himself and confessed that in mildred's place he would have done as mildred did. what hurt him most was griffiths' treachery; they had been such good friends, and griffiths knew how passionately devoted he was to mildred: he might have spared him. he did not see mildred again till friday; he was sick for a sight of her by then; but when she came and he realised that he had gone out of her thoughts entirely, for they were engrossed in griffiths, he suddenly hated her. he saw now why she and griffiths loved one another, griffiths was stupid, oh so stupid! he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes to it, stupid and empty-headed: that charm of his concealed an utter selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his appetites. and how inane was the life he led, lounging about bars and drinking in music halls, wandering from one light amour to another! he never read a book, he was blind to everything that was not frivolous and vulgar; he had never a thought that was fine: the word most common on his lips was smart; that was his highest praise for man or woman. smart! it was no wonder he pleased mildred. they suited one another. philip talked to mildred of things that mattered to neither of them. he knew she wanted to speak of griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity. he did not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off dining with him on a trivial excuse. he was casual with her, trying to make her think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill in saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take exception to them. at last she got up. "i think i must be going off now," she said. "i daresay you've got a lot to do," he answered. she held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door for her. he knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that his cold, ironical air intimidated her. often his shyness made him seem so frigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discovered this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same manner. "you haven't forgotten what you promised?" she said at last, as he held open the door. "what is that?" "about the money." "how much d'you want?" he spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words peculiarly offensive. mildred flushed. he knew she hated him at that moment, and he wondered at the self-control by which she prevented herself from flying out at him. he wanted to make her suffer. "there's the dress and the book tomorrow. that's all. harry won't come, so we shan't want money for that." philip's heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let the door handle go. the door swung to. "why not?" "he says we couldn't, not on your money." a devil seized philip, a devil of self-torture which was always lurking within him, and, though with all his soul he wished that griffiths and mildred should not go away together, he could not help himself; he set himself to persuade griffiths through her. "i don't see why not, if i'm willing," he said. "that's what i told him." "i should have thought if he really wanted to go he wouldn't hesitate." "oh, it's not that, he wants to all right. he'd go at once if he had the money." "if he's squeamish about it i'll give you the money." "i said you'd lend it if he liked, and we'd pay it back as soon as we could." "it's rather a change for you going on your knees to get a man to take you away for a week-end." "it is rather, isn't it?" she said, with a shameless little laugh. it sent a cold shudder down philip's spine. "what are you going to do then?" he asked. "nothing. he's going home tomorrow. he must." that would be philip's salvation. with griffiths out of the way he could get mildred back. she knew no one in london, she would be thrown on to his society, and when they were alone together he could soon make her forget this infatuation. if he said nothing more he was safe. but he had a fiendish desire to break down their scruples, he wanted to know how abominably they could behave towards him; if he tempted them a little more they would yield, and he took a fierce joy at the thought of their dishonour. though every word he spoke tortured him, he found in the torture a horrible delight. "it looks as if it were now or never." "that's what i told him," she said. there was a passionate note in her voice which struck philip. he was biting his nails in his nervousness. "where were you thinking of going?" "oh, to oxford. he was at the 'varsity there, you know. he said he'd show me the colleges." philip remembered that once he had suggested going to oxford for the day, and she had expressed firmly the boredom she felt at the thought of sights. "and it looks as if you'd have fine weather. it ought to be very jolly there just now." "i've done all i could to persuade him." "why don't you have another try?" "shall i say you want us to go?" "i don't think you must go as far as that," said philip. she paused for a minute or two, looking at him. philip forced himself to look at her in a friendly way. he hated her, he despised her, he loved her with all his heart. "i'll tell you what i'll do, i'll go and see if he can't arrange it. and then, if he says yes, i'll come and fetch the money tomorrow. when shall you be in?" "i'll come back here after luncheon and wait." "all right." "i'll give you the money for your dress and your room now." he went to his desk and took out what money he had. the dress was six guineas; there was besides her rent and her food, and the baby's keep for a week. he gave her eight pounds ten. "thanks very much," she said. she left him. lxxvii after lunching in the basement of the medical school philip went back to his rooms. it was saturday afternoon, and the landlady was cleaning the stairs. "is mr. griffiths in?" he asked. "no, sir. he went away this morning, soon after you went out." "isn't he coming back?" "i don't think so, sir. he's taken his luggage." philip wondered what this could mean. he took a book and began to read. it was burton's journey to meccah, which he had just got out of the westminster public library; and he read the first page, but could make no sense of it, for his mind was elsewhere; he was listening all the time for a ring at the bell. he dared not hope that griffiths had gone away already, without mildred, to his home in cumberland. mildred would be coming presently for the money. he set his teeth and read on; he tried desperately to concentrate his attention; the sentences etched themselves in his brain by the force of his effort, but they were distorted by the agony he was enduring. he wished with all his heart that he had not made the horrible proposition to give them money; but now that he had made it he lacked the strength to go back on it, not on mildred's account, but on his own. there was a morbid obstinacy in him which forced him to do the thing he had determined. he discovered that the three pages he had read had made no impression on him at all; and he went back and started from the beginning: he found himself reading one sentence over and over again; and now it weaved itself in with his thoughts, horribly, like some formula in a nightmare. one thing he could do was to go out and keep away till midnight; they could not go then; and he saw them calling at the house every hour to ask if he was in. he enjoyed the thought of their disappointment. he repeated that sentence to himself mechanically. but he could not do that. let them come and take the money, and he would know then to what depths of infamy it was possible for men to descend. he could not read any more now. he simply could not see the words. he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for mildred. the landlady came in. "will you see mrs. miller, sir?" "show her in." philip pulled himself together to receive her without any sign of what he was feeling. he had an impulse to throw himself on his knees and seize her hands and beg her not to go; but he knew there was no way of moving her; she would tell griffiths what he had said and how he acted. he was ashamed. "well, how about the little jaunt?" he said gaily. "we're going. harry's outside. i told him you didn't want to see him, so he's kept out of your way. but he wants to know if he can come in just for a minute to say good-bye to you." "no, i won't see him," said philip. he could see she did not care if he saw griffiths or not. now that she was there he wanted her to go quickly. "look here, here's the fiver. i'd like you to go now." she took it and thanked him. she turned to leave the room. "when are you coming back?" he asked. "oh, on monday. harry must go home then." he knew what he was going to say was humiliating, but he was broken down with jealousy and desire. "then i shall see you, shan't i?" he could not help the note of appeal in his voice. "of course. i'll let you know the moment i'm back." he shook hands with her. through the curtains he watched her jump into a four-wheeler that stood at the door. it rolled away. then he threw himself on his bed and hid his face in his hands. he felt tears coming to his eyes, and he was angry with himself; he clenched his hands and screwed up his body to prevent them; but he could not; and great painful sobs were forced from him. he got up at last, exhausted and ashamed, and washed his face. he mixed himself a strong whiskey and soda. it made him feel a little better. then he caught sight of the tickets to paris, which were on the chimney-piece, and, seizing them, with an impulse of rage he flung them in the fire. he knew he could have got the money back on them, but it relieved him to destroy them. then he went out in search of someone to be with. the club was empty. he felt he would go mad unless he found someone to talk to; but lawson was abroad; he went on to hayward's rooms: the maid who opened the door told him that he had gone down to brighton for the week-end. then philip went to a gallery and found it was just closing. he did not know what to do. he was distracted. and he thought of griffiths and mildred going to oxford, sitting opposite one another in the train, happy. he went back to his rooms, but they filled him with horror, he had been so wretched in them; he tried once more to read burton's book, but, as he read, he told himself again and again what a fool he had been; it was he who had made the suggestion that they should go away, he had offered the money, he had forced it upon them; he might have known what would happen when he introduced griffiths to mildred; his own vehement passion was enough to arouse the other's desire. by this time they had reached oxford. they would put up in one of the lodging-houses in john street; philip had never been to oxford, but griffiths had talked to him about it so much that he knew exactly where they would go; and they would dine at the clarendon: griffiths had been in the habit of dining there when he went on the spree. philip got himself something to eat in a restaurant near charing cross; he had made up his mind to go to a play, and afterwards he fought his way into the pit of a theatre at which one of oscar wilde's pieces was being performed. he wondered if mildred and griffiths would go to a play that evening: they must kill the evening somehow; they were too stupid, both of them to content themselves with conversation: he got a fierce delight in reminding himself of the vulgarity of their minds which suited them so exactly to one another. he watched the play with an abstracted mind, trying to give himself gaiety by drinking whiskey in each interval; he was unused to alcohol, and it affected him quickly, but his drunkenness was savage and morose. when the play was over he had another drink. he could not go to bed, he knew he would not sleep, and he dreaded the pictures which his vivid imagination would place before him. he tried not to think of them. he knew he had drunk too much. now he was seized with a desire to do horrible, sordid things; he wanted to roll himself in gutters; his whole being yearned for beastliness; he wanted to grovel. he walked up piccadilly, dragging his club-foot, sombrely drunk, with rage and misery clawing at his heart. he was stopped by a painted harlot, who put her hand on his arm; he pushed her violently away with brutal words. he walked on a few steps and then stopped. she would do as well as another. he was sorry he had spoken so roughly to her. he went up to her. "i say," he began. "go to hell," she said. philip laughed. "i merely wanted to ask if you'd do me the honour of supping with me tonight." she looked at him with amazement, and hesitated for a while. she saw he was drunk. "i don't mind." he was amused that she should use a phrase he had heard so often on mildred's lips. he took her to one of the restaurants he had been in the habit of going to with mildred. he noticed as they walked along that she looked down at his limb. "i've got a club-foot," he said. "have you any objection?" "you are a cure," she laughed. when he got home his bones were aching, and in his head there was a hammering that made him nearly scream. he took another whiskey and soda to steady himself, and going to bed sank into a dreamless sleep till mid-day. lxxviii at last monday came, and philip thought his long torture was over. looking out the trains he found that the latest by which griffiths could reach home that night left oxford soon after one, and he supposed that mildred would take one which started a few minutes later to bring her to london. his desire was to go and meet it, but he thought mildred would like to be left alone for a day; perhaps she would drop him a line in the evening to say she was back, and if not he would call at her lodgings next morning: his spirit was cowed. he felt a bitter hatred for griffiths, but for mildred, notwithstanding all that had passed, only a heart-rending desire. he was glad now that hayward was not in london on saturday afternoon when, distraught, he went in search of human comfort: he could not have prevented himself from telling him everything, and hayward would have been astonished at his weakness. he would despise him, and perhaps be shocked or disgusted that he could envisage the possibility of making mildred his mistress after she had given herself to another man. what did he care if it was shocking or disgusting? he was ready for any compromise, prepared for more degrading humiliations still, if he could only gratify his desire. towards the evening his steps took him against his will to the house in which she lived, and he looked up at her window. it was dark. he did not venture to ask if she was back. he was confident in her promise. but there was no letter from her in the morning, and, when about mid-day he called, the maid told him she had not arrived. he could not understand it. he knew that griffiths would have been obliged to go home the day before, for he was to be best man at a wedding, and mildred had no money. he turned over in his mind every possible thing that might have happened. he went again in the afternoon and left a note, asking her to dine with him that evening as calmly as though the events of the last fortnight had not happened. he mentioned the place and time at which they were to meet, and hoping against hope kept the appointment: though he waited for an hour she did not come. on wednesday morning he was ashamed to ask at the house and sent a messenger-boy with a letter and instructions to bring back a reply; but in an hour the boy came back with philip's letter unopened and the answer that the lady had not returned from the country. philip was beside himself. the last deception was more than he could bear. he repeated to himself over and over again that he loathed mildred, and, ascribing to griffiths this new disappointment, he hated him so much that he knew what was the delight of murder: he walked about considering what a joy it would be to come upon him on a dark night and stick a knife into his throat, just about the carotid artery, and leave him to die in the street like a dog. philip was out of his senses with grief and rage. he did not like whiskey, but he drank to stupefy himself. he went to bed drunk on the tuesday and on the wednesday night. on thursday morning he got up very late and dragged himself, blear-eyed and sallow, into his sitting-room to see if there were any letters. a curious feeling shot through his heart when he recognised the handwriting of griffiths. dear old man: i hardly know how to write to you and yet i feel i must write. i hope you're not awfully angry with me. i know i oughtn't to have gone away with milly, but i simply couldn't help myself. she simply carried me off my feet and i would have done anything to get her. when she told me you had offered us the money to go i simply couldn't resist. and now it's all over i'm awfully ashamed of myself and i wish i hadn't been such a fool. i wish you'd write and say you're not angry with me, and i want you to let me come and see you. i was awfully hurt at your telling milly you didn't want to see me. do write me a line, there's a good chap, and tell me you forgive me. it'll ease my conscience. i thought you wouldn't mind or you wouldn't have offered the money. but i know i oughtn't to have taken it. i came home on monday and milly wanted to stay a couple of days at oxford by herself. she's going back to london on wednesday, so by the time you receive this letter you will have seen her and i hope everything will go off all right. do write and say you forgive me. please write at once. yours ever, harry. philip tore up the letter furiously. he did not mean to answer it. he despised griffiths for his apologies, he had no patience with his prickings of conscience: one could do a dastardly thing if one chose, but it was contemptible to regret it afterwards. he thought the letter cowardly and hypocritical. he was disgusted at its sentimentality. "it would be very easy if you could do a beastly thing," he muttered to himself, "and then say you were sorry, and that put it all right again." he hoped with all his heart he would have the chance one day to do griffiths a bad turn. but at all events he knew that mildred was in town. he dressed hurriedly, not waiting to shave, drank a cup of tea, and took a cab to her rooms. the cab seemed to crawl. he was painfully anxious to see her, and unconsciously he uttered a prayer to the god he did not believe in to make her receive him kindly. he only wanted to forget. with beating heart he rang the bell. he forgot all his suffering in the passionate desire to enfold her once more in his arms. "is mrs. miller in?" he asked joyously. "she's gone," the maid answered. he looked at her blankly. "she came about an hour ago and took away her things." for a moment he did not know what to say. "did you give her my letter? did she say where she was going?" then he understood that mildred had deceived him again. she was not coming back to him. he made an effort to save his face. "oh, well, i daresay i shall hear from her. she may have sent a letter to another address." he turned away and went back hopeless to his rooms. he might have known that she would do this; she had never cared for him, she had made a fool of him from the beginning; she had no pity, she had no kindness, she had no charity. the only thing was to accept the inevitable. the pain he was suffering was horrible, he would sooner be dead than endure it; and the thought came to him that it would be better to finish with the whole thing: he might throw himself in the river or put his neck on a railway line; but he had no sooner set the thought into words than he rebelled against it. his reason told him that he would get over his unhappiness in time; if he tried with all his might he could forget her; and it would be grotesque to kill himself on account of a vulgar slut. he had only one life, and it was madness to fling it away. he felt that he would never overcome his passion, but he knew that after all it was only a matter of time. he would not stay in london. there everything reminded him of his unhappiness. he telegraphed to his uncle that he was coming to blackstable, and, hurrying to pack, took the first train he could. he wanted to get away from the sordid rooms in which he had endured so much suffering. he wanted to breathe clean air. he was disgusted with himself. he felt that he was a little mad. since he was grown up philip had been given the best spare room at the vicarage. it was a corner-room and in front of one window was an old tree which blocked the view, but from the other you saw, beyond the garden and the vicarage field, broad meadows. philip remembered the wall-paper from his earliest years. on the walls were quaint water colours of the early victorian period by a friend of the vicar's youth. they had a faded charm. the dressing-table was surrounded by stiff muslin. there was an old tall-boy to put your clothes in. philip gave a sigh of pleasure; he had never realised that all those things meant anything to him at all. at the vicarage life went on as it had always done. no piece of furniture had been moved from one place to another; the vicar ate the same things, said the same things, went for the same walk every day; he had grown a little fatter, a little more silent, a little more narrow. he had become accustomed to living without his wife and missed her very little. he bickered still with josiah graves. philip went to see the churchwarden. he was a little thinner, a little whiter, a little more austere; he was autocratic still and still disapproved of candles on the altar. the shops had still a pleasant quaintness; and philip stood in front of that in which things useful to seamen were sold, sea-boots and tarpaulins and tackle, and remembered that he had felt there in his childhood the thrill of the sea and the adventurous magic of the unknown. he could not help his heart beating at each double knock of the postman in case there might be a letter from mildred sent on by his landlady in london; but he knew that there would be none. now that he could think it out more calmly he understood that in trying to force mildred to love him he had been attempting the impossible. he did not know what it was that passed from a man to a woman, from a woman to a man, and made one of them a slave: it was convenient to call it the sexual instinct; but if it was no more than that, he did not understand why it should occasion so vehement an attraction to one person rather than another. it was irresistible: the mind could not battle with it; friendship, gratitude, interest, had no power beside it. because he had not attracted mildred sexually, nothing that he did had any effect upon her. the idea revolted him; it made human nature beastly; and he felt suddenly that the hearts of men were full of dark places. because mildred was indifferent to him he had thought her sexless; her anaemic appearance and thin lips, the body with its narrow hips and flat chest, the languor of her manner, carried out his supposition; and yet she was capable of sudden passions which made her willing to risk everything to gratify them. he had never understood her adventure with emil miller: it had seemed so unlike her, and she had never been able to explain it; but now that he had seen her with griffiths he knew that just the same thing had happened then: she had been carried off her feet by an ungovernable desire. he tried to think out what those two men had which so strangely attracted her. they both had a vulgar facetiousness which tickled her simple sense of humour, and a certain coarseness of nature; but what took her perhaps was the blatant sexuality which was their most marked characteristic. she had a genteel refinement which shuddered at the facts of life, she looked upon the bodily functions as indecent, she had all sorts of euphemisms for common objects, she always chose an elaborate word as more becoming than a simple one: the brutality of these men was like a whip on her thin white shoulders, and she shuddered with voluptuous pain. one thing philip had made up his mind about. he would not go back to the lodgings in which he had suffered. he wrote to his landlady and gave her notice. he wanted to have his own things about him. he determined to take unfurnished rooms: it would be pleasant and cheaper; and this was an urgent consideration, for during the last year and a half he had spent nearly seven hundred pounds. he must make up for it now by the most rigid economy. now and then he thought of the future with panic; he had been a fool to spend so much money on mildred; but he knew that if it were to come again he would act in the same way. it amused him sometimes to consider that his friends, because he had a face which did not express his feelings very vividly and a rather slow way of moving, looked upon him as strong-minded, deliberate, and cool. they thought him reasonable and praised his common sense; but he knew that his placid expression was no more than a mask, assumed unconsciously, which acted like the protective colouring of butterflies; and himself was astonished at the weakness of his will. it seemed to him that he was swayed by every light emotion, as though he were a leaf in the wind, and when passion seized him he was powerless. he had no self-control. he merely seemed to possess it because he was indifferent to many of the things which moved other people. he considered with some irony the philosophy which he had developed for himself, for it had not been of much use to him in the conjuncture he had passed through; and he wondered whether thought really helped a man in any of the critical affairs of life: it seemed to him rather that he was swayed by some power alien to and yet within himself, which urged him like that great wind of hell which drove paolo and francesca ceaselessly on. he thought of what he was going to do and, when the time came to act, he was powerless in the grasp of instincts, emotions, he knew not what. he acted as though he were a machine driven by the two forces of his environment and his personality; his reason was someone looking on, observing the facts but powerless to interfere: it was like those gods of epicurus, who saw the doings of men from their empyrean heights and had no might to alter one smallest particle of what occurred. lxxix philip went up to london a couple of days before the session began in order to find himself rooms. he hunted about the streets that led out of the westminster bridge road, but their dinginess was distasteful to him; and at last he found one in kennington which had a quiet and old-world air. it reminded one a little of the london which thackeray knew on that side of the river, and in the kennington road, through which the great barouche of the newcomes must have passed as it drove the family to the west of london, the plane-trees were bursting into leaf. the houses in the street which philip fixed upon were two-storied, and in most of the windows was a notice to state that lodgings were to let. he knocked at one which announced that the lodgings were unfurnished, and was shown by an austere, silent woman four very small rooms, in one of which there was a kitchen range and a sink. the rent was nine shillings a week. philip did not want so many rooms, but the rent was low and he wished to settle down at once. he asked the landlady if she could keep the place clean for him and cook his breakfast, but she replied that she had enough work to do without that; and he was pleased rather than otherwise because she intimated that she wished to have nothing more to do with him than to receive his rent. she told him that, if he inquired at the grocer's round the corner, which was also a post office, he might hear of a woman who would 'do' for him. philip had a little furniture which he had gathered as he went along, an arm-chair that he had bought in paris, and a table, a few drawings, and the small persian rug which cronshaw had given him. his uncle had offered a fold-up bed for which, now that he no longer let his house in august, he had no further use; and by spending another ten pounds philip bought himself whatever else was essential. he spent ten shillings on putting a corn-coloured paper in the room he was making his parlour; and he hung on the walls a sketch which lawson had given him of the quai des grands augustins, and the photograph of the odalisque by ingres and manet's olympia which in paris had been the objects of his contemplation while he shaved. to remind himself that he too had once been engaged in the practice of art, he put up a charcoal drawing of the young spaniard miguel ajuria: it was the best thing he had ever done, a nude standing with clenched hands, his feet gripping the floor with a peculiar force, and on his face that air of determination which had been so impressive; and though philip after the long interval saw very well the defects of his work its associations made him look upon it with tolerance. he wondered what had happened to miguel. there is nothing so terrible as the pursuit of art by those who have no talent. perhaps, worn out by exposure, starvation, disease, he had found an end in some hospital, or in an access of despair had sought death in the turbid seine; but perhaps with his southern instability he had given up the struggle of his own accord, and now, a clerk in some office in madrid, turned his fervent rhetoric to politics and bull-fighting. philip asked lawson and hayward to come and see his new rooms, and they came, one with a bottle of whiskey, the other with a pate de foie gras; and he was delighted when they praised his taste. he would have invited the scotch stockbroker too, but he had only three chairs, and thus could entertain only a definite number of guests. lawson was aware that through him philip had become very friendly with norah nesbit and now remarked that he had run across her a few days before. "she was asking how you were." philip flushed at the mention of her name (he could not get himself out of the awkward habit of reddening when he was embarrassed), and lawson looked at him quizzically. lawson, who now spent most of the year in london, had so far surrendered to his environment as to wear his hair short and to dress himself in a neat serge suit and a bowler hat. "i gather that all is over between you," he said. "i've not seen her for months." "she was looking rather nice. she had a very smart hat on with a lot of white ostrich feathers on it. she must be doing pretty well." philip changed the conversation, but he kept thinking of her, and after an interval, when the three of them were talking of something else, he asked suddenly: "did you gather that norah was angry with me?" "not a bit. she talked very nicely of you." "i've got half a mind to go and see her." "she won't eat you." philip had thought of norah often. when mildred left him his first thought was of her, and he told himself bitterly that she would never have treated him so. his impulse was to go to her; he could depend on her pity; but he was ashamed: she had been good to him always, and he had treated her abominably. "if i'd only had the sense to stick to her!" he said to himself, afterwards, when lawson and hayward had gone and he was smoking a last pipe before going to bed. he remembered the pleasant hours they had spent together in the cosy sitting-room in vincent square, their visits to galleries and to the play, and the charming evenings of intimate conversation. he recollected her solicitude for his welfare and her interest in all that concerned him. she had loved him with a love that was kind and lasting, there was more than sensuality in it, it was almost maternal; he had always known that it was a precious thing for which with all his soul he should thank the gods. he made up his mind to throw himself on her mercy. she must have suffered horribly, but he felt she had the greatness of heart to forgive him: she was incapable of malice. should he write to her? no. he would break in on her suddenly and cast himself at her feet--he knew that when the time came he would feel too shy to perform such a dramatic gesture, but that was how he liked to think of it--and tell her that if she would take him back she might rely on him for ever. he was cured of the hateful disease from which he had suffered, he knew her worth, and now she might trust him. his imagination leaped forward to the future. he pictured himself rowing with her on the river on sundays; he would take her to greenwich, he had never forgotten that delightful excursion with hayward, and the beauty of the port of london remained a permanent treasure in his recollection; and on the warm summer afternoons they would sit in the park together and talk: he laughed to himself as he remembered her gay chatter, which poured out like a brook bubbling over little stones, amusing, flippant, and full of character. the agony he had suffered would pass from his mind like a bad dream. but when next day, about tea-time, an hour at which he was pretty certain to find norah at home, he knocked at her door his courage suddenly failed him. was it possible for her to forgive him? it would be abominable of him to force himself on her presence. the door was opened by a maid new since he had been in the habit of calling every day, and he inquired if mrs. nesbit was in. "will you ask her if she could see mr. carey?" he said. "i'll wait here." the maid ran upstairs and in a moment clattered down again. "will you step up, please, sir. second floor front." "i know," said philip, with a slight smile. he went with a fluttering heart. he knocked at the door. "come in," said the well-known, cheerful voice. it seemed to say come in to a new life of peace and happiness. when he entered norah stepped forward to greet him. she shook hands with him as if they had parted the day before. a man stood up. "mr. carey--mr. kingsford." philip, bitterly disappointed at not finding her alone, sat down and took stock of the stranger. he had never heard her mention his name, but he seemed to philip to occupy his chair as though he were very much at home. he was a man of forty, clean-shaven, with long fair hair very neatly plastered down, and the reddish skin and pale, tired eyes which fair men get when their youth is passed. he had a large nose, a large mouth; the bones of his face were prominent, and he was heavily made; he was a man of more than average height, and broad-shouldered. "i was wondering what had become of you," said norah, in her sprightly manner. "i met mr. lawson the other day--did he tell you?--and i informed him that it was really high time you came to see me again." philip could see no shadow of embarrassment in her countenance, and he admired the use with which she carried off an encounter of which himself felt the intense awkwardness. she gave him tea. she was about to put sugar in it when he stopped her. "how stupid of me!" she cried. "i forgot." he did not believe that. she must remember quite well that he never took sugar in his tea. he accepted the incident as a sign that her nonchalance was affected. the conversation which philip had interrupted went on, and presently he began to feel a little in the way. kingsford took no particular notice of him. he talked fluently and well, not without humour, but with a slightly dogmatic manner: he was a journalist, it appeared, and had something amusing to say on every topic that was touched upon; but it exasperated philip to find himself edged out of the conversation. he was determined to stay the visitor out. he wondered if he admired norah. in the old days they had often talked of the men who wanted to flirt with her and had laughed at them together. philip tried to bring back the conversation to matters which only he and norah knew about, but each time the journalist broke in and succeeded in drawing it away to a subject upon which philip was forced to be silent. he grew faintly angry with norah, for she must see he was being made ridiculous; but perhaps she was inflicting this upon him as a punishment, and with this thought he regained his good humour. at last, however, the clock struck six, and kingsford got up. "i must go," he said. norah shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the landing. she shut the door behind her and stood outside for a couple of minutes. philip wondered what they were talking about. "who is mr. kingsford?" he asked cheerfully, when she returned. "oh, he's the editor of one of harmsworth's magazines. he's been taking a good deal of my work lately." "i thought he was never going." "i'm glad you stayed. i wanted to have a talk with you." she curled herself into the large arm-chair, feet and all, in a way her small size made possible, and lit a cigarette. he smiled when he saw her assume the attitude which had always amused him. "you look just like a cat." she gave him a flash of her dark, fine eyes. "i really ought to break myself of the habit. it's absurd to behave like a child when you're my age, but i'm comfortable with my legs under me." "it's awfully jolly to be sitting in this room again," said philip happily. "you don't know how i've missed it." "why on earth didn't you come before?" she asked gaily. "i was afraid to," he said, reddening. she gave him a look full of kindness. her lips outlined a charming smile. "you needn't have been." he hesitated for a moment. his heart beat quickly. "d'you remember the last time we met? i treated you awfully badly--i'm dreadfully ashamed of myself." she looked at him steadily. she did not answer. he was losing his head; he seemed to have come on an errand of which he was only now realising the outrageousness. she did not help him, and he could only blurt out bluntly. "can you ever forgive me?" then impetuously he told her that mildred had left him and that his unhappiness had been so great that he almost killed himself. he told her of all that had happened between them, of the birth of the child, and of the meeting with griffiths, of his folly and his trust and his immense deception. he told her how often he had thought of her kindness and of her love, and how bitterly he had regretted throwing it away: he had only been happy when he was with her, and he knew now how great was her worth. his voice was hoarse with emotion. sometimes he was so ashamed of what he was saying that he spoke with his eyes fixed on the ground. his face was distorted with pain, and yet he felt it a strange relief to speak. at last he finished. he flung himself back in his chair, exhausted, and waited. he had concealed nothing, and even, in his self-abasement, he had striven to make himself more despicable than he had really been. he was surprised that she did not speak, and at last he raised his eyes. she was not looking at him. her face was quite white, and she seemed to be lost in thought. "haven't you got anything to say to me?" she started and reddened. "i'm afraid you've had a rotten time," she said. "i'm dreadfully sorry." she seemed about to go on, but she stopped, and again he waited. at length she seemed to force herself to speak. "i'm engaged to be married to mr. kingsford." "why didn't you tell me at once?" he cried. "you needn't have allowed me to humiliate myself before you." "i'm sorry, i couldn't stop you.... i met him soon after you"--she seemed to search for an expression that should not wound him--"told me your friend had come back. i was very wretched for a bit, he was extremely kind to me. he knew someone had made me suffer, of course he doesn't know it was you, and i don't know what i should have done without him. and suddenly i felt i couldn't go on working, working, working; i was so tired, i felt so ill. i told him about my husband. he offered to give me the money to get my divorce if i would marry him as soon as i could. he had a very good job, and it wouldn't be necessary for me to do anything unless i wanted to. he was so fond of me and so anxious to take care of me. i was awfully touched. and now i'm very, very fond of him." "have you got your divorce then?" asked philip. "i've got the decree nisi. it'll be made absolute in july, and then we are going to be married at once." for some time philip did not say anything. "i wish i hadn't made such a fool of myself," he muttered at length. he was thinking of his long, humiliating confession. she looked at him curiously. "you were never really in love with me," she said. "it's not very pleasant being in love." but he was always able to recover himself quickly, and, getting up now and holding out his hand, he said: "i hope you'll be very happy. after all, it's the best thing that could have happened to you." she looked a little wistfully at him as she took his hand and held it. "you'll come and see me again, won't you?" she asked. "no," he said, shaking his head. "it would make me too envious to see you happy." he walked slowly away from her house. after all she was right when she said he had never loved her. he was disappointed, irritated even, but his vanity was more affected than his heart. he knew that himself. and presently he grew conscious that the gods had played a very good practical joke on him, and he laughed at himself mirthlessly. it is not very comfortable to have the gift of being amused at one's own absurdity. lxxx for the next three months philip worked on subjects which were new to him. the unwieldy crowd which had entered the medical school nearly two years before had thinned out: some had left the hospital, finding the examinations more difficult to pass than they expected, some had been taken away by parents who had not foreseen the expense of life in london, and some had drifted away to other callings. one youth whom philip knew had devised an ingenious plan to make money; he had bought things at sales and pawned them, but presently found it more profitable to pawn goods bought on credit; and it had caused a little excitement at the hospital when someone pointed out his name in police-court proceedings. there had been a remand, then assurances on the part of a harassed father, and the young man had gone out to bear the white man's burden overseas. the imagination of another, a lad who had never before been in a town at all, fell to the glamour of music-halls and bar parlours; he spent his time among racing-men, tipsters, and trainers, and now was become a book-maker's clerk. philip had seen him once in a bar near piccadilly circus in a tight-waisted coat and a brown hat with a broad, flat brim. a third, with a gift for singing and mimicry, who had achieved success at the smoking concerts of the medical school by his imitation of notorious comedians, had abandoned the hospital for the chorus of a musical comedy. still another, and he interested philip because his uncouth manner and interjectional speech did not suggest that he was capable of any deep emotion, had felt himself stifle among the houses of london. he grew haggard in shut-in spaces, and the soul he knew not he possessed struggled like a sparrow held in the hand, with little frightened gasps and a quick palpitation of the heart: he yearned for the broad skies and the open, desolate places among which his childhood had been spent; and he walked off one day, without a word to anybody, between one lecture and another; and the next thing his friends heard was that he had thrown up medicine and was working on a farm. philip attended now lectures on medicine and on surgery. on certain mornings in the week he practised bandaging on out-patients glad to earn a little money, and he was taught auscultation and how to use the stethoscope. he learned dispensing. he was taking the examination in materia medica in july, and it amused him to play with various drugs, concocting mixtures, rolling pills, and making ointments. he seized avidly upon anything from which he could extract a suggestion of human interest. he saw griffiths once in the distance, but, not to have the pain of cutting him dead, avoided him. philip had felt a certain self-consciousness with griffiths' friends, some of whom were now friends of his, when he realised they knew of his quarrel with griffiths and surmised they were aware of the reason. one of them, a very tall fellow, with a small head and a languid air, a youth called ramsden, who was one of griffiths' most faithful admirers, copied his ties, his boots, his manner of talking and his gestures, told philip that griffiths was very much hurt because philip had not answered his letter. he wanted to be reconciled with him. "has he asked you to give me the message?" asked philip. "oh, no. i'm saying this entirely on my own," said ramsden. "he's awfully sorry for what he did, and he says you always behaved like a perfect brick to him. i know he'd be glad to make it up. he doesn't come to the hospital because he's afraid of meeting you, and he thinks you'd cut him." "i should." "it makes him feel rather wretched, you know." "i can bear the trifling inconvenience that he feels with a good deal of fortitude," said philip. "he'll do anything he can to make it up." "how childish and hysterical! why should he care? i'm a very insignificant person, and he can do very well without my company. i'm not interested in him any more." ramsden thought philip hard and cold. he paused for a moment or two, looking about him in a perplexed way. "harry wishes to god he'd never had anything to do with the woman." "does he?" asked philip. he spoke with an indifference which he was satisfied with. no one could have guessed how violently his heart was beating. he waited impatiently for ramsden to go on. "i suppose you've quite got over it now, haven't you?" "i?" said philip. "quite." little by little he discovered the history of mildred's relations with griffiths. he listened with a smile on his lips, feigning an equanimity which quite deceived the dull-witted boy who talked to him. the week-end she spent with griffiths at oxford inflamed rather than extinguished her sudden passion; and when griffiths went home, with a feeling that was unexpected in her she determined to stay in oxford by herself for a couple of days, because she had been so happy in it. she felt that nothing could induce her to go back to philip. he revolted her. griffiths was taken aback at the fire he had aroused, for he had found his two days with her in the country somewhat tedious; and he had no desire to turn an amusing episode into a tiresome affair. she made him promise to write to her, and, being an honest, decent fellow, with natural politeness and a desire to make himself pleasant to everybody, when he got home he wrote her a long and charming letter. she answered it with reams of passion, clumsy, for she had no gift of expression, ill-written, and vulgar; the letter bored him, and when it was followed next day by another, and the day after by a third, he began to think her love no longer flattering but alarming. he did not answer; and she bombarded him with telegrams, asking him if he were ill and had received her letters; she said his silence made her dreadfully anxious. he was forced to write, but he sought to make his reply as casual as was possible without being offensive: he begged her not to wire, since it was difficult to explain telegrams to his mother, an old-fashioned person for whom a telegram was still an event to excite tremor. she answered by return of post that she must see him and announced her intention to pawn things (she had the dressing-case which philip had given her as a wedding-present and could raise eight pounds on that) in order to come up and stay at the market town four miles from which was the village in which his father practised. this frightened griffiths; and he, this time, made use of the telegraph wires to tell her that she must do nothing of the kind. he promised to let her know the moment he came up to london, and, when he did, found that she had already been asking for him at the hospital at which he had an appointment. he did not like this, and, on seeing her, told mildred that she was not to come there on any pretext; and now, after an absence of three weeks, he found that she bored him quite decidedly; he wondered why he had ever troubled about her, and made up his mind to break with her as soon as he could. he was a person who dreaded quarrels, nor did he want to give pain; but at the same time he had other things to do, and he was quite determined not to let mildred bother him. when he met her he was pleasant, cheerful, amusing, affectionate; he invented convincing excuses for the interval since last he had seen her; but he did everything he could to avoid her. when she forced him to make appointments he sent telegrams to her at the last moment to put himself off; and his landlady (the first three months of his appointment he was spending in rooms) had orders to say he was out when mildred called. she would waylay him in the street and, knowing she had been waiting about for him to come out of the hospital for a couple of hours, he would give her a few charming, friendly words and bolt off with the excuse that he had a business engagement. he grew very skilful in slipping out of the hospital unseen. once, when he went back to his lodgings at midnight, he saw a woman standing at the area railings and suspecting who it was went to beg a shake-down in ramsden's rooms; next day the landlady told him that mildred had sat crying on the doorsteps for hours, and she had been obliged to tell her at last that if she did not go away she would send for a policeman. "i tell you, my boy," said ramsden, "you're jolly well out of it. harry says that if he'd suspected for half a second she was going to make such a blooming nuisance of herself he'd have seen himself damned before he had anything to do with her." philip thought of her sitting on that doorstep through the long hours of the night. he saw her face as she looked up dully at the landlady who sent her away. "i wonder what she's doing now." "oh, she's got a job somewhere, thank god. that keeps her busy all day." the last thing he heard, just before the end of the summer session, was that griffiths, urbanity had given way at length under the exasperation of the constant persecution. he had told mildred that he was sick of being pestered, and she had better take herself off and not bother him again. "it was the only thing he could do," said ramsden. "it was getting a bit too thick." "is it all over then?" asked philip. "oh, he hasn't seen her for ten days. you know, harry's wonderful at dropping people. this is about the toughest nut he's ever had to crack, but he's cracked it all right." then philip heard nothing more of her at all. she vanished into the vast anonymous mass of the population of london. lxxxi at the beginning of the winter session philip became an out-patients' clerk. there were three assistant-physicians who took out-patients, two days a week each, and philip put his name down for dr. tyrell. he was popular with the students, and there was some competition to be his clerk. dr. tyrell was a tall, thin man of thirty-five, with a very small head, red hair cut short, and prominent blue eyes: his face was bright scarlet. he talked well in a pleasant voice, was fond of a little joke, and treated the world lightly. he was a successful man, with a large consulting practice and a knighthood in prospect. from commerce with students and poor people he had the patronising air, and from dealing always with the sick he had the healthy man's jovial condescension, which some consultants achieve as the professional manner. he made the patient feel like a boy confronted by a jolly schoolmaster; his illness was an absurd piece of naughtiness which amused rather than irritated. the student was supposed to attend in the out-patients' room every day, see cases, and pick up what information he could; but on the days on which he clerked his duties were a little more definite. at that time the out-patients' department at st. luke's consisted of three rooms, leading into one another, and a large, dark waiting-room with massive pillars of masonry and long benches. here the patients waited after having been given their 'letters' at mid-day; and the long rows of them, bottles and gallipots in hand, some tattered and dirty, others decent enough, sitting in the dimness, men and women of all ages, children, gave one an impression which was weird and horrible. they suggested the grim drawings of daumier. all the rooms were painted alike, in salmon-colour with a high dado of maroon; and there was in them an odour of disinfectants, mingling as the afternoon wore on with the crude stench of humanity. the first room was the largest and in the middle of it were a table and an office chair for the physician; on each side of this were two smaller tables, a little lower: at one of these sat the house-physician and at the other the clerk who took the 'book' for the day. this was a large volume in which were written down the name, age, sex, profession, of the patient and the diagnosis of his disease. at half past one the house-physician came in, rang the bell, and told the porter to send in the old patients. there were always a good many of these, and it was necessary to get through as many of them as possible before dr. tyrell came at two. the h.p. with whom philip came in contact was a dapper little man, excessively conscious of his importance: he treated the clerks with condescension and patently resented the familiarity of older students who had been his contemporaries and did not use him with the respect he felt his present position demanded. he set about the cases. a clerk helped him. the patients streamed in. the men came first. chronic bronchitis, "a nasty 'acking cough," was what they chiefly suffered from; one went to the h.p. and the other to the clerk, handing in their letters: if they were going on well the words rep were written on them, and they went to the dispensary with their bottles or gallipots in order to have medicine given them for fourteen days more. some old stagers held back so that they might be seen by the physician himself, but they seldom succeeded in this; and only three or four, whose condition seemed to demand his attention, were kept. dr. tyrell came in with quick movements and a breezy manner. he reminded one slightly of a clown leaping into the arena of a circus with the cry: here we are again. his air seemed to indicate: what's all this nonsense about being ill? i'll soon put that right. he took his seat, asked if there were any old patients for him to see, rapidly passed them in review, looking at them with shrewd eyes as he discussed their symptoms, cracked a joke (at which all the clerks laughed heartily) with the h.p., who laughed heartily too but with an air as if he thought it was rather impudent for the clerks to laugh, remarked that it was a fine day or a hot one, and rang the bell for the porter to show in the new patients. they came in one by one and walked up to the table at which sat dr. tyrell. they were old men and young men and middle-aged men, mostly of the labouring class, dock labourers, draymen, factory hands, barmen; but some, neatly dressed, were of a station which was obviously superior, shop-assistants, clerks, and the like. dr. tyrell looked at these with suspicion. sometimes they put on shabby clothes in order to pretend they were poor; but he had a keen eye to prevent what he regarded as fraud and sometimes refused to see people who, he thought, could well pay for medical attendance. women were the worst offenders and they managed the thing more clumsily. they would wear a cloak and a skirt which were almost in rags, and neglect to take the rings off their fingers. "if you can afford to wear jewellery you can afford a doctor. a hospital is a charitable institution," said dr. tyrell. he handed back the letter and called for the next case. "but i've got my letter." "i don't care a hang about your letter; you get out. you've got no business to come and steal the time which is wanted by the really poor." the patient retired sulkily, with an angry scowl. "she'll probably write a letter to the papers on the gross mismanagement of the london hospitals," said dr. tyrell, with a smile, as he took the next paper and gave the patient one of his shrewd glances. most of them were under the impression that the hospital was an institution of the state, for which they paid out of the rates, and took the attendance they received as a right they could claim. they imagined the physician who gave them his time was heavily paid. dr. tyrell gave each of his clerks a case to examine. the clerk took the patient into one of the inner rooms; they were smaller, and each had a couch in it covered with black horse-hair: he asked his patient a variety of questions, examined his lungs, his heart, and his liver, made notes of fact on the hospital letter, formed in his own mind some idea of the diagnosis, and then waited for dr. tyrell to come in. this he did, followed by a small crowd of students, when he had finished the men, and the clerk read out what he had learned. the physician asked him one or two questions, and examined the patient himself. if there was anything interesting to hear students applied their stethoscope: you would see a man with two or three to the chest, and two perhaps to his back, while others waited impatiently to listen. the patient stood among them a little embarrassed, but not altogether displeased to find himself the centre of attention: he listened confusedly while dr. tyrell discoursed glibly on the case. two or three students listened again to recognise the murmur or the crepitation which the physician described, and then the man was told to put on his clothes. when the various cases had been examined dr. tyrell went back into the large room and sat down again at his desk. he asked any student who happened to be standing near him what he would prescribe for a patient he had just seen. the student mentioned one or two drugs. "would you?" said dr. tyrell. "well, that's original at all events. i don't think we'll be rash." this always made the students laugh, and with a twinkle of amusement at his own bright humour the physician prescribed some other drug than that which the student had suggested. when there were two cases of exactly the same sort and the student proposed the treatment which the physician had ordered for the first, dr. tyrell exercised considerable ingenuity in thinking of something else. sometimes, knowing that in the dispensary they were worked off their legs and preferred to give the medicines which they had all ready, the good hospital mixtures which had been found by the experience of years to answer their purpose so well, he amused himself by writing an elaborate prescription. "we'll give the dispenser something to do. if we go on prescribing mist: alb: he'll lose his cunning." the students laughed, and the doctor gave them a circular glance of enjoyment in his joke. then he touched the bell and, when the porter poked his head in, said: "old women, please." he leaned back in his chair, chatting with the h.p. while the porter herded along the old patients. they came in, strings of anaemic girls, with large fringes and pallid lips, who could not digest their bad, insufficient food; old ladies, fat and thin, aged prematurely by frequent confinements, with winter coughs; women with this, that, and the other, the matter with them. dr. tyrell and his house-physician got through them quickly. time was getting on, and the air in the small room was growing more sickly. the physician looked at his watch. "are there many new women today?" he asked. "a good few, i think," said the h.p. "we'd better have them in. you can go on with the old ones." they entered. with the men the most common ailments were due to the excessive use of alcohol, but with the women they were due to defective nourishment. by about six o'clock they were finished. philip, exhausted by standing all the time, by the bad air, and by the attention he had given, strolled over with his fellow-clerks to the medical school to have tea. he found the work of absorbing interest. there was humanity there in the rough, the materials the artist worked on; and philip felt a curious thrill when it occurred to him that he was in the position of the artist and the patients were like clay in his hands. he remembered with an amused shrug of the shoulders his life in paris, absorbed in colour, tone, values, heaven knows what, with the aim of producing beautiful things: the directness of contact with men and women gave a thrill of power which he had never known. he found an endless excitement in looking at their faces and hearing them speak; they came in each with his peculiarity, some shuffling uncouthly, some with a little trip, others with heavy, slow tread, some shyly. often you could guess their trades by the look of them. you learnt in what way to put your questions so that they should be understood, you discovered on what subjects nearly all lied, and by what inquiries you could extort the truth notwithstanding. you saw the different way people took the same things. the diagnosis of dangerous illness would be accepted by one with a laugh and a joke, by another with dumb despair. philip found that he was less shy with these people than he had ever been with others; he felt not exactly sympathy, for sympathy suggests condescension; but he felt at home with them. he found that he was able to put them at their ease, and, when he had been given a case to find out what he could about it, it seemed to him that the patient delivered himself into his hands with a peculiar confidence. "perhaps," he thought to himself, with a smile, "perhaps i'm cut out to be a doctor. it would be rather a lark if i'd hit upon the one thing i'm fit for." it seemed to philip that he alone of the clerks saw the dramatic interest of those afternoons. to the others men and women were only cases, good if they were complicated, tiresome if obvious; they heard murmurs and were astonished at abnormal livers; an unexpected sound in the lungs gave them something to talk about. but to philip there was much more. he found an interest in just looking at them, in the shape of their heads and their hands, in the look of their eyes and the length of their noses. you saw in that room human nature taken by surprise, and often the mask of custom was torn off rudely, showing you the soul all raw. sometimes you saw an untaught stoicism which was profoundly moving. once philip saw a man, rough and illiterate, told his case was hopeless; and, self-controlled himself, he wondered at the splendid instinct which forced the fellow to keep a stiff upper-lip before strangers. but was it possible for him to be brave when he was by himself, face to face with his soul, or would he then surrender to despair? sometimes there was tragedy. once a young woman brought her sister to be examined, a girl of eighteen, with delicate features and large blue eyes, fair hair that sparkled with gold when a ray of autumn sunshine touched it for a moment, and a skin of amazing beauty. the students' eyes went to her with little smiles. they did not often see a pretty girl in these dingy rooms. the elder woman gave the family history, father and mother had died of phthisis, a brother and a sister, these two were the only ones left. the girl had been coughing lately and losing weight. she took off her blouse and the skin of her neck was like milk. dr. tyrell examined her quietly, with his usual rapid method; he told two or three of his clerks to apply their stethoscopes to a place he indicated with his finger; and then she was allowed to dress. the sister was standing a little apart and she spoke to him in a low voice, so that the girl should not hear. her voice trembled with fear. "she hasn't got it, doctor, has she?" "i'm afraid there's no doubt about it." "she was the last one. when she goes i shan't have anybody." she began to cry, while the doctor looked at her gravely; he thought she too had the type; she would not make old bones either. the girl turned round and saw her sister's tears. she understood what they meant. the colour fled from her lovely face and tears fell down her cheeks. the two stood for a minute or two, crying silently, and then the older, forgetting the indifferent crowd that watched them, went up to her, took her in her arms, and rocked her gently to and fro as if she were a baby. when they were gone a student asked: "how long d'you think she'll last, sir?" dr. tyrell shrugged his shoulders. "her brother and sister died within three months of the first symptoms. she'll do the same. if they were rich one might do something. you can't tell these people to go to st. moritz. nothing can be done for them." once a man who was strong and in all the power of his manhood came because a persistent aching troubled him and his club-doctor did not seem to do him any good; and the verdict for him too was death, not the inevitable death that horrified and yet was tolerable because science was helpless before it, but the death which was inevitable because the man was a little wheel in the great machine of a complex civilisation, and had as little power of changing the circumstances as an automaton. complete rest was his only chance. the physician did not ask impossibilities. "you ought to get some very much lighter job." "there ain't no light jobs in my business." "well, if you go on like this you'll kill yourself. you're very ill." "d'you mean to say i'm going to die?" "i shouldn't like to say that, but you're certainly unfit for hard work." "if i don't work who's to keep the wife and the kids?" dr. tyrell shrugged his shoulders. the dilemma had been presented to him a hundred times. time was pressing and there were many patients to be seen. "well, i'll give you some medicine and you can come back in a week and tell me how you're getting on." the man took his letter with the useless prescription written upon it and walked out. the doctor might say what he liked. he did not feel so bad that he could not go on working. he had a good job and he could not afford to throw it away. "i give him a year," said dr. tyrell. sometimes there was comedy. now and then came a flash of cockney humour, now and then some old lady, a character such as charles dickens might have drawn, would amuse them by her garrulous oddities. once a woman came who was a member of the ballet at a famous music-hall. she looked fifty, but gave her age as twenty-eight. she was outrageously painted and ogled the students impudently with large black eyes; her smiles were grossly alluring. she had abundant self-confidence and treated dr. tyrell, vastly amused, with the easy familiarity with which she might have used an intoxicated admirer. she had chronic bronchitis, and told him it hindered her in the exercise of her profession. "i don't know why i should 'ave such a thing, upon my word i don't. i've never 'ad a day's illness in my life. you've only got to look at me to know that." she rolled her eyes round the young men, with a long sweep of her painted eyelashes, and flashed her yellow teeth at them. she spoke with a cockney accent, but with an affectation of refinement which made every word a feast of fun. "it's what they call a winter cough," answered dr. tyrell gravely. "a great many middle-aged women have it." "well, i never! that is a nice thing to say to a lady. no one ever called me middle-aged before." she opened her eyes very wide and cocked her head on one side, looking at him with indescribable archness. "that is the disadvantage of our profession," said he. "it forces us sometimes to be ungallant." she took the prescription and gave him one last, luscious smile. "you will come and see me dance, dearie, won't you?" "i will indeed." he rang the bell for the next case. "i am glad you gentlemen were here to protect me." but on the whole the impression was neither of tragedy nor of comedy. there was no describing it. it was manifold and various; there were tears and laughter, happiness and woe; it was tedious and interesting and indifferent; it was as you saw it: it was tumultuous and passionate; it was grave; it was sad and comic; it was trivial; it was simple and complex; joy was there and despair; the love of mothers for their children, and of men for women; lust trailed itself through the rooms with leaden feet, punishing the guilty and the innocent, helpless wives and wretched children; drink seized men and women and cost its inevitable price; death sighed in these rooms; and the beginning of life, filling some poor girl with terror and shame, was diagnosed there. there was neither good nor bad there. there were just facts. it was life. lxxxii towards the end of the year, when philip was bringing to a close his three months as clerk in the out-patients' department, he received a letter from lawson, who was in paris. dear philip, cronshaw is in london and would be glad to see you. he is living at hyde street, soho. i don't know where it is, but i daresay you will be able to find out. be a brick and look after him a bit. he is very down on his luck. he will tell you what he is doing. things are going on here very much as usual. nothing seems to have changed since you were here. clutton is back, but he has become quite impossible. he has quarrelled with everybody. as far as i can make out he hasn't got a cent, he lives in a little studio right away beyond the jardin des plantes, but he won't let anybody see his work. he doesn't show anywhere, so one doesn't know what he is doing. he may be a genius, but on the other hand he may be off his head. by the way, i ran against flanagan the other day. he was showing mrs. flanagan round the quarter. he has chucked art and is now in popper's business. he seems to be rolling. mrs. flanagan is very pretty and i'm trying to work a portrait. how much would you ask if you were me? i don't want to frighten them, and then on the other hand i don't want to be such an ass as to ask l if they're quite willing to give l . yours ever, frederick lawson. philip wrote to cronshaw and received in reply the following letter. it was written on a half-sheet of common note-paper, and the flimsy envelope was dirtier than was justified by its passage through the post. dear carey, of course i remember you very well. i have an idea that i had some part in rescuing you from the slough of despond in which myself am hopelessly immersed. i shall be glad to see you. i am a stranger in a strange city and i am buffeted by the philistines. it will be pleasant to talk of paris. i do not ask you to come and see me, since my lodging is not of a magnificence fit for the reception of an eminent member of monsieur purgon's profession, but you will find me eating modestly any evening between seven and eight at a restaurant yclept au bon plaisir in dean street. your sincere j. cronshaw. philip went the day he received this letter. the restaurant, consisting of one small room, was of the poorest class, and cronshaw seemed to be its only customer. he was sitting in the corner, well away from draughts, wearing the same shabby great-coat which philip had never seen him without, with his old bowler on his head. "i eat here because i can be alone," he said. "they are not doing well; the only people who come are a few trollops and one or two waiters out of a job; they are giving up business, and the food is execrable. but the ruin of their fortunes is my advantage." cronshaw had before him a glass of absinthe. it was nearly three years since they had met, and philip was shocked by the change in his appearance. he had been rather corpulent, but now he had a dried-up, yellow look: the skin of his neck was loose and winkled; his clothes hung about him as though they had been bought for someone else; and his collar, three or four sizes too large, added to the slatternliness of his appearance. his hands trembled continually. philip remembered the handwriting which scrawled over the page with shapeless, haphazard letters. cronshaw was evidently very ill. "i eat little these days," he said. "i'm very sick in the morning. i'm just having some soup for my dinner, and then i shall have a bit of cheese." philip's glance unconsciously went to the absinthe, and cronshaw, seeing it, gave him the quizzical look with which he reproved the admonitions of common sense. "you have diagnosed my case, and you think it's very wrong of me to drink absinthe." "you've evidently got cirrhosis of the liver," said philip. "evidently." he looked at philip in the way which had formerly had the power of making him feel incredibly narrow. it seemed to point out that what he was thinking was distressingly obvious; and when you have agreed with the obvious what more is there to say? philip changed the topic. "when are you going back to paris?" "i'm not going back to paris. i'm going to die." the very naturalness with which he said this startled philip. he thought of half a dozen things to say, but they seemed futile. he knew that cronshaw was a dying man. "are you going to settle in london then?" he asked lamely. "what is london to me? i am a fish out of water. i walk through the crowded streets, men jostle me, and i seem to walk in a dead city. i felt that i couldn't die in paris. i wanted to die among my own people. i don't know what hidden instinct drew me back at the last." philip knew of the woman cronshaw had lived with and the two draggle-tailed children, but cronshaw had never mentioned them to him, and he did not like to speak of them. he wondered what had happened to them. "i don't know why you talk of dying," he said. "i had pneumonia a couple of winters ago, and they told me then it was a miracle that i came through. it appears i'm extremely liable to it, and another bout will kill me." "oh, what nonsense! you're not so bad as all that. you've only got to take precautions. why don't you give up drinking?" "because i don't choose. it doesn't matter what a man does if he's ready to take the consequences. well, i'm ready to take the consequences. you talk glibly of giving up drinking, but it's the only thing i've got left now. what do you think life would be to me without it? can you understand the happiness i get out of my absinthe? i yearn for it; and when i drink it i savour every drop, and afterwards i feel my soul swimming in ineffable happiness. it disgusts you. you are a puritan and in your heart you despise sensual pleasures. sensual pleasures are the most violent and the most exquisite. i am a man blessed with vivid senses, and i have indulged them with all my soul. i have to pay the penalty now, and i am ready to pay." philip looked at him for a while steadily. "aren't you afraid?" for a moment cronshaw did not answer. he seemed to consider his reply. "sometimes, when i'm alone." he looked at philip. "you think that's a condemnation? you're wrong. i'm not afraid of my fear. it's folly, the christian argument that you should live always in view of your death. the only way to live is to forget that you're going to die. death is unimportant. the fear of it should never influence a single action of the wise man. i know that i shall die struggling for breath, and i know that i shall be horribly afraid. i know that i shall not be able to keep myself from regretting bitterly the life that has brought me to such a pass; but i disown that regret. i now, weak, old, diseased, poor, dying, hold still my soul in my hands, and i regret nothing." "d'you remember that persian carpet you gave me?" asked philip. cronshaw smiled his old, slow smile of past days. "i told you that it would give you an answer to your question when you asked me what was the meaning of life. well, have you discovered the answer?" "no," smiled philip. "won't you tell it me?" "no, no, i can't do that. the answer is meaningless unless you discover it for yourself." lxxxiii cronshaw was publishing his poems. his friends had been urging him to do this for years, but his laziness made it impossible for him to take the necessary steps. he had always answered their exhortations by telling them that the love of poetry was dead in england. you brought out a book which had cost you years of thought and labour; it was given two or three contemptuous lines among a batch of similar volumes, twenty or thirty copies were sold, and the rest of the edition was pulped. he had long since worn out the desire for fame. that was an illusion like all else. but one of his friends had taken the matter into his own hands. this was a man of letters, named leonard upjohn, whom philip had met once or twice with cronshaw in the cafes of the quarter. he had a considerable reputation in england as a critic and was the accredited exponent in this country of modern french literature. he had lived a good deal in france among the men who made the mercure de france the liveliest review of the day, and by the simple process of expressing in english their point of view he had acquired in england a reputation for originality. philip had read some of his articles. he had formed a style for himself by a close imitation of sir thomas browne; he used elaborate sentences, carefully balanced, and obsolete, resplendent words: it gave his writing an appearance of individuality. leonard upjohn had induced cronshaw to give him all his poems and found that there were enough to make a volume of reasonable size. he promised to use his influence with publishers. cronshaw was in want of money. since his illness he had found it more difficult than ever to work steadily; he made barely enough to keep himself in liquor; and when upjohn wrote to him that this publisher and the other, though admiring the poems, thought it not worth while to publish them, cronshaw began to grow interested. he wrote impressing upon upjohn his great need and urging him to make more strenuous efforts. now that he was going to die he wanted to leave behind him a published book, and at the back of his mind was the feeling that he had produced great poetry. he expected to burst upon the world like a new star. there was something fine in keeping to himself these treasures of beauty all his life and giving them to the world disdainfully when, he and the world parting company, he had no further use for them. his decision to come to england was caused directly by an announcement from leonard upjohn that a publisher had consented to print the poems. by a miracle of persuasion upjohn had persuaded him to give ten pounds in advance of royalties. "in advance of royalties, mind you," said cronshaw to philip. "milton only got ten pounds down." upjohn had promised to write a signed article about them, and he would ask his friends who reviewed to do their best. cronshaw pretended to treat the matter with detachment, but it was easy to see that he was delighted with the thought of the stir he would make. one day philip went to dine by arrangement at the wretched eating-house at which cronshaw insisted on taking his meals, but cronshaw did not appear. philip learned that he had not been there for three days. he got himself something to eat and went round to the address from which cronshaw had first written to him. he had some difficulty in finding hyde street. it was a street of dingy houses huddled together; many of the windows had been broken and were clumsily repaired with strips of french newspaper; the doors had not been painted for years; there were shabby little shops on the ground floor, laundries, cobblers, stationers. ragged children played in the road, and an old barrel-organ was grinding out a vulgar tune. philip knocked at the door of cronshaw's house (there was a shop of cheap sweetstuffs at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderly frenchwoman in a dirty apron. philip asked her if cronshaw was in. "ah, yes, there is an englishman who lives at the top, at the back. i don't know if he's in. if you want him you had better go up and see." the staircase was lit by one jet of gas. there was a revolting odour in the house. when philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on the first floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark. there were three doors on the top landing. philip knocked at one, and knocked again; there was no reply; he tried the handle, but the door was locked. he knocked at another door, got no answer, and tried the door again. it opened. the room was dark. "who's that?" he recognised cronshaw's voice. "carey. can i come in?" he received no answer. he walked in. the window was closed and the stink was overpowering. there was a certain amount of light from the arc-lamp in the street, and he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, end to end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left little space for anyone to move in. cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window. he made no movement, but gave a low chuckle. "why don't you light the candle?" he said then. philip struck a match and discovered that there was a candlestick on the floor beside the bed. he lit it and put it on the washing-stand. cronshaw was lying on his back immobile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; and his baldness was disconcerting. his face was earthy and death-like. "i say, old man, you look awfully ill. is there anyone to look after you here?" "george brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to his work." "who's george?" "i call him george because his name is adolphe. he shares this palatial apartment with me." philip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since it was slept in. the pillow was black where the head had rested. "you don't mean to say you're sharing this room with somebody else?" he cried. "why not? lodging costs money in soho. george is a waiter, he goes out at eight in the morning and does not come in till closing time, so he isn't in my way at all. we neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass away the hours of the night by telling me stories of his life. he's a swiss, and i've always had a taste for waiters. they see life from an entertaining angle." "how long have you been in bed?" "three days." "d'you mean to say you've had nothing but a bottle of milk for the last three days? why on earth didn't you send me a line? i can't bear to think of you lying here all day long without a soul to attend to you." cronshaw gave a little laugh. "look at your face. why, dear boy, i really believe you're distressed. you nice fellow." philip blushed. he had not suspected that his face showed the dismay he felt at the sight of that horrible room and the wretched circumstances of the poor poet. cronshaw, watching philip, went on with a gentle smile. "i've been quite happy. look, here are my proofs. remember that i am indifferent to discomforts which would harass other folk. what do the circumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount of time and space?" the proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in the darkness he had been able to place his hands on them. he showed them to philip and his eyes glowed. he turned over the pages, rejoicing in the clear type; he read out a stanza. "they don't look bad, do they?" philip had an idea. it would involve him in a little expense and he could not afford even the smallest increase of expenditure; but on the other hand this was a case where it revolted him to think of economy. "i say, i can't bear the thought of your remaining here. i've got an extra room, it's empty at present, but i can easily get someone to lend me a bed. won't you come and live with me for a while? it'll save you the rent of this." "oh, my dear boy, you'd insist on my keeping my window open." "you shall have every window in the place sealed if you like." "i shall be all right tomorrow. i could have got up today, only i felt lazy." "then you can very easily make the move. and then if you don't feel well at any time you can just go to bed, and i shall be there to look after you." "if it'll please you i'll come," said cronshaw, with his torpid not unpleasant smile. "that'll be ripping." they settled that philip should fetch cronshaw next day, and philip snatched an hour from his busy morning to arrange the change. he found cronshaw dressed, sitting in his hat and great-coat on the bed, with a small, shabby portmanteau, containing his clothes and books, already packed: it was on the floor by his feet, and he looked as if he were sitting in the waiting-room of a station. philip laughed at the sight of him. they went over to kennington in a four-wheeler, of which the windows were carefully closed, and philip installed his guest in his own room. he had gone out early in the morning and bought for himself a second-hand bedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass. cronshaw settled down at once to correct his proofs. he was much better. philip found him, except for the irritability which was a symptom of his disease, an easy guest. he had a lecture at nine in the morning, so did not see cronshaw till the night. once or twice philip persuaded him to share the scrappy meal he prepared for himself in the evening, but cronshaw was too restless to stay in, and preferred generally to get himself something to eat in one or other of the cheapest restaurants in soho. philip asked him to see dr. tyrell, but he stoutly refused; he knew a doctor would tell him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not to do. he always felt horribly ill in the morning, but his absinthe at mid-day put him on his feet again, and by the time he came home, at midnight, he was able to talk with the brilliancy which had astonished philip when first he made his acquaintance. his proofs were corrected; and the volume was to come out among the publications of the early spring, when the public might be supposed to have recovered from the avalanche of christmas books. lxxxiv at the new year philip became dresser in the surgical out-patients' department. the work was of the same character as that which he had just been engaged on, but with the greater directness which surgery has than medicine; and a larger proportion of the patients suffered from those two diseases which a supine public allows, in its prudishness, to be spread broadcast. the assistant-surgeon for whom philip dressed was called jacobs. he was a short, fat man, with an exuberant joviality, a bald head, and a loud voice; he had a cockney accent, and was generally described by the students as an 'awful bounder'; but his cleverness, both as a surgeon and as a teacher, caused some of them to overlook this. he had also a considerable facetiousness, which he exercised impartially on the patients and on the students. he took a great pleasure in making his dressers look foolish. since they were ignorant, nervous, and could not answer as if he were their equal, this was not very difficult. he enjoyed his afternoons, with the home truths he permitted himself, much more than the students who had to put up with them with a smile. one day a case came up of a boy with a club-foot. his parents wanted to know whether anything could be done. mr. jacobs turned to philip. "you'd better take this case, carey. it's a subject you ought to know something about." philip flushed, all the more because the surgeon spoke obviously with a humorous intention, and his brow-beaten dressers laughed obsequiously. it was in point of fact a subject which philip, since coming to the hospital, had studied with anxious attention. he had read everything in the library which treated of talipes in its various forms. he made the boy take off his boot and stocking. he was fourteen, with a snub nose, blue eyes, and a freckled face. his father explained that they wanted something done if possible, it was such a hindrance to the kid in earning his living. philip looked at him curiously. he was a jolly boy, not at all shy, but talkative and with a cheekiness which his father reproved. he was much interested in his foot. "it's only for the looks of the thing, you know," he said to philip. "i don't find it no trouble." "be quiet, ernie," said his father. "there's too much gas about you." philip examined the foot and passed his hand slowly over the shapelessness of it. he could not understand why the boy felt none of the humiliation which always oppressed himself. he wondered why he could not take his deformity with that philosophic indifference. presently mr. jacobs came up to him. the boy was sitting on the edge of a couch, the surgeon and philip stood on each side of him; and in a semi-circle, crowding round, were students. with accustomed brilliancy jacobs gave a graphic little discourse upon the club-foot: he spoke of its varieties and of the forms which followed upon different anatomical conditions. "i suppose you've got talipes equinus?" he said, turning suddenly to philip. "yes." philip felt the eyes of his fellow-students rest on him, and he cursed himself because he could not help blushing. he felt the sweat start up in the palms of his hands. the surgeon spoke with the fluency due to long practice and with the admirable perspicacity which distinguished him. he was tremendously interested in his profession. but philip did not listen. he was only wishing that the fellow would get done quickly. suddenly he realised that jacobs was addressing him. "you don't mind taking off your sock for a moment, carey?" philip felt a shudder pass through him. he had an impulse to tell the surgeon to go to hell, but he had not the courage to make a scene. he feared his brutal ridicule. he forced himself to appear indifferent. "not a bit," he said. he sat down and unlaced his boot. his fingers were trembling and he thought he should never untie the knot. he remembered how they had forced him at school to show his foot, and the misery which had eaten into his soul. "he keeps his feet nice and clean, doesn't he?" said jacobs, in his rasping, cockney voice. the attendant students giggled. philip noticed that the boy whom they were examining looked down at his foot with eager curiosity. jacobs took the foot in his hands and said: "yes, that's what i thought. i see you've had an operation. when you were a child, i suppose?" he went on with his fluent explanations. the students leaned over and looked at the foot. two or three examined it minutely when jacobs let it go. "when you've quite done," said philip, with a smile, ironically. he could have killed them all. he thought how jolly it would be to jab a chisel (he didn't know why that particular instrument came into his mind) into their necks. what beasts men were! he wished he could believe in hell so as to comfort himself with the thought of the horrible tortures which would be theirs. mr. jacobs turned his attention to treatment. he talked partly to the boy's father and partly to the students. philip put on his sock and laced his boot. at last the surgeon finished. but he seemed to have an afterthought and turned to philip. "you know, i think it might be worth your while to have an operation. of course i couldn't give you a normal foot, but i think i can do something. you might think about it, and when you want a holiday you can just come into the hospital for a bit." philip had often asked himself whether anything could be done, but his distaste for any reference to the subject had prevented him from consulting any of the surgeons at the hospital. his reading told him that whatever might have been done when he was a small boy, and then treatment of talipes was not as skilful as in the present day, there was small chance now of any great benefit. still it would be worth while if an operation made it possible for him to wear a more ordinary boot and to limp less. he remembered how passionately he had prayed for the miracle which his uncle had assured him was possible to omnipotence. he smiled ruefully. "i was rather a simple soul in those days," he thought. towards the end of february it was clear that cronshaw was growing much worse. he was no longer able to get up. he lay in bed, insisting that the window should be closed always, and refused to see a doctor; he would take little nourishment, but demanded whiskey and cigarettes: philip knew that he should have neither, but cronshaw's argument was unanswerable. "i daresay they are killing me. i don't care. you've warned me, you've done all that was necessary: i ignore your warning. give me something to drink and be damned to you." leonard upjohn blew in two or three times a week, and there was something of the dead leaf in his appearance which made the word exactly descriptive of the manner of his appearance. he was a weedy-looking fellow of five-and-thirty, with long pale hair and a white face; he had the look of a man who lived too little in the open air. he wore a hat like a dissenting minister's. philip disliked him for his patronising manner and was bored by his fluent conversation. leonard upjohn liked to hear himself talk. he was not sensitive to the interest of his listeners, which is the first requisite of the good talker; and he never realised that he was telling people what they knew already. with measured words he told philip what to think of rodin, albert samain, and caesar franck. philip's charwoman only came in for an hour in the morning, and since philip was obliged to be at the hospital all day cronshaw was left much alone. upjohn told philip that he thought someone should remain with him, but did not offer to make it possible. "it's dreadful to think of that great poet alone. why, he might die without a soul at hand." "i think he very probably will," said philip. "how can you be so callous!" "why don't you come and do your work here every day, and then you'd be near if he wanted anything?" asked philip drily. "i? my dear fellow, i can only work in the surroundings i'm used to, and besides i go out so much." upjohn was also a little put out because philip had brought cronshaw to his own rooms. "i wish you had left him in soho," he said, with a wave of his long, thin hands. "there was a touch of romance in that sordid attic. i could even bear it if it were wapping or shoreditch, but the respectability of kennington! what a place for a poet to die!" cronshaw was often so ill-humoured that philip could only keep his temper by remembering all the time that this irritability was a symptom of the disease. upjohn came sometimes before philip was in, and then cronshaw would complain of him bitterly. upjohn listened with complacency. "the fact is that carey has no sense of beauty," he smiled. "he has a middle-class mind." he was very sarcastic to philip, and philip exercised a good deal of self-control in his dealings with him. but one evening he could not contain himself. he had had a hard day at the hospital and was tired out. leonard upjohn came to him, while he was making himself a cup of tea in the kitchen, and said that cronshaw was complaining of philip's insistence that he should have a doctor. "don't you realise that you're enjoying a very rare, a very exquisite privilege? you ought to do everything in your power, surely, to show your sense of the greatness of your trust." "it's a rare and exquisite privilege which i can ill afford," said philip. whenever there was any question of money, leonard upjohn assumed a slightly disdainful expression. his sensitive temperament was offended by the reference. "there's something fine in cronshaw's attitude, and you disturb it by your importunity. you should make allowances for the delicate imaginings which you cannot feel." philip's face darkened. "let us go in to cronshaw," he said frigidly. the poet was lying on his back, reading a book, with a pipe in his mouth. the air was musty; and the room, notwithstanding philip's tidying up, had the bedraggled look which seemed to accompany cronshaw wherever he went. he took off his spectacles as they came in. philip was in a towering rage. "upjohn tells me you've been complaining to him because i've urged you to have a doctor," he said. "i want you to have a doctor, because you may die any day, and if you hadn't been seen by anyone i shouldn't be able to get a certificate. there'd have to be an inquest and i should be blamed for not calling a doctor in." "i hadn't thought of that. i thought you wanted me to see a doctor for my sake and not for your own. i'll see a doctor whenever you like." philip did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders. cronshaw, watching him, gave a little chuckle. "don't look so angry, my dear. i know very well you want to do everything you can for me. let's see your doctor, perhaps he can do something for me, and at any rate it'll comfort you." he turned his eyes to upjohn. "you're a damned fool, leonard. why d'you want to worry the boy? he has quite enough to do to put up with me. you'll do nothing more for me than write a pretty article about me after my death. i know you." next day philip went to dr. tyrell. he felt that he was the sort of man to be interested by the story, and as soon as tyrell was free of his day's work he accompanied philip to kennington. he could only agree with what philip had told him. the case was hopeless. "i'll take him into the hospital if you like," he said. "he can have a small ward." "nothing would induce him to come." "you know, he may die any minute, or else he may get another attack of pneumonia." philip nodded. dr. tyrell made one or two suggestions, and promised to come again whenever philip wanted him to. he left his address. when philip went back to cronshaw he found him quietly reading. he did not trouble to inquire what the doctor had said. "are you satisfied now, dear boy?" he asked. "i suppose nothing will induce you to do any of the things tyrell advised?" "nothing," smiled cronshaw. lxxxv about a fortnight after this philip, going home one evening after his day's work at the hospital, knocked at the door of cronshaw's room. he got no answer and walked in. cronshaw was lying huddled up on one side, and philip went up to the bed. he did not know whether cronshaw was asleep or merely lay there in one of his uncontrollable fits of irritability. he was surprised to see that his mouth was open. he touched his shoulder. philip gave a cry of dismay. he slipped his hand under cronshaw's shirt and felt his heart; he did not know what to do; helplessly, because he had heard of this being done, he held a looking-glass in front of his mouth. it startled him to be alone with cronshaw. he had his hat and coat still on, and he ran down the stairs into the street; he hailed a cab and drove to harley street. dr. tyrell was in. "i say, would you mind coming at once? i think cronshaw's dead." "if he is it's not much good my coming, is it?" "i should be awfully grateful if you would. i've got a cab at the door. it'll only take half an hour." tyrell put on his hat. in the cab he asked him one or two questions. "he seemed no worse than usual when i left this morning," said philip. "it gave me an awful shock when i went in just now. and the thought of his dying all alone.... d'you think he knew he was going to die?" philip remembered what cronshaw had said. he wondered whether at that last moment he had been seized with the terror of death. philip imagined himself in such a plight, knowing it was inevitable and with no one, not a soul, to give an encouraging word when the fear seized him. "you're rather upset," said dr. tyrell. he looked at him with his bright blue eyes. they were not unsympathetic. when he saw cronshaw, he said: "he must have been dead for some hours. i should think he died in his sleep. they do sometimes." the body looked shrunk and ignoble. it was not like anything human. dr. tyrell looked at it dispassionately. with a mechanical gesture he took out his watch. "well, i must be getting along. i'll send the certificate round. i suppose you'll communicate with the relatives." "i don't think there are any," said philip. "how about the funeral?" "oh, i'll see to that." dr. tyrell gave philip a glance. he wondered whether he ought to offer a couple of sovereigns towards it. he knew nothing of philip's circumstances; perhaps he could well afford the expense; philip might think it impertinent if he made any suggestion. "well, let me know if there's anything i can do," he said. philip and he went out together, parting on the doorstep, and philip went to a telegraph office in order to send a message to leonard upjohn. then he went to an undertaker whose shop he passed every day on his way to the hospital. his attention had been drawn to it often by the three words in silver lettering on a black cloth, which, with two model coffins, adorned the window: economy, celerity, propriety. they had always diverted him. the undertaker was a little fat jew with curly black hair, long and greasy, in black, with a large diamond ring on a podgy finger. he received philip with a peculiar manner formed by the mingling of his natural blatancy with the subdued air proper to his calling. he quickly saw that philip was very helpless and promised to send round a woman at once to perform the needful offices. his suggestions for the funeral were very magnificent; and philip felt ashamed of himself when the undertaker seemed to think his objections mean. it was horrible to haggle on such a matter, and finally philip consented to an expensiveness which he could ill afford. "i quite understand, sir," said the undertaker, "you don't want any show and that--i'm not a believer in ostentation myself, mind you--but you want it done gentlemanly-like. you leave it to me, i'll do it as cheap as it can be done, 'aving regard to what's right and proper. i can't say more than that, can i?" philip went home to eat his supper, and while he ate the woman came along to lay out the corpse. presently a telegram arrived from leonard upjohn. shocked and grieved beyond measure. regret cannot come tonight. dining out. with you early tomorrow. deepest sympathy. upjohn. in a little while the woman knocked at the door of the sitting-room. "i've done now, sir. will you come and look at 'im and see it's all right?" philip followed her. cronshaw was lying on his back, with his eyes closed and his hands folded piously across his chest. "you ought by rights to 'ave a few flowers, sir." "i'll get some tomorrow." she gave the body a glance of satisfaction. she had performed her job, and now she rolled down her sleeves, took off her apron, and put on her bonnet. philip asked her how much he owed her. "well, sir, some give me two and sixpence and some give me five shillings." philip was ashamed to give her less than the larger sum. she thanked him with just so much effusiveness as was seemly in presence of the grief he might be supposed to feel, and left him. philip went back into his sitting-room, cleared away the remains of his supper, and sat down to read walsham's surgery. he found it difficult. he felt singularly nervous. when there was a sound on the stairs he jumped, and his heart beat violently. that thing in the adjoining room, which had been a man and now was nothing, frightened him. the silence seemed alive, as if some mysterious movement were taking place within it; the presence of death weighed upon these rooms, unearthly and terrifying: philip felt a sudden horror for what had once been his friend. he tried to force himself to read, but presently pushed away his book in despair. what troubled him was the absolute futility of the life which had just ended. it did not matter if cronshaw was alive or dead. it would have been just as well if he had never lived. philip thought of cronshaw young; and it needed an effort of imagination to picture him slender, with a springing step, and with hair on his head, buoyant and hopeful. philip's rule of life, to follow one's instincts with due regard to the policeman round the corner, had not acted very well there: it was because cronshaw had done this that he had made such a lamentable failure of existence. it seemed that the instincts could not be trusted. philip was puzzled, and he asked himself what rule of life was there, if that one was useless, and why people acted in one way rather than in another. they acted according to their emotions, but their emotions might be good or bad; it seemed just a chance whether they led to triumph or disaster. life seemed an inextricable confusion. men hurried hither and thither, urged by forces they knew not; and the purpose of it all escaped them; they seemed to hurry just for hurrying's sake. next morning leonard upjohn appeared with a small wreath of laurel. he was pleased with his idea of crowning the dead poet with this; and attempted, notwithstanding philip's disapproving silence, to fix it on the bald head; but the wreath fitted grotesquely. it looked like the brim of a hat worn by a low comedian in a music-hall. "i'll put it over his heart instead," said upjohn. "you've put it on his stomach," remarked philip. upjohn gave a thin smile. "only a poet knows where lies a poet's heart," he answered. they went back into the sitting-room, and philip told him what arrangements he had made for the funeral. "i hoped you've spared no expense. i should like the hearse to be followed by a long string of empty coaches, and i should like the horses to wear tall nodding plumes, and there should be a vast number of mutes with long streamers on their hats. i like the thought of all those empty coaches." "as the cost of the funeral will apparently fall on me and i'm not over flush just now, i've tried to make it as moderate as possible." "but, my dear fellow, in that case, why didn't you get him a pauper's funeral? there would have been something poetic in that. you have an unerring instinct for mediocrity." philip flushed a little, but did not answer; and next day he and upjohn followed the hearse in the one carriage which philip had ordered. lawson, unable to come, had sent a wreath; and philip, so that the coffin should not seem too neglected, had bought a couple. on the way back the coachman whipped up his horses. philip was dog-tired and presently went to sleep. he was awakened by upjohn's voice. "it's rather lucky the poems haven't come out yet. i think we'd better hold them back a bit and i'll write a preface. i began thinking of it during the drive to the cemetery. i believe i can do something rather good. anyhow i'll start with an article in the saturday." philip did not reply, and there was silence between them. at last upjohn said: "i daresay i'd be wiser not to whittle away my copy. i think i'll do an article for one of the reviews, and then i can just print it afterwards as a preface." philip kept his eye on the monthlies, and a few weeks later it appeared. the article made something of a stir, and extracts from it were printed in many of the papers. it was a very good article, vaguely biographical, for no one knew much of cronshaw's early life, but delicate, tender, and picturesque. leonard upjohn in his intricate style drew graceful little pictures of cronshaw in the latin quarter, talking, writing poetry: cronshaw became a picturesque figure, an english verlaine; and leonard upjohn's coloured phrases took on a tremulous dignity, a more pathetic grandiloquence, as he described the sordid end, the shabby little room in soho; and, with a reticence which was wholly charming and suggested a much greater generosity than modesty allowed him to state, the efforts he made to transport the poet to some cottage embowered with honeysuckle amid a flowering orchard. and the lack of sympathy, well-meaning but so tactless, which had taken the poet instead to the vulgar respectability of kennington! leonard upjohn described kennington with that restrained humour which a strict adherence to the vocabulary of sir thomas browne necessitated. with delicate sarcasm he narrated the last weeks, the patience with which cronshaw bore the well-meaning clumsiness of the young student who had appointed himself his nurse, and the pitifulness of that divine vagabond in those hopelessly middle-class surroundings. beauty from ashes, he quoted from isaiah. it was a triumph of irony for that outcast poet to die amid the trappings of vulgar respectability; it reminded leonard upjohn of christ among the pharisees, and the analogy gave him opportunity for an exquisite passage. and then he told how a friend--his good taste did not suffer him more than to hint subtly who the friend was with such gracious fancies--had laid a laurel wreath on the dead poet's heart; and the beautiful dead hands had seemed to rest with a voluptuous passion upon apollo's leaves, fragrant with the fragrance of art, and more green than jade brought by swart mariners from the manifold, inexplicable china. and, an admirable contrast, the article ended with a description of the middle-class, ordinary, prosaic funeral of him who should have been buried like a prince or like a pauper. it was the crowning buffet, the final victory of philistia over art, beauty, and immaterial things. leonard upjohn had never written anything better. it was a miracle of charm, grace, and pity. he printed all cronshaw's best poems in the course of the article, so that when the volume appeared much of its point was gone; but he advanced his own position a good deal. he was thenceforth a critic to be reckoned with. he had seemed before a little aloof; but there was a warm humanity about this article which was infinitely attractive. lxxxvi in the spring philip, having finished his dressing in the out-patients' department, became an in-patients' clerk. this appointment lasted six months. the clerk spent every morning in the wards, first in the men's, then in the women's, with the house-physician; he wrote up cases, made tests, and passed the time of day with the nurses. on two afternoons a week the physician in charge went round with a little knot of students, examined the cases, and dispensed information. the work had not the excitement, the constant change, the intimate contact with reality, of the work in the out-patients' department; but philip picked up a good deal of knowledge. he got on very well with the patients, and he was a little flattered at the pleasure they showed in his attendance on them. he was not conscious of any deep sympathy in their sufferings, but he liked them; and because he put on no airs he was more popular with them than others of the clerks. he was pleasant, encouraging, and friendly. like everyone connected with hospitals he found that male patients were more easy to get on with than female. the women were often querulous and ill-tempered. they complained bitterly of the hard-worked nurses, who did not show them the attention they thought their right; and they were troublesome, ungrateful, and rude. presently philip was fortunate enough to make a friend. one morning the house-physician gave him a new case, a man; and, seating himself at the bedside, philip proceeded to write down particulars on the 'letter.' he noticed on looking at this that the patient was described as a journalist: his name was thorpe athelny, an unusual one for a hospital patient, and his age was forty-eight. he was suffering from a sharp attack of jaundice, and had been taken into the ward on account of obscure symptoms which it seemed necessary to watch. he answered the various questions which it was philip's duty to ask him in a pleasant, educated voice. since he was lying in bed it was difficult to tell if he was short or tall, but his small head and small hands suggested that he was a man of less than average height. philip had the habit of looking at people's hands, and athelny's astonished him: they were very small, with long, tapering fingers and beautiful, rosy finger-nails; they were very smooth and except for the jaundice would have been of a surprising whiteness. the patient kept them outside the bed-clothes, one of them slightly spread out, the second and third fingers together, and, while he spoke to philip, seemed to contemplate them with satisfaction. with a twinkle in his eyes philip glanced at the man's face. notwithstanding the yellowness it was distinguished; he had blue eyes, a nose of an imposing boldness, hooked, aggressive but not clumsy, and a small beard, pointed and gray: he was rather bald, but his hair had evidently been quite fine, curling prettily, and he still wore it long. "i see you're a journalist," said philip. "what papers d'you write for?" "i write for all the papers. you cannot open a paper without seeing some of my writing." there was one by the side of the bed and reaching for it he pointed out an advertisement. in large letters was the name of a firm well-known to philip, lynn and sedley, regent street, london; and below, in type smaller but still of some magnitude, was the dogmatic statement: procrastination is the thief of time. then a question, startling because of its reasonableness: why not order today? there was a repetition, in large letters, like the hammering of conscience on a murderer's heart: why not? then, boldly: thousands of pairs of gloves from the leading markets of the world at astounding prices. thousands of pairs of stockings from the most reliable manufacturers of the universe at sensational reductions. finally the question recurred, but flung now like a challenging gauntlet in the lists: why not order today? "i'm the press representative of lynn and sedley." he gave a little wave of his beautiful hand. "to what base uses..." philip went on asking the regulation questions, some a mere matter of routine, others artfully devised to lead the patient to discover things which he might be expected to desire to conceal. "have you ever lived abroad?" asked philip. "i was in spain for eleven years." "what were you doing there?" "i was secretary of the english water company at toledo." philip remembered that clutton had spent some months in toledo, and the journalist's answer made him look at him with more interest; but he felt it would be improper to show this: it was necessary to preserve the distance between the hospital patient and the staff. when he had finished his examination he went on to other beds. thorpe athelny's illness was not grave, and, though remaining very yellow, he soon felt much better: he stayed in bed only because the physician thought he should be kept under observation till certain reactions became normal. one day, on entering the ward, philip noticed that athelny, pencil in hand, was reading a book. he put it down when philip came to his bed. "may i see what you're reading?" asked philip, who could never pass a book without looking at it. philip took it up and saw that it was a volume of spanish verse, the poems of san juan de la cruz, and as he opened it a sheet of paper fell out. philip picked it up and noticed that verse was written upon it. "you're not going to tell me you've been occupying your leisure in writing poetry? that's a most improper proceeding in a hospital patient." "i was trying to do some translations. d'you know spanish?" "no." "well, you know all about san juan de la cruz, don't you?" "i don't indeed." "he was one of the spanish mystics. he's one of the best poets they've ever had. i thought it would be worth while translating him into english." "may i look at your translation?" "it's very rough," said athelny, but he gave it to philip with an alacrity which suggested that he was eager for him to read it. it was written in pencil, in a fine but very peculiar handwriting, which was hard to read: it was just like black letter. "doesn't it take you an awful time to write like that? it's wonderful." "i don't know why handwriting shouldn't be beautiful." philip read the first verse: in an obscure night with anxious love inflamed o happy lot! forth unobserved i went, my house being now at rest... philip looked curiously at thorpe athelny. he did not know whether he felt a little shy with him or was attracted by him. he was conscious that his manner had been slightly patronising, and he flushed as it struck him that athelny might have thought him ridiculous. "what an unusual name you've got," he remarked, for something to say. "it's a very old yorkshire name. once it took the head of my family a day's hard riding to make the circuit of his estates, but the mighty are fallen. fast women and slow horses." he was short-sighted and when he spoke looked at you with a peculiar intensity. he took up his volume of poetry. "you should read spanish," he said. "it is a noble tongue. it has not the mellifluousness of italian, italian is the language of tenors and organ-grinders, but it has grandeur: it does not ripple like a brook in a garden, but it surges tumultuous like a mighty river in flood." his grandiloquence amused philip, but he was sensitive to rhetoric; and he listened with pleasure while athelny, with picturesque expressions and the fire of a real enthusiasm, described to him the rich delight of reading don quixote in the original and the music, romantic, limpid, passionate, of the enchanting calderon. "i must get on with my work," said philip presently. "oh, forgive me, i forgot. i will tell my wife to bring me a photograph of toledo, and i will show it you. come and talk to me when you have the chance. you don't know what a pleasure it gives me." during the next few days, in moments snatched whenever there was opportunity, philip's acquaintance with the journalist increased. thorpe athelny was a good talker. he did not say brilliant things, but he talked inspiringly, with an eager vividness which fired the imagination; philip, living so much in a world of make-believe, found his fancy teeming with new pictures. athelny had very good manners. he knew much more than philip, both of the world and of books; he was a much older man; and the readiness of his conversation gave him a certain superiority; but he was in the hospital a recipient of charity, subject to strict rules; and he held himself between the two positions with ease and humour. once philip asked him why he had come to the hospital. "oh, my principle is to profit by all the benefits that society provides. i take advantage of the age i live in. when i'm ill i get myself patched up in a hospital and i have no false shame, and i send my children to be educated at the board-school." "do you really?" said philip. "and a capital education they get too, much better than i got at winchester. how else do you think i could educate them at all? i've got nine. you must come and see them all when i get home again. will you?" "i'd like to very much," said philip. lxxxvii ten days later thorpe athelny was well enough to leave the hospital. he gave philip his address, and philip promised to dine with him at one o'clock on the following sunday. athelny had told him that he lived in a house built by inigo jones; he had raved, as he raved over everything, over the balustrade of old oak; and when he came down to open the door for philip he made him at once admire the elegant carving of the lintel. it was a shabby house, badly needing a coat of paint, but with the dignity of its period, in a little street between chancery lane and holborn, which had once been fashionable but was now little better than a slum: there was a plan to pull it down in order to put up handsome offices; meanwhile the rents were small, and athelny was able to get the two upper floors at a price which suited his income. philip had not seen him up before and was surprised at his small size; he was not more than five feet and five inches high. he was dressed fantastically in blue linen trousers of the sort worn by working men in france, and a very old brown velvet coat; he wore a bright red sash round his waist, a low collar, and for tie a flowing bow of the kind used by the comic frenchman in the pages of punch. he greeted philip with enthusiasm. he began talking at once of the house and passed his hand lovingly over the balusters. "look at it, feel it, it's like silk. what a miracle of grace! and in five years the house-breaker will sell it for firewood." he insisted on taking philip into a room on the first floor, where a man in shirt sleeves, a blousy woman, and three children were having their sunday dinner. "i've just brought this gentleman in to show him your ceiling. did you ever see anything so wonderful? how are you, mrs. hodgson? this is mr. carey, who looked after me when i was in the hospital." "come in, sir," said the man. "any friend of mr. athelny's is welcome. mr. athelny shows the ceiling to all his friends. and it don't matter what we're doing, if we're in bed or if i'm 'aving a wash, in 'e comes." philip could see that they looked upon athelny as a little queer; but they liked him none the less and they listened open-mouthed while he discoursed with his impetuous fluency on the beauty of the seventeenth-century ceiling. "what a crime to pull this down, eh, hodgson? you're an influential citizen, why don't you write to the papers and protest?" the man in shirt sleeves gave a laugh and said to philip: "mr. athelny will 'ave his little joke. they do say these 'ouses are that insanitory, it's not safe to live in them." "sanitation be damned, give me art," cried athelny. "i've got nine children and they thrive on bad drains. no, no, i'm not going to take any risk. none of your new-fangled notions for me! when i move from here i'm going to make sure the drains are bad before i take anything." there was a knock at the door, and a little fair-haired girl opened it. "daddy, mummy says, do stop talking and come and eat your dinner." "this is my third daughter," said athelny, pointing to her with a dramatic forefinger. "she is called maria del pilar, but she answers more willingly to the name of jane. jane, your nose wants blowing." "i haven't got a hanky, daddy." "tut, tut, child," he answered, as he produced a vast, brilliant bandanna, "what do you suppose the almighty gave you fingers for?" they went upstairs, and philip was taken into a room with walls panelled in dark oak. in the middle was a narrow table of teak on trestle legs, with two supporting bars of iron, of the kind called in spain mesa de hieraje. they were to dine there, for two places were laid, and there were two large arm-chairs, with broad flat arms of oak and leathern backs, and leathern seats. they were severe, elegant, and uncomfortable. the only other piece of furniture was a bargueno, elaborately ornamented with gilt iron-work, on a stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but very finely carved. there stood on this two or three lustre plates, much broken but rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of the spanish school in beautiful though dilapidated frames: though gruesome in subject, ruined by age and bad treatment, and second-rate in their conception, they had a glow of passion. there was nothing in the room of any value, but the effect was lovely. it was magnificent and yet austere. philip felt that it offered the very spirit of old spain. athelny was in the middle of showing him the inside of the bargueno, with its beautiful ornamentation and secret drawers, when a tall girl, with two plaits of bright brown hair hanging down her back, came in. "mother says dinner's ready and waiting and i'm to bring it in as soon as you sit down." "come and shake hands with mr. carey, sally." he turned to philip. "isn't she enormous? she's my eldest. how old are you, sally?" "fifteen, father, come next june." "i christened her maria del sol, because she was my first child and i dedicated her to the glorious sun of castile; but her mother calls her sally and her brother pudding-face." the girl smiled shyly, she had even, white teeth, and blushed. she was well set-up, tall for her age, with pleasant gray eyes and a broad forehead. she had red cheeks. "go and tell your mother to come in and shake hands with mr. carey before he sits down." "mother says she'll come in after dinner. she hasn't washed herself yet." "then we'll go in and see her ourselves. he mustn't eat the yorkshire pudding till he's shaken the hand that made it." philip followed his host into the kitchen. it was small and much overcrowded. there had been a lot of noise, but it stopped as soon as the stranger entered. there was a large table in the middle and round it, eager for dinner, were seated athelny's children. a woman was standing at the oven, taking out baked potatoes one by one. "here's mr. carey, betty," said athelny. "fancy bringing him in here. what will he think?" she wore a dirty apron, and the sleeves of her cotton dress were turned up above her elbows; she had curling pins in her hair. mrs. athelny was a large woman, a good three inches taller than her husband, fair, with blue eyes and a kindly expression; she had been a handsome creature, but advancing years and the bearing of many children had made her fat and blousy; her blue eyes had become pale, her skin was coarse and red, the colour had gone out of her hair. she straightened herself, wiped her hand on her apron, and held it out. "you're welcome, sir," she said, in a slow voice, with an accent that seemed oddly familiar to philip. "athelny said you was very kind to him in the 'orspital." "now you must be introduced to the live stock," said athelny. "that is thorpe," he pointed to a chubby boy with curly hair, "he is my eldest son, heir to the title, estates, and responsibilities of the family. there is athelstan, harold, edward." he pointed with his forefinger to three smaller boys, all rosy, healthy, and smiling, though when they felt philip's smiling eyes upon them they looked shyly down at their plates. "now the girls in order: maria del sol..." "pudding-face," said one of the small boys. "your sense of humour is rudimentary, my son. maria de los mercedes, maria del pilar, maria de la concepcion, maria del rosario." "i call them sally, molly, connie, rosie, and jane," said mrs. athelny. "now, athelny, you go into your own room and i'll send you your dinner. i'll let the children come in afterwards for a bit when i've washed them." "my dear, if i'd had the naming of you i should have called you maria of the soapsuds. you're always torturing these wretched brats with soap." "you go first, mr. carey, or i shall never get him to sit down and eat his dinner." athelny and philip installed themselves in the great monkish chairs, and sally brought them in two plates of beef, yorkshire pudding, baked potatoes, and cabbage. athelny took sixpence out of his pocket and sent her for a jug of beer. "i hope you didn't have the table laid here on my account," said philip. "i should have been quite happy to eat with the children." "oh no, i always have my meals by myself. i like these antique customs. i don't think that women ought to sit down at table with men. it ruins conversation and i'm sure it's very bad for them. it puts ideas in their heads, and women are never at ease with themselves when they have ideas." both host and guest ate with a hearty appetite. "did you ever taste such yorkshire pudding? no one can make it like my wife. that's the advantage of not marrying a lady. you noticed she wasn't a lady, didn't you?" it was an awkward question, and philip did not know how to answer it. "i never thought about it," he said lamely. athelny laughed. he had a peculiarly joyous laugh. "no, she's not a lady, nor anything like it. her father was a farmer, and she's never bothered about aitches in her life. we've had twelve children and nine of them are alive. i tell her it's about time she stopped, but she's an obstinate woman, she's got into the habit of it now, and i don't believe she'll be satisfied till she's had twenty." at that moment sally came in with the beer, and, having poured out a glass for philip, went to the other side of the table to pour some out for her father. he put his hand round her waist. "did you ever see such a handsome, strapping girl? only fifteen and she might be twenty. look at her cheeks. she's never had a day's illness in her life. it'll be a lucky man who marries her, won't it, sally?" sally listened to all this with a slight, slow smile, not much embarrassed, for she was accustomed to her father's outbursts, but with an easy modesty which was very attractive. "don't let your dinner get cold, father," she said, drawing herself away from his arm. "you'll call when you're ready for your pudding, won't you?" they were left alone, and athelny lifted the pewter tankard to his lips. he drank long and deep. "my word, is there anything better than english beer?" he said. "let us thank god for simple pleasures, roast beef and rice pudding, a good appetite and beer. i was married to a lady once. my god! don't marry a lady, my boy." philip laughed. he was exhilarated by the scene, the funny little man in his odd clothes, the panelled room and the spanish furniture, the english fare: the whole thing had an exquisite incongruity. "you laugh, my boy, you can't imagine marrying beneath you. you want a wife who's an intellectual equal. your head is crammed full of ideas of comradeship. stuff and nonsense, my boy! a man doesn't want to talk politics to his wife, and what do you think i care for betty's views upon the differential calculus? a man wants a wife who can cook his dinner and look after his children. i've tried both and i know. let's have the pudding in." he clapped his hands and presently sally came. when she took away the plates, philip wanted to get up and help her, but athelny stopped him. "let her alone, my boy. she doesn't want you to fuss about, do you, sally? and she won't think it rude of you to sit still while she waits upon you. she don't care a damn for chivalry, do you, sally?" "no, father," answered sally demurely. "do you know what i'm talking about, sally?" "no, father. but you know mother doesn't like you to swear." athelny laughed boisterously. sally brought them plates of rice pudding, rich, creamy, and luscious. athelny attacked his with gusto. "one of the rules of this house is that sunday dinner should never alter. it is a ritual. roast beef and rice pudding for fifty sundays in the year. on easter sunday lamb and green peas, and at michaelmas roast goose and apple sauce. thus we preserve the traditions of our people. when sally marries she will forget many of the wise things i have taught her, but she will never forget that if you want to be good and happy you must eat on sundays roast beef and rice pudding." "you'll call when you're ready for cheese," said sally impassively. "d'you know the legend of the halcyon?" said athelny: philip was growing used to his rapid leaping from one subject to another. "when the kingfisher, flying over the sea, is exhausted, his mate places herself beneath him and bears him along upon her stronger wings. that is what a man wants in a wife, the halcyon. i lived with my first wife for three years. she was a lady, she had fifteen hundred a year, and we used to give nice little dinner parties in our little red brick house in kensington. she was a charming woman; they all said so, the barristers and their wives who dined with us, and the literary stockbrokers, and the budding politicians; oh, she was a charming woman. she made me go to church in a silk hat and a frock coat, she took me to classical concerts, and she was very fond of lectures on sunday afternoon; and she sat down to breakfast every morning at eight-thirty, and if i was late breakfast was cold; and she read the right books, admired the right pictures, and adored the right music. my god, how that woman bored me! she is charming still, and she lives in the little red brick house in kensington, with morris papers and whistler's etchings on the walls, and gives the same nice little dinner parties, with veal creams and ices from gunter's, as she did twenty years ago." philip did not ask by what means the ill-matched couple had separated, but athelny told him. "betty's not my wife, you know; my wife wouldn't divorce me. the children are bastards, every jack one of them, and are they any the worse for that? betty was one of the maids in the little red brick house in kensington. four or five years ago i was on my uppers, and i had seven children, and i went to my wife and asked her to help me. she said she'd make me an allowance if i'd give betty up and go abroad. can you see me giving betty up? we starved for a while instead. my wife said i loved the gutter. i've degenerated; i've come down in the world; i earn three pounds a week as press agent to a linendraper, and every day i thank god that i'm not in the little red brick house in kensington." sally brought in cheddar cheese, and athelny went on with his fluent conversation. "it's the greatest mistake in the world to think that one needs money to bring up a family. you need money to make them gentlemen and ladies, but i don't want my children to be ladies and gentlemen. sally's going to earn her living in another year. she's to be apprenticed to a dressmaker, aren't you, sally? and the boys are going to serve their country. i want them all to go into the navy; it's a jolly life and a healthy life, good food, good pay, and a pension to end their days on." philip lit his pipe. athelny smoked cigarettes of havana tobacco, which he rolled himself. sally cleared away. philip was reserved, and it embarrassed him to be the recipient of so many confidences. athelny, with his powerful voice in the diminutive body, with his bombast, with his foreign look, with his emphasis, was an astonishing creature. he reminded philip a good deal of cronshaw. he appeared to have the same independence of thought, the same bohemianism, but he had an infinitely more vivacious temperament; his mind was coarser, and he had not that interest in the abstract which made cronshaw's conversation so captivating. athelny was very proud of the county family to which he belonged; he showed philip photographs of an elizabethan mansion, and told him: "the athelnys have lived there for seven centuries, my boy. ah, if you saw the chimney-pieces and the ceilings!" there was a cupboard in the wainscoting and from this he took a family tree. he showed it to philip with child-like satisfaction. it was indeed imposing. "you see how the family names recur, thorpe, athelstan, harold, edward; i've used the family names for my sons. and the girls, you see, i've given spanish names to." an uneasy feeling came to philip that possibly the whole story was an elaborate imposture, not told with any base motive, but merely from a wish to impress, startle, and amaze. athelny had told him that he was at winchester; but philip, sensitive to differences of manner, did not feel that his host had the characteristics of a man educated at a great public school. while he pointed out the great alliances which his ancestors had formed, philip amused himself by wondering whether athelny was not the son of some tradesman in winchester, auctioneer or coal-merchant, and whether a similarity of surname was not his only connection with the ancient family whose tree he was displaying. lxxxviii there was a knock at the door and a troop of children came in. they were clean and tidy, now. their faces shone with soap, and their hair was plastered down; they were going to sunday school under sally's charge. athelny joked with them in his dramatic, exuberant fashion, and you could see that he was devoted to them all. his pride in their good health and their good looks was touching. philip felt that they were a little shy in his presence, and when their father sent them off they fled from the room in evident relief. in a few minutes mrs. athelny appeared. she had taken her hair out of the curling pins and now wore an elaborate fringe. she had on a plain black dress, a hat with cheap flowers, and was forcing her hands, red and coarse from much work, into black kid gloves. "i'm going to church, athelny," she said. "there's nothing you'll be wanting, is there?" "only your prayers, my betty." "they won't do you much good, you're too far gone for that," she smiled. then, turning to philip, she drawled: "i can't get him to go to church. he's no better than an atheist." "doesn't she look like rubens' second wife?" cried athelny. "wouldn't she look splendid in a seventeenth-century costume? that's the sort of wife to marry, my boy. look at her." "i believe you'd talk the hind leg off a donkey, athelny," she answered calmly. she succeeded in buttoning her gloves, but before she went she turned to philip with a kindly, slightly embarrassed smile. "you'll stay to tea, won't you? athelny likes someone to talk to, and it's not often he gets anybody who's clever enough." "of course he'll stay to tea," said athelny. then when his wife had gone: "i make a point of the children going to sunday school, and i like betty to go to church. i think women ought to be religious. i don't believe myself, but i like women and children to." philip, strait-laced in matters of truth, was a little shocked by this airy attitude. "but how can you look on while your children are being taught things which you don't think are true?" "if they're beautiful i don't much mind if they're not true. it's asking a great deal that things should appeal to your reason as well as to your sense of the aesthetic. i wanted betty to become a roman catholic, i should have liked to see her converted in a crown of paper flowers, but she's hopelessly protestant. besides, religion is a matter of temperament; you will believe anything if you have the religious turn of mind, and if you haven't it doesn't matter what beliefs were instilled into you, you will grow out of them. perhaps religion is the best school of morality. it is like one of those drugs you gentlemen use in medicine which carries another in solution: it is of no efficacy in itself, but enables the other to be absorbed. you take your morality because it is combined with religion; you lose the religion and the morality stays behind. a man is more likely to be a good man if he has learned goodness through the love of god than through a perusal of herbert spencer." this was contrary to all philip's ideas. he still looked upon christianity as a degrading bondage that must be cast away at any cost; it was connected subconsciously in his mind with the dreary services in the cathedral at tercanbury, and the long hours of boredom in the cold church at blackstable; and the morality of which athelny spoke was to him no more than a part of the religion which a halting intelligence preserved, when it had laid aside the beliefs which alone made it reasonable. but while he was meditating a reply athelny, more interested in hearing himself speak than in discussion, broke into a tirade upon roman catholicism. for him it was an essential part of spain; and spain meant much to him, because he had escaped to it from the conventionality which during his married life he had found so irksome. with large gestures and in the emphatic tone which made what he said so striking, athelny described to philip the spanish cathedrals with their vast dark spaces, the massive gold of the altar-pieces, and the sumptuous iron-work, gilt and faded, the air laden with incense, the silence: philip almost saw the canons in their short surplices of lawn, the acolytes in red, passing from the sacristy to the choir; he almost heard the monotonous chanting of vespers. the names which athelny mentioned, avila, tarragona, saragossa, segovia, cordova, were like trumpets in his heart. he seemed to see the great gray piles of granite set in old spanish towns amid a landscape tawny, wild, and windswept. "i've always thought i should love to go to seville," he said casually, when athelny, with one hand dramatically uplifted, paused for a moment. "seville!" cried athelny. "no, no, don't go there. seville: it brings to the mind girls dancing with castanets, singing in gardens by the guadalquivir, bull-fights, orange-blossom, mantillas, mantones de manila. it is the spain of comic opera and montmartre. its facile charm can offer permanent entertainment only to an intelligence which is superficial. theophile gautier got out of seville all that it has to offer. we who come after him can only repeat his sensations. he put large fat hands on the obvious and there is nothing but the obvious there; and it is all finger-marked and frayed. murillo is its painter." athelny got up from his chair, walked over to the spanish cabinet, let down the front with its great gilt hinges and gorgeous lock, and displayed a series of little drawers. he took out a bundle of photographs. "do you know el greco?" he asked. "oh, i remember one of the men in paris was awfully impressed by him." "el greco was the painter of toledo. betty couldn't find the photograph i wanted to show you. it's a picture that el greco painted of the city he loved, and it's truer than any photograph. come and sit at the table." philip dragged his chair forward, and athelny set the photograph before him. he looked at it curiously, for a long time, in silence. he stretched out his hand for other photographs, and athelny passed them to him. he had never before seen the work of that enigmatic master; and at the first glance he was bothered by the arbitrary drawing: the figures were extraordinarily elongated; the heads were very small; the attitudes were extravagant. this was not realism, and yet, and yet even in the photographs you had the impression of a troubling reality. athelny was describing eagerly, with vivid phrases, but philip only heard vaguely what he said. he was puzzled. he was curiously moved. these pictures seemed to offer some meaning to him, but he did not know what the meaning was. there were portraits of men with large, melancholy eyes which seemed to say you knew not what; there were long monks in the franciscan habit or in the dominican, with distraught faces, making gestures whose sense escaped you; there was an assumption of the virgin; there was a crucifixion in which the painter by some magic of feeling had been able to suggest that the flesh of christ's dead body was not human flesh only but divine; and there was an ascension in which the saviour seemed to surge up towards the empyrean and yet to stand upon the air as steadily as though it were solid ground: the uplifted arms of the apostles, the sweep of their draperies, their ecstatic gestures, gave an impression of exultation and of holy joy. the background of nearly all was the sky by night, the dark night of the soul, with wild clouds swept by strange winds of hell and lit luridly by an uneasy moon. "i've seen that sky in toledo over and over again," said athelny. "i have an idea that when first el greco came to the city it was by such a night, and it made so vehement an impression upon him that he could never get away from it." philip remembered how clutton had been affected by this strange master, whose work he now saw for the first time. he thought that clutton was the most interesting of all the people he had known in paris. his sardonic manner, his hostile aloofness, had made it difficult to know him; but it seemed to philip, looking back, that there had been in him a tragic force, which sought vainly to express itself in painting. he was a man of unusual character, mystical after the fashion of a time that had no leaning to mysticism, who was impatient with life because he found himself unable to say the things which the obscure impulses of his heart suggested. his intellect was not fashioned to the uses of the spirit. it was not surprising that he felt a deep sympathy with the greek who had devised a new technique to express the yearnings of his soul. philip looked again at the series of portraits of spanish gentlemen, with ruffles and pointed beards, their faces pale against the sober black of their clothes and the darkness of the background. el greco was the painter of the soul; and these gentlemen, wan and wasted, not by exhaustion but by restraint, with their tortured minds, seem to walk unaware of the beauty of the world; for their eyes look only in their hearts, and they are dazzled by the glory of the unseen. no painter has shown more pitilessly that the world is but a place of passage. the souls of the men he painted speak their strange longings through their eyes: their senses are miraculously acute, not for sounds and odours and colour, but for the very subtle sensations of the soul. the noble walks with the monkish heart within him, and his eyes see things which saints in their cells see too, and he is unastounded. his lips are not lips that smile. philip, silent still, returned to the photograph of toledo, which seemed to him the most arresting picture of them all. he could not take his eyes off it. he felt strangely that he was on the threshold of some new discovery in life. he was tremulous with a sense of adventure. he thought for an instant of the love that had consumed him: love seemed very trivial beside the excitement which now leaped in his heart. the picture he looked at was a long one, with houses crowded upon a hill; in one corner a boy was holding a large map of the town; in another was a classical figure representing the river tagus; and in the sky was the virgin surrounded by angels. it was a landscape alien to all philip's notion, for he had lived in circles that worshipped exact realism; and yet here again, strangely to himself, he felt a reality greater than any achieved by the masters in whose steps humbly he had sought to walk. he heard athelny say that the representation was so precise that when the citizens of toledo came to look at the picture they recognised their houses. the painter had painted exactly what he saw but he had seen with the eyes of the spirit. there was something unearthly in that city of pale gray. it was a city of the soul seen by a wan light that was neither that of night nor day. it stood on a green hill, but of a green not of this world, and it was surrounded by massive walls and bastions to be stormed by no machines or engines of man's invention, but by prayer and fasting, by contrite sighs and by mortifications of the flesh. it was a stronghold of god. those gray houses were made of no stone known to masons, there was something terrifying in their aspect, and you did not know what men might live in them. you might walk through the streets and be unamazed to find them all deserted, and yet not empty; for you felt a presence invisible and yet manifest to every inner sense. it was a mystical city in which the imagination faltered like one who steps out of the light into darkness; the soul walked naked to and fro, knowing the unknowable, and conscious strangely of experience, intimate but inexpressible, of the absolute. and without surprise, in that blue sky, real with a reality that not the eye but the soul confesses, with its rack of light clouds driven by strange breezes, like the cries and the sighs of lost souls, you saw the blessed virgin with a gown of red and a cloak of blue, surrounded by winged angels. philip felt that the inhabitants of that city would have seen the apparition without astonishment, reverent and thankful, and have gone their ways. athelny spoke of the mystical writers of spain, of teresa de avila, san juan de la cruz, fray luis de leon; in all of them was that passion for the unseen which philip felt in the pictures of el greco: they seemed to have the power to touch the incorporeal and see the invisible. they were spaniards of their age, in whom were tremulous all the mighty exploits of a great nation: their fancies were rich with the glories of america and the green islands of the caribbean sea; in their veins was the power that had come from age-long battling with the moor; they were proud, for they were masters of the world; and they felt in themselves the wide distances, the tawny wastes, the snow-capped mountains of castile, the sunshine and the blue sky, and the flowering plains of andalusia. life was passionate and manifold, and because it offered so much they felt a restless yearning for something more; because they were human they were unsatisfied; and they threw this eager vitality of theirs into a vehement striving after the ineffable. athelny was not displeased to find someone to whom he could read the translations with which for some time he had amused his leisure; and in his fine, vibrating voice he recited the canticle of the soul and christ her lover, the lovely poem which begins with the words en una noche oscura, and the noche serena of fray luis de leon. he had translated them quite simply, not without skill, and he had found words which at all events suggested the rough-hewn grandeur of the original. the pictures of el greco explained them, and they explained the pictures. philip had cultivated a certain disdain for idealism. he had always had a passion for life, and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for the most part a cowardly shrinking from it. the idealist withdrew himself, because he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not the strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain, and since his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself with despising his fellows. for philip his type was hayward, fair, languid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the uncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours of the street. it was in reaction from what hayward represented that philip clamoured for life as it stood; sordidness, vice, deformity, did not offend him; he declared that he wanted man in his nakedness; and he rubbed his hands when an instance came before him of meanness, cruelty, selfishness, or lust: that was the real thing. in paris he had learned that there was neither ugliness nor beauty, but only truth: the search after beauty was sentimental. had he not painted an advertisement of chocolat menier in a landscape in order to escape from the tyranny of prettiness? but here he seemed to divine something new. he had been coming to it, all hesitating, for some time, but only now was conscious of the fact; he felt himself on the brink of a discovery. he felt vaguely that here was something better than the realism which he had adored; but certainly it was not the bloodless idealism which stepped aside from life in weakness; it was too strong; it was virile; it accepted life in all its vivacity, ugliness and beauty, squalor and heroism; it was realism still; but it was realism carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by the more vivid light in which they were seen. he seemed to see things more profoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen of castile; and the gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed wild and distorted, appeared to have some mysterious significance. but he could not tell what that significance was. it was like a message which it was very important for him to receive, but it was given him in an unknown tongue, and he could not understand. he was always seeking for a meaning in life, and here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and vague. he was profoundly troubled. he saw what looked like the truth as by flashes of lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain range. he seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown lands. lxxxix the conversation between philip and athelny was broken into by a clatter up the stairs. athelny opened the door for the children coming back from sunday school, and with laughter and shouting they came in. gaily he asked them what they had learned. sally appeared for a moment, with instructions from her mother that father was to amuse the children while she got tea ready; and athelny began to tell them one of hans andersen's stories. they were not shy children, and they quickly came to the conclusion that philip was not formidable. jane came and stood by him and presently settled herself on his knees. it was the first time that philip in his lonely life had been present in a family circle: his eyes smiled as they rested on the fair children engrossed in the fairy tale. the life of his new friend, eccentric as it appeared at first glance, seemed now to have the beauty of perfect naturalness. sally came in once more. "now then, children, tea's ready," she said. jane slipped off philip's knees, and they all went back to the kitchen. sally began to lay the cloth on the long spanish table. "mother says, shall she come and have tea with you?" she asked. "i can give the children their tea." "tell your mother that we shall be proud and honoured if she will favour us with her company," said athelny. it seemed to philip that he could never say anything without an oratorical flourish. "then i'll lay for her," said sally. she came back again in a moment with a tray on which were a cottage loaf, a slab of butter, and a jar of strawberry jam. while she placed the things on the table her father chaffed her. he said it was quite time she was walking out; he told philip that she was very proud, and would have nothing to do with aspirants to that honour who lined up at the door, two by two, outside the sunday school and craved the honour of escorting her home. "you do talk, father," said sally, with her slow, good-natured smile. "you wouldn't think to look at her that a tailor's assistant has enlisted in the army because she would not say how d'you do to him and an electrical engineer, an electrical engineer, mind you, has taken to drink because she refused to share her hymn-book with him in church. i shudder to think what will happen when she puts her hair up." "mother'll bring the tea along herself," said sally. "sally never pays any attention to me," laughed athelny, looking at her with fond, proud eyes. "she goes about her business indifferent to wars, revolutions, and cataclysms. what a wife she'll make to an honest man!" mrs. athelny brought in the tea. she sat down and proceeded to cut bread and butter. it amused philip to see that she treated her husband as though he were a child. she spread jam for him and cut up the bread and butter into convenient slices for him to eat. she had taken off her hat; and in her sunday dress, which seemed a little tight for her, she looked like one of the farmers' wives whom philip used to call on sometimes with his uncle when he was a small boy. then he knew why the sound of her voice was familiar to him. she spoke just like the people round blackstable. "what part of the country d'you come from?" he asked her. "i'm a kentish woman. i come from ferne." "i thought as much. my uncle's vicar of blackstable." "that's a funny thing now," she said. "i was wondering in church just now whether you was any connection of mr. carey. many's the time i've seen 'im. a cousin of mine married mr. barker of roxley farm, over by blackstable church, and i used to go and stay there often when i was a girl. isn't that a funny thing now?" she looked at him with a new interest, and a brightness came into her faded eyes. she asked him whether he knew ferne. it was a pretty village about ten miles across country from blackstable, and the vicar had come over sometimes to blackstable for the harvest thanksgiving. she mentioned names of various farmers in the neighbourhood. she was delighted to talk again of the country in which her youth was spent, and it was a pleasure to her to recall scenes and people that had remained in her memory with the tenacity peculiar to her class. it gave philip a queer sensation too. a breath of the country-side seemed to be wafted into that panelled room in the middle of london. he seemed to see the fat kentish fields with their stately elms; and his nostrils dilated with the scent of the air; it is laden with the salt of the north sea, and that makes it keen and sharp. philip did not leave the athelnys' till ten o'clock. the children came in to say good-night at eight and quite naturally put up their faces for philip to kiss. his heart went out to them. sally only held out her hand. "sally never kisses gentlemen till she's seen them twice," said her father. "you must ask me again then," said philip. "you mustn't take any notice of what father says," remarked sally, with a smile. "she's a most self-possessed young woman," added her parent. they had supper of bread and cheese and beer, while mrs. athelny was putting the children to bed; and when philip went into the kitchen to bid her good-night (she had been sitting there, resting herself and reading the weekly despatch) she invited him cordially to come again. "there's always a good dinner on sundays so long as athelny's in work," she said, "and it's a charity to come and talk to him." on the following saturday philip received a postcard from athelny saying that they were expecting him to dinner next day; but fearing their means were not such that mr. athelny would desire him to accept, philip wrote back that he would only come to tea. he bought a large plum cake so that his entertainment should cost nothing. he found the whole family glad to see him, and the cake completed his conquest of the children. he insisted that they should all have tea together in the kitchen, and the meal was noisy and hilarious. soon philip got into the habit of going to athelny's every sunday. he became a great favourite with the children, because he was simple and unaffected and because it was so plain that he was fond of them. as soon as they heard his ring at the door one of them popped a head out of window to make sure it was he, and then they all rushed downstairs tumultuously to let him in. they flung themselves into his arms. at tea they fought for the privilege of sitting next to him. soon they began to call him uncle philip. athelny was very communicative, and little by little philip learned the various stages of his life. he had followed many occupations, and it occurred to philip that he managed to make a mess of everything he attempted. he had been on a tea plantation in ceylon and a traveller in america for italian wines; his secretaryship of the water company in toledo had lasted longer than any of his employments; he had been a journalist and for some time had worked as police-court reporter for an evening paper; he had been sub-editor of a paper in the midlands and editor of another on the riviera. from all his occupations he had gathered amusing anecdotes, which he told with a keen pleasure in his own powers of entertainment. he had read a great deal, chiefly delighting in books which were unusual; and he poured forth his stores of abstruse knowledge with child-like enjoyment of the amazement of his hearers. three or four years before abject poverty had driven him to take the job of press-representative to a large firm of drapers; and though he felt the work unworthy his abilities, which he rated highly, the firmness of his wife and the needs of his family had made him stick to it. xc when he left the athelnys' philip walked down chancery lane and along the strand to get a 'bus at the top of parliament street. one sunday, when he had known them about six weeks, he did this as usual, but he found the kennington 'bus full. it was june, but it had rained during the day and the night was raw and cold. he walked up to piccadilly circus in order to get a seat; the 'bus waited at the fountain, and when it arrived there seldom had more than two or three people in it. this service ran every quarter of an hour, and he had some time to wait. he looked idly at the crowd. the public-houses were closing, and there were many people about. his mind was busy with the ideas athelny had the charming gift of suggesting. suddenly his heart stood still. he saw mildred. he had not thought of her for weeks. she was crossing over from the corner of shaftesbury avenue and stopped at the shelter till a string of cabs passed by. she was watching her opportunity and had no eyes for anything else. she wore a large black straw hat with a mass of feathers on it and a black silk dress; at that time it was fashionable for women to wear trains; the road was clear, and mildred crossed, her skirt trailing on the ground, and walked down piccadilly. philip, his heart beating excitedly, followed her. he did not wish to speak to her, but he wondered where she was going at that hour; he wanted to get a look at her face. she walked slowly along and turned down air street and so got through into regent street. she walked up again towards the circus. philip was puzzled. he could not make out what she was doing. perhaps she was waiting for somebody, and he felt a great curiosity to know who it was. she overtook a short man in a bowler hat, who was strolling very slowly in the same direction as herself; she gave him a sidelong glance as she passed. she walked a few steps more till she came to swan and edgar's, then stopped and waited, facing the road. when the man came up she smiled. the man stared at her for a moment, turned away his head, and sauntered on. then philip understood. he was overwhelmed with horror. for a moment he felt such a weakness in his legs that he could hardly stand; then he walked after her quickly; he touched her on the arm. "mildred." she turned round with a violent start. he thought that she reddened, but in the obscurity he could not see very well. for a while they stood and looked at one another without speaking. at last she said: "fancy seeing you!" he did not know what to answer; he was horribly shaken; and the phrases that chased one another through his brain seemed incredibly melodramatic. "it's awful," he gasped, almost to himself. she did not say anything more, she turned away from him, and looked down at the pavement. he felt that his face was distorted with misery. "isn't there anywhere we can go and talk?" "i don't want to talk," she said sullenly. "leave me alone, can't you?" the thought struck him that perhaps she was in urgent need of money and could not afford to go away at that hour. "i've got a couple of sovereigns on me if you're hard up," he blurted out. "i don't know what you mean. i was just walking along here on my way back to my lodgings. i expected to meet one of the girls from where i work." "for god's sake don't lie now," he said. then he saw that she was crying, and he repeated his question. "can't we go and talk somewhere? can't i come back to your rooms?" "no, you can't do that," she sobbed. "i'm not allowed to take gentlemen in there. if you like i'll meet you tomorrow." he felt certain that she would not keep an appointment. he was not going to let her go. "no. you must take me somewhere now." "well, there is a room i know, but they'll charge six shillings for it." "i don't mind that. where is it?" she gave him the address, and he called a cab. they drove to a shabby street beyond the british museum in the neighbourhood of the gray's inn road, and she stopped the cab at the corner. "they don't like you to drive up to the door," she said. they were the first words either of them had spoken since getting into the cab. they walked a few yards and mildred knocked three times, sharply, at a door. philip noticed in the fanlight a cardboard on which was an announcement that apartments were to let. the door was opened quietly, and an elderly, tall woman let them in. she gave philip a stare and then spoke to mildred in an undertone. mildred led philip along a passage to a room at the back. it was quite dark; she asked him for a match, and lit the gas; there was no globe, and the gas flared shrilly. philip saw that he was in a dingy little bed-room with a suite of furniture, painted to look like pine much too large for it; the lace curtains were very dirty; the grate was hidden by a large paper fan. mildred sank on the chair which stood by the side of the chimney-piece. philip sat on the edge of the bed. he felt ashamed. he saw now that mildred's cheeks were thick with rouge, her eyebrows were blackened; but she looked thin and ill, and the red on her cheeks exaggerated the greenish pallor of her skin. she stared at the paper fan in a listless fashion. philip could not think what to say, and he had a choking in his throat as if he were going to cry. he covered his eyes with his hands. "my god, it is awful," he groaned. "i don't know what you've got to fuss about. i should have thought you'd have been rather pleased." philip did not answer, and in a moment she broke into a sob. "you don't think i do it because i like it, do you?" "oh, my dear," he cried. "i'm so sorry, i'm so awfully sorry." "that'll do me a fat lot of good." again philip found nothing to say. he was desperately afraid of saying anything which she might take for a reproach or a sneer. "where's the baby?" he asked at last. "i've got her with me in london. i hadn't got the money to keep her on at brighton, so i had to take her. i've got a room up highbury way. i told them i was on the stage. it's a long way to have to come down to the west end every day, but it's a rare job to find anyone who'll let to ladies at all." "wouldn't they take you back at the shop?" "i couldn't get any work to do anywhere. i walked my legs off looking for work. i did get a job once, but i was off for a week because i was queer, and when i went back they said they didn't want me any more. you can't blame them either, can you? them places, they can't afford to have girls that aren't strong." "you don't look very well now," said philip. "i wasn't fit to come out tonight, but i couldn't help myself, i wanted the money. i wrote to emil and told him i was broke, but he never even answered the letter." "you might have written to me." "i didn't like to, not after what happened, and i didn't want you to know i was in difficulties. i shouldn't have been surprised if you'd just told me i'd only got what i deserved." "you don't know me very well, do you, even now?" for a moment he remembered all the anguish he had suffered on her account, and he was sick with the recollection of his pain. but it was no more than recollection. when he looked at her he knew that he no longer loved her. he was very sorry for her, but he was glad to be free. watching her gravely, he asked himself why he had been so besotted with passion for her. "you're a gentleman in every sense of the word," she said. "you're the only one i've ever met." she paused for a minute and then flushed. "i hate asking you, philip, but can you spare me anything?" "it's lucky i've got some money on me. i'm afraid i've only got two pounds." he gave her the sovereigns. "i'll pay you back, philip." "oh, that's all right," he smiled. "you needn't worry." he had said nothing that he wanted to say. they had talked as if the whole thing were natural; and it looked as though she would go now, back to the horror of her life, and he would be able to do nothing to prevent it. she had got up to take the money, and they were both standing. "am i keeping you?" she asked. "i suppose you want to be getting home." "no, i'm in no hurry," he answered. "i'm glad to have a chance of sitting down." those words, with all they implied, tore his heart, and it was dreadfully painful to see the weary way in which she sank back into the chair. the silence lasted so long that philip in his embarrassment lit a cigarette. "it's very good of you not to have said anything disagreeable to me, philip. i thought you might say i didn't know what all." he saw that she was crying again. he remembered how she had come to him when emil miller had deserted her and how she had wept. the recollection of her suffering and of his own humiliation seemed to render more overwhelming the compassion he felt now. "if i could only get out of it!" she moaned. "i hate it so. i'm unfit for the life, i'm not the sort of girl for that. i'd do anything to get away from it, i'd be a servant if i could. oh, i wish i was dead." and in pity for herself she broke down now completely. she sobbed hysterically, and her thin body was shaken. "oh, you don't know what it is. nobody knows till they've done it." philip could not bear to see her cry. he was tortured by the horror of her position. "poor child," he whispered. "poor child." he was deeply moved. suddenly he had an inspiration. it filled him with a perfect ecstasy of happiness. "look here, if you want to get away from it, i've got an idea. i'm frightfully hard up just now, i've got to be as economical as i can; but i've got a sort of little flat now in kennington and i've got a spare room. if you like you and the baby can come and live there. i pay a woman three and sixpence a week to keep the place clean and to do a little cooking for me. you could do that and your food wouldn't come to much more than the money i should save on her. it doesn't cost any more to feed two than one, and i don't suppose the baby eats much." she stopped crying and looked at him. "d'you mean to say that you could take me back after all that's happened?" philip flushed a little in embarrassment at what he had to say. "i don't want you to mistake me. i'm just giving you a room which doesn't cost me anything and your food. i don't expect anything more from you than that you should do exactly the same as the woman i have in does. except for that i don't want anything from you at all. i daresay you can cook well enough for that." she sprang to her feet and was about to come towards him. "you are good to me, philip." "no, please stop where you are," he said hurriedly, putting out his hand as though to push her away. he did not know why it was, but he could not bear the thought that she should touch him. "i don't want to be anything more than a friend to you." "you are good to me," she repeated. "you are good to me." "does that mean you'll come?" "oh, yes, i'd do anything to get away from this. you'll never regret what you've done, philip, never. when can i come, philip?" "you'd better come tomorrow." suddenly she burst into tears again. "what on earth are you crying for now?" he smiled. "i'm so grateful to you. i don't know how i can ever make it up to you?" "oh, that's all right. you'd better go home now." he wrote out the address and told her that if she came at half past five he would be ready for her. it was so late that he had to walk home, but it did not seem a long way, for he was intoxicated with delight; he seemed to walk on air. xci next day he got up early to make the room ready for mildred. he told the woman who had looked after him that he would not want her any more. mildred came about six, and philip, who was watching from the window, went down to let her in and help her to bring up the luggage: it consisted now of no more than three large parcels wrapped in brown paper, for she had been obliged to sell everything that was not absolutely needful. she wore the same black silk dress she had worn the night before, and, though she had now no rouge on her cheeks, there was still about her eyes the black which remained after a perfunctory wash in the morning: it made her look very ill. she was a pathetic figure as she stepped out of the cab with the baby in her arms. she seemed a little shy, and they found nothing but commonplace things to say to one another. "so you've got here all right." "i've never lived in this part of london before." philip showed her the room. it was that in which cronshaw had died. philip, though he thought it absurd, had never liked the idea of going back to it; and since cronshaw's death he had remained in the little room, sleeping on a fold-up bed, into which he had first moved in order to make his friend comfortable. the baby was sleeping placidly. "you don't recognise her, i expect," said mildred. "i've not seen her since we took her down to brighton." "where shall i put her? she's so heavy i can't carry her very long." "i'm afraid i haven't got a cradle," said philip, with a nervous laugh. "oh, she'll sleep with me. she always does." mildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room. she recognised most of the things which she had known in his old diggings. only one thing was new, a head and shoulders of philip which lawson had painted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the chimney-piece; mildred looked at it critically. "in some ways i like it and in some ways i don't. i think you're better looking than that." "things are looking up," laughed philip. "you've never told me i was good-looking before." "i'm not one to worry myself about a man's looks. i don't like good-looking men. they're too conceited for me." her eyes travelled round the room in an instinctive search for a looking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her large fringe. "what'll the other people in the house say to my being here?" she asked suddenly. "oh, there's only a man and his wife living here. he's out all day, and i never see her except on saturday to pay my rent. they keep entirely to themselves. i've not spoken two words to either of them since i came." mildred went into the bedroom to undo her things and put them away. philip tried to read, but his spirits were too high: he leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigarette, and with smiling eyes looked at the sleeping child. he felt very happy. he was quite sure that he was not at all in love with mildred. he was surprised that the old feeling had left him so completely; he discerned in himself a faint physical repulsion from her; and he thought that if he touched her it would give him goose-flesh. he could not understand himself. presently, knocking at the door, she came in again. "i say, you needn't knock," he said. "have you made the tour of the mansion?" "it's the smallest kitchen i've ever seen." "you'll find it large enough to cook our sumptuous repasts," he retorted lightly. "i see there's nothing in. i'd better go out and get something." "yes, but i venture to remind you that we must be devilish economical." "what shall i get for supper?" "you'd better get what you think you can cook," laughed philip. he gave her some money and she went out. she came in half an hour later and put her purchases on the table. she was out of breath from climbing the stairs. "i say, you are anaemic," said philip. "i'll have to dose you with blaud's pills." "it took me some time to find the shops. i bought some liver. that's tasty, isn't it? and you can't eat much of it, so it's more economical than butcher's meat." there was a gas stove in the kitchen, and when she had put the liver on, mildred came into the sitting-room to lay the cloth. "why are you only laying one place?" asked philip. "aren't you going to eat anything?" mildred flushed. "i thought you mightn't like me to have my meals with you." "why on earth not?" "well, i'm only a servant, aren't i?" "don't be an ass. how can you be so silly?" he smiled, but her humility gave him a curious twist in his heart. poor thing! he remembered what she had been when first he knew her. he hesitated for an instant. "don't think i'm conferring any benefit on you," he said. "it's simply a business arrangement, i'm giving you board and lodging in return for your work. you don't owe me anything. and there's nothing humiliating to you in it." she did not answer, but tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. philip knew from his experience at the hospital that women of her class looked upon service as degrading: he could not help feeling a little impatient with her; but he blamed himself, for it was clear that she was tired and ill. he got up and helped her to lay another place at the table. the baby was awake now, and mildred had prepared some mellin's food for it. the liver and bacon were ready and they sat down. for economy's sake philip had given up drinking anything but water, but he had in the house a half a bottle of whiskey, and he thought a little would do mildred good. he did his best to make the supper pass cheerfully, but mildred was subdued and exhausted. when they had finished she got up to put the baby to bed. "i think you'll do well to turn in early yourself," said philip. "you look absolute done up." "i think i will after i've washed up." philip lit his pipe and began to read. it was pleasant to hear somebody moving about in the next room. sometimes his loneliness had oppressed him. mildred came in to clear the table, and he heard the clatter of plates as she washed up. philip smiled as he thought how characteristic it was of her that she should do all that in a black silk dress. but he had work to do, and he brought his book up to the table. he was reading osler's medicine, which had recently taken the place in the students' favour of taylor's work, for many years the text-book most in use. presently mildred came in, rolling down her sleeves. philip gave her a casual glance, but did not move; the occasion was curious, and he felt a little nervous. he feared that mildred might imagine he was going to make a nuisance of himself, and he did not quite know how without brutality to reassure her. "by the way, i've got a lecture at nine, so i should want breakfast at a quarter past eight. can you manage that?" "oh, yes. why, when i was in parliament street i used to catch the eight-twelve from herne hill every morning." "i hope you'll find your room comfortable. you'll be a different woman tomorrow after a long night in bed." "i suppose you work till late?" "i generally work till about eleven or half-past." "i'll say good-night then." "good-night." the table was between them. he did not offer to shake hands with her. she shut the door quietly. he heard her moving about in the bed-room, and in a little while he heard the creaking of the bed as she got in. xcii the following day was tuesday. philip as usual hurried through his breakfast and dashed off to get to his lecture at nine. he had only time to exchange a few words with mildred. when he came back in the evening he found her seated at the window, darning his socks. "i say, you are industrious," he smiled. "what have you been doing with yourself all day?" "oh, i gave the place a good cleaning and then i took baby out for a little." she was wearing an old black dress, the same as she had worn as uniform when she served in the tea-shop; it was shabby, but she looked better in it than in the silk of the day before. the baby was sitting on the floor. she looked up at philip with large, mysterious eyes and broke into a laugh when he sat down beside her and began playing with her bare toes. the afternoon sun came into the room and shed a mellow light. "it's rather jolly to come back and find someone about the place. a woman and a baby make very good decoration in a room." he had gone to the hospital dispensary and got a bottle of blaud's pills, he gave them to mildred and told her she must take them after each meal. it was a remedy she was used to, for she had taken it off and on ever since she was sixteen. "i'm sure lawson would love that green skin of yours," said philip. "he'd say it was so paintable, but i'm terribly matter of fact nowadays, and i shan't be happy till you're as pink and white as a milkmaid." "i feel better already." after a frugal supper philip filled his pouch with tobacco and put on his hat. it was on tuesdays that he generally went to the tavern in beak street, and he was glad that this day came so soon after mildred's arrival, for he wanted to make his relations with her perfectly clear. "are you going out?" she said. "yes, on tuesdays i give myself a night off. i shall see you tomorrow. good-night." philip always went to the tavern with a sense of pleasure. macalister, the philosophic stockbroker, was generally there and glad to argue upon any subject under the sun; hayward came regularly when he was in london; and though he and macalister disliked one another they continued out of habit to meet on that one evening in the week. macalister thought hayward a poor creature, and sneered at his delicacies of sentiment: he asked satirically about hayward's literary work and received with scornful smiles his vague suggestions of future masterpieces; their arguments were often heated; but the punch was good, and they were both fond of it; towards the end of the evening they generally composed their differences and thought each other capital fellows. this evening philip found them both there, and lawson also; lawson came more seldom now that he was beginning to know people in london and went out to dinner a good deal. they were all on excellent terms with themselves, for macalister had given them a good thing on the stock exchange, and hayward and lawson had made fifty pounds apiece. it was a great thing for lawson, who was extravagant and earned little money: he had arrived at that stage of the portrait-painter's career when he was noticed a good deal by the critics and found a number of aristocratic ladies who were willing to allow him to paint them for nothing (it advertised them both, and gave the great ladies quite an air of patronesses of the arts); but he very seldom got hold of the solid philistine who was ready to pay good money for a portrait of his wife. lawson was brimming over with satisfaction. "it's the most ripping way of making money that i've ever struck," he cried. "i didn't have to put my hand in my pocket for sixpence." "you lost something by not being here last tuesday, young man," said macalister to philip. "my god, why didn't you write to me?" said philip. "if you only knew how useful a hundred pounds would be to me." "oh, there wasn't time for that. one has to be on the spot. i heard of a good thing last tuesday, and i asked these fellows if they'd like to have a flutter, i bought them a thousand shares on wednesday morning, and there was a rise in the afternoon so i sold them at once. i made fifty pounds for each of them and a couple of hundred for myself." philip was sick with envy. he had recently sold the last mortgage in which his small fortune had been invested and now had only six hundred pounds left. he was panic-stricken sometimes when he thought of the future. he had still to keep himself for two years before he could be qualified, and then he meant to try for hospital appointments, so that he could not expect to earn anything for three years at least. with the most rigid economy he would not have more than a hundred pounds left then. it was very little to have as a stand-by in case he was ill and could not earn money or found himself at any time without work. a lucky gamble would make all the difference to him. "oh, well, it doesn't matter," said macalister. "something is sure to turn up soon. there'll be a boom in south africans again one of these days, and then i'll see what i can do for you." macalister was in the kaffir market and often told them stories of the sudden fortunes that had been made in the great boom of a year or two back. "well, don't forget next time." they sat on talking till nearly midnight, and philip, who lived furthest off, was the first to go. if he did not catch the last tram he had to walk, and that made him very late. as it was he did not reach home till nearly half past twelve. when he got upstairs he was surprised to find mildred still sitting in his arm-chair. "why on earth aren't you in bed?" he cried. "i wasn't sleepy." "you ought to go to bed all the same. it would rest you." she did not move. he noticed that since supper she had changed into her black silk dress. "i thought i'd rather wait up for you in case you wanted anything." she looked at him, and the shadow of a smile played upon her thin pale lips. philip was not sure whether he understood or not. he was slightly embarrassed, but assumed a cheerful, matter-of-fact air. "it's very nice of you, but it's very naughty also. run off to bed as fast as you can, or you won't be able to get up tomorrow morning." "i don't feel like going to bed." "nonsense," he said coldly. she got up, a little sulkily, and went into her room. he smiled when he heard her lock the door loudly. the next few days passed without incident. mildred settled down in her new surroundings. when philip hurried off after breakfast she had the whole morning to do the housework. they ate very simply, but she liked to take a long time to buy the few things they needed; she could not be bothered to cook anything for her dinner, but made herself some cocoa and ate bread and butter; then she took the baby out in the gocart, and when she came in spent the rest of the afternoon in idleness. she was tired out, and it suited her to do so little. she made friends with philip's forbidding landlady over the rent, which he left with mildred to pay, and within a week was able to tell him more about his neighbours than he had learned in a year. "she's a very nice woman," said mildred. "quite the lady. i told her we was married." "d'you think that was necessary?" "well, i had to tell her something. it looks so funny me being here and not married to you. i didn't know what she'd think of me." "i don't suppose she believed you for a moment." "that she did, i lay. i told her we'd been married two years--i had to say that, you know, because of baby--only your people wouldn't hear of it, because you was only a student"--she pronounced it stoodent--"and so we had to keep it a secret, but they'd given way now and we were all going down to stay with them in the summer." "you're a past mistress of the cock-and-bull story," said philip. he was vaguely irritated that mildred still had this passion for telling fibs. in the last two years she had learnt nothing. but he shrugged his shoulders. "when all's said and done," he reflected, "she hasn't had much chance." it was a beautiful evening, warm and cloudless, and the people of south london seemed to have poured out into the streets. there was that restlessness in the air which seizes the cockney sometimes when a turn in the weather calls him into the open. after mildred had cleared away the supper she went and stood at the window. the street noises came up to them, noises of people calling to one another, of the passing traffic, of a barrel-organ in the distance. "i suppose you must work tonight, philip?" she asked him, with a wistful expression. "i ought, but i don't know that i must. why, d'you want me to do anything else?" "i'd like to go out for a bit. couldn't we take a ride on the top of a tram?" "if you like." "i'll just go and put on my hat," she said joyfully. the night made it almost impossible to stay indoors. the baby was asleep and could be safely left; mildred said she had always left it alone at night when she went out; it never woke. she was in high spirits when she came back with her hat on. she had taken the opportunity to put on a little rouge. philip thought it was excitement which had brought a faint colour to her pale cheeks; he was touched by her child-like delight, and reproached himself for the austerity with which he had treated her. she laughed when she got out into the air. the first tram they saw was going towards westminster bridge and they got on it. philip smoked his pipe, and they looked at the crowded street. the shops were open, gaily lit, and people were doing their shopping for the next day. they passed a music-hall called the canterbury and mildred cried out: "oh, philip, do let's go there. i haven't been to a music-hall for months." "we can't afford stalls, you know." "oh, i don't mind, i shall be quite happy in the gallery." they got down and walked back a hundred yards till they came to the doors. they got capital seats for sixpence each, high up but not in the gallery, and the night was so fine that there was plenty of room. mildred's eyes glistened. she enjoyed herself thoroughly. there was a simple-mindedness in her which touched philip. she was a puzzle to him. certain things in her still pleased him, and he thought that there was a lot in her which was very good: she had been badly brought up, and her life was hard; he had blamed her for much that she could not help; and it was his own fault if he had asked virtues from her which it was not in her power to give. under different circumstances she might have been a charming girl. she was extraordinarily unfit for the battle of life. as he watched her now in profile, her mouth slightly open and that delicate flush on her cheeks, he thought she looked strangely virginal. he felt an overwhelming compassion for her, and with all his heart he forgave her for the misery she had caused him. the smoky atmosphere made philip's eyes ache, but when he suggested going she turned to him with beseeching face and asked him to stay till the end. he smiled and consented. she took his hand and held it for the rest of the performance. when they streamed out with the audience into the crowded street she did not want to go home; they wandered up the westminster bridge road, looking at the people. "i've not had such a good time as this for months," she said. philip's heart was full, and he was thankful to the fates because he had carried out his sudden impulse to take mildred and her baby into his flat. it was very pleasant to see her happy gratitude. at last she grew tired and they jumped on a tram to go home; it was late now, and when they got down and turned into their own street there was no one about. mildred slipped her arm through his. "it's just like old times, phil," she said. she had never called him phil before, that was what griffiths called him; and even now it gave him a curious pang. he remembered how much he had wanted to die then; his pain had been so great that he had thought quite seriously of committing suicide. it all seemed very long ago. he smiled at his past self. now he felt nothing for mildred but infinite pity. they reached the house, and when they got into the sitting-room philip lit the gas. "is the baby all right?" he asked. "i'll just go in and see." when she came back it was to say that it had not stirred since she left it. it was a wonderful child. philip held out his hand. "well, good-night." "d'you want to go to bed already?" "it's nearly one. i'm not used to late hours these days," said philip. she took his hand and holding it looked into his eyes with a little smile. "phil, the other night in that room, when you asked me to come and stay here, i didn't mean what you thought i meant, when you said you didn't want me to be anything to you except just to cook and that sort of thing." "didn't you?" answered philip, withdrawing his hand. "i did." "don't be such an old silly," she laughed. he shook his head. "i meant it quite seriously. i shouldn't have asked you to stay here on any other condition." "why not?" "i feel i couldn't. i can't explain it, but it would spoil it all." she shrugged her shoulders. "oh, very well, it's just as you choose. i'm not one to go down on my hands and knees for that, and chance it." she went out, slamming the door behind her. xciii next morning mildred was sulky and taciturn. she remained in her room till it was time to get the dinner ready. she was a bad cook and could do little more than chops and steaks; and she did not know how to use up odds and ends, so that philip was obliged to spend more money than he had expected. when she served up she sat down opposite philip, but would eat nothing; he remarked on it; she said she had a bad headache and was not hungry. he was glad that he had somewhere to spend the rest of the day; the athelnys were cheerful and friendly. it was a delightful and an unexpected thing to realise that everyone in that household looked forward with pleasure to his visit. mildred had gone to bed when he came back, but next day she was still silent. at supper she sat with a haughty expression on her face and a little frown between her eyes. it made philip impatient, but he told himself that he must be considerate to her; he was bound to make allowance. "you're very silent," he said, with a pleasant smile. "i'm paid to cook and clean, i didn't know i was expected to talk as well." he thought it an ungracious answer, but if they were going to live together he must do all he could to make things go easily. "i'm afraid you're cross with me about the other night," he said. it was an awkward thing to speak about, but apparently it was necessary to discuss it. "i don't know what you mean," she answered. "please don't be angry with me. i should never have asked you to come and live here if i'd not meant our relations to be merely friendly. i suggested it because i thought you wanted a home and you would have a chance of looking about for something to do." "oh, don't think i care." "i don't for a moment," he hastened to say. "you mustn't think i'm ungrateful. i realise that you only proposed it for my sake. it's just a feeling i have, and i can't help it, it would make the whole thing ugly and horrid." "you are funny," she said, looking at him curiously. "i can't make you out." she was not angry with him now, but puzzled; she had no idea what he meant: she accepted the situation, she had indeed a vague feeling that he was behaving in a very noble fashion and that she ought to admire it; but also she felt inclined to laugh at him and perhaps even to despise him a little. "he's a rum customer," she thought. life went smoothly enough with them. philip spent all day at the hospital and worked at home in the evening except when he went to the athelnys' or to the tavern in beak street. once the physician for whom he clerked asked him to a solemn dinner, and two or three times he went to parties given by fellow-students. mildred accepted the monotony of her life. if she minded that philip left her sometimes by herself in the evening she never mentioned it. occasionally he took her to a music hall. he carried out his intention that the only tie between them should be the domestic service she did in return for board and lodging. she had made up her mind that it was no use trying to get work that summer, and with philip's approval determined to stay where she was till the autumn. she thought it would be easy to get something to do then. "as far as i'm concerned you can stay on here when you've got a job if it's convenient. the room's there, and the woman who did for me before can come in to look after the baby." he grew very much attached to mildred's child. he had a naturally affectionate disposition, which had had little opportunity to display itself. mildred was not unkind to the little girl. she looked after her very well and once when she had a bad cold proved herself a devoted nurse; but the child bored her, and she spoke to her sharply when she bothered; she was fond of her, but had not the maternal passion which might have induced her to forget herself. mildred had no demonstrativeness, and she found the manifestations of affection ridiculous. when philip sat with the baby on his knees, playing with it and kissing it, she laughed at him. "you couldn't make more fuss of her if you was her father," she said. "you're perfectly silly with the child." philip flushed, for he hated to be laughed at. it was absurd to be so devoted to another man's baby, and he was a little ashamed of the overflowing of his heart. but the child, feeling philip's attachment, would put her face against his or nestle in his arms. "it's all very fine for you," said mildred. "you don't have any of the disagreeable part of it. how would you like being kept awake for an hour in the middle of the night because her ladyship wouldn't go to sleep?" philip remembered all sorts of things of his childhood which he thought he had long forgotten. he took hold of the baby's toes. "this little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home." when he came home in the evening and entered the sitting-room his first glance was for the baby sprawling on the floor, and it gave him a little thrill of delight to hear the child's crow of pleasure at seeing him. mildred taught her to call him daddy, and when the child did this for the first time of her own accord, laughed immoderately. "i wonder if you're that stuck on baby because she's mine," asked mildred, "or if you'd be the same with anybody's baby." "i've never known anybody else's baby, so i can't say," said philip. towards the end of his second term as in-patients' clerk a piece of good fortune befell philip. it was the middle of july. he went one tuesday evening to the tavern in beak street and found nobody there but macalister. they sat together, chatting about their absent friends, and after a while macalister said to him: "oh, by the way, i heard of a rather good thing today, new kleinfonteins; it's a gold mine in rhodesia. if you'd like to have a flutter you might make a bit." philip had been waiting anxiously for such an opportunity, but now that it came he hesitated. he was desperately afraid of losing money. he had little of the gambler's spirit. "i'd love to, but i don't know if i dare risk it. how much could i lose if things went wrong?" "i shouldn't have spoken of it, only you seemed so keen about it," macalister answered coldly. philip felt that macalister looked upon him as rather a donkey. "i'm awfully keen on making a bit," he laughed. "you can't make money unless you're prepared to risk money." macalister began to talk of other things and philip, while he was answering him, kept thinking that if the venture turned out well the stockbroker would be very facetious at his expense next time they met. macalister had a sarcastic tongue. "i think i will have a flutter if you don't mind," said philip anxiously. "all right. i'll buy you two hundred and fifty shares and if i see a half-crown rise i'll sell them at once." philip quickly reckoned out how much that would amount to, and his mouth watered; thirty pounds would be a godsend just then, and he thought the fates owed him something. he told mildred what he had done when he saw her at breakfast next morning. she thought him very silly. "i never knew anyone who made money on the stock exchange," she said. "that's what emil always said, you can't expect to make money on the stock exchange, he said." philip bought an evening paper on his way home and turned at once to the money columns. he knew nothing about these things and had difficulty in finding the stock which macalister had spoken of. he saw they had advanced a quarter. his heart leaped, and then he felt sick with apprehension in case macalister had forgotten or for some reason had not bought. macalister had promised to telegraph. philip could not wait to take a tram home. he jumped into a cab. it was an unwonted extravagance. "is there a telegram for me?" he said, as he burst in. "no," said mildred. his face fell, and in bitter disappointment he sank heavily into a chair. "then he didn't buy them for me after all. curse him," he added violently. "what cruel luck! and i've been thinking all day of what i'd do with the money." "why, what were you going to do?" she asked. "what's the good of thinking about that now? oh, i wanted the money so badly." she gave a laugh and handed him a telegram. "i was only having a joke with you. i opened it." he tore it out of her hands. macalister had bought him two hundred and fifty shares and sold them at the half-crown profit he had suggested. the commission note was to follow next day. for one moment philip was furious with mildred for her cruel jest, but then he could only think of his joy. "it makes such a difference to me," he cried. "i'll stand you a new dress if you like." "i want it badly enough," she answered. "i'll tell you what i'm going to do. i'm going to be operated upon at the end of july." "why, have you got something the matter with you?" she interrupted. it struck her that an illness she did not know might explain what had so much puzzled her. he flushed, for he hated to refer to his deformity. "no, but they think they can do something to my foot. i couldn't spare the time before, but now it doesn't matter so much. i shall start my dressing in october instead of next month. i shall only be in hospital a few weeks and then we can go away to the seaside for the rest of the summer. it'll do us all good, you and the baby and me." "oh, let's go to brighton, philip, i like brighton, you get such a nice class of people there." philip had vaguely thought of some little fishing village in cornwall, but as she spoke it occurred to him that mildred would be bored to death there. "i don't mind where we go as long as i get the sea." he did not know why, but he had suddenly an irresistible longing for the sea. he wanted to bathe, and he thought with delight of splashing about in the salt water. he was a good swimmer, and nothing exhilarated him like a rough sea. "i say, it will be jolly," he cried. "it'll be like a honeymoon, won't it?" she said. "how much can i have for my new dress, phil?" xciv philip asked mr. jacobs, the assistant-surgeon for whom he had dressed, to do the operation. jacobs accepted with pleasure, since he was interested just then in neglected talipes and was getting together materials for a paper. he warned philip that he could not make his foot like the other, but he thought he could do a good deal; and though he would always limp he would be able to wear a boot less unsightly than that which he had been accustomed to. philip remembered how he had prayed to a god who was able to remove mountains for him who had faith, and he smiled bitterly. "i don't expect a miracle," he answered. "i think you're wise to let me try what i can do. you'll find a club-foot rather a handicap in practice. the layman is full of fads, and he doesn't like his doctor to have anything the matter with him." philip went into a 'small ward', which was a room on the landing, outside each ward, reserved for special cases. he remained there a month, for the surgeon would not let him go till he could walk; and, bearing the operation very well, he had a pleasant enough time. lawson and athelny came to see him, and one day mrs. athelny brought two of her children; students whom he knew looked in now and again to have a chat; mildred came twice a week. everyone was very kind to him, and philip, always surprised when anyone took trouble with him, was touched and grateful. he enjoyed the relief from care; he need not worry there about the future, neither whether his money would last out nor whether he would pass his final examinations; and he could read to his heart's content. he had not been able to read much of late, since mildred disturbed him: she would make an aimless remark when he was trying to concentrate his attention, and would not be satisfied unless he answered; whenever he was comfortably settled down with a book she would want something done and would come to him with a cork she could not draw or a hammer to drive in a nail. they settled to go to brighton in august. philip wanted to take lodgings, but mildred said that she would have to do housekeeping, and it would only be a holiday for her if they went to a boarding-house. "i have to see about the food every day at home, i get that sick of it i want a thorough change." philip agreed, and it happened that mildred knew of a boarding-house at kemp town where they would not be charged more than twenty-five shillings a week each. she arranged with philip to write about rooms, but when he got back to kennington he found that she had done nothing. he was irritated. "i shouldn't have thought you had so much to do as all that," he said. "well, i can't think of everything. it's not my fault if i forget, is it?" philip was so anxious to get to the sea that he would not wait to communicate with the mistress of the boarding-house. "we'll leave the luggage at the station and go to the house and see if they've got rooms, and if they have we can just send an outside porter for our traps." "you can please yourself," said mildred stiffly. she did not like being reproached, and, retiring huffily into a haughty silence, she sat by listlessly while philip made the preparations for their departure. the little flat was hot and stuffy under the august sun, and from the road beat up a malodorous sultriness. as he lay in his bed in the small ward with its red, distempered walls he had longed for fresh air and the splashing of the sea against his breast. he felt he would go mad if he had to spend another night in london. mildred recovered her good temper when she saw the streets of brighton crowded with people making holiday, and they were both in high spirits as they drove out to kemp town. philip stroked the baby's cheek. "we shall get a very different colour into them when we've been down here a few days," he said, smiling. they arrived at the boarding-house and dismissed the cab. an untidy maid opened the door and, when philip asked if they had rooms, said she would inquire. she fetched her mistress. a middle-aged woman, stout and business-like, came downstairs, gave them the scrutinising glance of her profession, and asked what accommodation they required. "two single rooms, and if you've got such a thing we'd rather like a cot in one of them." "i'm afraid i haven't got that. i've got one nice large double room, and i could let you have a cot." "i don't think that would do," said philip. "i could give you another room next week. brighton's very full just now, and people have to take what they can get." "if it were only for a few days, philip, i think we might be able to manage," said mildred. "i think two rooms would be more convenient. can you recommend any other place where they take boarders?" "i can, but i don't suppose they'd have room any more than i have." "perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me the address." the house the stout woman suggested was in the next street, and they walked towards it. philip could walk quite well, though he had to lean on a stick, and he was rather weak. mildred carried the baby. they went for a little in silence, and then he saw she was crying. it annoyed him, and he took no notice, but she forced his attention. "lend me a hanky, will you? i can't get at mine with baby," she said in a voice strangled with sobs, turning her head away from him. he gave her his handkerchief, but said nothing. she dried her eyes, and as he did not speak, went on. "i might be poisonous." "please don't make a scene in the street," he said. "it'll look so funny insisting on separate rooms like that. what'll they think of us?" "if they knew the circumstances i imagine they'd think us surprisingly moral," said philip. she gave him a sidelong glance. "you're not going to give it away that we're not married?" she asked quickly. "no." "why won't you live with me as if we were married then?" "my dear, i can't explain. i don't want to humiliate you, but i simply can't. i daresay it's very silly and unreasonable, but it's stronger than i am. i loved you so much that now..." he broke off. "after all, there's no accounting for that sort of thing." "a fat lot you must have loved me!" she exclaimed. the boarding-house to which they had been directed was kept by a bustling maiden lady, with shrewd eyes and voluble speech. they could have one double room for twenty-five shillings a week each, and five shillings extra for the baby, or they could have two single rooms for a pound a week more. "i have to charge that much more," the woman explained apologetically, "because if i'm pushed to it i can put two beds even in the single rooms." "i daresay that won't ruin us. what do you think, mildred?" "oh, i don't mind. anything's good enough for me," she answered. philip passed off her sulky reply with a laugh, and, the landlady having arranged to send for their luggage, they sat down to rest themselves. philip's foot was hurting him a little, and he was glad to put it up on a chair. "i suppose you don't mind my sitting in the same room with you," said mildred aggressively. "don't let's quarrel, mildred," he said gently. "i didn't know you was so well off you could afford to throw away a pound a week." "don't be angry with me. i assure you it's the only way we can live together at all." "i suppose you despise me, that's it." "of course i don't. why should i?" "it's so unnatural." "is it? you're not in love with me, are you?" "me? who d'you take me for?" "it's not as if you were a very passionate woman, you're not that." "it's so humiliating," she said sulkily. "oh, i wouldn't fuss about that if i were you." there were about a dozen people in the boarding-house. they ate in a narrow, dark room at a long table, at the head of which the landlady sat and carved. the food was bad. the landlady called it french cooking, by which she meant that the poor quality of the materials was disguised by ill-made sauces: plaice masqueraded as sole and new zealand mutton as lamb. the kitchen was small and inconvenient, so that everything was served up lukewarm. the people were dull and pretentious; old ladies with elderly maiden daughters; funny old bachelors with mincing ways; pale-faced, middle-aged clerks with wives, who talked of their married daughters and their sons who were in a very good position in the colonies. at table they discussed miss corelli's latest novel; some of them liked lord leighton better than mr. alma-tadema, and some of them liked mr. alma-tadema better than lord leighton. mildred soon told the ladies of her romantic marriage with philip; and he found himself an object of interest because his family, county people in a very good position, had cut him off with a shilling because he married while he was only a stoodent; and mildred's father, who had a large place down devonshire way, wouldn't do anything for them because she had married philip. that was why they had come to a boarding-house and had not a nurse for the baby; but they had to have two rooms because they were both used to a good deal of accommodation and they didn't care to be cramped. the other visitors also had explanations of their presence: one of the single gentlemen generally went to the metropole for his holiday, but he liked cheerful company and you couldn't get that at one of those expensive hotels; and the old lady with the middle-aged daughter was having her beautiful house in london done up and she said to her daughter: "gwennie, my dear, we must have a cheap holiday this year," and so they had come there, though of course it wasn't at all the kind of thing they were used to. mildred found them all very superior, and she hated a lot of common, rough people. she liked gentlemen to be gentlemen in every sense of the word. "when people are gentlemen and ladies," she said, "i like them to be gentlemen and ladies." the remark seemed cryptic to philip, but when he heard her say it two or three times to different persons, and found that it aroused hearty agreement, he came to the conclusion that it was only obscure to his own intelligence. it was the first time that philip and mildred had been thrown entirely together. in london he did not see her all day, and when he came home the household affairs, the baby, the neighbours, gave them something to talk about till he settled down to work. now he spent the whole day with her. after breakfast they went down to the beach; the morning went easily enough with a bathe and a stroll along the front; the evening, which they spent on the pier, having put the baby to bed, was tolerable, for there was music to listen to and a constant stream of people to look at; (philip amused himself by imagining who they were and weaving little stories about them; he had got into the habit of answering mildred's remarks with his mouth only so that his thoughts remained undisturbed;) but the afternoons were long and dreary. they sat on the beach. mildred said they must get all the benefit they could out of doctor brighton, and he could not read because mildred made observations frequently about things in general. if he paid no attention she complained. "oh, leave that silly old book alone. it can't be good for you always reading. you'll addle your brain, that's what you'll do, philip." "oh, rot!" he answered. "besides, it's so unsociable." he discovered that it was difficult to talk to her. she had not even the power of attending to what she was herself saying, so that a dog running in front of her or the passing of a man in a loud blazer would call forth a remark and then she would forget what she had been speaking of. she had a bad memory for names, and it irritated her not to be able to think of them, so that she would pause in the middle of some story to rack her brains. sometimes she had to give it up, but it often occurred to her afterwards, and when philip was talking of something she would interrupt him. "collins, that was it. i knew it would come back to me some time. collins, that's the name i couldn't remember." it exasperated him because it showed that she was not listening to anything he said, and yet, if he was silent, she reproached him for sulkiness. her mind was of an order that could not deal for five minutes with the abstract, and when philip gave way to his taste for generalising she very quickly showed that she was bored. mildred dreamt a great deal, and she had an accurate memory for her dreams, which she would relate every day with prolixity. one morning he received a long letter from thorpe athelny. he was taking his holiday in the theatrical way, in which there was much sound sense, which characterised him. he had done the same thing for ten years. he took his whole family to a hop-field in kent, not far from mrs. athelny's home, and they spent three weeks hopping. it kept them in the open air, earned them money, much to mrs. athelny's satisfaction, and renewed their contact with mother earth. it was upon this that athelny laid stress. the sojourn in the fields gave them a new strength; it was like a magic ceremony, by which they renewed their youth and the power of their limbs and the sweetness of the spirit: philip had heard him say many fantastic, rhetorical, and picturesque things on the subject. now athelny invited him to come over for a day, he had certain meditations on shakespeare and the musical glasses which he desired to impart, and the children were clamouring for a sight of uncle philip. philip read the letter again in the afternoon when he was sitting with mildred on the beach. he thought of mrs. athelny, cheerful mother of many children, with her kindly hospitality and her good humour; of sally, grave for her years, with funny little maternal ways and an air of authority, with her long plait of fair hair and her broad forehead; and then in a bunch of all the others, merry, boisterous, healthy, and handsome. his heart went out to them. there was one quality which they had that he did not remember to have noticed in people before, and that was goodness. it had not occurred to him till now, but it was evidently the beauty of their goodness which attracted him. in theory he did not believe in it: if morality were no more than a matter of convenience good and evil had no meaning. he did not like to be illogical, but here was simple goodness, natural and without effort, and he thought it beautiful. meditating, he slowly tore the letter into little pieces; he did not see how he could go without mildred, and he did not want to go with her. it was very hot, the sky was cloudless, and they had been driven to a shady corner. the baby was gravely playing with stones on the beach, and now and then she crawled up to philip and gave him one to hold, then took it away again and placed it carefully down. she was playing a mysterious and complicated game known only to herself. mildred was asleep. she lay with her head thrown back and her mouth slightly open; her legs were stretched out, and her boots protruded from her petticoats in a grotesque fashion. his eyes had been resting on her vaguely, but now he looked at her with peculiar attention. he remembered how passionately he had loved her, and he wondered why now he was entirely indifferent to her. the change in him filled him with dull pain. it seemed to him that all he had suffered had been sheer waste. the touch of her hand had filled him with ecstasy; he had desired to enter into her soul so that he could share every thought with her and every feeling; he had suffered acutely because, when silence had fallen between them, a remark of hers showed how far their thoughts had travelled apart, and he had rebelled against the unsurmountable wall which seemed to divide every personality from every other. he found it strangely tragic that he had loved her so madly and now loved her not at all. sometimes he hated her. she was incapable of learning, and the experience of life had taught her nothing. she was as unmannerly as she had always been. it revolted philip to hear the insolence with which she treated the hard-worked servant at the boarding-house. presently he considered his own plans. at the end of his fourth year he would be able to take his examination in midwifery, and a year more would see him qualified. then he might manage a journey to spain. he wanted to see the pictures which he knew only from photographs; he felt deeply that el greco held a secret of peculiar moment to him; and he fancied that in toledo he would surely find it out. he did not wish to do things grandly, and on a hundred pounds he might live for six months in spain: if macalister put him on to another good thing he could make that easily. his heart warmed at the thought of those old beautiful cities, and the tawny plains of castile. he was convinced that more might be got out of life than offered itself at present, and he thought that in spain he could live with greater intensity: it might be possible to practise in one of those old cities, there were a good many foreigners, passing or resident, and he should be able to pick up a living. but that would be much later; first he must get one or two hospital appointments; they gave experience and made it easy to get jobs afterwards. he wished to get a berth as ship's doctor on one of the large tramps that took things leisurely enough for a man to see something of the places at which they stopped. he wanted to go to the east; and his fancy was rich with pictures of bangkok and shanghai, and the ports of japan: he pictured to himself palm-trees and skies blue and hot, dark-skinned people, pagodas; the scents of the orient intoxicated his nostrils. his heart beat with passionate desire for the beauty and the strangeness of the world. mildred awoke. "i do believe i've been asleep," she said. "now then, you naughty girl, what have you been doing to yourself? her dress was clean yesterday and just look at it now, philip." xcv when they returned to london philip began his dressing in the surgical wards. he was not so much interested in surgery as in medicine, which, a more empirical science, offered greater scope to the imagination. the work was a little harder than the corresponding work on the medical side. there was a lecture from nine till ten, when he went into the wards; there wounds had to be dressed, stitches taken out, bandages renewed: philip prided himself a little on his skill in bandaging, and it amused him to wring a word of approval from a nurse. on certain afternoons in the week there were operations; and he stood in the well of the theatre, in a white jacket, ready to hand the operating surgeon any instrument he wanted or to sponge the blood away so that he could see what he was about. when some rare operation was to be performed the theatre would fill up, but generally there were not more than half a dozen students present, and then the proceedings had a cosiness which philip enjoyed. at that time the world at large seemed to have a passion for appendicitis, and a good many cases came to the operating theatre for this complaint: the surgeon for whom philip dressed was in friendly rivalry with a colleague as to which could remove an appendix in the shortest time and with the smallest incision. in due course philip was put on accident duty. the dressers took this in turn; it lasted three days, during which they lived in hospital and ate their meals in the common-room; they had a room on the ground floor near the casualty ward, with a bed that shut up during the day into a cupboard. the dresser on duty had to be at hand day and night to see to any casualty that came in. you were on the move all the time, and not more than an hour or two passed during the night without the clanging of the bell just above your head which made you leap out of bed instinctively. saturday night was of course the busiest time and the closing of the public-houses the busiest hour. men would be brought in by the police dead drunk and it would be necessary to administer a stomach-pump; women, rather the worse for liquor themselves, would come in with a wound on the head or a bleeding nose which their husbands had given them: some would vow to have the law on him, and others, ashamed, would declare that it had been an accident. what the dresser could manage himself he did, but if there was anything important he sent for the house-surgeon: he did this with care, since the house-surgeon was not vastly pleased to be dragged down five flights of stairs for nothing. the cases ranged from a cut finger to a cut throat. boys came in with hands mangled by some machine, men were brought who had been knocked down by a cab, and children who had broken a limb while playing: now and then attempted suicides were carried in by the police: philip saw a ghastly, wild-eyed man with a great gash from ear to ear, and he was in the ward for weeks afterwards in charge of a constable, silent, angry because he was alive, and sullen; he made no secret of the fact that he would try again to kill himself as soon as he was released. the wards were crowded, and the house-surgeon was faced with a dilemma when patients were brought in by the police: if they were sent on to the station and died there disagreeable things were said in the papers; and it was very difficult sometimes to tell if a man was dying or drunk. philip did not go to bed till he was tired out, so that he should not have the bother of getting up again in an hour; and he sat in the casualty ward talking in the intervals of work with the night-nurse. she was a gray-haired woman of masculine appearance, who had been night-nurse in the casualty department for twenty years. she liked the work because she was her own mistress and had no sister to bother her. her movements were slow, but she was immensely capable and she never failed in an emergency. the dressers, often inexperienced or nervous, found her a tower of strength. she had seen thousands of them, and they made no impression upon her: she always called them mr. brown; and when they expostulated and told her their real names, she merely nodded and went on calling them mr. brown. it interested philip to sit with her in the bare room, with its two horse-hair couches and the flaring gas, and listen to her. she had long ceased to look upon the people who came in as human beings; they were drunks, or broken arms, or cut throats. she took the vice and misery and cruelty of the world as a matter of course; she found nothing to praise or blame in human actions: she accepted. she had a certain grim humour. "i remember one suicide," she said to philip, "who threw himself into the thames. they fished him out and brought him here, and ten days later he developed typhoid fever from swallowing thames water." "did he die?" "yes, he did all right. i could never make up my mind if it was suicide or not.... they're a funny lot, suicides. i remember one man who couldn't get any work to do and his wife died, so he pawned his clothes and bought a revolver; but he made a mess of it, he only shot out an eye and he got all right. and then, if you please, with an eye gone and a piece of his face blow away, he came to the conclusion that the world wasn't such a bad place after all, and he lived happily ever afterwards. thing i've always noticed, people don't commit suicide for love, as you'd expect, that's just a fancy of novelists; they commit suicide because they haven't got any money. i wonder why that is." "i suppose money's more important than love," suggested philip. money was in any case occupying philip's thoughts a good deal just then. he discovered the little truth there was in the airy saying which himself had repeated, that two could live as cheaply as one, and his expenses were beginning to worry him. mildred was not a good manager, and it cost them as much to live as if they had eaten in restaurants; the child needed clothes, and mildred boots, an umbrella, and other small things which it was impossible for her to do without. when they returned from brighton she had announced her intention of getting a job, but she took no definite steps, and presently a bad cold laid her up for a fortnight. when she was well she answered one or two advertisements, but nothing came of it: either she arrived too late and the vacant place was filled, or the work was more than she felt strong enough to do. once she got an offer, but the wages were only fourteen shillings a week, and she thought she was worth more than that. "it's no good letting oneself be put upon," she remarked. "people don't respect you if you let yourself go too cheap." "i don't think fourteen shillings is so bad," answered philip, drily. he could not help thinking how useful it would be towards the expenses of the household, and mildred was already beginning to hint that she did not get a place because she had not got a decent dress to interview employers in. he gave her the dress, and she made one or two more attempts, but philip came to the conclusion that they were not serious. she did not want to work. the only way he knew to make money was on the stock exchange, and he was very anxious to repeat the lucky experiment of the summer; but war had broken out with the transvaal and nothing was doing in south africans. macalister told him that redvers buller would march into pretoria in a month and then everything would boom. the only thing was to wait patiently. what they wanted was a british reverse to knock things down a bit, and then it might be worth while buying. philip began reading assiduously the 'city chat' of his favourite newspaper. he was worried and irritable. once or twice he spoke sharply to mildred, and since she was neither tactful nor patient she answered with temper, and they quarrelled. philip always expressed his regret for what he had said, but mildred had not a forgiving nature, and she would sulk for a couple of days. she got on his nerves in all sorts of ways; by the manner in which she ate, and by the untidiness which made her leave articles of clothing about their sitting-room: philip was excited by the war and devoured the papers, morning and evening; but she took no interest in anything that happened. she had made the acquaintance of two or three people who lived in the street, and one of them had asked if she would like the curate to call on her. she wore a wedding-ring and called herself mrs. carey. on philip's walls were two or three of the drawings which he had made in paris, nudes, two of women and one of miguel ajuria, standing very square on his feet, with clenched fists. philip kept them because they were the best things he had done, and they reminded him of happy days. mildred had long looked at them with disfavour. "i wish you'd take those drawings down, philip," she said to him at last. "mrs. foreman, of number thirteen, came in yesterday afternoon, and i didn't know which way to look. i saw her staring at them." "what's the matter with them?" "they're indecent. disgusting, that's what i call it, to have drawings of naked people about. and it isn't nice for baby either. she's beginning to notice things now." "how can you be so vulgar?" "vulgar? modest, i call it. i've never said anything, but d'you think i like having to look at those naked people all day long." "have you no sense of humour at all, mildred?" he asked frigidly. "i don't know what sense of humour's got to do with it. i've got a good mind to take them down myself. if you want to know what i think about them, i think they're disgusting." "i don't want to know what you think about them, and i forbid you to touch them." when mildred was cross with him she punished him through the baby. the little girl was as fond of philip as he was of her, and it was her great pleasure every morning to crawl into his room (she was getting on for two now and could walk pretty well), and be taken up into his bed. when mildred stopped this the poor child would cry bitterly. to philip's remonstrances she replied: "i don't want her to get into habits." and if then he said anything more she said: "it's nothing to do with you what i do with my child. to hear you talk one would think you was her father. i'm her mother, and i ought to know what's good for her, oughtn't i?" philip was exasperated by mildred's stupidity; but he was so indifferent to her now that it was only at times she made him angry. he grew used to having her about. christmas came, and with it a couple of days holiday for philip. he brought some holly in and decorated the flat, and on christmas day he gave small presents to mildred and the baby. there were only two of them so they could not have a turkey, but mildred roasted a chicken and boiled a christmas pudding which she had bought at a local grocer's. they stood themselves a bottle of wine. when they had dined philip sat in his arm-chair by the fire, smoking his pipe; and the unaccustomed wine had made him forget for a while the anxiety about money which was so constantly with him. he felt happy and comfortable. presently mildred came in to tell him that the baby wanted him to kiss her good-night, and with a smile he went into mildred's bed-room. then, telling the child to go to sleep, he turned down the gas and, leaving the door open in case she cried, went back into the sitting-room. "where are you going to sit?" he asked mildred. "you sit in your chair. i'm going to sit on the floor." when he sat down she settled herself in front of the fire and leaned against his knees. he could not help remembering that this was how they had sat together in her rooms in the vauxhall bridge road, but the positions had been reversed; it was he who had sat on the floor and leaned his head against her knee. how passionately he had loved her then! now he felt for her a tenderness he had not known for a long time. he seemed still to feel twined round his neck the baby's soft little arms. "are you comfy?" he asked. she looked up at him, gave a slight smile, and nodded. they gazed into the fire dreamily, without speaking to one another. at last she turned round and stared at him curiously. "d'you know that you haven't kissed me once since i came here?" she said suddenly. "d'you want me to?" he smiled. "i suppose you don't care for me in that way any more?" "i'm very fond of you." "you're much fonder of baby." he did not answer, and she laid her cheek against his hand. "you're not angry with me any more?" she asked presently, with her eyes cast down. "why on earth should i be?" "i've never cared for you as i do now. it's only since i passed through the fire that i've learnt to love you." it chilled philip to hear her make use of the sort of phrase she read in the penny novelettes which she devoured. then he wondered whether what she said had any meaning for her: perhaps she knew no other way to express her genuine feelings than the stilted language of the family herald. "it seems so funny our living together like this." he did not reply for quite a long time, and silence fell upon them again; but at last he spoke and seemed conscious of no interval. "you mustn't be angry with me. one can't help these things. i remember that i thought you wicked and cruel because you did this, that, and the other; but it was very silly of me. you didn't love me, and it was absurd to blame you for that. i thought i could make you love me, but i know now that was impossible. i don't know what it is that makes someone love you, but whatever it is, it's the only thing that matters, and if it isn't there you won't create it by kindness, or generosity, or anything of that sort." "i should have thought if you'd loved me really you'd have loved me still." "i should have thought so too. i remember how i used to think that it would last for ever, i felt i would rather die than be without you, and i used to long for the time when you would be faded and wrinkled so that nobody cared for you any more and i should have you all to myself." she did not answer, and presently she got up and said she was going to bed. she gave a timid little smile. "it's christmas day, philip, won't you kiss me good-night?" he gave a laugh, blushed slightly, and kissed her. she went to her bed-room and he began to read. xcvi the climax came two or three weeks later. mildred was driven by philip's behaviour to a pitch of strange exasperation. there were many different emotions in her soul, and she passed from mood to mood with facility. she spent a great deal of time alone and brooded over her position. she did not put all her feelings into words, she did not even know what they were, but certain things stood out in her mind, and she thought of them over and over again. she had never understood philip, nor had very much liked him; but she was pleased to have him about her because she thought he was a gentleman. she was impressed because his father had been a doctor and his uncle was a clergyman. she despised him a little because she had made such a fool of him, and at the same time was never quite comfortable in his presence; she could not let herself go, and she felt that he was criticising her manners. when she first came to live in the little rooms in kennington she was tired out and ashamed. she was glad to be left alone. it was a comfort to think that there was no rent to pay; she need not go out in all weathers, and she could lie quietly in bed if she did not feel well. she had hated the life she led. it was horrible to have to be affable and subservient; and even now when it crossed her mind she cried with pity for herself as she thought of the roughness of men and their brutal language. but it crossed her mind very seldom. she was grateful to philip for coming to her rescue, and when she remembered how honestly he had loved her and how badly she had treated him, she felt a pang of remorse. it was easy to make it up to him. it meant very little to her. she was surprised when he refused her suggestion, but she shrugged her shoulders: let him put on airs if he liked, she did not care, he would be anxious enough in a little while, and then it would be her turn to refuse; if he thought it was any deprivation to her he was very much mistaken. she had no doubt of her power over him. he was peculiar, but she knew him through and through. he had so often quarrelled with her and sworn he would never see her again, and then in a little while he had come on his knees begging to be forgiven. it gave her a thrill to think how he had cringed before her. he would have been glad to lie down on the ground for her to walk on him. she had seen him cry. she knew exactly how to treat him, pay no attention to him, just pretend you didn't notice his tempers, leave him severely alone, and in a little while he was sure to grovel. she laughed a little to herself, good-humouredly, when she thought how he had come and eaten dirt before her. she had had her fling now. she knew what men were and did not want to have anything more to do with them. she was quite ready to settle down with philip. when all was said, he was a gentleman in every sense of the word, and that was something not to be sneezed at, wasn't it? anyhow she was in no hurry, and she was not going to take the first step. she was glad to see how fond he was growing of the baby, though it tickled her a good deal; it was comic that he should set so much store on another man's child. he was peculiar and no mistake. but one or two things surprised her. she had been used to his subservience: he was only too glad to do anything for her in the old days, she was accustomed to see him cast down by a cross word and in ecstasy at a kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself that he had not improved in the last year. it never struck her for a moment that there could be any change in his feelings, and she thought it was only acting when he paid no heed to her bad temper. he wanted to read sometimes and told her to stop talking: she did not know whether to flare up or to sulk, and was so puzzled that she did neither. then came the conversation in which he told her that he intended their relations to be platonic, and, remembering an incident of their common past, it occurred to her that he dreaded the possibility of her being pregnant. she took pains to reassure him. it made no difference. she was the sort of woman who was unable to realise that a man might not have her own obsession with sex; her relations with men had been purely on those lines; and she could not understand that they ever had other interests. the thought struck her that philip was in love with somebody else, and she watched him, suspecting nurses at the hospital or people he met out; but artful questions led her to the conclusion that there was no one dangerous in the athelny household; and it forced itself upon her also that philip, like most medical students, was unconscious of the sex of the nurses with whom his work threw him in contact. they were associated in his mind with a faint odour of iodoform. philip received no letters, and there was no girl's photograph among his belongings. if he was in love with someone, he was very clever at hiding it; and he answered all mildred's questions with frankness and apparently without suspicion that there was any motive in them. "i don't believe he's in love with anybody else," she said to herself at last. it was a relief, for in that case he was certainly still in love with her; but it made his behaviour very puzzling. if he was going to treat her like that why did he ask her to come and live at the flat? it was unnatural. mildred was not a woman who conceived the possibility of compassion, generosity, or kindness. her only conclusion was that philip was queer. she took it into her head that the reasons for his conduct were chivalrous; and, her imagination filled with the extravagances of cheap fiction, she pictured to herself all sorts of romantic explanations for his delicacy. her fancy ran riot with bitter misunderstandings, purifications by fire, snow-white souls, and death in the cruel cold of a christmas night. she made up her mind that when they went to brighton she would put an end to all his nonsense; they would be alone there, everyone would think them husband and wife, and there would be the pier and the band. when she found that nothing would induce philip to share the same room with her, when he spoke to her about it with a tone in his voice she had never heard before, she suddenly realised that he did not want her. she was astounded. she remembered all he had said in the past and how desperately he had loved her. she felt humiliated and angry, but she had a sort of native insolence which carried her through. he needn't think she was in love with him, because she wasn't. she hated him sometimes, and she longed to humble him; but she found herself singularly powerless; she did not know which way to handle him. she began to be a little nervous with him. once or twice she cried. once or twice she set herself to be particularly nice to him; but when she took his arm while they walked along the front at night he made some excuse in a while to release himself, as though it were unpleasant for him to be touched by her. she could not make it out. the only hold she had over him was through the baby, of whom he seemed to grow fonder and fonder: she could make him white with anger by giving the child a slap or a push; and the only time the old, tender smile came back into his eyes was when she stood with the baby in her arms. she noticed it when she was being photographed like that by a man on the beach, and afterwards she often stood in the same way for philip to look at her. when they got back to london mildred began looking for the work she had asserted was so easy to find; she wanted now to be independent of philip; and she thought of the satisfaction with which she would announce to him that she was going into rooms and would take the child with her. but her heart failed her when she came into closer contact with the possibility. she had grown unused to the long hours, she did not want to be at the beck and call of a manageress, and her dignity revolted at the thought of wearing once more a uniform. she had made out to such of the neighbours as she knew that they were comfortably off: it would be a come-down if they heard that she had to go out and work. her natural indolence asserted itself. she did not want to leave philip, and so long as he was willing to provide for her, she did not see why she should. there was no money to throw away, but she got her board and lodging, and he might get better off. his uncle was an old man and might die any day, he would come into a little then, and even as things were, it was better than slaving from morning till night for a few shillings a week. her efforts relaxed; she kept on reading the advertisement columns of the daily paper merely to show that she wanted to do something if anything that was worth her while presented itself. but panic seized her, and she was afraid that philip would grow tired of supporting her. she had no hold over him at all now, and she fancied that he only allowed her to stay there because he was fond of the baby. she brooded over it all, and she thought to herself angrily that she would make him pay for all this some day. she could not reconcile herself to the fact that he no longer cared for her. she would make him. she suffered from pique, and sometimes in a curious fashion she desired philip. he was so cold now that it exasperated her. she thought of him in that way incessantly. she thought that he was treating her very badly, and she did not know what she had done to deserve it. she kept on saying to herself that it was unnatural they should live like that. then she thought that if things were different and she were going to have a baby, he would be sure to marry her. he was funny, but he was a gentleman in every sense of the word, no one could deny that. at last it became an obsession with her, and she made up her mind to force a change in their relations. he never even kissed her now, and she wanted him to: she remembered how ardently he had been used to press her lips. it gave her a curious feeling to think of it. she often looked at his mouth. one evening, at the beginning of february, philip told her that he was dining with lawson, who was giving a party in his studio to celebrate his birthday; and he would not be in till late; lawson had bought a couple of bottles of the punch they favoured from the tavern in beak street, and they proposed to have a merry evening. mildred asked if there were going to be women there, but philip told her there were not; only men had been invited; and they were just going to sit and talk and smoke: mildred did not think it sounded very amusing; if she were a painter she would have half a dozen models about. she went to bed, but could not sleep, and presently an idea struck her; she got up and fixed the catch on the wicket at the landing, so that philip could not get in. he came back about one, and she heard him curse when he found that the wicket was closed. she got out of bed and opened. "why on earth did you shut yourself in? i'm sorry i've dragged you out of bed." "i left it open on purpose, i can't think how it came to be shut." "hurry up and get back to bed, or you'll catch cold." he walked into the sitting-room and turned up the gas. she followed him in. she went up to the fire. "i want to warm my feet a bit. they're like ice." he sat down and began to take off his boots. his eyes were shining and his cheeks were flushed. she thought he had been drinking. "have you been enjoying yourself?" she asked, with a smile. "yes, i've had a ripping time." philip was quite sober, but he had been talking and laughing, and he was excited still. an evening of that sort reminded him of the old days in paris. he was in high spirits. he took his pipe out of his pocket and filled it. "aren't you going to bed?" she asked. "not yet, i'm not a bit sleepy. lawson was in great form. he talked sixteen to the dozen from the moment i got there till the moment i left." "what did you talk about?" "heaven knows! of every subject under the sun. you should have seen us all shouting at the tops of our voices and nobody listening." philip laughed with pleasure at the recollection, and mildred laughed too. she was pretty sure he had drunk more than was good for him. that was exactly what she had expected. she knew men. "can i sit down?" she said. before he could answer she settled herself on his knees. "if you're not going to bed you'd better go and put on a dressing-gown." "oh, i'm all right as i am." then putting her arms round his neck, she placed her face against his and said: "why are you so horrid to me, phil?" he tried to get up, but she would not let him. "i do love you, philip," she said. "don't talk damned rot." "it isn't, it's true. i can't live without you. i want you." he released himself from her arms. "please get up. you're making a fool of yourself and you're making me feel a perfect idiot." "i love you, philip. i want to make up for all the harm i did you. i can't go on like this, it's not in human nature." he slipped out of the chair and left her in it. "i'm very sorry, but it's too late." she gave a heart-rending sob. "but why? how can you be so cruel?" "i suppose it's because i loved you too much. i wore the passion out. the thought of anything of that sort horrifies me. i can't look at you now without thinking of emil and griffiths. one can't help those things, i suppose it's just nerves." she seized his hand and covered it with kisses. "don't," he cried. she sank back into the chair. "i can't go on like this. if you won't love me, i'd rather go away." "don't be foolish, you haven't anywhere to go. you can stay here as long as you like, but it must be on the definite understanding that we're friends and nothing more." then she dropped suddenly the vehemence of passion and gave a soft, insinuating laugh. she sidled up to philip and put her arms round him. she made her voice low and wheedling. "don't be such an old silly. i believe you're nervous. you don't know how nice i can be." she put her face against his and rubbed his cheek with hers. to philip her smile was an abominable leer, and the suggestive glitter of her eyes filled him with horror. he drew back instinctively. "i won't," he said. but she would not let him go. she sought his mouth with her lips. he took her hands and tore them roughly apart and pushed her away. "you disgust me," he said. "me?" she steadied herself with one hand on the chimney-piece. she looked at him for an instant, and two red spots suddenly appeared on her cheeks. she gave a shrill, angry laugh. "i disgust you." she paused and drew in her breath sharply. then she burst into a furious torrent of abuse. she shouted at the top of her voice. she called him every foul name she could think of. she used language so obscene that philip was astounded; she was always so anxious to be refined, so shocked by coarseness, that it had never occurred to him that she knew the words she used now. she came up to him and thrust her face in his. it was distorted with passion, and in her tumultuous speech the spittle dribbled over her lips. "i never cared for you, not once, i was making a fool of you always, you bored me, you bored me stiff, and i hated you, i would never have let you touch me only for the money, and it used to make me sick when i had to let you kiss me. we laughed at you, griffiths and me, we laughed because you was such a mug. a mug! a mug!" then she burst again into abominable invective. she accused him of every mean fault; she said he was stingy, she said he was dull, she said he was vain, selfish; she cast virulent ridicule on everything upon which he was most sensitive. and at last she turned to go. she kept on, with hysterical violence, shouting at him an opprobrious, filthy epithet. she seized the handle of the door and flung it open. then she turned round and hurled at him the injury which she knew was the only one that really touched him. she threw into the word all the malice and all the venom of which she was capable. she flung it at him as though it were a blow. "cripple!" xcvii philip awoke with a start next morning, conscious that it was late, and looking at his watch found it was nine o'clock. he jumped out of bed and went into the kitchen to get himself some hot water to shave with. there was no sign of mildred, and the things which she had used for her supper the night before still lay in the sink unwashed. he knocked at her door. "wake up, mildred. it's awfully late." she did not answer, even after a second louder knocking, and he concluded that she was sulking. he was in too great a hurry to bother about that. he put some water on to boil and jumped into his bath which was always poured out the night before in order to take the chill off. he presumed that mildred would cook his breakfast while he was dressing and leave it in the sitting-room. she had done that two or three times when she was out of temper. but he heard no sound of her moving, and realised that if he wanted anything to eat he would have to get it himself. he was irritated that she should play him such a trick on a morning when he had over-slept himself. there was still no sign of her when he was ready, but he heard her moving about her room. she was evidently getting up. he made himself some tea and cut himself a couple of pieces of bread and butter, which he ate while he was putting on his boots, then bolted downstairs and along the street into the main road to catch his tram. while his eyes sought out the newspaper shops to see the war news on the placards, he thought of the scene of the night before: now that it was over and he had slept on it, he could not help thinking it grotesque; he supposed he had been ridiculous, but he was not master of his feelings; at the time they had been overwhelming. he was angry with mildred because she had forced him into that absurd position, and then with renewed astonishment he thought of her outburst and the filthy language she had used. he could not help flushing when he remembered her final jibe; but he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. he had long known that when his fellows were angry with him they never failed to taunt him with his deformity. he had seen men at the hospital imitate his walk, not before him as they used at school, but when they thought he was not looking. he knew now that they did it from no wilful unkindness, but because man is naturally an imitative animal, and because it was an easy way to make people laugh: he knew it, but he could never resign himself to it. he was glad to throw himself into his work. the ward seemed pleasant and friendly when he entered it. the sister greeted him with a quick, business-like smile. "you're very late, mr. carey." "i was out on the loose last night." "you look it." "thank you." laughing, he went to the first of his cases, a boy with tuberculous ulcers, and removed his bandages. the boy was pleased to see him, and philip chaffed him as he put a clean dressing on the wound. philip was a favourite with the patients; he treated them good-humouredly; and he had gentle, sensitive hands which did not hurt them: some of the dressers were a little rough and happy-go-lucky in their methods. he lunched with his friends in the club-room, a frugal meal consisting of a scone and butter, with a cup of cocoa, and they talked of the war. several men were going out, but the authorities were particular and refused everyone who had not had a hospital appointment. someone suggested that, if the war went on, in a while they would be glad to take anyone who was qualified; but the general opinion was that it would be over in a month. now that roberts was there things would get all right in no time. this was macalister's opinion too, and he had told philip that they must watch their chance and buy just before peace was declared. there would be a boom then, and they might all make a bit of money. philip had left with macalister instructions to buy him stock whenever the opportunity presented itself. his appetite had been whetted by the thirty pounds he had made in the summer, and he wanted now to make a couple of hundred. he finished his day's work and got on a tram to go back to kennington. he wondered how mildred would behave that evening. it was a nuisance to think that she would probably be surly and refuse to answer his questions. it was a warm evening for the time of year, and even in those gray streets of south london there was the languor of february; nature is restless then after the long winter months, growing things awake from their sleep, and there is a rustle in the earth, a forerunner of spring, as it resumes its eternal activities. philip would have liked to drive on further, it was distasteful to him to go back to his rooms, and he wanted the air; but the desire to see the child clutched suddenly at his heartstrings, and he smiled to himself as he thought of her toddling towards him with a crow of delight. he was surprised, when he reached the house and looked up mechanically at the windows, to see that there was no light. he went upstairs and knocked, but got no answer. when mildred went out she left the key under the mat and he found it there now. he let himself in and going into the sitting-room struck a match. something had happened, he did not at once know what; he turned the gas on full and lit it; the room was suddenly filled with the glare and he looked round. he gasped. the whole place was wrecked. everything in it had been wilfully destroyed. anger seized him, and he rushed into mildred's room. it was dark and empty. when he had got a light he saw that she had taken away all her things and the baby's (he had noticed on entering that the go-cart was not in its usual place on the landing, but thought mildred had taken the baby out;) and all the things on the washing-stand had been broken, a knife had been drawn cross-ways through the seats of the two chairs, the pillow had been slit open, there were large gashes in the sheets and the counterpane, the looking-glass appeared to have been broken with a hammer. philip was bewildered. he went into his own room, and here too everything was in confusion. the basin and the ewer had been smashed, the looking-glass was in fragments, and the sheets were in ribands. mildred had made a slit large enough to put her hand into the pillow and had scattered the feathers about the room. she had jabbed a knife into the blankets. on the dressing-table were photographs of philip's mother, the frames had been smashed and the glass shivered. philip went into the tiny kitchen. everything that was breakable was broken, glasses, pudding-basins, plates, dishes. it took philip's breath away. mildred had left no letter, nothing but this ruin to mark her anger, and he could imagine the set face with which she had gone about her work. he went back into the sitting-room and looked about him. he was so astonished that he no longer felt angry. he looked curiously at the kitchen-knife and the coal-hammer, which were lying on the table where she had left them. then his eye caught a large carving-knife in the fireplace which had been broken. it must have taken her a long time to do so much damage. lawson's portrait of him had been cut cross-ways and gaped hideously. his own drawings had been ripped in pieces; and the photographs, manet's olympia and the odalisque of ingres, the portrait of philip iv, had been smashed with great blows of the coal-hammer. there were gashes in the table-cloth and in the curtains and in the two arm-chairs. they were quite ruined. on one wall over the table which philip used as his desk was the little bit of persian rug which cronshaw had given him. mildred had always hated it. "if it's a rug it ought to go on the floor," she said, "and it's a dirty stinking bit of stuff, that's all it is." it made her furious because philip told her it contained the answer to a great riddle. she thought he was making fun of her. she had drawn the knife right through it three times, it must have required some strength, and it hung now in tatters. philip had two or three blue and white plates, of no value, but he had bought them one by one for very small sums and liked them for their associations. they littered the floor in fragments. there were long gashes on the backs of his books, and she had taken the trouble to tear pages out of the unbound french ones. the little ornaments on the chimney-piece lay on the hearth in bits. everything that it had been possible to destroy with a knife or a hammer was destroyed. the whole of philip's belongings would not have sold for thirty pounds, but most of them were old friends, and he was a domestic creature, attached to all those odds and ends because they were his; he had been proud of his little home, and on so little money had made it pretty and characteristic. he sank down now in despair. he asked himself how she could have been so cruel. a sudden fear got him on his feet again and into the passage, where stood a cupboard in which he kept his clothes. he opened it and gave a sigh of relief. she had apparently forgotten it and none of his things was touched. he went back into the sitting-room and, surveying the scene, wondered what to do; he had not the heart to begin trying to set things straight; besides there was no food in the house, and he was hungry. he went out and got himself something to eat. when he came in he was cooler. a little pang seized him as he thought of the child, and he wondered whether she would miss him, at first perhaps, but in a week she would have forgotten him; and he was thankful to be rid of mildred. he did not think of her with wrath, but with an overwhelming sense of boredom. "i hope to god i never see her again," he said aloud. the only thing now was to leave the rooms, and he made up his mind to give notice the next morning. he could not afford to make good the damage done, and he had so little money left that he must find cheaper lodgings still. he would be glad to get out of them. the expense had worried him, and now the recollection of mildred would be in them always. philip was impatient and could never rest till he had put in action the plan which he had in mind; so on the following afternoon he got in a dealer in second-hand furniture who offered him three pounds for all his goods damaged and undamaged; and two days later he moved into the house opposite the hospital in which he had had rooms when first he became a medical student. the landlady was a very decent woman. he took a bed-room at the top, which she let him have for six shillings a week; it was small and shabby and looked on the yard of the house that backed on to it, but he had nothing now except his clothes and a box of books, and he was glad to lodge so cheaply. xcviii and now it happened that the fortunes of philip carey, of no consequence to any but himself, were affected by the events through which his country was passing. history was being made, and the process was so significant that it seemed absurd it should touch the life of an obscure medical student. battle after battle, magersfontein, colenso, spion kop, lost on the playing fields of eton, had humiliated the nation and dealt the death-blow to the prestige of the aristocracy and gentry who till then had found no one seriously to oppose their assertion that they possessed a natural instinct of government. the old order was being swept away: history was being made indeed. then the colossus put forth his strength, and, blundering again, at last blundered into the semblance of victory. cronje surrendered at paardeberg, ladysmith was relieved, and at the beginning of march lord roberts marched into bloemfontein. it was two or three days after the news of this reached london that macalister came into the tavern in beak street and announced joyfully that things were looking brighter on the stock exchange. peace was in sight, roberts would march into pretoria within a few weeks, and shares were going up already. there was bound to be a boom. "now's the time to come in," he told philip. "it's no good waiting till the public gets on to it. it's now or never." he had inside information. the manager of a mine in south africa had cabled to the senior partner of his firm that the plant was uninjured. they would start working again as soon as possible. it wasn't a speculation, it was an investment. to show how good a thing the senior partner thought it macalister told philip that he had bought five hundred shares for both his sisters: he never put them into anything that wasn't as safe as the bank of england. "i'm going to put my shirt on it myself," he said. the shares were two and an eighth to a quarter. he advised philip not to be greedy, but to be satisfied with a ten-shilling rise. he was buying three hundred for himself and suggested that philip should do the same. he would hold them and sell when he thought fit. philip had great faith in him, partly because he was a scotsman and therefore by nature cautious, and partly because he had been right before. he jumped at the suggestion. "i daresay we shall be able to sell before the account," said macalister, "but if not, i'll arrange to carry them over for you." it seemed a capital system to philip. you held on till you got your profit, and you never even had to put your hand in your pocket. he began to watch the stock exchange columns of the paper with new interest. next day everything was up a little, and macalister wrote to say that he had had to pay two and a quarter for the shares. he said that the market was firm. but in a day or two there was a set-back. the news that came from south africa was less reassuring, and philip with anxiety saw that his shares had fallen to two; but macalister was optimistic, the boers couldn't hold out much longer, and he was willing to bet a top-hat that roberts would march into johannesburg before the middle of april. at the account philip had to pay out nearly forty pounds. it worried him considerably, but he felt that the only course was to hold on: in his circumstances the loss was too great for him to pocket. for two or three weeks nothing happened; the boers would not understand that they were beaten and nothing remained for them but to surrender: in fact they had one or two small successes, and philip's shares fell half a crown more. it became evident that the war was not finished. there was a lot of selling. when macalister saw philip he was pessimistic. "i'm not sure if the best thing wouldn't be to cut the loss. i've been paying out about as much as i want to in differences." philip was sick with anxiety. he could not sleep at night; he bolted his breakfast, reduced now to tea and bread and butter, in order to get over to the club reading-room and see the paper; sometimes the news was bad, and sometimes there was no news at all, but when the shares moved it was to go down. he did not know what to do. if he sold now he would lose altogether hard on three hundred and fifty pounds; and that would leave him only eighty pounds to go on with. he wished with all his heart that he had never been such a fool as to dabble on the stock exchange, but the only thing was to hold on; something decisive might happen any day and the shares would go up; he did not hope now for a profit, but he wanted to make good his loss. it was his only chance of finishing his course at the hospital. the summer session was beginning in may, and at the end of it he meant to take the examination in midwifery. then he would only have a year more; he reckoned it out carefully and came to the conclusion that he could manage it, fees and all, on a hundred and fifty pounds; but that was the least it could possibly be done on. early in april he went to the tavern in beak street anxious to see macalister. it eased him a little to discuss the situation with him; and to realise that numerous people beside himself were suffering from loss of money made his own trouble a little less intolerable. but when philip arrived no one was there but hayward, and no sooner had philip seated himself than he said: "i'm sailing for the cape on sunday." "are you!" exclaimed philip. hayward was the last person he would have expected to do anything of the kind. at the hospital men were going out now in numbers; the government was glad to get anyone who was qualified; and others, going out as troopers, wrote home that they had been put on hospital work as soon as it was learned that they were medical students. a wave of patriotic feeling had swept over the country, and volunteers were coming from all ranks of society. "what are you going as?" asked philip. "oh, in the dorset yeomanry. i'm going as a trooper." philip had known hayward for eight years. the youthful intimacy which had come from philip's enthusiastic admiration for the man who could tell him of art and literature had long since vanished; but habit had taken its place; and when hayward was in london they saw one another once or twice a week. he still talked about books with a delicate appreciation. philip was not yet tolerant, and sometimes hayward's conversation irritated him. he no longer believed implicitly that nothing in the world was of consequence but art. he resented hayward's contempt for action and success. philip, stirring his punch, thought of his early friendship and his ardent expectation that hayward would do great things; it was long since he had lost all such illusions, and he knew now that hayward would never do anything but talk. he found his three hundred a year more difficult to live on now that he was thirty-five than he had when he was a young man; and his clothes, though still made by a good tailor, were worn a good deal longer than at one time he would have thought possible. he was too stout and no artful arrangement of his fair hair could conceal the fact that he was bald. his blue eyes were dull and pale. it was not hard to guess that he drank too much. "what on earth made you think of going out to the cape?" asked philip. "oh, i don't know, i thought i ought to." philip was silent. he felt rather silly. he understood that hayward was being driven by an uneasiness in his soul which he could not account for. some power within him made it seem necessary to go and fight for his country. it was strange, since he considered patriotism no more than a prejudice, and, flattering himself on his cosmopolitanism, he had looked upon england as a place of exile. his countrymen in the mass wounded his susceptibilities. philip wondered what it was that made people do things which were so contrary to all their theories of life. it would have been reasonable for hayward to stand aside and watch with a smile while the barbarians slaughtered one another. it looked as though men were puppets in the hands of an unknown force, which drove them to do this and that; and sometimes they used their reason to justify their actions; and when this was impossible they did the actions in despite of reason. "people are very extraordinary," said philip. "i should never have expected you to go out as a trooper." hayward smiled, slightly embarrassed, and said nothing. "i was examined yesterday," he remarked at last. "it was worth while undergoing the gene of it to know that one was perfectly fit." philip noticed that he still used a french word in an affected way when an english one would have served. but just then macalister came in. "i wanted to see you, carey," he said. "my people don't feel inclined to hold those shares any more, the market's in such an awful state, and they want you to take them up." philip's heart sank. he knew that was impossible. it meant that he must accept the loss. his pride made him answer calmly. "i don't know that i think that's worth while. you'd better sell them." "it's all very fine to say that, i'm not sure if i can. the market's stagnant, there are no buyers." "but they're marked down at one and an eighth." "oh yes, but that doesn't mean anything. you can't get that for them." philip did not say anything for a moment. he was trying to collect himself. "d'you mean to say they're worth nothing at all?" "oh, i don't say that. of course they're worth something, but you see, nobody's buying them now." "then you must just sell them for what you can get." macalister looked at philip narrowly. he wondered whether he was very hard hit. "i'm awfully sorry, old man, but we're all in the same boat. no one thought the war was going to hang on this way. i put you into them, but i was in myself too." "it doesn't matter at all," said philip. "one has to take one's chance." he moved back to the table from which he had got up to talk to macalister. he was dumfounded; his head suddenly began to ache furiously; but he did not want them to think him unmanly. he sat on for an hour. he laughed feverishly at everything they said. at last he got up to go. "you take it pretty coolly," said macalister, shaking hands with him. "i don't suppose anyone likes losing between three and four hundred pounds." when philip got back to his shabby little room he flung himself on his bed, and gave himself over to his despair. he kept on regretting his folly bitterly; and though he told himself that it was absurd to regret for what had happened was inevitable just because it had happened, he could not help himself. he was utterly miserable. he could not sleep. he remembered all the ways he had wasted money during the last few years. his head ached dreadfully. the following evening there came by the last post the statement of his account. he examined his pass-book. he found that when he had paid everything he would have seven pounds left. seven pounds! he was thankful he had been able to pay. it would have been horrible to be obliged to confess to macalister that he had not the money. he was dressing in the eye-department during the summer session, and he had bought an ophthalmoscope off a student who had one to sell. he had not paid for this, but he lacked the courage to tell the student that he wanted to go back on his bargain. also he had to buy certain books. he had about five pounds to go on with. it lasted him six weeks; then he wrote to his uncle a letter which he thought very business-like; he said that owing to the war he had had grave losses and could not go on with his studies unless his uncle came to his help. he suggested that the vicar should lend him a hundred and fifty pounds paid over the next eighteen months in monthly instalments; he would pay interest on this and promised to refund the capital by degrees when he began to earn money. he would be qualified in a year and a half at the latest, and he could be pretty sure then of getting an assistantship at three pounds a week. his uncle wrote back that he could do nothing. it was not fair to ask him to sell out when everything was at its worst, and the little he had he felt that his duty to himself made it necessary for him to keep in case of illness. he ended the letter with a little homily. he had warned philip time after time, and philip had never paid any attention to him; he could not honestly say he was surprised; he had long expected that this would be the end of philip's extravagance and want of balance. philip grew hot and cold when he read this. it had never occurred to him that his uncle would refuse, and he burst into furious anger; but this was succeeded by utter blankness: if his uncle would not help him he could not go on at the hospital. panic seized him and, putting aside his pride, he wrote again to the vicar of blackstable, placing the case before him more urgently; but perhaps he did not explain himself properly and his uncle did not realise in what desperate straits he was, for he answered that he could not change his mind; philip was twenty-five and really ought to be earning his living. when he died philip would come into a little, but till then he refused to give him a penny. philip felt in the letter the satisfaction of a man who for many years had disapproved of his courses and now saw himself justified. xcix philip began to pawn his clothes. he reduced his expenses by eating only one meal a day beside his breakfast; and he ate it, bread and butter and cocoa, at four so that it should last him till next morning. he was so hungry by nine o'clock that he had to go to bed. he thought of borrowing money from lawson, but the fear of a refusal held him back; at last he asked him for five pounds. lawson lent it with pleasure, but, as he did so, said: "you'll let me have it back in a week or so, won't you? i've got to pay my framer, and i'm awfully broke just now." philip knew he would not be able to return it, and the thought of what lawson would think made him so ashamed that in a couple of days he took the money back untouched. lawson was just going out to luncheon and asked philip to come too. philip could hardly eat, he was so glad to get some solid food. on sunday he was sure of a good dinner from athelny. he hesitated to tell the athelnys what had happened to him: they had always looked upon him as comparatively well-to-do, and he had a dread that they would think less well of him if they knew he was penniless. though he had always been poor, the possibility of not having enough to eat had never occurred to him; it was not the sort of thing that happened to the people among whom he lived; and he was as ashamed as if he had some disgraceful disease. the situation in which he found himself was quite outside the range of his experience. he was so taken aback that he did not know what else to do than to go on at the hospital; he had a vague hope that something would turn up; he could not quite believe that what was happening to him was true; and he remembered how during his first term at school he had often thought his life was a dream from which he would awake to find himself once more at home. but very soon he foresaw that in a week or so he would have no money at all. he must set about trying to earn something at once. if he had been qualified, even with a club-foot, he could have gone out to the cape, since the demand for medical men was now great. except for his deformity he might have enlisted in one of the yeomanry regiments which were constantly being sent out. he went to the secretary of the medical school and asked if he could give him the coaching of some backward student; but the secretary held out no hope of getting him anything of the sort. philip read the advertisement columns of the medical papers, and he applied for the post of unqualified assistant to a man who had a dispensary in the fulham road. when he went to see him, he saw the doctor glance at his club-foot; and on hearing that philip was only in his fourth year at the hospital he said at once that his experience was insufficient: philip understood that this was only an excuse; the man would not have an assistant who might not be as active as he wanted. philip turned his attention to other means of earning money. he knew french and german and thought there might be some chance of finding a job as correspondence clerk; it made his heart sink, but he set his teeth; there was nothing else to do. though too shy to answer the advertisements which demanded a personal application, he replied to those which asked for letters; but he had no experience to state and no recommendations: he was conscious that neither his german nor his french was commercial; he was ignorant of the terms used in business; he knew neither shorthand nor typewriting. he could not help recognising that his case was hopeless. he thought of writing to the solicitor who had been his father's executor, but he could not bring himself to, for it was contrary to his express advice that he had sold the mortgages in which his money had been invested. he knew from his uncle that mr. nixon thoroughly disapproved of him. he had gathered from philip's year in the accountant's office that he was idle and incompetent. "i'd sooner starve," philip muttered to himself. once or twice the possibility of suicide presented itself to him; it would be easy to get something from the hospital dispensary, and it was a comfort to think that if the worst came to the worst he had at hand means of making a painless end of himself; but it was not a course that he considered seriously. when mildred had left him to go with griffiths his anguish had been so great that he wanted to die in order to get rid of the pain. he did not feel like that now. he remembered that the casualty sister had told him how people oftener did away with themselves for want of money than for want of love; and he chuckled when he thought that he was an exception. he wished only that he could talk his worries over with somebody, but he could not bring himself to confess them. he was ashamed. he went on looking for work. he left his rent unpaid for three weeks, explaining to his landlady that he would get money at the end of the month; she did not say anything, but pursed her lips and looked grim. when the end of the month came and she asked if it would be convenient for him to pay something on account, it made him feel very sick to say that he could not; he told her he would write to his uncle and was sure to be able to settle his bill on the following saturday. "well, i 'ope you will, mr. carey, because i 'ave my rent to pay, and i can't afford to let accounts run on." she did not speak with anger, but with determination that was rather frightening. she paused for a moment and then said: "if you don't pay next saturday, i shall 'ave to complain to the secretary of the 'ospital." "oh yes, that'll be all right." she looked at him for a little and glanced round the bare room. when she spoke it was without any emphasis, as though it were quite a natural thing to say. "i've got a nice 'ot joint downstairs, and if you like to come down to the kitchen you're welcome to a bit of dinner." philip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet, and a sob caught at his throat. "thank you very much, mrs. higgins, but i'm not at all hungry." "very good, sir." when she left the room philip threw himself on his bed. he had to clench his fists in order to prevent himself from crying. c saturday. it was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady. he had been expecting something to turn up all through the week. he had found no work. he had never been driven to extremities before, and he was so dazed that he did not know what to do. he had at the back of his mind a feeling that the whole thing was a preposterous joke. he had no more than a few coppers left, he had sold all the clothes he could do without; he had some books and one or two odds and ends upon which he might have got a shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings and goings: he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything more from his room. the only thing was to tell her that he could not pay his bill. he had not the courage. it was the middle of june. the night was fine and warm. he made up his mind to stay out. he walked slowly along the chelsea embankment, because the river was restful and quiet, till he was tired, and then sat on a bench and dozed. he did not know how long he slept; he awoke with a start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and told to move on; but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. he walked on, he did not know why, and at last came to chiswick, where he slept again. presently the hardness of the bench roused him. the night seemed very long. he shivered. he was seized with a sense of his misery; and he did not know what on earth to do: he was ashamed at having slept on the embankment; it seemed peculiarly humiliating, and he felt his cheeks flush in the darkness. he remembered stories he had heard of those who did and how among them were officers, clergymen, and men who had been to universities: he wondered if he would become one of them, standing in a line to get soup from a charitable institution. it would be much better to commit suicide. he could not go on like that: lawson would help him when he knew what straits he was in; it was absurd to let his pride prevent him from asking for assistance. he wondered why he had come such a cropper. he had always tried to do what he thought best, and everything had gone wrong. he had helped people when he could, he did not think he had been more selfish than anyone else, it seemed horribly unjust that he should be reduced to such a pass. but it was no good thinking about it. he walked on. it was now light: the river was beautiful in the silence, and there was something mysterious in the early day; it was going to be very fine, and the sky, pale in the dawn, was cloudless. he felt very tired, and hunger was gnawing at his entrails, but he could not sit still; he was constantly afraid of being spoken to by a policeman. he dreaded the mortification of that. he felt dirty and wished he could have a wash. at last he found himself at hampton court. he felt that if he did not have something to eat he would cry. he chose a cheap eating-house and went in; there was a smell of hot things, and it made him feel slightly sick: he meant to eat something nourishing enough to keep up for the rest of the day, but his stomach revolted at the sight of food. he had a cup of tea and some bread and butter. he remembered then that it was sunday and he could go to the athelnys; he thought of the roast beef and the yorkshire pudding they would eat; but he was fearfully tired and could not face the happy, noisy family. he was feeling morose and wretched. he wanted to be left alone. he made up his mind that he would go into the gardens of the palace and lie down. his bones ached. perhaps he would find a pump so that he could wash his hands and face and drink something; he was very thirsty; and now that he was no longer hungry he thought with pleasure of the flowers and the lawns and the great leafy trees. he felt that there he could think out better what he must do. he lay on the grass, in the shade, and lit his pipe. for economy's sake he had for a long time confined himself to two pipes a day; he was thankful now that his pouch was full. he did not know what people did when they had no money. presently he fell asleep. when he awoke it was nearly mid-day, and he thought that soon he must be setting out for london so as to be there in the early morning and answer any advertisements which seemed to promise. he thought of his uncle, who had told him that he would leave him at his death the little he had; philip did not in the least know how much this was: it could not be more than a few hundred pounds. he wondered whether he could raise money on the reversion. not without the old man's consent, and that he would never give. "the only thing i can do is to hang on somehow till he dies." philip reckoned his age. the vicar of blackstable was well over seventy. he had chronic bronchitis, but many old men had that and lived on indefinitely. meanwhile something must turn up; philip could not get away from the feeling that his position was altogether abnormal; people in his particular station did not starve. it was because he could not bring himself to believe in the reality of his experience that he did not give way to utter despair. he made up his mind to borrow half a sovereign from lawson. he stayed in the garden all day and smoked when he felt very hungry; he did not mean to eat anything until he was setting out again for london: it was a long way and he must keep up his strength for that. he started when the day began to grow cooler, and slept on benches when he was tired. no one disturbed him. he had a wash and brush up, and a shave at victoria, some tea and bread and butter, and while he was eating this read the advertisement columns of the morning paper. as he looked down them his eye fell upon an announcement asking for a salesman in the 'furnishing drapery' department of some well-known stores. he had a curious little sinking of the heart, for with his middle-class prejudices it seemed dreadful to go into a shop; but he shrugged his shoulders, after all what did it matter? and he made up his mind to have a shot at it. he had a queer feeling that by accepting every humiliation, by going out to meet it even, he was forcing the hand of fate. when he presented himself, feeling horribly shy, in the department at nine o'clock he found that many others were there before him. they were of all ages, from boys of sixteen to men of forty; some were talking to one another in undertones, but most were silent; and when he took up his place those around him gave him a look of hostility. he heard one man say: "the only thing i look forward to is getting my refusal soon enough to give me time to look elsewhere." the man, standing next him, glanced at philip and asked: "had any experience?" "no," said philip. he paused a moment and then made a remark: "even the smaller houses won't see you without appointment after lunch." philip looked at the assistants. some were draping chintzes and cretonnes, and others, his neighbour told him were preparing country orders that had come in by post. at about a quarter past nine the buyer arrived. he heard one of the men who were waiting say to another that it was mr. gibbons. he was middle-aged, short and corpulent, with a black beard and dark, greasy hair. he had brisk movements and a clever face. he wore a silk hat and a frock coat, the lapel of which was adorned with a white geranium surrounded by leaves. he went into his office, leaving the door open; it was very small and contained only an american roll-desk in the corner, a bookcase, and a cupboard. the men standing outside watched him mechanically take the geranium out of his coat and put it in an ink-pot filled with water. it was against the rules to wear flowers in business. during the day the department men who wanted to keep in with the governor admired the flower. "i've never seen better," they said, "you didn't grow it yourself?" "yes i did," he smiled, and a gleam of pride filled his intelligent eyes. he took off his hat and changed his coat, glanced at the letters and then at the men who were waiting to see him. he made a slight sign with one finger, and the first in the queue stepped into the office. they filed past him one by one and answered his questions. he put them very briefly, keeping his eyes fixed on the applicant's face. "age? experience? why did you leave your job?" he listened to the replies without expression. when it came to philip's turn he fancied that mr. gibbons stared at him curiously. philip's clothes were neat and tolerably cut. he looked a little different from the others. "experience?" "i'm afraid i haven't any," said philip. "no good." philip walked out of the office. the ordeal had been so much less painful than he expected that he felt no particular disappointment. he could hardly hope to succeed in getting a place the first time he tried. he had kept the newspaper and now looked at the advertisements again: a shop in holborn needed a salesman too, and he went there; but when he arrived he found that someone had already been engaged. if he wanted to get anything to eat that day he must go to lawson's studio before he went out to luncheon, so he made his way along the brompton road to yeoman's row. "i say, i'm rather broke till the end of the month," he said as soon as he found an opportunity. "i wish you'd lend me half a sovereign, will you?" it was incredible the difficulty he found in asking for money; and he remembered the casual way, as though almost they were conferring a favour, men at the hospital had extracted small sums out of him which they had no intention of repaying. "like a shot," said lawson. but when he put his hand in his pocket he found that he had only eight shillings. philip's heart sank. "oh well, lend me five bob, will you?" he said lightly. "here you are." philip went to the public baths in westminster and spent sixpence on a bath. then he got himself something to eat. he did not know what to do with himself in the afternoon. he would not go back to the hospital in case anyone should ask him questions, and besides, he had nothing to do there now; they would wonder in the two or three departments he had worked in why he did not come, but they must think what they chose, it did not matter: he would not be the first student who had dropped out without warning. he went to the free library, and looked at the papers till they wearied him, then he took out stevenson's new arabian nights; but he found he could not read: the words meant nothing to him, and he continued to brood over his helplessness. he kept on thinking the same things all the time, and the fixity of his thoughts made his head ache. at last, craving for fresh air, he went into the green park and lay down on the grass. he thought miserably of his deformity, which made it impossible for him to go to the war. he went to sleep and dreamt that he was suddenly sound of foot and out at the cape in a regiment of yeomanry; the pictures he had looked at in the illustrated papers gave materials for his fancy; and he saw himself on the veldt, in khaki, sitting with other men round a fire at night. when he awoke he found that it was still quite light, and presently he heard big ben strike seven. he had twelve hours to get through with nothing to do. he dreaded the interminable night. the sky was overcast and he feared it would rain; he would have to go to a lodging-house where he could get a bed; he had seen them advertised on lamps outside houses in lambeth: good beds sixpence; he had never been inside one, and dreaded the foul smell and the vermin. he made up his mind to stay in the open air if he possibly could. he remained in the park till it was closed and then began to walk about. he was very tired. the thought came to him that an accident would be a piece of luck, so that he could be taken to a hospital and lie there, in a clean bed, for weeks. at midnight he was so hungry that he could not go without food any more, so he went to a coffee stall at hyde park corner and ate a couple of potatoes and had a cup of coffee. then he walked again. he felt too restless to sleep, and he had a horrible dread of being moved on by the police. he noted that he was beginning to look upon the constable from quite a new angle. this was the third night he had spent out. now and then he sat on the benches in piccadilly and towards morning he strolled down to the embankment. he listened to the striking of big ben, marking every quarter of an hour, and reckoned out how long it left till the city woke again. in the morning he spent a few coppers on making himself neat and clean, bought a paper to read the advertisements, and set out once more on the search for work. he went on in this way for several days. he had very little food and began to feel weak and ill, so that he had hardly enough energy to go on looking for the work which seemed so desperately hard to find. he was growing used now to the long waiting at the back of a shop on the chance that he would be taken on, and the curt dismissal. he walked to all parts of london in answer to the advertisements, and he came to know by sight men who applied as fruitlessly as himself. one or two tried to make friends with him, but he was too tired and too wretched to accept their advances. he did not go any more to lawson, because he owed him five shillings. he began to be too dazed to think clearly and ceased very much to care what would happen to him. he cried a good deal. at first he was very angry with himself for this and ashamed, but he found it relieved him, and somehow made him feel less hungry. in the very early morning he suffered a good deal from cold. one night he went into his room to change his linen; he slipped in about three, when he was quite sure everyone would be asleep, and out again at five; he lay on the bed and its softness was enchanting; all his bones ached, and as he lay he revelled in the pleasure of it; it was so delicious that he did not want to go to sleep. he was growing used to want of food and did not feel very hungry, but only weak. constantly now at the back of his mind was the thought of doing away with himself, but he used all the strength he had not to dwell on it, because he was afraid the temptation would get hold of him so that he would not be able to help himself. he kept on saying to himself that it would be absurd to commit suicide, since something must happen soon; he could not get over the impression that his situation was too preposterous to be taken quite seriously; it was like an illness which must be endured but from which he was bound to recover. every night he swore that nothing would induce him to put up with such another and determined next morning to write to his uncle, or to mr. nixon, the solicitor, or to lawson; but when the time came he could not bring himself to make the humiliating confession of his utter failure. he did not know how lawson would take it. in their friendship lawson had been scatter-brained and he had prided himself on his common sense. he would have to tell the whole history of his folly. he had an uneasy feeling that lawson, after helping him, would turn the cold shoulder on him. his uncle and the solicitor would of course do something for him, but he dreaded their reproaches. he did not want anyone to reproach him: he clenched his teeth and repeated that what had happened was inevitable just because it had happened. regret was absurd. the days were unending, and the five shillings lawson had lent him would not last much longer. philip longed for sunday to come so that he could go to athelny's. he did not know what prevented him from going there sooner, except perhaps that he wanted so badly to get through on his own; for athelny, who had been in straits as desperate, was the only person who could do anything for him. perhaps after dinner he could bring himself to tell athelny that he was in difficulties. philip repeated to himself over and over again what he should say to him. he was dreadfully afraid that athelny would put him off with airy phrases: that would be so horrible that he wanted to delay as long as possible the putting of him to the test. philip had lost all confidence in his fellows. saturday night was cold and raw. philip suffered horribly. from midday on saturday till he dragged himself wearily to athelny's house he ate nothing. he spent his last twopence on sunday morning on a wash and a brush up in the lavatory at charing cross. ci when philip rang a head was put out of the window, and in a minute he heard a noisy clatter on the stairs as the children ran down to let him in. it was a pale, anxious, thin face that he bent down for them to kiss. he was so moved by their exuberant affection that, to give himself time to recover, he made excuses to linger on the stairs. he was in a hysterical state and almost anything was enough to make him cry. they asked him why he had not come on the previous sunday, and he told them he had been ill; they wanted to know what was the matter with him; and philip, to amuse them, suggested a mysterious ailment, the name of which, double-barrelled and barbarous with its mixture of greek and latin (medical nomenclature bristled with such), made them shriek with delight. they dragged philip into the parlour and made him repeat it for their father's edification. athelny got up and shook hands with him. he stared at philip, but with his round, bulging eyes he always seemed to stare, philip did not know why on this occasion it made him self-conscious. "we missed you last sunday," he said. philip could never tell lies without embarrassment, and he was scarlet when he finished his explanation for not coming. then mrs. athelny entered and shook hands with him. "i hope you're better, mr. carey," she said. he did not know why she imagined that anything had been the matter with him, for the kitchen door was closed when he came up with the children, and they had not left him. "dinner won't be ready for another ten minutes," she said, in her slow drawl. "won't you have an egg beaten up in a glass of milk while you're waiting?" there was a look of concern on her face which made philip uncomfortable. he forced a laugh and answered that he was not at all hungry. sally came in to lay the table, and philip began to chaff her. it was the family joke that she would be as fat as an aunt of mrs. athelny, called aunt elizabeth, whom the children had never seen but regarded as the type of obscene corpulence. "i say, what has happened since i saw you last, sally?" philip began. "nothing that i know of." "i believe you've been putting on weight." "i'm sure you haven't," she retorted. "you're a perfect skeleton." philip reddened. "that's a tu quoque, sally," cried her father. "you will be fined one golden hair of your head. jane, fetch the shears." "well, he is thin, father," remonstrated sally. "he's just skin and bone." "that's not the question, child. he is at perfect liberty to be thin, but your obesity is contrary to decorum." as he spoke he put his arm proudly round her waist and looked at her with admiring eyes. "let me get on with the table, father. if i am comfortable there are some who don't seem to mind it." "the hussy!" cried athelny, with a dramatic wave of the hand. "she taunts me with the notorious fact that joseph, a son of levi who sells jewels in holborn, has made her an offer of marriage." "have you accepted him, sally?" asked philip. "don't you know father better than that by this time? there's not a word of truth in it." "well, if he hasn't made you an offer of marriage," cried athelny, "by saint george and merry england, i will seize him by the nose and demand of him immediately what are his intentions." "sit down, father, dinner's ready. now then, you children, get along with you and wash your hands all of you, and don't shirk it, because i mean to look at them before you have a scrap of dinner, so there." philip thought he was ravenous till he began to eat, but then discovered that his stomach turned against food, and he could eat hardly at all. his brain was weary; and he did not notice that athelny, contrary to his habit, spoke very little. philip was relieved to be sitting in a comfortable house, but every now and then he could not prevent himself from glancing out of the window. the day was tempestuous. the fine weather had broken; and it was cold, and there was a bitter wind; now and again gusts of rain drove against the window. philip wondered what he should do that night. the athelnys went to bed early, and he could not stay where he was after ten o'clock. his heart sank at the thought of going out into the bleak darkness. it seemed more terrible now that he was with his friends than when he was outside and alone. he kept on saying to himself that there were plenty more who would be spending the night out of doors. he strove to distract his mind by talking, but in the middle of his words a spatter of rain against the window would make him start. "it's like march weather," said athelny. "not the sort of day one would like to be crossing the channel." presently they finished, and sally came in and cleared away. "would you like a twopenny stinker?" said athelny, handing him a cigar. philip took it and inhaled the smoke with delight. it soothed him extraordinarily. when sally had finished athelny told her to shut the door after her. "now we shan't be disturbed," he said, turning to philip. "i've arranged with betty not to let the children come in till i call them." philip gave him a startled look, but before he could take in the meaning of his words, athelny, fixing his glasses on his nose with the gesture habitual to him, went on. "i wrote to you last sunday to ask if anything was the matter with you, and as you didn't answer i went to your rooms on wednesday." philip turned his head away and did not answer. his heart began to beat violently. athelny did not speak, and presently the silence seemed intolerable to philip. he could not think of a single word to say. "your landlady told me you hadn't been in since saturday night, and she said you owed her for the last month. where have you been sleeping all this week?" it made philip sick to answer. he stared out of the window. "nowhere." "i tried to find you." "why?" asked philip. "betty and i have been just as broke in our day, only we had babies to look after. why didn't you come here?" "i couldn't." philip was afraid he was going to cry. he felt very weak. he shut his eyes and frowned, trying to control himself. he felt a sudden flash of anger with athelny because he would not leave him alone; but he was broken; and presently, his eyes still closed, slowly in order to keep his voice steady, he told him the story of his adventures during the last few weeks. as he spoke it seemed to him that he had behaved inanely, and it made it still harder to tell. he felt that athelny would think him an utter fool. "now you're coming to live with us till you find something to do," said athelny, when he had finished. philip flushed, he knew not why. "oh, it's awfully kind of you, but i don't think i'll do that." "why not?" philip did not answer. he had refused instinctively from fear that he would be a bother, and he had a natural bashfulness of accepting favours. he knew besides that the athelnys lived from hand to mouth, and with their large family had neither space nor money to entertain a stranger. "of course you must come here," said athelny. "thorpe will tuck in with one of his brothers and you can sleep in his bed. you don't suppose your food's going to make any difference to us." philip was afraid to speak, and athelny, going to the door, called his wife. "betty," he said, when she came in, "mr. carey's coming to live with us." "oh, that is nice," she said. "i'll go and get the bed ready." she spoke in such a hearty, friendly tone, taking everything for granted, that philip was deeply touched. he never expected people to be kind to him, and when they were it surprised and moved him. now he could not prevent two large tears from rolling down his cheeks. the athelnys discussed the arrangements and pretended not to notice to what a state his weakness had brought him. when mrs. athelny left them philip leaned back in his chair, and looking out of the window laughed a little. "it's not a very nice night to be out, is it?" cii athelny told philip that he could easily get him something to do in the large firm of linendrapers in which himself worked. several of the assistants had gone to the war, and lynn and sedley with patriotic zeal had promised to keep their places open for them. they put the work of the heroes on those who remained, and since they did not increase the wages of these were able at once to exhibit public spirit and effect an economy; but the war continued and trade was less depressed; the holidays were coming, when numbers of the staff went away for a fortnight at a time: they were bound to engage more assistants. philip's experience had made him doubtful whether even then they would engage him; but athelny, representing himself as a person of consequence in the firm, insisted that the manager could refuse him nothing. philip, with his training in paris, would be very useful; it was only a matter of waiting a little and he was bound to get a well-paid job to design costumes and draw posters. philip made a poster for the summer sale and athelny took it away. two days later he brought it back, saying that the manager admired it very much and regretted with all his heart that there was no vacancy just then in that department. philip asked whether there was nothing else he could do. "i'm afraid not." "are you quite sure?" "well, the fact is they're advertising for a shop-walker tomorrow," said athelny, looking at him doubtfully through his glasses. "d'you think i stand any chance of getting it?" athelny was a little confused; he had led philip to expect something much more splendid; on the other hand he was too poor to go on providing him indefinitely with board and lodging. "you might take it while you wait for something better. you always stand a better chance if you're engaged by the firm already." "i'm not proud, you know," smiled philip. "if you decide on that you must be there at a quarter to nine tomorrow morning." notwithstanding the war there was evidently much difficulty in finding work, for when philip went to the shop many men were waiting already. he recognised some whom he had seen in his own searching, and there was one whom he had noticed lying about the park in the afternoon. to philip now that suggested that he was as homeless as himself and passed the night out of doors. the men were of all sorts, old and young, tall and short; but every one had tried to make himself smart for the interview with the manager: they had carefully brushed hair and scrupulously clean hands. they waited in a passage which philip learnt afterwards led up to the dining-hall and the work rooms; it was broken every few yards by five or six steps. though there was electric light in the shop here was only gas, with wire cages over it for protection, and it flared noisily. philip arrived punctually, but it was nearly ten o'clock when he was admitted into the office. it was three-cornered, like a cut of cheese lying on its side: on the walls were pictures of women in corsets, and two poster-proofs, one of a man in pyjamas, green and white in large stripes, and the other of a ship in full sail ploughing an azure sea: on the sail was printed in large letters 'great white sale.' the widest side of the office was the back of one of the shop-windows, which was being dressed at the time, and an assistant went to and fro during the interview. the manager was reading a letter. he was a florid man, with sandy hair and a large sandy moustache; from the middle of his watch-chain hung a bunch of football medals. he sat in his shirt sleeves at a large desk with a telephone by his side; before him were the day's advertisements, athelny's work, and cuttings from newspapers pasted on a card. he gave philip a glance but did not speak to him; he dictated a letter to the typist, a girl who sat at a small table in one corner; then he asked philip his name, age, and what experience he had had. he spoke with a cockney twang in a high, metallic voice which he seemed not able always to control; philip noticed that his upper teeth were large and protruding; they gave you the impression that they were loose and would come out if you gave them a sharp tug. "i think mr. athelny has spoken to you about me," said philip. "oh, you are the young feller who did that poster?" "yes, sir." "no good to us, you know, not a bit of good." he looked philip up and down. he seemed to notice that philip was in some way different from the men who had preceded him. "you'd 'ave to get a frock coat, you know. i suppose you 'aven't got one. you seem a respectable young feller. i suppose you found art didn't pay." philip could not tell whether he meant to engage him or not. he threw remarks at him in a hostile way. "where's your home?" "my father and mother died when i was a child." "i like to give young fellers a chance. many's the one i've given their chance to and they're managers of departments now. and they're grateful to me, i'll say that for them. they know what i done for them. start at the bottom of the ladder, that's the only way to learn the business, and then if you stick to it there's no knowing what it can lead to. if you suit, one of these days you may find yourself in a position like what mine is. bear that in mind, young feller." "i'm very anxious to do my best, sir," said philip. he knew that he must put in the sir whenever he could, but it sounded odd to him, and he was afraid of overdoing it. the manager liked talking. it gave him a happy consciousness of his own importance, and he did not give philip his decision till he had used a great many words. "well, i daresay you'll do," he said at last, in a pompous way. "anyhow i don't mind giving you a trial." "thank you very much, sir." "you can start at once. i'll give you six shillings a week and your keep. everything found, you know; the six shillings is only pocket money, to do what you like with, paid monthly. start on monday. i suppose you've got no cause of complaint with that." "no, sir." "harrington street, d'you know where that is, shaftesbury avenue. that's where you sleep. number ten, it is. you can sleep there on sunday night, if you like; that's just as you please, or you can send your box there on monday." the manager nodded: "good-morning." ciii mrs. athelny lent philip money to pay his landlady enough of her bill to let him take his things away. for five shillings and the pawn-ticket on a suit he was able to get from a pawnbroker a frock coat which fitted him fairly well. he redeemed the rest of his clothes. he sent his box to harrington street by carter patterson and on monday morning went with athelny to the shop. athelny introduced him to the buyer of the costumes and left him. the buyer was a pleasant, fussy little man of thirty, named sampson; he shook hands with philip, and, in order to show his own accomplishment of which he was very proud, asked him if he spoke french. he was surprised when philip told him he did. "any other language?" "i speak german." "oh! i go over to paris myself occasionally. parlez-vous francais? ever been to maxim's?" philip was stationed at the top of the stairs in the 'costumes.' his work consisted in directing people to the various departments. there seemed a great many of them as mr. sampson tripped them off his tongue. suddenly he noticed that philip limped. "what's the matter with your leg?" he asked. "i've got a club-foot," said philip. "but it doesn't prevent my walking or anything like that." the buyer looked at it for a moment doubtfully, and philip surmised that he was wondering why the manager had engaged him. philip knew that he had not noticed there was anything the matter with him. "i don't expect you to get them all correct the first day. if you're in any doubt all you've got to do is to ask one of the young ladies." mr. sampson turned away; and philip, trying to remember where this or the other department was, watched anxiously for the customer in search of information. at one o'clock he went up to dinner. the dining-room, on the top floor of the vast building, was large, long, and well lit; but all the windows were shut to keep out the dust, and there was a horrid smell of cooking. there were long tables covered with cloths, with big glass bottles of water at intervals, and down the centre salt cellars and bottles of vinegar. the assistants crowded in noisily, and sat down on forms still warm from those who had dined at twelve-thirty. "no pickles," remarked the man next to philip. he was a tall thin young man, with a hooked nose and a pasty face; he had a long head, unevenly shaped as though the skull had been pushed in here and there oddly, and on his forehead and neck were large acne spots red and inflamed. his name was harris. philip discovered that on some days there were large soup-plates down the table full of mixed pickles. they were very popular. there were no knives and forks, but in a minute a large fat boy in a white coat came in with a couple of handfuls of them and threw them loudly on the middle of the table. each man took what he wanted; they were warm and greasy from recent washing in dirty water. plates of meat swimming in gravy were handed round by boys in white jackets, and as they flung each plate down with the quick gesture of a prestidigitator the gravy slopped over on to the table-cloth. then they brought large dishes of cabbages and potatoes; the sight of them turned philip's stomach; he noticed that everyone poured quantities of vinegar over them. the noise was awful. they talked and laughed and shouted, and there was the clatter of knives and forks, and strange sounds of eating. philip was glad to get back into the department. he was beginning to remember where each one was, and had less often to ask one of the assistants, when somebody wanted to know the way. "first to the right. second on the left, madam." one or two of the girls spoke to him, just a word when things were slack, and he felt they were taking his measure. at five he was sent up again to the dining-room for tea. he was glad to sit down. there were large slices of bread heavily spread with butter; and many had pots of jam, which were kept in the 'store' and had their names written on. philip was exhausted when work stopped at half past six. harris, the man he had sat next to at dinner, offered to take him over to harrington street to show him where he was to sleep. he told philip there was a spare bed in his room, and, as the other rooms were full, he expected philip would be put there. the house in harrington street had been a bootmaker's; and the shop was used as a bed-room; but it was very dark, since the window had been boarded three parts up, and as this did not open the only ventilation came from a small skylight at the far end. there was a musty smell, and philip was thankful that he would not have to sleep there. harris took him up to the sitting-room, which was on the first floor; it had an old piano in it with a keyboard that looked like a row of decayed teeth; and on the table in a cigar-box without a lid was a set of dominoes; old numbers of the strand magazine and of the graphic were lying about. the other rooms were used as bed-rooms. that in which philip was to sleep was at the top of the house. there were six beds in it, and a trunk or a box stood by the side of each. the only furniture was a chest of drawers: it had four large drawers and two small ones, and philip as the new-comer had one of these; there were keys to them, but as they were all alike they were not of much use, and harris advised him to keep his valuables in his trunk. there was a looking-glass on the chimney-piece. harris showed philip the lavatory, which was a fairly large room with eight basins in a row, and here all the inmates did their washing. it led into another room in which were two baths, discoloured, the woodwork stained with soap; and in them were dark rings at various intervals which indicated the water marks of different baths. when harris and philip went back to their bed-room they found a tall man changing his clothes and a boy of sixteen whistling as loud as he could while he brushed his hair. in a minute or two without saying a word to anybody the tall man went out. harris winked at the boy, and the boy, whistling still, winked back. harris told philip that the man was called prior; he had been in the army and now served in the silks; he kept pretty much to himself, and he went off every night, just like that, without so much as a good-evening, to see his girl. harris went out too, and only the boy remained to watch philip curiously while he unpacked his things. his name was bell and he was serving his time for nothing in the haberdashery. he was much interested in philip's evening clothes. he told him about the other men in the room and asked him every sort of question about himself. he was a cheerful youth, and in the intervals of conversation sang in a half-broken voice snatches of music-hall songs. when philip had finished he went out to walk about the streets and look at the crowd; occasionally he stopped outside the doors of restaurants and watched the people going in; he felt hungry, so he bought a bath bun and ate it while he strolled along. he had been given a latch-key by the prefect, the man who turned out the gas at a quarter past eleven, but afraid of being locked out he returned in good time; he had learned already the system of fines: you had to pay a shilling if you came in after eleven, and half a crown after a quarter past, and you were reported besides: if it happened three times you were dismissed. all but the soldier were in when philip arrived and two were already in bed. philip was greeted with cries. "oh, clarence! naughty boy!" he discovered that bell had dressed up the bolster in his evening clothes. the boy was delighted with his joke. "you must wear them at the social evening, clarence." "he'll catch the belle of lynn's, if he's not careful." philip had already heard of the social evenings, for the money stopped from the wages to pay for them was one of the grievances of the staff. it was only two shillings a month, and it covered medical attendance and the use of a library of worn novels; but as four shillings a month besides was stopped for washing, philip discovered that a quarter of his six shillings a week would never be paid to him. most of the men were eating thick slices of fat bacon between a roll of bread cut in two. these sandwiches, the assistants' usual supper, were supplied by a small shop a few doors off at twopence each. the soldier rolled in; silently, rapidly, took off his clothes and threw himself into bed. at ten minutes past eleven the gas gave a big jump and five minutes later went out. the soldier went to sleep, but the others crowded round the big window in their pyjamas and night-shirts and, throwing remains of their sandwiches at the women who passed in the street below, shouted to them facetious remarks. the house opposite, six storeys high, was a workshop for jewish tailors who left off work at eleven; the rooms were brightly lit and there were no blinds to the windows. the sweater's daughter--the family consisted of father, mother, two small boys, and a girl of twenty--went round the house to put out the lights when work was over, and sometimes she allowed herself to be made love to by one of the tailors. the shop assistants in philip's room got a lot of amusement out of watching the manoeuvres of one man or another to stay behind, and they made small bets on which would succeed. at midnight the people were turned out of the harrington arms at the end of the street, and soon after they all went to bed: bell, who slept nearest the door, made his way across the room by jumping from bed to bed, and even when he got to his own would not stop talking. at last everything was silent but for the steady snoring of the soldier, and philip went to sleep. he was awaked at seven by the loud ringing of a bell, and by a quarter to eight they were all dressed and hurrying downstairs in their stockinged feet to pick out their boots. they laced them as they ran along to the shop in oxford street for breakfast. if they were a minute later than eight they got none, nor, once in, were they allowed out to get themselves anything to eat. sometimes, if they knew they could not get into the building in time, they stopped at the little shop near their quarters and bought a couple of buns; but this cost money, and most went without food till dinner. philip ate some bread and butter, drank a cup of tea, and at half past eight began his day's work again. "first to the right. second on the left, madam." soon he began to answer the questions quite mechanically. the work was monotonous and very tiring. after a few days his feet hurt him so that he could hardly stand: the thick soft carpets made them burn, and at night his socks were painful to remove. it was a common complaint, and his fellow 'floormen' told him that socks and boots just rotted away from the continual sweating. all the men in his room suffered in the same fashion, and they relieved the pain by sleeping with their feet outside the bed-clothes. at first philip could not walk at all and was obliged to spend a good many of his evenings in the sitting-room at harrington street with his feet in a pail of cold water. his companion on these occasions was bell, the lad in the haberdashery, who stayed in often to arrange the stamps he collected. as he fastened them with little pieces of stamp-paper he whistled monotonously. civ the social evenings took place on alternate mondays. there was one at the beginning of philip's second week at lynn's. he arranged to go with one of the women in his department. "meet 'em 'alf-way," she said, "same as i do." this was mrs. hodges, a little woman of five-and-forty, with badly dyed hair; she had a yellow face with a network of small red veins all over it, and yellow whites to her pale blue eyes. she took a fancy to philip and called him by his christian name before he had been in the shop a week. "we've both known what it is to come down," she said. she told philip that her real name was not hodges, but she always referred to "me 'usband misterodges;" he was a barrister and he treated her simply shocking, so she left him as she preferred to be independent like; but she had known what it was to drive in her own carriage, dear--she called everyone dear--and they always had late dinner at home. she used to pick her teeth with the pin of an enormous silver brooch. it was in the form of a whip and a hunting-crop crossed, with two spurs in the middle. philip was ill at ease in his new surroundings, and the girls in the shop called him 'sidey.' one addressed him as phil, and he did not answer because he had not the least idea that she was speaking to him; so she tossed her head, saying he was a 'stuck-up thing,' and next time with ironical emphasis called him mister carey. she was a miss jewell, and she was going to marry a doctor. the other girls had never seen him, but they said he must be a gentleman as he gave her such lovely presents. "never you mind what they say, dear," said mrs. hodges. "i've 'ad to go through it same as you 'ave. they don't know any better, poor things. you take my word for it, they'll like you all right if you 'old your own same as i 'ave." the social evening was held in the restaurant in the basement. the tables were put on one side so that there might be room for dancing, and smaller ones were set out for progressive whist. "the 'eads 'ave to get there early," said mrs. hodges. she introduced him to miss bennett, who was the belle of lynn's. she was the buyer in the 'petticoats,' and when philip entered was engaged in conversation with the buyer in the 'gentlemen's hosiery;' miss bennett was a woman of massive proportions, with a very large red face heavily powdered and a bust of imposing dimensions; her flaxen hair was arranged with elaboration. she was overdressed, but not badly dressed, in black with a high collar, and she wore black glace gloves, in which she played cards; she had several heavy gold chains round her neck, bangles on her wrists, and circular photograph pendants, one being of queen alexandra; she carried a black satin bag and chewed sen-sens. "please to meet you, mr. carey," she said. "this is your first visit to our social evenings, ain't it? i expect you feel a bit shy, but there's no cause to, i promise you that." she did her best to make people feel at home. she slapped them on the shoulders and laughed a great deal. "ain't i a pickle?" she cried, turning to philip. "what must you think of me? but i can't 'elp meself." those who were going to take part in the social evening came in, the younger members of the staff mostly, boys who had not girls of their own, and girls who had not yet found anyone to walk with. several of the young gentlemen wore lounge suits with white evening ties and red silk handkerchiefs; they were going to perform, and they had a busy, abstracted air; some were self-confident, but others were nervous, and they watched their public with an anxious eye. presently a girl with a great deal of hair sat at the piano and ran her hands noisily across the keyboard. when the audience had settled itself she looked round and gave the name of her piece. "a drive in russia." there was a round of clapping during which she deftly fixed bells to her wrists. she smiled a little and immediately burst into energetic melody. there was a great deal more clapping when she finished, and when this was over, as an encore, she gave a piece which imitated the sea; there were little trills to represent the lapping waves and thundering chords, with the loud pedal down, to suggest a storm. after this a gentleman sang a song called bid me good-bye, and as an encore obliged with sing me to sleep. the audience measured their enthusiasm with a nice discrimination. everyone was applauded till he gave an encore, and so that there might be no jealousy no one was applauded more than anyone else. miss bennett sailed up to philip. "i'm sure you play or sing, mr. carey," she said archly. "i can see it in your face." "i'm afraid i don't." "don't you even recite?" "i have no parlour tricks." the buyer in the 'gentleman's hosiery' was a well-known reciter, and he was called upon loudly to perform by all the assistants in his department. needing no pressing, he gave a long poem of tragic character, in which he rolled his eyes, put his hand on his chest, and acted as though he were in great agony. the point, that he had eaten cucumber for supper, was divulged in the last line and was greeted with laughter, a little forced because everyone knew the poem well, but loud and long. miss bennett did not sing, play, or recite. "oh no, she 'as a little game of her own," said mrs. hodges. "now, don't you begin chaffing me. the fact is i know quite a lot about palmistry and second sight." "oh, do tell my 'and, miss bennett," cried the girls in her department, eager to please her. "i don't like telling 'ands, i don't really. i've told people such terrible things and they've all come true, it makes one superstitious like." "oh, miss bennett, just for once." a little crowd collected round her, and, amid screams of embarrassment, giggles, blushings, and cries of dismay or admiration, she talked mysteriously of fair and dark men, of money in a letter, and of journeys, till the sweat stood in heavy beads on her painted face. "look at me," she said. "i'm all of a perspiration." supper was at nine. there were cakes, buns, sandwiches, tea and coffee, all free; but if you wanted mineral water you had to pay for it. gallantry often led young men to offer the ladies ginger beer, but common decency made them refuse. miss bennett was very fond of ginger beer, and she drank two and sometimes three bottles during the evening; but she insisted on paying for them herself. the men liked her for that. "she's a rum old bird," they said, "but mind you, she's not a bad sort, she's not like what some are." after supper progressive whist was played. this was very noisy, and there was a great deal of laughing and shouting, as people moved from table to table. miss bennett grew hotter and hotter. "look at me," she said. "i'm all of a perspiration." in due course one of the more dashing of the young men remarked that if they wanted to dance they'd better begin. the girl who had played the accompaniments sat at the piano and placed a decided foot on the loud pedal. she played a dreamy waltz, marking the time with the bass, while with the right hand she 'tiddled' in alternate octaves. by way of a change she crossed her hands and played the air in the bass. "she does play well, doesn't she?" mrs. hodges remarked to philip. "and what's more she's never 'ad a lesson in 'er life; it's all ear." miss bennett liked dancing and poetry better than anything in the world. she danced well, but very, very slowly, and an expression came into her eyes as though her thoughts were far, far away. she talked breathlessly of the floor and the heat and the supper. she said that the portman rooms had the best floor in london and she always liked the dances there; they were very select, and she couldn't bear dancing with all sorts of men you didn't know anything about; why, you might be exposing yourself to you didn't know what all. nearly all the people danced very well, and they enjoyed themselves. sweat poured down their faces, and the very high collars of the young men grew limp. philip looked on, and a greater depression seized him than he remembered to have felt for a long time. he felt intolerably alone. he did not go, because he was afraid to seem supercilious, and he talked with the girls and laughed, but in his heart was unhappiness. miss bennett asked him if he had a girl. "no," he smiled. "oh, well, there's plenty to choose from here. and they're very nice respectable girls, some of them. i expect you'll have a girl before you've been here long." she looked at him very archly. "meet 'em 'alf-way," said mrs. hodges. "that's what i tell him." it was nearly eleven o'clock, and the party broke up. philip could not get to sleep. like the others he kept his aching feet outside the bed-clothes. he tried with all his might not to think of the life he was leading. the soldier was snoring quietly. cv the wages were paid once a month by the secretary. on pay-day each batch of assistants, coming down from tea, went into the passage and joined the long line of people waiting orderly like the audience in a queue outside a gallery door. one by one they entered the office. the secretary sat at a desk with wooden bowls of money in front of him, and he asked the employe's name; he referred to a book, quickly, after a suspicious glance at the assistant, said aloud the sum due, and taking money out of the bowl counted it into his hand. "thank you," he said. "next." "thank you," was the reply. the assistant passed on to the second secretary and before leaving the room paid him four shillings for washing money, two shillings for the club, and any fines that he might have incurred. with what he had left he went back into his department and there waited till it was time to go. most of the men in philip's house were in debt with the woman who sold the sandwiches they generally ate for supper. she was a funny old thing, very fat, with a broad, red face, and black hair plastered neatly on each side of the forehead in the fashion shown in early pictures of queen victoria. she always wore a little black bonnet and a white apron; her sleeves were tucked up to the elbow; she cut the sandwiches with large, dirty, greasy hands; and there was grease on her bodice, grease on her apron, grease on her skirt. she was called mrs. fletcher, but everyone addressed her as 'ma'; she was really fond of the shop assistants, whom she called her boys; she never minded giving credit towards the end of the month, and it was known that now and then she had lent someone or other a few shillings when he was in straits. she was a good woman. when they were leaving or when they came back from the holidays, the boys kissed her fat red cheek; and more than one, dismissed and unable to find another job, had got for nothing food to keep body and soul together. the boys were sensible of her large heart and repaid her with genuine affection. there was a story they liked to tell of a man who had done well for himself at bradford, and had five shops of his own, and had come back after fifteen years and visited ma fletcher and given her a gold watch. philip found himself with eighteen shillings left out of his month's pay. it was the first money he had ever earned in his life. it gave him none of the pride which might have been expected, but merely a feeling of dismay. the smallness of the sum emphasised the hopelessness of his position. he took fifteen shillings to mrs. athelny to pay back part of what he owed her, but she would not take more than half a sovereign. "d'you know, at that rate it'll take me eight months to settle up with you." "as long as athelny's in work i can afford to wait, and who knows, p'raps they'll give you a rise." athelny kept on saying that he would speak to the manager about philip, it was absurd that no use should be made of his talents; but he did nothing, and philip soon came to the conclusion that the press-agent was not a person of so much importance in the manager's eyes as in his own. occasionally he saw athelny in the shop. his flamboyance was extinguished; and in neat, commonplace, shabby clothes he hurried, a subdued, unassuming little man, through the departments as though anxious to escape notice. "when i think of how i'm wasted there," he said at home, "i'm almost tempted to give in my notice. there's no scope for a man like me. i'm stunted, i'm starved." mrs. athelny, quietly sewing, took no notice of his complaints. her mouth tightened a little. "it's very hard to get jobs in these times. it's regular and it's safe; i expect you'll stay there as long as you give satisfaction." it was evident that athelny would. it was interesting to see the ascendency which the uneducated woman, bound to him by no legal tie, had acquired over the brilliant, unstable man. mrs. athelny treated philip with motherly kindness now that he was in a different position, and he was touched by her anxiety that he should make a good meal. it was the solace of his life (and when he grew used to it, the monotony of it was what chiefly appalled him) that he could go every sunday to that friendly house. it was a joy to sit in the stately spanish chairs and discuss all manner of things with athelny. though his condition seemed so desperate he never left him to go back to harrington street without a feeling of exultation. at first philip, in order not to forget what he had learned, tried to go on reading his medical books, but he found it useless; he could not fix his attention on them after the exhausting work of the day; and it seemed hopeless to continue working when he did not know in how long he would be able to go back to the hospital. he dreamed constantly that he was in the wards. the awakening was painful. the sensation of other people sleeping in the room was inexpressibly irksome to him; he had been used to solitude, and to be with others always, never to be by himself for an instant was at these moments horrible to him. it was then that he found it most difficult to combat his despair. he saw himself going on with that life, first to the right, second on the left, madam, indefinitely; and having to be thankful if he was not sent away: the men who had gone to the war would be coming home soon, the firm had guaranteed to take them back, and this must mean that others would be sacked; he would have to stir himself even to keep the wretched post he had. there was only one thing to free him and that was the death of his uncle. he would get a few hundred pounds then, and on this he could finish his course at the hospital. philip began to wish with all his might for the old man's death. he reckoned out how long he could possibly live: he was well over seventy, philip did not know his exact age, but he must be at least seventy-five; he suffered from chronic bronchitis and every winter had a bad cough. though he knew them by heart philip read over and over again the details in his text-book of medicine of chronic bronchitis in the old. a severe winter might be too much for the old man. with all his heart philip longed for cold and rain. he thought of it constantly, so that it became a monomania. uncle william was affected by the great heat too, and in august they had three weeks of sweltering weather. philip imagined to himself that one day perhaps a telegram would come saying that the vicar had died suddenly, and he pictured to himself his unutterable relief. as he stood at the top of the stairs and directed people to the departments they wanted, he occupied his mind with thinking incessantly what he would do with the money. he did not know how much it would be, perhaps no more than five hundred pounds, but even that would be enough. he would leave the shop at once, he would not bother to give notice, he would pack his box and go without saying a word to anybody; and then he would return to the hospital. that was the first thing. would he have forgotten much? in six months he could get it all back, and then he would take his three examinations as soon as he could, midwifery first, then medicine and surgery. the awful fear seized him that his uncle, notwithstanding his promises, might leave everything he had to the parish or the church. the thought made philip sick. he could not be so cruel. but if that happened philip was quite determined what to do, he would not go on in that way indefinitely; his life was only tolerable because he could look forward to something better. if he had no hope he would have no fear. the only brave thing to do then would be to commit suicide, and, thinking this over too, philip decided minutely what painless drug he would take and how he would get hold of it. it encouraged him to think that, if things became unendurable, he had at all events a way out. "second to the right, madam, and down the stairs. first on the left and straight through. mr. philips, forward please." once a month, for a week, philip was 'on duty.' he had to go to the department at seven in the morning and keep an eye on the sweepers. when they finished he had to take the sheets off the cases and the models. then, in the evening when the assistants left, he had to put back the sheets on the models and the cases and 'gang' the sweepers again. it was a dusty, dirty job. he was not allowed to read or write or smoke, but just had to walk about, and the time hung heavily on his hands. when he went off at half past nine he had supper given him, and this was the only consolation; for tea at five o'clock had left him with a healthy appetite, and the bread and cheese, the abundant cocoa which the firm provided, were welcome. one day when philip had been at lynn's for three months, mr. sampson, the buyer, came into the department, fuming with anger. the manager, happening to notice the costume window as he came in, had sent for the buyer and made satirical remarks upon the colour scheme. forced to submit in silence to his superior's sarcasm, mr. sampson took it out of the assistants; and he rated the wretched fellow whose duty it was to dress the window. "if you want a thing well done you must do it yourself," mr. sampson stormed. "i've always said it and i always shall. one can't leave anything to you chaps. intelligent you call yourselves, do you? intelligent!" he threw the word at the assistants as though it were the bitterest term of reproach. "don't you know that if you put an electric blue in the window it'll kill all the other blues?" he looked round the department ferociously, and his eye fell upon philip. "you'll dress the window next friday, carey. let's see what you can make of it." he went into his office, muttering angrily. philip's heart sank. when friday morning came he went into the window with a sickening sense of shame. his cheeks were burning. it was horrible to display himself to the passers-by, and though he told himself it was foolish to give way to such a feeling he turned his back to the street. there was not much chance that any of the students at the hospital would pass along oxford street at that hour, and he knew hardly anyone else in london; but as philip worked, with a huge lump in his throat, he fancied that on turning round he would catch the eye of some man he knew. he made all the haste he could. by the simple observation that all reds went together, and by spacing the costumes more than was usual, philip got a very good effect; and when the buyer went into the street to look at the result he was obviously pleased. "i knew i shouldn't go far wrong in putting you on the window. the fact is, you and me are gentlemen, mind you i wouldn't say this in the department, but you and me are gentlemen, and that always tells. it's no good your telling me it doesn't tell, because i know it does tell." philip was put on the job regularly, but he could not accustom himself to the publicity; and he dreaded friday morning, on which the window was dressed, with a terror that made him awake at five o'clock and lie sleepless with sickness in his heart. the girls in the department noticed his shamefaced way, and they very soon discovered his trick of standing with his back to the street. they laughed at him and called him 'sidey.' "i suppose you're afraid your aunt'll come along and cut you out of her will." on the whole he got on well enough with the girls. they thought him a little queer; but his club-foot seemed to excuse his not being like the rest, and they found in due course that he was good-natured. he never minded helping anyone, and he was polite and even tempered. "you can see he's a gentleman," they said. "very reserved, isn't he?" said one young woman, to whose passionate enthusiasm for the theatre he had listened unmoved. most of them had 'fellers,' and those who hadn't said they had rather than have it supposed that no one had an inclination for them. one or two showed signs of being willing to start a flirtation with philip, and he watched their manoeuvres with grave amusement. he had had enough of love-making for some time; and he was nearly always tired and often hungry. cvi philip avoided the places he had known in happier times. the little gatherings at the tavern in beak street were broken up: macalister, having let down his friends, no longer went there, and hayward was at the cape. only lawson remained; and philip, feeling that now the painter and he had nothing in common, did not wish to see him; but one saturday afternoon, after dinner, having changed his clothes he walked down regent street to go to the free library in st. martin's lane, meaning to spend the afternoon there, and suddenly found himself face to face with him. his first instinct was to pass on without a word, but lawson did not give him the opportunity. "where on earth have you been all this time?" he cried. "i?" said philip. "i wrote you and asked you to come to the studio for a beano and you never even answered." "i didn't get your letter." "no, i know. i went to the hospital to ask for you, and i saw my letter in the rack. have you chucked the medical?" philip hesitated for a moment. he was ashamed to tell the truth, but the shame he felt angered him, and he forced himself to speak. he could not help reddening. "yes, i lost the little money i had. i couldn't afford to go on with it." "i say, i'm awfully sorry. what are you doing?" "i'm a shop-walker." the words choked philip, but he was determined not to shirk the truth. he kept his eyes on lawson and saw his embarrassment. philip smiled savagely. "if you went into lynn and sedley, and made your way into the 'made robes' department, you would see me in a frock coat, walking about with a degage air and directing ladies who want to buy petticoats or stockings. first to the right, madam, and second on the left." lawson, seeing that philip was making a jest of it, laughed awkwardly. he did not know what to say. the picture that philip called up horrified him, but he was afraid to show his sympathy. "that's a bit of a change for you," he said. his words seemed absurd to him, and immediately he wished he had not said them. philip flushed darkly. "a bit," he said. "by the way, i owe you five bob." he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some silver. "oh, it doesn't matter. i'd forgotten all about it." "go on, take it." lawson received the money silently. they stood in the middle of the pavement, and people jostled them as they passed. there was a sardonic twinkle in philip's eyes, which made the painter intensely uncomfortable, and he could not tell that philip's heart was heavy with despair. lawson wanted dreadfully to do something, but he did not know what to do. "i say, won't you come to the studio and have a talk?" "no," said philip. "why not?" "there's nothing to talk about." he saw the pain come into lawson's eyes, he could not help it, he was sorry, but he had to think of himself; he could not bear the thought of discussing his situation, he could endure it only by determining resolutely not to think about it. he was afraid of his weakness if once he began to open his heart. moreover, he took irresistible dislikes to the places where he had been miserable: he remembered the humiliation he had endured when he had waited in that studio, ravenous with hunger, for lawson to offer him a meal, and the last occasion when he had taken the five shillings off him. he hated the sight of lawson, because he recalled those days of utter abasement. "then look here, come and dine with me one night. choose your own evening." philip was touched with the painter's kindness. all sorts of people were strangely kind to him, he thought. "it's awfully good of you, old man, but i'd rather not." he held out his hand. "good-bye." lawson, troubled by a behaviour which seemed inexplicable, took his hand, and philip quickly limped away. his heart was heavy; and, as was usual with him, he began to reproach himself for what he had done: he did not know what madness of pride had made him refuse the offered friendship. but he heard someone running behind him and presently lawson's voice calling him; he stopped and suddenly the feeling of hostility got the better of him; he presented to lawson a cold, set face. "what is it?" "i suppose you heard about hayward, didn't you?" "i know he went to the cape." "he died, you know, soon after landing." for a moment philip did not answer. he could hardly believe his ears. "how?" he asked. "oh, enteric. hard luck, wasn't it? i thought you mightn't know. gave me a bit of a turn when i heard it." lawson nodded quickly and walked away. philip felt a shiver pass through his heart. he had never before lost a friend of his own age, for the death of cronshaw, a man so much older than himself, had seemed to come in the normal course of things. the news gave him a peculiar shock. it reminded him of his own mortality, for like everyone else philip, knowing perfectly that all men must die, had no intimate feeling that the same must apply to himself; and hayward's death, though he had long ceased to have any warm feeling for him, affected him deeply. he remembered on a sudden all the good talks they had had, and it pained him to think that they would never talk with one another again; he remembered their first meeting and the pleasant months they had spent together in heidelberg. philip's heart sank as he thought of the lost years. he walked on mechanically, not noticing where he went, and realised suddenly, with a movement of irritation, that instead of turning down the haymarket he had sauntered along shaftesbury avenue. it bored him to retrace his steps; and besides, with that news, he did not want to read, he wanted to sit alone and think. he made up his mind to go to the british museum. solitude was now his only luxury. since he had been at lynn's he had often gone there and sat in front of the groups from the parthenon; and, not deliberately thinking, had allowed their divine masses to rest his troubled soul. but this afternoon they had nothing to say to him, and after a few minutes, impatiently, he wandered out of the room. there were too many people, provincials with foolish faces, foreigners poring over guide-books; their hideousness besmirched the everlasting masterpieces, their restlessness troubled the god's immortal repose. he went into another room and here there was hardly anyone. philip sat down wearily. his nerves were on edge. he could not get the people out of his mind. sometimes at lynn's they affected him in the same way, and he looked at them file past him with horror; they were so ugly and there was such meanness in their faces, it was terrifying; their features were distorted with paltry desires, and you felt they were strange to any ideas of beauty. they had furtive eyes and weak chins. there was no wickedness in them, but only pettiness and vulgarity. their humour was a low facetiousness. sometimes he found himself looking at them to see what animal they resembled (he tried not to, for it quickly became an obsession,) and he saw in them all the sheep or the horse or the fox or the goat. human beings filled him with disgust. but presently the influence of the place descended upon him. he felt quieter. he began to look absently at the tombstones with which the room was lined. they were the work of athenian stone masons of the fourth and fifth centuries before christ, and they were very simple, work of no great talent but with the exquisite spirit of athens upon them; time had mellowed the marble to the colour of honey, so that unconsciously one thought of the bees of hymettus, and softened their outlines. some represented a nude figure, seated on a bench, some the departure of the dead from those who loved him, and some the dead clasping hands with one who remained behind. on all was the tragic word farewell; that and nothing more. their simplicity was infinitely touching. friend parted from friend, the son from his mother, and the restraint made the survivor's grief more poignant. it was so long, long ago, and century upon century had passed over that unhappiness; for two thousand years those who wept had been dust as those they wept for. yet the woe was alive still, and it filled philip's heart so that he felt compassion spring up in it, and he said: "poor things, poor things." and it came to him that the gaping sight-seers and the fat strangers with their guide-books, and all those mean, common people who thronged the shop, with their trivial desires and vulgar cares, were mortal and must die. they too loved and must part from those they loved, the son from his mother, the wife from her husband; and perhaps it was more tragic because their lives were ugly and sordid, and they knew nothing that gave beauty to the world. there was one stone which was very beautiful, a bas relief of two young men holding each other's hand; and the reticence of line, the simplicity, made one like to think that the sculptor here had been touched with a genuine emotion. it was an exquisite memorial to that than which the world offers but one thing more precious, to a friendship; and as philip looked at it, he felt the tears come to his eyes. he thought of hayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how disillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them together but habit and old memories. it was one of the queer things of life that you saw a person every day for months and were so intimate with him that you could not imagine existence without him; then separation came, and everything went on in the same way, and the companion who had seemed essential proved unnecessary. your life proceeded and you did not even miss him. philip thought of those early days in heidelberg when hayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the future, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned himself to failure. now he was dead. his death had been as futile as his life. he died ingloriously, of a stupid disease, failing once more, even at the end, to accomplish anything. it was just the same now as if he had never lived. philip asked himself desperately what was the use of living at all. it all seemed inane. it was the same with cronshaw: it was quite unimportant that he had lived; he was dead and forgotten, his book of poems sold in remainder by second-hand booksellers; his life seemed to have served nothing except to give a pushing journalist occasion to write an article in a review. and philip cried out in his soul: "what is the use of it?" the effort was so incommensurate with the result. the bright hopes of youth had to be paid for at such a bitter price of disillusionment. pain and disease and unhappiness weighed down the scale so heavily. what did it all mean? he thought of his own life, the high hopes with which he had entered upon it, the limitations which his body forced upon him, his friendlessness, and the lack of affection which had surrounded his youth. he did not know that he had ever done anything but what seemed best to do, and what a cropper he had come! other men, with no more advantages than he, succeeded, and others again, with many more, failed. it seemed pure chance. the rain fell alike upon the just and upon the unjust, and for nothing was there a why and a wherefore. thinking of cronshaw, philip remembered the persian rug which he had given him, telling him that it offered an answer to his question upon the meaning of life; and suddenly the answer occurred to him: he chuckled: now that he had it, it was like one of the puzzles which you worry over till you are shown the solution and then cannot imagine how it could ever have escaped you. the answer was obvious. life had no meaning. on the earth, satellite of a star speeding through space, living things had arisen under the influence of conditions which were part of the planet's history; and as there had been a beginning of life upon it so, under the influence of other conditions, there would be an end: man, no more significant than other forms of life, had come not as the climax of creation but as a physical reaction to the environment. philip remembered the story of the eastern king who, desiring to know the history of man, was brought by a sage five hundred volumes; busy with affairs of state, he bade him go and condense it; in twenty years the sage returned and his history now was in no more than fifty volumes, but the king, too old then to read so many ponderous tomes, bade him go and shorten it once more; twenty years passed again and the sage, old and gray, brought a single book in which was the knowledge the king had sought; but the king lay on his death-bed, and he had no time to read even that; and then the sage gave him the history of man in a single line; it was this: he was born, he suffered, and he died. there was no meaning in life, and man by living served no end. it was immaterial whether he was born or not born, whether he lived or ceased to live. life was insignificant and death without consequence. philip exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in god was lifted from his shoulders: it seemed to him that the last burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was utterly free. his insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for, if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty. what he did or left undone did not matter. failure was unimportant and success amounted to nothing. he was the most inconsiderate creature in that swarming mass of mankind which for a brief space occupied the surface of the earth; and he was almighty because he had wrenched from chaos the secret of its nothingness. thoughts came tumbling over one another in philip's eager fancy, and he took long breaths of joyous satisfaction. he felt inclined to leap and sing. he had not been so happy for months. "oh, life," he cried in his heart, "oh life, where is thy sting?" for the same uprush of fancy which had shown him with all the force of mathematical demonstration that life had no meaning, brought with it another idea; and that was why cronshaw, he imagined, had given him the persian rug. as the weaver elaborated his pattern for no end but the pleasure of his aesthetic sense, so might a man live his life, or if one was forced to believe that his actions were outside his choosing, so might a man look at his life, that it made a pattern. there was as little need to do this as there was use. it was merely something he did for his own pleasure. out of the manifold events of his life, his deeds, his feelings, his thoughts, he might make a design, regular, elaborate, complicated, or beautiful; and though it might be no more than an illusion that he had the power of selection, though it might be no more than a fantastic legerdemain in which appearances were interwoven with moonbeams, that did not matter: it seemed, and so to him it was. in the vast warp of life (a river arising from no spring and flowing endlessly to no sea), with the background to his fancies that there was no meaning and that nothing was important, a man might get a personal satisfaction in selecting the various strands that worked out the pattern. there was one pattern, the most obvious, perfect, and beautiful, in which a man was born, grew to manhood, married, produced children, toiled for his bread, and died; but there were others, intricate and wonderful, in which happiness did not enter and in which success was not attempted; and in them might be discovered a more troubling grace. some lives, and hayward's was among them, the blind indifference of chance cut off while the design was still imperfect; and then the solace was comfortable that it did not matter; other lives, such as cronshaw's, offered a pattern which was difficult to follow, the point of view had to be shifted and old standards had to be altered before one could understand that such a life was its own justification. philip thought that in throwing over the desire for happiness he was casting aside the last of his illusions. his life had seemed horrible when it was measured by its happiness, but now he seemed to gather strength as he realised that it might be measured by something else. happiness mattered as little as pain. they came in, both of them, as all the other details of his life came in, to the elaboration of the design. he seemed for an instant to stand above the accidents of his existence, and he felt that they could not affect him again as they had done before. whatever happened to him now would be one more motive to add to the complexity of the pattern, and when the end approached he would rejoice in its completion. it would be a work of art, and it would be none the less beautiful because he alone knew of its existence, and with his death it would at once cease to be. philip was happy. cvii mr. sampson, the buyer, took a fancy to philip. mr. sampson was very dashing, and the girls in his department said they would not be surprised if he married one of the rich customers. he lived out of town and often impressed the assistants by putting on his evening clothes in the office. sometimes he would be seen by those on sweeping duty coming in next morning still dressed, and they would wink gravely to one another while he went into his office and changed into a frock coat. on these occasions, having slipped out for a hurried breakfast, he also would wink at philip as he walked up the stairs on his way back and rub his hands. "what a night! what a night!" he said. "my word!" he told philip that he was the only gentleman there, and he and philip were the only fellows who knew what life was. having said this, he changed his manner suddenly, called philip mr. carey instead of old boy, assumed the importance due to his position as buyer, and put philip back into his place of shop-walker. lynn and sedley received fashion papers from paris once a week and adapted the costumes illustrated in them to the needs of their customers. their clientele was peculiar. the most substantial part consisted of women from the smaller manufacturing towns, who were too elegant to have their frocks made locally and not sufficiently acquainted with london to discover good dressmakers within their means. beside these, incongruously, was a large number of music-hall artistes. this was a connection that mr. sampson had worked up for himself and took great pride in. they had begun by getting their stage-costumes at lynn's, and he had induced many of them to get their other clothes there as well. "as good as paquin and half the price," he said. he had a persuasive, hail-fellow well-met air with him which appealed to customers of this sort, and they said to one another: "what's the good of throwing money away when you can get a coat and skirt at lynn's that nobody knows don't come from paris?" mr. sampson was very proud of his friendship with the popular favourites whose frocks he made, and when he went out to dinner at two o'clock on sunday with miss victoria virgo--"she was wearing that powder blue we made her and i lay she didn't let on it come from us, i 'ad to tell her meself that if i 'adn't designed it with my own 'ands i'd have said it must come from paquin"--at her beautiful house in tulse hill, he regaled the department next day with abundant details. philip had never paid much attention to women's clothes, but in course of time he began, a little amused at himself, to take a technical interest in them. he had an eye for colour which was more highly trained than that of anyone in the department, and he had kept from his student days in paris some knowledge of line. mr. sampson, an ignorant man conscious of his incompetence, but with a shrewdness that enabled him to combine other people's suggestions, constantly asked the opinion of the assistants in his department in making up new designs; and he had the quickness to see that philip's criticisms were valuable. but he was very jealous, and would never allow that he took anyone's advice. when he had altered some drawing in accordance with philip's suggestion, he always finished up by saying: "well, it comes round to my own idea in the end." one day, when philip had been at the shop for five months, miss alice antonia, the well-known serio-comic, came in and asked to see mr. sampson. she was a large woman, with flaxen hair, and a boldly painted face, a metallic voice, and the breezy manner of a comedienne accustomed to be on friendly terms with the gallery boys of provincial music-halls. she had a new song and wished mr. sampson to design a costume for her. "i want something striking," she said. "i don't want any old thing you know. i want something different from what anybody else has." mr. sampson, bland and familiar, said he was quite certain they could get her the very thing she required. he showed her sketches. "i know there's nothing here that would do, but i just want to show you the kind of thing i would suggest." "oh no, that's not the sort of thing at all," she said, as she glanced at them impatiently. "what i want is something that'll just hit 'em in the jaw and make their front teeth rattle." "yes, i quite understand, miss antonia," said the buyer, with a bland smile, but his eyes grew blank and stupid. "i expect i shall 'ave to pop over to paris for it in the end." "oh, i think we can give you satisfaction, miss antonia. what you can get in paris you can get here." when she had swept out of the department mr. sampson, a little worried, discussed the matter with mrs. hodges. "she's a caution and no mistake," said mrs. hodges. "alice, where art thou?" remarked the buyer, irritably, and thought he had scored a point against her. his ideas of music-hall costumes had never gone beyond short skirts, a swirl of lace, and glittering sequins; but miss antonia had expressed herself on that subject in no uncertain terms. "oh, my aunt!" she said. and the invocation was uttered in such a tone as to indicate a rooted antipathy to anything so commonplace, even if she had not added that sequins gave her the sick. mr. sampson 'got out' one or two ideas, but mrs. hodges told him frankly she did not think they would do. it was she who gave philip the suggestion: "can you draw, phil? why don't you try your 'and and see what you can do?" philip bought a cheap box of water colours, and in the evening while bell, the noisy lad of sixteen, whistling three notes, busied himself with his stamps, he made one or two sketches. he remembered some of the costumes he had seen in paris, and he adapted one of them, getting his effect from a combination of violent, unusual colours. the result amused him and next morning he showed it to mrs. hodges. she was somewhat astonished, but took it at once to the buyer. "it's unusual," he said, "there's no denying that." it puzzled him, and at the same time his trained eye saw that it would make up admirably. to save his face he began making suggestions for altering it, but mrs. hodges, with more sense, advised him to show it to miss antonia as it was. "it's neck or nothing with her, and she may take a fancy to it." "it's a good deal more nothing than neck," said mr. sampson, looking at the decolletage. "he can draw, can't he? fancy 'im keeping it dark all this time." when miss antonia was announced, the buyer placed the design on the table in such a position that it must catch her eye the moment she was shown into his office. she pounced on it at once. "what's that?" she said. "why can't i 'ave that?" "that's just an idea we got out for you," said mr. sampson casually. "d'you like it?" "do i like it!" she said. "give me 'alf a pint with a little drop of gin in it." "ah, you see, you don't have to go to paris. you've only got to say what you want and there you are." the work was put in hand at once, and philip felt quite a thrill of satisfaction when he saw the costume completed. the buyer and mrs. hodges took all the credit of it; but he did not care, and when he went with them to the tivoli to see miss antonia wear it for the first time he was filled with elation. in answer to her questions he at last told mrs. hodges how he had learnt to draw--fearing that the people he lived with would think he wanted to put on airs, he had always taken the greatest care to say nothing about his past occupations--and she repeated the information to mr. sampson. the buyer said nothing to him on the subject, but began to treat him a little more deferentially and presently gave him designs to do for two of the country customers. they met with satisfaction. then he began to speak to his clients of a "clever young feller, paris art-student, you know," who worked for him; and soon philip, ensconced behind a screen, in his shirt sleeves, was drawing from morning till night. sometimes he was so busy that he had to dine at three with the 'stragglers.' he liked it, because there were few of them and they were all too tired to talk; the food also was better, for it consisted of what was left over from the buyers' table. philip's rise from shop-walker to designer of costumes had a great effect on the department. he realised that he was an object of envy. harris, the assistant with the queer-shaped head, who was the first person he had known at the shop and had attached himself to philip, could not conceal his bitterness. "some people 'ave all the luck," he said. "you'll be a buyer yourself one of these days, and we shall all be calling you sir." he told philip that he should demand higher wages, for notwithstanding the difficult work he was now engaged in, he received no more than the six shillings a week with which he started. but it was a ticklish matter to ask for a rise. the manager had a sardonic way of dealing with such applicants. "think you're worth more, do you? how much d'you think you're worth, eh?" the assistant, with his heart in his mouth, would suggest that he thought he ought to have another two shillings a week. "oh, very well, if you think you're worth it. you can 'ave it." then he paused and sometimes, with a steely eye, added: "and you can 'ave your notice too." it was no use then to withdraw your request, you had to go. the manager's idea was that assistants who were dissatisfied did not work properly, and if they were not worth a rise it was better to sack them at once. the result was that they never asked for one unless they were prepared to leave. philip hesitated. he was a little suspicious of the men in his room who told him that the buyer could not do without him. they were decent fellows, but their sense of humour was primitive, and it would have seemed funny to them if they had persuaded philip to ask for more wages and he were sacked. he could not forget the mortification he had suffered in looking for work, he did not wish to expose himself to that again, and he knew there was small chance of his getting elsewhere a post as designer: there were hundreds of people about who could draw as well as he. but he wanted money very badly; his clothes were worn out, and the heavy carpets rotted his socks and boots; he had almost persuaded himself to take the venturesome step when one morning, passing up from breakfast in the basement through the passage that led to the manager's office, he saw a queue of men waiting in answer to an advertisement. there were about a hundred of them, and whichever was engaged would be offered his keep and the same six shillings a week that philip had. he saw some of them cast envious glances at him because he had employment. it made him shudder. he dared not risk it. cviii the winter passed. now and then philip went to the hospital, slinking in when it was late and there was little chance of meeting anyone he knew, to see whether there were letters for him. at easter he received one from his uncle. he was surprised to hear from him, for the vicar of blackstable had never written him more than half a dozen letters in his whole life, and they were on business matters. dear philip, if you are thinking of taking a holiday soon and care to come down here i shall be pleased to see you. i was very ill with my bronchitis in the winter and doctor wigram never expected me to pull through. i have a wonderful constitution and i made, thank god, a marvellous recovery. yours affectionately, william carey. the letter made philip angry. how did his uncle think he was living? he did not even trouble to inquire. he might have starved for all the old man cared. but as he walked home something struck him; he stopped under a lamp-post and read the letter again; the handwriting had no longer the business-like firmness which had characterised it; it was larger and wavering: perhaps the illness had shaken him more than he was willing to confess, and he sought in that formal note to express a yearning to see the only relation he had in the world. philip wrote back that he could come down to blackstable for a fortnight in july. the invitation was convenient, for he had not known what to do, with his brief holiday. the athelnys went hopping in september, but he could not then be spared, since during that month the autumn models were prepared. the rule of lynn's was that everyone must take a fortnight whether he wanted it or not; and during that time, if he had nowhere to go, the assistant might sleep in his room, but he was not allowed food. a number had no friends within reasonable distance of london, and to these the holiday was an awkward interval when they had to provide food out of their small wages and, with the whole day on their hands, had nothing to spend. philip had not been out of london since his visit to brighton with mildred, now two years before, and he longed for fresh air and the silence of the sea. he thought of it with such a passionate desire, all through may and june, that, when at length the time came for him to go, he was listless. on his last evening, when he talked with the buyer of one or two jobs he had to leave over, mr. sampson suddenly said to him: "what wages have you been getting?" "six shillings." "i don't think it's enough. i'll see that you're put up to twelve when you come back." "thank you very much," smiled philip. "i'm beginning to want some new clothes badly." "if you stick to your work and don't go larking about with the girls like what some of them do, i'll look after you, carey. mind you, you've got a lot to learn, but you're promising, i'll say that for you, you're promising, and i'll see that you get a pound a week as soon as you deserve it." philip wondered how long he would have to wait for that. two years? he was startled at the change in his uncle. when last he had seen him he was a stout man, who held himself upright, clean-shaven, with a round, sensual face; but he had fallen in strangely, his skin was yellow; there were great bags under the eyes, and he was bent and old. he had grown a beard during his last illness, and he walked very slowly. "i'm not at my best today," he said when philip, having just arrived, was sitting with him in the dining-room. "the heat upsets me." philip, asking after the affairs of the parish, looked at him and wondered how much longer he could last. a hot summer would finish him; philip noticed how thin his hands were; they trembled. it meant so much to philip. if he died that summer he could go back to the hospital at the beginning of the winter session; his heart leaped at the thought of returning no more to lynn's. at dinner the vicar sat humped up on his chair, and the housekeeper who had been with him since his wife's death said: "shall mr. philip carve, sir?" the old man, who had been about to do so from disinclination to confess his weakness, seemed glad at the first suggestion to relinquish the attempt. "you've got a very good appetite," said philip. "oh yes, i always eat well. but i'm thinner than when you were here last. i'm glad to be thinner, i didn't like being so fat. dr. wigram thinks i'm all the better for being thinner than i was." when dinner was over the housekeeper brought him some medicine. "show the prescription to master philip," he said. "he's a doctor too. i'd like him to see that he thinks it's all right. i told dr. wigram that now you're studying to be a doctor he ought to make a reduction in his charges. it's dreadful the bills i've had to pay. he came every day for two months, and he charges five shillings a visit. it's a lot of money, isn't it? he comes twice a week still. i'm going to tell him he needn't come any more. i'll send for him if i want him." he looked at philip eagerly while he read the prescriptions. they were narcotics. there were two of them, and one was a medicine which the vicar explained he was to use only if his neuritis grew unendurable. "i'm very careful," he said. "i don't want to get into the opium habit." he did not mention his nephew's affairs. philip fancied that it was by way of precaution, in case he asked for money, that his uncle kept dwelling on the financial calls upon him. he had spent so much on the doctor and so much more on the chemist, while he was ill they had had to have a fire every day in his bed-room, and now on sunday he needed a carriage to go to church in the evening as well as in the morning. philip felt angrily inclined to say he need not be afraid, he was not going to borrow from him, but he held his tongue. it seemed to him that everything had left the old man now but two things, pleasure in his food and a grasping desire for money. it was a hideous old age. in the afternoon dr. wigram came, and after the visit philip walked with him to the garden gate. "how d'you think he is?" said philip. dr. wigram was more anxious not to do wrong than to do right, and he never hazarded a definite opinion if he could help it. he had practised at blackstable for five-and-thirty years. he had the reputation of being very safe, and many of his patients thought it much better that a doctor should be safe than clever. there was a new man at blackstable--he had been settled there for ten years, but they still looked upon him as an interloper--and he was said to be very clever; but he had not much practice among the better people, because no one really knew anything about him. "oh, he's as well as can be expected," said dr. wigram in answer to philip's inquiry. "has he got anything seriously the matter with him?" "well, philip, your uncle is no longer a young man," said the doctor with a cautious little smile, which suggested that after all the vicar of blackstable was not an old man either. "he seems to think his heart's in a bad way." "i'm not satisfied with his heart," hazarded the doctor, "i think he should be careful, very careful." on the tip of philip's tongue was the question: how much longer can he live? he was afraid it would shock. in these matters a periphrase was demanded by the decorum of life, but, as he asked another question instead, it flashed through him that the doctor must be accustomed to the impatience of a sick man's relatives. he must see through their sympathetic expressions. philip, with a faint smile at his own hypocrisy, cast down his eyes. "i suppose he's in no immediate danger?" this was the kind of question the doctor hated. if you said a patient couldn't live another month the family prepared itself for a bereavement, and if then the patient lived on they visited the medical attendant with the resentment they felt at having tormented themselves before it was necessary. on the other hand, if you said the patient might live a year and he died in a week the family said you did not know your business. they thought of all the affection they would have lavished on the defunct if they had known the end was so near. dr. wigram made the gesture of washing his hands. "i don't think there's any grave risk so long as he--remains as he is," he ventured at last. "but on the other hand, we mustn't forget that he's no longer a young man, and well, the machine is wearing out. if he gets over the hot weather i don't see why he shouldn't get on very comfortably till the winter, and then if the winter does not bother him too much, well, i don't see why anything should happen." philip went back to the dining-room where his uncle was sitting. with his skull-cap and a crochet shawl over his shoulders he looked grotesque. his eyes had been fixed on the door, and they rested on philip's face as he entered. philip saw that his uncle had been waiting anxiously for his return. "well, what did he say about me?" philip understood suddenly that the old man was frightened of dying. it made philip a little ashamed, so that he looked away involuntarily. he was always embarrassed by the weakness of human nature. "he says he thinks you're much better," said philip. a gleam of delight came into his uncle's eyes. "i've got a wonderful constitution," he said. "what else did he say?" he added suspiciously. philip smiled. "he said that if you take care of yourself there's no reason why you shouldn't live to be a hundred." "i don't know that i can expect to do that, but i don't see why i shouldn't see eighty. my mother lived till she was eighty-four." there was a little table by the side of mr. carey's chair, and on it were a bible and the large volume of the common prayer from which for so many years he had been accustomed to read to his household. he stretched out now his shaking hand and took his bible. "those old patriarchs lived to a jolly good old age, didn't they?" he said, with a queer little laugh in which philip read a sort of timid appeal. the old man clung to life. yet he believed implicitly all that his religion taught him. he had no doubt in the immortality of the soul, and he felt that he had conducted himself well enough, according to his capacities, to make it very likely that he would go to heaven. in his long career to how many dying persons must he have administered the consolations of religion! perhaps he was like the doctor who could get no benefit from his own prescriptions. philip was puzzled and shocked by that eager cleaving to the earth. he wondered what nameless horror was at the back of the old man's mind. he would have liked to probe into his soul so that he might see in its nakedness the dreadful dismay of the unknown which he suspected. the fortnight passed quickly and philip returned to london. he passed a sweltering august behind his screen in the costumes department, drawing in his shirt sleeves. the assistants in relays went for their holidays. in the evening philip generally went into hyde park and listened to the band. growing more accustomed to his work it tired him less, and his mind, recovering from its long stagnation, sought for fresh activity. his whole desire now was set on his uncle's death. he kept on dreaming the same dream: a telegram was handed to him one morning, early, which announced the vicar's sudden demise, and freedom was in his grasp. when he awoke and found it was nothing but a dream he was filled with sombre rage. he occupied himself, now that the event seemed likely to happen at any time, with elaborate plans for the future. in these he passed rapidly over the year which he must spend before it was possible for him to be qualified and dwelt on the journey to spain on which his heart was set. he read books about that country, which he borrowed from the free library, and already he knew from photographs exactly what each city looked like. he saw himself lingering in cordova on the bridge that spanned the gaudalquivir; he wandered through tortuous streets in toledo and sat in churches where he wrung from el greco the secret which he felt the mysterious painter held for him. athelny entered into his humour, and on sunday afternoons they made out elaborate itineraries so that philip should miss nothing that was noteworthy. to cheat his impatience philip began to teach himself spanish, and in the deserted sitting-room in harrington street he spent an hour every evening doing spanish exercises and puzzling out with an english translation by his side the magnificent phrases of don quixote. athelny gave him a lesson once a week, and philip learned a few sentences to help him on his journey. mrs. athelny laughed at them. "you two and your spanish!" she said. "why don't you do something useful?" but sally, who was growing up and was to put up her hair at christmas, stood by sometimes and listened in her grave way while her father and philip exchanged remarks in a language she did not understand. she thought her father the most wonderful man who had ever existed, and she expressed her opinion of philip only through her father's commendations. "father thinks a rare lot of your uncle philip," she remarked to her brothers and sisters. thorpe, the eldest boy, was old enough to go on the arethusa, and athelny regaled his family with magnificent descriptions of the appearance the lad would make when he came back in uniform for his holidays. as soon as sally was seventeen she was to be apprenticed to a dressmaker. athelny in his rhetorical way talked of the birds, strong enough to fly now, who were leaving the parental nest, and with tears in his eyes told them that the nest would be there still if ever they wished to return to it. a shakedown and a dinner would always be theirs, and the heart of a father would never be closed to the troubles of his children. "you do talk, athelny," said his wife. "i don't know what trouble they're likely to get into so long as they're steady. so long as you're honest and not afraid of work you'll never be out of a job, that's what i think, and i can tell you i shan't be sorry when i see the last of them earning their own living." child-bearing, hard work, and constant anxiety were beginning to tell on mrs. athelny; and sometimes her back ached in the evening so that she had to sit down and rest herself. her ideal of happiness was to have a girl to do the rough work so that she need not herself get up before seven. athelny waved his beautiful white hand. "ah, my betty, we've deserved well of the state, you and i. we've reared nine healthy children, and the boys shall serve their king; the girls shall cook and sew and in their turn breed healthy children." he turned to sally, and to comfort her for the anti-climax of the contrast added grandiloquently: "they also serve who only stand and wait." athelny had lately added socialism to the other contradictory theories he vehemently believed in, and he stated now: "in a socialist state we should be richly pensioned, you and i, betty." "oh, don't talk to me about your socialists, i've got no patience with them," she cried. "it only means that another lot of lazy loafers will make a good thing out of the working classes. my motto is, leave me alone; i don't want anyone interfering with me; i'll make the best of a bad job, and the devil take the hindmost." "d'you call life a bad job?" said athelny. "never! we've had our ups and downs, we've had our struggles, we've always been poor, but it's been worth it, ay, worth it a hundred times i say when i look round at my children." "you do talk, athelny," she said, looking at him, not with anger but with scornful calm. "you've had the pleasant part of the children, i've had the bearing of them, and the bearing with them. i don't say that i'm not fond of them, now they're there, but if i had my time over again i'd remain single. why, if i'd remained single i might have a little shop by now, and four or five hundred pounds in the bank, and a girl to do the rough work. oh, i wouldn't go over my life again, not for something." philip thought of the countless millions to whom life is no more than unending labour, neither beautiful nor ugly, but just to be accepted in the same spirit as one accepts the changes of the seasons. fury seized him because it all seemed useless. he could not reconcile himself to the belief that life had no meaning and yet everything he saw, all his thoughts, added to the force of his conviction. but though fury seized him it was a joyful fury. life was not so horrible if it was meaningless, and he faced it with a strange sense of power. cix the autumn passed into winter. philip had left his address with mrs. foster, his uncle's housekeeper, so that she might communicate with him, but still went once a week to the hospital on the chance of there being a letter. one evening he saw his name on an envelope in a handwriting he had hoped never to see again. it gave him a queer feeling. for a little while he could not bring himself to take it. it brought back a host of hateful memories. but at length, impatient with himself, he ripped open the envelope. william street, fitzroy square. dear phil, can i see you for a minute or two as soon as possible. i am in awful trouble and don't know what to do. it's not money. yours truly, mildred. he tore the letter into little bits and going out into the street scattered them in the darkness. "i'll see her damned," he muttered. a feeling of disgust surged up in him at the thought of seeing her again. he did not care if she was in distress, it served her right whatever it was, he thought of her with hatred, and the love he had had for her aroused his loathing. his recollections filled him with nausea, and as he walked across the thames he drew himself aside in an instinctive withdrawal from his thought of her. he went to bed, but he could not sleep; he wondered what was the matter with her, and he could not get out of his head the fear that she was ill and hungry; she would not have written to him unless she were desperate. he was angry with himself for his weakness, but he knew that he would have no peace unless he saw her. next morning he wrote a letter-card and posted it on his way to the shop. he made it as stiff as he could and said merely that he was sorry she was in difficulties and would come to the address she had given at seven o'clock that evening. it was that of a shabby lodging-house in a sordid street; and when, sick at the thought of seeing her, he asked whether she was in, a wild hope seized him that she had left. it looked the sort of place people moved in and out of frequently. he had not thought of looking at the postmark on her letter and did not know how many days it had lain in the rack. the woman who answered the bell did not reply to his inquiry, but silently preceded him along the passage and knocked on a door at the back. "mrs. miller, a gentleman to see you," she called. the door was slightly opened, and mildred looked out suspiciously. "oh, it's you," she said. "come in." he walked in and she closed the door. it was a very small bed-room, untidy as was every place she lived in; there was a pair of shoes on the floor, lying apart from one another and uncleaned; a hat was on the chest of drawers, with false curls beside it; and there was a blouse on the table. philip looked for somewhere to put his hat. the hooks behind the door were laden with skirts, and he noticed that they were muddy at the hem. "sit down, won't you?" she said. then she gave a little awkward laugh. "i suppose you were surprised to hear from me again." "you're awfully hoarse," he answered. "have you got a sore throat?" "yes, i have had for some time." he did not say anything. he waited for her to explain why she wanted to see him. the look of the room told him clearly enough that she had gone back to the life from which he had taken her. he wondered what had happened to the baby; there was a photograph of it on the chimney-piece, but no sign in the room that a child was ever there. mildred was holding her handkerchief. she made it into a little ball, and passed it from hand to hand. he saw that she was very nervous. she was staring at the fire, and he could look at her without meeting her eyes. she was much thinner than when she had left him; and the skin, yellow and dryish, was drawn more tightly over her cheekbones. she had dyed her hair and it was now flaxen: it altered her a good deal, and made her look more vulgar. "i was relieved to get your letter, i can tell you," she said at last. "i thought p'raps you weren't at the 'ospital any more." philip did not speak. "i suppose you're qualified by now, aren't you?" "no." "how's that?" "i'm no longer at the hospital. i had to give it up eighteen months ago." "you are changeable. you don't seem as if you could stick to anything." philip was silent for another moment, and when he went on it was with coldness. "i lost the little money i had in an unlucky speculation and i couldn't afford to go on with the medical. i had to earn my living as best i could." "what are you doing then?" "i'm in a shop." "oh!" she gave him a quick glance and turned her eyes away at once. he thought that she reddened. she dabbed her palms nervously with the handkerchief. "you've not forgotten all your doctoring, have you?" she jerked the words out quite oddly. "not entirely." "because that's why i wanted to see you." her voice sank to a hoarse whisper. "i don't know what's the matter with me." "why don't you go to a hospital?" "i don't like to do that, and have all the stoodents staring at me, and i'm afraid they'd want to keep me." "what are you complaining of?" asked philip coldly, with the stereotyped phrase used in the out-patients' room. "well, i've come out in a rash, and i can't get rid of it." philip felt a twinge of horror in his heart. sweat broke out on his forehead. "let me look at your throat?" he took her over to the window and made such examination as he could. suddenly he caught sight of her eyes. there was deadly fear in them. it was horrible to see. she was terrified. she wanted him to reassure her; she looked at him pleadingly, not daring to ask for words of comfort but with all her nerves astrung to receive them: he had none to offer her. "i'm afraid you're very ill indeed," he said. "what d'you think it is?" when he told her she grew deathly pale, and her lips even turned, yellow. she began to cry, hopelessly, quietly at first and then with choking sobs. "i'm awfully sorry," he said at last. "but i had to tell you." "i may just as well kill myself and have done with it." he took no notice of the threat. "have you got any money?" he asked. "six or seven pounds." "you must give up this life, you know. don't you think you could find some work to do? i'm afraid i can't help you much. i only get twelve bob a week." "what is there i can do now?" she cried impatiently. "damn it all, you must try to get something." he spoke to her very gravely, telling her of her own danger and the danger to which she exposed others, and she listened sullenly. he tried to console her. at last he brought her to a sulky acquiescence in which she promised to do all he advised. he wrote a prescription, which he said he would leave at the nearest chemist's, and he impressed upon her the necessity of taking her medicine with the utmost regularity. getting up to go, he held out his hand. "don't be downhearted, you'll soon get over your throat." but as he went her face became suddenly distorted, and she caught hold of his coat. "oh, don't leave me," she cried hoarsely. "i'm so afraid, don't leave me alone yet. phil, please. there's no one else i can go to, you're the only friend i've ever had." he felt the terror of her soul, and it was strangely like that terror he had seen in his uncle's eyes when he feared that he might die. philip looked down. twice that woman had come into his life and made him wretched; she had no claim upon him; and yet, he knew not why, deep in his heart was a strange aching; it was that which, when he received her letter, had left him no peace till he obeyed her summons. "i suppose i shall never really quite get over it," he said to himself. what perplexed him was that he felt a curious physical distaste, which made it uncomfortable for him to be near her. "what do you want me to do?" he asked. "let's go out and dine together. i'll pay." he hesitated. he felt that she was creeping back again into his life when he thought she was gone out of it for ever. she watched him with sickening anxiety. "oh, i know i've treated you shocking, but don't leave me alone now. you've had your revenge. if you leave me by myself now i don't know what i shall do." "all right, i don't mind," he said, "but we shall have to do it on the cheap, i haven't got money to throw away these days." she sat down and put her shoes on, then changed her skirt and put on a hat; and they walked out together till they found a restaurant in the tottenham court road. philip had got out of the habit of eating at those hours, and mildred's throat was so sore that she could not swallow. they had a little cold ham and philip drank a glass of beer. they sat opposite one another, as they had so often sat before; he wondered if she remembered; they had nothing to say to one another and would have sat in silence if philip had not forced himself to talk. in the bright light of the restaurant, with its vulgar looking-glasses that reflected in an endless series, she looked old and haggard. philip was anxious to know about the child, but he had not the courage to ask. at last she said: "you know baby died last summer." "oh!" he said. "you might say you're sorry." "i'm not," he answered, "i'm very glad." she glanced at him and, understanding what he meant, looked away "you were rare stuck on it at one time, weren't you? i always thought it funny like how you could see so much in another man's child." when they had finished eating they called at the chemist's for the medicine philip had ordered, and going back to the shabby room he made her take a dose. then they sat together till it was time for philip to go back to harrington street. he was hideously bored. philip went to see her every day. she took the medicine he had prescribed and followed his directions, and soon the results were so apparent that she gained the greatest confidence in philip's skill. as she grew better she grew less despondent. she talked more freely. "as soon as i can get a job i shall be all right," she said. "i've had my lesson now and i mean to profit by it. no more racketing about for yours truly." each time he saw her, philip asked whether she had found work. she told him not to worry, she would find something to do as soon as she wanted it; she had several strings to her bow; it was all the better not to do anything for a week or two. he could not deny this, but at the end of that time he became more insistent. she laughed at him, she was much more cheerful now, and said he was a fussy old thing. she told him long stories of the manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get work at some eating-house; what they said and what she answered. nothing definite was fixed, but she was sure to settle something at the beginning of the following week: there was no use hurrying, and it would be a mistake to take something unsuitable. "it's absurd to talk like that," he said impatiently. "you must take anything you can get. i can't help you, and your money won't last for ever." "oh, well, i've not come to the end of it yet and chance it." he looked at her sharply. it was three weeks since his first visit, and she had then less than seven pounds. suspicion seized him. he remembered some of the things she had said. he put two and two together. he wondered whether she had made any attempt to find work. perhaps she had been lying to him all the time. it was very strange that her money should have lasted so long. "what is your rent here?" "oh, the landlady's very nice, different from what some of them are; she's quite willing to wait till it's convenient for me to pay." he was silent. what he suspected was so horrible that he hesitated. it was no use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know he must find out for himself. he was in the habit of leaving her every evening at eight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back to harrington street he stationed himself at the corner of fitzroy square so that he could see anyone who came along william street. it seemed to him that he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of going away, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door of no. opened and mildred came out. he fell back into the darkness and watched her walk towards him. she had on the hat with a quantity of feathers on it which he had seen in her room, and she wore a dress he recognized, too showy for the street and unsuitable to the time of year. he followed her slowly till she came into the tottenham court road, where she slackened her pace; at the corner of oxford street she stopped, looked round, and crossed over to a music-hall. he went up to her and touched her on the arm. he saw that she had rouged her cheeks and painted her lips. "where are you going, mildred?" she started at the sound of his voice and reddened as she always did when she was caught in a lie; then the flash of anger which he knew so well came into her eyes as she instinctively sought to defend herself by abuse. but she did not say the words which were on the tip of her tongue. "oh, i was only going to see the show. it gives me the hump sitting every night by myself." he did not pretend to believe her. "you mustn't. good heavens, i've told you fifty times how dangerous it is. you must stop this sort of thing at once." "oh, hold your jaw," she cried roughly. "how d'you suppose i'm going to live?" he took hold of her arm and without thinking what he was doing tried to drag her away. "for god's sake come along. let me take you home. you don't know what you're doing. it's criminal." "what do i care? let them take their chance. men haven't been so good to me that i need bother my head about them." she pushed him away and walking up to the box-office put down her money. philip had threepence in his pocket. he could not follow. he turned away and walked slowly down oxford street. "i can't do anything more," he said to himself. that was the end. he did not see her again. cx christmas that year falling on thursday, the shop was to close for four days: philip wrote to his uncle asking whether it would be convenient for him to spend the holidays at the vicarage. he received an answer from mrs. foster, saying that mr. carey was not well enough to write himself, but wished to see his nephew and would be glad if he came down. she met philip at the door, and when she shook hands with him, said: "you'll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you'll pretend you don't notice anything, won't you, sir? he's that nervous about himself." philip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room. "here's mr. philip, sir." the vicar of blackstable was a dying man. there was no mistaking that when you looked at the hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. he sat huddled in the arm-chair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over his shoulders. he could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his hands trembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty. "he can't last long now," thought philip, as he looked at him. "how d'you think i'm looking?" asked the vicar. "d'you think i've changed since you were here last?" "i think you look stronger than you did last summer." "it was the heat. that always upsets me." mr. carey's history of the last few months consisted in the number of weeks he had spent in his bed-room and the number of weeks he had spent downstairs. he had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it for mrs. foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to ask on what day of the month he had first left his room. "on the seventh of november, sir." mr. carey looked at philip to see how he took the information. "but i eat well still, don't i, mrs. foster?" "yes, sir, you've got a wonderful appetite." "i don't seem to put on flesh though." nothing interested him now but his health. he was set upon one thing indomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony of his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he was under the influence of morphia. "it's terrible, the amount of money i have to spend on doctor's bills." he tinkled his bell again. "mrs. foster, show master philip the chemist's bill." patiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to philip. "that's only one month. i was wondering if as you're doctoring yourself you couldn't get me the drugs cheaper. i thought of getting them down from the stores, but then there's the postage." though apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not trouble to inquire what phil was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. he asked how long he could stay, and when philip told him he must leave on tuesday morning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. he told him minutely all his symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said of him. he broke off to ring his bell, and when mrs. foster came in, said: "oh, i wasn't sure if you were there. i only rang to see if you were." when she had gone he explained to philip that it made him uneasy if he was not certain that mrs. foster was within earshot; she knew exactly what to do with him if anything happened. philip, seeing that she was tired and that her eyes were heavy from want of sleep, suggested that he was working her too hard. "oh, nonsense," said the vicar, "she's as strong as a horse." and when next she came in to give him his medicine he said to her: "master philip says you've got too much to do, mrs. foster. you like looking after me, don't you?" "oh, i don't mind, sir. i want to do everything i can." presently the medicine took effect and mr. carey fell asleep. philip went into the kitchen and asked mrs. foster whether she could stand the work. he saw that for some months she had had little peace. "well, sir, what can i do?" she answered. "the poor old gentleman's so dependent on me, and, although he is troublesome sometimes, you can't help liking him, can you? i've been here so many years now, i don't know what i shall do when he comes to go." philip saw that she was really fond of the old man. she washed and dressed him, gave him his food, and was up half a dozen times in the night; for she slept in the next room to his and whenever he awoke he tinkled his little bell till she came in. he might die at any moment, but he might live for months. it was wonderful that she should look after a stranger with such patient tenderness, and it was tragic and pitiful that she should be alone in the world to care for him. it seemed to philip that the religion which his uncle had preached all his life was now of no more than formal importance to him: every sunday the curate came and administered to him holy communion, and he often read his bible; but it was clear that he looked upon death with horror. he believed that it was the gateway to life everlasting, but he did not want to enter upon that life. in constant pain, chained to his chair and having given up the hope of ever getting out into the open again, like a child in the hands of a woman to whom he paid wages, he clung to the world he knew. in philip's head was a question he could not ask, because he was aware that his uncle would never give any but a conventional answer: he wondered whether at the very end, now that the machine was painfully wearing itself out, the clergyman still believed in immortality; perhaps at the bottom of his soul, not allowed to shape itself into words in case it became urgent, was the conviction that there was no god and after this life nothing. on the evening of boxing day philip sat in the dining-room with his uncle. he had to start very early next morning in order to get to the shop by nine, and he was to say good-night to mr. carey then. the vicar of blackstable was dozing and philip, lying on the sofa by the window, let his book fall on his knees and looked idly round the room. he asked himself how much the furniture would fetch. he had walked round the house and looked at the things he had known from his childhood; there were a few pieces of china which might go for a decent price and philip wondered if it would be worth while to take them up to london; but the furniture was of the victorian order, of mahogany, solid and ugly; it would go for nothing at an auction. there were three or four thousand books, but everyone knew how badly they sold, and it was not probable that they would fetch more than a hundred pounds. philip did not know how much his uncle would leave, and he reckoned out for the hundredth time what was the least sum upon which he could finish the curriculum at the hospital, take his degree, and live during the time he wished to spend on hospital appointments. he looked at the old man, sleeping restlessly: there was no humanity left in that shrivelled face; it was the face of some queer animal. philip thought how easy it would be to finish that useless life. he had thought it each evening when mrs. foster prepared for his uncle the medicine which was to give him an easy night. there were two bottles: one contained a drug which he took regularly, and the other an opiate if the pain grew unendurable. this was poured out for him and left by his bed-side. he generally took it at three or four in the morning. it would be a simple thing to double the dose; he would die in the night, and no one would suspect anything; for that was how doctor wigram expected him to die. the end would be painless. philip clenched his hands as he thought of the money he wanted so badly. a few more months of that wretched life could matter nothing to the old man, but the few more months meant everything to him: he was getting to the end of his endurance, and when he thought of going back to work in the morning he shuddered with horror. his heart beat quickly at the thought which obsessed him, and though he made an effort to put it out of his mind he could not. it would be so easy, so desperately easy. he had no feeling for the old man, he had never liked him; he had been selfish all his life, selfish to his wife who adored him, indifferent to the boy who had been put in his charge; he was not a cruel man, but a stupid, hard man, eaten up with a small sensuality. it would be easy, desperately easy. philip did not dare. he was afraid of remorse; it would be no good having the money if he regretted all his life what he had done. though he had told himself so often that regret was futile, there were certain things that came back to him occasionally and worried him. he wished they were not on his conscience. his uncle opened his eyes; philip was glad, for he looked a little more human then. he was frankly horrified at the idea that had come to him, it was murder that he was meditating; and he wondered if other people had such thoughts or whether he was abnormal and depraved. he supposed he could not have done it when it came to the point, but there the thought was, constantly recurring: if he held his hand it was from fear. his uncle spoke. "you're not looking forward to my death, philip?" philip felt his heart beat against his chest. "good heavens, no." "that's a good boy. i shouldn't like you to do that. you'll get a little bit of money when i pass away, but you mustn't look forward to it. it wouldn't profit you if you did." he spoke in a low voice, and there was a curious anxiety in his tone. it sent a pang into philip's heart. he wondered what strange insight might have led the old man to surmise what strange desires were in philip's mind. "i hope you'll live for another twenty years," he said. "oh, well, i can't expect to do that, but if i take care of myself i don't see why i shouldn't last another three or four." he was silent for a while, and philip found nothing to say. then, as if he had been thinking it all over, the old man spoke again. "everyone has the right to live as long as he can." philip wanted to distract his mind. "by the way, i suppose you never hear from miss wilkinson now?" "yes, i had a letter some time this year. she's married, you know." "really?" "yes, she married a widower. i believe they're quite comfortable." cxi next day philip began work again, but the end which he expected within a few weeks did not come. the weeks passed into months. the winter wore away, and in the parks the trees burst into bud and into leaf. a terrible lassitude settled upon philip. time was passing, though it went with such heavy feet, and he thought that his youth was going and soon he would have lost it and nothing would have been accomplished. his work seemed more aimless now that there was the certainty of his leaving it. he became skilful in the designing of costumes, and though he had no inventive faculty acquired quickness in the adaptation of french fashions to the english market. sometimes he was not displeased with his drawings, but they always bungled them in the execution. he was amused to notice that he suffered from a lively irritation when his ideas were not adequately carried out. he had to walk warily. whenever he suggested something original mr. sampson turned it down: their customers did not want anything outre, it was a very respectable class of business, and when you had a connection of that sort it wasn't worth while taking liberties with it. once or twice he spoke sharply to philip; he thought the young man was getting a bit above himself, because philip's ideas did not always coincide with his own. "you jolly well take care, my fine young fellow, or one of these days you'll find yourself in the street." philip longed to give him a punch on the nose, but he restrained himself. after all it could not possibly last much longer, and then he would be done with all these people for ever. sometimes in comic desperation he cried out that his uncle must be made of iron. what a constitution! the ills he suffered from would have killed any decent person twelve months before. when at last the news came that the vicar was dying philip, who had been thinking of other things, was taken by surprise. it was in july, and in another fortnight he was to have gone for his holiday. he received a letter from mrs. foster to say the doctor did not give mr. carey many days to live, and if philip wished to see him again he must come at once. philip went to the buyer and told him he wanted to leave. mr. sampson was a decent fellow, and when he knew the circumstances made no difficulties. philip said good-bye to the people in his department; the reason of his leaving had spread among them in an exaggerated form, and they thought he had come into a fortune. mrs. hodges had tears in her eyes when she shook hands with him. "i suppose we shan't often see you again," she said. "i'm glad to get away from lynn's," he answered. it was strange, but he was actually sorry to leave these people whom he thought he had loathed, and when he drove away from the house in harrington street it was with no exultation. he had so anticipated the emotions he would experience on this occasion that now he felt nothing: he was as unconcerned as though he were going for a few days' holiday. "i've got a rotten nature," he said to himself. "i look forward to things awfully, and then when they come i'm always disappointed." he reached blackstable early in the afternoon. mrs. foster met him at the door, and her face told him that his uncle was not yet dead. "he's a little better today," she said. "he's got a wonderful constitution." she led him into the bed-room where mr. carey lay on his back. he gave philip a slight smile, in which was a trace of satisfied cunning at having circumvented his enemy once more. "i thought it was all up with me yesterday," he said, in an exhausted voice. "they'd all given me up, hadn't you, mrs. foster?" "you've got a wonderful constitution, there's no denying that." "there's life in the old dog yet." mrs. foster said that the vicar must not talk, it would tire him; she treated him like a child, with kindly despotism; and there was something childish in the old man's satisfaction at having cheated all their expectations. it struck him at once that philip had been sent for, and he was amused that he had been brought on a fool's errand. if he could only avoid another of his heart attacks he would get well enough in a week or two; and he had had the attacks several times before; he always felt as if he were going to die, but he never did. they all talked of his constitution, but they none of them knew how strong it was. "are you going to stay a day or two?" he asked philip, pretending to believe he had come down for a holiday. "i was thinking of it," philip answered cheerfully. "a breath of sea-air will do you good." presently dr. wigram came, and after he had seen the vicar talked with philip. he adopted an appropriate manner. "i'm afraid it is the end this time, philip," he said. "it'll be a great loss to all of us. i've known him for five-and-thirty years." "he seems well enough now," said philip. "i'm keeping him alive on drugs, but it can't last. it was dreadful these last two days, i thought he was dead half a dozen times." the doctor was silent for a minute or two, but at the gate he said suddenly to philip: "has mrs. foster said anything to you?" "what d'you mean?" "they're very superstitious, these people: she's got hold of an idea that he's got something on his mind, and he can't die till he gets rid of it; and he can't bring himself to confess it." philip did not answer, and the doctor went on. "of course it's nonsense. he's led a very good life, he's done his duty, he's been a good parish priest, and i'm sure we shall all miss him; he can't have anything to reproach himself with. i very much doubt whether the next vicar will suit us half so well." for several days mr. carey continued without change. his appetite which had been excellent left him, and he could eat little. dr. wigram did not hesitate now to still the pain of the neuritis which tormented him; and that, with the constant shaking of his palsied limbs, was gradually exhausting him. his mind remained clear. philip and mrs. foster nursed him between them. she was so tired by the many months during which she had been attentive to all his wants that philip insisted on sitting up with the patient so that she might have her night's rest. he passed the long hours in an arm-chair so that he should not sleep soundly, and read by the light of shaded candles the thousand and one nights. he had not read them since he was a little boy, and they brought back his childhood to him. sometimes he sat and listened to the silence of the night. when the effects of the opiate wore off mr. carey grew restless and kept him constantly busy. at last, early one morning, when the birds were chattering noisily in the trees, he heard his name called. he went up to the bed. mr. carey was lying on his back, with his eyes looking at the ceiling; he did not turn them on philip. philip saw that sweat was on his forehead, and he took a towel and wiped it. "is that you, philip?" the old man asked. philip was startled because the voice was suddenly changed. it was hoarse and low. so would a man speak if he was cold with fear. "yes, d'you want anything?" there was a pause, and still the unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling. then a twitch passed over the face. "i think i'm going to die," he said. "oh, what nonsense!" cried philip. "you're not going to die for years." two tears were wrung from the old man's eyes. they moved philip horribly. his uncle had never betrayed any particular emotion in the affairs of life; and it was dreadful to see them now, for they signified a terror that was unspeakable. "send for mr. simmonds," he said. "i want to take the communion." mr. simmonds was the curate. "now?" asked philip. "soon, or else it'll be too late." philip went to awake mrs. foster, but it was later than he thought and she was up already. he told her to send the gardener with a message, and he went back to his uncle's room. "have you sent for mr. simmonds?" "yes." there was a silence. philip sat by the bed-side, and occasionally wiped the sweating forehead. "let me hold your hand, philip," the old man said at last. philip gave him his hand and he clung to it as to life, for comfort in his extremity. perhaps he had never really loved anyone in all his days, but now he turned instinctively to a human being. his hand was wet and cold. it grasped philip's with feeble, despairing energy. the old man was fighting with the fear of death. and philip thought that all must go through that. oh, how monstrous it was, and they could believe in a god that allowed his creatures to suffer such a cruel torture! he had never cared for his uncle, and for two years he had longed every day for his death; but now he could not overcome the compassion that filled his heart. what a price it was to pay for being other than the beasts! they remained in silence broken only once by a low inquiry from mr. carey. "hasn't he come yet?" at last the housekeeper came in softly to say that mr. simmonds was there. he carried a bag in which were his surplice and his hood. mrs. foster brought the communion plate. mr. simmonds shook hands silently with philip, and then with professional gravity went to the sick man's side. philip and the maid went out of the room. philip walked round the garden all fresh and dewy in the morning. the birds were singing gaily. the sky was blue, but the air, salt-laden, was sweet and cool. the roses were in full bloom. the green of the trees, the green of the lawns, was eager and brilliant. philip walked, and as he walked he thought of the mystery which was proceeding in that bedroom. it gave him a peculiar emotion. presently mrs. foster came out to him and said that his uncle wished to see him. the curate was putting his things back into the black bag. the sick man turned his head a little and greeted him with a smile. philip was astonished, for there was a change in him, an extraordinary change; his eyes had no longer the terror-stricken look, and the pinching of his face had gone: he looked happy and serene. "i'm quite prepared now," he said, and his voice had a different tone in it. "when the lord sees fit to call me i am ready to give my soul into his hands." philip did not speak. he could see that his uncle was sincere. it was almost a miracle. he had taken the body and blood of his savior, and they had given him strength so that he no longer feared the inevitable passage into the night. he knew he was going to die: he was resigned. he only said one thing more: "i shall rejoin my dear wife." it startled philip. he remembered with what a callous selfishness his uncle had treated her, how obtuse he had been to her humble, devoted love. the curate, deeply moved, went away and mrs. foster, weeping, accompanied him to the door. mr. carey, exhausted by his effort, fell into a light doze, and philip sat down by the bed and waited for the end. the morning wore on, and the old man's breathing grew stertorous. the doctor came and said he was dying. he was unconscious and he pecked feebly at the sheets; he was restless and he cried out. dr. wigram gave him a hypodermic injection. "it can't do any good now, he may die at any moment." the doctor looked at his watch and then at the patient. philip saw that it was one o'clock. dr. wigram was thinking of his dinner. "it's no use your waiting," he said. "there's nothing i can do," said the doctor. when he was gone mrs. foster asked philip if he would go to the carpenter, who was also the undertaker, and tell him to send up a woman to lay out the body. "you want a little fresh air," she said, "it'll do you good." the undertaker lived half a mile away. when philip gave him his message, he said: "when did the poor old gentleman die?" philip hesitated. it occurred to him that it would seem brutal to fetch a woman to wash the body while his uncle still lived, and he wondered why mrs. foster had asked him to come. they would think he was in a great hurry to kill the old man off. he thought the undertaker looked at him oddly. he repeated the question. it irritated philip. it was no business of his. "when did the vicar pass away?" philip's first impulse was to say that it had just happened, but then it would seem inexplicable if the sick man lingered for several hours. he reddened and answered awkwardly. "oh, he isn't exactly dead yet." the undertaker looked at him in perplexity, and he hurried to explain. "mrs. foster is all alone and she wants a woman there. you understood, don't you? he may be dead by now." the undertaker nodded. "oh, yes, i see. i'll send someone up at once." when philip got back to the vicarage he went up to the bed-room. mrs. foster rose from her chair by the bed-side. "he's just as he was when you left," she said. she went down to get herself something to eat, and philip watched curiously the process of death. there was nothing human now in the unconscious being that struggled feebly. sometimes a muttered ejaculation issued from the loose mouth. the sun beat down hotly from a cloudless sky, but the trees in the garden were pleasant and cool. it was a lovely day. a bluebottle buzzed against the windowpane. suddenly there was a loud rattle, it made philip start, it was horribly frightening; a movement passed through the limbs and the old man was dead. the machine had run down. the bluebottle buzzed, buzzed noisily against the windowpane. cxii josiah graves in his masterful way made arrangements, becoming but economical, for the funeral; and when it was over came back to the vicarage with philip. the will was in his charge, and with a due sense of the fitness of things he read it to philip over an early cup of tea. it was written on half a sheet of paper and left everything mr. carey had to his nephew. there was the furniture, about eighty pounds at the bank, twenty shares in the a. b. c. company, a few in allsop's brewery, some in the oxford music-hall, and a few more in a london restaurant. they had been bought under mr. graves' direction, and he told philip with satisfaction: "you see, people must eat, they will drink, and they want amusement. you're always safe if you put your money in what the public thinks necessities." his words showed a nice discrimination between the grossness of the vulgar, which he deplored but accepted, and the finer taste of the elect. altogether in investments there was about five hundred pounds; and to that must be added the balance at the bank and what the furniture would fetch. it was riches to philip. he was not happy but infinitely relieved. mr. graves left him, after they had discussed the auction which must be held as soon as possible, and philip sat himself down to go through the papers of the deceased. the rev. william carey had prided himself on never destroying anything, and there were piles of correspondence dating back for fifty years and bundles upon bundles of neatly docketed bills. he had kept not only letters addressed to him, but letters which himself had written. there was a yellow packet of letters which he had written to his father in the forties, when as an oxford undergraduate he had gone to germany for the long vacation. philip read them idly. it was a different william carey from the william carey he had known, and yet there were traces in the boy which might to an acute observer have suggested the man. the letters were formal and a little stilted. he showed himself strenuous to see all that was noteworthy, and he described with a fine enthusiasm the castles of the rhine. the falls of schaffhausen made him 'offer reverent thanks to the all-powerful creator of the universe, whose works were wondrous and beautiful,' and he could not help thinking that they who lived in sight of 'this handiwork of their blessed maker must be moved by the contemplation to lead pure and holy lives.' among some bills philip found a miniature which had been painted of william carey soon after he was ordained. it represented a thin young curate, with long hair that fell over his head in natural curls, with dark eyes, large and dreamy, and a pale ascetic face. philip remembered the chuckle with which his uncle used to tell of the dozens of slippers which were worked for him by adoring ladies. the rest of the afternoon and all the evening philip toiled through the innumerable correspondence. he glanced at the address and at the signature, then tore the letter in two and threw it into the washing-basket by his side. suddenly he came upon one signed helen. he did not know the writing. it was thin, angular, and old-fashioned. it began: my dear william, and ended: your affectionate sister. then it struck him that it was from his own mother. he had never seen a letter of hers before, and her handwriting was strange to him. it was about himself. my dear william, stephen wrote to you to thank you for your congratulations on the birth of our son and your kind wishes to myself. thank god we are both well and i am deeply thankful for the great mercy which has been shown me. now that i can hold a pen i want to tell you and dear louisa myself how truly grateful i am to you both for all your kindness to me now and always since my marriage. i am going to ask you to do me a great favour. both stephen and i wish you to be the boy's godfather, and we hope that you will consent. i know i am not asking a small thing, for i am sure you will take the responsibilities of the position very seriously, but i am especially anxious that you should undertake this office because you are a clergyman as well as the boy's uncle. i am very anxious for the boy's welfare and i pray god night and day that he may grow into a good, honest, and christian man. with you to guide him i hope that he will become a soldier in christ's faith and be all the days of his life god-fearing, humble, and pious. your affectionate sister, helen. philip pushed the letter away and, leaning forward, rested his face on his hands. it deeply touched and at the same time surprised him. he was astonished at its religious tone, which seemed to him neither mawkish nor sentimental. he knew nothing of his mother, dead now for nearly twenty years, but that she was beautiful, and it was strange to learn that she was simple and pious. he had never thought of that side of her. he read again what she said about him, what she expected and thought about him; he had turned out very differently; he looked at himself for a moment; perhaps it was better that she was dead. then a sudden impulse caused him to tear up the letter; its tenderness and simplicity made it seem peculiarly private; he had a queer feeling that there was something indecent in his reading what exposed his mother's gentle soul. he went on with the vicar's dreary correspondence. a few days later he went up to london, and for the first time for two years entered by day the hall of st. luke's hospital. he went to see the secretary of the medical school; he was surprised to see him and asked philip curiously what he had been doing. philip's experiences had given him a certain confidence in himself and a different outlook upon many things: such a question would have embarrassed him before; but now he answered coolly, with a deliberate vagueness which prevented further inquiry, that private affairs had obliged him to make a break in the curriculum; he was now anxious to qualify as soon as possible. the first examination he could take was in midwifery and the diseases of women, and he put his name down to be a clerk in the ward devoted to feminine ailments; since it was holiday time there happened to be no difficulty in getting a post as obstetric clerk; he arranged to undertake that duty during the last week of august and the first two of september. after this interview philip walked through the medical school, more or less deserted, for the examinations at the end of the summer session were all over; and he wandered along the terrace by the river-side. his heart was full. he thought that now he could begin a new life, and he would put behind him all the errors, follies, and miseries of the past. the flowing river suggested that everything passed, was passing always, and nothing mattered; the future was before him rich with possibilities. he went back to blackstable and busied himself with the settling up of his uncle's estate. the auction was fixed for the middle of august, when the presence of visitors for the summer holidays would make it possible to get better prices. catalogues were made out and sent to the various dealers in second-hand books at tercanbury, maidstone, and ashford. one afternoon philip took it into his head to go over to tercanbury and see his old school. he had not been there since the day when, with relief in his heart, he had left it with the feeling that thenceforward he was his own master. it was strange to wander through the narrow streets of tercanbury which he had known so well for so many years. he looked at the old shops, still there, still selling the same things; the booksellers with school-books, pious works, and the latest novels in one window and photographs of the cathedral and of the city in the other; the games shop, with its cricket bats, fishing tackle, tennis rackets, and footballs; the tailor from whom he had got clothes all through his boyhood; and the fishmonger where his uncle whenever he came to tercanbury bought fish. he wandered along the sordid street in which, behind a high wall, lay the red brick house which was the preparatory school. further on was the gateway that led into king's school, and he stood in the quadrangle round which were the various buildings. it was just four and the boys were hurrying out of school. he saw the masters in their gowns and mortar-boards, and they were strange to him. it was more than ten years since he had left and many changes had taken place. he saw the headmaster; he walked slowly down from the schoolhouse to his own, talking to a big boy who philip supposed was in the sixth; he was little changed, tall, cadaverous, romantic as philip remembered him, with the same wild eyes; but the black beard was streaked with gray now and the dark, sallow face was more deeply lined. philip had an impulse to go up and speak to him, but he was afraid he would have forgotten him, and he hated the thought of explaining who he was. boys lingered talking to one another, and presently some who had hurried to change came out to play fives; others straggled out in twos and threes and went out of the gateway, philip knew they were going up to the cricket ground; others again went into the precincts to bat at the nets. philip stood among them a stranger; one or two gave him an indifferent glance; but visitors, attracted by the norman staircase, were not rare and excited little attention. philip looked at them curiously. he thought with melancholy of the distance that separated him from them, and he thought bitterly how much he had wanted to do and how little done. it seemed to him that all those years, vanished beyond recall, had been utterly wasted. the boys, fresh and buoyant, were doing the same things that he had done, it seemed that not a day had passed since he left the school, and yet in that place where at least by name he had known everybody now he knew not a soul. in a few years these too, others taking their place, would stand alien as he stood; but the reflection brought him no solace; it merely impressed upon him the futility of human existence. each generation repeated the trivial round. he wondered what had become of the boys who were his companions: they were nearly thirty now; some would be dead, but others were married and had children; they were soldiers and parsons, doctors, lawyers; they were staid men who were beginning to put youth behind them. had any of them made such a hash of life as he? he thought of the boy he had been devoted to; it was funny, he could not recall his name; he remembered exactly what he looked like, he had been his greatest friend; but his name would not come back to him. he looked back with amusement on the jealous emotions he had suffered on his account. it was irritating not to recollect his name. he longed to be a boy again, like those he saw sauntering through the quadrangle, so that, avoiding his mistakes, he might start fresh and make something more out of life. he felt an intolerable loneliness. he almost regretted the penury which he had suffered during the last two years, since the desperate struggle merely to keep body and soul together had deadened the pain of living. in the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy daily bread: it was not a curse upon mankind, but the balm which reconciled it to existence. but philip was impatient with himself; he called to mind his idea of the pattern of life: the unhappiness he had suffered was no more than part of a decoration which was elaborate and beautiful; he told himself strenuously that he must accept with gaiety everything, dreariness and excitement, pleasure and pain, because it added to the richness of the design. he sought for beauty consciously, and he remembered how even as a boy he had taken pleasure in the gothic cathedral as one saw it from the precincts; he went there and looked at the massive pile, gray under the cloudy sky, with the central tower that rose like the praise of men to their god; but the boys were batting at the nets, and they were lissom and strong and active; he could not help hearing their shouts and laughter. the cry of youth was insistent, and he saw the beautiful thing before him only with his eyes. cxiii at the beginning of the last week in august philip entered upon his duties in the 'district.' they were arduous, for he had to attend on an average three confinements a day. the patient had obtained a 'card' from the hospital some time before; and when her time came it was taken to the porter by a messenger, generally a little girl, who was then sent across the road to the house in which philip lodged. at night the porter, who had a latch-key, himself came over and awoke philip. it was mysterious then to get up in the darkness and walk through the deserted streets of the south side. at those hours it was generally the husband who brought the card. if there had been a number of babies before he took it for the most part with surly indifference, but if newly married he was nervous and then sometimes strove to allay his anxiety by getting drunk. often there was a mile or more to walk, during which philip and the messenger discussed the conditions of labour and the cost of living; philip learnt about the various trades which were practised on that side of the river. he inspired confidence in the people among whom he was thrown, and during the long hours that he waited in a stuffy room, the woman in labour lying on a large bed that took up half of it, her mother and the midwife talked to him as naturally as they talked to one another. the circumstances in which he had lived during the last two years had taught him several things about the life of the very poor, which it amused them to find he knew; and they were impressed because he was not deceived by their little subterfuges. he was kind, and he had gentle hands, and he did not lose his temper. they were pleased because he was not above drinking a cup of tea with them, and when the dawn came and they were still waiting they offered him a slice of bread and dripping; he was not squeamish and could eat most things now with a good appetite. some of the houses he went to, in filthy courts off a dingy street, huddled against one another without light or air, were merely squalid; but others, unexpectedly, though dilapidated, with worm-eaten floors and leaking roofs, had the grand air: you found in them oak balusters exquisitely carved, and the walls had still their panelling. these were thickly inhabited. one family lived in each room, and in the daytime there was the incessant noise of children playing in the court. the old walls were the breeding-place of vermin; the air was so foul that often, feeling sick, philip had to light his pipe. the people who dwelt here lived from hand to mouth. babies were unwelcome, the man received them with surly anger, the mother with despair; it was one more mouth to feed, and there was little enough wherewith to feed those already there. philip often discerned the wish that the child might be born dead or might die quickly. he delivered one woman of twins (a source of humour to the facetious) and when she was told she burst into a long, shrill wail of misery. her mother said outright: "i don't know how they're going to feed 'em." "maybe the lord'll see fit to take 'em to 'imself," said the midwife. philip caught sight of the husband's face as he looked at the tiny pair lying side by side, and there was a ferocious sullenness in it which startled him. he felt in the family assembled there a hideous resentment against those poor atoms who had come into the world unwished for; and he had a suspicion that if he did not speak firmly an 'accident' would occur. accidents occurred often; mothers 'overlay' their babies, and perhaps errors of diet were not always the result of carelessness. "i shall come every day," he said. "i warn you that if anything happens to them there'll have to be an inquest." the father made no reply, but he gave philip a scowl. there was murder in his soul. "bless their little 'earts," said the grandmother, "what should 'appen to them?" the great difficulty was to keep the mothers in bed for ten days, which was the minimum upon which the hospital practice insisted. it was awkward to look after the family, no one would see to the children without payment, and the husband tumbled because his tea was not right when he came home tired from his work and hungry. philip had heard that the poor helped one another, but woman after woman complained to him that she could not get anyone in to clean up and see to the children's dinner without paying for the service, and she could not afford to pay. by listening to the women as they talked and by chance remarks from which he could deduce much that was left unsaid, philip learned how little there was in common between the poor and the classes above them. they did not envy their betters, for the life was too different, and they had an ideal of ease which made the existence of the middle-classes seem formal and stiff; moreover, they had a certain contempt for them because they were soft and did not work with their hands. the proud merely wished to be left alone, but the majority looked upon the well-to-do as people to be exploited; they knew what to say in order to get such advantages as the charitable put at their disposal, and they accepted benefits as a right which came to them from the folly of their superiors and their own astuteness. they bore the curate with contemptuous indifference, but the district visitor excited their bitter hatred. she came in and opened your windows without so much as a by your leave or with your leave, 'and me with my bronchitis, enough to give me my death of cold;' she poked her nose into corners, and if she didn't say the place was dirty you saw what she thought right enough, 'an' it's all very well for them as 'as servants, but i'd like to see what she'd make of 'er room if she 'ad four children, and 'ad to do the cookin', and mend their clothes, and wash them.' philip discovered that the greatest tragedy of life to these people was not separation or death, that was natural and the grief of it could be assuaged with tears, but loss of work. he saw a man come home one afternoon, three days after his wife's confinement, and tell her he had been dismissed; he was a builder and at that time work was slack; he stated the fact, and sat down to his tea. "oh, jim," she said. the man ate stolidly some mess which had been stewing in a sauce-pan against his coming; he stared at his plate; his wife looked at him two or three times, with little startled glances, and then quite silently began to cry. the builder was an uncouth little fellow with a rough, weather-beaten face and a long white scar on his forehead; he had large, stubbly hands. presently he pushed aside his plate as if he must give up the effort to force himself to eat, and turned a fixed gaze out of the window. the room was at the top of the house, at the back, and one saw nothing but sullen clouds. the silence seemed heavy with despair. philip felt that there was nothing to be said, he could only go; and as he walked away wearily, for he had been up most of the night, his heart was filled with rage against the cruelty of the world. he knew the hopelessness of the search for work and the desolation which is harder to bear than hunger. he was thankful not to have to believe in god, for then such a condition of things would be intolerable; one could reconcile oneself to existence only because it was meaningless. it seemed to philip that the people who spent their time in helping the poorer classes erred because they sought to remedy things which would harass them if themselves had to endure them without thinking that they did not in the least disturb those who were used to them. the poor did not want large airy rooms; they suffered from cold, for their food was not nourishing and their circulation bad; space gave them a feeling of chilliness, and they wanted to burn as little coal as need be; there was no hardship for several to sleep in one room, they preferred it; they were never alone for a moment, from the time they were born to the time they died, and loneliness oppressed them; they enjoyed the promiscuity in which they dwelt, and the constant noise of their surroundings pressed upon their ears unnoticed. they did not feel the need of taking a bath constantly, and philip often heard them speak with indignation of the necessity to do so with which they were faced on entering the hospital: it was both an affront and a discomfort. they wanted chiefly to be left alone; then if the man was in regular work life went easily and was not without its pleasures: there was plenty of time for gossip, after the day's work a glass of beer was very good to drink, the streets were a constant source of entertainment, if you wanted to read there was reynolds' or the news of the world; 'but there, you couldn't make out 'ow the time did fly, the truth was and that's a fact, you was a rare one for reading when you was a girl, but what with one thing and another you didn't get no time now not even to read the paper.' the usual practice was to pay three visits after a confinement, and one sunday philip went to see a patient at the dinner hour. she was up for the first time. "i couldn't stay in bed no longer, i really couldn't. i'm not one for idling, and it gives me the fidgets to be there and do nothing all day long, so i said to 'erb, i'm just going to get up and cook your dinner for you." 'erb was sitting at table with his knife and fork already in his hands. he was a young man, with an open face and blue eyes. he was earning good money, and as things went the couple were in easy circumstances. they had only been married a few months, and were both delighted with the rosy boy who lay in the cradle at the foot of the bed. there was a savoury smell of beefsteak in the room and philip's eyes turned to the range. "i was just going to dish up this minute," said the woman. "fire away," said philip. "i'll just have a look at the son and heir and then i'll take myself off." husband and wife laughed at philip's expression, and 'erb getting up went over with philip to the cradle. he looked at his baby proudly. "there doesn't seem much wrong with him, does there?" said philip. he took up his hat, and by this time 'erb's wife had dished up the beefsteak and put on the table a plate of green peas. "you're going to have a nice dinner," smiled philip. "he's only in of a sunday and i like to 'ave something special for him, so as he shall miss his 'ome when he's out at work." "i suppose you'd be above sittin' down and 'avin' a bit of dinner with us?" said 'erb. "oh, 'erb," said his wife, in a shocked tone. "not if you ask me," answered philip, with his attractive smile. "well, that's what i call friendly, i knew 'e wouldn't take offence, polly. just get another plate, my girl." polly was flustered, and she thought 'erb a regular caution, you never knew what ideas 'e'd get in 'is 'ead next; but she got a plate and wiped it quickly with her apron, then took a new knife and fork from the chest of drawers, where her best cutlery rested among her best clothes. there was a jug of stout on the table, and 'erb poured philip out a glass. he wanted to give him the lion's share of the beefsteak, but philip insisted that they should share alike. it was a sunny room with two windows that reached to the floor; it had been the parlour of a house which at one time was if not fashionable at least respectable: it might have been inhabited fifty years before by a well-to-do tradesman or an officer on half pay. 'erb had been a football player before he married, and there were photographs on the wall of various teams in self-conscious attitudes, with neatly plastered hair, the captain seated proudly in the middle holding a cup. there were other signs of prosperity: photographs of the relations of 'erb and his wife in sunday clothes; on the chimney-piece an elaborate arrangement of shells stuck on a miniature rock; and on each side mugs, 'a present from southend' in gothic letters, with pictures of a pier and a parade on them. 'erb was something of a character; he was a non-union man and expressed himself with indignation at the efforts of the union to force him to join. the union wasn't no good to him, he never found no difficulty in getting work, and there was good wages for anyone as 'ad a head on his shoulders and wasn't above puttin' 'is 'and to anything as come 'is way. polly was timorous. if she was 'im she'd join the union, the last time there was a strike she was expectin' 'im to be brought back in an ambulance every time he went out. she turned to philip. "he's that obstinate, there's no doing anything with 'im." "well, what i say is, it's a free country, and i won't be dictated to." "it's no good saying it's a free country," said polly, "that won't prevent 'em bashin' your 'ead in if they get the chanst." when they had finished philip passed his pouch over to 'erb and they lit their pipes; then he got up, for a 'call' might be waiting for him at his rooms, and shook hands. he saw that it had given them pleasure that he shared their meal, and they saw that he had thoroughly enjoyed it. "well, good-bye, sir," said 'erb, "and i 'ope we shall 'ave as nice a doctor next time the missus disgraces 'erself." "go on with you, 'erb," she retorted. "'ow d'you know there's going to be a next time?" cxiv the three weeks which the appointment lasted drew to an end. philip had attended sixty-two cases, and he was tired out. when he came home about ten o'clock on his last night he hoped with all his heart that he would not be called out again. he had not had a whole night's rest for ten days. the case which he had just come from was horrible. he had been fetched by a huge, burly man, the worse for liquor, and taken to a room in an evil-smelling court, which was filthier than any he had seen: it was a tiny attic; most of the space was taken up by a wooden bed, with a canopy of dirty red hangings, and the ceiling was so low that philip could touch it with the tips of his fingers; with the solitary candle that afforded what light there was he went over it, frizzling up the bugs that crawled upon it. the woman was a blowsy creature of middle age, who had had a long succession of still-born children. it was a story that philip was not unaccustomed to: the husband had been a soldier in india; the legislation forced upon that country by the prudery of the english public had given a free run to the most distressing of all diseases; the innocent suffered. yawning, philip undressed and took a bath, then shook his clothes over the water and watched the animals that fell out wriggling. he was just going to get into bed when there was a knock at the door, and the hospital porter brought him a card. "curse you," said philip. "you're the last person i wanted to see tonight. who's brought it?" "i think it's the 'usband, sir. shall i tell him to wait?" philip looked at the address, saw that the street was familiar to him, and told the porter that he would find his own way. he dressed himself and in five minutes, with his black bag in his hand, stepped into the street. a man, whom he could not see in the darkness, came up to him, and said he was the husband. "i thought i'd better wait, sir," he said. "it's a pretty rough neighbour'ood, and them not knowing who you was." philip laughed. "bless your heart, they all know the doctor, i've been in some damned sight rougher places than waver street." it was quite true. the black bag was a passport through wretched alleys and down foul-smelling courts into which a policeman was not ready to venture by himself. once or twice a little group of men had looked at philip curiously as he passed; he heard a mutter of observations and then one say: "it's the 'orspital doctor." as he went by one or two of them said: "good-night, sir." "we shall 'ave to step out if you don't mind, sir," said the man who accompanied him now. "they told me there was no time to lose." "why did you leave it so late?" asked philip, as he quickened his pace. he glanced at the fellow as they passed a lamp-post. "you look awfully young," he said. "i'm turned eighteen, sir." he was fair, and he had not a hair on his face, he looked no more than a boy; he was short, but thick set. "you're young to be married," said philip. "we 'ad to." "how much d'you earn?" "sixteen, sir." sixteen shillings a week was not much to keep a wife and child on. the room the couple lived in showed that their poverty was extreme. it was a fair size, but it looked quite large, since there was hardly any furniture in it; there was no carpet on the floor; there were no pictures on the walls; and most rooms had something, photographs or supplements in cheap frames from the christmas numbers of the illustrated papers. the patient lay on a little iron bed of the cheapest sort. it startled philip to see how young she was. "by jove, she can't be more than sixteen," he said to the woman who had come in to 'see her through.' she had given her age as eighteen on the card, but when they were very young they often put on a year or two. also she was pretty, which was rare in those classes in which the constitution has been undermined by bad food, bad air, and unhealthy occupations; she had delicate features and large blue eyes, and a mass of dark hair done in the elaborate fashion of the coster girl. she and her husband were very nervous. "you'd better wait outside, so as to be at hand if i want you," philip said to him. now that he saw him better philip was surprised again at his boyish air: you felt that he should be larking in the street with the other lads instead of waiting anxiously for the birth of a child. the hours passed, and it was not till nearly two that the baby was born. everything seemed to be going satisfactorily; the husband was called in, and it touched philip to see the awkward, shy way in which he kissed his wife; philip packed up his things. before going he felt once more his patient's pulse. "hulloa!" he said. he looked at her quickly: something had happened. in cases of emergency the s. o. c.--senior obstetric clerk--had to be sent for; he was a qualified man, and the 'district' was in his charge. philip scribbled a note, and giving it to the husband, told him to run with it to the hospital; he bade him hurry, for his wife was in a dangerous state. the man set off. philip waited anxiously; he knew the woman was bleeding to death; he was afraid she would die before his chief arrived; he took what steps he could. he hoped fervently that the s. o. c. would not have been called elsewhere. the minutes were interminable. he came at last, and, while he examined the patient, in a low voice asked philip questions. philip saw by his face that he thought the case very grave. his name was chandler. he was a tall man of few words, with a long nose and a thin face much lined for his age. he shook his head. "it was hopeless from the beginning. where's the husband?" "i told him to wait on the stairs," said philip. "you'd better bring him in." philip opened the door and called him. he was sitting in the dark on the first step of the flight that led to the next floor. he came up to the bed. "what's the matter?" he asked. "why, there's internal bleeding. it's impossible to stop it." the s. o. c. hesitated a moment, and because it was a painful thing to say he forced his voice to become brusque. "she's dying." the man did not say a word; he stopped quite still, looking at his wife, who lay, pale and unconscious, on the bed. it was the midwife who spoke. "the gentlemen 'ave done all they could, 'arry," she said. "i saw what was comin' from the first." "shut up," said chandler. there were no curtains on the windows, and gradually the night seemed to lighten; it was not yet the dawn, but the dawn was at hand. chandler was keeping the woman alive by all the means in his power, but life was slipping away from her, and suddenly she died. the boy who was her husband stood at the end of the cheap iron bed with his hands resting on the rail; he did not speak; but he looked very pale and once or twice chandler gave him an uneasy glance, thinking he was going to faint: his lips were gray. the midwife sobbed noisily, but he took no notice of her. his eyes were fixed upon his wife, and in them was an utter bewilderment. he reminded you of a dog whipped for something he did not know was wrong. when chandler and philip had gathered together their things chandler turned to the husband. "you'd better lie down for a bit. i expect you're about done up." "there's nowhere for me to lie down, sir," he answered, and there was in his voice a humbleness which was very distressing. "don't you know anyone in the house who'll give you a shakedown?" "no, sir." "they only moved in last week," said the midwife. "they don't know nobody yet." chandler hesitated a moment awkwardly, then he went up to the man and said: "i'm very sorry this has happened." he held out his hand and the man, with an instinctive glance at his own to see if it was clean, shook it. "thank you, sir." philip shook hands with him too. chandler told the midwife to come and fetch the certificate in the morning. they left the house and walked along together in silence. "it upsets one a bit at first, doesn't it?" said chandler at last. "a bit," answered philip. "if you like i'll tell the porter not to bring you any more calls tonight." "i'm off duty at eight in the morning in any case." "how many cases have you had?" "sixty-three." "good. you'll get your certificate then." they arrived at the hospital, and the s. o. c. went in to see if anyone wanted him. philip walked on. it had been very hot all the day before, and even now in the early morning there was a balminess in the air. the street was very still. philip did not feel inclined to go to bed. it was the end of his work and he need not hurry. he strolled along, glad of the fresh air and the silence; he thought that he would go on to the bridge and look at day break on the river. a policeman at the corner bade him good-morning. he knew who philip was from his bag. "out late tonight, sir," he said. philip nodded and passed. he leaned against the parapet and looked towards the morning. at that hour the great city was like a city of the dead. the sky was cloudless, but the stars were dim at the approach of day; there was a light mist on the river, and the great buildings on the north side were like palaces in an enchanted island. a group of barges was moored in midstream. it was all of an unearthly violet, troubling somehow and awe-inspiring; but quickly everything grew pale, and cold, and gray. then the sun rose, a ray of yellow gold stole across the sky, and the sky was iridescent. philip could not get out of his eyes the dead girl lying on the bed, wan and white, and the boy who stood at the end of it like a stricken beast. the bareness of the squalid room made the pain of it more poignant. it was cruel that a stupid chance should have cut off her life when she was just entering upon it; but in the very moment of saying this to himself, philip thought of the life which had been in store for her, the bearing of children, the dreary fight with poverty, the youth broken by toil and deprivation into a slatternly middle age--he saw the pretty face grow thin and white, the hair grow scanty, the pretty hands, worn down brutally by work, become like the claws of an old animal--then, when the man was past his prime, the difficulty of getting jobs, the small wages he had to take; and the inevitable, abject penury of the end: she might be energetic, thrifty, industrious, it would not have saved her; in the end was the workhouse or subsistence on the charity of her children. who could pity her because she had died when life offered so little? but pity was inane. philip felt it was not that which these people needed. they did not pity themselves. they accepted their fate. it was the natural order of things. otherwise, good heavens! otherwise they would swarm over the river in their multitude to the side where those great buildings were, secure and stately, and they would pillage, burn, and sack. but the day, tender and pale, had broken now, and the mist was tenuous; it bathed everything in a soft radiance; and the thames was gray, rosy, and green; gray like mother-of-pearl and green like the heart of a yellow rose. the wharfs and store-houses of the surrey side were massed in disorderly loveliness. the scene was so exquisite that philip's heart beat passionately. he was overwhelmed by the beauty of the world. beside that nothing seemed to matter. cxv philip spent the few weeks that remained before the beginning of the winter session in the out-patients' department, and in october settled down to regular work. he had been away from the hospital for so long that he found himself very largely among new people; the men of different years had little to do with one another, and his contemporaries were now mostly qualified: some had left to take up assistantships or posts in country hospitals and infirmaries, and some held appointments at st. luke's. the two years during which his mind had lain fallow had refreshed him, he fancied, and he was able now to work with energy. the athelnys were delighted with his change of fortune. he had kept aside a few things from the sale of his uncle's effects and gave them all presents. he gave sally a gold chain that had belonged to his aunt. she was now grown up. she was apprenticed to a dressmaker and set out every morning at eight to work all day in a shop in regent street. sally had frank blue eyes, a broad brow, and plentiful shining hair; she was buxom, with broad hips and full breasts; and her father, who was fond of discussing her appearance, warned her constantly that she must not grow fat. she attracted because she was healthy, animal, and feminine. she had many admirers, but they left her unmoved; she gave one the impression that she looked upon love-making as nonsense; and it was easy to imagine that young men found her unapproachable. sally was old for her years: she had been used to help her mother in the household work and in the care of the children, so that she had acquired a managing air, which made her mother say that sally was a bit too fond of having things her own way. she did not speak very much, but as she grew older she seemed to be acquiring a quiet sense of humour, and sometimes uttered a remark which suggested that beneath her impassive exterior she was quietly bubbling with amusement at her fellow-creatures. philip found that with her he never got on the terms of affectionate intimacy upon which he was with the rest of athelny's huge family. now and then her indifference slightly irritated him. there was something enigmatic in her. when philip gave her the necklace athelny in his boisterous way insisted that she must kiss him; but sally reddened and drew back. "no, i'm not going to," she said. "ungrateful hussy!" cried athelny. "why not?" "i don't like being kissed by men," she said. philip saw her embarrassment, and, amused, turned athelny's attention to something else. that was never a very difficult thing to do. but evidently her mother spoke of the matter later, for next time philip came she took the opportunity when they were alone for a couple of minutes to refer to it. "you didn't think it disagreeable of me last week when i wouldn't kiss you?" "not a bit," he laughed. "it's not because i wasn't grateful." she blushed a little as she uttered the formal phrase which she had prepared. "i shall always value the necklace, and it was very kind of you to give it me." philip found it always a little difficult to talk to her. she did all that she had to do very competently, but seemed to feel no need of conversation; yet there was nothing unsociable in her. one sunday afternoon when athelny and his wife had gone out together, and philip, treated as one of the family, sat reading in the parlour, sally came in and sat by the window to sew. the girls' clothes were made at home and sally could not afford to spend sundays in idleness. philip thought she wished to talk and put down his book. "go on reading," she said. "i only thought as you were alone i'd come and sit with you." "you're the most silent person i've ever struck," said philip. "we don't want another one who's talkative in this house," she said. there was no irony in her tone: she was merely stating a fact. but it suggested to philip that she measured her father, alas, no longer the hero he was to her childhood, and in her mind joined together his entertaining conversation and the thriftlessness which often brought difficulties into their life; she compared his rhetoric with her mother's practical common sense; and though the liveliness of her father amused her she was perhaps sometimes a little impatient with it. philip looked at her as she bent over her work; she was healthy, strong, and normal; it must be odd to see her among the other girls in the shop with their flat chests and anaemic faces. mildred suffered from anaemia. after a time it appeared that sally had a suitor. she went out occasionally with friends she had made in the work-room, and had met a young man, an electrical engineer in a very good way of business, who was a most eligible person. one day she told her mother that he had asked her to marry him. "what did you say?" said her mother. "oh, i told him i wasn't over-anxious to marry anyone just yet awhile." she paused a little as was her habit between observations. "he took on so that i said he might come to tea on sunday." it was an occasion that thoroughly appealed to athelny. he rehearsed all the afternoon how he should play the heavy father for the young man's edification till he reduced his children to helpless giggling. just before he was due athelny routed out an egyptian tarboosh and insisted on putting it on. "go on with you, athelny," said his wife, who was in her best, which was of black velvet, and, since she was growing stouter every year, very tight for her. "you'll spoil the girl's chances." she tried to pull it off, but the little man skipped nimbly out of her way. "unhand me, woman. nothing will induce me to take it off. this young man must be shown at once that it is no ordinary family he is preparing to enter." "let him keep it on, mother," said sally, in her even, indifferent fashion. "if mr. donaldson doesn't take it the way it's meant he can take himself off, and good riddance." philip thought it was a severe ordeal that the young man was being exposed to, since athelny, in his brown velvet jacket, flowing black tie, and red tarboosh, was a startling spectacle for an innocent electrical engineer. when he came he was greeted by his host with the proud courtesy of a spanish grandee and by mrs. athelny in an altogether homely and natural fashion. they sat down at the old ironing-table in the high-backed monkish chairs, and mrs. athelny poured tea out of a lustre teapot which gave a note of england and the country-side to the festivity. she had made little cakes with her own hand, and on the table was home-made jam. it was a farm-house tea, and to philip very quaint and charming in that jacobean house. athelny for some fantastic reason took it into his head to discourse upon byzantine history; he had been reading the later volumes of the decline and fall; and, his forefinger dramatically extended, he poured into the astonished ears of the suitor scandalous stories about theodora and irene. he addressed himself directly to his guest with a torrent of rhodomontade; and the young man, reduced to helpless silence and shy, nodded his head at intervals to show that he took an intelligent interest. mrs. athelny paid no attention to thorpe's conversation, but interrupted now and then to offer the young man more tea or to press upon him cake and jam. philip watched sally; she sat with downcast eyes, calm, silent, and observant; and her long eye-lashes cast a pretty shadow on her cheek. you could not tell whether she was amused at the scene or if she cared for the young man. she was inscrutable. but one thing was certain: the electrical engineer was good-looking, fair and clean-shaven, with pleasant, regular features, and an honest face; he was tall and well-made. philip could not help thinking he would make an excellent mate for her, and he felt a pang of envy for the happiness which he fancied was in store for them. presently the suitor said he thought it was about time he was getting along. sally rose to her feet without a word and accompanied him to the door. when she came back her father burst out: "well, sally, we think your young man very nice. we are prepared to welcome him into our family. let the banns be called and i will compose a nuptial song." sally set about clearing away the tea-things. she did not answer. suddenly she shot a swift glance at philip. "what did you think of him, mr. philip?" she had always refused to call him uncle phil as the other children did, and would not call him philip. "i think you'd make an awfully handsome pair." she looked at him quickly once more, and then with a slight blush went on with her business. "i thought him a very nice civil-spoken young fellow," said mrs. athelny, "and i think he's just the sort to make any girl happy." sally did not reply for a minute or two, and philip looked at her curiously: it might be thought that she was meditating upon what her mother had said, and on the other hand she might be thinking of the man in the moon. "why don't you answer when you're spoken to, sally?" remarked her mother, a little irritably. "i thought he was a silly." "aren't you going to have him then?" "no, i'm not." "i don't know how much more you want," said mrs. athelny, and it was quite clear now that she was put out. "he's a very decent young fellow and he can afford to give you a thorough good home. we've got quite enough to feed here without you. if you get a chance like that it's wicked not to take it. and i daresay you'd be able to have a girl to do the rough work." philip had never before heard mrs. athelny refer so directly to the difficulties of her life. he saw how important it was that each child should be provided for. "it's no good your carrying on, mother," said sally in her quiet way. "i'm not going to marry him." "i think you're a very hard-hearted, cruel, selfish girl." "if you want me to earn my own living, mother, i can always go into service." "don't be so silly, you know your father would never let you do that." philip caught sally's eye, and he thought there was in it a glimmer of amusement. he wondered what there had been in the conversation to touch her sense of humour. she was an odd girl. cxvi during his last year at st. luke's philip had to work hard. he was contented with life. he found it very comfortable to be heart-free and to have enough money for his needs. he had heard people speak contemptuously of money: he wondered if they had ever tried to do without it. he knew that the lack made a man petty, mean, grasping; it distorted his character and caused him to view the world from a vulgar angle; when you had to consider every penny, money became of grotesque importance: you needed a competency to rate it at its proper value. he lived a solitary life, seeing no one except the athelnys, but he was not lonely; he busied himself with plans for the future, and sometimes he thought of the past. his recollection dwelt now and then on old friends, but he made no effort to see them. he would have liked to know what was become of norah nesbit; she was norah something else now, but he could not remember the name of the man she was going to marry; he was glad to have known her: she was a good and a brave soul. one evening about half past eleven he saw lawson, walking along piccadilly; he was in evening clothes and might be supposed to be coming back from a theatre. philip gave way to a sudden impulse and quickly turned down a side street. he had not seen him for two years and felt that he could not now take up again the interrupted friendship. he and lawson had nothing more to say to one another. philip was no longer interested in art; it seemed to him that he was able to enjoy beauty with greater force than when he was a boy; but art appeared to him unimportant. he was occupied with the forming of a pattern out of the manifold chaos of life, and the materials with which he worked seemed to make preoccupation with pigments and words very trivial. lawson had served his turn. philip's friendship with him had been a motive in the design he was elaborating: it was merely sentimental to ignore the fact that the painter was of no further interest to him. sometimes philip thought of mildred. he avoided deliberately the streets in which there was a chance of seeing her; but occasionally some feeling, perhaps curiosity, perhaps something deeper which he would not acknowledge, made him wander about piccadilly and regent street during the hours when she might be expected to be there. he did not know then whether he wished to see her or dreaded it. once he saw a back which reminded him of hers, and for a moment he thought it was she; it gave him a curious sensation: it was a strange sharp pain in his heart, there was fear in it and a sickening dismay; and when he hurried on and found that he was mistaken he did not know whether it was relief that he experienced or disappointment. at the beginning of august philip passed his surgery, his last examination, and received his diploma. it was seven years since he had entered st. luke's hospital. he was nearly thirty. he walked down the stairs of the royal college of surgeons with the roll in his hand which qualified him to practice, and his heart beat with satisfaction. "now i'm really going to begin life," he thought. next day he went to the secretary's office to put his name down for one of the hospital appointments. the secretary was a pleasant little man with a black beard, whom philip had always found very affable. he congratulated him on his success, and then said: "i suppose you wouldn't like to do a locum for a month on the south coast? three guineas a week with board and lodging." "i wouldn't mind," said philip. "it's at farnley, in dorsetshire. doctor south. you'd have to go down at once; his assistant has developed mumps. i believe it's a very pleasant place." there was something in the secretary's manner that puzzled philip. it was a little doubtful. "what's the crab in it?" he asked. the secretary hesitated a moment and laughed in a conciliating fashion. "well, the fact is, i understand he's rather a crusty, funny old fellow. the agencies won't send him anyone any more. he speaks his mind very openly, and men don't like it." "but d'you think he'll be satisfied with a man who's only just qualified? after all i have no experience." "he ought to be glad to get you," said the secretary diplomatically. philip thought for a moment. he had nothing to do for the next few weeks, and he was glad of the chance to earn a bit of money. he could put it aside for the holiday in spain which he had promised himself when he had finished his appointment at st. luke's or, if they would not give him anything there, at some other hospital. "all right. i'll go." "the only thing is, you must go this afternoon. will that suit you? if so, i'll send a wire at once." philip would have liked a few days to himself; but he had seen the athelnys the night before (he had gone at once to take them his good news) and there was really no reason why he should not start immediately. he had little luggage to pack. soon after seven that evening he got out of the station at farnley and took a cab to doctor south's. it was a broad low stucco house, with a virginia creeper growing over it. he was shown into the consulting-room. an old man was writing at a desk. he looked up as the maid ushered philip in. he did not get up, and he did not speak; he merely stared at philip. philip was taken aback. "i think you're expecting me," he said. "the secretary of st. luke's wired to you this morning." "i kept dinner back for half an hour. d'you want to wash?" "i do," said philip. doctor south amused him by his odd manner. he got up now, and philip saw that he was a man of middle height, thin, with white hair cut very short and a long mouth closed so tightly that he seemed to have no lips at all; he was clean-shaven but for small white whiskers, and they increased the squareness of face which his firm jaw gave him. he wore a brown tweed suit and a white stock. his clothes hung loosely about him as though they had been made for a much larger man. he looked like a respectable farmer of the middle of the nineteenth century. he opened the door. "there is the dining-room," he said, pointing to the door opposite. "your bed-room is the first door you come to when you get on the landing. come downstairs when you're ready." during dinner philip knew that doctor south was examining him, but he spoke little, and philip felt that he did not want to hear his assistant talk. "when were you qualified?" he asked suddenly. "yesterday." "were you at a university?" "no." "last year when my assistant took a holiday they sent me a 'varsity man. i told 'em not to do it again. too damned gentlemanly for me." there was another pause. the dinner was very simple and very good. philip preserved a sedate exterior, but in his heart he was bubbling over with excitement. he was immensely elated at being engaged as a locum; it made him feel extremely grown up; he had an insane desire to laugh at nothing in particular; and the more he thought of his professional dignity the more he was inclined to chuckle. but doctor south broke suddenly into his thoughts. "how old are you?" "getting on for thirty." "how is it you're only just qualified?" "i didn't go in for the medical till i was nearly twenty-three, and i had to give it up for two years in the middle." "why?" "poverty." doctor south gave him an odd look and relapsed into silence. at the end of dinner he got up from the table. "d'you know what sort of a practice this is?" "no," answered philip. "mostly fishermen and their families. i have the union and the seamen's hospital. i used to be alone here, but since they tried to make this into a fashionable sea-side resort a man has set up on the cliff, and the well-to-do people go to him. i only have those who can't afford to pay for a doctor at all." philip saw that the rivalry was a sore point with the old man. "you know that i have no experience," said philip. "you none of you know anything." he walked out of the room without another word and left philip by himself. when the maid came in to clear away she told philip that doctor south saw patients from six till seven. work for that night was over. philip fetched a book from his room, lit his pipe, and settled himself down to read. it was a great comfort, since he had read nothing but medical books for the last few months. at ten o'clock doctor south came in and looked at him. philip hated not to have his feet up, and he had dragged up a chair for them. "you seem able to make yourself pretty comfortable," said doctor south, with a grimness which would have disturbed philip if he had not been in such high spirits. philip's eyes twinkled as he answered. "have you any objection?" doctor south gave him a look, but did not reply directly. "what's that you're reading?" "peregrine pickle. smollett." "i happen to know that smollett wrote peregrine pickle." "i beg your pardon. medical men aren't much interested in literature, are they?" philip had put the book down on the table, and doctor south took it up. it was a volume of an edition which had belonged to the vicar of blackstable. it was a thin book bound in faded morocco, with a copperplate engraving as a frontispiece; the pages were musty with age and stained with mould. philip, without meaning to, started forward a little as doctor south took the volume in his hands, and a slight smile came into his eyes. very little escaped the old doctor. "do i amuse you?" he asked icily. "i see you're fond of books. you can always tell by the way people handle them." doctor south put down the novel immediately. "breakfast at eight-thirty," he said and left the room. "what a funny old fellow!" thought philip. he soon discovered why doctor south's assistants found it difficult to get on with him. in the first place, he set his face firmly against all the discoveries of the last thirty years: he had no patience with the drugs which became modish, were thought to work marvellous cures, and in a few years were discarded; he had stock mixtures which he had brought from st. luke's where he had been a student, and had used all his life; he found them just as efficacious as anything that had come into fashion since. philip was startled at doctor south's suspicion of asepsis; he had accepted it in deference to universal opinion; but he used the precautions which philip had known insisted upon so scrupulously at the hospital with the disdainful tolerance of a man playing at soldiers with children. "i've seen antiseptics come along and sweep everything before them, and then i've seen asepsis take their place. bunkum!" the young men who were sent down to him knew only hospital practice; and they came with the unconcealed scorn for the general practitioner which they had absorbed in the air at the hospital; but they had seen only the complicated cases which appeared in the wards; they knew how to treat an obscure disease of the suprarenal bodies, but were helpless when consulted for a cold in the head. their knowledge was theoretical and their self-assurance unbounded. doctor south watched them with tightened lips; he took a savage pleasure in showing them how great was their ignorance and how unjustified their conceit. it was a poor practice, of fishing folk, and the doctor made up his own prescriptions. doctor south asked his assistant how he expected to make both ends meet if he gave a fisherman with a stomach-ache a mixture consisting of half a dozen expensive drugs. he complained too that the young medical men were uneducated: their reading consisted of the sporting times and the british medical journal; they could neither write a legible hand nor spell correctly. for two or three days doctor south watched philip closely, ready to fall on him with acid sarcasm if he gave him the opportunity; and philip, aware of this, went about his work with a quiet sense of amusement. he was pleased with the change of occupation. he liked the feeling of independence and of responsibility. all sorts of people came to the consulting-room. he was gratified because he seemed able to inspire his patients with confidence; and it was entertaining to watch the process of cure which at a hospital necessarily could be watched only at distant intervals. his rounds took him into low-roofed cottages in which were fishing tackle and sails and here and there mementoes of deep-sea travelling, a lacquer box from japan, spears and oars from melanesia, or daggers from the bazaars of stamboul; there was an air of romance in the stuffy little rooms, and the salt of the sea gave them a bitter freshness. philip liked to talk to the sailor-men, and when they found that he was not supercilious they told him long yarns of the distant journeys of their youth. once or twice he made a mistake in diagnosis: (he had never seen a case of measles before, and when he was confronted with the rash took it for an obscure disease of the skin;) and once or twice his ideas of treatment differed from doctor south's. the first time this happened doctor south attacked him with savage irony; but philip took it with good humour; he had some gift for repartee, and he made one or two answers which caused doctor south to stop and look at him curiously. philip's face was grave, but his eyes were twinkling. the old gentleman could not avoid the impression that philip was chaffing him. he was used to being disliked and feared by his assistants, and this was a new experience. he had half a mind to fly into a passion and pack philip off by the next train, he had done that before with his assistants; but he had an uneasy feeling that philip then would simply laugh at him outright; and suddenly he felt amused. his mouth formed itself into a smile against his will, and he turned away. in a little while he grew conscious that philip was amusing himself systematically at his expense. he was taken aback at first and then diverted. "damn his impudence," he chuckled to himself. "damn his impudence." cxvii philip had written to athelny to tell him that he was doing a locum in dorsetshire and in due course received an answer from him. it was written in the formal manner he affected, studded with pompous epithets as a persian diadem was studded with precious stones; and in the beautiful hand, like black letter and as difficult to read, upon which he prided himself. he suggested that philip should join him and his family in the kentish hop-field to which he went every year; and to persuade him said various beautiful and complicated things about philip's soul and the winding tendrils of the hops. philip replied at once that he would come on the first day he was free. though not born there, he had a peculiar affection for the isle of thanet, and he was fired with enthusiasm at the thought of spending a fortnight so close to the earth and amid conditions which needed only a blue sky to be as idyllic as the olive groves of arcady. the four weeks of his engagement at farnley passed quickly. on the cliff a new town was springing up, with red brick villas round golf links, and a large hotel had recently been opened to cater for the summer visitors; but philip went there seldom. down below, by the harbour, the little stone houses of a past century were clustered in a delightful confusion, and the narrow streets, climbing down steeply, had an air of antiquity which appealed to the imagination. by the water's edge were neat cottages with trim, tiny gardens in front of them; they were inhabited by retired captains in the merchant service, and by mothers or widows of men who had gained their living by the sea; and they had an appearance which was quaint and peaceful. in the little harbour came tramps from spain and the levant, ships of small tonnage; and now and then a windjammer was borne in by the winds of romance. it reminded philip of the dirty little harbour with its colliers at blackstable, and he thought that there he had first acquired the desire, which was now an obsession, for eastern lands and sunlit islands in a tropic sea. but here you felt yourself closer to the wide, deep ocean than on the shore of that north sea which seemed always circumscribed; here you could draw a long breath as you looked out upon the even vastness; and the west wind, the dear soft salt wind of england, uplifted the heart and at the same time melted it to tenderness. one evening, when philip had reached his last week with doctor south, a child came to the surgery door while the old doctor and philip were making up prescriptions. it was a little ragged girl with a dirty face and bare feet. philip opened the door. "please, sir, will you come to mrs. fletcher's in ivy lane at once?" "what's the matter with mrs. fletcher?" called out doctor south in his rasping voice. the child took no notice of him, but addressed herself again to philip. "please, sir, her little boy's had an accident and will you come at once?" "tell mrs. fletcher i'm coming," called out doctor south. the little girl hesitated for a moment, and putting a dirty finger in a dirty mouth stood still and looked at philip. "what's the matter, kid?" said philip, smiling. "please, sir, mrs. fletcher says, will the new doctor come?" there was a sound in the dispensary and doctor south came out into the passage. "isn't mrs. fletcher satisfied with me?" he barked. "i've attended mrs. fletcher since she was born. why aren't i good enough to attend her filthy brat?" the little girl looked for a moment as though she were going to cry, then she thought better of it; she put out her tongue deliberately at doctor south, and, before he could recover from his astonishment, bolted off as fast as she could run. philip saw that the old gentleman was annoyed. "you look rather fagged, and it's a goodish way to ivy lane," he said, by way of giving him an excuse not to go himself. doctor south gave a low snarl. "it's a damned sight nearer for a man who's got the use of both legs than for a man who's only got one and a half." philip reddened and stood silent for a while. "do you wish me to go or will you go yourself?" he said at last frigidly. "what's the good of my going? they want you." philip took up his hat and went to see the patient. it was hard upon eight o'clock when he came back. doctor south was standing in the dining-room with his back to the fireplace. "you've been a long time," he said. "i'm sorry. why didn't you start dinner?" "because i chose to wait. have you been all this while at mrs. fletcher's?" "no, i'm afraid i haven't. i stopped to look at the sunset on my way back, and i didn't think of the time." doctor south did not reply, and the servant brought in some grilled sprats. philip ate them with an excellent appetite. suddenly doctor south shot a question at him. "why did you look at the sunset?" philip answered with his mouth full. "because i was happy." doctor south gave him an odd look, and the shadow of a smile flickered across his old, tired face. they ate the rest of the dinner in silence; but when the maid had given them the port and left the room, the old man leaned back and fixed his sharp eyes on philip. "it stung you up a bit when i spoke of your game leg, young fellow?" he said. "people always do, directly or indirectly, when they get angry with me." "i suppose they know it's your weak point." philip faced him and looked at him steadily. "are you very glad to have discovered it?" the doctor did not answer, but he gave a chuckle of bitter mirth. they sat for a while staring at one another. then doctor south surprised philip extremely. "why don't you stay here and i'll get rid of that damned fool with his mumps?" "it's very kind of you, but i hope to get an appointment at the hospital in the autumn. it'll help me so much in getting other work later." "i'm offering you a partnership," said doctor south grumpily. "why?" asked philip, with surprise. "they seem to like you down here." "i didn't think that was a fact which altogether met with your approval," philip said drily. "d'you suppose that after forty years' practice i care a twopenny damn whether people prefer my assistant to me? no, my friend. there's no sentiment between my patients and me. i don't expect gratitude from them, i expect them to pay my fees. well, what d'you say to it?" philip made no reply, not because he was thinking over the proposal, but because he was astonished. it was evidently very unusual for someone to offer a partnership to a newly qualified man; and he realised with wonder that, although nothing would induce him to say so, doctor south had taken a fancy to him. he thought how amused the secretary at st. luke's would be when he told him. "the practice brings in about seven hundred a year. we can reckon out how much your share would be worth, and you can pay me off by degrees. and when i die you can succeed me. i think that's better than knocking about hospitals for two or three years, and then taking assistantships until you can afford to set up for yourself." philip knew it was a chance that most people in his profession would jump at; the profession was over-crowded, and half the men he knew would be thankful to accept the certainty of even so modest a competence as that. "i'm awfully sorry, but i can't," he said. "it means giving up everything i've aimed at for years. in one way and another i've had a roughish time, but i always had that one hope before me, to get qualified so that i might travel; and now, when i wake in the morning, my bones simply ache to get off, i don't mind where particularly, but just away, to places i've never been to." now the goal seemed very near. he would have finished his appointment at st. luke's by the middle of the following year, and then he would go to spain; he could afford to spend several months there, rambling up and down the land which stood to him for romance; after that he would get a ship and go to the east. life was before him and time of no account. he could wander, for years if he chose, in unfrequented places, amid strange peoples, where life was led in strange ways. he did not know what he sought or what his journeys would bring him; but he had a feeling that he would learn something new about life and gain some clue to the mystery that he had solved only to find more mysterious. and even if he found nothing he would allay the unrest which gnawed at his heart. but doctor south was showing him a great kindness, and it seemed ungrateful to refuse his offer for no adequate reason; so in his shy way, trying to appear as matter of fact as possible, he made some attempt to explain why it was so important to him to carry out the plans he had cherished so passionately. doctor south listened quietly, and a gentle look came into his shrewd old eyes. it seemed to philip an added kindness that he did not press him to accept his offer. benevolence is often very peremptory. he appeared to look upon philip's reasons as sound. dropping the subject, he began to talk of his own youth; he had been in the royal navy, and it was his long connection with the sea that, when he retired, had made him settle at farnley. he told philip of old days in the pacific and of wild adventures in china. he had taken part in an expedition against the head-hunters of borneo and had known samoa when it was still an independent state. he had touched at coral islands. philip listened to him entranced. little by little he told philip about himself. doctor south was a widower, his wife had died thirty years before, and his daughter had married a farmer in rhodesia; he had quarrelled with him, and she had not come to england for ten years. it was just as if he had never had wife or child. he was very lonely. his gruffness was little more than a protection which he wore to hide a complete disillusionment; and to philip it seemed tragic to see him just waiting for death, not impatiently, but rather with loathing for it, hating old age and unable to resign himself to its limitations, and yet with the feeling that death was the only solution of the bitterness of his life. philip crossed his path, and the natural affection which long separation from his daughter had killed--she had taken her husband's part in the quarrel and her children he had never seen--settled itself upon philip. at first it made him angry, he told himself it was a sign of dotage; but there was something in philip that attracted him, and he found himself smiling at him he knew not why. philip did not bore him. once or twice he put his hand on his shoulder: it was as near a caress as he had got since his daughter left england so many years before. when the time came for philip to go doctor south accompanied him to the station: he found himself unaccountably depressed. "i've had a ripping time here," said philip. "you've been awfully kind to me." "i suppose you're very glad to go?" "i've enjoyed myself here." "but you want to get out into the world? ah, you have youth." he hesitated a moment. "i want you to remember that if you change your mind my offer still stands." "that's awfully kind of you." philip shook hands with him out of the carriage window, and the train steamed out of the station. philip thought of the fortnight he was going to spend in the hop-field: he was happy at the idea of seeing his friends again, and he rejoiced because the day was fine. but doctor south walked slowly back to his empty house. he felt very old and very lonely. cxviii it was late in the evening when philip arrived at ferne. it was mrs. athelny's native village, and she had been accustomed from her childhood to pick in the hop-field to which with her husband and her children she still went every year. like many kentish folk her family had gone out regularly, glad to earn a little money, but especially regarding the annual outing, looked forward to for months, as the best of holidays. the work was not hard, it was done in common, in the open air, and for the children it was a long, delightful picnic; here the young men met the maidens; in the long evenings when work was over they wandered about the lanes, making love; and the hopping season was generally followed by weddings. they went out in carts with bedding, pots and pans, chairs and tables; and ferne while the hopping lasted was deserted. they were very exclusive and would have resented the intrusion of foreigners, as they called the people who came from london; they looked down upon them and feared them too; they were a rough lot, and the respectable country folk did not want to mix with them. in the old days the hoppers slept in barns, but ten years ago a row of huts had been erected at the side of a meadow; and the athelnys, like many others, had the same hut every year. athelny met philip at the station in a cart he had borrowed from the public-house at which he had got a room for philip. it was a quarter of a mile from the hop-field. they left his bag there and walked over to the meadow in which were the huts. they were nothing more than a long, low shed, divided into little rooms about twelve feet square. in front of each was a fire of sticks, round which a family was grouped, eagerly watching the cooking of supper. the sea-air and the sun had browned already the faces of athelny's children. mrs. athelny seemed a different woman in her sun-bonnet: you felt that the long years in the city had made no real difference to her; she was the country woman born and bred, and you could see how much at home she found herself in the country. she was frying bacon and at the same time keeping an eye on the younger children, but she had a hearty handshake and a jolly smile for philip. athelny was enthusiastic over the delights of a rural existence. "we're starved for sun and light in the cities we live in. it isn't life, it's a long imprisonment. let us sell all we have, betty, and take a farm in the country." "i can see you in the country," she answered with good-humoured scorn. "why, the first rainy day we had in the winter you'd be crying for london." she turned to philip. "athelny's always like this when we come down here. country, i like that! why, he don't know a swede from a mangel-wurzel." "daddy was lazy today," remarked jane, with the frankness which characterized her, "he didn't fill one bin." "i'm getting into practice, child, and tomorrow i shall fill more bins than all of you put together." "come and eat your supper, children," said mrs. athelny. "where's sally?" "here i am, mother." she stepped out of their little hut, and the flames of the wood fire leaped up and cast sharp colour upon her face. of late philip had only seen her in the trim frocks she had taken to since she was at the dressmaker's, and there was something very charming in the print dress she wore now, loose and easy to work in; the sleeves were tucked up and showed her strong, round arms. she too had a sun-bonnet. "you look like a milkmaid in a fairy story," said philip, as he shook hands with her. "she's the belle of the hop-fields," said athelny. "my word, if the squire's son sees you he'll make you an offer of marriage before you can say jack robinson." "the squire hasn't got a son, father," said sally. she looked about for a place to sit down in, and philip made room for her beside him. she looked wonderful in the night lit by wood fires. she was like some rural goddess, and you thought of those fresh, strong girls whom old herrick had praised in exquisite numbers. the supper was simple, bread and butter, crisp bacon, tea for the children, and beer for mr. and mrs. athelny and philip. athelny, eating hungrily, praised loudly all he ate. he flung words of scorn at lucullus and piled invectives upon brillat-savarin. "there's one thing one can say for you, athelny," said his wife, "you do enjoy your food and no mistake!" "cooked by your hand, my betty," he said, stretching out an eloquent forefinger. philip felt himself very comfortable. he looked happily at the line of fires, with people grouped about them, and the colour of the flames against the night; at the end of the meadow was a line of great elms, and above the starry sky. the children talked and laughed, and athelny, a child among them, made them roar by his tricks and fancies. "they think a rare lot of athelny down here," said his wife. "why, mrs. bridges said to me, i don't know what we should do without mr. athelny now, she said. he's always up to something, he's more like a schoolboy than the father of a family." sally sat in silence, but she attended to philip's wants in a thoughtful fashion that charmed him. it was pleasant to have her beside him, and now and then he glanced at her sunburned, healthy face. once he caught her eyes, and she smiled quietly. when supper was over jane and a small brother were sent down to a brook that ran at the bottom of the meadow to fetch a pail of water for washing up. "you children, show your uncle philip where we sleep, and then you must be thinking of going to bed." small hands seized philip, and he was dragged towards the hut. he went in and struck a match. there was no furniture in it; and beside a tin box, in which clothes were kept, there was nothing but the beds; there were three of them, one against each wall. athelny followed philip in and showed them proudly. "that's the stuff to sleep on," he cried. "none of your spring-mattresses and swansdown. i never sleep so soundly anywhere as here. you will sleep between sheets. my dear fellow, i pity you from the bottom of my soul." the beds consisted of a thick layer of hopvine, on the top of which was a coating of straw, and this was covered with a blanket. after a day in the open air, with the aromatic scent of the hops all round them, the happy pickers slept like tops. by nine o'clock all was quiet in the meadow and everyone in bed but one or two men who still lingered in the public-house and would not come back till it was closed at ten. athelny walked there with philip. but before he went mrs. athelny said to him: "we breakfast about a quarter to six, but i daresay you won't want to get up as early as that. you see, we have to set to work at six." "of course he must get up early," cried athelny, "and he must work like the rest of us. he's got to earn his board. no work, no dinner, my lad." "the children go down to bathe before breakfast, and they can give you a call on their way back. they pass the jolly sailor." "if they'll wake me i'll come and bathe with them," said philip. jane and harold and edward shouted with delight at the prospect, and next morning philip was awakened out of a sound sleep by their bursting into his room. the boys jumped on his bed, and he had to chase them out with his slippers. he put on a coat and a pair of trousers and went down. the day had only just broken, and there was a nip in the air; but the sky was cloudless, and the sun was shining yellow. sally, holding connie's hand, was standing in the middle of the road, with a towel and a bathing-dress over her arm. he saw now that her sun-bonnet was of the colour of lavender, and against it her face, red and brown, was like an apple. she greeted him with her slow, sweet smile, and he noticed suddenly that her teeth were small and regular and very white. he wondered why they had never caught his attention before. "i was for letting you sleep on," she said, "but they would go up and wake you. i said you didn't really want to come." "oh, yes, i did." they walked down the road and then cut across the marshes. that way it was under a mile to the sea. the water looked cold and gray, and philip shivered at the sight of it; but the others tore off their clothes and ran in shouting. sally did everything a little slowly, and she did not come into the water till all the rest were splashing round philip. swimming was his only accomplishment; he felt at home in the water; and soon he had them all imitating him as he played at being a porpoise, and a drowning man, and a fat lady afraid of wetting her hair. the bathe was uproarious, and it was necessary for sally to be very severe to induce them all to come out. "you're as bad as any of them," she said to philip, in her grave, maternal way, which was at once comic and touching. "they're not anything like so naughty when you're not here." they walked back, sally with her bright hair streaming over one shoulder and her sun-bonnet in her hand, but when they got to the huts mrs. athelny had already started for the hop-garden. athleny, in a pair of the oldest trousers anyone had ever worn, his jacket buttoned up to show he had no shirt on, and in a wide-brimmed soft hat, was frying kippers over a fire of sticks. he was delighted with himself: he looked every inch a brigand. as soon as he saw the party he began to shout the witches' chorus from macbeth over the odorous kippers. "you mustn't dawdle over your breakfast or mother will be angry," he said, when they came up. and in a few minutes, harold and jane with pieces of bread and butter in their hands, they sauntered through the meadow into the hop-field. they were the last to leave. a hop-garden was one of the sights connected with philip's boyhood and the oast-houses to him the most typical feature of the kentish scene. it was with no sense of strangeness, but as though he were at home, that philip followed sally through the long lines of the hops. the sun was bright now and cast a sharp shadow. philip feasted his eyes on the richness of the green leaves. the hops were yellowing, and to him they had the beauty and the passion which poets in sicily have found in the purple grape. as they walked along philip felt himself overwhelmed by the rich luxuriance. a sweet scent arose from the fat kentish soil, and the fitful september breeze was heavy with the goodly perfume of the hops. athelstan felt the exhilaration instinctively, for he lifted up his voice and sang; it was the cracked voice of the boy of fifteen, and sally turned round. "you be quiet, athelstan, or we shall have a thunderstorm." in a moment they heard the hum of voices, and in a moment more came upon the pickers. they were all hard at work, talking and laughing as they picked. they sat on chairs, on stools, on boxes, with their baskets by their sides, and some stood by the bin throwing the hops they picked straight into it. there were a lot of children about and a good many babies, some in makeshift cradles, some tucked up in a rug on the soft brown dry earth. the children picked a little and played a great deal. the women worked busily, they had been pickers from childhood, and they could pick twice as fast as foreigners from london. they boasted about the number of bushels they had picked in a day, but they complained you could not make money now as in former times: then they paid you a shilling for five bushels, but now the rate was eight and even nine bushels to the shilling. in the old days a good picker could earn enough in the season to keep her for the rest of the year, but now there was nothing in it; you got a holiday for nothing, and that was about all. mrs. hill had bought herself a pianner out of what she made picking, so she said, but she was very near, one wouldn't like to be near like that, and most people thought it was only what she said, if the truth was known perhaps it would be found that she had put a bit of money from the savings bank towards it. the hoppers were divided into bin companies of ten pickers, not counting children, and athelny loudly boasted of the day when he would have a company consisting entirely of his own family. each company had a bin-man, whose duty it was to supply it with strings of hops at their bins (the bin was a large sack on a wooden frame, about seven feet high, and long rows of them were placed between the rows of hops;) and it was to this position that athelny aspired when his family was old enough to form a company. meanwhile he worked rather by encouraging others than by exertions of his own. he sauntered up to mrs. athelny, who had been busy for half an hour and had already emptied a basket into the bin, and with his cigarette between his lips began to pick. he asserted that he was going to pick more than anyone that day, but mother; of course no one could pick so much as mother; that reminded him of the trials which aphrodite put upon the curious psyche, and he began to tell his children the story of her love for the unseen bridegroom. he told it very well. it seemed to philip, listening with a smile on his lips, that the old tale fitted in with the scene. the sky was very blue now, and he thought it could not be more lovely even in greece. the children with their fair hair and rosy cheeks, strong, healthy, and vivacious; the delicate form of the hops; the challenging emerald of the leaves, like a blare of trumpets; the magic of the green alley, narrowing to a point as you looked down the row, with the pickers in their sun-bonnets: perhaps there was more of the greek spirit there than you could find in the books of professors or in museums. he was thankful for the beauty of england. he thought of the winding white roads and the hedgerows, the green meadows with their elm-trees, the delicate line of the hills and the copses that crowned them, the flatness of the marshes, and the melancholy of the north sea. he was very glad that he felt its loveliness. but presently athelny grew restless and announced that he would go and ask how robert kemp's mother was. he knew everyone in the garden and called them all by their christian names; he knew their family histories and all that had happened to them from birth. with harmless vanity he played the fine gentleman among them, and there was a touch of condescension in his familiarity. philip would not go with him. "i'm going to earn my dinner," he said. "quite right, my boy," answered athelny, with a wave of the hand, as he strolled away. "no work, no dinner." cxix philip had not a basket of his own, but sat with sally. jane thought it monstrous that he should help her elder sister rather than herself, and he had to promise to pick for her when sally's basket was full. sally was almost as quick as her mother. "won't it hurt your hands for sewing?" asked philip. "oh, no, it wants soft hands. that's why women pick better than men. if your hands are hard and your fingers all stiff with a lot of rough work you can't pick near so well." he liked to see her deft movements, and she watched him too now and then with that maternal spirit of hers which was so amusing and yet so charming. he was clumsy at first, and she laughed at him. when she bent over and showed him how best to deal with a whole line their hands met. he was surprised to see her blush. he could not persuade himself that she was a woman; because he had known her as a flapper, he could not help looking upon her as a child still; yet the number of her admirers showed that she was a child no longer; and though they had only been down a few days one of sally's cousins was already so attentive that she had to endure a lot of chaffing. his name was peter gann, and he was the son of mrs. athelny's sister, who had married a farmer near ferne. everyone knew why he found it necessary to walk through the hop-field every day. a call-off by the sounding of a horn was made for breakfast at eight, and though mrs. athelny told them they had not deserved it, they ate it very heartily. they set to work again and worked till twelve, when the horn sounded once more for dinner. at intervals the measurer went his round from bin to bin, accompanied by the booker, who entered first in his own book and then in the hopper's the number of bushels picked. as each bin was filled it was measured out in bushel baskets into a huge bag called a poke; and this the measurer and the pole-puller carried off between them and put on the waggon. athelny came back now and then with stories of how much mrs. heath or mrs. jones had picked, and he conjured his family to beat her: he was always wanting to make records, and sometimes in his enthusiasm picked steadily for an hour. his chief amusement in it, however, was that it showed the beauty of his graceful hands, of which he was excessively proud. he spent much time manicuring them. he told philip, as he stretched out his tapering fingers, that the spanish grandees had always slept in oiled gloves to preserve their whiteness. the hand that wrung the throat of europe, he remarked dramatically, was as shapely and exquisite as a woman's; and he looked at his own, as he delicately picked the hops, and sighed with self-satisfaction. when he grew tired of this he rolled himself a cigarette and discoursed to philip of art and literature. in the afternoon it grew very hot. work did not proceed so actively and conversation halted. the incessant chatter of the morning dwindled now to desultory remarks. tiny beads of sweat stood on sally's upper lip, and as she worked her lips were slightly parted. she was like a rosebud bursting into flower. calling-off time depended on the state of the oast-house. sometimes it was filled early, and as many hops had been picked by three or four as could be dried during the night. then work was stopped. but generally the last measuring of the day began at five. as each company had its bin measured it gathered up its things and, chatting again now that work was over, sauntered out of the garden. the women went back to the huts to clean up and prepare the supper, while a good many of the men strolled down the road to the public-house. a glass of beer was very pleasant after the day's work. the athelnys' bin was the last to be dealt with. when the measurer came mrs. athelny, with a sigh of relief, stood up and stretched her arms: she had been sitting in the same position for many hours and was stiff. "now, let's go to the jolly sailor," said athelny. "the rites of the day must be duly performed, and there is none more sacred than that." "take a jug with you, athelny," said his wife, "and bring back a pint and a half for supper." she gave him the money, copper by copper. the bar-parlour was already well filled. it had a sanded floor, benches round it, and yellow pictures of victorian prize-fighters on the walls. the licencee knew all his customers by name, and he leaned over his bar smiling benignly at two young men who were throwing rings on a stick that stood up from the floor: their failure was greeted with a good deal of hearty chaff from the rest of the company. room was made for the new arrivals. philip found himself sitting between an old labourer in corduroys, with string tied under his knees, and a shiny-faced lad of seventeen with a love-lock neatly plastered on his red forehead. athelny insisted on trying his hand at the throwing of rings. he backed himself for half a pint and won it. as he drank the loser's health he said: "i would sooner have won this than won the derby, my boy." he was an outlandish figure, with his wide-brimmed hat and pointed beard, among those country folk, and it was easy to see that they thought him very queer; but his spirits were so high, his enthusiasm so contagious, that it was impossible not to like him. conversation went easily. a certain number of pleasantries were exchanged in the broad, slow accent of the isle of thanet, and there was uproarious laughter at the sallies of the local wag. a pleasant gathering! it would have been a hard-hearted person who did not feel a glow of satisfaction in his fellows. philip's eyes wandered out of the window where it was bright and sunny still; there were little white curtains in it tied up with red ribbon like those of a cottage window, and on the sill were pots of geraniums. in due course one by one the idlers got up and sauntered back to the meadow where supper was cooking. "i expect you'll be ready for your bed," said mrs. athelny to philip. "you're not used to getting up at five and staying in the open air all day." "you're coming to bathe with us, uncle phil, aren't you?" the boys cried. "rather." he was tired and happy. after supper, balancing himself against the wall of the hut on a chair without a back, he smoked his pipe and looked at the night. sally was busy. she passed in and out of the hut, and he lazily watched her methodical actions. her walk attracted his notice; it was not particularly graceful, but it was easy and assured; she swung her legs from the hips, and her feet seemed to tread the earth with decision. athelny had gone off to gossip with one of the neighbours, and presently philip heard his wife address the world in general. "there now, i'm out of tea and i wanted athelny to go down to mrs. black's and get some." a pause, and then her voice was raised: "sally, just run down to mrs. black's and get me half a pound of tea, will you? i've run quite out of it." "all right, mother." mrs. black had a cottage about half a mile along the road, and she combined the office of postmistress with that of universal provider. sally came out of the hut, turning down her sleeves. "shall i come with you, sally?" asked philip. "don't you trouble. i'm not afraid to go alone." "i didn't think you were; but it's getting near my bedtime, and i was just thinking i'd like to stretch my legs." sally did not answer, and they set out together. the road was white and silent. there was not a sound in the summer night. they did not speak much. "it's quite hot even now, isn't it?" said philip. "i think it's wonderful for the time of year." but their silence did not seem awkward. they found it was pleasant to walk side by side and felt no need of words. suddenly at a stile in the hedgerow they heard a low murmur of voices, and in the darkness they saw the outline of two people. they were sitting very close to one another and did not move as philip and sally passed. "i wonder who that was," said sally. "they looked happy enough, didn't they?" "i expect they took us for lovers too." they saw the light of the cottage in front of them, and in a minute went into the little shop. the glare dazzled them for a moment. "you are late," said mrs. black. "i was just going to shut up." she looked at the clock. "getting on for nine." sally asked for her half pound of tea (mrs. athelny could never bring herself to buy more than half a pound at a time), and they set off up the road again. now and then some beast of the night made a short, sharp sound, but it seemed only to make the silence more marked. "i believe if you stood still you could hear the sea," said sally. they strained their ears, and their fancy presented them with a faint sound of little waves lapping up against the shingle. when they passed the stile again the lovers were still there, but now they were not speaking; they were in one another's arms, and the man's lips were pressed against the girl's. "they seem busy," said sally. they turned a corner, and a breath of warm wind beat for a moment against their faces. the earth gave forth its freshness. there was something strange in the tremulous night, and something, you knew not what, seemed to be waiting; the silence was on a sudden pregnant with meaning. philip had a queer feeling in his heart, it seemed very full, it seemed to melt (the hackneyed phrases expressed precisely the curious sensation), he felt happy and anxious and expectant. to his memory came back those lines in which jessica and lorenzo murmur melodious words to one another, capping each other's utterance; but passion shines bright and clear through the conceits that amuse them. he did not know what there was in the air that made his senses so strangely alert; it seemed to him that he was pure soul to enjoy the scents and the sounds and the savours of the earth. he had never felt such an exquisite capacity for beauty. he was afraid that sally by speaking would break the spell, but she said never a word, and he wanted to hear the sound of her voice. its low richness was the voice of the country night itself. they arrived at the field through which she had to walk to get back to the huts. philip went in to hold the gate open for her. "well, here i think i'll say good-night." "thank you for coming all that way with me." she gave him her hand, and as he took it, he said: "if you were very nice you'd kiss me good-night like the rest of the family." "i don't mind," she said. philip had spoken in jest. he merely wanted to kiss her, because he was happy and he liked her and the night was so lovely. "good-night then," he said, with a little laugh, drawing her towards him. she gave him her lips; they were warm and full and soft; he lingered a little, they were like a flower; then, he knew not how, without meaning it, he flung his arms round her. she yielded quite silently. her body was firm and strong. he felt her heart beat against his. then he lost his head. his senses overwhelmed him like a flood of rushing waters. he drew her into the darker shadow of the hedge. cxx philip slept like a log and awoke with a start to find harold tickling his face with a feather. there was a shout of delight when he opened his eyes. he was drunken with sleep. "come on, lazybones," said jane. "sally says she won't wait for you unless you hurry up." then he remembered what had happened. his heart sank, and, half out of bed already, he stopped; he did not know how he was going to face her; he was overwhelmed with a sudden rush of self-reproach, and bitterly, bitterly, he regretted what he had done. what would she say to him that morning? he dreaded meeting her, and he asked himself how he could have been such a fool. but the children gave him no time; edward took his bathing-drawers and his towel, athelstan tore the bed-clothes away; and in three minutes they all clattered down into the road. sally gave him a smile. it was as sweet and innocent as it had ever been. "you do take a time to dress yourself," she said. "i thought you was never coming." there was not a particle of difference in her manner. he had expected some change, subtle or abrupt; he fancied that there would be shame in the way she treated him, or anger, or perhaps some increase of familiarity; but there was nothing. she was exactly the same as before. they walked towards the sea all together, talking and laughing; and sally was quiet, but she was always that, reserved, but he had never seen her otherwise, and gentle. she neither sought conversation with him nor avoided it. philip was astounded. he had expected the incident of the night before to have caused some revolution in her, but it was just as though nothing had happened; it might have been a dream; and as he walked along, a little girl holding on to one hand and a little boy to the other, while he chatted as unconcernedly as he could, he sought for an explanation. he wondered whether sally meant the affair to be forgotten. perhaps her senses had run away with her just as his had, and, treating what had occurred as an accident due to unusual circumstances, it might be that she had decided to put the matter out of her mind. it was ascribing to her a power of thought and a mature wisdom which fitted neither with her age nor with her character. but he realised that he knew nothing of her. there had been in her always something enigmatic. they played leap-frog in the water, and the bathe was as uproarious as on the previous day. sally mothered them all, keeping a watchful eye on them, and calling to them when they went out too far. she swam staidly backwards and forwards while the others got up to their larks, and now and then turned on her back to float. presently she went out and began drying herself; she called to the others more or less peremptorily, and at last only philip was left in the water. he took the opportunity to have a good hard swim. he was more used to the cold water this second morning, and he revelled in its salt freshness; it rejoiced him to use his limbs freely, and he covered the water with long, firm strokes. but sally, with a towel round her, went down to the water's edge. "you're to come out this minute, philip," she called, as though he were a small boy under her charge. and when, smiling with amusement at her authoritative way, he came towards her, she upbraided him. "it is naughty of you to stay in so long. your lips are quite blue, and just look at your teeth, they're chattering." "all right. i'll come out." she had never talked to him in that manner before. it was as though what had happened gave her a sort of right over him, and she looked upon him as a child to be cared for. in a few minutes they were dressed, and they started to walk back. sally noticed his hands. "just look, they're quite blue." "oh, that's all right. it's only the circulation. i shall get the blood back in a minute." "give them to me." she took his hands in hers and rubbed them, first one and then the other, till the colour returned. philip, touched and puzzled, watched her. he could not say anything to her on account of the children, and he did not meet her eyes; but he was sure they did not avoid his purposely, it just happened that they did not meet. and during the day there was nothing in her behaviour to suggest a consciousness in her that anything had passed between them. perhaps she was a little more talkative than usual. when they were all sitting again in the hop-field she told her mother how naughty philip had been in not coming out of the water till he was blue with cold. it was incredible, and yet it seemed that the only effect of the incident of the night before was to arouse in her a feeling of protection towards him: she had the same instinctive desire to mother him as she had with regard to her brothers and sisters. it was not till the evening that he found himself alone with her. she was cooking the supper, and philip was sitting on the grass by the side of the fire. mrs. athelny had gone down to the village to do some shopping, and the children were scattered in various pursuits of their own. philip hesitated to speak. he was very nervous. sally attended to her business with serene competence and she accepted placidly the silence which to him was so embarrassing. he did not know how to begin. sally seldom spoke unless she was spoken to or had something particular to say. at last he could not bear it any longer. "you're not angry with me, sally?" he blurted out suddenly. she raised her eyes quietly and looked at him without emotion. "me? no. why should i be?" he was taken aback and did not reply. she took the lid off the pot, stirred the contents, and put it on again. a savoury smell spread over the air. she looked at him once more, with a quiet smile which barely separated her lips; it was more a smile of the eyes. "i always liked you," she said. his heart gave a great thump against his ribs, and he felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. he forced a faint laugh. "i didn't know that." "that's because you're a silly." "i don't know why you liked me." "i don't either." she put a little more wood on the fire. "i knew i liked you that day you came when you'd been sleeping out and hadn't had anything to eat, d'you remember? and me and mother, we got thorpy's bed ready for you." he flushed again, for he did not know that she was aware of that incident. he remembered it himself with horror and shame. "that's why i wouldn't have anything to do with the others. you remember that young fellow mother wanted me to have? i let him come to tea because he bothered so, but i knew i'd say no." philip was so surprised that he found nothing to say. there was a queer feeling in his heart; he did not know what it was, unless it was happiness. sally stirred the pot once more. "i wish those children would make haste and come. i don't know where they've got to. supper's ready now." "shall i go and see if i can find them?" said philip. it was a relief to talk about practical things. "well, it wouldn't be a bad idea, i must say.... there's mother coming." then, as he got up, she looked at him without embarrassment. "shall i come for a walk with you tonight when i've put the children to bed?" "yes." "well, you wait for me down by the stile, and i'll come when i'm ready." he waited under the stars, sitting on the stile, and the hedges with their ripening blackberries were high on each side of him. from the earth rose rich scents of the night, and the air was soft and still. his heart was beating madly. he could not understand anything of what happened to him. he associated passion with cries and tears and vehemence, and there was nothing of this in sally; but he did not know what else but passion could have caused her to give herself. but passion for him? he would not have been surprised if she had fallen to her cousin, peter gann, tall, spare, and straight, with his sunburned face and long, easy stride. philip wondered what she saw in him. he did not know if she loved him as he reckoned love. and yet? he was convinced of her purity. he had a vague inkling that many things had combined, things that she felt though was unconscious of, the intoxication of the air and the hops and the night, the healthy instincts of the natural woman, a tenderness that overflowed, and an affection that had in it something maternal and something sisterly; and she gave all she had to give because her heart was full of charity. he heard a step on the road, and a figure came out of the darkness. "sally," he murmured. she stopped and came to the stile, and with her came sweet, clean odours of the country-side. she seemed to carry with her scents of the new-mown hay, and the savour of ripe hops, and the freshness of young grass. her lips were soft and full against his, and her lovely, strong body was firm within his arms. "milk and honey," he said. "you're like milk and honey." he made her close her eyes and kissed her eyelids, first one and then the other. her arm, strong and muscular, was bare to the elbow; he passed his hand over it and wondered at its beauty; it gleamed in the darkness; she had the skin that rubens painted, astonishingly fair and transparent, and on one side were little golden hairs. it was the arm of a saxon goddess; but no immortal had that exquisite, homely naturalness; and philip thought of a cottage garden with the dear flowers which bloom in all men's hearts, of the hollyhock and the red and white rose which is called york and lancaster, and of love--in-a-mist and sweet william, and honeysuckle, larkspur, and london pride. "how can you care for me?" he said. "i'm insignificant and crippled and ordinary and ugly." she took his face in both her hands and kissed his lips. "you're an old silly, that's what you are," she said. cxxi when the hops were picked, philip with the news in his pocket that he had got the appointment as assistant house-physician at st. luke's, accompanied the athelnys back to london. he took modest rooms in westminster and at the beginning of october entered upon his duties. the work was interesting and varied; every day he learned something new; he felt himself of some consequence; and he saw a good deal of sally. he found life uncommonly pleasant. he was free about six, except on the days on which he had out-patients, and then he went to the shop at which sally worked to meet her when she came out. there were several young men, who hung about opposite the 'trade entrance' or a little further along, at the first corner; and the girls, coming out two and two or in little groups, nudged one another and giggled as they recognised them. sally in her plain black dress looked very different from the country lass who had picked hops side by side with him. she walked away from the shop quickly, but she slackened her pace when they met, and greeted him with her quiet smile. they walked together through the busy street. he talked to her of his work at the hospital, and she told him what she had been doing in the shop that day. he came to know the names of the girls she worked with. he found that sally had a restrained, but keen, sense of the ridiculous, and she made remarks about the girls or the men who were set over them which amused him by their unexpected drollery. she had a way of saying a thing which was very characteristic, quite gravely, as though there were nothing funny in it at all, and yet it was so sharp-sighted that philip broke into delighted laughter. then she would give him a little glance in which the smiling eyes showed she was not unaware of her own humour. they met with a handshake and parted as formally. once philip asked her to come and have tea with him in his rooms, but she refused. "no, i won't do that. it would look funny." never a word of love passed between them. she seemed not to desire anything more than the companionship of those walks. yet philip was positive that she was glad to be with him. she puzzled him as much as she had done at the beginning. he did not begin to understand her conduct; but the more he knew her the fonder he grew of her; she was competent and self controlled, and there was a charming honesty in her: you felt that you could rely upon her in every circumstance. "you are an awfully good sort," he said to her once a propos of nothing at all. "i expect i'm just the same as everyone else," she answered. he knew that he did not love her. it was a great affection that he felt for her, and he liked her company; it was curiously soothing; and he had a feeling for her which seemed to him ridiculous to entertain towards a shop-girl of nineteen: he respected her. and he admired her magnificent healthiness. she was a splendid animal, without defect; and physical perfection filled him always with admiring awe. she made him feel unworthy. then, one day, about three weeks after they had come back to london as they walked together, he noticed that she was unusually silent. the serenity of her expression was altered by a slight line between the eyebrows: it was the beginning of a frown. "what's the matter, sally?" he asked. she did not look at him, but straight in front of her, and her colour darkened. "i don't know." he understood at once what she meant. his heart gave a sudden, quick beat, and he felt the colour leave his cheeks. "what d'you mean? are you afraid that... ?" he stopped. he could not go on. the possibility that anything of the sort could happen had never crossed his mind. then he saw that her lips were trembling, and she was trying not to cry. "i'm not certain yet. perhaps it'll be all right." they walked on in silence till they came to the corner of chancery lane, where he always left her. she held out her hand and smiled. "don't worry about it yet. let's hope for the best." he walked away with a tumult of thoughts in his head. what a fool he had been! that was the first thing that struck him, an abject, miserable fool, and he repeated it to himself a dozen times in a rush of angry feeling. he despised himself. how could he have got into such a mess? but at the same time, for his thoughts chased one another through his brain and yet seemed to stand together, in a hopeless confusion, like the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle seen in a nightmare, he asked himself what he was going to do. everything was so clear before him, all he had aimed at so long within reach at last, and now his inconceivable stupidity had erected this new obstacle. philip had never been able to surmount what he acknowledged was a defect in his resolute desire for a well ordered life, and that was his passion for living in the future; and no sooner was he settled in his work at the hospital than he had busied himself with arrangements for his travels. in the past he had often tried not to think too circumstantially of his plans for the future, it was only discouraging; but now that his goal was so near he saw no harm in giving away to a longing that was so difficult to resist. first of all he meant to go to spain. that was the land of his heart; and by now he was imbued with its spirit, its romance and colour and history and grandeur; he felt that it had a message for him in particular which no other country could give. he knew the fine old cities already as though he had trodden their tortuous streets from childhood. cordova, seville, toledo, leon, tarragona, burgos. the great painters of spain were the painters of his soul, and his pulse beat quickly as he pictured his ecstasy on standing face to face with those works which were more significant than any others to his own tortured, restless heart. he had read the great poets, more characteristic of their race than the poets of other lands; for they seemed to have drawn their inspiration not at all from the general currents of the world's literature but directly from the torrid, scented plains and the bleak mountains of their country. a few short months now, and he would hear with his own ears all around him the language which seemed most apt for grandeur of soul and passion. his fine taste had given him an inkling that andalusia was too soft and sensuous, a little vulgar even, to satisfy his ardour; and his imagination dwelt more willingly among the wind-swept distances of castile and the rugged magnificence of aragon and leon. he did not know quite what those unknown contacts would give him, but he felt that he would gather from them a strength and a purpose which would make him more capable of affronting and comprehending the manifold wonders of places more distant and more strange. for this was only a beginning. he had got into communication with the various companies which took surgeons out on their ships, and knew exactly what were their routes, and from men who had been on them what were the advantages and disadvantages of each line. he put aside the orient and the p. & o. it was difficult to get a berth with them; and besides their passenger traffic allowed the medical officer little freedom; but there were other services which sent large tramps on leisurely expeditions to the east, stopping at all sorts of ports for various periods, from a day or two to a fortnight, so that you had plenty of time, and it was often possible to make a trip inland. the pay was poor and the food no more than adequate, so that there was not much demand for the posts, and a man with a london degree was pretty sure to get one if he applied. since there were no passengers other than a casual man or so, shipping on business from some out-of-the-way port to another, the life on board was friendly and pleasant. philip knew by heart the list of places at which they touched; and each one called up in him visions of tropical sunshine, and magic colour, and of a teeming, mysterious, intense life. life! that was what he wanted. at last he would come to close quarters with life. and perhaps, from tokyo or shanghai it would be possible to tranship into some other line and drip down to the islands of the south pacific. a doctor was useful anywhere. there might be an opportunity to go up country in burmah, and what rich jungles in sumatra or borneo might he not visit? he was young still and time was no object to him. he had no ties in england, no friends; he could go up and down the world for years, learning the beauty and the wonder and the variedness of life. now this thing had come. he put aside the possibility that sally was mistaken; he felt strangely certain that she was right; after all, it was so likely; anyone could see that nature had built her to be the mother of children. he knew what he ought to do. he ought not to let the incident divert him a hair's breadth from his path. he thought of griffiths; he could easily imagine with what indifference that young man would have received such a piece of news; he would have thought it an awful nuisance and would at once have taken to his heels, like a wise fellow; he would have left the girl to deal with her troubles as best she could. philip told himself that if this had happened it was because it was inevitable. he was no more to blame than sally; she was a girl who knew the world and the facts of life, and she had taken the risk with her eyes open. it would be madness to allow such an accident to disturb the whole pattern of his life. he was one of the few people who was acutely conscious of the transitoriness of life, and how necessary it was to make the most of it. he would do what he could for sally; he could afford to give her a sufficient sum of money. a strong man would never allow himself to be turned from his purpose. philip said all this to himself, but he knew he could not do it. he simply could not. he knew himself. "i'm so damned weak," he muttered despairingly. she had trusted him and been kind to him. he simply could not do a thing which, notwithstanding all his reason, he felt was horrible. he knew he would have no peace on his travels if he had the thought constantly with him that she was wretched. besides, there were her father and mother: they had always treated him well; it was not possible to repay them with ingratitude. the only thing was to marry sally as quickly as possible. he would write to doctor south, tell him he was going to be married at once, and say that if his offer still held he was willing to accept it. that sort of practice, among poor people, was the only one possible for him; there his deformity did not matter, and they would not sneer at the simple manners of his wife. it was curious to think of her as his wife, it gave him a queer, soft feeling; and a wave of emotion spread over him as he thought of the child which was his. he had little doubt that doctor south would be glad to have him, and he pictured to himself the life he would lead with sally in the fishing village. they would have a little house within sight of the sea, and he would watch the mighty ships passing to the lands he would never know. perhaps that was the wisest thing. cronshaw had told him that the facts of life mattered nothing to him who by the power of fancy held in fee the twin realms of space and time. it was true. forever wilt thou love and she be fair! his wedding present to his wife would be all his high hopes. self-sacrifice! philip was uplifted by its beauty, and all through the evening he thought of it. he was so excited that he could not read. he seemed to be driven out of his rooms into the streets, and he walked up and down birdcage walk, his heart throbbing with joy. he could hardly bear his impatience. he wanted to see sally's happiness when he made her his offer, and if it had not been so late he would have gone to her there and then. he pictured to himself the long evenings he would spend with sally in the cosy sitting-room, the blinds undrawn so that they could watch the sea; he with his books, while she bent over her work, and the shaded lamp made her sweet face more fair. they would talk over the growing child, and when she turned her eyes to his there was in them the light of love. and the fishermen and their wives who were his patients would come to feel a great affection for them, and they in their turn would enter into the pleasures and pains of those simple lives. but his thoughts returned to the son who would be his and hers. already he felt in himself a passionate devotion to it. he thought of passing his hands over his little perfect limbs, he knew he would be beautiful; and he would make over to him all his dreams of a rich and varied life. and thinking over the long pilgrimage of his past he accepted it joyfully. he accepted the deformity which had made life so hard for him; he knew that it had warped his character, but now he saw also that by reason of it he had acquired that power of introspection which had given him so much delight. without it he would never have had his keen appreciation of beauty, his passion for art and literature, and his interest in the varied spectacle of life. the ridicule and the contempt which had so often been heaped upon him had turned his mind inward and called forth those flowers which he felt would never lose their fragrance. then he saw that the normal was the rarest thing in the world. everyone had some defect, of body or of mind: he thought of all the people he had known (the whole world was like a sick-house, and there was no rhyme or reason in it), he saw a long procession, deformed in body and warped in mind, some with illness of the flesh, weak hearts or weak lungs, and some with illness of the spirit, languor of will, or a craving for liquor. at this moment he could feel a holy compassion for them all. they were the helpless instruments of blind chance. he could pardon griffiths for his treachery and mildred for the pain she had caused him. they could not help themselves. the only reasonable thing was to accept the good of men and be patient with their faults. the words of the dying god crossed his memory: forgive them, for they know not what they do. cxxii he had arranged to meet sally on saturday in the national gallery. she was to come there as soon as she was released from the shop and had agreed to lunch with him. two days had passed since he had seen her, and his exultation had not left him for a moment. it was because he rejoiced in the feeling that he had not attempted to see her. he had repeated to himself exactly what he would say to her and how he should say it. now his impatience was unbearable. he had written to doctor south and had in his pocket a telegram from him received that morning: "sacking the mumpish fool. when will you come?" philip walked along parliament street. it was a fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun which made the light dance in the street. it was crowded. there was a tenuous mist in the distance, and it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. he crossed trafalgar square. suddenly his heart gave a sort of twist in his body; he saw a woman in front of him who he thought was mildred. she had the same figure, and she walked with that slight dragging of the feet which was so characteristic of her. without thinking, but with a beating heart, he hurried till he came alongside, and then, when the woman turned, he saw it was someone unknown to him. it was the face of a much older person, with a lined, yellow skin. he slackened his pace. he was infinitely relieved, but it was not only relief that he felt; it was disappointment too; he was seized with horror of himself. would he never be free from that passion? at the bottom of his heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that a strange, desperate thirst for that vile woman would always linger. that love had caused him so much suffering that he knew he would never, never quite be free of it. only death could finally assuage his desire. but he wrenched the pang from his heart. he thought of sally, with her kind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously formed themselves into a smile. he walked up the steps of the national gallery and sat down in the first room, so that he should see her the moment she came in. it always comforted him to get among pictures. he looked at none in particular, but allowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, to work upon his soul. his imagination was busy with sally. it would be pleasant to take her away from that london in which she seemed an unusual figure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and azaleas; he had learned in the kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the town; and he was sure that she would blossom under the soft skies of dorset to a rarer beauty. she came in, and he got up to meet her. she was in black, with white cuffs at her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. they shook hands. "have you been waiting long?" "no. ten minutes. are you hungry?" "not very." "let's sit here for a bit, shall we?" "if you like." they sat quietly, side by side, without speaking. philip enjoyed having her near him. he was warmed by her radiant health. a glow of life seemed like an aureole to shine about her. "well, how have you been?" he said at last, with a little smile. "oh, it's all right. it was a false alarm." "was it?" "aren't you glad?" an extraordinary sensation filled him. he had felt certain that sally's suspicion was well-founded; it had never occurred to him for an instant that there was a possibility of error. all his plans were suddenly overthrown, and the existence, so elaborately pictured, was no more than a dream which would never be realised. he was free once more. free! he need give up none of his projects, and life still was in his hands for him to do what he liked with. he felt no exhilaration, but only dismay. his heart sank. the future stretched out before him in desolate emptiness. it was as though he had sailed for many years over a great waste of waters, with peril and privation, and at last had come upon a fair haven, but as he was about to enter, some contrary wind had arisen and drove him out again into the open sea; and because he had let his mind dwell on these soft meads and pleasant woods of the land, the vast deserts of the ocean filled him with anguish. he could not confront again the loneliness and the tempest. sally looked at him with her clear eyes. "aren't you glad?" she asked again. "i thought you'd be as pleased as punch." he met her gaze haggardly. "i'm not sure," he muttered. "you are funny. most men would." he realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice that had driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a home and love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he was seized with despair. he wanted all that more than anything in the world. what did he care for spain and its cities, cordova, toledo, leon; what to him were the pagodas of burmah and the lagoons of south sea islands? america was here and now. it seemed to him that all his life he had followed the ideals that other people, by their words or their writings, had instilled into him, and never the desires of his own heart. always his course had been swayed by what he thought he should do and never by what he wanted with his whole soul to do. he put all that aside now with a gesture of impatience. he had lived always in the future, and the present always, always had slipped through his fingers. his ideals? he thought of his desire to make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad, meaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the simplest pattern, that in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died, was likewise the most perfect? it might be that to surrender to happiness was to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories. he glanced quickly at sally, he wondered what she was thinking, and then looked away again. "i was going to ask you to marry me," he said. "i thought p'raps you might, but i shouldn't have liked to stand in your way." "you wouldn't have done that." "how about your travels, spain and all that?" "how d'you know i want to travel?" "i ought to know something about it. i've heard you and dad talk about it till you were blue in the face." "i don't care a damn about all that." he paused for an instant and then spoke in a low, hoarse whisper. "i don't want to leave you! i can't leave you." she did not answer. he could not tell what she thought. "i wonder if you'll marry me, sally." she did not move and there was no flicker of emotion on her face, but she did not look at him when she answered. "if you like." "don't you want to?" "oh, of course i'd like to have a house of my own, and it's about time i was settling down." he smiled a little. he knew her pretty well by now, and her manner did not surprise him. "but don't you want to marry me?" "there's no one else i would marry." "then that settles it." "mother and dad will be surprised, won't they?" "i'm so happy." "i want my lunch," she said. "dear!" he smiled and took her hand and pressed it. they got up and walked out of the gallery. they stood for a moment at the balustrade and looked at trafalgar square. cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowds passed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining. address: centauri by f. l. wallace published by galaxy publishing corp. new york , new york a galaxy science fiction novel by special arrangement with gnome press based on "accidental flight," copyright by galaxy publishing corp. published in book form by gnome press, copyright by f. l. wallace. [transcriber's note: extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] galaxy science fiction novels_ are sturdy, inexpensive editions of choice works in this field, both original and reprint, selected by the editors of _galaxy science fiction magazine. cover by wallace a. wood printed in the u.s.a. by the guinn company new york , n. y. earth was too perfect for these extraordinary exiles--to belong to it, they had to flee it! light flickered. it was uncomfortably bright. doctor cameron gazed intently at the top of the desk. it wasn't easy to be diplomatic. "the request was turned over to the medicouncil," he said. "i assure you it was studied thoroughly before it was reported back to the solar committee." docchi edged forward, his face alight with anticipation. the doctor kept his eyes averted. the man was damnably disconcerting--had no right to be alive. in the depths of the sea there were certain creatures like him and on a warm summer evening there was still another parallel, but never any human with such an infirmity. "i'm afraid you know what the answer is. a flat no for the present." docchi sagged and his arms hung limp. "that's the answer?" "it's not as hopeless as you think. decisions can be changed. it won't be the first time." "sure," said docchi. "we'll wait and wait until it's finally changed. we've got centuries, haven't we?" his face was blazing. it had slipped out of control though he wasn't aware of it. beneath the skin certain cells had been modified, there were substances in his body that the ordinary individual didn't have. and when there was an extreme flow of nervous energy the response was--light. his metabolism was akin to that of a firefly. cameron meddled with buttons. it was impossible to keep the lighting at a decent level. docchi was a nuisance. "why?" questioned docchi. "we're capable, you know that. how could they refuse?" that was something he didn't want asked because there was no answer both of them would accept. sometimes a blunt reply was the best evasion. "do you think they'd take you? or nona, jordan, or anti?" docchi winced, his arms quivering uselessly. "maybe not. but we told you we're willing to let experts decide. there's nearly a thousand of us. they should be able to get one qualified crew." "perhaps. i'm not going to say." cameron abandoned the light as beyond his control. "most of you are biocompensators. i concede it's a factor in your favor. but you must realize there are many things against you." he squinted at the desk top. below the solid surface there was a drawer and in the drawer there was--that was what he was trying to see or determine. the more he looked the less clear anything seemed to be. he tried to make his voice crisp and professional. "you're wasting time discussing this with me. i've merely passed the decision on. i'm not responsible for it and i can't do anything for you." docchi stood up, his face colorless and bright. but the inner illumination was no indication of hope. doctor cameron looked at him directly for the first time. it wasn't as bad as he expected. "i suggest you calm down. be patient and wait. you'll be surprised how often you get what you want." "you'd be surprised how we get what we want," said docchi. he turned away, lurching toward the door which opened automatically and closed behind him. again cameron concentrated on the desk, trying to look through it. he wrote down the sequence he expected to find, lingering over it to make sure he didn't force the pictures that came into his mind. he opened the drawer and compared the rhine cards with what he'd written, frowning in disappointment. no matter how he tried he never got better than average results. perhaps there was something to telepathy but he'd never found it. anyway it was clear he wasn't one of the gifted few. he shut the drawer. it was a private game, a method to keep from becoming involved in docchi's problems, to avoid emotional entanglement with people he had nothing in common with. he didn't enjoy depriving weak and helpless men and women of what little hope they had. it was their lack of strength that made them so difficult to handle. he reached for the telecom. "get medicouncilor thorton," he told the operator. "direct if you can; indirect if you have to. i'll hold on." approximate mean diameter thirty miles, the asteroid was listed on the charts as handicap haven with a mark that indicated except in emergency no one not authorized was to land there. those who were confined to it were willing to admit they were handicapped but they didn't call it haven. they used other terms, none suggesting sanctuary. it was a hospital, of course, but even more it was a convalescent home--the permanent kind. healthy and vigorous humanity had reserved the remote planetoid, a whirling bleak rock of no other value, and built large installations there for less fortunate people. it was a noble gesture but like many gestures the reality fell short of the intentions. and not many people outside the haven itself realized wherein it was a failure. the robot operator broke into his thoughts. "medicouncilor thorton has been located." an older man looked out of the screen, competent, forceful. "i'm on my way to the satellites of jupiter. i'll be in direct range for the next half hour." at such distances transmission and reception were practically instantaneous. cameron was assured of uninterrupted conversation. "it's a good thing you called. have you got the solar committee reply?" "this morning. i saw no reason to hold it up. i just finished giving docchi the news." "dispatch. i like that. get the disagreeable job done with." the medicouncilor searched through the desk in front of him without success. "never mind. i'll find the information later. now. how did docchi react?" "he didn't like it. he was mad clear through." "that speaks well for his bounce." "they all have spirit. nothing to use it on," said dr. cameron. "i confess i didn't look at him often though he was quite presentable, even handsome in a startling sort of way." thorton nodded brusquely. "presentable. does that mean he had arms?" "today he did. is it important?" "i think so. he expected a favorable reply and wanted to look his best, as nearly normal as possible. in view of that i'm surprised he didn't threaten you." cameron tried to recall the incident. "i think he did, mildly. he said something to the effect that i'd be surprised how _they_ got what they wanted." "so you anticipate trouble. that's why you called?" "i don't know. i want your opinion." "you're on the scene, doctor. you get the important nuances," said the medicouncilor hastily. "however it's my considered judgment they won't start anything immediately. it takes time to get over the shock of refusal. they can't do anything. individually they're helpless and collectively there aren't parts for a dozen sound bodies on the asteroid." "i'll have to agree," said dr. cameron. "but there's something that bothers me. i've looked over the records. no accidental has ever liked being here, and that covers quite a few years." "nobody appreciates the hospital until he's sick, doctor." "i know. that's partly what's wrong. they're no longer ill and yet they have to stay here. what worries me is that there's never been such open discontent as now." "i hope i don't have to point out that someone's stirring them up. find out who and keep a close watch. as a doctor you can find pretexts, a different diet, a series of tests. you can keep the person coming to you every day." "i've found out. there's a self-elected group of four, docchi, nona, anti and jordan. i believe they're supposed to be the local recreation committee." the medicouncilor smiled. "an apt camouflage. it keeps them amused." "i thought so too but now i'm convinced they're no longer harmless. i'd like permission to break up the group. humanely of course." "i always welcome new ideas." in spite of what he'd said the medicouncilor probably did have an open mind. "start with those it's possible to do the most with. docchi, for instance. with prosthetic arms, he appears normal except for that uncanny fluorescence. granted that the last is repulsive to the average person. we can't correct the condition medically but we can make it into an asset." "an asset? very neat, if it can be done." the medicouncilor's expression said it couldn't be. "gland opera," said cameron, hurrying on. "the most popular program in the solar system, telepaths, teleports, pyrotics and so forth the heroes. fake of course, makeup and trick camera shots. "but docchi can be made into a real star. the death-ray man, say. when his face shines men fall dead or paralyzed. he'd have a tremendous following of kids." "children," mused the medicouncilor. "are you serious about exposing them to his influence? do you really want them to see him?" "he'd have a chance to return to society in a way that would be acceptable to him," said cameron defensively. he shouldn't have specifically mentioned kids. "to him, perhaps," reflected the medicouncilor. "it's an ingenious idea, doctor, one which does credit to your humanitarianism. but i'm afraid of the public's reception. have you gone into docchi's medical history?" "i glanced at it before i called him in." the man was unusual, even in a place that specialized in the abnormal. docchi had been an electrochemical engineer with a degree in cold lighting. on his way to a brilliant career, he had been the victim of a particularly messy accident. the details hadn't been described but cameron could supplement them with his imagination. he'd been badly mangled and tossed into a tank of the basic cold lighting fluid. there was life left in the body; it flickered but never went entirely out. his arms were gone and his ribs were crushed into his spinal column. regeneration wasn't easy; a partial rib cage could be built up, but no more than that. he had no shoulder muscles and only a minimum in his back and now, much later, that was why he tired easily and why the prosthetic arms with which he'd been fitted were merely ornamental, there was nothing which could move them. and then there was the cold lighting fluid. to begin with it was semi-organic which, perhaps, was the reason he had remained alive so long when he should have died. it had preserved him, had in part replaced his blood, permeating every tissue. by the time docchi had been found his body had adapted to the cold lighting substance. and the adaptation couldn't be reversed and it was self-perpetuating. life was hardier than most men realized but occasionally it was also perverse. "then you know what he's like," said the medicouncilor, shaking his head. "our profession can't sponsor such a freakish display of his misfortune. no doubt he'd be successful on the program you mention. but there's more to life than financial achievement or the rather peculiar admiration that would be certain to follow him. as an actor he'd have a niche. but can you imagine, doctor, the dead silence that would occur when he walks into a social gathering of normal people?" "i see," said cameron, though he didn't--not eye to eye. he didn't agree with thorton but there wasn't much he could do to alter the other's conviction at the moment. there was a long fight ahead of him. "i'll forget about docchi. but there's another way to break up the group." the medicouncilor interrupted. "nona?" "yes. i'm not sure she really belongs here." "every young doctor thinks the same," said the medicouncilor kindly. "usually they wait until their term is nearly up before they suggest that she'd respond better if she were returned to normal society. i think i know what response they have in mind." thorton smiled in a fatherly fashion. "no offense, doctor, but it happens so often i'm thinking of inserting a note in our briefing program. something to the effect that the new medical director should avoid the beautiful and self-possessed moron." "is she stupid?" asked cameron stubbornly. "it's my impression that she's not." "clever with her hands," agreed the medicouncilor. "people in her mental classification, which is very low, sometimes are. but don't confuse manual dexterity with intelligence. for one thing she doesn't have the brain structure for the real article. "she's definitely not normal. she can't talk or hear, and never will. her larynx is missing and though we could replace it, it wouldn't help if we did. we'd have to change her entire brain structure to accommodate it and we're not that good at the present." "i was thinking about the nerve dissimilarities," began cameron. "a superior mutation, is that what you were going to say? you can forget that. it's much more of an anomaly, in the nature of cleft palates, which were once common--poor pre-natal nutrition or traumas. these we can correct rather easily but nona is surgically beyond us. there always is something beyond us, you know." the medicouncilor glanced at the chronometer beside him. cameron saw the time too but continued. it ought to be settled. it would do no good to bring up helen keller; the medicouncilor would use that evidence against him. the keller techniques had been studied and reinterpreted for nona's benefit. that much was in her medical record. they had been tried on nona, and they hadn't worked. it made no difference that he, cameron, thought there were certain flaws in the way the old techniques had been applied. thorton would not allow that the previous practitioners could have been wrong. "i've been wondering if we haven't tried to force her to conform. she can be intelligent without understanding what we say or knowing how to read and write." "how?" demanded the medicouncilor. "the most important tool humans have is language. through this we pass along all knowledge." thorton paused, reflecting. "unless you're referring to this gland opera stuff you mentioned. i believe you are, though personally i prefer to call it rhine opera." "i've been thinking of that," admitted cameron. "maybe if there was someone else like her she wouldn't need to talk the way we do. anyway i'd like to make some tests, with your permission. i'll need some new equipment." the medicouncilor found the sheet he'd been looking for from time to time. he creased it absently. "go ahead with those tests if it will make you feel better. i'll personally approve the requisition. it doesn't mean you'll get everything you want. others have to sign too. however you ought to know you're not the first to think she's telepathic or something related to that phenomena." "i've seen that in the record too. but i think i can be the first one to prove it." "i'm glad you're enthusiastic. but don't lose sight of the main objective. even if she _is_ telepathic, and so far as we're concerned she's not, would she be better suited to life outside?" he had one answer--but the medicouncilor believed in another. "perhaps you're right. she'll have to stay here no matter what happens." "she will. it would solve your problems if you could break up the group, but don't count on it. you'll have to learn to manage them as they are." "i'll see that they don't cause any trouble," said cameron. "i'm sure you will." the medicouncilor's manner didn't ooze confidence. "if you need help we can send in reinforcements." "i don't anticipate that much difficulty," said cameron hastily. "i'll keep them running around in circles." "confusion is the best policy," agreed the medicouncilor. he unfolded the sheet and looked down at it. "oh yes, before it's too late i'd better tell you i'm sending details of new treatments for a number of deficients----" the picture collapsed into meaningless swirls of color. for an instant the voice was distinguishable again before it too was drowned by noise. "did you understand what i said, doctor? if it isn't clear contact me. deviation can be fatal." "i can't keep the ship in focus," said the robot. "if you wish to continue the conversation it will have to be relayed through the nearest main station. at present that's mars." it was inconvenient to wait several minutes for each reply. besides the medicouncilor couldn't or wouldn't help him. he wanted the status quo maintained; nothing else would satisfy him. it was the function of the medical director to see that it was. "we're through," said cameron. he sat there after the telecom clicked off. what were the deficients the medicouncilor had talked about? a subdivision of the accidentals of course, but it wasn't a medical term he was familiar with. probably a semi-slang description. the medicouncilor had been associated with accidentals so long that he assumed every doctor would know at once what he meant. deficients. mentally cameron turned the word over. if it was used accurately it could indicate only one thing. he'd see when the medicouncilor's report came in. he could always ask for more information if it wasn't clear. the doctor got heavily to his feet--and he actually was heavier. it wasn't a psychological reaction. he made a mental note of it. he'd have to investigate the gravity surge. in a way accidentals were pathetic, patchwork humans, half or quarter men and women, fractional organisms which masqueraded as people. the illusion died hard for them, harder than that which remained of their bodies, and those bodies were unbelievably tough. medicine and surgery were partly to blame. techniques were too good or not good enough, depending on the viewpoint--doctor or patient. too good in that the most horribly injured person, if he were found alive, could be kept alive. not good enough because a certain per cent of the injured couldn't be returned to society completely sound and whole. the miracles of healing were incomplete. there weren't many humans who were broken beyond repair, but though the details varied in every respect, the results were monotonously the same. for the most part disease had been eliminated. everyone was healthy--except those who'd been hurt in accidents and who couldn't be resurgeried and regenerated into the beautiful mold characteristic of the entire population. and those few were sent to the asteroid. they didn't like it. they didn't like being _confined_ to handicap haven. they were sensitive and they didn't want to go back. they knew how conspicuous they'd be, hobbling and crawling among the multitudes of beautiful men and women who inhabited the planets. the accidentals didn't want to return. what they did want was ridiculous. they had talked about, hoped, and finally embodied it in a petition. they had requested rockets to make the first long hard journey to alpha and proxima centauri. man was restricted to the solar system and had no way of getting to even the nearest stars. they thought they could break through the barrier. some accidentals would go and some would remain behind, lonelier except for their share in the dangerous enterprise. it was a particularly uncontrollable form of self-deception. they were the broken people, without a face they could call their own, who wore their hearts not on their sleeves but in a blood-pumping chamber, those without limbs or organs--or too many. the categories were endless. no accidental was like any other. the self-deception was vicious precisely because the accidentals _were_ qualified. of all the billions of solar citizens _they alone could make the long journey there and return_. but there were other factors that ruled them out. it was never safe to discuss the first reason with them because the second would have to be explained. cameron himself wasn't sadistic and no one else was interested enough to inform them. docchi sat beside the pool. it would be pleasant if he could forget where he was. it was pastoral though not quite a scene from earth. the horizon was too near and the sky was shallow and only seemed to be bright. darkness lurked outside. a small tree stretched shade overhead. waves lapped and made gurgling sounds against the banks. but there was no plant life of any kind, and no fish swam in the liquid. it looked like water but wasn't--the pool held acid. and floating in it, all but submerged, was a shape. the records in the hospital said it was a woman. "anti, they turned us down," said docchi bitterly. "what did you expect?" rumbled the creature in the pool. wavelets of acid danced across the surface, stirred by her voice. "i didn't expect that." "you don't know the medicouncil very well." "i guess i don't." he stared sullenly at the fluid. it was faintly blue. "i have the feeling they didn't consider it, that they held the request for a time and then answered no without looking at it." "now you're beginning to learn. wait till you've been here as long as i have." morosely he kicked an anemic tuft of grass. plants didn't do well here either. they too were exiled, far from the sun, removed from the soil they originated in. the conditions they grew in were artificial. "why did they turn us down?" said docchi. "answer it yourself. remember what the medicouncil is like. different things are important to them. the main thing is that we don't have to follow their example. there's no need to be irrational even though they are." "i wish i knew what to do," said docchi. "it meant so much to us." "we can wait, outlast the attitude," said anti, moving slowly. it was the only way she could move. most of her bulk was beneath the surface. "cameron suggested waiting." reflectively docchi added: "it's true we are biocompensators." "they always bring in biocompensation," muttered anti restlessly. "i'm getting tired of that excuse. time passes just as slow." "but what else is there? shall we draw up another request?" "memorandum number ten? let's not be naive. things get lost when we send them to the medicouncil. their filing system is in terrible shape." "lost or distorted," grunted docchi angrily. the grass he'd kicked already had begun to wilt. it wasn't hardy in this environment. few things were. "maybe we ought to give the medicouncil a rest. i'm sure they don't want to hear from us again." docchi moved closer to the pool. "then you think we should go ahead with the plan we discussed before we sent in the petition? good. i'll call the others together and tell them what happened. they'll agree that we have to do it." "then why call them? more talk, that's all. besides i don't see why we should warn cameron what we're up to." docchi glanced at her worriedly. "do you think someone would report it? i'm certain everyone feels as i do." "not everyone. there's bound to be dissent," said anti placidly. "but i wasn't thinking of people." "oh that," said docchi. "we can block that source any time we need to." it was a relief to know that he could trust the accidentals. unanimity was important and some of the reasons weren't obvious. "maybe you can and maybe you can't," said anti. "but why make it difficult, why waste time?" docchi got up awkwardly but he wasn't clumsy once he was on his feet. "i'll get jordan. i know i'll need arms." "depends on what you mean," said anti. "both," said docchi, smiling. "we're a dangerous weapon." she called out as he walked away. "i'll see you when you leave for far centauri." "sooner than that, anti. much sooner." stars were beginning to wink. twilight brought out the shadows and tracery of the structure that supported the transparent dome overhead. soon controlled slow rotation would bring near darkness to this side of the asteroid. the sun was small at this distance but even so it was a tie to the familiar scenes of earth. before long it would be lost. * * * * * cameron leaned back and looked speculatively at the gravity engineer, vogel. the engineer could give him considerable assistance. there was no reason why he shouldn't but anyone who voluntarily had remained on the asteroid as long as vogel was a doubtful quantity. he didn't distrust him, the man was strange. "i've been busy trying to keep the place running smoothly. i hope you don't mind that i haven't been able to discuss your job at length," said the doctor, watching him closely. "naw, i don't mind," said vogel. "medical directors come and go. i stay on. it's easier than getting another job." "i know. by now you should know the place pretty well. i sometimes think you could do my work with half the trouble." "ain't in the least curious about medicine and never bothered to learn," grunted vogel. "i keep my stuff running and that's all. i don't interfere with nobody and they don't come around and get friendly with me." cameron believed it. the statement fit the personality. he needn't be concerned about fraternization. "there are a few things that puzzle me," he began. "that's why i called you in. usually we maintain about half earth-normal gravity. is that correct?" the engineer nodded and grunted assent. "i'm not sure why half gravity is used. perhaps it's easier on the weakened bodies of the accidentals. or there may be economic factors. either way it's not important as long as half gravity is what we get." "you want to know why we use that figure?" "if you can tell me without getting too technical, yes. i feel i should learn everything i can about the place." the engineer warmed up, seeming to enjoy himself. "ain't no reason except the gravity units themselves," vogel said. "theoretically we can get anything we want. practically we take whatever comes out, anything from a quarter to full earth gravity." "you have no control over it?" this contradicted what he'd heard. his information was that gravity generators were the product of an awesome bit of scientific development. it seemed inconceivable that they should be so haphazardly directed. "sure we got control," answered the engineer, grinning. "we can turn them off or on. if gravity varies, that's too bad. we take the fluctuation or we don't get anything." cameron frowned; the man knew what he was doing or he wouldn't be here. his position was of only slightly less importance than that of the medical director--and where it mattered the medicouncil wouldn't tolerate incompetence. and yet---- the engineer rumbled on. "you were talking how the generators were designed especially for the asteroid. some fancy medical reason why it's easier on the accidentals to have a lesser gravity plus a certain amount of change. me, i dunno. i guess the designers couldn't help what was built and the reason was dug up later." cameron concealed his irritation. he wanted information, not a heart to heart confession. back on earth he _had_ been told it was for the benefit of the accidentals. he'd reserved judgment then and saw no reason not to do so now. "all practical sciences try to justify what they can't escape but would like to. medicine, i'm sure, is no exception." he paused thoughtfully. "i understand there are three separate generators on the asteroid. one runs for forty-five minutes while two are idle. when the first one stops another one cuts in. the operations are supposed to be synchronized. i don't have to tell you that they're not. not long ago you felt your weight increase suddenly. i know i did. what is wrong?" "nothing wrong," said the engineer soothingly. "you get fluctuations while one generator is running. you get a gravity surge when one generator is supposed to drop out but doesn't. the companion machine adds to it, that's all." "they're supposed to be that way? overlapping so that for a time we have earth or earth and a half gravity?" "better than having none," said vogel with heavy pride. "used to happen quite often, before i came. you can ask any of the old timers. i fixed that though." he didn't like the direction his questions were taking him. "what did you do?" he asked suspiciously. "nothing," said the engineer uncomfortably. "nothing i can think of. i guess the machines just got used to having me around." there were people who tended to anthropomorphize anything they came in contact with and vogel was one of them. it made no difference to him that he was talking about insensate machines. he would continue to endow them with personality. "this is the best you can say, that we'll get a wild variation of gravity, sometimes none?" "it's not _supposed_ to work that way but nobody's ever done better with a setup like this," said vogel defensively. "if you want you can check the company that makes these units." "i'm not trying to challenge your knowledge and i'm not anxious to make myself look silly. i do want to make sure i don't overlook anything. you see, i think there's a possibility of sabotage." the engineer's grin was wider than the remark required. cameron swiveled the chair around and leaned on the desk. "all right," he said tiredly, "tell me why the idea of sabotage is so funny." "it would have to be someone living here," said the big engineer. "he wouldn't like it if it jumped up to nine g, which it could. i think he'd let it alone. but there are better reasons. do you know how each gravity unit is put together?" "not in detail." the gravity generating unit was not a unit. it was built in three parts. first there was a power source, which could be anything as long as it supplied ample energy. the basic supply on the asteroid was a nuclear pile, buried deep in the core. handicap haven would have to be taken apart, stone by stone, before it could be reached. part two were the gravity coils, which actually originated and directed the gravity. they were simple and very nearly indestructible. they could be destroyed but they couldn't be altered and still produce the field. the third part was the control unit, the real heart of the gravity generating system. it calculated the relationship between the power flowing through the coils and the created field in any one microsecond. it used the computed relationship to alter the power flowing in the next microsecond to get the same gravity. if the power didn't change the field died instantly. the control unit was thus actually a computer, one of the best made, accurate and fast beyond belief. the engineer rubbed his chin. "now i guess you can see why it doesn't always behave as we want it to." he looked questioningly at cameron, expecting a reply. "i'm afraid i can't," said the doctor. "if it was one of your patients you'd understand," said vogel. "fatigue. the gravity control unit is an intricate computer and it gets tired. it has to rest an hour and a half to do forty-five minutes work. it can't keep running all the time any more than any delicate machine can. it has to be shut down to clear the circuits. "naturally they don't want anyone tinkering with it. it's sealed and non-repairable. crack the case open and it disintegrates. but first you've got to open it. now i know that it can be done, but not without a lot of high-powered equipment that i could detect if it was anywhere on the asteroid." in spite of the engineer's attitude it didn't seem completely foolproof. but cameron had to admit that it was probable none of the accidentals could tamper with it. "i'll forget about gravity," he said. "next, what about hand weapons? what's available?" "nothing. no knives even. maybe a stray bar or so of metal." vogel scratched his head. "there is something that's dangerous though. i dunno whether you could classify it as a weapon." cameron was instantly alert. "if it's dangerous someone can find a way to use it. what is it?" "the asteroid itself. nobody can physically touch any part of the gravity system. but i've often wondered if an impulse couldn't be squeezed into the computer. if anybody can do that he can change direction of the field." vogel's voice was grave. "somebody could pick up handicap haven and throw it anywhere he wanted. at earth, say. thirty miles in diameter is a big hunk of rock." this was the kind of information cameron had been looking for, though the big engineer seemed to regard the occasion as merely a long overdue social call. "what's the possibility?" vogel grinned. "thought i'd scare you. used to wake up sweating myself. got so bad i had to find out about it." "can or can't it be done?" demanded the doctor. "naw. it's too big to take a chance with. they got monitors set up all over, moons of jupiter, mars, earth, venus. this or any other gravity computer gets dizzy, the monitor overrides it. if that fails they send a jammer impulse and freeze it up tight. it can't get away until the monitor lets loose." cameron's mind was already busy elsewhere. vogel was loquacious and would talk all night if encouraged. it wasn't that he lacked information but he had no sense of what was important. "you don't know how you've helped me," the doctor said, standing up. "we'll have to get together again." he watched the engineer depart for the gravity generating chamber below the surface of the asteroid. the day had started badly and wasn't getting better. docchi to thorton to vogel. all the shades of shortsightedness, the convalescent's, authority's, and finally the technician who refused to see beyond his dials. a fine progression, but somewhere the curve ought to turn upward. the post on handicap haven wasn't pleasant but there were advantages--advancement was proportional to the disagreeableness of the place. after shepherding accidentals for a year any other assignment would be a snap. ten months to go before the year was over and if cameron could survive with nothing to mar his administration he was in line for something better, definitely better. this was where the medicouncil sent promising young doctors. cameron flipped on the telecom. "connect me with the rocket dome. get the pilot." when the robot answered it wasn't encouraging. "there's no answer. i'm sorry. i'll notify you when he comes in." "trace him," he snapped. "if he's not near the rocket he's somewhere in the main dome. i don't care how you do it, get him." a few seconds of silence followed. the answer was puzzling. "there's no record that the pilot has left the rocket dome." his heart skipped and his breathing was constricted. he spoke carefully. "scan the whole area. look every place, even if you think he can't be there. i've got to have the pilot." "scanning isn't possible. the system is out of operation in that area. i'm trying to check why." that was bad. he could feel muscles tighten that he didn't know he had. "all right. send out repair robots." they'd get the job done--they always did. but they were intolerably slow and just now he needed speed. "mobile repair units were dispatched as soon as scanning failed to work. is this an emergency? if so i can alert the staff." he thought about it. he needed help, plenty of it. but was there any one he could depend on? vogel? he'd probably be ready for action. but to call on him would leave the gravity generating plant unprotected. and if he told the engineer what he suspected, vogel would insist on mixing in with it. he was too vital where he was. who else? the sour middle-aged nurse who'd signed up because she wanted quick credits toward retirement? she slept through most of her shift and considering her efficiency perhaps it was just as well she did. or the sweet young trainee--her diploma said she'd completed her training, but you couldn't lie to a doctor--who had bravely volunteered because someone ought to help poor unfortunate men? not a word about women of course. she always walked in when cameron was examining a patient, male, but she had the deplorable habit of swooning when she saw blood. fainting was too vulgar for her and, as cameron had once told her, so was the profession of her choice. these were the people the emergency signal would alert. he would do better to rely on robots. they weren't much help but at least they wouldn't get hysterically in his way. oh yes, there was the pilot too, but he couldn't be located. the damned place was undermanned and always had been. nobody wanted to be stationed here except those who were mildly psychotic or inefficient and lazy. there was one exception. ambitious young doctors had been known to ask for the position. mentally cameron berated himself. ambition wasn't far from psychosis, or at times it could produce results as bad. if anything serious happened here he'd begin and end his career bandaging scratches at a children's playground. "this is not an emergency," he said. "however leave word in gravity with vogel. tell him to put on his electronic guards. i don't want him to let anyone get near the place." "is that all?" "send out six geepees. i'll pick them up near the entrance to the rocket dome." "repair robots are already in the area. will they do as well?" "they won't. i want general purpose robots for another reason. send the latest huskiest models we have." they were not bright but they were strong and could move fast. he clicked off the picture. what did he have to be afraid of? for the most part they were a beaten ragged bunch of humans. he would feel sorry for them if he wasn't apprehensive about his future. docchi waited near the rocket dome. he wasn't hiding but he did make himself inconspicuous among the carefully nurtured shrubbery. plants failed to give the illusion of an earth landscape--in part because some of them were venusian or martian imports--but at least the greenery added to the oxygen supply of the asteroid. "that's a good job," commented docchi. "i thought nona could do it." jordan could feel him relax as he watched the event. "a mechanical marvel," he agreed. "but we can gab about that later. i think you ought to get going." docchi glanced around and then went boldly into the passageway that connected the main dome with the much smaller rocket dome that was adjacent to it. normally it was never completely dark in the inhabited part of the asteroid, modulated twilight was considered more conducive to the slumber of the grievously infirm. it was the benevolent medicouncil's theory that a little light would keep away bad dreams. but this wasn't twilight as they neared the rocket dome. it was a full scale rehearsal for the darkness of interstellar space. docchi stopped at the emergency airlock which loomed formidably solid in front of them. "let's hope," he said. "we can forget about it if nona didn't manage to cut _this_ out of the circuit." "she seemed to understand, didn't she? what more do you want?" jordan twisted around docchi and reached out. the great slab moved easily in the grooves. it was open. "the trouble with you is that you lack confidence, in yourself and in genius." docchi didn't answer. he was listening intently, trying to interpret the faint sounds ahead of him. "okay, i hear it," whispered jordan. "let's get way inside before he comes near us." docchi went cautiously into the darkness of the rocket dome, feeling his way. he'd never recover in time if he stumbled and fell. he tried to force the luminescence into his face. occasionally he could control his altered metabolism, and now was the time he needed it. he was nervous and that hindered his accuracy. he couldn't be sure the light was right, enough so that he'd be noticed, not so much that the details of his appearance would be plain. he wished he could ask jordan, but jordan was in no position to tell him. the footsteps came nearer and so did profanity, rich in volume but rather meager in imaginative symbolism. docchi flashed his face once, as bright as he could manage, and then lowered the intensity immediately. the footsteps stopped. "docchi?" "no. just a lonely little light bulb out for an evening stroll." the rocket pilot's laughter wasn't altogether friendly. "sure it's you. i'd recognize you at the bottom of the sea. what i mean was what are you doing here?" "i saw the lights go out in the rocket dome. the airlock at the entrance was open so i came. i thought i might be able to help." "the lights are off all right. everything. even the standby system. first time in my life even the hand beams wouldn't go on." the pilot moved closer. the deadly little toaster was in his hand. "thanks, but you can't help. you'd better get out. it's against regulations for patients to be in here. you might steal a rocket or something." docchi ignored the weapon. "what was the cause, a high velocity meteor strike?" the pilot grunted. "i'd have heard if it was." "and you didn't hear a thing?" "nothing." the pilot peered intently at docchi, a barely visible silhouette. "well, i see you're getting smart these days. you should do it all the time. wear your arms. you look better that way even if you can't use them. you look hundred per cent better, almost...." his voice faded. "almost human?" asked docchi kindly. "nothing like, say a pair of legs and a very good if slightly used spinal column with a lightning bug face stuck on top? you didn't have this in mind?" "i didn't say it. i'm used to you. i can't help it if you're overly sensitive. i don't suppose it's your fault." his voice got higher. "anyway i told you to get going. you don't belong in here." "but i don't want to go," said docchi. "i'm not afraid of the dark. are you? i'm looking for some corner to brighten. can i let a little light in your life?" "i'm supposed to report psycho talk, docchi, and damned if i won't. personally i always suspected you. get out of here before i take your fake hand and drag you out." "now you've hurt my feelings," said docchi reproachfully, stepping nimbly away. "don't say you didn't try to make me mad," growled the pilot, lunging after him. what he took hold of wasn't an imitation hand, delicately molded and colored to duplicate skin. the hand he touched was real and the muscles in it were more than a match for his own. it was surprise, at first, that caused him to scream. docchi bent double and the dark figure on his back came over his head like a knife from a sheath. the pilot was lifted off his feet and slammed to the floor. "jordan," gurgled the pilot. "it's me," said jordan. he wrapped one arm around the pilot's throat and clamped tight. with the other he felt for the toaster the pilot still held but hadn't time to use. effortlessly he tore it away and hammered the man unconscious with the butt. he stopped just short of smashing the skull. docchi stood ineffectually by, kicking where he could, but the action was fast and he had no arms. but jordan didn't need help. "let there be light," he said when he was finished, and there was--a feeble flickering illumination from docchi. jordan balanced himself with his hands. he had a strong head and massive powerful arms and shoulders. his body stopped below his chest, there was no more. a round metal capsule contained his digestive organs. accidentals were indeed the odds and ends of creation, and of jordan one end was missing. but the part that remained made up for the loss. "dead?" docchi glanced down at the pilot. jordan rocked forward and listened for the heartbeat. "nah," he said. "i was going to clout him again but i remembered we can't afford to kill anybody." "see that you don't forget," said docchi. he stifled an exclamation as something coiled around his leg. jumping forward he broke loose from the thing that caught him. "repair robot," chuckled jordan, looking around. "the place is lousy with them." docchi blinked on and off in confusion and the robot rolled clumsily toward him. "friendly creature," commented jordan. "i think it wants to tinker with your lighting system." docchi shook off the squat contrivance which, after it touched his flesh, whirred puzzledly to itself. the job was beyond its capacity but it didn't leave. "what'll we do with him?" asked docchi, staring at the pilot. "he needs attention," said jordan. "_not_ the kind i gave him." he balanced the toaster in his hand and burned a small hole in the little wheeled monster. extensibles emerged from the side of the machine and carefully explored the damaged area. the extensibles slid back into the machine and presently came out again with a small torch. it began welding the hole. meanwhile jordan pulled the unconscious man toward him. he leaned against the machine for leverage and raised the inert pilot over his head and laid him gently on the top flat surface. the reaction from the robot was immediate. another extensible reached out to investigate the body. jordan welded the joints solid. three times he repeated the process until the pilot was securely fastened to the robot. "it doesn't know when it's licked," said jordan. "it'll stay there repairing itself until it's completely sound. however i can do something about that." he adjusted the toaster beam to an imperceptible thickness and deftly sliced through the control case, removing a circular section. he thrust his hand inside and ripped out circuits. "no further self-repair," he said cheerfully. "docchi, i'll need your help. i think it's a good idea to route the robot around the main dome a few times before it delivers the pilot to the hospital. no point giving ourselves away before we're ready." docchi bent over to help him and with some trouble the proper sequence was implanted. the robot stood motionless as the newest commands shuttled erratically through damaged but not inoperative circuits. finally it screeched softly and began to roll drunkenly away. "get on my back," said docchi doggedly. "you know we've got to hurry." "you're tired," said jordan. "half gravity or not, you can't carry me farther." he worked swiftly and the harness that had supported him on docchi's back fell to the floor. "stay down and listen," growled jordan as docchi attempted to get up. docchi listened. "geepees." "yeah," said jordan. "i wonder who they're after. you'll have to move fast to get to the rocket." "what can i do when i get there? by myself nothing. you'll have to help me." "get on your back and neither of us get there?" said jordan. "you can figure out something later. start moving." "i'm not leaving you," said docchi. a huge paw clamped on the back of his head. "now you listen," said jordan fiercely. "together we were a better man than the pilot--your legs and my arms. now we got to separate but we can still prove we're better than cameron and all his geepees." "we're not trying to _prove_ anything," said docchi. "it's a question of urgent principle. right now there are men who can go to the stars and it's up to us to let the rest of mankind know it." a brilliant light sliced through the darkness and swept around the rocket dome, revealing beams and columns of the structure. "maybe you're not trying to prove anything personal," said jordan. "i am. the rest of us are. otherwise why shouldn't we let them go on spoon feeding us, rocking us to sleep every night?" impatiently he hitched himself along the ground until he came to a column. "you can't hide behind that," said docchi. "not behind it. on top i can. with no legs that's where i belong." he grasped the steel member in his great hands and in the light gravity ascended rapidly. "careful," called docchi. "what have i got to be careful about?" jordan's voice floated down from the lacy structure. and it was no longer directly overhead. jordan was moving away along the beams that stretched from column to column. for those who knew of it there was an unsuspected roadway above. jordan had it to himself and the geepees would never find him. it was foolish to become elated over such a trivial thing. jordan wasn't there yet and what he'd do when he arrived was problematical. but it did prove--yes, there was already proof of some sort for him. docchi set out, walking faster and faster until he was running. he wouldn't have thought it possible but he was able to increase the distance between himself and the pursuing robots. even so he didn't have much time to look around when he reached the rocket. the first glimpse of the ship was disheartening. passenger and freight locks were still closed. nona either hadn't understood their instructions completely or she hadn't been able to carry them out. probably the first. she'd disrupted the circuits, light and scanning, with no tools except her hands. her skill with machines she couldn't have known about previously was sometimes uncanny. but it was too much to expect that she'd have the rocket ready for them to walk into. it was up to docchi to get in by himself. if he was ever going to it would have to be by his own efforts. momentarily he wished for the toaster they'd taken from the pilot, and then dropped the wish before it was fully formed. with the toaster he might have managed to soften the inside catch at the entrance. and the thought itself was an indication of how his mind rebelled at reality--he had no arms and he couldn't have used the toaster. it was right and proper that jordan had kept the weapon. it was of value to him. docchi searched frantically, trying to comprehend the complex installation around him in a glance. there had to be some provision made for opening the ship when no one was inside, a device which would send an impulse to actuate the catches. he'd be lucky if he could operate it, but luck had been with him so far. but if there was an external control he failed to find it. and the approaching lights warned that his chances were diminishing. that there was any time left was cameron's mistake--he'd ordered the geepees to look too thoroughly as they came along. they were capable of faster pursuit. this mistake was on cameron and he might make more. from the sounds that drifted to him docchi surmised that jordan was still at large, perhaps nearby. did the doctor know this? probably not--he'd tend to underestimate the accidentals. docchi descended into the shallow landing pit. it was remarkably ill suited for concealment. the walls were smooth, glazed with a faintly green substance, and there were no doors or niches anywhere. yet he had to be somewhere near the ship and this was as close as he could get. it wouldn't do to wander away--cameron would post a robot guard around the ship and he wouldn't be able to get back through. he had to hide at once. he leaned against the stern tube cluster, the metal pressing hard into the thin flesh that covered his back. seconds passed before he realized that the tubes were the answer. he turned around to look at them. a small boy could climb inside and crawl out of sight. so could a grown man who had no shoulders or arms to get wedged in the narrow cylinder. it was difficult to get into them. he tried a lower tube, bending down and thrusting his head in. he wriggled and shoved with his feet until he was almost entirely in. his feet were still out and so he bent his knees to get better purchase and forced himself further in. he didn't stop until he was certain he couldn't be seen by anyone who didn't specifically peer into the tube. he waited there, listening. a geepee came down noisily into the landing pit. the absence of any other sound indicated to docchi that it probably was radio controlled. the robot clambered around, searching. the noise abated soon but it became apparent that the geepee wasn't going to leave. it had been stationed to watch the pit. docchi couldn't get out. he was caught in the pit. he fought back the claustrophobia that swirled through his mind. it was nothing to be afraid of; he could assure his rescue, or capture, by shouting. the robot would drag him out instantly. but that was not the only way. the tube extended forward as well as back. the inner end of the tube was closed with a combustion chamber which was singed and would swing away. the ship hadn't been used for months and there was a distinct possibility that the tubes _were_ open at the other end. he might get through. he stopped to catch his breath. the metal conducted sound well, almost magnifying it. in the interval, over his own breathing, he heard the characteristic sputter, like frying, that the toaster beam made when it struck metal. a great clatter followed. "get him," shouted cameron. "he's up there." jordan had arrived and succeeded in disabling a geepee. and cameron would find out that he wasn't easily captured. the diversion came when docchi needed it. "don't use heat," ordered cameron. "get lights on him. drive him up higher. corner him and go up and get him." docchi had been wrong; the geepees were voice controlled, not by radio. it would make it easier once he got inside. if he ever did get in the ship. but he had to hurry. jordan couldn't elude the robots forever. docchi shoved on less cautiously. the robot in the pit had joined the others and he needn't fear detection. it became harder to advance, though. he had expected it but he didn't know it would be this hard to push through the narrowing tube. his legs slipped and it didn't matter, somehow he inched along. blood pounded furiously but his head slid out of the end of the tube--and he was looking at the inside of the ship. he gazed longingly at the combustion cap a few feet away. if he had hands he could grasp it and pull himself out. but if he had, he'd never have gotten this far. he closed his eyes to rest for a moment and then continued wriggling, his back arching with the effort. he was nearly through now, only his legs were in the tube. he kicked once, hard, and fell to the floor. he lay there until his head cleared and his breath came back. he rolled over, bent his knees, and stood up, staggering forward through the corridor to the control compartment. the rocket was his but he didn't want it for himself, and by himself he couldn't use it. he studied the instrument panel carefully. it had been a long time since he'd operated a ship. a long time and two arms ago. when he thought he understood he bent down and thrust his chin against a dial. laboriously he rotated his head, turning the dial to the setting he wanted. then he sat down and kicked on a switch. the ship rocked--and rose a few inches. he was betting that cameron wouldn't notice it. the doctor ought to be too busy trying to capture jordan. but if cameron did see what was happening, he had thirty seconds in which to stop docchi. it wasn't enough. things looked good for their plan. "rocket landing," said docchi when the allotted thirty seconds had passed. "emergency instructions. repeat, emergency instructions. stand by." technically the ship was in flight, though by very little, and the frequency he was using was assurance that the message would be heard, and heeded. "all energized geepees lend assistance. this order supersedes any previous command. additional equipment is necessary to prepare for a possible crash landing." after listing what equipment was needed docchi sat down and chuckled. he waited for another few minutes and then flicked on the external lights with his knee. he got up and went to the passenger entrance, brushing against the switch on the way. the passenger ramp swung down and he stood boldly at the entrance, looking out. the whole rocket dome was floodlighted by the ship, beams and columns standing out in sharp detail. it was an impressive structure now, even beautiful, though he remembered hating it once, coming in. "all right, jordan, it's safe to come down," he called. jordan dangled overhead. he swung along until he reached a column and slid down. awkwardly he propelled himself across the floor and up the ramp. balancing himself with his hands he looked up at docchi. "well, monster," he grinned. "how did you do it?" "monster yourself," said docchi. "i crawled through the rocket tube." "i saw you start in," said jordan. "i wasn't sure you'd make it. even when the ship rose i wasn't certain until you came out." jordan scratched his cheek. "what i meant was: how did you get rid of cameron?" "doctors usually aren't mechanically inclined," said docchi. "cameron was no exception. he forgot an emergency rocket landing cancels any verbal orders. so i took the ship up a few inches. geepees aren't very bright and it wouldn't matter if they were. as long as the ship was in the air and i said i was coming in for a landing they had to obey." jordan nodded delightedly. "poor doc," he said. "it wasn't that he was dumb. there was nothing he could do when you outsmarted him." "he should have anticipated it," said docchi. "he could have splashed heat against a gravity generator. this would have created an emergency condition in the main dome, artificial of course, but it would have outweighed the one i set up. he'd have had priority, not me, and he could have directed the robots from gravity center." "_i_ wouldn't have thought of it," said jordan. "anyway, how did you get the robots to rush off, carrying cameron with them?" "i didn't have to do anything. as long as the pilot of the incoming ship declares he may crash, the geepees must remove all humans from the danger zone, willing or not. they'd have taken you too if they could have reached you but they had to abandon that idea when i ordered crash equipment." "glad they did," said jordan. "wouldn't want to hear what cameron's saying. besides it's safer inside the ship." he swung himself in, touching the hull fondly, peering down the corridor with grave wonder. "it's ours now," he said. "but what about the others? how do we get them?" "anti's taken care of. geepees aren't built to question anything and in their mind she's listed as emergency landing material. they'll bring her. and nona is supposed to be waiting with anti." docchi's face showed misgiving. "i think we made it clear she was supposed to stay there." "what if she didn't understand?" "i'm sure she did," said docchi. "it wasn't complicated. meanwhile you'd better get ready to lift ship." jordan disappeared, heading toward the control compartment. docchi stationed himself at the passenger lock. he had said the instructions weren't hard to understand, and they weren't--for anyone else. but to nona the world was upside down; the simplest things often she didn't comprehend--and the reverse was true. he hoped she hadn't got mixed up. he had little time to dwell on it. the geepees were coming back. he heard them first and saw them seconds later. they came into sight half carrying, half pushing a huge rectangular tank. with ingenuity that was unexpected in robots they had mounted it on four of their smaller brethren, the squat repair robots. this served to support the tremendous weight. the tank was filled with blue liquid. twisted pipes dangled from the ends--it had been torn from the pit in the ground, lifted up from the foundation. broken plants still clung to a narrow ledge on top and moist soil adhered to the sides. wracked out of shape and askew, the tank was intact and did not leak. five geepees pushed it rapidly toward the ship, mechanically oblivious to the disheveled man who shouted and struck at them, incoherent with frustrated rage. "jordan, open the freight lock." in response the ship rose a few more inches and hung quivering. to the rear a section of the ship hinged outward and downward to form a ramp. the ship was ready and the cargo had arrived. docchi remained at the passenger entrance. cameron was an idiot. he should have stayed in the main dome once the geepees had released him. his presence was unwelcome, more than he may have realized. still, they'd gotten rid of him once and it ought to work again. it was nona who worried docchi. she hadn't accompanied the robots and she wasn't to be seen. it didn't look as if cameron had found her there and managed to confine her to the hospital. it had happened too fast; the doctor was lucky to have kept up with the geepees. docchi started uncertainly down the ramp and came back. she wasn't around, he could see that, and it was too late to go back to the main dome. the tank neared the ship, the forward section sliding onto the ramp. the motion slowed as the geepees' effort slackened. then the robots stopped altogether, straightening up in bewilderment. the tank rolled backward. the geepees got out of the way, shaking and buzzing, looking questioningly around. simultaneously, it seemed, they saw docchi. their intentions were obvious but he forestalled them, leaping back in the ship. "close the passenger entrance," he shouted. jordan appeared at the far end of the corridor. "sure. what's wrong?" "vogel, the engineer. he must have seen the geepees on scanning when they entered the main dome. he's trying to do what cameron should have thought of but didn't have sense." jordan went away and the passenger ramp rose with ponderous slowness, clamping shut with metallic finality. as soon as he saw there was no danger there docchi hurried to the control compartment. "now we can't see what to do," complained jordan. "maybe," said docchi. "try to get something on the telecom." from the angle it was difficult to see anything. the receptor tubes were close to the hull, and the ship curved backward, filling most of the screen. by rotating the view they managed to pick up a corner of the tank. apparently it was resting where docchi had last seen it. he couldn't be sure but he thought it hadn't been moved. "i don't know whether we can bring it in," said jordan nervously. "maybe we should leave it. we'll make out by ourselves." "leave without the tank? not a chance. vogel hasn't got complete control of the robots yet." it seemed to be true. they were huddled away from the ship, looking alternately at the rocket and the tank, nearly motionless, paralyzed. "yeah, but he'll have them soon. look at them." "i am, which is why i think he's having trouble. give me full power on the emergency radio." "what good will it do? he's got priority." "he's got it, but can he push it through to them? it's my idea that he can't, that he's at the wrong angle to put much power in his signal. there's a lot of steel between him and the robots and that's weakening his beam." "maybe you've got something," said jordan. "i'll burn the emergency stuff out. if it doesn't work we won't need it again anyway." he flipped the dials until the lights above them were blazing fiercely. "energized geepees are requested to lend assistance. this is an emergency. place the tank in the ship. at once. at once." geepees were not designed to sift contradictory commands at nearly the same level of urgency. their reasoning ability was feeble but the mechanism that enabled them to think at all was complicated. in one respect they resembled humans: borderline decisions were difficult. a ship in distress--an asteroid in danger. both called for the robot to destroy itself if necessary. it seemed as if that was all that would be accomplished. "more power," whispered docchi. "there ain't more," answered jordan, but somehow he coaxed an extra trickle out of the reserves. marionettes. but they were always that, puppets on invisible wires. and now this string led toward one action. another, intrinsically more important but suddenly less powerful, pulled for something else. circuits burned in electronic brains. microrays fluttered under the stress. they didn't know. they just didn't know. but there had to be a choice. stiffly the geepees moved in and grasped the tank. the quality of their decision was strained. they were pushing themselves more than the tank but inch by inch the huge twisted structure rolled up the ramp. "when it's completely on, raise the ramp." docchi wasn't aware that he could hardly be heard. the cargo ramp began to lift up. the tank gained speed as it rolled forward into the ship. "geepees, the job is finished. save yourselves," shouted docchi. he saw a swirl of metallic bodies as they leaped from the ramp. jordan breathed deeply. "that did it. i don't think they can hurt us now." "it's not over. get ship-to-station communication, if there's any radio left." "i'll be surprised if there is," muttered jordan, but his skepticism was without basis. the radio was still functioning. he made the adjustments. docchi was matter of fact. "vogel, we're going out. don't try to stop us. give us clearance and save the dome some damage." there was no reply. "he's bluffing," said jordan. "he knows the airlocks in the main dome will close automatically if we break through." "sure," said docchi. "everyone in the main dome is safe--_if_ everyone is in there. vogel, do you know where cameron is? are you certain a nurse or an accidental hasn't wandered in here to see what's wrong? we'll give you time to think about it." again they waited and waited. each second was tangible, the precious duration that lives and events were measured with--and the measure was exceedingly slow. meanwhile jordan flipped on the telecom and searched the rocket dome. they saw nothing; there was not even a geepee in sight. docchi watched the screen impassively; what he thought didn't show on his face. and still there was no reply from the engineer in the gravity station. "all right. we've given you a chance," said docchi. his voice was brittle. "you know what we're going to do. if anybody gets hurt you can take the credit." he turned away from the screen. "jordan, let's go. hit the shell with the bow." jordan grasped the levers. the ship hardly quivered as it tilted upward and leaped away. it roared in the air and then fell silent as it passed into space. and the silence was worse than any sound--it was filled with the imagined hiss of air escaping from a great hole in the transparent covering of the dome. jordan sat at the controls. "did he?" "he had to. he wouldn't risk killing some innocent person." "i don't know," said jordan. "if you'd said he wouldn't want his pretty machinery banged up it would be easier to believe." "i didn't hear anything. we would have if we'd hit." "it was fast. could we tell? maybe vogel played it safe and had the inner shell out of the way even if he didn't give us the automatic signal. in that event it's all right because it would close as soon as we got out of the way even if we did rip through the outer shell. all the air wouldn't escape." jordan sat there for a moment, silently reviewing his own arguments. he twisted the lever and the ship leaped forward. "cameron i don't mind. he had time to get away and he knew what we were going to do. i keep thinking nona _might_ have been there." "he opened it," said docchi harshly. "we didn't hit the dome. i didn't hear anything. nona wasn't there." his face was gray, there was no light at all in it. "come on," he said, walking away. jordan rocked back and forth. the hemisphere that held what remained of his body was suited for it. he set the auto-controls and reduced the gravity to quarter normal. he bent his arms and shoved himself into the air, deftly catching a guide rail, swinging along it. it was pure chance that he glanced toward the back of the ship instead of forward as he entered the corridor after docchi. there was a light blinking at a cabin door. it was occupied. jordan caught up before docchi reached the cargo hold. in lesser gravity he was more active and could move freely. now his handicap was almost unnoticeable, seemed to have disappeared. the same was not true of docchi. it required less effort to walk but there was also a profound unsettling effect that made him cautious and uncertain. docchi heard him coming and waited, bracing himself against the wall in case the gravity should momentarily change. jordan still carried the weapon he'd taken from the pilot. it was clipped to the sacklike garment, dangling from his midsection which, for him, was just below his shoulders. down the passageway he came, swinging from the guide rails with easy grace though the gravity on the ship was as erratic as on the asteroid. jordan halted, hanging on with one hand. "we have a passenger. someone we didn't know about." docchi stiffened. "who?" he asked. but the answer was already on jordan's face. "nona," he said in relief. he slumped forward. "how did she get on?" "a good question," said jordan. "but there isn't any answer and never will be. it's my guess that after she jammed the lights and scanners in the rocket dome she went to the ship and it looked inviting. so she went in. she wouldn't let a little thing like a lock that couldn't be opened stop her." "it's a good guess," agreed docchi. "she's exceedingly curious." "we may as well make the picture complete. once in the ship she felt tired. she found a comfortable cabin and fell asleep. she can't hear anything so our little skirmish with the geepees didn't bother her." "i can't argue with you. it'll do until a better explanation comes along." "but i wish she'd waited a few minutes to take her nap. she'd have saved us a lot of trouble. she didn't know you'd be able to crawl through the tubes--and neither did you until you'd actually done it." "what do you want?" said docchi. "she did more than we did. we depend too much on her. next thing we'll expect her to escort us personally to the stars." "i wasn't criticizing her," protested jordan. "maybe not. you've got to remember her mind works differently. it never occurred to her that we'd have difficulty with something that was so simple to her. at the same time she's completely unable to grasp our concepts." he straightened up. "we'd better get going if we don't want anti to start yelling." the cargo hold was sizable. it had to be to hold the tank, which was now quite battered and twisted. but the tank was sturdily built and looked as if it would hold together for ages to come. there was some doubt as to whether the ship would. the wall opposite the ramp was badly bent where the tank had plowed into it and the storage racks were demolished. odds and ends of equipment lay in scattered heaps on the floor. "anti," called docchi. "here." "are you hurt?" "never felt a thing," came the cheerful reply. it was not surprising; her surplus flesh was adequate protection against deceleration. jordan began to scale the side of the tank, reaching the top and peering over. "she seems to be all right," he called down. "part of the acid's gone. otherwise there's no damage." "of course not," replied anti. "what did i say?" it was perhaps more serious than she realized. she might personally dislike it, but acid was necessary to her life. and some of it had been splashed from the tank. where it had spilled metal was corroding rapidly. by itself this was no cause for alarm. the ship was built for a multitude of strange environments and the scavenging system would handle acid as readily as water, neutralizing it and disposing of it where it would do no harm. but the supply had to be conserved. there was no more. "what are you waiting for?" anti rumbled with impatience. "get me out of here. i've stewed in this disgusting soup long enough." "we were thinking how we could get you out. we'll figure out a way." "you let me do the thinking. you just get busy. after you left i decided there must be some way to live outside the tank and of course when i bent my mind to it there was a way. after all, who knows more about my condition than me?" "you're the expert. tell us what to do." "oh i will. all i need from you is no gravity and i'll take care of the rest. i've got muscles, more than you think. i can walk as long as my bones don't break from the weight." light gravity was bad, none at all was worse for docchi. having no arms he'd be helpless. the prospect of floating free without being able to grasp anything was terrifying. he forced down his fear. anti had to have it and so he could get used to null gravity. "we'll get around to it," he promised. "before we do we'll have to drain and store the acid." "i don't care what you do with it," said anti. "all i know is that i don't want to be in it." jordan was already working. he swung off the tank and was busy expelling water from an auxiliary compartment into space. as soon as the compartment was empty he led a hose from it to the tank. a pump vibrated and the acid level in the tank began to fall. docchi felt the ship lurch familiarly. the ship was older than he thought, the gravity generator more out of date. "hurry," he called to jordan. in time they'd cut it off. but if gravity went out before they were ready they were in for rough moments. free floating globes of highly corrosive acid, scattered throughout the ship by air currents, could be as destructive as high velocity meteor clusters. jordan tinkered with the pump and then jammed the lever as far as it would go, holding it there. "i think we'll make it," he said above the screech of the pump. the machinery gasped, but it won. the throbbing broke into a vacant clatter that betokened the tank was empty. jordan had the hose rolled away before the gravity generator let the feeling of weight trickle off into nothingness. as soon as she was weightless anti rose out of the tank. in all the time docchi had known her he had seen no more than a face framed in blue acid. where it was necessary periodic surgery had trimmed the flesh away. for the rest, she lived submerged in a corrosive fluid that destroyed the wild tissue as fast as it grew. anyway, nearly as fast. "well, junkman, look at a real freak," snapped anti. he had anticipated--and he was wrong in what he thought. it was true humans weren't meant to grow so large, but jupiter wasn't repulsive merely because it was the bulging giant of planets. it was unbelievable and overwhelming when seen close up but it was not obscene. it took getting used to but he could stand the sight of anti. "how long can you live out of the acid?" he stammered. "can't live out of it," said anti loftily. "so i take it with me. if you weren't as unobservant as most men you'd see how i do it." "it's a robe of some kind," said docchi carefully after studying it. "exactly. a surgical robe, the only thing i have to my name. maybe it's the only garment in the solar system that will fit me. anyway, if you've really examined it you'll notice it's made of a spongelike substance. it holds enough acid to last at least thirty-six hours." she grasped a rail and propelled herself toward the passageway. for most people it was spacious enough but not for anti. however she could squeeze through. and satellites, one glowing and the other swinging in an eccentric orbit, followed after the jupiter of humans. * * * * * nona was standing in front of the instrument panel when they came back. it was more or less like all panels built since designers first got the hang of what could really be done with seemingly simple components. there was a bewildering array of lights, levers, dials, and indicators in front of her but nona was interested in none of these. there was a single small switch and dial, separate from the rest, that held her complete attention. she seemed disturbed by what she saw or failed to see. disturbed or excited, it was difficult to guess which. anti stopped. "look at her. if i didn't know she's as bad as the rest of us, in fact the only one who was born that way, it would be easy to hate her. she's disgustingly normal." there was truth in what anti said--and yet there wasn't. surgical techniques that could take bodies apart and put them together with a skill once reserved for machines had made beauty commonplace. there were no more sagging muscles, discolored skin, or wrinkles. even the aged were attractive and youthful seeming until the day they died, and the day after too. there were no more ill-formed limbs, misshapen bodies, unsightly hair. everyone was handsome or beautiful. no exceptions. the accidentals didn't belong, of course. in another day most of them would have been employed by a circus--if they had first escaped the formaldehyde of the specimen bottle. and nona didn't belong--doubly. she couldn't be called normal, and she wasn't a repair job as the other accidentals were. looked at closely she was an original as far from the average in one direction as anti was in the other. "what's she staring at?" asked anti as the others slipped past her into the compartment. "is there something wrong with the little dial?" "that dial has a curious history," said docchi. "it's not useless, it just isn't used. actually it's an indicator for the gravity drive which at one time was considered fairly promising. it hasn't been removed because it might come in handy during an extreme emergency." "but all that extra weight----" "there's no weight, anti. the gravity drive is run from the same generator that supplies passenger gravity. it's very interesting that nona should spot it at once. i'm certain she's never been in a control room before and yet she went straight to it. she may even have some inkling of what it's for." anti dismissed the intellectual feat. "well, why are you waiting here? you know she can't hear us. go stand in front of her." "how do i get there?" docchi had risen a few inches now that jordan had released his grip. he was free floating and helpless, sort of a plankton of space. "a good engineer would have sense to put on magnetics. nona did." anti grasped his jacket. how she was able to move was uncertain. the tissues that surrounded the woman were too vast to permit the perception of individual motions. nevertheless she proceeded to the center of the compartment and with her came docchi. nona turned before they reached her. "my poor boy," sighed anti. "if you're trying to conceal your emotions, that's a very bad job. anyway, stop glowing like a rainbow and say something." it was one time anti missed. he almost _did_ feel that way and maybe if she weren't so competent in his own specialty he might have. it was irritating to study and work for so many years as he had--and then to be completely outclassed by someone who did neither, to whom certain kinds of knowledge came so easily it seemed to be inborn. she was attractive but for him something was missing. "hello," he said lamely. nona smiled at him though it was anti she went to. "no, not too close, child. don't touch the surgery robe unless you want your pretty face to peel off when you're not looking." nona stopped; she was close but she may as well have been miles away. she said nothing. anti shook her head hopelessly. "i wish she'd learn to read lips or at least recognize words. what can you say to her?" "she knows facial expressions and actions, i think," said docchi. "she's pretty good at emotions too. she falls down when it comes to words. i don't think she knows there is such a thing." "then how does she think?" asked anti, and answered her own question. "maybe she doesn't." "let's not be as dogmatic as psychologists have been. we know she does. what concepts she uses is uncertain. not verbal, nor mathematical anyway--she's been tested for that." he frowned puzzledly. "i don't know what concepts she uses in thinking. i wish i did." "save some of the worry for our present situation," said anti. "the object of your concern doesn't seem to need it. at least she isn't interested." nona had wandered back to the instrument panel and was staring at the gravity drive indicator again. there was really nothing there to hold her attention but her curiosity was insatiable and childlike. and in many ways she seemed immature. and that led to an elusive thought: what child was she? not whose child--what child. her actual parents were known, obscure technicians and mechanics, descendants themselves of a long line of mechanics and technicians. not one notable or distinguished person among them, her family was decently unknown to fame or misfortune in every branch--until she'd come along. and what was her place, according to heredity? docchi didn't know but he didn't share the official medical view. with an effort docchi stopped thinking about nona. "we appealed to the medicouncilor," he said. "we asked for a ship to go to the nearest star, a rocket, naturally. even allowing for a better design than we now have the journey will take a long time--forty or fifty years going and the same time back. that's entirely too long for a normal crew, but it wouldn't matter to us. you know what the medicouncil did with that request. that's why we're here." "why rockets?" interrupted jordan. "why not some form of that gravity drive you were talking about? seems to me for travel over a long distance it would be much better." "as an idea it's very good," said docchi. "theoretically there's no upper limit to the gravity drive except the velocity of light and even that's questionable. if it would work the time element could be cut in fractions. but the last twenty years have proved that gravity drives don't work at all outside the solar system. they work very well close to the sun, start acting up at the orbit of venus and are no good at all from earth on out." "why don't they?" asked jordan. "you said they used the same generator as passenger gravity. those work away from the sun." "sure they do," said docchi impatiently. "like ours is working now? actually ship internal gravity is more erratic than we had on the asteroid, and that's hardly reliable. for some reason the drive is always worse than passenger gravity. don't ask me why. if i knew i wouldn't be on handicap haven. arms or no arms, biocompensator or not, i'd be the most important scientist on earth." "with multitudes of women competing for your affections," said anti. "i think he'd settle for one," suggested jordan. "poor unimaginative man," said anti. "when i was young i was not so narrow in my outlook." "we've heard about your youth," said jordan. "i don't believe very much of it." "talk about your youth and love affairs privately if you want but spare us the details. especially now, since there are more important things to attend to." docchi glowered at them. "anyway the gravity drive is out," he resumed. "at one time they had hopes for it but no longer. the present function of the generator is to provide gravity _inside_ the ship, for passenger comfort. nothing else. "so it is a rocket ship, slow and clumsy but reliable. it'll get us there. the medicouncil refused us and so we'll have to go higher." "i'm all for it," said anti. "how do we get higher?" "we've discussed it before," answered docchi. "the medicouncil is responsible to the solar government, and in turn solar has been known to yield to devious little pressures." "or not so devious great big pressures. fine. i'm in favor," said anti. "i just wanted to be sure." "mars is close," continued docchi. "but earth is more influential. therefore i recommend it." his voice trailed off and he stopped and listened, listened. anti listened too but the sound was too faint for her hearing. "what's the matter?" she said. "i think you're imagining things." jordan leaned forward in his seat and examined the instrument panel carefully before answering. "that's the trouble, anti. you're not supposed to _hear_ it, but you should be able to feel vibrations as long as the rocket's on." "i don't feel it either." "i know," said jordan, looking at docchi. "i can't understand. there's plenty of fuel." * * * * * the momentum of the ship carried it along after the rockets stopped firing. they were still moving but not very fast and not in the direction they ultimately had to go. gingerly docchi tried out the magnetic shoes. he was clumsy but no longer helpless in the gravityless ship. he stared futilely at the instruments as if he could wring out more secrets than the panel had electronic access to. "it's mechanical trouble of some sort," he said uneasily. "i don't know where to begin." before he could get to it anti was in the passageway that led from the control compartment. "course i'm completely ignorant," she said. "seems to me we ought to start with the rocket tubes and trace the trouble from there." "i was going to," said docchi. "you stay here, anti. i'll see what's wrong." she reached nearly from the floor to the ceiling. she missed by scant inches the sides of the corridor. locomotion was easy for her, turning around wasn't. so she didn't turn. "look, honey," her voice floated back. "you brought me along for the ride. that's fine. i'm grateful but i'm not satisfied with just that. seems to me i've got to earn my fare. you stay and run the ship. you and jordan know how. i don't. i'll find out what's wrong." "but you won't know what to do." "i don't have to. you don't have to be a mechanic to see something's broken. i'll find it, and when i do you can come and fix it." he knew when it was useless to argue with her. "we'll both go," he said. "jordan will stay at the controls." it was a dingy poorly lighted passageway in an older ship. handicap haven didn't rate the best equipment that was being produced, and even when it was new the ship had been no prize. on one side of the corridor was the hull of the ship; on the other a few small cabins. none were occupied. anti stopped. the long hall ended in a cross corridor that led to the other side of the ship where a return passage led back to the control compartment. "we'll check the stern tubes," he said, still unable to see around her. "open the door and we'll look in." "can't," said anti. "tried to but the handle won't turn. there's a red light too. does it mean anything?" he'd expected something like this but nevertheless his heart sank now that he was actually confronted with it. "it does. don't try again. with your strength you might be unlucky enough to open the door." "there's a man for you," said anti. "first you tell me to open it and then you don't want me to." "there's no air in the rear compartment, anti. the combustion chamber's been retracted--that's why the rockets stopped firing. the air rushed out into space as soon as it happened. that's what the red light means." "we'd all die if i opened it now?" "we would." "then let's get busy and fix it." "we will. but we've got to make sure it doesn't happen again. you see, it wasn't accidental. someone, or something, was responsible." "are you sure?" "very sure. did you see anyone while we were loading your tank in the ship?" "nothing. how could i? i heard cameron shouting, other noise. but i couldn't see a thing that wasn't directly overhead, and there wasn't anything." "i thought so. a geepee _could_ have got in without anyone seeing him. i didn't count them but i was certain all of them had dropped outside. i was mistaken; one of them didn't." "why does it have to be a geepee?" "it just does, anti. the combustion chamber was retracted while we were all in the control compartment. we didn't do it and therefore it had to be someone back here. "no man is strong enough to retract the cap, but if he somehow exerted superhuman effort, as soon as the chamber cleared the tubes rocket action would cease and the air in the compartment would exhaust into space." "so we have a dead geepee in the rocket compartment." "a geepee doesn't die or even become inactive. lack of air doesn't hinder it in the least. not only that, a geepee might be able to escape from the compartment. it's strong and fast enough to open the door against the pressure and get out and close it again in less than a second. we wouldn't notice it because the ship would automatically replenish the small amount of air that would escape." anti settled down grimly. "then there's a geepee on the loose, intent on wrecking us?" "i'm afraid so." "then what are we standing around for? all we have to do is go back to the controls and pick up the robot on the radio. we'll make it go in there and repair the damage it's done." she partly turned around and saw docchi's face. "don't tell me," she said, "i should have thought of it. the radio doesn't work inside the ship." docchi nodded reluctantly. "it doesn't. robots are never used aboard and so the emergency band is broadcast by the bow antenna. the hull of the ship is a pretty good insulation." "ain't that nice?" said anti happily. "we've got a robot hunt ahead of us." "and our bare hands to hunt it with." "oh come. it's not as hopeless as that. look, the robot was back here when the rockets stopped. it couldn't get by the control compartment without our seeing it." "that's right. there are two corridors leading through the compartment, one on each side of the ship." "that's what i mean. we came down one and there wasn't any geepee. so it's got to be in the other. if it goes in a cabin a light will shine outside. it can't hide from us." "i don't doubt we'll find it. but what'll we do then?" "i was thinking," said anti. "can you get past me when i'm standing like this?" "no." "that's what i thought. neither can a geepee. all i need is a toaster, or something that looks like it. i'll drive the robot forward and jordan can burn it down." determinedly she began to move toward the far corridor. "hurry back to jordan and tell him. there ought to be another weapon on the ship. should be one for the pilot to use. bring it back to me." docchi bit his lip and stared at the back of the huge woman. he knew anti, and when it was useless to argue with her. "all right," he answered. "stay here though. don't try anything until i get a toaster for you." the magnetics on his feet were no substitute for gravity. docchi couldn't move fast, no human could. he had time to think as he went along but nothing better suggested itself. a toaster for jordan and another for anti--if there was another. and anti would block the passageway. a geepee might go through her but it could never squeeze past. the robot would try to get away. if it came toward anti she might disable it. but she would be firing directly into the control compartment. and if she missed even partially--well, the instruments were delicate. but jordan might get the chance to bring down the robot. then anti would be in the line of fire. no matter how he looked at it, docchi was sure the plan was unworkable. they'd have to devise something else. "jordan," called docchi as soon as he got there; but jordan wasn't in sight. nona was, still gazing serenely at the gravity indicator. nothing seemed capable of breaking through the shell that surrounded her. light was streaming from the opposite corridor. docchi hurried over. jordan was just inside the entrance, the toaster clutched grimly in his hand. he was hitching his truncated body slowly toward the stern. coming to meet him was anti--unarmed enormous anti. she hadn't meant to wait for the weapon--she was pretty certain there wasn't any--she had merely wanted to get him out of the way. and she wasn't walking; somehow it seemed more like swimming, a bulbous huge sea animal moving through the air. she waved what resembled fins against the wall, with them propelling herself forward. "melt it down," she cried. it was difficult to make out the vaguely human form of the geepee. the powerful shining body blended in with the structure of the ship--unintentional camouflage, though the robot wasn't aware of it. it crouched at the threshold of a cabin, hesitating between approaching dangers. jordan raised the weapon and lowered it with the same motion. "get out of the way." he gestured futilely to anti. there was no place she could go. she was too big to enter a cabin, too massive to let the robot squeeze by even if she wanted. "never mind. get him," she called. the geepee wasn't a genius even by robot standards. but it did know that heat is deadly and that a human body is a fragile thing. and so it ran toward anti. unlike humans it didn't need special magnetics; such a function was built into it and the absence or presence of gravity disturbed it not at all. it moved very fast. docchi had to watch though he didn't want to. the robot exploded into action, launching its body at anti. but it was the robot that was thrown back. it had calculated swiftly but incorrectly--relative mass favored the enormous woman. the electronic brain obeyed the original instructions, whatever they were. it got up and rushed anti again. metal arms shot out with dazzling speed and crashed against the flesh of the huge woman. docchi could hear the rattle of blows. no ordinary person could take that punishment and live. but anti wasn't ordinary. even for an accidental she was strange, living far inside a deep armor of flesh. it was possible she never felt the crushing force of those blows. and she didn't turn away, try to escape. instead she reached out and grasped the robot, drawing it to her. and the geepee lost another advantage, leverage. the bright arms didn't flash so fast nor with such lethal power. "gravity," cried anti. "give me all you've got." her strategy was obvious; she was leaning against the struggling machine. and here at least docchi could help her. he turned and took two steps before the surge hit him. gravity came in waves, each one greater than that before. the first impulse staggered him, and at the second his knees buckled and he sank to the floor. after that his eardrums hurt and he thought he could feel the ship quiver. he knew dazedly that an artificial gravity field of this magnitude had never been attained--but the knowledge didn't help him move. he was powerless in the force that held him. and it vanished as quickly as it had come. painfully his lungs expanded, each muscle aching individually. he rolled over and got up, lurching past jordan. anti wasn't the inert broken flesh he expected. already she was moving and was standing up by the time he got to her. "oof," she grunted, gazing with satisfaction at the twisted shape at her feet. it was past repair, the body dented and arms and legs bent, the head smashed, the electronic brain in it completely useless. "are you hurt?" asked docchi in awe. she waggled the extremities and waited as if for the signal to travel through the nerves. "nope," she said finally. "can't feel anything broken. would have been if i'd tried to stand." she moved back to get a better view of the robot. "that's throwing my weight around," she said with satisfaction. "at the right time in the right way. the secret's timing. and i must say you took the cue well." her laughter rolled through the ship. "i didn't have anything to do with the gravity," said docchi. "who? jordan--no, he's just getting up." "nona," said docchi. "she was the only one who wasn't doing anything else. she saw what had to be done and got to it before i did. but i can't figure out how she got so much gravity." "ask her," said anti. docchi grimaced, limping into the control room, followed by anti and jordan. nona was at the gravity panel, her face pleasant and unconcerned. the unprecedented power of the gravity field could be accounted for, of course. the ship was old and had seen much use. connections were loose or broken and had somehow crossed, circuiting more power into the gravity generator than it was designed for. miraculously it had held up for a brief time--and that was all there was to it. and yet the explanation failed to be completely satisfactory. "i wonder if you had anything to do with it," he said to her. nona smiled questioningly. "had to, didn't she?" said jordan. "she was the only one who could have turned it on." "started it, yes. increased the power of the field, i don't know," said docchi. he outlined what he thought had taken place. "that sounds logical," agreed jordan. "but it doesn't matter how it was done. gravity engineers would find it interesting. if we had time i'd like to see how the circuits are crossed. we might discover something new." "i'm sure it's interesting," said anti irritably. "interesting to everybody but me. and i'm pragmatic. all i want to know is: when do we start the rockets? we've got a long way to go." "there's something that comes before that, anti," said jordan. "a retracted combustion cap in flight generally means at least one burned out tube." he made his way to the instruments, checking them glumly. "this time it's three." "you forgot something yourself, jordan," said docchi. "i was thinking of the robot." "i thought we'd settled _that_," said anti impatiently. "we have. but let's follow it through. where did the robot get instructions? not from vogel via the radio. the ship's hull cuts off that band. and the last we knew it was in our control." "voice," said jordan. "we freed it. someone else could take it over." "who?" said anti. "none of us." "no. but think back to when we were loading the tank. we saw it through the telecom and the angle of vision was bad. you couldn't see anything that wasn't directly overhead. not only the robot but cameron also managed to get inside." jordan hefted the weapon. "so we've got another hunt on our hands. only this time it's in our favor. nothing i like better than aiming at a nice normal doctor." docchi glanced at the weapon. "take it along. but don't use it. a homicide would ruin us. we could forget what we're going for. anyway, you won't actually need it. the ship's temporarily disabled and he'll consider that damage enough. he'll be ready to surrender." he was. the doctor was at ease, confident. "you've got the ship and you've caught me. how long do you think you can keep either of us?" docchi regarded him levelly. "i don't expect active cooperation but i'd like to think you'll give us your word not to hinder us hereafter." cameron glared at the toaster. "i won't promise anything." "we can chain him to anti," suggested jordan. "that will keep him out of trouble." "don't wince, cameron," said docchi. "she was a woman once. an attractive one too." "we can put him in a spacesuit and lock his hands behind his back," said jordan. "like the old-fashioned straitjacket." cameron laughed loudly. "go ahead." jordan juggled the toaster. "i can use this to weld with. let's put him in a cabin and close the door, permanently. i'll cut a slot to shove food in--a very narrow slot." "excellent. that's the solution. cameron, do you want to reconsider your decision?" cameron shrugged blithely. "they'll pick you up in a day or less anyway. i'm not compromising myself if i agree." "it's good enough for me," declared anti. "a doctor's word is as good as his oath--hippocratic or hypocritic." "don't be cynical, anti. doctors have an economic sense as well as the next person," said docchi. he turned to cameron. "you see, after anti grew too massive for her skeletal structure, doctors reasoned she'd be most comfortable in the absence of gravity. that was in the early days, before successful ship gravity units were developed. they put her on an interplanetary ship and kept transferring her before each landing. "but the treatment was troublesome--and expensive. so they devised a new method--the asteroid and the tank of acid. not being aquatic by nature, anti resented the change. she still does." "don't blame me for that," said cameron. "i wasn't responsible." "it was before your time," agreed docchi. he frowned speculatively at the doctor. "i noticed it at the time but i had other things to think about. tell me, why did you laugh when jordan mentioned spacesuits?" cameron grinned broadly. "that was my project while you were busy with the robot." "to do what? jordan----" but jordan was already on his way. he was gone for some time, minutes that passed slowly. "well?" asked docchi on jordan's return. the question was hardly necessary; his face told the story. "cut to ribbons." "all of them? even the emergency pack?" "that too. he knew where everything was. nothing can be repaired." "so who cares?" rumbled anti. "we don't need spacesuits unless something happens and we have to go outside the ship." "exactly, anti. how do we replace the defective tubes? from the outside, of course. by destroying the spacesuits cameron made sure we can't." anti glowered at the doctor. "and i suppose you merely had our welfare at heart. isn't that so, cameron?" "you can think anything you want. i did and i do," said cameron imperturbably. "now be reasonable. we're still in the asteroid zone. in itself that's not dangerous. without power to avoid stray rocks it can be very unpleasant. my advice is to contact the medicouncil at once. they'll send a ship to take us in." "thanks, no. i don't like handicap haven as well as you," anti said brusquely. she turned to docchi. "maybe i'm stupid for asking but what's so deadly about being in space without a spacesuit?" "cold. lack of pressure. lack of oxygen." "is that all? nothing else?" his voice was too loud; it seemed thunderous to him. "isn't that enough?" "maybe not for me. i just wanted to be sure." she beckoned to nona and together they went forward, where the spacesuits were kept. "don't do anything drastic until i get back," she said as she left. cameron scowled puzzledly and started to follow until jordan waved the toaster in front of him. "all right, i see it," he growled, stopping and rubbing his chin. "there's nothing she can do. you know it as well as i do." "do i? well, for once i'm inclined to agree with you," said docchi. "but you never can tell with anti. sometimes she comes up with surprising things. she's not scientifically trained but she has a good mind, as good as her body once was." "and how good was that?" asked cameron ironically. "look it up in your records," said jordan shortly. "we don't talk about it ourselves." * * * * * the women didn't come back soon, and when they did cameron wasn't sure that the weird creature that floated into the control compartment with nona _was_ anti. he looked again and saw shudderingly what she had done to herself. "you _do_ need psychotherapy," he said bitingly. "when we get back it's the first thing i'll recommend. can't you understand how fool-hardy you're being?" "be quiet," growled jordan. "anti, explain what you've rigged up. i'm not sure we can let you do it." "any kind of pressure will do as far as the outside of the body is concerned," answered anti, flipping back the helmet. "mechanical pressure is as satisfactory as air. i had nona cut the spacesuit in strips and wind them around me, very hard. that will keep me from squishing out. then i found a helmet that would cover my head when the damaged part was cut away. it won't hold much air pressure even taped tight to my skin. it doesn't have to as long as it's pure oxygen." "so far it makes sense," admitted docchi. "but what can you do about temperature?" "do you think i'm going to worry about cold?" asked anti. "me? way down below all this flesh? mountains and mountains of it?" "i've heard enough," said cameron, standing in front of anti. "now listen to me. stop this nonsense and take off that childish rig. i can't permit you to ruin my career by deliberate suicide." "you and your stinking career," said jordan disgustedly. "you don't know what success is and what it means to give it up. stay out of this. we don't have to ask your permission to do anything." cameron retreated from the toaster and jordan turned to anti. "do you understand what the risk, is, anti? you know that it may not work at all?" "i've thought about it," said anti. "on the other hand i've thought about the asteroid. i don't want to go back." "we should have viewers outside," said docchi. "one directly in back, one on each side. at least we'll know what's happening." at the control panel jordan began flipping levers. "they're out and working," he said at last. "anti, go to the freight ramp. close your helmet and wait. i'll let the air out slowly. if everything doesn't work perfectly let me know on the helmet radio and i'll yank you in immediately. once you're outside i'll give you further instructions. you'll find the tools and equipment that opens to space." anti waddled away. huge, but she wasn't any bigger than her determination. once she was gone jordan looked down at his legless body. "i hate to do this but we've got to be realistic about it." "it's the only way we've got a chance," answered docchi. "anti's the only one who can do the job. and i think she'll survive." jordan adjusted a dial. "cameron had better hope she will," he muttered. "he'll join her if she doesn't." docchi glanced hastily at the screen. anti was hanging free in space, wrapped and strapped in strips torn from the supposedly useless spacesuits. and she was also enclosed in more flesh than any human had borne. the helmet was taped jauntily to her head and the oxygen cylinder was fastened to her back. and she lived. "how is she?" he asked anxiously, unaware that the microphone was open. "fine," came the reply, faint and reedy. "the air's thin but it's pure." "cold?" "don't know. don't feel it yet. anyway it can't be worse than the acid. what do i do?" jordan gave her directions while the others watched. it required considerable effort to find the tools and examine the tubes for defectives, to loosen the tubes in the sockets and pull them out, sending them spinning into space. it was still more difficult to replace them, though there was no gravity and anti was held firmly to the hull by magnetics. anti had never been a technician of any kind. cameron was sure of it. she was ignorant of the commonest terms, the simplest tool. she shouldn't have been able to do it. and yet she managed nicely, though she didn't know how. the explanation must be that she did know, that somewhere in her remote past, of which he was totally uninformed, she had had training which prepared her for this. such contradiction was ridiculous. but there was rhythm to her motions, this giant shapeless creature whose bones would break with weight if she tried to stand at half gravity. the whale plowing through the deeps and waves has the attraction of beauty. it can't be otherwise for any animal in an environment which it is suited to live in. and the human race had produced, haphazardly, one unlikely person to whom interplanetary space was not alien. anti was at last in her element. "now," said jordan, keeping tension out of his voice though it was trembling in his hand. "go back to the outside tool compartment. you'll find a lever near it. pull. this will set the combustion cap in place." "done," said anti when it was. "that's all. come in now." she went slowly over the hull to the cargo ramp and while she did jordan reeled in the viewers. the lock was no sooner closed to the outside and the air hissing into the intermediate space than he was there, waiting for the inner lock to open. "are you all right?" he asked gruffly. she flipped back the helmet. there was frost on her eyebrows and her face was bright and red. "why shouldn't i be? my hands aren't cold." she stripped off the heated gloves and waggled her fingers. "i can't believe it," protested cameron with more vehemence than he intended. "you should be frozen through." "why?" said anti with gurgling laughter. "it's merely a matter of insulation and i have plenty of that. more than i want." shaking his head cameron turned to docchi. "when i was a boy i saw a film of a dancer. she did a ballet. i think it was called: free space-free life. something like that. i can't say why but it came to my mind when anti was out there. i hadn't thought of it in years." he rubbed his hand over his forehead. "it fascinated me when i first saw it. i went to it again and again. when i grew older i found out a tragic thing had happened to the dancer. she was on a tour of venus when the ship she was in was forced down. searching parties were sent out but they didn't find anyone except her. and she had been struggling over a fungus plain for a week. you know what that meant. the great ballerina was a living spore culture medium." "shut up," said jordan. "shut up." cameron was engrossed in the remembrance and didn't seem to hear. "naturally she died. i can't recall her name but i can't forget the ballet. and that's funny because it reminded me of anti out there----" "i told you to shut up!" jordan exploded a fist in the doctor's face. if there had been more behind the blow than shoulders and a fragment of a body cameron's jaw would have been broken. as it was he floated through the air and crashed against the wall. angrily he got to his feet. "i gave my word i wouldn't cause trouble. i thought the agreement worked both ways." he glanced significantly at the weapon jordan carried. "better keep that around all the time." "i told you," said jordan. "i told you more than once." after that he ignored the doctor, thrusting the weapon securely into his garment. he turned to anti. "very good," he said, his anger gone and his voice courtly. "an excellent performance. one of your best, antoinette." "you should have seen me when i was good," said anti. the frost had melted from her eyebrows and was trickling down her cheek. she left with jordan. cameron remained behind. it was too bad about his ambition. he knew now he was never going to be the spectacular success he'd once envisioned--not after this escape from handicap haven. he'd done all he could to prevent it but it wouldn't count with the medicouncil that he had good intentions. still, he'd be able to practice somewhere; doctors were always necessary. there were worse fates--suppose he had to abandon medicine altogether? think of the ballerina he'd been talking about--she hadn't died as the history tapes indicated. that much was window dressing; people were supposed to believe it because it was preferable to the truth. it would have been better for that woman if she hadn't lived on. by now he had recalled her name: antoinette. and now it was anti. he could have found it out by checking the records--if handicap haven kept that particular information on file. he was suddenly willing to bet that it wasn't there. he felt his jaw, which ached throbbingly. he deserved it. he hadn't really been convinced that they were people too. * * * * * "we'll stick to the regular lanes," decided docchi. "i think we'll get closer. they've no reason to suspect we're heading toward earth. mars is more logical, or one of the moons of jupiter, or another asteroid. i'm sure they don't know what we're trying to do." jordan shifted uneasily. "i'm against it. they'll pick us up before we have a chance to do anything." "there's nothing to distinguish us from an ordinary earth to mars rocket. we have a ship's registry on board. use it. take a ship that's in our general class and thereafter we'll be that ship. if traffic blips us, and i don't think they will unless we try to land, we'll have a recording ready. something like this: 'me zip crackle reporting. our communication is acting up. we can't hear you, traffic.' "that's quite believable in view of the age and condition of our ship. don't overdo the static effects but repeat it with suitable variations and i don't think they'll bother us." shaking his head dubiously jordan swung away toward the tiny fabricating shop. "you seem worried," said anti as she came in. docchi didn't turn around. "yeah." "what's the matter, won't it work?" "sure. there are too many ships. they can't pick us out among so many. anyway they're not looking for us around earth. they don't really know why we took the rocket and escaped." "then why so much concern? once we're near earth we won't need much time." his face was taut and tired. "i thought so too, in the beginning. things have changed. the entire solar police force has been alerted for us." "so the solar police really want us? but i still don't understand why that changes a thing." "look, anti. we planned to bypass the medicouncil and take our case directly to the solar government. but if they want us as badly as the radio indicates they're not going to be sympathetic. not at all. "and if they're not, if the solar government doesn't support us all the way, we'll never get another chance. hereafter there'll be guards everywhere on the asteroid. they'll watch us even when we sleep." "well?" said anti. she seemed trimmer and more vigorous. "we considered it _might_ turn out this way, didn't we? let's take the last step first." docchi raised his head. "go to the ultimate authority? the solar government won't like it." "they won't, but there's nothing they can do about it." "don't be sure. they can shoot us down. when we stole the ship we automatically became criminals." "i know, but they'll be careful, especially after we make contact. how would it look if we were blown to bits in front of their eyes, in a billion homes?" docchi chuckled grimly. "very shrewd. all right, they'll be careful. but is it worth it to us?" "it is to me." "then it is to me," said docchi. "i suggest we start getting ready." anti scrutinized him carefully. "maybe we ought to fix you up." "with fake arms and a cosmetikit? no. they'll have to take us as we are, unpretty, even repulsive." "that's a better idea. i hadn't thought of the sympathy angle." "not sympathy--reality. it means too much to us. i don't want them to approve of us as handsome unfortunates and then have them change their minds when they discover what we're really like." sitting in silence, docchi watched her go. she at least would benefit. dr. cameron apparently hadn't noticed that the exposure to extreme cold had done more to inhibit her unceasing growth than the acid bath. she probably would never get back to her former size but some day, if the cold treatment were properly investigated, she might be able to stand at normal gravity. for her there was hope. the rest of them had to keep on pretending that there was. he examined the telecom. they were getting closer. no longer a point of light, earth was a perceptible disc. he could see the outline of oceans, the shapes of land and the shadows of mountains, the flat ripple where prairies and plains were; he could imagine people. this was home--once. jordan came in. "the radio tape is rigged up. i haven't had to use it yet. but we have a friend trailing along behind us, an official friend." "has he blipped at us?" "when i left he hadn't. he keeps hanging on." "is he overtaking us?" "he'd like to." "don't let him." "with this bag of bolts?" "shake it apart if you have to," said docchi impatiently. "how soon can you slide into a broadcast orbit?" jordan furrowed his forehead. "i didn't think we'd planned on that this time. it was supposed to be our last resort." "anti and i have talked it over. we agree that this is our last chance. now's the time to speak up if you've got any objections." "i've been listening to the police calls," said jordan thoughtfully. "no, i guess i haven't got any objection. not with a heavy cruiser behind us. none at all." * * * * * they came together in the control compartment. "i don't want a focus exclusively on me," docchi was saving. "nor on nona either, though i know she's most acceptable. to a world of perfect and beautiful people we may look strange but they must see us as we are. we have to avoid the family portrait effect." "samples," suggested anti. "in a sense we are, yes. a lot depends on whether they accept those samples." for the first time cameron began to realize what they were attempting. "wait," he said urgently. "you're making a mistake. you've got to listen to me." "we've got to do this and we've got to do that," said jordan. "i'm getting tired of it. can't you understand we're giving orders now?" "that's right," said docchi. "jordan, see that cameron stays out of the transmitting angle and doesn't interrupt. we've come too far to let him influence us." "sure. if he makes a sound i'll melt the teeth out of his mouth." jordan held the toaster against his side, away from the telecom but aimed at cameron. the doctor wanted to break in but the weapon, though small, was very real. and jordan was ready to use it. that was the only justification for his silence, that and the fact they'd learn anyway. "ready?" said docchi. "flip the switch and we will be. i've hooked everything on. they can't help themselves. they've got to listen." the rocket slipped out of the approach lanes. it spun down, stem tubes pulsing brightly, falling toward earth in a tight trajectory. down, down; the familiar planet was very large. "citizens of the solar system, everyone on earth," began docchi. "this is an unscheduled broadcast. we're using the emergency bands because for us it is an emergency. i said we, and you want to know who _we_ are. look at us. accidentals--that's all we can be. "we're not pretty. we know it. but there are other things more important. accomplishment, contribution to progress. and though it may seem unlikely to you there are contributions we can make--if we're permitted to do so. "but shut away on a little asteroid we're denied our rights. all we can do is exist in frustration and boredom, kept alive whether we want to be or not. and yet we can help you as you've helped us--if we're allowed to. you can't go to the stars yet, but we can. and ultimately, through what we learn, you'll be able to. "you've listened to experts who say it can't be done, that rockets are too slow and that the crew would die of old age before they got back. they're almost right, but accidentals are the exception. ordinary people would die but we won't. the medicouncil has all the facts--they know what we are--and still they refuse us." at the side of the control compartment cameron moved to protest. jordan glanced at him, imperceptibly waggling the weapon. cameron stopped, the words unspoken. "biocompensation," continued docchi evenly as if nothing had occurred. "let me explain what it means in case information on it has been suppressed. the principle of biocompensation has long been a matter of conjecture. this is the first age in which medical techniques are advanced enough to explore it. every cell and organism tends to survive as an individual and a species. injure it and it strives for survival according to the extent of damage. if it can it will heal the wound and live on in its present state. otherwise it propagates almost immediately. you can verify this by forgetting to water the lawn and watch how soon it goes to seed. "humans aren't plants, you say. and yet the principle applies. accidentals are people who have been maimed and mutilated almost past belief. and our bodies have had the assistance of medical science, _real_ medical science. everyone knows how, after certain illnesses, immunity to that disease can be acquired. and more than blood fractions are involved in the process. for us blood was supplied as long as we needed it, machines did our breathing, kidneys replaced, hearts furnished, glandular products in exact minute quantities, nervous and muscular systems regenerated--and our bodies responded. they had to respond or none of us would be here today. and such was the extremity of the struggle--so close did we come to it that we gained practical immunity to--death." sweat ran down docchi's face. he longed for hands to wipe it away. "most accidentals are nearly immortal. not quite of course; we may die four or five hundred years from now. meanwhile there is no reason why we can't be explorers for you. rockets are slow. you'd die before you got to alpha centauri and back. we won't. time means nothing to us. "perhaps better faster rockets will be devised after we leave. you may get there before we do. we don't mind. we will have tried to repay you the best way we know how and that will satisfy us." with an effort docchi smiled. the instant he did so he felt it was a mistake, one he couldn't call back. even to himself it seemed more like a snarl. "you know where we're kept--that's more polite than saying imprisoned. we don't call it handicap haven. our name for it is: _junkpile_. and we're junkmen. do you know how we feel? "i don't know how you can persuade the medicouncil to let us man an expedition to the stars. we've appealed and appealed and they've always turned us down. now that we've let you know it's up to you. our future as humans is at stake. settle it with your conscience. when you go to sleep think of us out there on the junkpile." he nudged the switch and sat down. his face was gray and his eyes were rimmed and burning. "i don't want to bother you," said jordan. "what'll we do about these?" docchi glanced at the telecom. the ships were uncomfortably close and considerably more numerous than the last time he had looked. "take evasive action," he said wearily. "swing close to earth and use the planet's gravity to give us a good fast sendoff. we can't let them take us until people have a chance to make their feelings known." "now that you've finished i want to discuss it with you," said cameron. there was an odd tone to his voice. "later," said docchi. "save it. i'm going to sleep. jordan, wake me if anything happens. and remember you don't have to listen to this fellow if you don't want to." jordan nodded contemptuously. "i know what he's like. he's got nothing to say to me." nona, leaning against the panel, paid no attention to any of them. she seemed to be listening to something nobody else could hear, she, to whom sound had no meaning. docchi's body sagged as he went out. her perpetual air of wondering search for something she could never have was not new but it was no more bearable because of that. and while docchi slept the race went on against a slowly changing backdrop of stars and planets. only the darkness remained the same; it was immutable. the little flecks of light that edged nearer hour after hour didn't seem cheerful to jordan. his lips were fixed in a thin hard line. his expression didn't alter. presently, long after earth was far behind, he heard docchi come in again. "i've been thinking about it," said cameron. "nice speech." "yeah." docchi glanced at the screen. the view didn't inspire comment. cameron was standing at the threshold. "i may as well tell you," he said reluctantly. "i tried to stop the broadcast as soon as i found out what was going on. you wouldn't listen." he came on into the control compartment. nona was huddled in a seat, her face blankly incurious. anti was absent, replenishing the acid for her robe. "do you know why the medicouncil refused to let you go?" "get to the point." "damn it, i am," said cameron, sweating. "the centauri group contains several planets, just how many we're not sure. from what we know of cosmology there's a good chance intelligent life exists there, probably not far behind us in technical development. whoever goes there will be our representatives to an alien race. what _they_ look like isn't important; it's their concern. but our ambassadors have to meet certain minimum standards. it's an important occasion, our future relations rest on. damn it--don't you see _our_ ambassadors must at least _appear_ to be human beings?" "you're not telling us anything new. we know how you feel." jordan was rigid with disgust. "you're wrong," said cameron. "you're so wrong. i'm not speaking for myself. i'm a doctor. the medicouncilors are doctors. we graft on or regenerate legs and arms and eyes. the tools of our trade are blood and bones and intestines. we know very well what people look like from the inside. we're well aware of the thin borderline that separates normal men and women from accidentals. "can't you still understand what i'm saying? they're perfect, everybody's perfect. too much so. they can't tolerate small blemishes. more money is spent for research on acne than to support the whole asteroid. they rush to us with wrinkles and dandruff. health, or the appearance of it, has become a fetish. you may think the people you appealed to are sympathetic but what they feel is something else." "what are you driving at?" said docchi in a low voice. "just this: if it were up to the medicouncil you'd be on your way to the centauris. it isn't. the decision wasn't made by us. actually it came directly from the solar government. and the solar government never acts contrary to public opinion." docchi turned away, his face wrinkled in distaste. "i didn't think you had the nerve to stand there and say that." "i didn't want to. but you've got to know the truth." cameron twisted his head uncomfortably. "you're not far from earth. you can still pick up the reaction to your broadcast. try it and see." jordan looked at docchi who nodded imperceptibly. "we may as well," said docchi. "it's settled now, one way or the other. nothing we can do will change it." jordan searched band after band, eagerly at first. his enthusiasm died and still the reaction never varied. private citizen or public figure, man or woman, the indignation was concealed but nevertheless firm and unmistakable. there was no doubt accidentals were unfortunate but they were well taken care of. there was no need to trade on deformity; the era of the freak show had passed and it never would return. "turn it off," said docchi at last. numbly jordan complied. "now what?" he said. "why fight it?" said the doctor. "go back to the asteroid. it'll be forgotten." "not by us," said docchi dully. "but there doesn't seem to be any choice. it would have been better if we had tried to work through the medicouncil. we misjudged our allies." "we knew you had," said cameron. "we thought we'd let you go on thinking as you did. it gave you something to hope for, allowed you to feel you weren't alone. the trouble was that your discontent carried you further than we thought it could." "we did get somewhere," docchi said. his lethargy seemed to lift somewhat as he contemplated what they'd achieved. "and there's no reason we have to stop. jordan, contact the ships behind us. tell them we've got cameron on board. a hostage. play him up as their man. basically he's not bad. he's not against us as much as the rest are." anti came into the compartment. cheerfulness faded from her face. "what's the matter?" "jordan'll tell you. i want to think." docchi closed his eyes and his mind to the whispered consultation of anti and jordan, to the feeble ultimatum to the ships behind them. the rocket lurched slightly though the vibration from the exhaust did not change. there was no cause for alarm, the flight of a ship was never completely steady. minor disturbances no longer affected docchi. when he had it straightened out in his mind he looked around. "if we were properly fueled and provisioned i would be in favor of heading for alpha or proxima. maybe even sirius. distance doesn't matter since we don't care whether we come back." it was plain he wasn't expending much hope. "but we can't make it with the small fuel reserve we have. if we can lose the ships behind us we may be able to hide until we can steal fuel and food." "what'll we do with doc?" said jordan. he too was infected with defeat. "we'll have to raid an unguarded outpost, a small mining asteroid is our best bet. we'll leave him there." "yeah," said jordan listlessly. "a good idea, _if_ we can run away from our personal escort. offhand i don't think we can. they hesitated when i told them we had cameron but they didn't drop back. look." he looked himself and, unbelievingly, looked again. he blinked rapidly but the screen could report only what there was. "they're gone," he said, his voice breaking with excitement. almost instantly docchi was at his side. "no, they're still following but they're very far behind." even as he looked the pursuing ships shrank visibly, steadily losing ground. "what's the relative speed?" said jordan. he looked at the dials, tapped them, pounded on them, but the speed wouldn't change. if it hadn't been confirmed by the screen he'd have said that the needles were stuck or the instruments were completely unreliable. "what did you do with the rockets?" demanded docchi. "that's a foolish question. what could i do? we were already at top speed for this piece of junk." and there was no way to explain the astonishing thing that had happened. they were all in the control compartment, cameron, anti, jordan and himself. nona was there too, sitting huddled up, head resting in her arms. there was no explanation at all, unless--docchi scanned all the instruments again. that was when he first noticed it. power was pouring into the gravity drive. the useless, or at least long unused dial was indicating unheard of consumption. "the gravity drive is working," docchi said. "nonsense," said anti. "i don't feel the weight." "you don't and won't," said docchi. "the gravity drive was installed to propel the ship. when it was proved unsatisfactory for that purpose it was converted, which was cheaper than removing it. "the difference between the drive and ordinary gravity is slight but important. an _undirected_ general field produces weight effects inside the ship. that's for passenger comfort. a _directed_ field, outside it, will drive it. you can have one or the other but not both." "but i didn't turn on the drive," said jordan in bewilderment. "it wouldn't work for more than a few seconds if i did. that's been proven." "i'd agree with you except for one thing. it is working, has been working and shows no sign of stopping." docchi stared speculatively at nona. she was curled up but she wasn't resting. her body was too tense. "get her attention," he said. jordan gently touched her shoulder. she opened her eyes but she wasn't looking at them. on the panel the needle of a once useless dial rose and fell. "what's the matter with the poor dear?" asked anti. "she's shaking." "let her alone," said docchi. "let her alone if you don't want to return to the asteroid." no one moved. no one said anything. minutes passed and the ancient ship creaked and quivered and ran away from the fastest rockets in the system. "i think i can explain it," said docchi at last, frowning because he couldn't quite. there were things that still eluded him. "part of the gravity generating plant--in a sense the key component--is an electronic computer, capable of making all the calculations and juggling the proportion of power required to produce directed or undirected gravity continuously. in other words a brain, a complex mechanical intelligence. but it was an ignorant intelligence and it couldn't see why it should perform ad infinitum a complicated and meaningless routine. it couldn't see why and because it couldn't very simply it refused to do so. "it was something like nona. she's deaf, can't speak, can't communicate in any way. like it she has a very high potential intelligence and also, in the very same way, she's had difficulty grasping the facts of her environment. differently though, she does have some contact with people and she has learned something. how much she knows is uncertain but it's far beyond what psychologists credit her with. they just can't measure her type of knowledge." "yeah," said jordan dubiously. "i'll agree about nona. but what is she doing?" "if there were two humans you'd call it telepathy," said docchi. it upset his concepts too. a machine was a machine--a tool to be used. how could there ever be rapport? "one intelligence is electronic, the other organic. you'll have to dream up your own term because the only thing i can think of is extra sensory perception. it's ridiculous but that's what it is." jordan smiled and flexed his arms. under the shapeless garment muscles rippled. "to me it makes sense," he said. "the power was always there but they didn't know what to do with it." the smile broadened. "it couldn't have fallen into better hands. we can use the power, or rather nona can." "power?" said anti, rising majestically. "if you mean by that what it sounds like, i don't care for it. all i want is just enough to take us to centauri." "you'll get there," said docchi. "a lot of things seem clearer now. in the past why did the drive work so poorly the further out it got? i don't think anyone investigated this aspect but if they had i'm sure they'd have found that the efficiency was inversely proportional to the square of the distance from the sun. "it's what you'd expect from a deaf, blind, mass sensitive brain, the gravity computer. it wouldn't be aware of the stars. to it the sun would seem the center of the universe and it would no more leave the system than our remote ancestors would think of stepping off the edge of a flat world. "and now that it knows differently the drive ought to work anywhere. with nona to direct it, even sirius isn't far." "what are you thinking about, doc?" said jordan carelessly. "if i were you i'd be figuring a way to get off the ship. remember we're going faster than man ever went before." he chuckled. "unless, of course, you _like_ our company and don't want to leave." "we've got to do some figuring ourselves," said docchi. "there's no use heading where there are no stars. we'd better determine our destination." "a good idea," said jordan, hoisting himself up to the charts. he busied himself with interminable calculations. gradually his flying fingers slowed and his head bent lower over the work. finally he stopped, his arms hanging slack. "got it?" "yeah," said jordan. "there." dully he punched the telecom selector and a view took shape on the screen. in the center glimmered a tiny world, a fragment of a long exploded planet. the end of their journey was easily recognizable. it was handicap haven. "but why are we going there?" asked anti. she looked at docchi in amazement. "we're not going voluntarily," he said, his voice flat and spent. "that's where the medicouncil wants us. we forgot about the monitor system. when nona activated the gravity drive it was indicated at some central station. all the medicouncil had to do was take the control away from nona." "we thought we were running away from the ships," said anti. "we were, but only to beat them back to the junkpile." "yeah," said docchi. "nona doesn't know it yet." "well, it's over. we did our best. there's no use crying about it." yet she was. anti passed by the girl, patting her gently. "it's all right, darling. you tried to help us." jordan followed her from the compartment. cameron remained, coming over to docchi. "everything isn't lost," he said awkwardly. "the rest of you are back where you started but at least nona isn't." "do you think she'll benefit?" asked docchi. "someone will, but it won't be nona." "you're wrong. suddenly she's become important." "so is a special experimental machine. very valuable but totally without rights or feelings. i don't imagine she'll like her new status." silence met silence. it was the doctor who turned away. "you're sick with disappointment," he said thickly. "irrational, you always are when you glow. i thought we could talk over what was best for her but i can see it's no use. i'll come back when you're calmer." docchi glared sightlessly after him. cameron was the only normal who was aware that it was nona who controlled the gravity drive. all the outside world realized was that it was in operation--that at last it was working as originally intended. if they should dispose of cameron-- he shook his head. it wouldn't solve anything. he could fool them for a while, pretend that he was responsible. but in the end they'd find out. nona wasn't capable of deception--and they'd be very insistent with a discovery of this magnitude. she looked up and smiled. she had a right to be happy. until now she had been alone as few people ever are. but the first contact had been made and however unsatisfactory--what could the limited electronic mind say?--in other circumstances it might have presaged better days. she didn't know she was no less a captive than the computer. abruptly he turned away. at the telecom he stopped and methodically kicked it apart, smashing delicate tubes into powder. before he left he also demolished the emergency radio. the ship was firmly in the grip of the monitor and it would take them back. there was nothing they had to do. all that remained for him was to protect nona as long as he could. the medicouncil would start prying into her mind soon enough. he hoped they'd find what they were after without too much effort. for her sake he hoped they would. perfectly synchronized to their speed the outer shell of the dome opened, closing behind them before they reached the inner shell. it too gaped wide to swallow them, snapping shut like a quickly sprung trap. jordan set the controls in neutral and dropped his hands, muttering to himself. they glided to a stop over the landing pit, thereafter settling slowly. homecoming. "cheer up," said cameron jauntily. "you're not prisoners." nona alone seemed not to mind. docchi hadn't said anything for hours and the light was gone from his face. anti wasn't with them; she was back floating in the acid tank. the reentry into the gravity field of the asteroid made it necessary. the ship scraped gently; they were down. jordan mechanically touched a lever, flicked a switch. passenger and freight locks swung open. "let's go," said cameron. "i imagine there's a reception committee for us." even he was surprised at what was waiting. the little rocket dome held more ships than normally came in a year. the precise confusion of military discipline was everywhere. armed guards lined either side of the landing ramp and more platoons were in the distance. it was almost amusing to see how dangerous the medicouncil considered them. near the end of the ramp a large telecom had been set up. if size indicated anything someone thought this was an important occasion. from the screen, larger than life, medicouncilor thorton looked out approvingly. "a good job, dr. cameron," said the medicouncilor as the procession from the ship halted. "we were quite surprised at the escape of our accidentals and your disappearance which coincided with it. from what we were able to piece together, you followed them deliberately. a splendid example of quick thinking, doctor. you deserve recognition." "i thought it was my fault for letting them get so far. i had to try to stop them." "no doubt it was. but you atoned, you atoned. i'm sorry i can't be there in person to congratulate you but i'll arrive soon." the medicouncilor paused discreetly. "at first the publicity was bad, very bad. we thought it unwise to try to conceal it. of course the broadcast made it impossible to hide anything. fortunately the discovery of the gravity drive came along at just the right time. when we announced it opinion began swinging in our direction. i don't mind telling you the net effect is now in our favor." "i hoped it would be," said cameron. "i don't want them to be hurt. they're all vulnerable, nona especially, because of what she is. i've thought quite a bit about how she should be approached----" "i'm sure you have." the medicouncilor smiled faintly. "don't let your emotions run away with you. in due time we'll discuss her. for the present see that she and the other accidentals are returned to their usual places. bring docchi to your office at once. he's to be questioned privately." it was a strange request and mentally cameron retreated. "wait. are you sure you want docchi? he's the engineer but----" "no objections, doctor," said thorton sternly. "important people are waiting. don't spoil their good opinion of you." the telecom snapped into darkness. "i think you heard what he said, dr. cameron." the officer at his side was very polite, perhaps because it emphasized the three big planets on his tunic. "i heard," said cameron irritably. "i don't want to argue with authority but since i'm in charge of this place i demand that you furnish a guard for this girl. "so you're in charge?" drawled the officer. "you know i've got a funny feeling i'm commander here. my orders said i was to replace you until further notice. i haven't got that notice." he looked around at his men and crooked a finger. "lieutenant, see that the little fella--jordan, i think his name is--gets a lift back to the main dome. and you can walk the pretty lady to her room, or whatever it is she lives in. don't get too personal though unless she encourages it." he smiled condescendingly at cameron. "anything else i can do to oblige a fellow commander?" cameron glanced at the guards. they were everywhere he looked, smartly uniformed, alert. there was no indication of amusement in the expressions of those near enough to have heard the conversation. they were well disciplined. "nothing else, general," he said stonily. "keep her in sight. you're responsible." "so i am," remarked the officer pleasantly, winking at the lieutenant. "let's go." * * * * * medicouncilor thorton was waiting impatiently on the screen in cameron's office. the attitude suited him well, as if he'd tried many and found slightly concealed discourtesy best for the personality of the busy executive. "we'll arrive in about two hours," he said immediately. "by this i mean a number of top governmental officials, scientists, and some of our leading industrialists. their time is valuable so let's get on with this gravity business." he caught sight of the commander. "general judd, this is a technical matter. i don't think you'll be interested." "very well, sir. i'll stand guard outside." the medicouncilor was silent until the door closed. "sit down, docchi," he said with unexpected solicitude, pausing to note the effect. "i can sympathize with you. everything within your reach--and then to return here. well, i can understand how you feel. but since you did come back i think we can arrange to do things for you." docchi stared at the screen. a spot of light pulsed in his cheek and then flared rapidly over his face. "you probably will," he said casually. "but what about theft charges? we stole a ship." "a formality," declared the medicouncilor with earnest simplicity. "with a thing like the discovery, or rediscovery, of the gravity drive, no one's going to worry about an obsolete ship. how else could you test your theories except by trying them out in actual flight?" the medicouncilor was dulcet, coaxing. "i don't want to mislead you. medically we can't do any more for you than we have. however you'll find yourself the center of a more adequate social life. friends, work, whatever you want. in return for this naturally we'll expect your cooperation." "wait," said cameron, walking to the screen and standing squarely in front of it. "i don't think you realize docchi's part----" "don't interrupt," glowered thorton. "i want to reach an agreement at once. it will look very good for us if we can show these famous people how well we work with our patients. now, docchi, how much of the drive can you have on paper by the time we land?" "he can't have anything," cameron started shouting. "i tried to tell you--he doesn't know----" "look out," cried thorton too late. cameron's knees buckled and he clutched his legs in pain. again docchi kicked out and the doctor fell down. docchi aimed another savage blow with his foot that grazed the back of cameron's head. blood trickled from his mouth and he stopped trying to get up. "docchi," screeched thorton, but there was no answer. docchi crashed through the door. the commander was lounging against the wall, looking around vacantly. head down docchi plunged into him. the toaster fell from his belt to the floor. with scarcely a pause docchi stamped on it and continued running. the commander got up, retrieving the weapon. he aimed it at the retreating figure and would have triggered it except that it didn't feel right in his hand. he lowered it and quickly examined the damaged mechanism. sweating, he slipped it gingerly into a tunic pocket. muffled shouts were coming from cameron's office, growing in vehemence. the general broke in. the medicouncilor glared at him from the screen. "i see that you let him get away." the disheveled officer straightened his uniform. "i'm sorry, sir. i didn't think he had that much life in him. i'll alert the guards immediately." "never mind now. revive that man." the general wasn't accustomed to resuscitation; saving lives was out of his line. nevertheless in a few minutes cameron was conscious, though somewhat dazed. "now, doctor, who does know something about the gravity drive if it isn't docchi?" cameron shook his head groggily. "it was an easy mistake," he said. "cut off from communication with us the drive began to work. how, why, who did it? mostly who. not me, i'm a doctor, not a physicist. nor jordan; he's at best a mechanic. therefore it had to be docchi because he's an engineer." he stopped to wipe the blood from his cheek. "for god's sake tell me," said thorton. "it couldn't be----" "no," said cameron with quiet satisfaction. "it wasn't anti either. the last person you'd think of. the little deaf and dumb girl the psychologists wouldn't bother with." "nona?" said thorton incredulously. "i told you," said cameron and proceeded to tell him more, filling in the details. "i see. we overlooked that possibility," said the medicouncilor gravely. "not the mechanical genius of an engineer. instead the strange telepathic sense of a girl. that puts the problem in a different light." "it's not so difficult though." cameron rubbed the lump on the back of his head. the hair was bristling, clotted with blood. "she can't tell us how she does it. we'll have to find out by experiment, but it won't involve any danger. the monitor can always control the drive." the medicouncilor laughed shakily, teetering backward. "the monitor is worth exactly nothing. we tried it. for a microsecond it seemed to take over as it always has on other units--but this gravity generator slipped away. we thought docchi found a way to disengage the control circuit." "but it wasn't docchi who told the computer how to do it." "we figured it out when we thought it was docchi," growled the medicouncilor wearily. "he was sensible, that's all. it was the only reasonable thing a man could do, come back and take advantage of his discovery." he shook his head in perplexed disgust. "why the girl returned is beyond me." "do you think----" said cameron and then wished he'd left it unsaid. "yes, by god, i do think." the medicouncilor's fist crashed down. "docchi knows why. he found out in this room and we told him. as soon as he knew he escaped." panic slipped into thorton's face and then was gone, covered over almost at once by long habits of sudden decisions. "she could have taken the ship anywhere she wanted and we couldn't stop her. since she's here voluntarily it's obvious what she wants--the asteroid." the medicouncilor tried to shove himself out of the screen. "don't you ever think, general? there's no real difference between gravity generators except size and power. what she did on the ship she can do as easily here." "don't worry," said the startled officer. "i'll get her. i'll find the girl and docchi too." "never mind him," choked the medicouncilor. "i don't care how you do it. take nona at once, without delay." the time had passed for that command. the great dome overhead trembled and creaked in countless joints. but the structure held though unexpected stresses were imposed on it. and the tiny world shivered, groaning and grumbling at the orbit it had lain too long in. already that was changing--the asteroid began to move. vague shapes were stirring. they walked if they could, crawled if they couldn't--fantastic and near-fantastic creatures were coming to the assembly. large or tiny, on their own legs or borrowed ones they arrived, with or without arms, faces. the news had spread fast, by voice or written message, sign language, lip reading, all the conceivable ways that humans communicate, not the least of which was the vague intuition that something was going on that the person should know about. the people on handicap haven sensed the emergency. "remember it will be hours or perhaps days before we're safe," said docchi. his voice was hoarse but he hadn't noticed it yet. "it's up to us to see that nona has all the time she needs." "where is she hiding?" asked someone in the crowd. "i don't know. i wouldn't tell you if i did. they might pry it out of you. right now our sole job is to keep them from finding her." "how?" demanded someone else near the front. "do you expect us to fight the guards?" "not directly," said docchi. "we have no weapons for that, no armament. many of us have no arms in another sense. all we can do is to obstruct their search. unless someone can think of something better, this is what i plan: "i want all the men, older women and the younger ones who aren't suitable for reasons i'll explain later. the guards won't be here for half an hour--it will take that long to get them together and give them orders. when they do come the first group will attempt to interfere in every possible way with their search. "how you do it i'll leave to your imagination. appeal to their sympathy as long as they have any. put yourself in dangerous situations. they have ethics and at first they'll be inclined to help you. when they do, try to steal their weapons. avoid physical violence as much as you can. we don't want to force them into retaliation--they'll be so much better at it. make the most of this phase of their behavior. it won't last long." docchi paused to look over the crowd. "each of you will have to decide for himself when to drop passive resistance and start the real battle. again, you may be able to think of more things than i can tell you but here are some suggestions. try to disrupt the light, scanning and ventilation systems. they'll be forced to keep them in repair. perhaps they'll even attempt to guard all the strategic points. so much the better for us--there'll be fewer guards to contend with." "what about me?" called a woman from far in back. "what can i do?" "you're in for a rough time," docchi promised. "is jeriann here?" jeriann elbowed her way through the crowd to his side. docchi glanced at her. he'd seen her many times but never so close. it was hard to believe that she should be here with the rest of them. "jeriann," said docchi to the accidentals, "is a normal pretty woman--outwardly. however she has no trace of a digestive system. the maximum time she can go without food and fluid absorption is ten hours. that's why she's with us and not on earth." docchi scanned the group. "i'm looking for a miracle. is there a cosmetechnician who thinks she can perform one? bring your kit." a legless woman propelled herself forward. docchi conferred at length with her. at first she was startled, reluctant to try but after persuasion she consented. under her deft fingers jeriann was transformed. when she turned around and faced the crowd she was no longer herself--she was nona. "she can get away with the disguise longer and therefore she'll be the first nona they find," explained docchi. "i think--hope--that they'll call off the search for a few hours after they take her. eventually they'll find out she isn't nona when they can't get her to stop the drive. fingerprints or x-rays would reveal it at once but they'll be so sure they have her that it won't occur to them. nona is impossible to question as you know and jeriann will give as good an imitation as she can. "as soon as they discover that the girl they have is jeriann they won't bother to be polite. guards will like the idea of finding attractive girls they can manhandle in the line of duty especially if they think it will help them find nona. it won't, but i think they'll get too enthusiastic and that in itself will hold up the search." no one moved. the women in the crowd were still, looking at each other in silent apprehension. jordan started them. he twisted his head, grimacing. "let's get busy," he said somberly. "wait," said docchi. "i have one nona. i need more volunteers, at least fifty. it doesn't matter whether the person is physically sound or not, we'll raid the lab for plastic tissue. if you're about her size and can walk and have at least one arm come forward." and slowly, singly and by twos and threes, they came to the platform. there were few indeed who wouldn't require liberal use of camouflage. it was primarily on these women their hopes rested. the other group followed jordan out, looking at docchi for some sign. when he gave them none they hurried on determinedly. he could depend on them. the sum total of their ingenuity would produce some results. mass production of an individual. not perfect in every instance--good enough to pass in most. docchi watched critically, suggesting occasional touches that improved the resemblance. "she can't speak or hear," he reminded the volunteers. "remember it at all times no matter what they do. don't scream for help, we won't be able to. hide in difficult places. after jeriann is taken and the search called off and then resumed, let yourselves be found, one at a time. we can't communicate with you and so you'll just have to guess when it's your turn. you should be able to tell by the flurry of activity. that will mean they've discovered the last person they captured wasn't nona. every guard that has to take you in for examination is one less to search for the girl they really want. they'll have to find nona soon or get off the asteroid." the cosmetechnicians were busy and they couldn't stop. but there was one who looked up. "get off?" she asked. "why?" he thought he'd told everyone. she must have arrived late. it was satisfying to repeat it. "handicap haven is leaving the solar system," he said. her fingers flew, molding the beautiful curve of a jaw where there had been none. next, plastic lips were applied that were more lifelike than any this woman had ever created. soon nona was hiding in half a hundred places. and one more. * * * * * the orbit of neptune was behind them, far behind, and still the asteroid accelerated. two giant gravity generators strained at the crust and core of the asteroid. the third clamped an abnormally heavy gravity field around the fragment of an isolated world. prolonged physical exertion was awkward and doubly exhausting. it tied right in; the guards were not and couldn't be very active. hours turned into a day and the day passed too--and the generators never faltered. it seemed they never would. "have you figured it out precisely? it's your responsibility, you know," said docchi ironically. "you share our velocity away from the sun. you'll have to overcome it before you start going back. if you wait too long you might not be able to reach earth." superficially the general seemed to ignore him but the muscles in his jaw twitched. "if we could only turn off that damned drive." "that's what we're trying to do," said vogel placatingly. "i know. but if we could do it without finding her." the resident engineer shrugged sickly. "go ahead. try it. i don't want to be around when you do. i know, it sounds easy, just a couple of gravity generators. but remember there's also a good sized nuclear pile involved." "i know, i know," muttered the general morosely. "damned atomics not worth inventing. nothing you can do with them, always too touchy." he glowered at the darkness overhead. "on the other hand we can take off and blow this rock apart from a safe distance." "and lose all hope of finding her?" taunted docchi. "we're losing her anyway," commented vogel sourly. "you're getting way from the perspective. it's not as bad as that," counselled docchi. "now that you know where the difficulty is you can always build other computers and this time furnish them with auxiliary senses. or maybe give them the facts of elementary astronomy." "now why didn't i think of that?" said vogel disgustedly. "you don't need me here, do you, general? if not i'd like to go back to my ship." the general grunted consent and the engineer left, lurching under the massive gravity. "there's even another solution though it may not appeal to you," said docchi cautiously. "i can't believe nona is altogether unique. there must be others like her, so-called 'born mechanics' whose understanding of machinery is a form of intelligence we haven't suspected. look hard and you may find them, perhaps in the most unlikely or unlovely bodies." it didn't show but inwardly he was smiling. he was harassing them effectively from this end. hope was sometimes the most demoralizing agent. general judd growled wearily. "if i thought you knew where she is----" docchi stiffened, glowing involuntarily. "forget the dramatics, general," said cameron with distaste. "resistance we'd have had in any event. he's responsible merely for making it more effective." he frowned heavily, continuing. "at the moment what he's trying to do is obvious. he needn't bother tearing down our morale though--it's already collapsed. i can't think of a thing we can do that will help us." he wished the medicouncilor had been able to land; he needed further instructions. his own role wasn't clear and he kept thinking, thinking.... he should stop thinking. of course the ship that carried the medicouncilor couldn't actually touch on the asteroid--there were too many important people aboard and they couldn't risk being taken out of the system. still, the medicouncilor _might_ have spared a few minutes to discuss things with him. he knew what he ought to do. the sun was high in the center of the dome. sun? it was much more like a very bright star. it cast no shadows; it was the lights in the dome that did. they flickered and with monotonous regularity went out again. each time the general swore constantly and emotionlessly until service was restored. a guard approached, walking warily behind his captive. he saluted negligently. "i think i've found her, sir." cameron looked at the girl. "i don't think you have. and it seems to me you were unnecessarily rough." the guard smirked with bland insolence. "orders, sir." "whose orders?" "yours, sir. you said she couldn't talk or make any kind of a sound. it was the easiest way to make sure. she didn't say a thing." cameron turned to the general but saw he'd get no support there. judd was scowling, completely indifferent to the guard's behavior. the doctor snapped open the sharp scalpel and thrust it savagely deep in the girl's thigh. she looked at him with a tear-stained face but didn't complain or move a muscle. "plastic tissue as any fool can plainly see," said cameron dourly. his rage was growing. the guard stared, twisting his lips. "let her go," snapped the doctor. the girl darted away. the guard saluted stiffly and left, rubbing his hands against his uniform. he'll go and scrub his hands, because he touched her, cameron thought wearily. "i have a request to make," said docchi. "sure, sure," said the general cholerically. "we're apt to give you what you want. if you don't see it, just ask. we'll send out and get it." "you might at that." docchi was smiling openly. "you're going to leave without nona, and very soon. when you go, don't take all the ships. you won't need them but we will, when we get to another system." the general started to reply but his anger was greater than his epithets. there was nothing left to use, and so he remained silent. "don't say anything you'll regret," cautioned docchi. "when you get back, what will you report? can you tell your superiors that you left in good order, while there was still time to continue the search? or will they like it better if they know you stayed until the last minute--so late that you had to transfer your men and abandon some ships? think it over. i have your interests at heart." the general swallowed with difficulty, his face reddening at first and then becoming quite white. wordlessly he stamped away. cameron looked after the retreating officer and in a few minutes followed. but he walked slower and the distance between doctor and officer grew greater. docchi was beginning to relax at the nearness of victory and didn't notice where either of them went. * * * * * the last rocket disappeared, leaving a trail behind that overwhelming darkness soon extinguished. the sun was now one bright star among many, which one was sometimes difficult to say. and the asteroid itself seemed subtly to have been transformed, more spacious than it had been and not so dingy--and it was not hard to find a reason--it had become a miniature world, a tiny system complete in itself. "i think we can survive," said docchi. "we've got power and we can replenish the oxygen. we'll have to grow or synthesize our food but actually the place was set up originally to do just that. it will take work to make everything serviceable again--but we've always wanted something more than meaningless routine." they were sitting beside the tank, which had been returned to the usual place. a tree rustled in the artificial breeze and the grass around them had been torn and trampled by the guards. it seemed more peaceful because of the violence which had lately swept over them. now it had ebbed and it would never come back. jordan teetered beside the tree. "we'll find some way to get anti out of the tank," he said. "when nona comes back maybe we can rig up a null gravity place--something to make anti more comfortable. and of course we've got to continue the cold treatment." "i can wait," said anti, "i've already waited a long time." docchi glanced around; his eyes were following his mind, which was wandering and searching. "now there's no need to worry," said anti. "the guards were rough with some of the women but plastic tissue doesn't feel pain and so they escaped with fewer injuries than you'd believe. as for nona, well, she can look out not only for herself but the rest of us as well." it was almost true; she seemed fragile, ethereal even, but she wasn't. and her awareness began where that of normal humans left off. and where her perceptions ended no one knew, least of all herself. right there was a source of trouble. "i think we should start looking," said docchi. "at the last moment, upset at leaving and not knowing or caring who she was, one of the guards might have----" the enormity of the thought was too great to complete. "listen," said anti. the ground vibrated, felt rather than heard. "as long as the gravity is functioning can there be any doubt?" in his mind there could be. nona had started it but once the gravity computer was informed of the nature of the universe there was no reason to suppose that it wouldn't keep running indefinitely. it existed to perform such tasks. it didn't actually have volition--but that applied to stopping as well. "i think i can convince you," said jordan. "first you'll have to turn around." docchi scrambled to his feet and there she was coming toward them, fresh and rested. there was a smudge on her cheek but she might have got that from some machine she'd stopped to investigate on the way here. her curiosity was not limited and there was nothing mechanically so insignificant that it escaped her attention. "where were you?" asked docchi, expecting no reply. she smiled and for a moment he thought she knew what he asked. he was relieved that she was safe--and that was all. something was missing in the reactions he expected from himself but he couldn't say where. at one time he had thought--and now he no longer did. perhaps it was an expression of the new freedom they had all achieved. jordan looked at him quizzically, half penetrating the screen he'd thrown over his lack of emotions. "it's not as bad as you think. she understands some things. machines." and a machine he was not. he wasn't even a complete human. perhaps that was where the difference was. "she's a born mechanic, such as never existed. it's about time one appeared in the human race. we've worked with machines long enough to evolve someone who understands them without having to study and learn. i'm that way myself, a little. nothing like her." they all knew that. even on earth they were probably busy revising their intelligence ratings. "that doesn't change our problem--her problem." jordan hesitated. "the idea's pretty vague but we've made one advance: we know she can think." "we always did," said anti. "sure, we did. but doctors and psychologists weren't convinced and they were the ones who were studying her. now it's up to us." there was a difference. no matter what they'd thought, previously they'd been patients, and it was axiomatic that the patient's ideas were largely ignored. now they had stepped into a dual role, patient and doctor, subject and experimenter, the eye at the microscope and the object on the slide. they all had second-hand medical training--with long association some of it had rubbed off on them. there wasn't one of them who didn't know his own body far better than the average man. that knowledge, subjective though it was, could be pooled. fortunately they had a well equipped hospital to work with. "we'll have to get busy on nona," continued jordan. "where are we going? she knows but we don't. there's got to be some way to find out." it hadn't mattered before--it was enough that they were leaving. but once they had achieved that, new problems were thrusting up every direction they looked. "what do you suggest?" asked docchi. "an oscillograph," said jordan triumphantly. docchi shook his head. "no good. she's been around them often enough to show an interest if she really feels any." "maybe she could learn to write, actually, on the screen." "she hasn't changed and i doubt if her interests have. from what we know she doesn't use words; she thinks directly in terms of mechanical function. the gravity computer was the first thing she found complex enough to arouse her interest." "but she's always been near the computer." "that's not so. she came here years ago and though there was a computer in the ship that brought her she wasn't mature enough to use it. since then she's been kept away from the main computers the same as the rest of us have been." jordan leaned on his hands and rocked thoughtfully. "she learned all that during the few hours we were on the ship?" "it was days," said docchi. "yes, she did. it was the only opportunity she had." it was a strange language she'd learned, the code a complex computer used inside itself, the stop, go; current and no current; the electron stream; the mechanical memory rocked back and forth magnetically--and all the while the whisper of a steel tape as it coiled and uncoiled. it was possible that only a computer would ever be able to understand the girl. and yet she was a creature of flesh, bones, glands, nerves, and blood flowing through her veins in response to the intangible demands of life. anti stirred restlessly. waves of acid spilled over the sides and where the fluid touched, grass curled and blackened. "i said i'd wait but i didn't say i liked waiting. why don't you two get busy?" "i was thinking where to begin," said jordan. he hoisted himself onto a repair robot he'd taken for himself. it was an uncomfortable vehicle for anyone else but it seemed just right for him. docchi got up; there was no question where to start. anything they considered needed something done. in the struggle for freedom, in their resistance to the guards, they'd overlooked it. they'd have to reorient their outlook. perhaps that was the biggest thing that confronted them. "goodbye," anti called out as they left. the picture docchi looked back to was unforgettable--the tank and anti in it, nona sitting in blank pensiveness under the tree. one was capable of near miracles with seemingly little effort, but at times she seemed inert. the other was raw vitality with an urge to live--but there was hardly any time she could stand upright. docchi hurried along, trying to keep up with jordan. he lengthened his pace but still the gap grew. after a while he slowed down, attempting to assess the damage the guards had done as he passed by evidence of their destructiveness. visibly they seemed to have torn everything apart but actually not much had been destroyed. mostly the repairs would consist in reassembling machines and structures that had been dismantled. this wasn't the result of consideration. until the last moment the general had been certain he'd find nona and hence retain possession of the asteroid. if he had, the unnecessary violence would have been hard to explain. lucky--because the guards _could_ have wrecked the place. they'd still have difficulty; even able-bodied men would, and they were far from that. they were not equipped for an expedition of this nature and somehow they'd have to build what they lacked. light and heat, the function of power, was automatic, and the oxygen supply was nearly so. it was with the lesser things they'd have trouble. some food had always been brought in, and now that supply was gone. it would have to be replaced. they could do without other luxuries now that they had the biggest one--freedom to do what they wanted. docchi himself was a good engineer and nona couldn't be too highly evaluated. between them they could convert unnecessary equipment into something they needed. two geepees and a repair robot taken apart and properly reassembled might equal some inconceivable machine that would go a long way toward solving problems of food, air, meteor detection or what have you. it was a thought. jordan clung perilously to the robot as it rumbled along. "where is everyone?" he called back. "asleep, i guess," said docchi. "sleeping, when there's so much to be done?" habit had taken over. the mechanisms of the asteroid were still operating as they were set to function. the lighting in the dome indicated it was time and so they slept. but there were no hours, days, weeks, and moments any more, nothing but necessity to guide them. "we'll change this," said docchi. "most of us have been treated as invalids so long we believe it. we'll divide up in groups and from now on somebody will always be awake, working or watching, or both." it was obvious what the watch would be for. empty space--but how empty? the region near sol had been explored but what lay beyond? between the sun and alpha centauri there might be many interstellar masses large enough to smash the asteroid. they'd have to take precautions. jordan sent the machine along faster as if to compensate for others' inactivity. presently he stopped abruptly, waiting for docchi to catch up. he glanced down in front of his machine. "here's one of them who was very sleepy," he said. "unless----" docchi looked at her. it was one of the nonas who hadn't yet removed the disguise. the cosmetechnicians had done their work well and it was difficult to say who she was. there was a startling resemblance to the girl they'd just left with anti. she was curled up in an uncomfortable position and it was obvious she wasn't there by choice. jordan swung off the machine and felt her pulse. "there is one," he muttered, carefully looking her over. "can't see anything," he said at last. "at first i thought the guards had done it but there's no broken bones nor, as far as i can tell, internal injuries. she ought to have a medical examination." startled, docchi glittered. medical care was one of the luxuries they'd have to do without. they needn't fear epidemics; they were isolated and their bodies were phenomenally resistant to disease and anyway the antibiotics they had would quell any known infections. but here was something they hadn't accounted for. "there are a few people around who used to be nurses," said docchi. "we'd better get them." "where?" grunted jordan. "she needs attention now." jordan was right; the girl couldn't wait. part of the difficulty was that there were so many accidentals with peculiarities. what was safe for one accidental might be deadly to another. they had to know who the girl was before they could decide whether to do anything. the disguise had helped them get away but it was hurting them now. "can you pry off the makeup?" he asked. "without the goop they carry in the cosmetic kit? hardly. i'd tear her own face off." it could mean her death to move her before something was done--but what was that something? she would know; everyone did. they were all experts on their own ailments and could give down to the last item on their prescription, diet or exercise, a concise analysis of what they had to do to maintain their health. jordan shook her gently, harder when that failed. presently she stirred, her eyes fluttered and she whispered something. "ask her who she is," said docchi, but that was impossible. it had taken strength to respond at all and after she'd used it the girl had lapsed back in the coma. "she didn't say," said jordan helplessly. "she whispered one word--food. that was all." food. docchi knelt beside her to check his conclusions. now that he was close he could see that her skin was extraordinarily smooth and lustrous. her face, arms, legs, even her hands, and if they removed her clothing the rest of her body would be the same. her skin and the mention of food told him what he needed to know. it was jeriann, the first volunteer nona--and the first real casualty. he could reconstruct with some accuracy what had happened. after cameron discovered who she was she'd been kept in custody and given medical care. as the search wore on and more guards were sent out to search she had managed to escape, hiding from the guards. but she had remained hidden too long and had collapsed trying to get to the hospital. hunger shock, simply that, but with her hunger was a traumatic experience. having no digestive system at all she was always close to starvation. "pick her up. it won't hurt her," said docchi. "let's rush her to the dispensary." jordan hoisted the limp girl to the top of the repair robot, wrapping extensibles around her, adjusting them so they held her. he got on beside her, reaching into the controls and squeezing extra speed out of the makeshift ambulance. docchi was not far behind, arriving at the hospital not long after jordan and his passenger did. the dispensary was on the first floor and so jordan wheeled the robot directly to the door. he dismounted and lifted jeriann off. inside the dispensary there was little that had actually been broken. this was remarkable considering how thoroughly the guards had ransacked the hospital. but someone with a grim sense of humor had seen to it that the medical preparations were hopelessly intermixed, scattered over the floor in complete confusion. for the present emergency it couldn't have been worse if everything _had_ been broken. docchi stared down at the litter, his face twitching as he glanced back at jeriann. "it's in here somewhere," said jordan. "how do we find it in a hurry?" "see if there are names or symbols on them." jordan was close to the floor anyway; he leaned down and began pawing hastily but with extreme care through the confusion of medicals. every bit of it was precious even though they didn't know what it was. someone could use it, had to have it, and eventually they'd be able to place whom it was intended for. "no names," said jordan as he continued to look. docchi was afraid of that, but it was a thought for the future. hereafter there _would_ be names on everything so that even if it got displaced they'd be able to identify it. the medical administration must have been exceedingly lax. "what about symbols?" he said quickly. "there seem to be some. don't know what they mean." jordan brightened. "we can look in the files." docchi bent his body. he'd observed that when he entered. "won't do any good. the files are scattered too." and that was an act of wanton hatred. it hadn't helped the guards find nona. jordan stopped scrabbling through the piles of miscellaneous bottles, capsules, and vials. "then we've got to go for help," he said slowly. "there's got to be somebody who knows what she takes looks like." he couldn't condemn her so easily and that's what it would mean if she wasn't attended to in the next few minutes. there was a line beyond which the body couldn't pass without extreme damage, perhaps death. and she'd been close to it when they found her. docchi began to review desperately what he knew of jeriann. it wasn't much. there were too many accidentals for him to know all of them. first, she never ate or drank. her needs in this respect were supplied medically. that was why her skin was so soft and evenly beautiful. it was not a reflection of inner health. if anything it was due to the method of intake. _and that told him what he had to know._ another accidental might have guessed it instantly, but there were various kinds of accidentals, groups within groups, and their peculiarities varied so widely that few knew what all of them were. in one sense jeriann was a deficient. "i think we can find it. look for the largest capsule," said docchi. "i know what you're thinking, but it won't work," said jordan, sweeping his arm around to indicate how impossible the request was. "she gets all her food and water that way so it has to be the largest. but which one? some of the preparations are supposed to last for weeks. they might be bigger than hers." "it's simpler than you suppose. i don't know what her schedule is but it must be at least five times daily, and massive at that. it would be exceedingly painful, not to say inconvenient, if she got all her food and fluid needs by injection." "absorption capsules," exclaimed jordan. "why didn't i think of that? that makes it easy." "don't be so sure. there are other deficients," cautioned docchi. jordan had cleared a space around him and was already separating the preparations. at first glimpse the absorption capsules were like any other container--and then they weren't. the shape was not quite regular and the outside was soft to the touch, almost like human flesh. that's what it was, almost. and in time, when properly applied, that's what it did become. further, there was a thin film on one side. when this was peeled off and the exposed surface was pressed against the body, only surgery could remove it. jordan gazed in indecision at the absorption capsules he'd assembled in the cleared space near jordan. "which one is hers?" he said doubtfully. "they're all alike." actually they weren't. there were subtle differences in size and shape that would enable anyone who was familiar with it to distinguish his preparation from any other. another deficient might say which was jeriann's since generally they'd be more observant of these matters. but it did no good to wish that the girl's friends were here. "we'll have to keep looking," said jordan, hitching himself over to the heap of medicals he'd just gone through. it hadn't worked out as well as he'd expected. reflection should have shown it wouldn't. the capsules were expensive and difficult to make and so they wouldn't be used except where the sheer volume and the repetitive nature of the injection required it. there was probably no case on the asteroid as extreme as jeriann's, but once a day instead of five was still repetition. "there's nothing in that pile," said docchi harshly. "you've gone through it and i watched." jordan paused; he knew it too. "what'll we do?" "simplify it. toss out the smaller ones until only fifteen are left." there was no real reason for selecting that figure, none but this: in her dazed condition she'd have time for one glance. if it wasn't there, it just wasn't. jordan complied, exceedingly dextrous when he had to be, though more than dexterity was involved. visual comparison had to suffice and it was never harder to make. "that look about right?" asked jordan when he finished. "it should be one of them," said docchi. he was guessing. they both knew they were. the capsules were set near jeriann, about the size of a man's fist. one of them, the one for jeriann, was remarkably small considering it had to supply the total needs of a human body. for a fraction of a day only, a fourth or a sixth, but even so it was little. she must be always hungry. it would never do to mention food to her. jordan raised her up gently, tilting her limp body so she could see what she had to choose from. he glanced at docchi for confirmation and then began to slap her. still the consciousness was buried deep. he hit her harder until breath ran shudderingly into her lungs. "which one?" he asked quickly, as soon as her eyes flickered open, running over the array of capsules. he grabbed the one she seemed to indicate, holding it closer. "is this it?" her eyes dropped shut and she couldn't answer. jordan laid her down. he wiped his hands on the sacklike garment. "she recognized this one," he said, not looking at docchi. so she had, but was it recognition of something that was _hers_? "i could see that. we'll give it to her." "should i sterilize it or something?" jordan wanted to delay because he wasn't sure. and they couldn't delay, even if it was the wrong thing. it might be like giving sugar to a person in a diabetic coma, the certain way of finishing him off faster. and yet with jeriann it had to be done. actually very little time had elapsed since they found her, five or ten minutes. what they didn't know was how long she'd lain there. docchi shook his head. "the absorption capsule was meant to be administered under any condition. outside of puncturing it and squirting in a virus culture there's no way to harm it. it's self-sterilizing." "i forgot," said jordan. "where'll i give it to her?" "anywhere. oh, i guess maybe her thigh. it may sink in faster since she's gone so long without." jordan brushed her skirt up and carefully peeled off the film on one side, making certain the exposed surface didn't come in contact with his hand. the capsule contracted as the film came off, rhythmically writhing. the shape changed too; it was like nothing so much as a giant amoeba. quickly jordan thrust the raw surface of the squirming thing on jeriann's thigh. it was not alive but it was capable of motion and it moved a quarter of an inch before it adhered. it stuck there. it was one with the girl, it _was_ her; and the correct injection or not it couldn't be removed. the fluid in that pseudobody was being injected into jeriann through the countless pores it covered--through her skin without a puncture. it was no wonder her skin was radiantly beautiful--five times a day an area of ten to fifteen square inches. in a short time her body would be covered, and she never could use the same place on successive days. she achieved clarity and flawlessness of complexion, but at a price. at a price. jordan wiped his forehead. "shouldn't we be seeing some results?" he said anxiously. "it has a long way to go," docchi assured him. "into her bloodstream and to her muscles and glands, to her brain. in a minute now if we don't see some results we'll know we've failed." they waited. docchi slumped in the chair, looking the place over with some satisfaction. the medical inventory was proceeding quite well; one by one each preparation was being identified and the local source checked. it wasn't nearly as bad as he had assumed at first; they were nearly self-sufficient. one of the checkers came in. docchi recognized her vaguely; he'd seen her around but that was all. he didn't know who she was nor what she did. unless he was mistaken her arms and legs were her own, a trifle heavy but shapely enough. if there was anything about her that was camouflaged with plastic tissue it was her face--the sullen glamour was an exaggeration of nature and moreover her expression didn't change at all as she came nearer. there must be something with her face that couldn't be corrected surgically and so she'd overcompensated. "we've got it all done," she said in a flat throaty voice. glamour there too, in about the same degree. "what?" he said. "oh yes, the check of the biologicals. all identified?" he recalled her name, maureen something or other. "everything that people claimed. there was some that no one knew what it was. useless i suppose, or worse. it ought to be destroyed." that was a logical assumption any time save now. medicine was precious and had to be hoarded even if they didn't know what it was. "save it, maureen. sooner or later someone will be in for it." "they've all been in. you don't know how they rushed here when they learned the dispensary had been ransacked by the guards." she smiled with faint disdain. he was beginning to doubt whether her expression came out of the cosmetic kit; it was applied with extraordinary skill if it had, flexible enough to allow her to smile without seeming strained. but if it actually was her face it was monotonous. how long could she keep up the glamour? "don't be condescending, maureen. of course they were concerned. there are people who need those preparations to live comfortably, some in order to live at all." "i know," she said. "i've personally contacted all the regular deficients." she seemed to know more about it than he did. there was a fraternity of the ailing and degrees of confraternity. within the accidentals there were special groups, allied by the common nature of their infirmity. it was possible she belonged to some such group or knew someone who did. the latter probably; there seemed to be nothing seriously wrong with her. "what do you suppose happened? why is there some left?" said docchi. "if everyone's been here all of it ought to be accounted for." "they're always experimenting," said maureen. "who?" "doctors," she said. "they try the latest ideas out on us and if we survive they use it on normal people." there was some truth in it--not much, but the bitterness was there though earth and all it stood for was far behind. "don't blame them. they've got to make improvements," he said in mild reproof. "you don't know," said maureen. "anyway, what i was saying is that there is some stuff we can't place. in each case it substitutes for one or more substances that have been in use up to now. we don't know who it's for." it was more serious than he thought, if only in a negative sense. he straightened up. "how many are missing biologicals?" "i didn't keep track accurately. thirty or forty." a small number compared to the total. _but thirty or forty invalids?_ and some would be affected seriously, depending on the nature of the preparation that couldn't be traced to the person who should have it. the man whose unaided body couldn't utilize calcium would certainly be in for trouble but not as soon as he who couldn't make use of, say, iron. "we'll find out," he said with a confidence he didn't altogether feel. "there are records around and we'll look into them." there were records but it was uncertain how complete they were after the guards had scattered them. "do you know where they're kept?" she shook her head, the sullen glamorous smile transfixing her face. "i wish i did," she said. he was struck by the intensity. "why?" he asked. he wanted to know too but it wasn't an emotional thing. "don't you know? i'm one of them." one of what, he was about to ask before he realized she meant she was a deficient whose salvaged body lacked certain physiological elements. more, she was one whose preparation couldn't be identified. "don't worry. it'll take us a little while to trace everything but we'll have it straightened out in a matter of days." "you'd better," she said, and it was not exactly a threat. there were overtones he couldn't account for. before he could stop her she began loosening her dress and for the first time he saw that she wasn't breathing, that she never did. her dress fluttered as the air went in and out, sleeping or waking, without volition, responding mechanically to the needs of her bloodstream. the breathing mechanism was hidden in her body, replacing her lungs. moreover it was probably connected to her speech centers in such a way to release a certain amount to her throat when the nervous system demanded. perhaps it accounted for the peculiar vibrant quality of her voice. she pointed to the tube that was showing. "it's not just lungs i lack," she said. "everyone, man or woman, manufactures both male and female hormones, in different proportions of course. except me. i don't produce a single male hormone." she stared at him intently. "do you know what that means?" her voice was rising, terror mingled with something else. "without injections in a few months i'll be completely female. one hundred per cent woman and nothing else." he thought he saw her grow more feminine before his eyes; reluctantly he turned away. theoretically the completely female person should be repulsive, yet she wasn't. if anything, pathetic features dominated. pure feminity could destroy her, but how long would it take? he could discount her own estimate as arbitrary. she had decided on it in an attempt at self dramatization. "you're fortunate," he said, and he couldn't keep his eyes from straying back to her. "there are plenty of people around, both men and women, who can be donors. there must be some way to extract the hormones you need from the bloodstream. our medical techniques may be crude but we'll manage. keep that in mind." "i will--will you?" she asked, her lips parted, and it wasn't to breathe because she couldn't. he had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she meant and it didn't have anything to do with what he'd said. had she even been listening? probably she hadn't. a pure male or female creature didn't exist but if one should come into being it would scarcely be human. to a human life mattered or death did but to the pure abstract creature there was only one thing of importance. he looked up to see her coming toward him. "i'm afraid," she said, clasping him to her, carefully keeping the tube free and open. and she was afraid--it was not dramatization. the studied glamour slipped from her face. "i don't want to be like this," she whispered. "but if it happens--help me, please." her nearness was overpowering, and deadly. at length she drew away. terror left her eyes--and it had been there, real though with other factors. even in fear, and he was conscious of that and her deeper design, she had planned ahead against the time she might not be wholely human. it was something like to death to change drastically from a thinking reasoning person to someone who could react only to one stimulus. "we'll see that nothing happens to you," he said with weak assurance. "there may be a delay but it won't be long. we'll work it out." she was regarding him fixedly and he could see she was reverting. what he said wasn't penetrating. he cleared his throat. "you're as familiar with the place as any of us. look around and see if you can find duplicate records. there may be a clue in them as to what the new preparations are for." clarity returned to her face as he spoke. it would leave again and come back at decreasing intervals unless or until the hormone deficiency was corrected. how far she could descend and remain mentally unscathed he didn't know, nor did he want to find out. "don't leave until i come back. do you understand?" she smiled invitingly to show that perhaps she did understand what he said. he knew now that the sullen glamour was real, and terrifying. she couldn't help any of her responses. docchi hurried out; so little time had elapsed she must be nearly normal. he thought of locking the door but there was no way to do that. the essence of a hospital was free access at all times, and so it was built. besides, it wasn't a good idea to try to keep her in. constraint might produce violent reaction. docchi slanted the louvers so that the place looked vacant and let it go at that. the best he could hope for was that maureen wouldn't think of leaving. he walked away. there were villages. planned or otherwise, over the years dwellings and dormitories had gradually grown around three main centers. externally there was not much to distinguish one village from the other except the distance from the hospital. the buildings nearest were little more than very large machines which fed, bathed, and tried to anticipate the intellectual stimulation of the almost helpless tenants. the houses in the farthest village, except for certain peculiarities, were much like any comfortable dwelling on earth. at the third village he found the house, glancing at the tiny light on the door. it was glowing; the occupant was at home. the numbered positions flashed on, indicating further that the person was awake and in bed. this information was necessary on the asteroid where many people suffered from some disability which might strike suddenly, leaving them helpless and unattended. docchi leaned against the button and the light blinked him in. jeriann was sitting up in the middle of the bed; she seemed healthy and alert. "how do you feel?" he asked as he caught a chair with his foot and slid it near her. she made a wry face and smiled. "fine." "no polite answers, please. do you feel like work?" "now that you're here, no." she laughed outright at his discomfiture. "maybe now you'll believe me when i say i'm all right. do you?" she didn't wait for his answer but smoothed the covers around her. "you're the one who found me, aren't you?" "jordan really. i was there." she didn't attempt to thank him; help was expected. no one knew when his turn would come. "i guess you're wondering what i was doing there without my capsules." he wasn't but he'd listen if she felt she had to talk. "it seemed strange you'd forget something like that. but everyone was confused then." "not me. i knew exactly what i was doing. i was running from some big lunk who kept chasing me all over the dome. he knew i wasn't nona because i yelled for him to leave me alone. he didn't pay any attention and i guess i lost the absorbics just before he caught me." "you don't have to talk about it if it's painful," he said impassively. "what do you think?" she said scornfully. "you think i'd let _him_ bother me? i told him to go away or i'd slip my face off. he got sick right there and let go." he smiled at her vigor. "it's a good thing he didn't take you at your word and let you remove the disguise." "thank you, kind sir. now i know i'm pretty too." her manner overcame the apparent sharpness. "anyway there i was. i'd used up more energy than usual and i had nothing to take. i didn't make it to the hospital." "i didn't know the details but i imagined something like that. you're lucky we found you and even more so that we were able to discover your particular absorbics in the dispensary mess." "right both times--but you didn't find my absorption capsules. they weren't there. never are. i have to go directly to the lab to get them. of course i couldn't expect you to know that." "then what are you doing here, alive?" he asked, frowning. "the wrong thing should have killed you." "i'm not a true deficient, you know. it's not that my body fails to produce glandular substances. what i lack is food and water and anything that's composed mostly of that will do, providing it's in a form i can assimilate. when you slapped me and held me up i saw someone else's capsule but i knew it would do. that person has trouble with a number of blood sugars and several fluids--not what i require for a complete diet--but it brought me out of the hunger shock." it was not ordinary hunger which had caused her to stumble and be unable to get up; this was acute, a trauma which affected her whole organism. and because it was such a constant threat, unconsciously or not, she had prepared for it. deficients knew each other better than any other group. they were aware which prescription could in an emergency be substituted for their own. it was unlikely to be used--but that knowledge had paid off for jeriann. the house ticked on as he sat watching her. that was another peculiarity of the place, aside from the lack of kitchen or any room wherein she could eat. she didn't need it and so it hadn't been built. she didn't feel hunger except negatively; it would be easy to die if she should decide to do so. and so, to reinforce her will to live, a comprehensive schedule had been imposed from above. but the most rigid personal schedule meant nothing without time. time took the place of hunger, of the need for food, of all the savour in it. there were clocks on the wall, inconspicuous dials or larger ones, integrated in pictures and summed up in designs. there was a huge circular chronograph on the ceiling; hourglasses and sundials were contrived in the motif on the floor--and they all seemed actually to function. and when she slept or whether she didn't, there were arrangements for that too. the house vibrated, ever so softly, but the attuned senses could hear it, feel it, in sickness and in health. "damn," muttered jeriann as the vibration momentarily grew louder. she tried to say something to docchi but her thoughts were confused and she couldn't concentrate. "don't mind me," she said, smiling ruefully. "i was conditioned to this sort of thing. they seem to think i've got to be ready on the dot." she could see that it wasn't very clear. "there's a clock in my head too. everybody has one naturally but mine has been trained. any natural beat will regulate the self alarm, even the pounding of my heart, even if i don't think about it--but the house is more effective. _they_ said i had to have it if i expected to live." it was obvious who _they_ were, the psychotechnicians who had attended her after her original accident. they were right but docchi could see that it might become annoying. the ticking grew in volume and the house shook and though jeriann tried to ignore it, it would not let her be. "time," tolled the house, though the word was unspoken, "time time time." to docchi it was subdued and soft but it had a different effect on jeriann. "all right," she shouted to the tormenter, scrambling out of bed. she dashed into the next room, scooping up hurriedly an absorbic capsule that lay unnoticed on a shelf near the door. she was gone for some time, so long that docchi was beginning to worry before she came out. in the interim, she had changed into street clothing and the tension that had marked her departure was gone. "i feel better," she said cheerfully. "breakfast, such as it was, and a shower." she sat opposite him. "i can see you're trying to figure out how i took a shower when you couldn't hear water running. special shower. don't ask about it." docchi had no intention, though he was wondering. he had his own gadgets to help him get dressed and no one was curious about them. "you came here for something," said jeriann. "thanks for being polite and talking to the patient but now you can tell me what it is." he was considering whether he should ask someone else. it was complex, too difficult to explain to nona. anti, who would have been best, was confined to the tank. and jordan wouldn't do at all. that left only jeriann, who was capable enough, _if_ she was fully recovered. "do you know maureen?" he asked. "i do. can i guess what she's done now?" said jeriann dryly. "your guess is probably right, except that she hasn't done it yet. i want to make certain she doesn't." he thought over jeriann's reply. "this isn't the first time this has happened to her?" "of course it isn't. she's always looking for excuses. long ago, before you came, i think, she managed to throw the stuff away and pretend she'd taken it. she concealed what she'd done for three weeks, until the doctor discovered it." he hadn't heard this, even as a whispered legend. he'd been too busy trying to achieve new status for the accidentals to bother with gossip. he didn't know the people here as well as jeriann did; he'd have to draw on her for detailed information. "this time it's not an excuse. the deficiency prescription isn't there for her to take." "nonsense," said jeriann sharply. "i remember thinking in that split second in the dispensary: if i were only maureen now, the worst that could happen to me is that i'd attract attention." he glanced at her. she hadn't thought that at all, though it was a reflection of another sort of bitterness. the girl didn't know how lucky she was in comparison to others who were seriously handicapped. "could you go and take a look?" he asked. "maureen said it isn't there. i understand that they do experiment occasionally. the new consignment might have got shoved aside in the excitement we had a while back--or it might be there under a different formula that maureen can't identify." if what jeriann said was correct, maureen liked the idea of becoming an all female woman. to her it might seem an anodyne, surcease from disappointment and things that hadn't gone right. "sure, i'll go," said jeriann. her cheerfulness had diminished while he spoke. until now she hadn't actually realized there was no longer earth to signal to in event of an emergency. "it's true they experiment. and maybe they _didn't_ send the last shipment during our mixup." she tossed her head, recovering her buoyancy rapidly. "oh well, i'll go and take a look. i know the hospital pretty well." "good." docchi got up. "wait for me," said jeriann, going to a drawer and taking things out. she slipped a watch on her arm; there was another in the rather wide belt she wore. she selected a series of absorption capsules and dropped them into pouches on the belt that appeared to be merely ornamental until he saw what went into it. "lunch, a drink, and an extra one for emergency," she explained laconically. "i should think you'd require more fluid." she looked at him disturbingly. "i would, if i had normal metabolism. but remember i don't need fluid for the digestive process. and then to further reduce the intake they've included an antiperspirant in what i do get." he followed her to the door, where she turned around and looked back at the place she lived in. it was a small, curious house, completely arranged for the kind of person she was. "are you going to the hospital with me?" she asked. "no, there's some work i've got to do near here." "well, then, thanks for saving my life." she slipped her arms around him and kissed him, quickly but satisfactorily. her lips were cool and dry. very smooth but dry; her touch was like silk. that was because of her skin. she smiled and opened the door. "see you," she said as they parted. she never once looked back though he did. he was glad, because she might have waved and it would have been impossible to return it. twice, now, within an hour, he thought as he went along. maureen of course he could dismiss since she would respond to anything that was remotely male. it was not at all the same reaction from jeriann, and it pleased him that it wasn't. their environment had changed. life on the asteroid had undergone a not so subtle transformation now that there were no longer any normals around to be compared with, to make the disastrous self-comparison to. they could begin to behave healthily and sensibly. it was nice that jeriann had kissed him and liked it. it was the first installment of freedom. the second installment was going to be harder--to keep that freedom at a level that meant something. he frowned heavily as he thought of what had to be done. he was late. except for anti, who was absent and always would be, everyone he knew was there. in addition there were many others who hardly ever attended. it was a good sign that they were coming out and mingling; before they had seldom left their houses. docchi spotted jeriann but there wasn't a vacant seat near her. he sat down toward the rear. jordan rapped for silence. "are there any questions?" at the front a man stood up. docchi remembered him from months ago, a jack or jed webber. jed it was, a quiet fellow with pale blue eyes and almost colorless blond hair. docchi had never heard him say anything but he was speaking now, emerging from his self-imposed shell. "yes," said webber. "i want to know where we're going." jordan rapped again. "out of order. not on the subject. anyway the question's not important." "i think it is," said the man, shuffling his body awkwardly. he was not exact in his movements because he'd been sliced very nearly down the middle. except for his head he was half man and half machine. unlike others who'd been injured past regeneration, he could use his composite body with some degree of skill because there was one arm and one leg to which the motion of his mechanical limbs could be coordinated. his skill wasn't as great as it could have been because he hadn't practiced. the spectre of the ideal human body had hindered him greatly--in the past. "you don't know where we're going," insisted the man in a high voice. "we're just moving but you don't know where." docchi got up. "i can answer that question. it should be answered. we're going to centauri, either alpha or proxima, whichever is most suitable. is there some place else you wanted to go?" the reply was drowned for a few seconds by an appreciative rumble but webber was stubborn and waited until the noise died down. he swayed on his feet and pointed at nona. "i suppose you asked her," he said. nona smiled dreamily as attention turned to her. "no. it would be a joke if we did and we're not interested in playing tricks on ourselves. you've forgotten one thing, that we do have a telescope." "a small one, built as a hobby," webber said. his voice was uncertain, as wobbly as his body was. "true, but it's better than gallileo had." he hoped webber wouldn't point out that gallileo hadn't tried to plot a voyage across space with his instrument. actually there was something strange about the few observations he'd made. he had reconstructed their path to the best of his ability--not a bad guess since no records had been kept. at the time they had left sol they hadn't been heading directly toward the centauris. nona must have used their tangential motion to take them out of the system as fast as she could and later had looped back toward their present destination. the sketchy charts docchi had, indicated the centauris by plus or minus a few degrees, all the accuracy he could expect from the telescope. it was in the stars themselves that he had detected changes he couldn't account for. at the far side a woman stood. jordan nodded to her. "i wasn't asked for my opinion about all this," she said defiantly. "i don't like it. i want to go back." jordan cocked his head humorously. "you should have told the guards this while they were here. they'd have been glad to take you with them." "i certainly wouldn't leave with them," she said in surprise. "look how they acted while they were here." "i'm afraid you're out of luck. we can't turn back because of you." "don't tell me we're marooned here," said the woman vehemently. "the guards left a couple of scout ships, didn't they? why can't we take those back to earth?" "for the same reason _they_ didn't," said jordan patiently. "the range of the scouts is limited, it wouldn't reach then and it won't do it now." "pshaw," said the woman. "you're just arguing. docchi said the gravity generator in each ship could be changed to a drive without much work--something about adding a little star encyclopedia unit. i think that's what he said." docchi started. had he said that? he must have for the woman to have remembered it. he shouldn't have made such a statement, first because it wasn't so. he had made the possibility of return to earth seem too easy. there was another reason he regretted his rash explanation and it was the opposite of the first: inadvertently he might have blurted out the secret of the drive. it was possible to talk too much. "i'm not the only one," the woman was insisting. she'd found a point and wouldn't let go. "there are plenty of others who feel as i do and they'll say so if they're not afraid. who wants to go on for years and years, never reaching any place?" "look at the stars." a voice ahead of docchi answered her. it was webber again, the meek little man who never spoke. "i don't _want_ to look at the stars," she said violently. "i never want to see anything but the sun. _our_ sun. it was good enough for mankind and i certainly don't care to change it." "that's because you don't know," said webber confidently. "you're afraid and you don't need to be. when i said look at the stars i meant that those ahead of us are brighter than the ones behind. do you know what that means?" docchi nodded exultantly to himself; they'd found their astronomer. he himself had noticed the first part of what webber remarked on; he hadn't thought to turn the telescope in the opposite direction because he wasn't interested in where they'd been. the apparent brightness of the centauri system was much greater than it should have been--that's what he hadn't been able to account for. he could now. it was surprising how much power the gravity drive could deliver. "we're approaching the speed of light," went on webber. "it won't take decades to reach a star. we'll be there in a few years." the woman turned and glared at him but could find nothing to say. she wasn't convinced but she sat down to cover her confusion. around her people began to whisper to each other, their voices rising with excitement. they'd lived long enough at the rim of the system to know what stellar distances meant and how much speed could affect their voyage. jordan rapped them into silence. "i've tried to get you to talk on the subject but you've resolutely refrained. therefore you'll have to vote on it without discussion." the vote took place, whatever it was. docchi was unable to discover what and so he didn't participate. when the count was over jordan gavelled sharply. "motion carried. that's all. meeting adjourned." before docchi could protest, people were leaving, carrying him part of the way with them. he reached the wall and stood there until traffic subsided, afterwards making his way to jordan who was talking happily to jeriann. "we did it," said jordan, grinning as he came up. "did what? all i heard were people complaining. we had to depend on someone from the floor to smack them down. seems to me there were a lot of important things to discuss." "seem to me we covered everything, which you would have known if you had got here on time," said jordan, still grinning. "this is jeriann's idea. it was what we were voting on." twisting his head docchi read the sheet jordan laid in front of him. it was a resolution of some sort, that he gathered from the usual whereases. he scanned it once and was halfway through again before he caught the import. "the wages aren't high," remarked jordan. "survival _if_ we do our job well, grousing if we don't. otherwise we can keep on doing just what we have been." he picked up the sheet and read from it. "whereas we are bound together by a common condition and destination--ain't that nice?--and have a common plan----" jordan looked up. "since you're the one they're talking about when they refer to the head of the planning committee, just what the hell _is_ our plan?" there were innumerable small goals that had to be reached before they could consider themselves self-sufficient, and to some extent docchi was capable of summarizing them. but when it came to a final statement of aims he could only feel his way. docchi didn't know either. jeriann came into the office. "i've got it down to twenty," she said briskly. "what?" said docchi absently. management details were unfamiliar to him and he was trying to pick them up as he went along. the scattered records were in order but some were still unaccounted for. "oh. the deficiency biologicals. good. how did you do it?" "i asked them." "and they knew? it's surprising. i'd expect them to be familiar with their standard treatment. but not something that's entirely new." jeriann smiled faintly. "i'm not that good. i did find out what they used to get and then scrounged around in storage until i found supplies. if the old stuff kept them healthy once it should do so now." he hadn't thought of that, but then he wasn't accustomed to considering the same things a doctor would. any trained person would know that sulfa hadn't been discarded with the discovery of penicillin, nor penicillin with the advent of the neo-biotics. docchi studied her covertly; jeriann was a competent woman, and an attractive one. "of the remaining twenty we don't have biologicals for, i've determined we can make what eleven need." only nine who were left out. it was a remarkable advance over a few days ago when there were forty-two. nine for whom so far they could do nothing. it was queer how he worried about them more as the number diminished. somehow it had greater significance now that he could remember each face distinctly. "and maureen?" he inquired. instinctively jeriann touched the decorative belt that was so much more than what it seemed. "i'm afraid i misjudged her. i couldn't locate a thing for her." "you're sure she didn't destroy her prescription?" "i don't see what difference it makes as long as we don't have it," said jeriann. "but yes, i'm sure. once something is brought in it's simply not possible for a person as ignorant of the system as she is to track down and destroy every entry relating to it." "all right. i believe you." he glanced down at the list she'd given him. the actual figures weren't as optimistic as her report had been. "wait. i notice you say here that out of twenty that we don't have supplies for that we can synthesize biologicals for eleven." she sat down. "that's what i said. how else can we get them? we've got the equipment. the asteroid never did depend on earth for very many of our biologicals." he knew vaguely how the medical equipment functioned, rather like the commonplace food synthesizers. "we don't have anyone with experience." jeriann shrugged. "i'm not a technician but i used to help out when there was nothing else to do. i expected to run it." the light flashed on his desk but docchi ignored it. "have you thought what an infinitesimal error means?" he asked. "of course." he was struck by her calmness. "one atom hooked in the wrong place and instead of a substance the body must have it becomes a deadly poison. i've talked it over with the deficients. they agreed to it. this way they know they have a chance." "we'll do something," he acknowledged. "pick out the worst and work for their deficiency. check with me before you give them anything." "i've selected them," she said. "there are four extreme cases. they won't collapse today or tomorrow. perhaps not in a week. but we can't let them get close." "agreed." the light kept flashing annoyingly in his eyes. another complaint. nodding at jeriann docchi nudged the switch and glanced at the screen. "anything wrong?" he asked. it was webber. "nothing much. jordan and i just bumped into an old acquaintance. i suppose we'd better bring him in." "cameron," exclaimed docchi as webber moved aside, revealing the man behind him. the doctor's clothing was rumpled and he hadn't shaved but he was calm and assured. "you seem to be running things now," he said. "i'd like a chance to talk with you." docchi didn't answer directly. "where did you find him, webber?" "he was living out in the open near a stream which, i imagine, was his water supply. we were checking some of the stuff the guards didn't wreck when we spotted him. we saw bushes move and went over to investigate, figuring it might be a geepee at loose ends. there was our man." "did he give you any trouble?" webber shrugged. "he wasn't exactly glad to see us. but he must have known there was no place to hide because he didn't actually try to get away." "that's your interpretation," said cameron, his face beside webber. "the truth is i wanted to make sure you had no way of sending me back with the general's forces. i was taking plenty of time." from beyond the screen jordan snorted. cameron continued. "there was no use going back to earth. my career wasn't exactly ruined--but you can appreciate the difficulties i'd have. anyway a doctor is trained to take the most urgent cases, and i thought they were here. i'm sorry only that i had to be discovered. it spoiled the entry i was going to make." jeriann's face showed what she thought. relief, and was there something else? the thought was distasteful if only because it indicated there was now a normal human present. the deadly comparison was back with them. but it was more than that--how much more was up to him to find out. docchi kept his emotions far away. it would hardly do to let cameron know what he thought. "well, there's work to do, if that's what you want. come up as soon as you can get here." cameron cocked his head. "if they'll let me." "they'll let you." docchi switched off the screen and turned to see jeriann getting up. "don't leave. i want you to check on him." "why should we check?" she asked in surprise. another one who accepted the doctor at face value. there would be plenty of others like her. perhaps cameron _had_ remained for the reasons he'd given. if so it ought to be easy to prove. "did i say we'd have to watch him? i didn't mean quite that. cameron's here and we intend to use him. at the same time we must admit that he has many conventional ideas. we'll have to give him our slant on what we need." she sat down. "i don't want to waste your time or his." "you're not." docchi pretended to be busy while they waited. he had to learn whether his suspicions were unfounded. cameron may have stayed in the best medical tradition. but there was another tradition less honorable and it was an equal possibility. it was better not to say anything to jeriann. she respected the doctor but she wouldn't be blinded by that attitude. she'd report any untoward thing she saw. and she was attractive. sooner than anyone else save nona, who couldn't communicate, she'd learn what the doctor's true motives were. docchi found himself studying her. she didn't have to be that anxious. he wished she weren't so eager for the doctor to arrive. * * * * * cameron shook his head. "don't let your enthusiasm run away with you. i can help the deficients but if new treatments are developed it will probably be the result of ideas you people have." "what about the list? can we synthesize for them?" "i haven't studied it and i'm not familiar with the medical history of everyone here. i do know three of the eleven that jeriann's selected and in each one she's exactly right. it's merely a matter of testing the preparations. i'll check but i'm sure she can do it as well as i can." it was nice to know that they were doing all right by themselves, that they'd have gotten along without the doctor. it helped that he was here but they'd have survived anyway. "can you do anything for maureen?" asked docchi. "i don't remember her. i'll have to look it up." "the records aren't in the best condition." "guards?" docchi noted that cameron scowled. either he was a good actor or he was sincere. "i tried to get the general to restrain them but he wouldn't listen." "no harm done, i suppose," said docchi. he wanted to forget as much of that episode as he could. "however i can tell you what's wrong with maureen. no male hormones." "i remember." cameron pondered. "i've never had anything to do with her. most of her treatment came direct from earth. i don't know. i really can't say." "most glands are paired. can't you transplant one, or part of one, from some of us? we'll get donors." "off hand i'd say that if it were possible it would have been done long ago. for reasons that aren't understood transplants aren't always effective. sometimes the body acts to dissolve foreign tissue or, if there's irritation, grow a tumor around it." "that's why she's still a deficient?" "it's my guess. they tried transplants but had to cut them out." cameron turned to jeriann. "do we have equipment for synthetic hormones?" "maybe. i never prepared any." the doctor leaned over the desk, flipping through the files until he came to the section he wanted. "some test animals. probably not enough," he said after studying it briefly. "i'll do something to keep her quiet until i can figure out a substitute." "no experiments on us, cameron." he smiled wryly. "the history of medicine is a long series of experiments. if it weren't for that we'd still be in the stone age, medically speaking." docchi shrugged. "suit yourself. do what you can with maureen." "what about anti?" "we haven't had time to think about her." "i'll see what i can do. if i stumble on anything that seems beneficial i'll let you know." cameron turned to leave and jeriann went with him. docchi watched him go. the doctor was an asset they hadn't counted on. his presence would help silence the objections of those who agreed with the woman at the meeting but hadn't said anything yet. this was the temporary advantage. but there was still the doubt. cameron might have stayed at the general's request. a few serious illnesses or a death here and there might influence them to turn back. somehow docchi couldn't credit the doctor with such intentions. then what? well, the doctor might have remained with them on a long, long chance. a gamble, but he was the kind who took risks. it was not suspicion alone that made docchi suddenly tired and morose. he wished he could call jeriann back on some pretext. she'd gone and she hadn't looked his way when she left. * * * * * anti bobbed gently in the acid. "what's the contraption?" "an idea of mine," said jordan, lowering the coils carefully so the acid didn't splash. anti looked at it judicially. "maybe next time you'll think of something better." "don't be nasty," said jordan as the coils reached the surface of the liquid and began to submerge. "cameron thinks it will work." "my faith is shaken." "it isn't a question of faith and anyway he's as good a doctor as we've ever had." jordan kept lowering until the mechanism reached the bottom. a single cable over the side of the tank was the only thing visible. jordan wiped his hands on the grass. "i was thinking about radiation when this thing occurred to me." "would you believe it? once i was young and radiant myself." "it's not the same thing." "don't think i wouldn't trade." "you won't have to," said jordan. "this is my idea, not the doctor's. he merely confirmed it." "in that case it's bound to work." jordan pulled a tuft of grass loose and tossed it into the tank. it disappeared in a soundless blaze. to conform with what was expected of her, anti blinked. "don't be so afraid we're going to fail that you can't listen to what i have to say. do you want to be cured and not know why? i've run my legs off to make this gadget." "a figure of speech," commented anti. "a figure of speech," agreed jordan. "to begin with we discovered that when you were exposed to space the cold caused the fungus flesh to die back faster than it grew. right?" "the fungus came from venus," said anti. "it's only natural it wouldn't grow well in the cold." "the origin doesn't have anything to do with it. normally it doesn't grow in flesh and it had to make concessions to live in the human body, the biggest one being adaptation to body temperature. at the same time the body cells tried to outgrow it but the faster they grew the more there was for the fungus to live in. a sort of an inimical symbiosis." "if you can imagine inimical symbiosis," said anti. "i can't." "you haven't tried very hard. anyway, there seems to be a ratio between the amount of fungus in one connected mass and the vigor. the more there is the faster it grows, and conversely." "such a pleasant reference," said anti. "mass. still it's an accurate description of me, though i can think of a better one. lump." she swam, splashing ponderously toward the edge of the tank. "are you trying to say that if i can ever get below a certain point my body will be able to keep the fungus in check?" "exactly." "what's wrong with the treatment we discovered? give me an oxygen helmet and tie me to a cable and let me float outside the dome." "you wouldn't float as long as the gravity's on. besides, we can do it better. in space you lose heat solely by radiation. radiation depends on surface and the larger a body is the more surface it had in proportion." "convection is what you meant," said anti. "acid alone helps, but a _cold_ acid would combine treatments." "a very cold acid. supercold." anti nodded and nodded and then stopped. "a fine piece of reasoning except for one thing. when the temperature is decreased chemical activity slows down." "that's the triumph of my gadget," said jordan. "it's not only a refrigerant coil but electronically it steps up ionizations as the temperature is lowered. we sacrifice neither effect." soundlessly anti sank below the surface and remained there for some time. when she came up acid trickled over her face. "i had to think. it's been so long since i dared hope," she said. "when can i walk?" "i didn't say you would," said jordan hastily. "there may be a lower limit beyond which it's dangerous to continue the cold acid treatment." "then what's the use?" said anti. "i'm not interested in merely reducing. i'll still be bigger than a house. i want to get around." "this is the first step," explained jordan patiently. "after this is successful we'll think of something else." "what language," said anti. "the first step when obviously i'm nowhere near taking one. can't you turn off the gravity?" if they did it would hinder others, and the odds were nearly a thousand to one. of course they might compromise, a short gravityless period at intervals. it would be unsatisfactory to everyone but it might give anti the encouragement she needed. besides, he was unsure they _could_ turn off the gravity without also turning off the drive. their momentum would carry them along at the same speed they had been going--but was it wise to tamper with a mechanism that till now was functioning so smoothly and was so important? jordan shook his head. "i said we'd think of something else and we will. continue with this treatment and watch your weight go down." "don't think i'm not aware of your cheerful intentions," said anti. "how can you possibly weigh me as long as i have to stay in the tank?" "the same way archimedes did--fluid displacement. i've rigged up a scale so you can keep track of what's happening." he didn't tell her what the scale was calibrated in. absolute figures were disheartening. it was only the progress which counted. anti looked at the dial near the edge of the tank. "i thought it was just another gadget." when jordan didn't answer she looked for him. "hey, don't leave me to freeze in this cold goop." "you're not cold and you know it. you can't feel a thing." "don't be so frank," she grumbled. "hardly anyone comes to talk to me. i like company." "sure, but i've got to get busy on that other idea." he didn't have one but he looked very wise and it had the desired effect. "guess i can't stop you," grumbled anti. "tell someone to come and visit with me." again she looked long at the dial. it was a pleasant surprise to find she was not so far from average that she could be weighed. jordan was a gadgeteer but sometimes his contraptions worked and once in a while his ventures in psychology were extraordinarily shrewd. for instance, the dial. she imagined she could feel her toes tingling from the cold--if she still had toes. soon they would emerge from the fungus flesh in which they were buried. she felt she was shedding. what did they have that made anything seem possible? jordan, the sometimes wonderful gadgeteer. docchi, a competent engineer but no more than that. unsure of himself personally he had a passion for correcting inequalities. and then there was cameron, a good doctor who was trying to realign his principles. he wouldn't have made it except that he had a powerful attraction ahead of him. lord knows what he saw in nona or she in him. and lastly there was nona herself, to whom big miracles came easier than small ones. there was a fragile grandeur about her but she knew nothing at all of the human body, especially her own. and this is what they relied on. it was strikingly little to balance against the forces of earth, which had failed them. and yet it was enough; the accidentals would not fail. it didn't matter what the resources were as long as they weren't aimed in the right direction. she didn't have figures on the conquest of cancer but the one-time scourge of mankind could have vanished far sooner if the cost of one insignificant political gesture had been spent instead to wipe out the disease. perhaps this was one answer. they were struggling not to make beautiful men and women still more beautiful but to restore those who were less than perfect to some sort of usefulness, especially in their own evaluation. the lights in the dome dimmed appreciably. it was the lengthening shadows which made the needle on the dial that anti was watching quiver and seem to turn downward. * * * * * jordan rode the repair robot away from the tank. it was more than had ever been done for anti but it wasn't enough. a fifty per cent reduction and she still wouldn't be able to walk. he'd have to check with anyone who had ideas of what to do. he didn't have much hope there; nobody but himself had given much thought to anti recently. the machine he was on wasn't functioning properly. nothing definite, it just wasn't. he was sensitive enough to notice this through his preoccupation with other problems. it was sluggish to his touch. it was not unexpected; there was a lot of equipment that was supposed to be foolproof and wasn't, any number of machines built to last forever which didn't. once it would have been easy to blame technicians for failure to keep the robots in proper condition. now he couldn't because he was that technician, the only one. nona kept the big stuff working and docchi helped out with anything else when he could find them. but minor machines were important too and this was his province. robot repair units affected gross corrections on themselves but weren't capable of detecting defects in the basic repair circuit. this was his responsibility. he stopped the squat machine and opened it. there was nothing wrong that he could see. some other time he'd work it over thoroughly. he climbed back on and touched the controls he added for his own use. for a while nothing happened and then an extensible started flailing. it was not what he'd signalled for. he shoved the lever in the opposite direction and though it didn't stop the gyrations of the extensible it did start the treads. the machine rumbled away at greater than ordinary speed. jordan would have fallen off if an extensible hadn't steadied him. momentarily he wondered; the last response was not within the machine's capacity. it was built to repair other machines and, within limits, itself. it had no knowledge of the frailties of the human body. he wondered at this and then forgot it completely. the robot lurched heavily, narrowly missing one of the columns that supported the dome. a collision at this speed--well, no, the column wouldn't have been greatly damaged. hastily jordan reached to shut it off. there was a shower of sparks and the handle grew hot and sputtered. the grip flashed, fusing, visibly becoming inoperative. the robot no longer faltered. jordan wasn't in immediate danger. he could always swing off, slide off, or fall. but he ought to stop it before it wrecked itself or, worse, the dome. the dome enclosed a good part of the asteroid but it came to an end somewhere, curving downward and joining the ground at a flexible seal. naturally it was protected against collision and naturally the protection wasn't complete. it was conceivable that an uncontrolled robot could break through. jordan clutched an extensible as the machine jolted and rocked. the nearest place it could damage the dome was miles away. he'd disable it long before it got there. he steadied himself and reached for the panel, prying it open. he thrust his hand in and the lid slammed shut on his fingers. he yelled and pulled loose, leaving part of his skin inside. the lid was firmly closed. he glowered at the machine. it was an accident that a wildly moving extensible clamped the lid down as he reached inside. he didn't like those kinds of accidents; the element of purpose was very strong. he hesitated whether he should disable the machine. it was valuable equipment and they wouldn't get more like it. it would have to last for the duration. "easy does it," he muttered but it wasn't easy. his hand slid back to the toaster--and it wasn't there. the sensible thing was to suppose that it had been jolted loose. the machine couldn't think in complex terms. or could it? he glanced down; there were indications the robot had been sliced into and he thought he knew who had done it. it was probably the one he and docchi had disabled long ago on their escape from the asteroid. it had been repaired since and the technician who had done so had altered the circuits. the essential thing was to stop it before it caused real damage. he suspected that, with a number of extensibles curled firmly around him, there was no danger he'd fall off. maybe he couldn't get off if he wanted to. he wished he'd encounter someone. he hated to admit it but he needed help. in the distance he saw people and shouted. they knew him; he was the person who rode the robot. they waved gaily and said something unintelligible as he sped by. it was irritating that they didn't see anything amiss. the edge of the dome loomed up. they'd been going longer than he'd thought. he squirmed uneasily; he should have gotten off long ago and used something else to intercept the errant machine. a geepee, if he'd had sense enough to get one, could run it down and smash it. his only excuse was that he hadn't wanted to destroy valuable machinery. with tremendous effort he tore himself loose and using the power of his overdeveloped arms he threw himself off. he covered his head and rolled along the ground in a tight ball. he was free. but not for long. the treads whining in reverse, the robot whirled, scooping him up as it passed by. this time it didn't pause as it headed toward the edge of the dome. it was all his fault. the dome would seal itself after the robot plunged through, but not without loss of air--and one good mechanic. the machine churned on but surprisingly didn't plow heedlessly into the curved transparent wall. the extensibles felt the surface, the speed was checked and the direction changed. the robot moved parallel with the edge of the dome. it had a better sense of self-preservation than was common with robots of this type. it felt the wall as it rolled along. there was nothing noteworthy about the surface, smooth, hard, and slightly curved. another extensible emerged from the squat body; the tip flashed a light toward the outside. it was strange out there. jordan hadn't often seen it; not many people came to look out. when the asteroid was in the solar system jagged rocks had gleamed in the sharp light of the sun. but now the landscape was always dark except when some curious person wanted to remind himself what the rest of his world was like. it was a torn and crumpled sight the robot's light displayed, as if some giant had risen and tossed aside the rocks he slept in. but not completely rumpled; here and there were smooth areas that some vast engine might have planed flat--or the same giant had straightened out with a swipe of his hand before departing. the robot flicked off the light and turned away. jordan breathed with relief when he saw where it was going, toward the central repair depot to which all robots returned periodically. it would slide into a stall and stop. he would get off. and he would see to it that the robot was thoroughly checked over before it was called out again. the entrance slot was extremely wide and equally low; it wasn't built for passengers on the robots. momentarily the thought flashed across his mind that he should let himself be scraped off. but it seemed a precipitous way to dismount and anyway the machine would soon stop and he could get off more conventionally. instinct won and jordan flattened himself as they swept under the gate. he could feel the masonry twitching at his clothing. the slot opened into a circular space in which other robots were stationed in stalls. in the center were bins of spare parts. jordan called out, not too hopefully. robots were assigned from here on a broadcast band; he didn't think there were facilities for responding to the human voice. his machine headed toward a stall at the rear. this far from the entrance the light was dim. jordan wondered why there was any light at all; robots didn't need it. upon reflection he decided it was a concession to human limitations. but the machine didn't slow down as he expected. it rumbled between walls, turned at a sharp angle--and the parking slot was not what it had seemed. they were in a passageway, narrow and even more dimly lighted. that it was lighted at all indicated it wasn't a chance fissure. it had been built long ago and forgotten. this was serious. where was the machine going and when would it stop? he hoped it _would_ stop. an outcropping in the passageway loomed ahead of him; he flung himself flat. a sharp projection grazed his ear. the tunnel wound on through solid rock. he was lost by the time it ended. there were no true directions on the asteroid. toward the sun or away from it; toward the hospital or the rocket dome. these were the principle orientations and the main one had been left behind--the sun. he didn't know where he was except that it was somewhere under the main dome. he was sure of this because he was still alive. there was air. the passageway terminated in a large cavern. once he saw it he relaxed. it was a laboratory and a workshop and he knew whose. there was only one person who would disassemble nine general purpose robots and arrange their headpieces in a neat row on a stone slab. their eyes revolved slowly as the machine rumbled farther in. he stared back; the intensity with which they gazed at him was uncomfortable. how long nona had had this workshop he didn't know. perhaps it was here she'd hidden from the guards. nine pair of eyes followed their progress as the machine rolled across the floor. jordan glared back. he could see that they were not merely in a row, that they were hooked together by a complex circuitry that wove an indefinable pattern between them. the purpose was obscure. a repair robot was an idiot outside the one thing it was built to do. a general purpose robot, the geepee, was a higher type. it was a moron. were nine morons brighter than one? with men, not necessarily; stupidity was often merely compounded. but with mechanical brains, using modules of computation, the combination might constitute an accurate data evaluating system. jordan squirmed to get a better glimpse of the heads on the slab--and fell off the machine that held him captive. he was free. his first impulse was to scurry away. when he remembered how far he had to go and by what labyrinth route he decided to wait. something better might come up. he raised himself and rubbed fine gravel off his cheek. dust irritated his nose; he sneezed. eighteen eyes glowered at him. the repair robot ignored him. having brought him so far and clung possessively, now it refused to notice him. on the bench there was something new to interest it. the unshakable directive around which it was built had taken over: there was a machine which should be fixed. what? a mechanism of some sort. not the nine heads. the repair robot raised a visual stalk and scanned. jordan craned but couldn't see to the top of the stone bench. extending other stalks the robot began working up high on the unknown something. his own curiosity was aroused. jordan swung to the bench and, gripping the edge, hoisted himself up. parts of disassembled geepees and other electronic devices were scattered over the slab. he inched carefully along until he could see what his robot, microsenses clicking furiously, was busy with. it was disappointing. he had expected to find a complicated machine and instead it was nothing at all--a strand of woven wire with a rectangular metal piece at one end. a belt with a buckle on it. this was what fascinated the repair robot. jordan went closer. the robot hummed and shook, extensibles racing through the scattered parts which it sorted and laid aside for other stalks to add to the end of the slender strand. it worked on, from time to time stopping to buzz inquisitively. when nothing happened after these outbursts it resumed activity. the pattern was clear: the belt was not functioning properly and the robot was busy repairing it. gradually it slowed and the pauses became longer. it clattered loudly and sputtered, extensibles waving uncontrollably until they seemed to freeze. the directive completely frustrated, the robot whined once and then was silent. it was motionless. jordan reached for the object, ready to swing away if there was any objection. there wasn't. he examined it closely; it was _not_ a belt. and the rectangular metal piece was not a buckle though it could serve as one. actually it was a mechanism of some kind, though what it was supposed to do he couldn't tell. it was one of nona's experiments. of that there was little doubt. the strands were not wires but microparts fastened together and woven into an intricate pattern. jordan snorted; the robot hadn't improved on what nona had wrought. he inspected it thoroughly. he could see where the robot had begun to add parts. methodically he unhooked the surplus components. if nona had thought they should be on there she would have attached them. they didn't belong. when he was down to the original mechanism he looked at it perplexedly. it was designed to be worn as a belt. he fastened it around his waist and touched the stud. by now he had some idea of what it was intended for. it was not surprising that it worked perfectly. he expected that it would. nona seldom failed. what jordan didn't notice and would never discover--no one would--was that there were three minute parts that the robot had added, almost too small for the human eye to see. and those three parts were indispensable. without them the belt would not function at all. for the lack of them nona had discarded the idea as unworkable. jed webber came in noisily. his left foot was heavy and his left arm swung more than it should. otherwise there wasn't much that remained of the timid awkward man of weeks ago. docchi looked up. "did my calculations check?" webber grinned. "i thought they would but i wanted to be sure. it's one of the centauris." "is that as close as you can come?" "with that telescope it is. it's pretty wobbly. who made it, anyway?" "i did." webber grinned again. "in that case it's pretty damned good." with difficulty webber kept himself from looking down but docchi could see that his real foot was wriggling. "thanks. did you get an estimate of the speed?" webber grunted. "not a spectroscope on the place and without one how can i measure the light shift?" he rubbed his arm slowly. "unless you made one of those too and have it stored away." "i don't. i made the telescope when i first came here. i didn't see that it proved anything even to myself so i stopped." docchi thought briefly. "there's an analyzer in the medical lab. you can borrow it but don't change it in any way. we can't risk ruining the only means we have of checking our synthetics." "we don't have to know how fast we're going. we'll get there just as soon. i'll look into that analyzer after my work period. there's a chance it will do what i want it to." "what you're doing is work. you don't have to put in more hours than anyone else." webber smiled unhappily. "oh--i'm as lazy as the next person. we're short handed in hard labor. i thought i'd fill in for a while." the reference was what he'd expect from webber, not at all subtle. "you mean that there's criticism over the shortage of geepees?" "i didn't want to say anything--but yes, there is." "i've heard the same complaint. you're not revealing something i don't know." docchi leaned back. "to you it seems like ingratitude and i suppose it is. more than anyone else nona is responsible for what we've achieved. i don't object to anything she wants--twice as many geepees if she needs them and we have them. we'll get it back in ways we didn't expect." "i agree. but not everyone feels the same way." "it doesn't hurt. in times of hardship everyone complains, and they may as well direct it at her. actually it's a measure of how important they feel she is--and the accusations are so ill-founded they can't believe them themselves." webber got up. for the first time since he entered the mechanical and muscular halves of his body failed to coordinate. "you're right. i thought if i had something to tell them they'd be less uncertain." "perhaps they would, for a while. i'm not keeping secrets. the truth is i don't know what she's using the geepees for." if the explanation failed to be completely convincing it was because webber didn't want to believe. there were others like him. he didn't blame anyone for wanting an accounting for every piece of equipment on the asteroid. and yet the attitude was an advantage. discontent, real or fancied, wouldn't become a problem as long as it was openly displayed. there would be time to worry if webber didn't mention his dissatisfaction. docchi watched him leave and then bent over his work. a few hours and a score of unimportant details later cameron hurried in. "need a couple of lab workers," he said on entering. "i thought jeriann was doing all right." "she is--indispensable. we can't have that. suppose she should get sick? i want her to teach someone else the synthesizers. she's got too much on her hands." docchi hooked his knee on a corner of the desk and tilted the chair back. "sounds reasonable. do you have anyone in mind?" "jeriann says two women have worked with her in the past. she won't have to start from scratch. she'll give you their names." cameron rifled the files and jotted down the information. he folded the sheet, stuffing it in his pocket. "here's something for you. we've reduced the unsolved deficients to three. all the rest we can synthesize for." from forty-two to nine and now it was three. it was all the progress they could hope for, and much of it was due to cameron. he had misjudged the doctor's reasons for staying and he was thankful he could admit it to himself. the man was sincere--and he was also very fond of nona. coupled with an increased food supply the major hazards were vanishing. power, of course, never had been a problem and never would be. there was only one small doubt that remained and though there was no basis for it he couldn't get it out of his mind. he wished there was some way to reassure himself. "we weren't able to replace everything the deficients need," cameron was saying. "however they'll get along on what we manufacture." "then they're still deficients?" "hardly," said cameron. "the body's more versatile than you think. long ago it was learned that certain vitamins can be created in the body from simpler substances. "in several cases we're depending on an analogous process. we supply simple compounds and depend on the body to put it together. afterwards, when we checked, the body did create the new substance." "good. when will you take the remaining three off the emergency list?" "two are minor. it doesn't matter when we get to them as long as it's within the next few years." he didn't have to be told who the third was. maureen. he'd all but forgotten her. it was the doctor's responsibility, but he didn't feel that way. "she's not causing trouble," emphasized cameron. "daily she is growing more feminine and we'd have positive proof of it except that we've taken steps." "confinement?" "no, except the solitude of her mind. hypnotics. we tell her she's getting the regular injections and it's these which cause her to want to be left alone." it was more stringent than he cared for but he didn't have a better suggestion. "how long can she continue on hypnotics?" "depends. the reaction varies with the person. she can tolerate quite a bit more." docchi's face darkened. "you said you can't transfer tissue from any of us. is that also true of hormones concentrated from blood donations?" "let's put it this way: blood won't help maureen at all. we can't extract the complete hormone spectrum from blood--the basic factors she must have to utilize the rest just don't exist there. if i thought it would help i'd have asked for donations long ago." docchi tried to shut out the pictures that were coming fast. maureen alone in a room in which she had darkened the windows so she wouldn't look outside. the door would swing open at the touch of her hand, but she would never touch it. the lock was intangible and hence unbreakable. it would break when her mind broke. "that's all you've planned," said docchi, "wait and see what happens?" "hardly. i'm having jeriann work solely on synthesizing those hormone fractions we can't extract from blood. if she gets even a few we'll call for blood and between the two sources we'll have maureen out of trouble." docchi refrained from asking what chance of success jeriann had. it might be better not to know. before he could question the doctor further jordan wandered in, buoyant and cheerful. tacitly they let the subject of maureen drop. "where have you been the last few days?" said cameron. "i've been wanting you to fix some of my equipment." "i've been busy tearing down a robot." "that's important but the hospital comes first," said docchi. "not before this one," said jordan. "it was erratic and i had to get out those faulty circuits before it decided to look into a nuclear pile. if i'd let it go there might be no robot, power plant or asteroid. not to mention a hospital." "you're exaggerating." "no i'm not. you should have seen it. it had more curiosity than--well, anti." "or you?" suggested docchi, smiling faintly at the man's good nature. "get to the doctor's equipment when you can." "i'm not in a real hurry," said cameron. "by the way, i saw anti yesterday. she's coming along nicely with your treatment, looking almost human." "she always did seem human to me," said jordan. "sorry. no offense." "sure, i know. it was a compliment." the tension left jordan again; he was relaxed and easy. "anyway, you should see her today. better yet. i don't have to rig the scale in her favor. i can let her read the honest figures." "good. but don't overdo the encouragement. it will make it harder when she finds she won't be walking for years." "she'll be up long before you think," said jordan mildly but the doctor chuckled at the wrong time and the mildness vanished. jordan had come to tell them but now he couldn't. cameron thought he was good and so he was but he forgot he wasn't dealing with ordinary people. his rules just didn't apply to anti, nor to nona, jordan, or even the spectacularly useless robot. the doctor didn't understand and because of that he'd have to wait, docchi too. "i discovered where nona does most of her work these days," jordan muttered. he described where it was, omitting the details of how he got there. he was also careful not to mention anything he saw. cameron looked out the window as jordan talked. "glad you told me," he said. "i've been meaning to see what i could do for her. it might help if i watched her working." "very ordinary," said jordan. "she putters around--but things fall together when she touches them." "i imagine. i've seen great surgeons operate." cameron gathered up his notes and left. jordan lingered for a while trying to make up his mind whether to tell docchi what he had refrained from discussing while the doctor was present. he wanted to, but the longer he kept it to himself the harder it was to share. eventually docchi tired of chatting and bent over his work and jordan wandered out, his secret still safe, too safe. docchi stopped foggily when he was alone again. cameron would soon be trying to help nona. somebody had to and he, docchi, couldn't. it was enough to settle all the prosaic details that must be attended to if the place were to function properly. it was a relief to know that he no longer be concerned about her. nevertheless a certain grayness descended that didn't lift until jeriann came in to check on a patient's file. in the beginning there was silence and it never changed. no sound came to break the stillness. darkness changed to light with regularity or not, but in the particular universe in which she lived there was never any noise nor any conversation, and music was unknown. she didn't miss it. there were also machines in the universe in which she dwelt and these too observed a dichotomy. some machines were warm and soft and this distinguished them from those which were hard and cool. the warm ones started themselves when they were very small. later they grew up but they didn't know how they did it. neither did she. once she was little and she didn't remember doing anything to change it, but it did change. the hard machines she knew more about. they didn't always have picture receptors on top. some were blind and some saw more than she did, though not quite in the same way. she could never tell by looking at them which was apt to do which. (there was a stupid little running machine that she had discovered once that was perpetually scurrying about looking for things to do. it would never have survived on earth because there was an unexpected flaw in it. she herself had sensed the fault and started to fix it only to realize that here was an unexpected stroke of luck. curiosity circuits there were by the million but they were all mechanical and what they produced could be strictly predicted. but this was unique. a deviation in the manufacturing process, a slight change in the density of the material, whatever it was something extraordinarily fine had been put together and it would take a hundred years of chance to duplicate it.) (midway she had changed her mind and instead had altered the machine to encourage the basic sensitivity. she hadn't seen it recently. she hoped someone who didn't understand hadn't undone her work.) the known order crumbled under the touch into something that was strange. but where sight itself would not suffice, it was possible to touch reality, to soak it into the skin, like understanding which cometh slowly to the growing mind. but what was understanding? parts of it were always left out and she could venture toward it only a little way. she twisted the head on the bench. the silence was unchanging. (what was silence?) other heads on the bench didn't move; they weren't supposed to. once they had been attached to clumsy machines and could move about with a stiff degree of freedom. they couldn't now, though they could twist the light perceptors in whichever direction suited them. but they didn't know where to look. she herself couldn't see the thing that was approaching. it was because her eyes were imperfect. lenses were pliable and nerve endings were huge things, too gross to catch the instant infinitesimal signals. or perhaps it was permeability--force bounced on distant impenetrability and bounded back to and through her senses. she'd have to align the heads to help them help her, string them together for what reinforcement they offered each other. and still they wouldn't see because what they depended on for seeing was too slow. by itself the hookup wouldn't correct their sight. but nearby was a fast mind though a lazy one. it liked routine once the meaning of it was made clear. and it worked with instantaneity. blind itself it could fingertip touch the incredible impulses and interpret what it felt for those who had eyes. it would join with her, reluctantly but surely if she made it interesting, a game at which it could always win. and winning wouldn't be difficult for it, not against these nine circuit bound minds, even if it was true that they did augment one another. singly there were stupid and even added they were not much better. their virtue was that they were electronic. (alone) were there intangible machines? sometimes she thought there might be. people twisted their mouth and (not because they were smiling) to indicate that they too understood. she could touch the air coming out but the impulses had no meaning. it was not like vibrations machines set up, harmonics that told of the unseen structure. there was nothing mechanical that could be concealed from harmonics--there were no hard and fast secrets. but what came out of mouths was senseless. it told nothing, or if it did have meaning her hands and her skin were unable to relay the interpretation further. (people were soft machines and they did not ring true. it was difficult to understand.) her hands were usually quite capable. (now) she wove wires so fine that only occasional light was caught and brilliantly reflected. each strand led somewhere. she removed panels from the robots' heads and grouped them closer. they were beginning to shake off their incomplete individuality. they were no longer separate mechanisms, each of which could only grope for a small fragment of reality. they were merging, becoming larger and stronger. there was more to be done to them but she couldn't do it. as light as her touch was it was too inaccurate for what must follow. there were objects smaller than her eye could see, movements finer than her muscles could control. she summoned a repair machine whose microsenses were adequate to begin with. she would like to have the one she repaired some time ago (actually it was quite smart) but it had disappeared and she didn't know where to find it. however this one would do. it was set merely to repair what was already built, but what she wanted was not yet made. she changed the instructions; they were not to her liking anyway. she delved into the machine and set the problem. the statement of it was complex and she wasn't sure how much data the robot aide would need. when she finished it stood there thrumming. it didn't move. she waited but nothing happened. the robot, whose senses were far finer than her own, remained frozen and baffled. impatiently she restated the problem, rephrased it so that it could reach every part of the circuit almost instantly. where it was complex she simplified, reducing it at last to an order the robot could act on. it began to work, slowly at first. it copied exactly a circuit she had made previously. after she approved it started another, like the first but much smaller, attaching it in series. satisfied it was obeying instructions, she left it. it would continue to make those circuits, each one progressively smaller, the final one delicate enough to contact the gravity computer. meanwhile there was her own work. it wouldn't suffice that the geepees be linked with the gravity computer. they would then see what she had discovered long ago--but it was people who had to be shown. their eyes were even less sensitive than hers. fortunately this was the easiest part. she went to the screen and began to alter it. it could be made to scan what the gravity computer passed on to the geepee heads. a row of dominos, each of which would topple if the first were struck, and the screen was the last of the series. "hello," said a voice. "so this is where you always are. what a dreary place to work." she didn't hear the voice. she felt the footsteps and the air brushing against her skin. she turned around, letting her hands continue, deft and sure. she didn't need to see what she was doing. the smile was involuntary. he leaned against the wall, watching her. it was embarrassing the way she gazed back. he wished she could say something but then he'd always wished it. he'd had a thesis once, hadn't he? that for mechanics deafness wasn't a handicap considering how noisy machines were. a deaf person could withstand a concentration of sound the average man would find intolerable. and there was no need for such a person to talk since there was no one who could hear. the connections in her hands grew swiftly. she felt that she could work better while he was near. why was this? "what do you respond to?" he said gruffly. "diagrams, blue-prints? if so i'll have to learn to draw the damnedest things." he laughed uncertainly. "come on, help me a little bit. i've got some ideas that might help you break out of your shell if you'd try to respond." he fixed things too, warm soft mechanisms. she didn't know but she thought it was a higher skill than hers. he was not as adept as she was, though he could learn to be. there was so much more he could do if he would realize. his mouth was a handicap. he moved it often when he should be thinking. "listen, robot face, i left a career for you. do you think they wouldn't take me back? the medicouncil wouldn't like it but i'd have been a popular hero. sometimes they want their heroes to fail. besides from their viewpoint it was the best possible solution. now they don't have to think of people like you out on that god-forsaken asteroid. you're off their conscience and they don't have to have bad dreams about you." she smiled again and it was infuriating. what he said or did had no effect. "at least show that you recognize me. stop what you're doing. it can't be important." he drew her to him roughly and the work fell from her hands. the connections had been done minutes before and she'd continued to hold them because she didn't want to move away from him. she was willing to let him look at her closely if he wanted. it was surprising how much he wanted to. later he held her away from him. "i take it back," he said softly. "you're not a robot face. there's no point of resemblance to a machine. and look, you've even discovered that you've got more than one expression." the robot aide that had been laboring on whirred inaudibly and clacked its extensibles. it rolled away from the work bench, brushing lightly against the doctor as it did so. cameron glanced down blankly, not actually seeing it. "what do i do now?" he said with unexpected gloominess. "you're a child. you're as old as jeriann, maybe as old as i am, but in this you're hardly more than a child." what was consent and how would he know when he had it? well, no, that was not the problem--he knew, but would she? what _could_ he explain to her? he put his arms around her and gazed thoughtfully over her head at the odds and ends of machinery she had been stringing together. the screen flickered and sprang into illumination. he glared at it for interrupting his thoughts. it seemed to him he had just discovered something very significant and if he'd had a few more minutes he'd have been able to say it in a way he'd never forget. but there was a shape on the screen and he couldn't ignore it. the image wavered in and out of focus, growing clearer as the machine learned to hold it steady. it was a ship. a ship. he dropped his hands. "don't give up on me. i'm not going to run out on you." was it his imagination that the ship was growing larger? his throat was dry and tight. the last thing he wanted to see was a ship. "i don't know what we can do about this, nona, but come on. we'll see." she leaned against the wall, showing no inclination to follow. she seemed to be disturbed but he would guess it was not about the same thing he was. "come on," he said. "we've got to tell the others." and still she didn't move. "i can't stay here," he muttered and kissed her. he started walking away fast so he'd be able to leave. she could tell that he was upset by the unexpected appearance of the ship on the scanner. perhaps he thought they were alone in space, that emptiness was lonely. he ought to have known better. she had seen it long ago, and guessed what it meant. it would have to be overcome. what she couldn't understand was what happened to her when he touched her. others had tried to come close and either she minded or was indifferent and they went away. but this was surely outside of her experience. she thought it meant something to touch a machine and to know therefrom what it was. but to come in contact with him and to learn all at once what he was--yes and herself too.... the warm soft mechanism that she was behaved strangely--never the same way twice. and now she was becoming confused--because she would always feel this when he was near--and she didn't mind. she closed her eyes and could see him more clearly. (what was choice?) * * * * * docchi walked on, carefully skirting one of the columns that supported the dome. once it had seemed huge and unshakable and now it was remarkably slender. the dome itself was hardly adequate to keep the darkness overhead from descending. this was the dull side of their rotation; they were looking back at the way they'd come. the stars were gray and faint. "where did you see it?" he asked after a long silence. "in the place jordan described. it's deep underground but i believe it's near one of the piles. i felt the wall and it was warm." "somewhere below the gravity computer," said docchi. "why there, i don't know, but nona may have had a reason. what i want to know is: how do you account for the ship?" "what?" said cameron. "oh, i leave that to you and jordan. i can't explain it." docchi guessed why the doctor was less concerned than he tried to be. let him live with his exaltation for a while. it might not last. "part of it's easy, how the ship came to be there." "it isn't to me," said cameron. "we haven't been gone long, not much more than a month." "six weeks to be exact. six weeks on our calendar." "i see, relative time. i heard we were approaching the speed of light but i didn't think we were close enough to make any difference." he glanced at his watch as if it held secrets he couldn't fathom. "how long have we actually been gone, earth time?" "i don't know. we haven't any figures on our acceleration rate nor our present speed." "what are you planning to do? we can't just sit here and let them overtake us." "i don't know. we're not helpless." docchi's plans were vague. there was much that had to be determined before he could decide on anything. "you're certain it's one of ours? it's not an alien ship?" the idea hadn't occurred to cameron. he turned the image around in his mind before he answered. "i'm not familiar with ship classifications, but it's ours unless these aliens use the english language. there was a name on it. i could read part. it ended in -_tory_." "the victory class," said docchi. "the biggest thing built. at one time it was intended for interstellar service, before the gravity drive fizzled." "that's how they were able to do it," said cameron. "i've been wondering how they were able to send a ship after us so soon, even allowing for the fact that we've been gone longer than it seems to us, maybe two or three months instead of six weeks." he had nothing definite to go on but in docchi's opinion the time was closer to half a year. "right. since the ships were already there rusting in the spaceport all they had to do was clean them up and add an information unit to the drive. they may have started work on it while we were in the solar system, when they were still looking for nona." the special irony was that our own discoveries were being used against them. nona's first, the resurrected drive, and then his own not negligible contribution. docchi himself had told them. his thoughtless remark that the drive would function without nona had been relayed back to earth. vogel the engineer had probably picked it up and sent the information on. someone would have chanced on the idea anyway, but he had given them weeks. and a week was of incalculable importance--planets could be won or lost. cameron was silent as they walked on. "there's a ship but we don't know where. let's not worry until we find where it's going." docchi didn't answer. that the scanner nona had built was capable of detecting a ship between the stars indicated a tremendous range--old style. but distances had shrunk lately. there was a ship behind them and it wasn't far. neither was it on a pleasure jaunt. at the hospital steps they conferred briefly and then separated, cameron leaving to find jeriann. docchi went into his office and tried unsuccessfully to locate jordan. ultimately he gave it up. jordan had his own ideas of what was important and lately had been mysteriously concerned with some undertaking he refused to disclose. he had even tried to conceal that there was something he was working on. docchi switched his efforts and finally contacted webber. at a time like this they needed what support they could get. webber was not a substitute for jordan but he'd do. the person he'd most have liked to have along was anti but she couldn't leave the prison, her tank. they missed her. they always would as long as she was confined. docchi sat down while he waited for webber. he needed the rest. he had been hoping that the pursuit would not begin as soon as it had. they would find some way to throw off the ship behind them--but it was not the biggest threat. * * * * * "do you suppose she hid here when the guards were looking for her?" said webber. "doesn't seem likely," said docchi, trying to keep up. the other's composite body gave him strength he wasn't aware of. docchi couldn't match the effortless stride, the endurance. "guards searched here too." they had, but how thoroughly? the asteroid had once been a planet, a world with an atmosphere, oceans, lakes, streams. water had seeped into the ground, creating imperceptible weaknesses in the crust. and long ago when the catastrophe came it had struck suddenly. the planet had been split with such violence that whole chunks had been hurled apart, each one intact except that the shock had enlarged on the work begun by water. faults became underground caverns, tortuous caverns in the rock that intersected the man-made tunnel. no matter what their orders were, the guards wouldn't have been anxious to explore too far. under the stress of unusual gravity fissures could close again on the unwary--it was possible they'd made only a token search here. "if we come here often there ought to be an easier way than this," said webber as they went along. docchi had been thinking of it. he would be able to tell when he saw it whether it would be possible to move the scanner. if so a good place might be in gravity center. as nearly as he could tell it was almost directly overhead. voices sprang out of the tunnel as they neared the destination. "don't know what's keeping them," grumbled jordan. "maybe we ought not to wait." "he was looking for you," said jeriann, her voice carrying in the stillness of the underground. "he said it was urgent for you to be here." "a few minutes won't hurt," said cameron. "lucky we found you when we did or you'd have missed it." "what do you mean, lucky?" growled jordan. "i was on my way here when you yelled." "have you seen it in operation?" said jeriann. "cameron said you found the place." "if i had i'd have told you. the scanner wasn't finished last time i was here. i figured nona would let us know when she was ready." the tunnel turned sharply and though they could hear jordan's voice the words were indistinct. it was a quirk of acoustics because, as they travelled on, utter silence descended. they could hear nothing at all until the tunnel curved again and they entered the cavern. he glanced around once before they were noticed. the nine geepee heads cameron had described were almost indiscernible under the mass of circuitry that covered them. nona had improved the scanner. he could identify some of the components but the arrangement was totally unfamiliar. he thought he could trace the basic outline. it was a gravity device of some kind, what kind he wasn't sure. if he had thought about it previously he would have realized it practically had to be that. "they're here," said jeriann at his side, and he hadn't seen how she'd got there. seconds before she'd been arguing with jordan and now she was next to him. jordan looked up and nona clipped a few connections in place. she stayed close to the doctor. "we all know what we came for so there's no need for preliminaries," said docchi. "cameron, can you tell nona to start the scanner?" "my communication is rather primitive," said cameron with a slight smile. "however----" he had no time to say more. nona didn't move but the scanner responded. a shape glowed, a vague nebula, far away. it came closer and the nebula dissolved--it was a ship. there was darkness all around and yet the ship wasn't dark. the lights that streamed out of the ports couldn't account for this, there was nothing to reflect it on the hull. radar was one explanation, a gravity radar. the impulses left the asteroid, traversed the space to the far away object and bounced back--in no-time. "it's a military ship," said jordan. "the biggest." the ship rocked a little or perhaps the scanner resolved the image better. the name began to swing into sight. "tory," repeated webber when he was able to read it. "victory. and victory always ends with _tory_." "star victory," said jeriann as the ship rotated and the full name grew visible. "they're premature. they haven't won yet." "but how far away?" growled jordan. "we ought to know the power of the screen." the scanner wasn't calibrated and so they didn't know the distance. later nona might add that refinement but if she didn't there was practically no way of telling her what they wanted. now there was merely a three quarter view, the nose of the ship and enough to make out that the rockets weren't flaring. gravity drive of course. but they knew that. "we've seen it," said webber flatly. "now what?" "we're not going to let them take us," said jeriann. "docchi will think of something." her confidence wasn't warranted. actually he'd done little to bring them this far. intellectual force perhaps. he had turned discontent into something positive--and joint action had so far overcome the obstacles. but it was nona who had given them the power to make the action worthwhile. and she was limited too--there would come an end to the seemingly endless flow of invention. there were circumstances against which no ingenuity could prevail. at the present they needed more to go on. they knew there was a ship behind them. the relationship had to be defined. space was vast and they might be able to elude the pursuer. they had to find out where the ship was. they looked at nona. she was standing close to cameron, very close. she seemed to know what was expected of her, a mass rapport. she touched the doctor wonderingly as he smiled down at her and then she went to the scanner, working on it, changing the connections with negligent skill. the ship wavered as she worked. it disappeared for seconds and when it came back it was rapidly approaching the viewing surface of the scanner. closer--they touched the hull--and then they were inside, gazing out of a screen. jordan frowned. "they've duplicated the drive--have they duplicated her scanner?" "i don't think so," said docchi. "they have telescreens of short range. but there's no reason why two completely different systems can't be spliced together." they were looking at an empty room and no one came in. impatiently nona touched the connections and the scene dissolved, shifted and blurred and when it cleared they were elsewhere, another screen, a different room. a broadshouldered man hunched over a desk, muttering and scratching his scalp. he signed his name several times; one of the sheets he crumpled and discarded, first tearing out his signature. the rest of the documents he dispatched in a slot. when he turned around they saw it was general judd. he reached hastily for the switch but withdrew his hand before it got there. "well, the orphans have come back, hand in hand." he smirked with calm deliberation. "or should i say arm in arm, cameron?" docchi noticed it if no one else did. the general hadn't called cameron a doctor. as far as the medicouncil was concerned cameron probably no longer was. it was the final proof, if docchi had needed it; of which side cameron was on. "we have a whole new alignment," continued the general. "cameron with nona, and our rebellious engineer with jeriann." docchi's face began to glitter but he caught the light as it surged through his veins, willing it to stop before it showed in his skin. "we haven't come back, general. we didn't think it would hurt to talk, though, if you don't mind." "i never mind a little chat, docchi. always willing to hear what the other fellow has to say--as long as he comes to the point." the general thought his position was strong enough that he could be as insulting as he wanted. he was very nearly right. "first we'd like to know what you want." "our terms haven't changed a bit. turn around and go back." judd smiled broadly, an official wolfish expression. "we don't insist you return to the same orbit. in fact it might be better if you moved the asteroid closer to earth." where the medicouncil could keep a perpetual watch. and where they would swing through the heavens forever in sight of earth but never a part of it. "naturally we don't accept," said docchi. "however we don't reject negotiations completely. there are some of us who might go back for one reason or another--homesickness mostly. if you're willing we can make arrangements to transfer them to your ship." "ah, trouble," said the general gravely, trying to conceal his delight. "and i think i know where the trouble is. we came fully prepared for every emergency that we--or you--might meet. the medicouncil is very thorough." the picture of maureen crouched in a darkened room, whimpering through clenched teeth that she didn't want ever to see anyone. the tautness as one set of muscles extended her hand toward the door and another set tore it away. and there were other images, vague now, but in time they could become threatening. the medicouncil _had_ foreseen this; there were biologicals on the ship to cure maureen. docchi's face twitched and he hoped the general didn't notice. "i haven't checked to see how many are willing to go with you. i will, if it's satisfactory." "don't bother," said the general. "in case you weren't listening, i didn't say that we're a cozy little group of altruists, just anxious as hell to take over your responsibilities. the biologicals are here. you'll get them when we land a crew to make sure you do go back. my orders are very plain. we want all of you--or none." "you know what we'll say," said docchi. "none of us, of course." the letdown was less than he expected. he'd half known the conditions; it was consistent with all the attitudes toward accidentals--once human but now not quite. it was a typical way to ease their conscience--load the ship with every medical supply--and then refuse those in need unless they all came back. "we're getting along quite nicely without your help," he continued, and if it was less true than he liked, it was more so than the general realized. "one thing, judd, don't try to land _without_ our consent." "so you still think we're stupid," said the general affably, at ease in the situation. _he didn't expect us to surrender_, thought docchi. _then why had he asked?_ "we won't attempt to land until you cooperate. you will. sooner or later you will." "i hardly think so. we decided that a long time ago." the general shrugged. "suit yourself. remember we're not vindictive, we're not trying to punish you. we do insist that you're sick and helpless. you'll have to come back and be placed under competent medical care." he glanced amusedly at cameron. "you don't act as if we're helpless," said jeriann. "dangerously sick," said the general. "have you ever heard of hysteria, in which the patient must be protected against himself--and he may hurt others?" he was fingering a chart on the desk, had been all the while he was talking. he examined it briefly and then looked up. "what goes on here? how can you talk across this distance?" "it took you a long time to realize it, general. we're _not_ right next to you." again it was docchi's bad habit to talk too much but there was a reason for it and this time he wasn't telling the general anything he wouldn't figure out for himself. the general's jaw hardened and he pawed futilely at the switch. "how do we do it?" said docchi. "it's our secret." but the general didn't reply and he wouldn't reveal the information docchi wanted. nona finally broke the connection at her end. webber breathed noisily as the image faded. he stamped the mechanical foot, echoes rolling through the cavern. "will somebody tell me why the general's so polite? why won't he land unless we ask him to?" "it's not consideration," said docchi. "the asteroid's much larger than his ship, and nearly as fast. did you ever try to land on a stationary port?" webber looked abashed. "i keep forgetting we're moving." "sure. aside from the fact we could smash his ship and it wouldn't inconvenience us unless it hit the dome, not a very large part of the total surface, what else can he do? come close and try to send out men in space suits? we veer off and leave them stranded until he picks them up. if he wants to we'll play tag half way across the galaxy with him." "so he can't land," said webber, gaining assurance. "why didn't i think of the reasons?" "because one man can't figure out everything," said jeriann. "if there was just nona we'd still be back in the solar system. or docchi by himself, or jordan, or anti. together we get the answers." so far--but it might not always hold true. docchi was worried by the general's lack of concern. he hadn't expected to contact the accidentals but when they'd got in touch with him he wasn't startled. he knew what to do because he had been told. he wasn't a fast thinker who could improvise, his specialty was carrying out a plan. but if judd was not at first disconcerted he'd made up for it when he became aware they weren't using conventional communication. docchi would have given a lot to see the chart the general had. he'd tried to provoke the officer but the ruse hadn't been effective. the general knew the distance between the ship and the asteroid, but he hadn't revealed it. webber walked noisily to the scanner, peering into the circuits. "the general's communication experts will be working overtime for a while," he remarked. "for the rest of the voyage. they'll know the scanner's a gravity device but that won't help them." it was another count against them. communication at practically unlimited range was not a prize easily given up. but what they really wanted was nona. indirectly she'd given them back the gravity drive, and now this. and they would think, rightly, that there was more where these inventions came from. he wished anti were here to advise them. docchi looked around to ask jordan about her but he was already gone. cameron was standing quietly in a corner with nona, talking to her in a low voice while she smiled and smiled. webber was still looking into the scanner. only jeriann was waiting for him. now that the general had mentioned it, docchi wondered if she really was waiting for him--and for how long. anti looked up at the dome. it was all she could see with comfort. stars changed less than she would have believed. the patterns were substantially the same as on earth. brightness varied with rotation, that was the main difference. now those overhead were brilliant and that meant she was facing the direction they were travelling. she wondered which was alpha and which proxima centauri. she never had been able to recognize them. she extended one arm, splashing acid. lately there were times she had to keep moving if she didn't want to freeze. it wasn't pleasant but she could endure it for the sake of walking some day. there were degrees of helplessness and no one else, even here, was completely immobilized, confined completely to a specialized environment. she had forgotten much of the past and couldn't see far into the future. perhaps it wasn't worth looking into. "quiet, you'll scare the fish." she paddled around until she could see jordan. "if you find fish who can live in this, throw them in. i'll welcome any kind of company." "maybe cameron can mutate fish to stand the cold," suggested jordan. "or if that fails he can always transfer the fungus to them." "i don't wish it on anything, even a fish." "it wouldn't hurt. besides, it might make them immortal." "thanks. i like fish, but not as playmates. they're better on a plate." "barbaric," said jordan. "i prefer scientific food, synthetics. wholly removed from the taint of the living creature. something that didn't die in quick agony so that you could smack your lips. germ free, compounded of balanced elements." "came from nature myself," said anti. "uncivilized though it is, i prefer nutrition from the same source." "you're confusing yourself," commented jordan. "synthetics contain everything necessary for life. when was the last time jeriann ate?" "longer than she cares to remember. besides you're quibbling. she gets concentrates, which is not the same as synthetics." "a minor point," conceded jordan, coming closer. "however i didn't intend to talk about food." "i don't care what it is as long as you talk. i need conversation too." "there's nona," began jordan. "exceptions, exceptions. what do i care except that i get tired of staring up at nothing? sometimes i wish they'd planted the tank at the entrance to the hospital. people'd have to stop and talk." "for a while i was thinking of that." "no you don't," said anti. "there are useful things that have to be done." "i abandoned the idea when i considered what your viewpoint would be. but we did move the tank once." "never again. anyway geepees are scarce and who else could do it?" "i could," said jordan. he added quickly: "it's a joke." he swung along the tank until he was as close as he could get without toppling in. "instead of something you'd forget once i left, i brought a gift." "what is it? i can't see from this angle." "it's a belt." "you doll. it's beautiful." "no it's not--merely wonderful." "i know. save it for me, till later. it will go swoosh if acid touches it." "it positively will not react. i took care of that. there are some metals that are just about inert. it wasn't easy to cover it but i did." "you made it for me. you shouldn't have." jordan puzzled himself with it. he hadn't much to do with it. at the most he'd made a protective covering for it. nona was solely responsible for the way it functioned. and there was no doubt whom she intended it for; that was why he hadn't hesitated taking it. and yet, why hadn't she turned it over to anti? it was working perfectly the first time he saw it. the logical answer was that it wasn't in operating condition, that she couldn't make it work and had laid it aside for further inspiration. but this led to nonsensical conclusions involving the repair robot. he refused to accept the conclusions. "let's say i didn't make it entirely. i added to what was existing." he swung the belt out to her. "are you sure it will fit? i'm quite big." "originally it wouldn't. i had to make it longer." anti examined the belt at length. "hammered link effect. primitive but striking." jordan blushed. "i thought it was a pretty smooth job. i had to do it by hand." "it is," exclaimed anti. "you have a strong unconscious sense of design." with trepidation she lowered it in the acid and when nothing happened she fastened it. "there," she said in triumph. "the first piece of jewelry in years. i feel like a new woman." "you are, anti. believe me, you are." she laughed giddily. "it's silly, but i do believe it. it's amazing what jewelry will do for a woman." "it's not exactly jewelry." jordan tried to think of how to explain it. anti was unscientific, or better--prescientific. "think of it as a complicated machine that's remotely connected to your mind." "my mind? am i supposed to be telepathic now? is that what it is? can i talk with anyone, no matter at what distance they are?" "no, you're not telepathic except well maybe in a certain way." jordan was silent, trying to sort the explanation. it never occurred to her that machines operated at different levels, many of them simultaneously, electrical or electromagnetic, others more subtle. jordan gave up. "think of what you'd most like to do." "it's no use, jordan. i won't torment myself. i know how long it's going to take." he should have kept it and demonstrated. that would have convinced her. he would never forget the first time he had worn it--and nearly frightened himself off the ceiling. he cast about for other ways but nothing else was necessary. anti was thinking of what she'd forbidden herself to contemplate. "there," said jordan, his voice rough with pride. "i knew you'd get the hang of it." "why didn't you say so?" said anti. "the gravity computer. my mind and _that_ mind." for a prescientific person she'd grasped the essentials quickly. "jordan, maybe you should keep it," she called. "you can use it as well as i can." "i don't need it," he said. "nobody's heard me complaining. and you can't, or couldn't move." he gazed at her in alarm. "come on down," he shouted. "you can't catch the stars by yourself." "you think i can't?" said anti. "i'll come closer to it than anyone who ever lived." nevertheless she obeyed his instructions, sinking slowly until her feet touched the ground. the grass crackled and smouldered, though it was green, bursting into flame where she walked as the acid dripped down. and it was walking, though her legs carried only a fraction of her real weight. the rest of the weight was destroyed for her convenience by the gravity computer as it responded continually and repeatedly to her unspoken commands. "the doctor will be surprised," muttered jordan. "not as much as i am," said anti. "i can fly if i want, but do you know, i'd rather walk." * * * * * docchi teetered on the chair. not much; if he fell he had no way of stopping himself, and there was the devil's own time getting up. "i'm speechless," he said. "so was cameron," said anti. "i imagine. he didn't expect his prognosis to be disproved so soon." docchi righted the chair. "this is the thing jordan's been working on." "he said he didn't have much to do with it. he would." anti moved warily. the acid soaked robe had stopped dripping but there was enough left to react with subdued violence if she came into contact with the wrong substance. "the best is i'm already stronger--using my muscles more. i don't have an exact way of knowing since there aren't gadgets and dials in my mind but it seems to me i can support a lot more of my weight. maybe i can walk unaided at quarter gravity." docchi let the calls, of which there were several, go unattended. it was the first big personal victory for any accidental and it was heartening amidst the general uncertainties. "fine, fine. but how long can you continue? won't you revert?" "cameron says i won't. he made several tests which indicate the virulence of the fungus. he says the body conquers." and for her it had. the biological mechanism had reached the point of strength wherein it could contain the attenuated invasion with little outside help. after some indefinite period the menace would be reduced, finally vanquished, utterly and forever. the body conquered. "cameron says it will be enough to sleep in the tank. i don't mind, though i won't get much sleep. i feel the cold now, though not as much as anyone else would. "for the rest i'll increase the weight on my legs as much as i can. it's almost automatic; no buttons to push except mentally. if i get tired i think myself lighter." the mechanism couldn't be improved on. it was a portable null gravity field that fit neatly around her and touched nothing else. and if anti had reported jordan's views correctly, it was impossible to build another like it because they didn't have the parts. it was an excellent device but not of great importance except to anti. jordan could use one too and so could a number of others though they wouldn't get it. it replaced legs and was more efficient in all respects save appearance. there was nothing, however, that was a substitute for hands. "now that you're up and moving, what do you want to do?" he said. "you must be anxious to get busy." "it's a funny thing but i'm not," she said. "it sounds queer but i want to look around. i haven't seen anything except what i could glimpse from the tank." docchi rocked back; he'd always thought of her as knowing more about the asteroid than anyone else. in a personal sense she did, having been there longer than anyone he could name. it was said she may even have been responsible for the building of the asteroid, so they'd have some place to put her. it might be true. "go ahead. jordan will show you around. you don't have to be in a hurry to take a job." anti rose a few inches to show that she could. "first i want to visit the laboratory nona has. i want to see the ship that's after us. i know they haven't given up just because they can't land." he felt so too though he hadn't figured out what they could do. "let me know if anything occurs to you." when she left, walking by preference, the responsibilities came back, maureen and other deficients with various degrees of disability, the ship with undetermined resources behind them, stars and planets ahead of them, unknown or vaguely guessed at, mysterious. they'd reach their goal but all of the accidentals might not survive. anti alone was better off but there were others who were not. it was depressing at times, so much freedom and so little to show for it. docchi went back to work but the image of the ship kept rising up out of the countless important and unimportant decisions he had to make. what did they plan to do? late the following day anti returned. she marched in determinedly and sat down. it was no longer remarkable that a few chairs would fit her. she'd never be mistaken for someone else, but her bulk had diminished considerably and her weight was whatever she wanted. that the chair didn't collapse in a soggy mass or burst into flame was an indication that jordan had found a way to neutralize the acid that clung to her without reducing the medical effectiveness. "nice place we have," she remarked. "didn't realize it was so pretty." "there are others who disagree." "they don't really see it. the only thing i don't like is the ship." "neither do i. what do you think?" "well----" anti hesitated. "what did it look like to you?" he described it as he remembered, answering the questions with which she kept interrupting. after he finished she was silent, nodding to herself as if he wasn't there. "you know what i think," she said. "you saw it three quarters, from the front. when i looked it was flatter. they're gaining." docchi glanced out the window. "anti, they can't land here unless we let them--and we won't. what else can they do?" "it's a military ship. they've got the force to stop us." "not without shattering the dome, or blowing the place apart. and they won't. you don't cure a sick person by killing him, and for their own peace of mind they've convinced themselves that we're sick." "so we're safe there," commented anti dubiously. "they figured at first they'd sneak up and land before we knew it. the scanner squashed that. but they had other plans from the very beginning, what they'd do if we discovered them in time." she nodded and nodded. "well, if it was me and i couldn't stop somebody, i'd try to get where they're going before they did. it ties right in, doesn't it? they don't want us to contact aliens. all they have to do is get there first." of course. it was very plain, but anxiety had prevented his seeing it. fearfulness was often next door to stupidity. whoever got there first controlled the situation even more than anti realized. he began to suspect the depth of preparation that was against them, the intense fury and careful planning they had to overcome. mankind was capable of more hatred for its own kind than it ever expended against outsiders. methodically docchi began kicking open switches. "you're right, anti," he said. "but i think there are ways to see that they don't get there first." he was lying blithely, perhaps as much because he didn't want to face what he foresaw. "if those don't work, and there's a chance they won't, we have an unexpected ally." "who?" "not who, what. distance." it was a most preposterous untruth. "if we don't get there in time we'll let them have both of the centauris. we'll go on to the next star." "you can always think of some way out," said anti as tiny lights began to flash on the panel. the flickering confusion there matched his emotions. "jordan?" he said urgently when the latter appeared on the screen. and after that there was webber and anyone else who knew something about electronics or could be taught with a minimum of instruction. they were willing to drive themselves to exhaustion but there was no substitute for technical superiority. "now don't worry," said anti after he'd finished summoning everyone who could help. "i have a feeling they can't stop us no matter what they do." "that so?" he said. "which toe tells you that, or is it an ache in your bones? think it will rain tomorrow?" "don't laugh," said anti, rising and leaving with him as he hurried out. "i have confidence in what we're able to do together." it was a good thing someone did. * * * * * "maureen's getting worse," said jeriann. "i need more power." there was a tiny bead of sweat on her temple, the first docchi had seen since ordinarily she didn't perspire. "how much worse? i'd like to see her." jeriann made a final adjustment on the machine but didn't straighten up immediately as if it disturbed her to contemplate what went on in her own mind. she snapped the synthesizer on and turned around, brushing the hair away from her eyes. "do you think your diagnosis is better than cameron's?" "i wasn't doubting his ability." "you'll have to take our word for it. i can see her because i'm a woman and she hardly reacts to me. cameron can visit her because she's been conditioned to accept him. even so he has to take precautions. the hypnotics control only the surface of her mind." "what precautions?" "sprays that plasticize his skin. by now her senses are far keener than ours. the doctor has a cosmetic technician recreate his face, something impersonal with which she had no association." "i'll take your word for it. i don't want to see her under those conditions. but you didn't answer my question: how much worse?" the smock was clearly a laboratory garment to protect the wearer from chemical irritation and the chemicals from human contamination. it was only incidental there was a certain light in which it was almost transparent. jeriann became aware she was standing in such a light and swished the smock angrily around her and moved out of the illumination. "i can tell you this: neither cameron nor i will be responsible for keeping her alive longer than three weeks, _unless i get that power_." "is this what cameron said?" "it's my own idea. i know more about this machine than he does. but you can ask him. he'll back me up." docchi didn't doubt her but there was more to think of than the fate of one individual. "you're just guessing, aren't you? there's a chance, if you experiment wildly enough, you'll find the right compounds." "please," said jeriann. "it will only be for a few weeks. less than that if it works the way i think it will." "what about the other deficients? they need biologicals too." "they can wait and maureen can't." reluctantly he gave consent. "then you can have all the power you need, for the next few days anyway. after that we'll see." "you're a dear." jeriann walked through the lab, inspecting it critically from every angle. "of course i'll need help. part of the trouble is that we can't get enough power to the machine, we're not using it to the full capacity. with larger power connections we'll be able to turn out stuff we haven't touched on before." he shook his head. "that wasn't in the bargain. you can have all the power the existing lines will take. but we can't spare men to install new lines. the technicians we have are busy elsewhere." "it's such a little thing," she coaxed. "the machine's not a sledge hammer that smashes molecules apart and then crushes them into a new chemical alignment. it's a keen instrument, an ultramicrosize knife that slits delicately here and there and then slides the separated atoms together to form a different molecule." "i'm not arguing about power," he said adamantly. "i said you can have it and you can. trained men you can't. i'll see if i can spare them after what they're working on is finished." she stopped as if she'd stumbled into a taut wire she hadn't noticed. she looked at him thoughtfully and strolled back to the synthesizer, under the light that shone down and provocatively through the smock. she wore other clothing but that too seemed almost to vanish. "for me, won't you? just a few men for a few days. it means a lot to maureen." "i can't let you have technicians now," he said obstinately. she glanced at him curiously, sauntering closer as if to get a better look. "i forgot. cameron has nona, hasn't he? they're going to get married as soon as he can figure out a simple ceremony. and now you hate women, don't you? that's why you won't give maureen the same chance you'd give a man." he rocked back under the cold hatred. he had no idea she was capable of such venom. "you're reading into my emotions something that was never there. i'm glad nona found someone she can respond to. but why are you so concerned with maureen? you never liked her." "what rationalization," she said bitterly. "it makes no difference what i thought about her. she's going to die if i don't help her, and i will. i'd expect the same from anyone else." "jeriann," he said but she was gone, tearing the smock off and thrusting it on a hook, leaving him alone beside a machine that alternately hummed and purred in oily accents. he stared at it with complete lack of interest as the cycle changed. the synthesizer grunted with satisfied pride and three drops of a colorless fluid were discharged into a retort. if there was no other way they could save maureen by contacting the expedition behind them. they had the supplies jeriann was trying vainly to duplicate. but that was surrender and the only alternative was to go ahead as planned. docchi left the laboratory, taking the long way around to avoid the doctor's office. cameron wouldn't put the same pressure on him that jeriann had--no one could. why did she have to think he was responsible? the dimensions of the place were fear, panic and loneliness. it was no-time or all-time, the endless instant of survival--or less. it was light or it wasn't, the illumination of the closed mind, the intellect turned in on itself, perception curled backward while it reached for the outside world. it was a universe which neither existed nor would ever quite vanish. and there wasn't a sound. to the distorted senses, wavering and uncertain, sounds could be masculine. "yes?" said maureen poutingly. "where are you now?" but she couldn't hear what she said. so she stopped speaking. it was forbidden. the bloodstream left her heart and had no path but to return deviously. it travelled darkly with many branches, pounding, flushed with oxygen from the lung machines. the mind was turned inward. the body was turned inward. life had no place to go. it was out of balance. her feet touched the floor and she got out of bed. the flesh was heavy. the tube in her chest whistled with exertion. there was oxygen, too much of it, but there was no substitute for the regulative substances her body didn't have. she was falling apart, pulled apart by the wild dissimilar tendencies of all her cells. she kept on walking until she lunged against a wall. her nose splayed to one side but her veins weren't ready to bleed. there was nothing to tell them to let out the red drops. she fell down and got up, walking on, banging against the wall. she could never find anyone she knew. after a while she realized the person she missed most was herself. why was it light without being light and dark with no darkness? her eyes had forgotten they were supposed to see. she sat down in the middle of the floor and began plucking at the hospital gown, pulling it apart thread by thread. her mind said she didn't feel what she touched but she didn't believe everything. she practiced playing tricks on her thoughts. there were so many tricks to play and such few thoughts. she sat there, pretending to listen to something that nobody said. she waved her fingers languidly and closed her eyes with deep regret, lips curved for the kiss that wasn't given. cameron came in and hurried out after one glimpse, calling for jeriann. the deterioration was proceeding more rapidly than he expected. there were not three weeks left. it might be less than three days. * * * * * webber nodded and went on working, aware that anti was watching the coordination of his dissimilar arms and legs. it didn't disturb the rhythm of his movements. anti moved to the other side to get a better view of what he was doing and as she did so remembered what she'd come for. "so that's why i couldn't get a book. what's wrong?" "nothing. we're tearing it down to move it." "why move it? this is where the books are." he bent over the mechanism, disconnecting it. "i don't know. you'll have to ask docchi." he knew but was too engrossed to stop. jordan could tell her but he wasn't here. she wandered through the library but found no one who could or would give her information. what made it worse was, with the librarian torn apart, there wasn't a book available. she was curiously perturbed. she knew where she could find docchi, at gravity center where he had taken over the quarters formerly occupied by vogel. more and more the asteroid was beginning to resemble a ship and if there was a definite control area it was located in gravity center. the first thing she saw when she entered the low structure--most of the gravity installation was underground--was the scanner. it had changed; the last trace of the makeshift origin had disappeared. it was metal encased and dials and switches replaced connections formerly made by hand. these alterations were nona's but bringing it here was docchi's idea. anti frowned contemplatively; it wasn't far in straight distances from where nona had originally constructed it, but the labor involved in carrying it through miles of tunnels and then overland to where it was now standing--that was considerable effort. it didn't square with what jeriann had told her. she found docchi a few stories below the entrance level, somewhere near the actual gravity computers. he looked up and then wriggled his head out of the harness. "have you come to help, anti?" "nope. i've got a complaint." his smile wasn't appreciative. "the headquarters for that are in the other division." she ignored the reference to jeriann. "i'd help if i could but i'm ignorant. and you're keeping me from learning." "the library?" "of course. i can't get a single book." he looked at the design he'd been working on and then reluctantly stepped out of the machine which enabled him to put his ideas on paper. "don't stop drawing because of me," said anti. "it was nearly done. jordan can carry on from there." he sat down while anti remained standing, balancing an imaginary basket of fruit on her head. the years in the tank had ruined her posture. "i'm sorry we had to take the librarian but you can still get books. i've figured out a formula." "first i have to be a mathematician and then i've got to crawl back in the stacks? there must be places no one can get to, especially tapes and music." "that's the way it is. we'll have to go over the whole setup, relocate the stacks and train human librarians." "seems like a waste when what we had was working perfectly." "we had to do it if we want to get to centauri before they do." he jerked his head to indicate out there. "but what good is it? the librarian is just a----" she closed her mouth. "just a memory system? that's what we need to duplicate the drive they have. of course the librarian remembers the wrong thing but we're changing that." "can't we do it in some other way?" "not in time with the facilities we have. maybe nona could but the rest of us are just humans." "well, what's wrong with her?" "nothing. if you can get her interested in building a control unit i'll step aside." "why build it? she _is_ the control." "now she is, but there are a number of reasons why a mechanical control is better. for one thing we don't know how much of her attention it requires. the drive may not function at all when she isn't consciously thinking about it." "but the gravity never stops." "true, but does it apply to acceleration? we can't measure that." "you're working on a lot of suppositions--it may do this--it may not do that." "we don't have to guess at one thing, anti. the expedition is gaining on us. and _they_ are using a mechanical control." anti looked over at the drawing docchi had made. a bunch of squiggles. "you know more about it than i do. if it's your opinion that this is what we should have, then we ought to. to me it seems that another kind of control won't make much difference." "review what we have. a nuclear pile that supplies all the power, a set of gravity coils, and three computers. one computer figures the gravity for the asteroid. another calculates the propulsive force. the third, we think, actuates the scanner. nona may rotate the duties among the computers and the unit we're building will do the same. "but this is what we can do that nona doesn't: we'll cut everything to a minimum except the drive. gravity, light, heat, all the personal conveniences will be cut to the least we can stand." anti rose a few inches and thought herself back to the floor. "this is what you'll do if it works the way you imagine." "it will, anti." docchi's face was set. "nona's too considerate. as long as she has it she won't impose the sacrifices we're glad to make ourselves. we're taking it out of her hands." if they needed somebody to make hard decisions, docchi was the man. it was a crusade with him and he was willing to drive everyone the same as himself. anti looked at his face and decided against the question she'd come to ask. "sounds grim, but you're right. we're willing if there's a chance we'll get there first. what can i do to help?" "reorganize the library. get assistants to reach in the places too small for you. collect the medical texts first. cameron may need them." "a thankless job," muttered anti. "i started out to _read_ a book." docchi smiled. "i thought you had enough of sedentary life." "i have, but not enough of books. picture and music tapes were easy to get in the tank but they didn't make acid proof books. limited demand, i suppose." "here's the formula i've worked out. books are selected according to subject and author, filed according to size and date received." he went over the procedure until she had it straight. "i guess i can do it," she said dubiously. "but why not start at one end and go through to the other side of the stacks?" "you've got to segregate the medical references first." belated compensation because he had refused jeriann? perhaps, but he was not that simple. if anything it was just recognition of what came first in importance. "a tedious job," she grumbled as she started to leave. "it is. but, except for what we are as persons and what we create in the future, it's the total of our human heritage. it's the last we'll get." "sometimes i believe----" said anti. "oh, never mind what a huge old woman thinks." she went out the door and when she came back seconds later docchi was again drawing. "yes, anti?" "you can start cutting down on me. i won't mind." "when it's necessary i'll take you up on it. i don't think it will be. it doesn't take much power to run the computers and they're always functioning anyway. and when we drop to quarter gravity, which is the minimum we'll go, you won't actually need your gadget. you see, you're not holding us back." "just the same if it will help i'll stay in the tank." his face glittered and his eyes strayed back to the work. "if it's necessary i'll ask you," he repeated. anti left again, secure in the knowledge that he would do as he said. in his own way docchi was as ruthless as judd. but the purpose was different and therefore the comparison not accurate. strength was not easy to define. * * * * * the librarian resembled an angular metallic squid spread out to dry on the floor. docchi picked his way through the wiry tentacles, scrutinizing the work of the crew. he squatted near webber, watching him splice and adjust the components, briefly giving advice and then moving on to the next man. the librarian was dormant but to docchi's practiced eye it was nearly ready to be recalled to the semi-life of a memory machine. jordan came swinging in. docchi heard him and turned. he knew who it was by the sound but seemed disappointed to find his judgment confirmed. "the star chart drum is finished," said jordan, pausing at the tangle of wires. "most of the observed data on the neighboring stars is included. of course all the locations are figured from earth." "it's all right. the computers won't mind making the conversions." with his foot docchi nudged a tool toward him that webber was reaching for. "what about the crossover relays?" "done too, waiting to be tied in. guaranteed to switch from one computer to the other before even they realize what's happening." "good. the next thing is the impulse recognition hunter. last night i thought of a way to make the selection tighter. here, i'll show you." docchi went to a diagram strewn desk and waited while jordan pawed through the sheets for him. "there it is," he said when jordan uncovered it. jordan studied it in silence. "can't make it," he said at last. "why not? it's not difficult." "yeah. but we can't manage the delivery from earth. don't have all the parts here." jordan scratched his chest. "tell you what. think i can rob nonessential stuff and put together something like this." he took a pencil and began to sketch rapidly. "it'll do," said docchi, finally approving it after a number of changes. jordan scratched in the alterations. "why so tight?" he complained, folding the sheet and tucking it away. "the computers don't have to be controlled so tight. they never have disobeyed." "i know, and i'm not going to give them a chance. every watt we allot must be used on the drive and for no other purpose." privately jordan doubted it was necessary. when he thought of the great nuclear pile that warmed the heart of the asteroid and drove them on he didn't see how a mere ship, no matter how efficient, could surpass them. true, the ship was travelling faster now but that was because they weren't exerting their full energies. and when they did--jordan shrugged and creased the paper again, swinging away. at the door he swerved to miss jeriann. "hi," he said, hurrying a little faster. it was none of his concern what went on but he didn't have to be around when it blew up. jeriann returned the greeting and stood at the entrance. "may i come in?" "certainly. there's no sign it's restricted to electronic technicians." webber winked at her and bent his head over his work. docchi was expressionless. "i want to talk to you," she said. "about maureen? i've heard. go ahead." she'd hoped he'd suggest a more private place but it was evident he didn't want to be alone with her. she didn't altogether blame him. "what i asked for the other day wasn't very realistic. it was mostly my fault. i had at least a month to think of getting a larger power supply to the machine but i thought i could get along without it. it was my own shortsightedness and i had no reason to expect you to drop what you're doing." "you don't have to apologize. we're all trying to do our best--and various needs do conflict. actually i might have found some way to run the extra power line if i hadn't been sure it was an act of pure desperation, that you had no idea of what you were going to do with it when you got it." what made it worse was that he was right. the impulse had been irrational, the feeling that there must be something that would help. he should have said he was at fault too, that he should have built the command unit months ago. it made no difference he hadn't known there was a ship behind them. he should have said it. "it's over," she said. "we've done what we could. i thought you'd like to see her while there's time." "i can't leave for another ten hours. none of us can. we've got to get it wrapped up if it's going to be of any use at all," said docchi, looking at what remained to be done. "wait. you said i can see her. sounds to me like she's better." he scanned her face hopefully. she shook her head. "it doesn't mean that. we've stopped using hypnotics because they're no longer effective. heavy sedatives, extremely heavy, are the only things that keep her from jumping up and running out to die." his face was sallow. this was one of the times his slender shoulderless body seemed frailer than it was. "i'll come as soon as i can get away. we're near the finish line on this." he turned and walked past webber to the far end of the room, bending over a technician's work to examine it. she was trying to tell him and all he had to do was half listen. nobody blamed either of them. maureen wouldn't, if she were capable of any kind of judgment. from his position among the tangled tentacles of the mechanical squid, seemingly strangled by the motionless machinery, webber winked soberly at her. jeriann bit her lip and hurried out. her eyes burned but that was all. her body was protected against unnecessary fluid loss. it wasn't possible to drive the technicians. they weren't very skilled and the work was delicate. from the beginning they had known the importance of what they were doing and they were already at their top speed and above that no increase in productivity could be achieved. when he said ten hours docchi optimistically thought eighteen. and yet they were done in nine. not because it would help maureen--they knew it wouldn't. but because--well, why? nobody asked for explanations. they made no mistakes; nothing had to be torn down and built again. and the less skilled men, those who puttered from one instruction to the next, stalling between orders, now seemed to anticipate what they would be told and to complete the work before it was given to them. they learned fast and what they didn't know how to do was done right anyway. the wires ceased to resemble tentacles and were neatly arranged in the cabinet of the command unit, formerly the librarian, which was then moved against the wall. calling in jordan and discussing it with him, docchi left the remainder of the work in his capable hands. he was tired all over, inside and out. he didn't want to see anyone die, not someone he had been partly responsible for sentencing, whatever the circumstances. he walked along in the semi-twilight, wishing there was a cool breeze. he hadn't ordered one and so it was missing. before long there wouldn't be any power to spare for circulation of the air. anti met him at the hospital steps, going up with him. "i've been waiting. i didn't want to go in alone." he talked to her briefly and they went on in silence. the asteroid was being diminished, perhaps already had been. they all had first hand knowledge of what death was--at one time or another they'd brushed very near to it--but they were not accustomed to losing the encounter. one of their own kind, who should live for hundreds of years, would not. jeriann heard them and came outside of the hushed room. "i don't know what to say," she whispered. "oh yes i do. i wish i had your face, docchi. you would see it shining." whatever she thought, her face _was_ shining, though not in the same way. he looked into her eyes but they were not easy to read. "you did it," he whispered. "i don't know why i'm talking so low," she said, raising her voice. "it doesn't hurt now. no, i didn't have anything to do with it. come in and see her." maureen was sleeping. her breathing was light but regular as the lung machines responded normally. her skin was waxen but it was not unhealthy. the wrinkles of strain had fallen away and her face was relaxed in the beauty of survival. "go ahead and talk," said cameron from the corner as he bent over an analyzer. "i shot her full of dope. i guess i didn't have to--she'll sleep now no matter what you do." "thanks, doctor," said docchi. "we're lucky to have you." "not half as lucky as i am to be here. damnedest thing i ever saw. my colleagues wouldn't believe it." carefully he closed the analyzer and rolled it away. "i forget i no longer have colleagues." "the more remarkable. your efforts alone." "i guess you don't understand. i had nothing to do with it," said cameron. "i was an interested and awed spectator but nothing more. the person who saved maureen was maureen herself." "now how could she?" said anti. "she lacked male hormones and the bodily processes were out of control, upset, running away with themselves." she raised a few inches from the floor to get a better glimpse of the patient. the best refutation of anti's argument was maureen herself. "it couldn't happen to anyone but an accidental," began jeriann, but cameron cut her off. his voice was cool and dry, that of a lecturer. it was the only chance he'd get to share his discovery. "you know why you're biocompensators: the severe injury, and later pulling through with the help of medical science, developing the extraordinary resistance i spoke of. you had to have it or you didn't live. and the resistance remained after the injury was gone. "in maureen's case every function began to be disturbed after the supply of hormones was cut off. it got worse as we were unable to manufacture what she needed. she developed a raging fever and was in a constant state of hallucination. in an earlier era she would have been a mass of cancerous tissue. fortunately we are now able to control cancer quite simply. "at any rate she was rapidly reaching the state where there was no coordination at all. death should have been the result--but the body stepped in." "yes, but how?" said anti. "i don't know but i'm going to find out," said cameron. "last time i tested all the normal hormones were present. somehow, out of tissues that weren't adapted to it, her body built up new organs and glands that supply her with the substances she needs to live." cell by cell the body had refused to die. organs and nerves and tissues had fought the enveloping chaos. the body as a whole and in parts tried to survive but it was not adapted to conditions. so it adapted. nerves forged new paths in places they had never gone before because there was nothing at the end which they could attach to. but by the time they arrived at their destination certain specialized cells had changed their specialty. all cells in the adult body derived from an original one and they remembered though it was long ago. in the endless cellular generations since conception, in the continual microscopic death and rebirth that constitutes the life process, the cells had changed much--but in extremity the change was not irreversible. here a nerve began to fatten its stringy length; it was the beginning of what was later to become a long missing gland. elsewhere a muscle seemed to encyst, adhering to another stray cell, changing both of them, working toward the definite goal. from the brink the body turned and began the slow march toward health. what was missing it learned to replace and what could not be replaced it found substitutes for. cell by cell, with organs and tissues and nerves, the body had fought its own great battle--and won. "spontaneous reconstruction," commented the doctor, touching the forehead of the patient he had not been able to help, merely observe. "it begins where our artificial regenerative processes leave off. i think--oh never mind. there's a lot of development to be done and i don't want to promise anybody something i can't deliver." he eyed docchi's armless body speculatively. webber came in, noisily clanking his mechanical arm and leg. "heard the good news," he said cheerfully. "finished my work so i came over." he glanced admiringly at maureen. "say, i didn't remember she looked like that." she was a pleasant sight and not merely because she'd fought off death. her lips were full and color was returning to her face and the shape under the sheets was provocatively curved. "tomorrow or the next day she can leave the hospital for a few hours," said cameron. "the new functions are growing stronger by the minute. now she needs to get out after the long confinement." "i'll volunteer to take her for a walk," said webber. "you will not," said jeriann. "for the next few weeks she sees only women. physiologically she's sound again but mentally she's still the complete female. you'll visit her when she's normal but not before." "guess i'll have to wait," said webber, but he looked pleased. she lingered outside while webber left, seeking an opportunity to talk to docchi. "i wanted to see you," she said as soon as they were alone. "any time. you know where i'll be." "i know, and always working too." "it's got to be done," he said doggedly. "sure. i know. i'll come over when i can." but she wouldn't, not until he gave her some encouragement. he had not forgiven the scene in the lab. cameron called then and she went inside to her patient. docchi went back to gravity center, thoughts crowding through his mind. little victories, though the life or death of a woman was not insignificant, were achieved without much effort. but that which meant something to everyone on the asteroid was more difficult. where, in relation to their own position, was the ship that was striving to reach the centauri group before they did? "i'm cold," said jeriann. "put on more clothes," said docchi grimly. "that's not a nice thing to say to a girl with a figure as pretty as hers," said anti. "she can go to hydroponics," suggested jordan. "it's warmer there and we've had to allow lights." "but it's a lot smaller than it was and too many have crowded in. i don't want to be crushed," said jeriann. she wouldn't have left even if it hadn't been true. "have to cut down," said anti. "meanwhile, what do we eat? synthetics." she snorted. "synthetics are pure," said jordan. his enthusiasm was less than it had been. a steady diet had begun to alter his opinion. "pure what?" said anti, but received no reply. she looked over the circle huddled around the scanner. nona was curled near cameron, sleeping peacefully. docchi leaned forward with uncomfortable intensity. jeriann was beside him but he didn't seem to notice her. "how long does this go on?" said anti. "i'm getting tired of freezing in the dark." actually she didn't mind it; cold that would kill others still bothered her hardly at all. "until we know," said docchi. "all the way to centauri if it takes that long." "how can we know?" "we'll find out as soon as we measure relative speeds," answered docchi. "the scanner is similar to radar but it uses gravity, which makes things rather difficult. we can't send out an impulse and see how long it takes to get back because it travels instantaneously as far as we're concerned." "then there isn't any way? they seem to know how fast we're going." "better astronomical equipment," said docchi. "we're a bigger object and they were able to measure our light shift, until we stopped illuminating the whole dome." "and now they can't tell because they can seldom see us?" "the contrary, if they're on their toes. they should guess that we're putting most of the power into the drive." "then how can we find out?" said anti. "triangulation," said docchi. "when we first saw them it was from the front. in past weeks they've crept up until they're nearly broadside. now i hope they'll drop back. it may take weeks to tell, especially if our speeds are almost evenly matched." "and if we don't gain?" "with our power?" interrupted jordan, ceasing to tune the scanner. "but, all right, we don't gain. we'll get there first because we're still a little ahead of them. "if there are no aliens there's no question of interstellar law. they'll have to hunt us down over an entire planet and maybe blast us off. i don't think sentiment will let them actually harm us. if there are aliens, what are they going to do? we've told our story first." the asteroid seemed to leap ahead as all but the most necessary functions were curtailed and additional power was channeled into the drive. there was no sense of motion, merely of tension as the unmistakable vibration increased. in the darkness through the darkness they hurtled. sleeping or waking docchi remained near the scanner, as if his presence would somehow cause the ship to recede. it didn't. across the silence the race went on intently. weeks passed and anti walked with increased assurance as her weight diminished and her strength grew greater. maureen recovered and was released from the hospital. she disappeared frequently, mostly with webber, and no one questioned where they went. jeriann came when she could get away from her hospital work. she came at night because it was usually night now though occasionally lights were turned on for short periods and warmth was allowed to filter through the dome. they couldn't risk killing the plants on which they depended for part of their oxygen supply. "good thing you're here," said docchi once when she entered. "i want you to make some adjustments." she followed him to the next room where the former librarian was now the command unit presiding over their destiny. "there," he said gloomily as she changed a number of settings slightly. "that's as good as i can do." "how good is it?" "faster than we've gone before. i don't know the exact speed." "faster than with nona?" "i think so. of course i don't know what she could have gotten out of it if she'd tried--but she always seemed to hold something back." she would rather not have asked but the answer was on his face. "but it's not good enough?" he sat down near the command unit. "they found out what we were doing and increased their own speed. it's slightly greater than ours." "well, why do we do it?" she said. "it takes more and more power to add another mile per second as we approach the speed of light. but that holds true for them too." he tried to frown away the problem she posed. "sure, but it doesn't matter to them as long as they can match anything we do." "but they'd just as soon not. they're inconvenienced the same as we are when they have to divert too much power. they're better organized and it's not so bad, but still they have to do without their ordinary comforts. i don't see any point in tormenting ourselves. let's turn on the lights and warm up the place. they'll do the same when they see it." "maybe they will," he said grudgingly. he was not going to accept her advice. she tried again. "will the scanner reach earth?" he shook his head. "not quite. the range is limited. i can't give you figures but i estimate we're well over halfway to the centauris." he got up and paced in front of the command unit. "i know what you're thinking--the appeal to the people of earth. we tried it once. you know where it got us." he had turned and didn't notice her. "i wasn't thinking of that at all. i was wondering how close we are. we might get in touch with the aliens." he whirled around. "say that again. did you really say that?" "of course there may not _be_ any aliens," murmured jeriann. "doesn't matter, or i don't think it does. i'll have to figure it out, but i'm sure it will figure." his face flashed once. "get jordan, will you? i'll be at the scanner." gravity center was virtually a shaft that extended underground toward the center of the asteroid. at the bottom, shielded and reshielded, sealed off and impregnable, was the nuclear pile. nearly half way down a horizontal shaft branched off, leading to the gravity coils which were anchored to solid rock. much higher, near the surface, were the gravity computers. physical access to them was equally difficult. there were connections so that electrical impulses could reach them, otherwise the command unit could not have directed them, have taken over the control. but in every other respect they were isolated and remote. it narrowed jeriann's search that there were places she didn't have to look. nevertheless she passed him twice, going up and down, before she saw him curled up inconspicuously beside a machine whose function she didn't know. "now what does he want?" grumbled jordan, rubbing his eyes. "he won't rest and he won't let anyone else get a few minutes sleep." "he's hardest on you," she said. "you're his hands. he wants you to operate the scanner." "well, his hands are getting mighty tired," growled jordan. but his sleepiness disappeared and he followed swiftly after her. docchi was standing at the scanner, his face furrowed as if thought alone would move dials. he inclined his head toward the image. "take the ship off," he said impatiently. "i've hypnotized myself with it. we don't need to keep staring at it." the ship vanished. "now what?" "they'll beat us to the stars. let them. we don't have to be first. a planet of our own will do." doubt and hope struggled for docchi's face and jeriann couldn't say which won. "explore the centauri system," he said. "both of them?" "the nearest one first. after that we'll see." a bright star slid to the center of the scanner. it flickered and then grew brighter, blazing out as they visually approached it. they were within a few million miles as the solar prominences lashed out blindingly. jeriann could feel the heat. for the first time in weeks she was warm. "cut the focus," called docchi. "you'll burn out the scanner." the sun softened and dimmed but remained where it was as the strength of the field was reduced. jordan awaited instructions. "now that i'm sure we can reach it, we'll get the asteroid back to normal. later we'll resume exploration," said docchi. he started toward the command unit to make alterations and then saw that, though jordan was following him, jeriann wasn't. "can't you stay?" he asked. she indicated the empty belt. "i used my last absorption capsule." she had no right to be happy merely because he was less brusque than usual. on her way home a facsimile of sunshine began blazing down from the dome. the grass was crisp and sere but it would revive. the race didn't end because the ship and asteroid were no longer constantly accelerating. whatever the general thought of it and however he modified his own plans, as far as the accidentals were concerned the emphasis had merely shifted. exploration. it didn't matter who got to the system first--it was who found the inhabited or inhabitable planets. the ship had slightly more speed even when, by mutual consent, both cut the strength of the drive. slowly it pulled level and then began to creep ahead. but the scanner nullified the advantage. the astronomical equipment of the ship, superior though it was, was not adequate to observe the planets in detail from this distance. before the ship could locate planets and catalogue the characteristics it would ultimately have to slow down and waste days or weeks searching the specks of light to decide which were worth closer investigation. with the mass sensitive scanner there was no such problem. six planets for alpha and seven for proxima with, for a while, the possibility that one or two more might be on the far side of the respective suns. within weeks, relative to the asteroid, much longer for stationary objects, that possibility was eliminated. six and seven planets there were and no more. in one respect the scanner wasn't perfect. nona was shown where it failed to perform satisfactorily and, after looking it over with mild curiosity, took it completely apart, altering a number of circuits. when she reassembled it again it had exactly the same limitations. jordan switched it on and brought the planet in focus. he changed the dial setting and the image blurred, scattering a coruscating rainbow of brilliant light. once again he patiently adjusted the dials and the planet returned to normal. "that's as close as we can get," he said. "i'd estimate about fifty thousand miles out." "try the fourth planet, the saturn type," suggested docchi. minus rings but with several satellites a large planet replaced the smaller one they had been looking at. after vainly trying to get closer jordan gave his opinion. "a hundred and fifty thousand miles from the surface. this thing's mass sensitive, that's all--proportional to the mass. it won't resolve an image close to the surface of a planet. notice that we couldn't get nearer than a few million miles of the sun--but we could slide right into a little thing like a ship." reluctantly docchi nodded. "we'll have to be satisfied with it as it is. nevertheless i think it can be made to approach the surface of any mass, even the sun." "nona couldn't do it," said jordan. docchi smiled. "i think she's more interested in her husband at the moment. besides, what did she have to work with? odds and ends of parts that really aren't suited for what they have to do. it would be different if she had an unlimited supply of gravity generating parts, or could get what she needs made to order." "what you want is a whole new science," said jordan. "why not? we've got the beginning of it," said docchi. meanwhile the search went on. each planet was scrutinized as closely as the scanner would allow. the images were photographed, enlarged and studied, pored over by everyone who could show some experience in topographical work. two inhabitable planets were discovered, one in each star system. it was somewhat disappointing that there was no trace of an alien civilization on either world or on any of the planets. jeriann looked up from the photograph. "i can't see anything. clouds. nothing but clouds." jordan shrugged. "methane probably. it was the best i could get. what do you want to see?" "i think we should get a good look at the surface before we rule out aliens." "still after the aliens." docchi smiled tolerantly. "you'll have to wait till the next system, or the next." "i think she wants to find them because it's one of the reasons normals didn't want us to go." "a little," confessed jeriann. "they refused us because of what aliens might think when they saw us." "ever reflect it's exactly what they might think?" jeriann was startled and before she could reply jordan produced another argument. "we're better off without them. where would we be if those two planets were settled, spilling over with strange creatures that could outthink us without untwining their tails?" jeriann flushed. "you're teasing me because i don't know much about astronomy. you're not very good inside a medical lab." she stared hard at the photograph. "i still think you're wrong to conclude there aren't any aliens just because they don't show up on planets we can live on." jordan rested his huge hand on the disc of the planet she was studying. "ever hear of jupiter, saturn, or uranus?" "i'm not that ignorant." "i didn't mean you were," said jordan. "but man's actually landed on two of those planets and though we haven't got to jupiter we have sent down a little remote controlled ship. there's _nothing_ on all three of the big planets, not even microscopic life. the latest theory is that there's some kind of life over most of the universe but that intelligence will have to show up under conditions similar to those that evolved us. of course we're willing to be convinced, but----" he crumpled the photograph. "nevertheless i'll try to get a better picture of the alpha centauri version of saturn." "stop quarreling," said anti. "i think it's nice that there are two planets, neither of which has anyone to lay prior claim to it. which one shall we take?" "i'll take the proxima planet," said jordan as he went back to the scanner. "do we have to choose now?" asked jeriann. "we should," said docchi. "the advantage we have is very small; we have to exploit it. ideally we ought not to decelerate until the last minute and at the end of that period we should find ourselves in a perfect thousand mile orbit around the planet." he glanced at the model of the system they'd constructed. "myself, i'm for the second alpha planet." anti snorted. "that thing? it's nothing but a hotter edition of mars." "mars isn't bad, anti. people live on it. besides, it isn't mars. it's hotter, warmer than earth in fact. dry, but there are two small oceans and several mountain chains and on the shady side of the hills there seem to be trees. we can live comfortably there." "i thought of something else," said jeriann. "they'll head straight for the planet that will support the biggest population. let them have the prize--we don't need it." "i had that in mind," said docchi. "it will give us more time to get safely established. once we're on, there's nothing much they can do." the deceleration began soon and went off smoothly. in less than a subjective year since they left earth they entered the alpha system. but they were not the first humans to arrive. the official expedition in the star victory preceded them by several days. the difference was that the accidentals knew exactly where they were going and actually arrived at the planet while the other ship was still cautiously investigating the outer orbits. "it doesn't matter," said anti as they gathered by the scanner, discussing it. "in principle we're responsible for what they've done. they can have the glory. what we came for was a place to live in peace." "and we'll get it," said docchi. in the last few weeks his uneasiness, never very deep, had come to the surface. the knowledge of how narrow a margin they had was frightening. outside the planet filled the dome. it was actually quite small but it was close and covered most of the sky. now that they were near they could see that only superficially did it resemble mars. there were mountains and several large streams and it wasn't as barren as at first they had thought. "i wish i could land, or we could go closer," said anti. there was no answer for that. anti's personal null gravity field would function only so long as it was in contact with the gravity computer, which in effect it was an extension of. she wasn't yet strong enough to stand on the surface of their new home. as for the other, the asteroid was quite large and it wasn't advisable to risk a nearer approach. webber came in, grinning hugely and rattling his arm and leg more than necessary. "the first load's on. when do we peel off?" "whenever you're ready. the rocket dome is on automatic. take off and it'll open for you." "it's safe to leave?" "if you're the rocket pilot you say you are. it's an ordinary landing. the scouts the general left us are in fair condition." "don't worry about me. i meant, will the expedition interfere?" "last time we checked the ship was nosing around the outer planets." "good stupid old judd. it's nice that we can depend on him to proceed with the utmost of military caution--and arrive at his goal too late." it was not quite fair to the general, who was shrewd enough when it came to things he had been trained to deal with. from the military standpoint he had to check every possibility before going on to the next. he was the official representative of the entire solar system and he did not dare act as hastily as the accidentals could. his responsibilities held him back. but there were other times in which unimaginative obedience to higher authority would carry the day. "be careful," warned docchi. "don't let anyone go out until the air and soil and water have been tested and retested and approved." "the doctor thinks we can handle any virus, bacteria, parasite, or anything else you can name that shows up. it's not the first strange world man has landed on." "this is not the solar system," said docchi. "you may have to restrain cameron if he's overly anxious to show nona what the new world is like." "for that reason you----" webber stopped, glancing away from docchi's face. "it's too bad you can't go. you ought to have some first to your name." "don't concern yourself. i'll get there one of these days. somebody's got to be up here at this end." "and i'll make certain nothing goes wrong down there." webber shifted uncomfortably but the mood didn't last. "i'll be back in a week for the next load. once we get settled things will speed up." "we'll be waiting," called jordan as webber left. there was tension before the rocket lifted and sluiced through the dome locks. it didn't abate as the swatch of light flared across the darkness and faded against the bright illumination of the planetary disc. it was only when they were able to observe the successful landing on the selected site and the radio response came in. "all clear. a bit shaken up on the way down but no damage except to my ego. i think i got all the rusty rocketry out of my system. we're waiting while tests come in. we'll let you know before we go out." "now i can breathe," said anti. "a place of our own. just let the general come and try to take us off." "why not? he has weapons, which we don't. there's nothing to stop him from landing down there and capturing them. i won't feel safe until we have a real settlement going and can defend it. and then i'm not sure." "now, jeriann," admonished anti. "they'll obey their own laws," said docchi. "planets outside the solar system that aren't claimed by others belong to those who first settle them. they passed that long ago as an incentive to interstellar travel. the moment we landed we became independent. to molest us now would be a clear violation of everything they believe in." "i hope you're right," said jeriann. "i hope you are." anti was gazing out the window at the arch of the dome, through which she could see the edge of the planet, ruddy, with a small sparkling green and gold ocean turned toward them. she got to her feet. "i'm going outside and see the world before it slips away. i was wrong. it's not like mars. much prettier." docchi was busy for a moment as anti and jordan left and when the work was finished and he turned around he saw that jeriann had remained with him. without realizing what she was doing she was fingering the empty spaces on her belt. it wasn't conspicuous but like him she wore her infirmity on the outside where everyone could see. "i'm sorry you couldn't go first," she said, touching the one remaining capsule. "first or later isn't important. but why not be sorry you weren't first?" "well, there are things to be done and oh, i don't know." she was disturbed for some reason he could not guess. the sight of their world seemed to upset her as much as it did him, but with different effects. "it's the same with me. but now the worst is over." docchi sat motionless. "jeriann." "yes?" "once i said i'd come to see you when i could." "you promised, but you never came." "the promise was to myself. i can come to see you now. am i still invited?" "why do you ask a question like that?" said jeriann. "you know, don't you? you know what i'll say." first they registered and then they left the hall of records, walking slowly, watching the planet roll over the dome, disappearing by degrees. it was out of sight, the last patch vanishing as they reached her dwelling. and inside, where time was waiting everywhere, the remainder of it on the floor, peering down from the ceiling and ticking with soft persistence in the walls, they quite forgot time for a while. they slept dreamlessly. it was nearly morning before he became restless and awakened. it was not the rhythmical noises that were intended to keep her informed of the schedule that bothered him. he lay there and tried to determine where the sound came from. he could feel her body next to his, warm and wonderful. he couldn't get back to sleep and he couldn't ignore what was happening. he moved and touched her. she was quivering. "are you laughing or crying?" he whispered. "i can't cry so i've got to be laughing," she answered. "it's funny. i was lying here thinking about it. i suppose i can cook. i don't know. it's been a long time." "is that all?" he chuckled. "don't give it another thought. i understand how you feel about it." "do you? i don't think so." she squirmed closer and put her arms around him "that's what's so funny. there's no food here and nothing to cook it on. not only that, there never will be. you've got yourself a prize woman." "i think so too. i'm satisfied," he said. "can't you feel my arms around you?" she would never be able to convince him that she could. now that cameron was gone there was much more to be done in the hospital. jeriann rushed to get through but small errors plagued her, nullifying a good part of her work. finally she forced herself to be more careful, checking the biologicals with extreme caution. "i hear," said maureen, sauntering in, "the nuptials were informal, catch as catch can." "no ceremony," said jeriann. "we stopped in and registered and went on to my place." "what's the difference as long as you're sure of him," said maureen. "i'm not. i'm sure of me." maureen looked at her critically. "in your case it's good enough," she said with a trace of envy as she leaned against the machine. "don't," said jeriann sharply. "this thing is an art, not a science. the heat of your hand will alter the product." "well, all right," said maureen crossly. "if i had something worthwhile to do i wouldn't be so nervous." "i think it can be arranged," said jeriann, smiling. "how would you like to be a colonist?" "on the next ship? maybe." "it would be exciting. also you'd be near webber." jeriann made a delicate adjustment. "i haven't made up my mind about him," said maureen airily. "he's virile though." "he clanks a lot, if that's what you mean." "at least he doesn't pretend he's carrying the world on his shoulders without any----" maureen stopped. "i guess i shouldn't say that in front of you." "you shouldn't," agreed jeriann. "nowhere i'll be apt to hear it. now why don't you see jordan about getting on the next ship?" after that the work went smoothly and she soon found she'd completed the day's quota and part of the next. she continued longer until she had tomorrow free. they had the whole day off to do what they liked, if she could persuade him to rest. she was humming when she went out and it was clear evening and there was a beautiful silver fleck in the sky. only it was not beautiful because it was a ship--and it was not their ship. and neither was it the star victory. she'd watched it so often on the scanner that every line of it was etched in her mind. she hurried to gravity center, every step an effort. why couldn't they have been discovered later? she would have preferred an alien ship, anything to this. where had it come from? jordan was waiting at the entrance. "i knew you'd be here. you saw the scout?" it was simple if she had thought about it. the star victory was large and carried auxiliary landing craft. "when did it come?" "less than an hour ago. go on in. i'll wait for anti." docchi was leaning against the command unit. the telescreen on the opposite wall was glowing but there was nothing on it except harsh white glare. "i tried to get you at the hospital as soon as they stopped talking. you'd just left." "they didn't call until they got close?" a smile had died on his face and the corpse of it was still there. "they nailed us dead. we should have had someone checking on the scanner. it works turned away from the planet. i guess it wouldn't have done any good though--there was just too much space to cover. first thing we knew they were on the telescreen. jordan went outside, and there they were." she was thinking of the people on the planet. the asteroid couldn't abandon them. she hoped the scout didn't know how vulnerable they were. "what did they say?" "the general sent an urgent message. he asked us not to land on this or any other planet." "he _asked_ us?" the general was accustomed to commanding. his face was illuminated with the weak radiance of his veins. "i didn't tell them we _had_ landed and i don't think they observed it." he stopped to recall what she said and the effort was painful. "oh yes, the general asked us. below the cloud banks he discovered an alien civilization on the saturn type planet and is negotiating with them. naturally they'd regard it as a hostile act on the part of mankind if we occupied a planet in their system without first asking." jeriann touched the absorption capsules without feeling them. "aliens!" "you were right, though you had no right to be. not that it would have made any difference what we thought. as long as the general was cruising around the planet we wouldn't have dared investigate." it didn't pay to generalize on what they learned from one planet, in one system. when man had journeyed throughout the galaxy there would still be surprises waiting for him when he came to the other side. "let the expedition worry about hostile acts," said jeriann. "if the aliens break off negotiations, so much the better for us." "you forget we didn't come solely for ourselves. we hoped to make ourselves useful to mankind. what kind of disservice is that, to embroil humanity in a war with the first aliens we meet?" his face was flaring and white and the smile gone. "don't," whispered jeriann. "i'm afraid of lightning--yours most of all. i expect to hear thunder and be struck dead." "i'm sorry," he said. "we have a right to think of ourselves but not exclusively of ourselves." "i mean, do they care? if they live on that planet they can't want this. they couldn't survive under such different conditions. astronomical observations must be difficult with so many clouds and without space travel are we sure the aliens even know about this world?" he blinked wearily. "we took a chance. we had to. they have space travel. the general wouldn't be so anxious not to offend them if they were inferior to our own civilization." "but we didn't see their ships." "again we weren't looking in the right place. there's nothing in this system they travel to. but there is a comparable planet in proxima, and in recent months they've been on opposite sides of the respective suns. they wait for more favorable positions." it was not luck that had favored the general. theory said there should be intelligent life in the centauri system and it further indicated that it would be found on an earth type planet. it was half correct, and the wrong half had fallen against the accidentals. stubbornly insisting on following the plan laid down by his superiors, the general had won. "what are we going to do?" said jeriann. "there are hostages down there." "we'll get them back," said docchi. "nobody can stop us." "can we? their ships are faster than ours." "they can't use their speed close to a planet. and the expedition won't be aggressive in someone else's backyard. we can't land without breaking up the asteroid but we'll go near enough so they won't be able to intercept our ship." it was a daring maneuver. the bulk of the asteroid could be used to cut off any attempt to overtake their returning ship. "there's roche's limit," said jeriann. "doesn't apply. we're not a simple planetoidal mass. we'll clamp the heaviest gravity we're capable of and, barring something unforeseen, we can hold the crust together at a distance of ten to twenty miles of the surface." she understood; they'd take the risk if necessary but it ought to be avoided, because it was a risk. nobody knew what solid tides would be set in the crust of the asteroid as the result of an external gravity field. "and then what?" she said. "we get them back and then what?" her hands were heavy. the silver mote overhead, shining in the light of alpha, was implacable. "what else is there?" said docchi with an attempt at cheerfulness. "we'll get them back, every person, and then we'll go on. to the next star and the next, and if we have to, the one after that. somewhere we'll find a place." jeriann touched him wonderingly. "i love you for saying that. i love you anyway, but particularly for saying that." he seemed to shrink, flaming where she touched him, fiery fingertips on his face. "you know?" he said dully. "yes. for quite a while now. anti suspects too. i think we all do. this was our last chance, wasn't it?" he couldn't look at her. "we shouldn't have stopped. the next star surely would have been the place." "place," said jeriann. "it wasn't your fault. why do you suppose we were so eager to agree with you? we knew the longer we went on the more we were at a disadvantage." it was so drearily obvious that nearly everyone had some inkling of the truth. the star victory was not the only ship of its class; some were rusting in the spaceyards and some were in use as interplanetary freighters. and if the star victory could be converted easily, why not the others? a new drive to replace the obsolete one? order it and with a little switching around in the manufacturing plants, diverting it from other uses, it was delivered tomorrow and completely installed the day after that. the command unit the accidentals had labored so long to alter? every dinky little office had as good and in many cases all that was required was changing the information spools. and thousands of crews were available, already trained, used to working together. it wouldn't be hard to recruit them and add a few officers at the top and a staff of linguists and scientists. nona had given them the one thing they needed and now mankind was exploding into space. there was no end in sight. the whole neighboring sphere of space that enveloped the solar system was due for immediate exploration. and the accidentals hadn't been forgotten. they were not the objective, wealth was: planets to be claimed and occupied or mined, civilizations to be contacted with whom products and techniques and entire new sciences could be exchanged. if they were lucky enough to get away from the centauri system at the next star they'd find other ships waiting, doing business with the natives, if there were any; if not, establishing firm little colonies on everything that was capable of supporting human life. they were surrounded, overwhelmed by numbers. it was no wonder the general hadn't been perturbed at the failure of his plan to land unnoticed on the asteroid. he knew what had been slow in occurring to them. for them there was no next star. docchi gazed in sick defeat at jeriann. there was no need to talk. there was nothing to say. the asteroid was rolling toward twilight as anti came in. "what are we doing about those insolent pirates? they have no jurisdiction here. we ought to aim the asteroid at them. we can smash them." she saw their faces and the words stopped. "i was hoping--but i guess we can't hide it among ourselves," she said. "it's no use," said docchi heavily. "we'll have to go down and take them off the planet." "how will they know? we can't get a beam down with a whole planet in the way," said anti. "let's wait till morning so we can tell them to be ready." "i don't know," said docchi indecisively. "none of us know anything," said anti fiercely. "go home and get some sleep. we'll think of something by morning." after they were gone anti went outside. looking up she could see the scout, still visible, glistening in the light of alpha. it was much brighter than the stars that had been watching them. * * * * * cameron tried to be detached and objective. "do they know we're here?" "i don't think so. they'd have been upset if they had any idea." "seems likely," agreed the doctor. "we left as they were approaching. but we took off from the face nearest the planet and they came in from the opposite side. the asteroid acted as a screen." "probably," agreed docchi with indifference. "how soon can you be ready?" "do we have to come up immediately?" docchi shrugged. "i can shove the scout out of the way. i don't know what will happen if and when the star victory gets here." "it's too big to maneuver close to the surface of the planet." "perhaps. but it carries other scouts it can launch." cameron grimaced. "two or three fast little ships would be difficult to brush away. but do we have to let them get close?" "how can we stop them? better come up while you can." cameron was fighting it, not recognizing the odds. "the scanner will work, won't it?" questioned the doctor. "turned away from the planet, yes." "that's what i meant. keep it trained on the alien world. if the star victory comes out of the clouds and heads this way you'll know it in plenty of time to scoop us up." it could be done but why jeopardize themselves further? he wanted to refuse but jeriann was pressing close to him, whispering. "do you have any reason for wanting to stay?" he asked reluctantly. "you see right through me, don't you?" said cameron. "no, there's no real reason except this, nona's interested in this world and wants to stay." it was as valid as anything else he could have said. that they had come so far, if only to fail at the final step, was due almost entirely to her efforts. she deserved some reward, though it was only the satisfaction of mild curiosity. "wait," he said suspiciously. "are you sure you know _what_ she wants? we're sometimes able to tell her what we want, but never the other way around." "but i know----" the doctor stopped and looked at him wildly, his face flooded with sudden exaltation which gradually faded. "i do know," he said at last. "for a moment i thought it was telepathy. but i guess not. i'm not a computer." he glanced out of the viewport at a world they couldn't see. "thank you for bringing it to my attention, docchi," he said when he faced them again. "it's just interest. for the first time she has someone she wants to understand--me--and a world outside she longs to visit. the combination is strong enough to stimulate her mind--and she's bright enough to learn anything she decides she has to." cameron rubbed his hand across his face and he was tired too. "let us stay here as long as you can without endangering yourselves. i want to work with her under these surroundings. i think now, looking back at the way she's behaved these last few days, i can make a start at teaching her to read." "it must be a lovely place if she likes it so well," said jeriann. "maybe you can turn the screen of your ship so we can see what it's like outside." "no," said docchi hoarsely. "don't waste time taking apart the ship. get busy with her, teach her what you can. take her outside if it's safe, but don't go far. we may call suddenly." he lowered his voice as he went on talking and at the end was no louder than usual. "i understand," said cameron. "don't worry about us. something may come out of it." "it's worse for them," said jeriann when the screen darkened. "they've seen it and then they'll have to come back. it won't be anything we'll have to shove deep in our memories." he didn't know. he didn't know at all. "i need your help," he said, going into the scanner room. under his direction jeriann made adjustments and brought the alien world in view. cloud swathed and mysterious, a strange civilization hidden under the impenetrable atmosphere, it rolled on through space. "we'll take turns," he said. "the minute anything bright comes up we'll get busy." "i hate them," said jeriann. "who?" "the aliens. if it weren't for them we'd have a clear claim on the planet." "but they didn't do anything," he said. "they're merely protecting their own interests. we'd do the same." nevertheless he hated the aliens too. * * * * * jeriann was shaking him. she had to shout before he started and woke up. "they've left," she said. "we've got to hurry." he was tired and didn't want to move. it was very unimportant. "are you sure it was the star victory you saw? it may have been a satellite." "it was the ship--at least it was using rockets." he got out of bed and let her help him dress. usually he refused her aid. "rockets? but the star victory doesn't have any." of course it did; it was part of the obsolete equipment that hadn't been removed because there wasn't time. besides, it was an excellent reverse source of propulsion. "i don't care. that's what i saw," said jeriann. "where are jordan and anti?" "i've called them. they'll be there." he finished dressing and they hurried to the scanner. there was no mistake; it was the ship, but there was no bright tail behind. they were using the gravity drive. he watched it grimly. "but they were," said jeriann. "there's nothing wrong with my eyesight. they were using rockets." he withheld comment. rockets weren't nearly as efficient as the gravity drive, particularly near a large planet. yet jeriann said she saw it. he hoped she hadn't. anti and jordan came in almost simultaneously and joined the vigil. minutes passed in silence and then the brief orange flower blossomed again. "see," said jeriann. "now why are they doing that?" growled jordan. "they were doing fine without it." "maybe they need more speed," suggested anti. jordan grunted. "wouldn't add ten per cent." "but if they needed ten per cent, if they were in trouble----" "they are in trouble," said jeriann. "it's a signal." this was a version he could accept--if there weren't better explanations. swiftly docchi made mental approximations. "at the rate they're going they'll be here in half a day. they can't reach us with their telescreen until they're nearly here. shall we go inside and see what's wrong with them?" they looked at each other, and looked, until anti answered. "what's a few minutes?" she said. "we've plenty of time to pick up our people. we can be gone before they get close." could they? that was what he didn't know. taking an asteroid near the surface of a planet had never been tried and there were no rules. he'd have to feel it out as he went along, ready to turn away at the first indication of overload. docchi looked at jeriann, who nodded imperceptibly. "i think we're in agreement," said jordan, touching the dials. general judd was waiting for them. "there you are," he said enigmatically. "i hoped you'd understand." "i'm afraid we don't. you'll have to explain." "still the old flamethrower, i see," said the general brusquely. "mainly i wanted to make sure you didn't run when you saw us coming. my psychologists assured me you'd be a sucker for anything that looked like distress. i've got new respect for them." he chuckled. "now that we've been suckered, as you so kindly put it, please tell us what you want." "i'm coming to----" the general's face reddened and his eyes bulged and he started coughing. the air wheezed stranglingly in and out of his lungs until finally he was able to control the spasm. he grabbed a tissue and wiped his face with it. "designs are no good," he said. "ship, spacesuits, everything. meant to hold pressure from the inside and down there it's in the other direction--and it's really pressure. gets into everything. not very much but it fries your lungs. remember that." "we will. get to the point, general." the general looked at docchi thoughtfully and seemed satisfied with what he saw. "don't be impatient. what i have to say is complicated and you'll have to get the background. are you interested?" "i am," said anti. "good," said the general, not waiting for the others to signify. "well, we landed. we went in on the gravity drive and possibly it was a mistake but i don't see what else we could have done--rockets wouldn't have held us. anyway they had their instruments out and we think they could tell what we were using." "what were they like, the aliens?" asked jeriann. the general seemed to regard that as unimportant information. he glanced appreciatively at jeriann but ignored her question. "funny thing. they didn't ask us about our drive and, of course, we didn't tell them. as nearly as we can tell they have something like it--about in the stage of development ours was a few years ago. theirs will take them to proxima because it's relatively close but it's no good beyond that." the general thought about what he'd just said. "well, their drive wouldn't work at real interstellar distances--which is why they haven't visited us--but unfortunately we must have given them a clue. they know ours works and in no time they'll have it figured out." "sort of suspicious, aren't you?" said anti. "lord, yes," said the general. "do you know what land surface their planet has, what a population it will support? two planets against three, but theirs are so much bigger. it balances off a little that we have a better drive and our reproduction rate can be higher than theirs." "i take it you didn't tell them about jupiter and saturn?" said jordan. "no point bringing _that_ up," said the general, apprehensive at the mere thought. "oh they have things we want. two very attractive planets, and they're wizards at high pressure chemistry and organics--you'd expect them to be--but the exchange was hardly worth it." the general sat motionless, recalling the scenes on that strange planet. "they _could_ be very dangerous. it was imperative that we establish some sort of friendly contact. naturally we told them about you." "naturally," said docchi dryly. "you were four light years from home and you weren't dealing with uncivilized natives." "nothing derogatory, you understand," said the general hastily. "i'm sure," said docchi. "general, some time ago i asked what you wanted. much as we appreciate your friendly conversation--and the friendliness is quite unexpected--unless you can tell us what you're after in the next few minutes we'll have to conclude that your sole objective is to hold us here while you get closer." "don't do anything rash," said the general, as concerned as docchi had ever seen him. "you see it was a stalemate. we were a little afraid of them and they didn't trust us and both sides were noncommittal. we didn't show each other a thing. but there had to be a solution." "general, i warned you." "can't you see?" half-shouted the general, rising up. "i thought you were smart. we're going home and we may as well unload our surplus supplies. you'll need them. it will be about nine years before anyone gets back." he shoved the chair aside and concentrated steadily on jeriann, the one normal human among them. "this is what we decided," he said. "you get the planet for the next fifteen or twenty years, longer if they approve. meanwhile all trade between us passes through you." he jammed his hands in his pockets. "there. do you accept?" "do we accept?" said anti. "he asks us." "i see you do," said the general with gloomy satisfaction. "it was their suggestion. they want to study you at length to see what makes humans behave. naturally you'll be keeping _your_ eyes open." he swallowed and conquered the incipient cough. "now if you'll turn off this beastly little gadget and let me have some privacy i'll talk to you when we get there." jordan reached for the scanner but was not quite soon enough. the general thought he was alone when he wasn't. "those damned butterflies. trillions of them." his face twisted. they went walking in the night. stars were out but they didn't notice. they had found a star to belong to and weren't looking for others. "which one?" said jeriann, turning her head. "i can't point. anyway i don't know," said docchi. "i can get it for you on the scanner." jeriann laughed. "never mind. i don't need to see their planet. they'll come soon enough." "almost too soon. i keep wondering what they're actually like." "me, too," said jeriann. "i don't even know how big they are. sure, i saw them on the screen for a short time, but it's not like meeting them. large butterflies is what i first thought, but the resemblance fades as you continue looking. and, what is their size? there was nothing familiar to judge them against." "wingspread is a better measure," said docchi. "the general said eight feet but i think he was overly impressed by the flat expanse of their bodies." in a while he added thoughtfully: "but it was not their height i was thinking of." "i know," said jeriann. she frowned. "why did they choose us? they could have had the general's expedition. instead they asked for us. why?" they went on in silence, past the acid tank. they looked in. it was empty. now they had better use for the chemicals. "how is this for a reason?" said jeriann as they strolled away. "still on the aliens?" "why not? we've got to learn how they think." docchi smiled and through the darkness she could see the faint luminosity of his lips and where his eyes crinkled. "we do, but in the absence of anything positive all i can apply is self-interest. and i don't see how they benefit by having us." "i do," said jeriann. "it's because we're normal." she hurried on before docchi could protest. "don't try to talk me down until i explain. when they contacted us yesterday and said they'd be here in about three weeks, on an official visit, did you notice which one was prettiest?" "i figured that much out myself," said docchi. "at least in the beginning we look very much alike to them, as they do to us. appearance doesn't count." "true, but that was not my point. i haven't reached it. when you looked at the--uh--butterfly that spoke to you in that high squeaky voice you were wondering how he learned our language so well in such a short time. you were thinking: are they all as smart? can i trust him?" "we've got to trust them," said docchi grimly. "we're a long way from support. and they did ask us to stay." "but trust all of them, every individual butterfly, under any circumstance? or just some?" "we're dealing with a government," said docchi. "we aren't concerned with individuals. there must be deviations in what they're like. some won't be trustworthy." he paused. "but of course a government is a reflection of what its citizens are." he paused again, came to a dead stop. "and so, for the aliens, we are average humans." "that's what i meant," said jeriann. "a _cross section_ of what they'd find on earth. but of course they can't go to earth and see for themselves--not yet. and so they had to make the best choice of what was at hand." they started walking again and docchi leaned against her. "i think you're right. the general's expedition, all specialists and experts, including the military, who are specialists of another kind, was not a representative group. the butterflies could study them forever but they wouldn't get a true picture. "but they had to know exactly what humans are like, what their potentialities are, and how they live together. and so they took us." "it seems strange," said jeriann, sliding her arm around him. "until now i've never thought of us as normal. but even if the aliens had refused both of us and asked for another group of colonists they wouldn't have done as well. colonists for a special planet are specially selected--hardiest, strongest, most aggressive or discontented--there would always be something to throw them off. "but accidents cut across everything, age, intelligence, sex, occupation. name it and it's here. we're the only representative group that ever left earth or ever will." "it's odd," agreed docchi. "but it doesn't match what happens when we meet our first aliens. it's nothing like anyone imagined. here we stand, face to face across the stars. there is no competition for inhabitable planets since our definitions are mutually exclusive. but we are afraid; neither side wants war. and so we go ahead cautiously, looking for signs in the other that will reassure us." "i don't know," said jeriann. "we're being tested. will we measure up?" "we won't fail. in spite of what we may seem to some of our own people, we're average men and women--and man hasn't stopped climbing upward since that day somebody built the first fire." jeriann squeezed him and they slowed. in their wandering they had come to gravity center. they looked at each other and decided to go in. jeriann opened the door and there was a light down the hall. they went to it and looked in. jordan was in front of the scanner, scowling at it in fierce concentration. "i hope those idiots got it down straight," he muttered back at them. "don't be so concerned. you took it apart for them, didn't you?" "yeah, but it doesn't mean i made them understand." he wiped his forehead. "however, even if they don't know what it's all about, somebody ought to be able to build another. it'll work if they use a little sense." docchi smiled. "don't discount what gravity experts know. after they get through thinking over the ideas in those circuits they'll doll up the scanner and before you know it they'll have a machine that can reach us from earth." "that'll be the day," said jordan. "let's hope they don't. it's bad enough they know we're here--but if they have to look at us too...." he shook his head. "you're wrong," said anti, coming in and sitting down. "won't be that way at all." she bent and began rubbing her legs. "my poor feet. i've been walking around for the longest time--full weight too." "why won't it?" said jordan. "remember what happened the last time we got in touch with them." "not the same people," said anti. "there were always some, like the doctor, who didn't think we had to be beautiful to talk to us or be near. we'll get more of that kind. they don't _have_ to call unless they want to." "and last time we weren't anybody, less than a thousand and not an important person in the lot. now we're representatives to the centauri system." "profit," said jordan. "you think they won't be able to afford to show their feelings. i wish i could agree. but even with the gravity drive they can't carry much between here and earth. in the next fifty years the trade that goes out of here won't make one person rich." "i disagree. ideas don't weigh much and there'll be lots of those flying back and forth. and was there ever anything more valuable?" anti smiled. "but there's more. _we_ won't be the same. only yesterday cameron said he saw nona looking worriedly at a book. it won't be long before she gets the idea and wham--new books." "she was never the one who had trouble. anyway, she'll never speak." "she doesn't have to as long as she can write--and get some idea of what we're saying." "then she's all right and that will make the doctor happy." jordan was dubious. "but what of us--docchi, jeriann, me--the rest?" anti leaned back and slid off her sandals, wriggling her toes in voluptuously and looking at them with wondering pleasure. "me? i don't plan to dance again, but in a year or so i'll get around. the doctor expects docchi to have arms in the next three or four years if the principle he discovered with maureen works out. "and even you, jordan, may be kicking again, though it will take longer. say four or five years for you." "i'll kick," scoffed jordan, but his disbelief wasn't as strong as it had been. "sure you will," said anti. "it may not be as quick as we expect. of course if we learn anything from interchange of science with the aliens the time may be shortened. cameron says they're bound to help us advance, just as we'll aid them. he's cautious though, and doesn't want to figure that in until it actually occurs." "i'll believe it then," said docchi. "but you didn't mention jeriann. or do you consider her already normal?" anti frowned at her toes and slipped her feet into the sandals. "no, i don't. she seems to be in nearly perfect health. but don't believe everything you see." "darling," said jeriann. "when did i have my last capsule? i don't have any with me." "an hour or so ago." "are you sure? my time sense keeps warning me." "if you think we should let's go and get one." "she knows," said anti. "i heard the doctor telling her that her case looked easy but wasn't. she'll be the last." "wait," called docchi who scarcely heard what anti was saying. he hurried out into the hall after jeriann. he was gone a few minutes, and when he came back there was a handprint flaming and furious on his face. he looked at anti dully. "i didn't say anything. i told her to wait and i'd go with her." "she can't help it," said anti. "i thought it was time you knew." "what is there to know?" he said bitterly. "she's upset because she can't eat. compared to some of us it's merely an inconvenience. i resent her childishness." "it was always there for you to see but you never looked close enough," sighed anti. "how many times has she had to control herself." "but i never said anything----" "i know what you said," answered anti. "when she had _her_ accident it was a very hot day. she was a young girl and was busy playing and didn't realize how badly she wanted it until she started for the fountain. she was struck down before she reached it. now--what was it you told her?" "a drink," he said, staring at anti in dismay. "i told her----" "twenty years of thirst. but you knew there was nothing that is even moist in her house. the shower spouts fine dry particles. and she had no pictures that show lakes or rivers. go find her." water. it was life because it came before life. there were creatures that could exist quite comfortably without light. there were some that died in the half strength of the sun, to whom the visible spectrum and beyond was inimical. there were others that didn't need oxygen, anerobic microorganisms which perished in the free atmosphere because of the presence of a substance commonly considered necessary for living things. but there was nothing that could exist without water. life on earth originated there and to it must always return. it was the cradle of the first cell, and the mother too. there were minute cells that lived motionless and free floating in water long before any living thing learned to swim through its droplet universe. before there were fins or hands and feet, eyes to respond to light, and an orifice to eat and shape fine noises with--there was water. and any living creature that had a mouth from time to time might refresh its lips with the common and precious fluid. except jeriann. the psychotechnicians knew they could condition her and so it had been done. she could not drink, would not. she would resist if it were forced upon her, struggle until her bones broke. but even the psychotechnicians who had created the mental block hadn't completely trusted it. and so a place had been built for her in which she would not be reminded of water, the one thing she never got enough of. because the habit of life was strong and water meant survival. this was not something she imagined. it was buried in the memory of the cells, deeper than any mind, going back to the beginning. twenty years of never enough. docchi stumbled out. it was neither light nor dawn when he found her. the side of the asteroid was turned away from the sun but though the planet was rising brightly and filled much of the sky there were still deep shadows within the dome. "i've been waiting for you," she said quietly as he came near. her face reflected the planet shine. "jeriann," he said. "look at it," she said. "i see." "but you're looking at me." she turned his head toward the planet. "there. if you look closely you can see sunlight sparkling on the ocean. isn't it beautiful?" "someday you'll lie on the beach and let the waves wash over you." "someday," she said. * * * * * address: centauri by f. l. wallace imagine, if you can, that christopher columbus never existed--that in his place was a fantastic crew of circus freaks. they would be our heroes of history as discoverers of the new world. we all would honor the fat woman, erect statues to the human firefly, perhaps name a continent after the half man-half machine. ridiculous? preposterous? well, maybe not.... mankind is faced with such a possibility in this unusual science fiction novel. in a future age of interplanetary travel new worlds and alien races are awaiting discovery and a decision must be made. who will be the first interstellar explorers--and make the first alien contact? on a tiny asteroid between mars and jupiter a handful of people seek the honor. they are "the accidentals." they are pathetic, crippled and deformed humans, half or quarter men and women, fractional organisms masquerading as people. to many they are just "circus freaks", but to themselves they are still members of the human race. their plan is sound. the galaxy has long since been conquered and now the distant stars await the probing of earthmen. yet the stars are very very far away and the exploratory trips will be very very long. ordinary men would find the voyages nearly unbearable. the accidentals, though, are not ordinary men. the medical skills which have kept them alive have given them incredible endurance. they are unbelievably tough, nearly immortal. they are the ones who could be the star-flung explorers. from that begins one of the strangest flights to the stars that mankind may ever see. "science-fiction at its best" none